“Do I want to know how much?” I asked.
“Five hundred thousand dollars each.”
“Jesus Christ Mom, that’s a lot of money.” Not to mention a hunk of my inheritance. Assuming she doesn’t leave everything to Lisa so she can save the world.
“It’s better than the alternative,” she insisted. “My reputation would be ruined.”
“Your reputation is worth a half-million dollars?”
Liam raked his hands through his hair. “Technically it’s a million if you add in Deacon’s half.”
“Why is he so willing to pay?”
My mother uncrossed and recrossed her ankles. I was mildly distracted by the red soles of her thousand dollar shoes.
“Deacon is in the middle of a divorce. If this comes out now it could complicate things for him. There’s a prenup in place that includes monetary penalties for adultery.”
I sat down on the sofa next to Liam. Our thighs brushed together. I looked him directly in the eyes. “Do you honestly think you can find the blackmailer and insure you can get every copy of this tape?”
He shrugged, causing the soft fabric of his faded Tommy Bahama shirt to pull taut against his impressive chest. “Probably. I’ve got almost four days plus the drop off if I need it to get the job done. I’ll need your help.” He reached over and covered my hand with his.
“Doing what?”
“You’ve got databases at your office that can run a more thorough backgrounds than I can. As soon as I have some names, you can check them out while I do the legwork.”
“Starting with whom?”
“Do you know where the footage was shot?” Liam asked my mother.
She nodded. “Deacon’s suite at the Palm Beach Resort and Spa.”
“Any idea when?”
“A week ago,” she answered. “I recognized my . . . apparel.”
An image flashed through my brain. It wasn’t pretty. “And you didn’t notice a camera?”
My mother pursed her lips for a second. “Obviously if I had, this vile tape would not exist.”
“Have you ever been fingerprinted?” Liam asked.
“Lord no,” my mother replied rather indignantly. “Why?”
“I’ve got a friend in latent prints and it could be your blackmailer left his prints on the note.”
My mother seemed to relax a bit. “How long does that take?”
“A couple of days,” he answered. “Finley, do you have a bottle of water?”
“Sure,” I said as I stood and went to retrieve it from the kitchen. “Here”
Liam wiped the bottle down with the hem of his shirt, then told my mother how to put her hands so he could get elimination prints. “Has anyone else touched this?”
“No. Well, yes. I showed it to Deacon.”
“Where is Deacon?” I asked.
“He went to the Caymans to withdraw money from his account to pay the blackmailer. He’ll be back Sunday.”
Liam picked up the note by the top corner and studied it.
It was on plain twenty-pound white bond. Letters and numbers had been cut out of newspapers and magazines. It read:
Enjoy the show. Have five-hundred thousand ready by Monday. You’ll receive further instructions. Do not contact the police or the video will go viral.
“Probably someone young,” I suggested.
“Why would you say that?” my mother asked.
“Viral? Do you even know what that means?”
She let out a long breath. “I asked my doorman. He explained it to me.”
Liam gently placed the blackmail note on the table next to the DVD. “How did they make contact?”
“The letter was delivered via a messenger service.”
“Do you know which one?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t pay attention. I just went down to the lobby and signed for it.”
“Did it come like this?” he asked.
“No. It was in a regular white envelope. My name was written in block letters in black ink.”
“Do you still have the envelope?”
“At my home. I left it on the counter. I can get it when I go back tomorrow. I’ve got to check to see if the blackmailer has sent instructions. The building concierge has my permission to sign for anything that arrives.”
“Can you tell him to make a note of the messenger service?” I asked.
“Certainly. If you think it will help.”
“It’s not like we have a lot to go on,” I pointed out.
“We have enough to get started,” Liam said. “I’ve got to watch the tape.”
At the mere thought of doing that made me want to stick pencils in my eyes. “Not here,” I insisted.
“Is that really necessary?” my mother asked as a slight blush tinted her cheeks.
“Afraid so. Do you think you can remember the names of anyone who serviced your room at the resort? Maids, room service?”
My mother nervously tapped one perfectly manicured finger against her leg. “Faces, yes. Names, I doubt it. There was a butler on call. A maid. The bellman. A woman who delivered room service. And of course the front desk staff. Oh, and we had drinks at the bar one night.”
“I’ll go to the hotel tomorrow, take some pictures and get some names,” Liam said. “I’ll forward them to your phone,” he told me.
“Are you sure you don’t want to call the police?” I asked.
“No, I just want this over with quickly and quietly. If the police get involved, there could be a trial and then the tape would be public. That’s precisely what I don’t want to happen.”
Liam carefully gathered up the note, the bottle and the DVD, then moved to the door. “Walk me out?”
Disappointment weighed heavily on me. This was supposed to be a hot and heavy reunion. Instead I was knee deep in my mother’s problems.
I’d known Liam for more than a year. And in that year our attraction had exploded. We were still feeling it all out. We hadn’t even exchanged house keys yet. Baby steps. I didn’t realize that being burned by my jackass ex-fiancé had left me so skittish. It was either that or I was still grappling with the relationship between Liam and his ex-wife. Right now, none of that mattered. Once we were alone outside all I wanted to do was feel his kiss.
As soon as he’d put the items in his vintage Mustang, he turned to me. Liam’s lips brushed against the sensitive skin just below my earlobe. The feel of his feather-light kisses drew my stomach into a knot of anticipation. Closing my eyes, I concentrated on the glorious sensations. His grip tightened as his tongue traced a path up to my ear. My breath caught when Liam teasingly nibbled the edge of my lobe.
His hands traveled up and rested against my ribcage. I swallowed the moan rumbling in my throat. I was aware of everything – his fingers; the feel of his solid body molded against mine; the magical kisses.
“You smell wonderful,” he said against my super-heated skin.
“So do you,” I managed in a breathy voice. “I’m sorry about tonight.”
His forehead rested against mine. “Not as sorry as I am. How long is she staying?”
“Why?”
“Because I have a feeling there’s no sex in my future with your mother in the guestroom.”
“Smart man. I’m sorry.”
He stepped back a fraction of an inch and cupped my face in his palm. The pad of his thumb gently stroked my cheek, warming my entire body. As if it needed any more warmth. When his hand slipped away, I felt a shroud of disappointment settle in the pit of my stomach.
“Sure you don’t want to come to my place?” he asked with a sexy half-smile.
“Of course I want to but I can’t.”
“Got it. I’ll text you the pictures tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
The Mustang started up with a billow of smoke and the loud growl of the engine. It was Liam’s pet project. I thought it was scrap metal. Must be a guy thing.
When I returned to the house, my mother was s
till seated on the couch. She’d refilled her wine and was sipping from the glass.
“You didn’t eat much,” I said as I picked my shoes up off the floor. “Speaking of which. What do you like for breakfast?” Somehow I didn’t think she’d like my version of breakfast – four cups of coffee and a handful of Lucky Charms.
“Just fruit and coffee will be fine.”
I slipped my shoes on. “I need to go to Publix. Is there anything else you’d like to have? Something in the house for lunch?”
“I’m having lunch with Muffy Tarleton tomorrow. We’re co-chairing the Heart Association benefit.”
Interesting for a woman without a heart, but okay. “I’ll only be gone a little while. Make yourself at home.”
“It’s been a taxing day. I think I’ll attempt to bathe in that small powder room.”
I considered offering to let her use my fabulous tub with the endless waterfall edges but spite got the better of me. “Enjoy yourself.” I grabbed my keys and my purse. “If you think of something, call my cell.”
“All I can think of is your paramour watching that tape. It is quite disconcerting.”
“For both of us,” I mumbled. “Paramour? Are we in Victorian England?”
“Well, what do you call him?”
“Liam.”
“How long has this been going on? And what about that nice attorney in your office?”
I sighed heavily. “That nice attorney is just that. A nice guy.” A very hot nice guy. “I work for Tony. Liam and I have . . . well we are . . . it’s hard to define.”
“What kind of family does he come from?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where did he go to college?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he financially secure?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well what do you know about him?”
I met her disapproving gaze. “I know he curls my toes. Anything else?”
“Excuse me for taking an interest. You’re almost thirty, Finley. You’ve already gone through one fiancé, how much longer are you going to wait?”
“I’ll know when I know. Why are you grilling me? I’m not the one with the sex tape floating around.”
“It’s completely inappropriate for you to throw that in my face. You’re acting like it’s my fault.”
“I’m sorry,” I said on a breath. “I’m going to the store now.”
Before I left, I moved my trashcan out to the street. Only on Palm Beach was the trash collected daily, seven days a week. I happened to glance down to my right and saw a car parked on the side of the road. I couldn’t tell if anyone was behind the wheel but it gave me a chill. The car was definitely out of place. It was an older model sedan, maybe a Lincoln. The front bumper was crushed in and dangling on the left side. In all likelihood, it was paparazzi. It happens. They get wind of some celebutante on the island and they hang out hoping for a clear shot.
I got in my car and drove cautiously past the car. It was dark but I thought I saw a figure duck down as my headlights hit the glass. Could be a private detective spying on a resident. Divorces in Palm Beach were private but ugly.
The grocery store was uneventful. And one of my least favorite tasks. I spent a lot on various fruits and picked up a couple more bottles of wine. Something told me my mother would be drinking until the blackmail was resolved.
As I returned home, the car was still parked on the street. I approached slowly, reaching for my cell phone. I came to a complete stop and started to enter the license plate number in my phone when the car suddenly revved to life and skidded away. I only had a partial plate but I saved it anyway. If he continued to loiter, I’d happily call the Palm Beach PD and they could deal with him.
I put the groceries away, cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. The guest bath door was closed as I went passed on my way to the bedroom. I changed out of my clothes and donned lightweight drawstring pants with little hearts on them and a plain white cami. I pulled my hair back and washed my face. I was tired and I had to be at work by nine-ish. If not Margaret Ford, receptionist and all-around pain in the ass, would rat me out to Vain Victor Dane, the managing partner. Just thinking about him made me want to groan.
I sat on my bed and powered up my laptop. I had to check the status of several auctions on eBay. The first one I checked was my bid on several links for a Rolex. Since I can’t afford the watch, I’m buying the pieces so I can assemble my own. I was still the high bidder with four hours left to go. For good measure I upped my bid by one hundred dollars. My next stop was a gently used Coach bag. It had a small tear on the inside lining but the exterior was pristine. That auction had only minutes left. After rubbing my hands together, I pulled up the screen to place a bid but I didn’t hit enter. Instead I was waiting for the auction clock to hit two seconds, then I’d sweep in and steal the bag from some unsuspecting buyer.
“Be prepared to be disappointed,” I told the screen. My hand hovered over the enter key as the clock hit four seconds, then three. Then I heard a shriek.
I practically tossed my laptop to the side and ran toward the guestroom. I opened the door to find my mother sitting on the bed with a computer next to her. “What is wrong?” I asked. “And when did you enter the computer age?”
“Look at this,” she said as she turned the state of the art MAC in my direction.
Moving closer, I read the email. “The price just went up to six hundred grand.”
Fear is a good motivator.
Scared shitless is a great one.
Chapter Three
“This is good,” I explained.
My mother tightened the belt on her silk robe. Peeking out of the top I noticed she wore the matching negligee underneath. Even in a crisis she didn’t compromise her style.
“How is that possible? And why raise the price on me?”
“It’s good because I can have the IT guys at work backtrack the ISP on the email. They can target the exact location where it originated. Could lead us straight to the blackmailer.”
“What about the price increase? I haven’t done anything.”
I shrugged. “Maybe he’s pissed that you aren’t at your house. Did he ever call, maybe tell you to stay put?”
“No phone calls. Just the note. All that said was to keep vigil for the next note.”
“Being here isn’t exactly like lying in wait at your own place. But let’s not worry about that now.”
She gave me a hostile look. “Exactly what do you think I should be worried about?”
“Global warming. Or the sabre rattling out of North Korea. Or maybe voting irregularities in Latin America.”
“Your sarcasm is not appreciated.”
“C’mon. That was a little bit funny.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“Message received. What’s with the computer?” I tenderly brushed my fingers over the state-of-the-art beauty.
“Deacon insisted. He travels a lot for work and it’s just easier for us to keep in touch over computer mail.”
Absently I said, “Email.” I clicked the screen back to a shot of her inbox. A few spams but most of the emails were from [email protected]. “He must be smitten. He emails you like five times a day.”
We had a mother-daughter breakthrough when my mother patted the seat next to her on the bed. “He really is a wonderful man,” she gushed. “So touching.” She clicked open one of the emails. “See?”
It read:
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
I placed my hand on my mother’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “Sorry to tell you this mom, but that’s Lord Byron’s She Walks Alone. Deacon, er, borrowed it.”
“He selected it,” she defended. “What man would go to all that trouble?”
“Any guy who can Google?”
“Is that the search thing I’m supposed to use when I want to find something on the computer?”
“One of them. Here,” I dragged the laptop over. “Let me show you. Um, you’re having lunch with Muffy Tarleton tomorrow, right?”
“Right.”
“Then let’s see if Muffy has any skeletons in her closet.”
“Is this legal?” my mother asked.
“I’m not hacking, I’m asking. Completely legal. Here we go. Photos and everything,” I said with some pride because my skills bore fruit. Knowing Muffy was a stunning woman in her early fifties, I of course, wanted to know if she’d had any work done. “Here’s her maiden name too. Let’s review her time at Lexington Prep,” I read. “We can check out her high school years.”
“Oh my God!” My mother and I said in unison. High school Muffy was a hot mess. Frizzy, dull, dishwasher brown hair. No cheekbones to speak of and then there was the glaring thing in the middle of her face. If I didn’t think it was anatomically incorrect, I’d have sworn she was growing another arm instead of one honking nose. And just for good measure, she had on orthodontic headgear.
“She’s had more work than Liam’s car.”
“Who else can we do?”
I hadn’t seen my mother this happy since the sale on pearls at David Yurman.
“Can I do myself?”
“Sure. That’s called an ego Google. Go for it.” She hunted and pecked her way through her name and then waited the mille-second for the search to bear fruit. “The first entry is when I married Jonathan.” She sounded disappointed.
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