After the first night, when the three of us polished off four bottles of champagne between us, I’ve rarely seen Wendy drink. Come to think of it, she hasn’t touched a glass of wine in weeks. “Fair enough.” I lower my voice. “If you don’t want wine to help you relax, I’m happy to think of other ways.”
Blushing, she orders a sparkling water. I ask for a glass of the house red. The waiter leaves to fill our order, and Wendy clears her throat. “Hudson,” she says, her fingers playing with the edges of her napkin, creasing and uncreasing the linen, “Can I ask you a personal question?”
Her tone places me on alert. “Of course,” I reply.
Before she can continue, a blonde woman in a white apron winds her way through the tables, a big smile on her face. “Wendy,” she exclaims, giving her friend a hug. “You made it. I haven’t seen you in weeks.” She turns to me, holding out her hand. “You must be Hudson,” she says. “It’s good to meet you at last.”
I get to my feet. “Likewise,” I reply. “Thank you for the feast on Thanksgiving.”
Piper is about to reply when the waiter reappears with our drinks. Her smile fades. “You aren’t drinking?” she asks Wendy pointedly.
“No,” Wendy replies. “I have meetings all day tomorrow.”
Piper bites her lip, her expression neutral. “I better get back to the kitchen before one of my sous-chefs sets something on fire,” she says. “Hudson, I hope to see you again.”
I watch Piper leave, then turn to Wendy, who seems lost in thought. “Are you stressing about tomorrow?” I ask her gently. Wendy doesn’t know how to give less than one hundred percent. She’s been refining this presentation for days, looking for the perfect words to pitch our project to the retailers who might become our tenants.
She shakes her head. “You never talk about your marriage,” she says hesitantly. “Did it make you stop trusting women?”
Three months ago, thinking of Megan would have made me bitter and angry. Of course, that was before Wendy entered my life. Now, when I remember Megan, all I feel is indifference. “Somewhat,” I answer honestly. “It made me better at putting up shields. Not letting people in close.” Until now, I think. Until I met you.
“You said the other day that she was only with you for your money,” Wendy says, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes glued on her empty plate. “How do you know that? Because she liked to shop?”
I take a sip of the excellent Shiraz. The waiter shows up again to take our food orders. We both choose the meat special, and when we’re alone again, I tell Wendy the ugly truth. “My father left me a lot of money when he died. I make a very comfortable living; I didn’t need it. So I set up a foundation with his money, dedicated to the causes he cared about when he was alive. Accessible housing, senior housing and education. Megan didn’t know about the foundation, and she was very unhappy when she found out.” My lips twist into a grimace. “She wrote a long email to her sister, bitching about the amount of money I gave to charity. Unfortunately, she accidentally sent that email to me, not Hailey.”
“Ouch.” She toys with her napkin. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was a relief to end the marriage. It was based on a lie. I mean, come on. We only date three weeks, and a condom fails and she gets pregnant? What are the odds of that happening? I should have guessed that it was just about the money.”
Wendy goes very still, and the color drains from her face. “I guess so,” she says.
“Anyway, that’s ancient history.” I lean back in my seat, relaxing for the first time in weeks. Good food, good wine, and a perfect woman. I can’t ask for more. Megan is a distant and unimportant blur in the past. “I’m really looking forward to next week. The design is mostly done, and we can’t start construction until winter has passed. Once we’re done with tomorrow’s meeting, things will get much quieter.”
She nods, not meeting my gaze. We finish our meal in relative silence. Asher doesn’t join us, and when I try to call him, his phone goes straight to voicemail. I feel a prickle of worry but dismiss it. I’m probably just nervous about the upcoming meeting.
“Want to go to my place?” I ask Wendy when we’re ready to leave. With Levi staying at Asher’s apartment and Miki crashing with Wendy until her divorce is finalized, my penthouse has ended up where the three of us spend all our time. I’m not complaining. Wendy and Asher make the condo feel like home.
“I left my laptop at the office,” she replies. “Can we pick it up on the way?”
“Are you going to do another dry run of your presentation tonight, Wendy?” I scold her. “You have dark circles under your eyes. You look exhausted.”
“The words every woman dreams of hearing,” she quips. “Would it make you feel better if I lie to you?” She wraps her scarf around her neck and pulls her leather gloves on her hands. “Is Asher at your place?”
“Bored of me already?” I tease.
She doesn’t smile back. Her expression is serious. “I need to tell you guys something.”
I feel another flicker of worry, more insistent this time, warning me that something’s not quite right. “What is it?”
“Both of you need to be around.”
Damn it. I don’t like surprises, but Wendy’s expression is resolute, and I know she’s not going to tell us what’s on her mind until both of us are around. Shaking my head, I hail a taxi. When we get to the conference room that houses her laptop, Wendy turns the handle with a frown. “I could have sworn I locked this door before I left.” Then she enters the room and comes to a dead halt. “Oh my God,” she says faintly.
I’m a half-step behind her, so I don’t see the cause of her outburst right away.
Our scale model—the one that took ten days of work to build—lies in ruins. Someone’s taken a hammer to it and has smashed it to pieces.
We’d grown complacent. We’d grown accustomed to Thorne’s petty acts of aggression. Now, as I take in the wreckage of the building model, I realize how wrong we were to assume that we had Thorne beat.
29
Asher
The trouble with having an open mind, of course, is that people will insist on coming along and trying to put things in it.
Terry Pratchett
A couple of Hudson’s architects have just delivered the model when my phone buzzes with a text message from Miki.
Call me back ASAP, she writes. Don’t let Wendy overhear.
That sounds ominous. I decide to head to my office before I return her call. I make my excuses to Hudson and Wendy and head out. When I’m seated at my desk, I dial Miki’s number. “What’s the matter?” I ask her. I’m hoping against hope that Miki’s found something we can pin on Thorne. Time’s running out. Already, almost three months have elapsed.
“For weeks, I’ve been poring over individual invoices,” Miki says. “I’ve been searching for patterns, see if I can spot anything that looks fraudulent.”
“I know.”
“I found something peculiar. Every year for Christmas, Jean Nakashima used to send flowers to her employees as a thank you present. She ordered the arrangements from a florist in Lower Manhattan. Well, the same transaction just went through three days ago. Flowers for the entire team.”
“She could have just set it up as a recurring transaction,” I point out. “We do that at Doyle and Miller. I send my assistant something for her birthday that way.”
“That’s what I thought, especially when the transaction was reversed. I assumed the new Head of Finance doesn’t believe in Christmas presents.”
It wouldn’t surprise me. Stuart Fischer is a cheap SOB, and there’s no love lost between him and his team. From conversations with people in Finance, I’ve learned that the team adored their former boss. They barely tolerate Fischer.
“But you found something,” I guess. “You wouldn’t have texted me otherwise.”
“The transaction was canceled, but the flowers were still delivered. And when I hacked into the florist’s system, I
found out that they’d been paid for with a personal credit card.” She clears her throat. “Jean Nakashima’s credit card.”
I sit up in my seat. “What are you saying, Miki?”
“That there’s a very good chance that Ms. Nakashima is still alive. And if she’s alive, then I can only believe…”
I finish the sentence. “That she faked her own death.”
“Exactly.” There’s a tremor in Miki’s voice. “Why would she do something like that?”
“I don’t know,” I reply grimly. “But I’m going to find out. Is there any chance you have an address?”
“No.” She pauses and I hear keys click in the background. “But there’s one other transaction on the same credit card around the same time. A pizza place in Hoboken.”
I glance at my watch. It’s a little before seven. If I leave now, with any luck, I can be at that pizza place in an hour. Someone has to know something, and I intend to find out what it is. “I’m heading there now.”
“Be careful, Asher,” Miki says. “We don’t understand what’s going on here, but whatever it is, it caused this woman to fake her death. Jean Nakashima has a daughter who believes her mother drowned. She has a grandson who thinks his grandmother died two years ago.”
Miki’s right. Something spooked the Head of Finance. It can’t be Thorne. The Hancock heir is rich, spoiled and entitled, but he shouldn’t inspire this level of fear. There are wheels within wheels here, and I’m not going to stop until I solve this puzzle.
When I first met Wendy, I found her fascinating, but I wasn’t interested in a real relationship. Things are different now. I can’t get Wendy out of my mind. Her fire and passion. Her warmth and softness. I can’t look at another woman without thinking of her. I can’t sleep at night because when I close her eyes, all I see is her. Not just her beautiful body. It’s more than that, and the intensity of my need terrifies me.
I think I’m falling in love with her.
It’s raining outside, and the streets are heavy with traffic. I speed toward Hoboken, weaving in and out of traffic like a lunatic. The wipers move back and forth, clearing the water drops from the windshield the movement hypnotic. There’s an accident on the Hudson River Greenway, so I’m forced to take the Lincoln Tunnel, which is, as usual, illuminated by a sea of brake lights. Eventually, an hour and twenty minutes after I set out, I arrive in front of a small cheerful-looking pizza parlor with black and white awnings.
I push open the door, and a bell chimes to mark my arrival. The young man behind the counter looks up with a smile. “Hell of a night,” he says conversationally. “Have you been here before?”
I shake my head. There are no tables in the place, just a wooden counter along the front windows, with half a dozen barstools where customers can sit and eat their slices. There are a million places like this in New York.
“The specials are on the board,” he says. “I’ll give you a moment.”
I decide on the direct approach. “I’m not here for food,” I tell the guy. “I’m looking for someone that ordered a pizza here three days ago. She paid with a credit card.” At the same time, I withdraw a hundred dollar note from my wallet and slide it across the battered countertop.
The kid looks around to make sure there’s no one within sight, and he grabs the bill. “I don’t want any trouble,” he mutters.
“Of course not,” I soothe. “I just need her address. She’s an old friend.”
He looks nervous. “You’re not a stalker, are you?”
I roll my eyes and fish another hundred out of my wallet. This time, I don’t give it to him; I hold it between my fingertips where the guy can see it. “Do I look like a stalker?” I ask him. I incline my head toward the window, through which he can see the Bugatti parked outside.
He whistles when he catches sight of the car and seems to reach a decision. “Three days ago, you said?”
“Yes.” I give him the credit card number and the time it was used, to help him narrow down his search. A couple of minutes later, he finds what he’s looking for. “Oh, that’s Mrs. Sato,” he says. “She comes in once a week, though she normally pays cash. She lives in one of the apartment buildings on Jefferson Street.”
He writes the address on a post-it note, and I give him the hundred dollar note in my hand. “She’s not in trouble, is she?” he asks, his conscience making a rather belated appearance.
“Not at all.” I just want some answers. I nod at the guy. “Merry Christmas.”
There’s a cheap plastic wreath on the door of Jean Nakashima’s apartment. I knock and wait. A dog begins to bark, and when a middle-aged Japanese woman opens the door, the small beagle almost bowls me over. “Settle down, Mollie,” the woman says, patting the excited pet. She gives me a cautious look. “Can I help you?”
I’ve seen photos of Jean Nakashima. It’s definitely her. I wedge my foot in the doorway so she can’t shut the door on me. “Ms. Nakashima, my name is Asher Doyle. I need to talk to you about Hancock Construction.”
She pales. “My name is Aiko Sato,” she stammers. “You must have me confused with someone else.”
“I don’t think I do.” My voice holds an edge of desperation. Miki hasn’t been able to find Thorne’s mysterious backer. Without a name, we don’t have a case against Thorne. The former Finance executive has to tell me what happened. I have to keep Wendy safe. “Please,” I beg. “This is important.”
She searches my face. “Who are you?” she asks.
“My name is Asher Doyle,” I repeat. “I’m a corporate lawyer.” I pull a business card out of my wallet and hand it to her. She takes it from me and checks it, and then her gaze returns to my face. “I recognize the name,” she says slowly. “You tried to prosecute Thorne once, didn’t you? For the rape of that poor girl? Laura something?”
“Lauren,” I reply tightly. “Her name was Lauren Bainbridge.”
“Yes.” Her eyes are sad. “Come on in, Mr. Doyle.”
I enter the apartment, which is small but well-furnished. Two overstuffed couches dominate the living room, and the side tables are covered with photo frames. Most of the pictures are of a happy-looking toddler. “My grandson Hiro,” she explains, noticing my gaze. “He turns five in February.” Her tone turns harder. “What do you want from me?”
“I want to know what you found.” I don’t try and hide the reason I’m here. “A woman I care about very much has been dragged into Hancock Construction.”
The beagle jumps on one of the couches and promptly falls asleep. Ms. Nakashima sits down next to the dog. “Wendy Williams,” she replies. “I have internet access in Hoboken,” she clarifies, seeing my startled look. “Paul’s will has set many people gossiping.”
“You know about the contest.” I lean forward. “You know about Thorne’s highway project and Wendy’s Staten Island build. And more than that, you know the truth about Barbados.”
Her fingers flex, curling and uncurling, fidgeting with the hem of her paisley skirt. “Barbados,” she whispers.
I lay my cards on the table. I have no other choice. “We know someone gave Thorne sixty million dollars. We don’t know who it was.”
“This is a hornet’s nest,” she replies. “Don’t stir it.”
“That’s not an option,” I snap.
The beagle sits up, alerted by the tension in the air, and the woman strokes her head. “There’s no need to take that tone with me, Doyle. I’m not your enemy.” She looks troubled. “I knew Paul Hancock for over thirty years,” she says. “He wasn’t a perfect person, but he was a good owner. He ran the company well, and he treated his employees fairly.” She sighs. “But he had one gigantic blind spot.”
“Thorne.”
She nods. “When Paul got sick, Thorne started taking a more active role in choosing projects,” she says. “And he screwed up, but he didn’t want his father to find out. I pressed him for details, but he was evasive. So I went looking for the truth.”
The truth. Whatever
she found, it had terrified her enough that she’d faked her death, even to her loved ones. From the pictures in the room, it’s clear that Ms. Nakashima cares about her family. Why the elaborate charade?
“And I found more than I wanted. The person who loaned Thorne the money was Mikhail Vasiliev.”
My head jerks up. Vasiliev. Thorne’s beholden to the most feared man in New York, the head of the ruthless Russian Mafia.
“Then an FBI agent made contact with me,” she whispers. “They were building a case against Vasiliev for money laundering. They were going to subpoena me. And I knew that if I testified against the Russian mob, my life was forfeit. The mafiya would kill me, and they would kill every member of my family as an example.” She looks up. “I was caught between a rock and a hard place,” she says quietly. “I had no choice. I had to disappear.”
She rises to her feet. “Thorne is desperate to become the CEO,” she says. “If he doesn’t, there’s no way to pay the Russians back. And Vasiliev always collects.” She gives me a somber look. “Wendy Williams is now in the line of fire. That’s why I let you in. If something happens to her, it’ll be on my conscience. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“Thorne won’t resort to violence,” I say, desperate to believe my words.
“Not at first,” she replies. “The boy isn’t a killer. He’ll look for other ways. But if they don’t work, and if Vasiliev himself gets involved…” Her voice trails off.
My heart hammers in my chest. I can’t fight the Russian mob. This time, we’ve bitten off more than we can chew.
There’s a sick feeling in my gut. Once again, it looks like I’m not going to be able to keep someone I love safe.
30
Wendy
Honesty is the first chapter in the book of wisdom.
Ménage in Manhattan: The Complete 5-Book Ménage Romance Collection Page 79
