by Claire Adams
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 night 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 would 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.
I almost wished I hadn't.
There, splayed out across half the page, was a full-color photo of Brendan Savage arm in arm with Lilah. She, I have to say, was dressed in an absolutely stunning gown. The headline of the article the picture was attached to said something about the opening of a new restaurant in town owned by a celebrity chef from France.
I wasn't interested in the article itself, though. All I could see was the image of Lilah, arm in arm with my biggest rival who had the smuggest grin on his face I'd ever seen. He had probably timed it just so that he'd walk past a press photographer, knowing I’d see the photo.
I crumpled the newspaper into a ball and hurled it across the room, shouting with rage as I did. With anger-quivering hands, I picked up my phone, skimming through until I reached Lilah's number. My finger hovered just above the screen, ready to press the dial key. I felt like unleashing a tirade on her. How could she have done this to me? After everything I'd done for her, after everything we'd been through together, done together—she did this?
I was about to hit dial, but then a different part of my brain took over and held my finger back.
“Wait,” the voice said—a voice that sounded almost like Colonel Tanaka's. “There might be an explanation for this. As blatant as it seems, there may be something else going on.”
I set the phone down on the table and leaned back in the chair. My mindset wasn’t where it needed to be at the moment to talk rationally to Lilah, so the best thing to do would be to simply not speak to her. Not until I'd calmed down and maybe not until I had a better idea of what was really going on.
Maybe it was time to have Matt start following Lilah. I gave it some thought before I picked up my phone and dialed.
“Matt speaking,” he answered.
“Matt. It's Asher Sinclair.”
“You saw the paper. I can hear it in your voice.”
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“And now you want me to follow the girl, right?”
I paused and stayed silent for a few moments as I considered my options. Whichever path I chose, there would be no going back. My relationship with Lilah would not be the same after this. Even if she never found out about it, I would know about it. I would know what I'd done.
“Hello? So, you want me to investigate her or not?”
Matt needed an answer, and I gave him the only one I could, the one that came straight from my heart. “No. I don't want you to follow her. I don’t want you to tap her phone or investigate her.”
“Are you sure? Listen, Mr. Sinclair, it's my opinion, as a professional who's been in this business for decades, that—”
“I don't care. I don't want you to follow her, and that's the end of this discussion. Focus your attention on Brendan Savage and his lackeys, and them alone. Leave Lilah out of this.”
“Yes, sir, but don't say I didn't warn you. When it all hits the fan, don't say I didn't warn you.”
“Understood, Matt, loud and clear.”
“I'll update you if come up with any new dirt on Savage.”
“Do that. Enjoy your Saturday.”
“It's just another working day for me, Sinclair. But I appreciate the sentiment.”
“Just keep me posted,” I added.
“Will do.”
I put the phone down and stared at the wall in silence. Then I stared at the whiskey bottle for a good long while. I was seriously considering getting drunk, even at that hour in the morning. It seemed like the only effective escape from the horrible feelings plaguing me, the confusion I was wrestling with.
But then, clear as a bell, I hear
d Colonel Tanaka's voice in my head again.
“Drowning oneself in alcohol is the way of cowards, of the weak. The truly strong face their challenges and fears with a clear mind and a sword in hand.”
He was right. I was right, rather. I put the bottle to the side and called up my Muay Thai instructor.
“Mr. Sinclair?” he said as he answered his phone. “Is something wrong?”
“I want another sparring session,” I said.
“Before next week? What day?”
“Now,” I responded.
“Right now? But we just had one. You were exhausted.”
“Not exhausted enough. I want to get back in the ring.”
“Umm. All right. But don't you think you're pushing yourself a bit too hard?”
“Who ever achieved anything by not pushing themselves past their limits?”
“Good point. Luckily I stopped on the way home to grab a coffee, so I'm not far away. I'll turn around. Wrap your hands, get your gloves on, and warm yourself up. I'll see you in your gym in 15 minutes. I'm warning you, I'm not gonna go easy on you.”
“And, that's exactly how I want it. Exactly how I want it.”
***
Come Monday morning, I was at work an hour before everyone else. This was partly because there was a lot I needed to get done, but also because I wanted to be there when Lilah walked in. You see, I'd locked her office—I'd blame it on a mistake made by the cleaning lady, but she wouldn't be able to avoid me. She'd have to come to me to get the master key. Then she'd have to face me, after what she'd done behind my back.
I wanted to see if she would wear the guilt on her face like a scar or cover it up completely, hide it with a sweet smile, and pretend as if nothing had happened. Either way, I wanted to look her in the eye and see what was there for myself. No more of the games, hiding, or avoiding one another.
I waited patiently as the clock struck the hour, knowing she had to be in the building. Probably coming up in the elevator. I waited for her to discover that her door was locked and go to my secretary to ask about it. Then she’d be told that she'd have to come into my office and speak to me about getting the key.
