by Claire Adams
There was no way I could do that to her—not a chance.
“Just stick with Savage,” I instructed. “I think the risk of Lilah selling me out is minimal. Non-existent, actually.”
“You sure? Often those closest to a person are the first to betray them,” Matt said. “I've seen it all too many times in my line of work, trust me on that.”
“I'm sure you have. But I trust her. I'd trust her with my life, in fact.”
“Suit yourself. I'll stick with Savage, then.”
“Good. We'll get to the bottom of this.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lilah
I woke up early Friday morning to go on my usual running route before work. Yet again, someone in particular had woken up before me. On my phone was a Facebook message from Brendan.
Good morning, beautiful :) Was just wondering what you're up to this evening? If you're free, let me know. There's an amazing new restaurant having their official opening tonight. I'm on the guest list, and I haven't chosen my plus one yet—well, I have, but I'm waiting to see if you'll agree to go.
Trust me, this place is going to be the talk of all of the food columnists for the next few weeks. It's that famous French chef with the cooking show. It's his first restaurant in the US, and it's already booked for two months out.
But, like I said, I'm on the guest list and would love to take you. We can talk a little more about my offer.
It's a black tie event, so you'll need to dress up. I admit, I’d love to take you anywhere, but I’m looking forward to seeing you in an evening dress. I suspect it'll knock me clean off my feet.
Let me know as soon as you've decided.
Brendan
I reread the message, then put my phone down while I got changed into my running gear. Brendan had been relentless in terms of messaging me over the past few days. He'd made it clear that he was interested in me in many more ways than professionally. While I couldn't say I felt the same about him, I'd heard a lot about his company and he was definitely a force to be considered in the PR world.
Of course, Asher had been on my mind a lot as well. It proved impossible to forget the night we'd spent together in Paris. At random moments during the day, a steamy recollection of that evening would jump into my head. I'd gasp for breath and heat would flush through my body. The thought of him made me instantly weak at the knees.
But, at the same time, the conflict remained in my mind. He was my boss, and he had a reputation as someone whose taste in women was fast and fickle.
So, while he seemed to be truly sincere and genuine about his affection for me, part of me couldn’t help wondering if I was just the flavor of the month, waiting to be dumped when he was ready to move on to whatever model or actress caught his attention next.
Of course, there were the professional consequences of this little union, consequences which could spell disaster for my career if anything went sour. I'd worked my ass off to get where I was, to ascend the ladder from the ground up to the rung I was currently perched on—however precariously.
So, while I sat and fought these battles in my mind in silence and isolation, I had done the only thing I knew was safe to do under such circumstances: I'd deliberately kept my distance from Asher, keeping things quiet and cool between us.
I know I probably seemed like a flake who couldn’t make up her mind, but I had to. It was the only way I could cope with what was going on. It was what I needed to do until I reached some sort of resolution for this.
I had hoped going for a run would clear my head of the conflict floating around my mind, but it didn’t. It did, apparently spur me on. I ran my five miles in a personal record time although, when I got back, it felt as if I'd pushed things a little too hard. Nothing a nice, hot refreshing shower couldn’t cure.
While sipping on my post-run breakfast smoothie, I considered Brendan's invitation to the new restaurant in town. I didn't want to give him the impression that I was romantically interested in him, but I did want to find out more about his professional offer—if only to satisfy my curiosity. It would be nice to see what other options might be available to me if things between Asher and I reached a point where I'd need to leave the Sinclair Agency.
Of course, the thought of being on a VIP list at one of the city's hottest new restaurants was a bit of a draw too. I couldn't deny that.
I took out my phone and typed out a quick reply.
Hi, Brendan,
I appreciate the invitation to the new restaurant. I'm interested in hearing about your offer. So, with that in mind, I'd like to accept your invitation. What time do I need to be ready, and where should I meet you?
I sent the text before I changed my mind. The response was almost immediate.
Hi, Lilah :)
I'll pick you up at 8:00. Just let me know your address. See you tonight. Remember . . . dressed to the nines! Really looking forward to seeing you pull that off :)
Wow, he didn't waste any time. A sly smirk played on my lips. I couldn't deny there was definitely something about having not one, but two bona fide billionaires vying for my attention at once that boosted my confidence. Who would have thought such a thing could happen to me? I never would have dreamed of such a thing happening to me in a million years, yet there I was.
With a smile on my face, I began to get ready for work. I had a Friday full of meetings to get through before what I expected to be an interesting evening.
***
“You can never go wrong with a little, black dress.”
At least, that’s what Meg said while I was debating over which dress to wear to the restaurant opening. She was right. Her logic: even if you spill something on it, odds are it won’t show up.
I chose a sleek, black number that accentuated my curves and paired it with a new set of gleaming, black stilettos I hadn’t had a chance to wear yet. I'd even spent an hour doing my hair, which I rarely did. But Meg insisted that a backless dress required an up-do. So, she’d stopped by and assisted in creating a fairly intricate style with several small braids and loose curls. When she was done, I informed her that she’d make a fantastic hair stylist.
I was ready 30 minutes ahead of schedule. So, she and I had a glass of wine before she had to go get ready for her own date.
Brendan sent me a message when he was on his way. I had just gotten down to the lobby of my building when I heard a booming roar echoing from outside. I stepped out onto the sidewalk as a polished, black supercar pulled up outside my building, revving its engine loudly. The driver's side door opened and inside sat Brendan, smiling cheekily.
His eyes widened as he climbed out of the car.
“Wowzer!” he said. “You're looking absolutely gorgeous! And you match my car,” he quipped. “I chose this one out of the stable and it happens to be the only black one I've got. I must be psychic, right?”
I couldn't help but chuckle.
“Psychic, huh? Maybe just a lucky guess is more like it.”
“Either way,” he joked, flashing me a broad smile. “Come on, climb in.”
I walked around to the passenger side of the car as pedestrians stopped to gawk at the sight of the sleek beast.
“Like my ride?” he asked as I climbed in. “It's a Bugatti Veyron. One of the fastest cars on the planet.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“I know a thing or two about motors. I grew up working on them.”
“A woman of many talents, huh?”
“I guess you could say that.”
He grinned. “Well, I’m not too crazy about working on them. I just like driving them. And when I say that, I mean driving the hell out of them. You all strapped in?”
I locked the racing-style seatbelt across my torso. “Yep, all locked in.”
“Great. Hang on tight.”
He dropped the clutch and floored the accelerator, spinning the tires in a howl of shrieking rubber and black smoke. With that, we tore off at top speed, racing through the n
ight streets.
Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up outside the restaurant, screeching to a dramatic halt and causing most of the people waiting behind the velvet queue ropes to turn and stare. Brendan hopped out and grinned, and tossed the Bugatti's keys to a waiting valet, who was gawking at the vehicle with a slack jaw.
“Park her nicely, kid,” Brendan said to the young man, who couldn't have been older than 20 or 21. “Or I'm gonna have to kill ya. Because if you put a single scratch on my baby, it's gonna take you the next 30 years to pay for it on your salary.”
The remark was uncalled for, and it left a bad taste in my mouth. I preferred to enjoy the finer things in life without rubbing it in the faces of those who were less fortunate.
The kid seemed to brush it off, and instead wore an ear-to-ear grin as Brendan handed him the keys to the supercar.
“Don't worry, sir,” he said to Brendan, “I'll put her in the safest spot in the lot.”
He then turned to me and smiled, and I wondered if the kid meant it or if he was going to park it on a side street somewhere just for spite.
He drove off exceedingly carefully, and Brendan watched him with a scowl as he did.
“Kids,” he said, shaking his head.
“Come on, you're not even that much older than him.”
“I'm 34. That's a lifetime away from that little, wet-behind-the-ears punk.”
I rolled my eyes, irritated at his attitude. “If you say so. Why don't we go inside?”
He smiled, baring bright-white teeth. “Sounds perfect. Shall we?” He cocked his elbow out for me to take and we strolled arm in arm toward the front door as cameras flashed. It seemed the VIP grand opening was a bigger social deal than I had imagined it would be.
“I'm looking forward to this,” he chimed as we entered the lobby of the restaurant. “I'm a connoisseur of fine food, you know. Always have been. In fact, I dreamed of being a chef when I was a kid. My parents, of course, wouldn't hear of it. They'd planned for me to go to an Ivy League school and enter the business world since before I could walk. I didn't really have much say in the matter.
“Still, I don't regret it. I mess around in the kitchen in my spare time while I make piles of green doing what I do. Which means I can afford to eat meals prepared by the most skilled, artisanal chefs on the planet, whenever the hell I want. I think that's a successful compromise for giving up a dream, don't you?”
“I guess it is, depending on your point of view.”
We made our way inside where a waiter showed us to our table. The décor was ultra modern and tech-minimalist. I liked the place immediately.
“Check out the tabletops,” he said. “There are no menus because the surface itself is a menu.”
It was true; the tables were touchscreen menus. With eager eyes, I began scrolling through menu items, all of which looked absolutely decadent. While I was looking at the food, Brendan perused the wine menu. He pressed a button on the touchscreen, and within seconds a waiter arrived at our table.
“Good evening, Mr. Savage and Ms. Maxwell,” the waiter greeted us. “May I interest you in some wine?”
“Absolutely, kid,” replied Brendan. “This dry red from Argentina here, it comes highly recommended, does it?”
“Recommended by the chef himself,” the waiter replied with a smile, “even though he is French, and the wine is Argentinian. It does, of course, depend heavily on which dishes you're planning on ordering. The wines have all been selected in order to complement—”
“Yadda, yadda, yadda, okay, I get it. Look, this one is really expensive, it's highly recommended, so that'll do,” Brendan demanded with a roll of his eyes. “Just bring it out, all right?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Brendan shook his head as the waiter left.
“Jeez, that kid could just yak on and on, couldn't he? All I wanted was some wine.”
“Well, he was trying to explain that different wines—”
“Complement different foods, I get it! Jesus, I told you, I wanted to be a chef. You think I don't know about this kind of stuff? Of course, I do. And, that's exactly why I don't need to hear it from some bottom-feeder waiter who only just got out of high school. The dumb-ass probably only barely scraped through, anyway.”
“You don't know that.”
“Why else would he be working a crap job like this?”
“Maybe to pay his way through college. Not all of us had parents who could afford to pay for us to go to Ivy League schools, Brendan.”
He rolled his eyes. “And, I'm supposed to feel guilty about that?”
“That's not what I meant.”
The waiter returned bearing a bottle of wine and immediately Brendan's mood changed.
“Well, that was quick,” he said. “Good. I like that. Keep it up and you'll get a nice, fat tip at the end of the evening, kid.”
“Thank you, sir,” the waiter said as he poured glasses of wine for myself and Brendan before leaving us to peruse the menu.
Brendan held up his glass and clinked it against mine. “To new beginnings and future potential,” he said with a smile.
“To . . . the future, and whatever it may hold,” I added as I clinked my glass against his. “Now,” I said, “before we get too far into this wine, let's cut to the chase. Why did you bring me here? Tell me about this offer you've been hinting at making.”
He smiled. “Well, well, well, a true corporate shark, aren't you? I like that. Well, listen, Lilah, I'll be honest. Your boss Asher is my biggest competitor. And, we've had a rivalry going between us for years now. Somehow, despite all my best efforts, he still has the edge over me.
“I've been . . . monitoring the Sinclair Agency for quite some time now. And, I know, due to some, uh, research that I've done, that the recent massive success with the Harry Winston watches was all because of you, Lilah.”
I looked up, surprised. “You know that?”
“I know a lot of things. But yes, I know that. I've been studying your work, Lilah, and I've come to the conclusion that you're one of the best. You have more potential in our field than almost anyone I’ve come across. Where I am, where Asher is, you could be there yourself in a few years. With the right guidance, of course.
“But the thing is, I don't believe Asher wants that for you. I think he knows as well as I do how much potential you have, and I think it concerns him. He doesn't want to lose clients to you should you decide to venture out on your own. That would mean yet another rival to compete with. So, he's gonna keep you where you are. Keep you where you're safe, where you're not a threat to him. He doesn't want you to achieve your full potential.”
“And you do?” I asked coolly.
“Absolutely. If for no other reason than to rub it in his face. See? Brutal honesty.”
“So, what you're saying is that you want me to work for you, instead of working for Asher or for myself?”
Brendan smiled. “That's exactly what I'm saying.”
I nodded, taking it all in. I was conflicted, for a few reasons. One of which was above all else, Brendan Savage was a bit of a pompous ass and that left me suspicious. Another reason was that he was telling me exactly what he thought I wanted to hear, for his own purposes—his own end goal, whatever that may be. But there was also that little voice saying that he was making some pretty good points. Maybe Asher was scared of having another rival? Maybe he didn't want me to reach my full potential.
But that didn't seem like the Asher I knew.
Still, I decided to hear out the details of Brendan's offer. At least then I would know exactly what was on the table, exactly what was at stake, and exactly what I was worth on the free market.
“Very well,” I said. “So, what can you give me that Asher and the Sinclair Agency can't?”
He smiled and, with that, he began to make me an offer he expected I couldn't refuse.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Asher
After a morning of intense Muay Thai training, I w
ould have thought I’d be less on edge. But when my phone rang, interrupting my shower, annoyance bolted through me and in a fit of sudden rage, I seriously considered flinging the phone across the room. Clearly, there was more stress and frustration built up inside me than I had realized. Even an intense sparring session hadn't been able to get it all out.
I took a breath, turned off the shower, and answered the call instead of tossing the phone.
“Asher, who's this?”
“Morning, Asher, it's Matt Eaton, PI.”
“Ah. Hi, Matt. Have you found something new?”
“Yeah. Me and the rest of the city that is.”
“What?”
“Do yourself a favor, Asher, and go look on page three of today's Times. Do that, and then tell me whether you still trust that bird in your office.”
“All right, give me a few. I'll call you back.”
“Sure.”
My heart began to pound. What the hell was he talking about? Page three of today's Times?
I pressed an icon on the video touch-screen in my bathroom, and my driver's face showed up.
“Yes, sir?” Alfred asked.
“Go pick up today's copy of The New York Times, will you? And, uh, pick up a fresh bottle of Glenfiddich for me. I have a feeling I'm going to need it.”
“Certainly, sir.”
I turned off the screen and stepped back into the shower, anxious to find out just what the private investigator had been talking about. There was only one way to find out, though, since I didn’t have an online subscription to the paper. That way involved waiting. I shook my head, sighed, and turned on the faucet for the rain shower, grateful for the temporary escape the relaxing heat the water provided.
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting at the breakfast table having a smoothie when Alfred returned with a copy of The Times and a bottle of whiskey. I thanked him for his help, then asked him for a little privacy. My gut told me I didn’t want anyone around when I saw what was on page three.
After he had closed the door behind him, I plucked up enough courage to open the newspaper.
