Blacklist: An Enemies-To-Lovers Romance (The Rivals Book 1)

by Geneva Lee

  “You’re so pretty, even when you’re all funny looking,” I say. Or I think I do. I’m not certain given the confused look he returns.

  “Thank you,” he says slowly. He picks up my cup and sniffs it.

  “I shouldn’t drink that. I’m the DD,” I tell him.

  “Not tonight.” He crouches back on his heels and stares at me, his gorgeous face blurring in and out, then he mutters a string of curses that would make a sailor blush. “I can’t leave you like this.”

  “Then don’t.”

  His face softens, his hands gently brushing back my hair before he scoops me into his arms and everything goes black.

  16

  Sterling

  Present Day

  “If I were you,” Luca begins, and I brace myself for my friend’s particular brand of advice, “I’d stay here. Full house staff. Bar downstairs. Room service. Why exactly would you want your own place?”

  “Why don’t you live here?” I ask him, handing off the last of my luggage to the bellhop along with a fifty-dollar bill.

  “Maybe I will.” Knowing Luca, he’s seriously considering it.

  If it was my first stay here, I wouldn’t blame him. We both landed at the Eaton as a matter of convenience. Nashville has plenty of hotels, but the Eaton boasts particularly tempting options for men like us. It’s an old-school hotel, catering to a clientele that expected gentility, grace, and, most importantly, discretion. In other words, it’s where Nashville’s elite go to conduct their affairs—both business and extramarital. The executive floor features suites generously decked out for business meetings with conference tables and reception areas. A Chesterfield sofa in olive-colored velvet sits across from two leather club chairs. In another hotel, the ticking stripe wallpaper might look outdated, but here it fits with the timeless sophistication. You didn’t bring a hooker to the Eaton, you brought your mistress, likely a friend’s wife or maybe daughter, as proof of good breeding. The whole place smacks of civilized vice.

  And it’s available to anyone willing to pay its considerable price tag. “I’m not giving this place one more dime than I have to.”

  “You’re the one who suggested the place.”

  “Because of the list,” I say with meaning. I toss a folded piece of paper on the bed.

  He picks it up and opens it. “You know blacklist is one word not two, right?”

  “Everyone’s a critic,” I mutter, snatching back the hastily written list of people due a visit from karma.

  “The more you know,” he says with a shrug. He doesn’t question my blacklist. He never has. Luca carries his own baggage. If he took any issue with my plans for revenge, he’s never shown it. A DeAngelo rarely suffers from moral crisis. Luca is no exception.

  “Should I pack my things before you leave?” He fingers a matchbook from the hotel bar. “Is this going to be like Istanbul?”

  “Nothing that simple,” I assure him.

  “Good. Because Italian wool is quite flammable, and you told me to pack enough to stay a while.” A wolfish grin slashes across his face as he recalls our ill-fated time in Turkey. Glancing at him in his well-tailored black suit, he might pass more for a local Southern gentleman than a mercenary. Look closer and there’s a beast with a cruel sense of humor stalking through his dark eyes.

  “I know the owner. He’s not the one on the list.” Cyrus is due to inherit the hotel and the rest of the chain when his dad finally kicks it, so my retribution regarding the Eaton lands solely at the hotel’s long-time manager. Cyrus had been one of my only true friends in Valmont, never bothered by my lack of money or status, but his charitable attitude hadn’t been shared by the staff here at the time.

  “How do you want to play it here?” he asks.

  Before I can answer him, a knock at the door interrupts us.

  “I’ll get it.” He walks to the door and opens it.

  A man in a neat but inexpensive suit and white gloves greets him with a bow of his head, a show of deference I’m certain inflates Luca’s overstuffed ego even more.

  “Mr. Randolph would like to have a drink with you in his office—to thank you for your stay.”

  “I’d be happy to join him for a drink,” I say loudly and the concierge startles.

  “Sir, I’m sorry, I assumed,” he stutters an apology. “Both of you are welcome to join him before you depart.”

  Luca crosses his arms over his broad chest when he leaves. “Drinking with the management?”

  “You know I don’t drink.” I straighten my tie in the mirror by the door. Mr. Randolph won’t remember me. I doubt he ever bothered to learn my name.

  “Why do you look like the prettiest boy asked you to dance at the prom?” Luca leans against the wall, surveying me with interest.

  “Mr. Randolph is on the list. I’ve been meaning to squeeze in a visit.”

  “As long as it doesn’t affect the service,” Luca says dryly. “I’m still staying here.”

  “I assure you he’s mostly a figurehead. Too busy conducting his own affairs to bother worrying about the hotel. He leaves everything to his staff now.”

  “In that case, I guess it’s time to pay him a visit,” Luca agrees.

  The hotel manager’s office is decked out in a style more befitting a king than an administrator. I happen to know that running the city’s most exclusive five-star hotel comes with a more than a decent salary. Doing some digging, I’ve discovered that isn’t enough for him. A man doesn’t open an account in the Caymans without reason. Nicholas Randolph opened two.

  He greets me at his desk, extending a pudgy arm. “Mr. Ford, I’ve been meaning to invite you for a drink.”

  The years haven’t been kind to him. His graying hair—or what’s left of it—is swept pathetically over his shining boulder of a head in an attempt to hide his balding skull. His suit, while expensive, has been fitted to a much leaner man. I can almost hear him screaming at the tailor to make the measurements tighter. Why be comfortable when your pride is on the line? I accept his handshake, not at all surprised at how hard he squeezes. A good, firm handshake is important to men like him. Meanwhile, I barely bother. Touching him isn’t on my list of must do’s.

  “This is my associate, Luca,” I say, purposefully withholding his last name. Anyone in the hospitality business knows the DeAngelo family. Learning he’s in the presence of a member of the family will either distract or disturb him. I’m not interested in either scenario.

  “Thank you for joining me for a little afternoon refresco,” he says. Luca barely smothers a laugh, but Randolph doesn’t notice. “I hope you enjoyed your stay.”

  “Immensely. I’d have been here longer but I closed on my condo last week.”

  “A condo?” He settles into his chair, waving his hand over a spread of house delicacies he’s had brought in for the occasion. I shake my head. “How lovely. I like to check in with our more important guests to make certain we exceeded their expectations.”

  “I try to refrain from having expectations. I’m easy to please,” I say, refusing the bourbon he lifts next in offering.

  “Well, then, good,” he says in a flustered tone, retrieving a monogrammed handkerchief from his suit pocket and mopping his forehead.

  “Luca will be staying at the Eaton for some time, though.”

  “Oh, excellent.” Randolph turns his beady gaze on him. “In town for business?”

  Luca nods, picking at his sleeve. He’s never been one to bother with chit chat.

  “And your business is?” Randolph presses.

  “The family business,” he says in a bored voice.

  Getting nowhere with Luca, he returns his attention to me. “And you, Mr. Ford? What business are you in?”

  I can’t blame him for wondering what the man staying in his most expensive suite for nearly a month does for a living. In Randolph’s eyes I’m the sort of clientele he wants to attract. At least, I am now.

  “Asset management. I handle private financial matters,
” I emphasize the last part—bait sure to make this fish bite.

  “Management,” he repeats. “Investments and such?”

  “In a way,” I say. “I only work with very select clientele. My clients require the utmost discretion.”

  A light goes on in his yes. “I understand. I wonder if I might talk to you about a little financial issue of my own.”

  He eyes Luca nervously, trying to figure out how safe it is for him to talk.

  Randolph is a money launderer. Not a terribly good one, because I found proof of it far too easily, which means he’s just smart enough to know what he’s doing but just stupid enough that he’ll get caught. Eventually. He’s been skimming off the top for years. I have proof but it wouldn’t take a genius to see his lifestyle doesn’t match up with his salary. Loyalty is a funny thing in the South though. I’ve seen it before. People forgiving those who shouldn’t be forgiven. Overlooking crimes to save face. Scandals are as prevalent here as anywhere else, but they tend to be swept directly under the rug.

  “You can speak freely,” I assure him.

  “Are you also in asset management?” he asks Luca.

  Lucas straightens in his seat, suddenly interested in the conversation. He’s never one to turn down a chance to boast about his own occupation. “I’m more of a people person. I handle staffing issues, among other problems.”

  I toss in an incredulous stare. Staffing issues? It’s possibly the worst double entendre for assassin that I’ve ever heard. Randolph swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort. He clearly gets the idea.

  “What he means is that he’s discreet,” I explain.

  “In that case…” He clears his throat, darting nervous glances at Luca. “I recently had an investment opportunity present itself. Very certain returns. I need to figure out where to put the money.”

  “A mutual fund?” Luca suggests flatly.

  “You’re never as funny as you think you are,” I warn him under my breath. I nod to Randolph encouragingly.

  “It would be better if my wife didn’t know about it…” he says, adding as an afterthought, “Yet.”

  “Sometimes separate finances are for the best,” I say.

  It’s a common problem I’m asked to solve. When a rich man bores of his wife and takes a new mistress, he starts to think about hiding his assets. The less the wife knows about, the less he has to share in the divorce. Most wind up still losing a chunk to keeping the mistress happy in the process. But she’s on the hook, willing to trade her body for the finer things. A wife expects the finer things for putting up with you. Something Randolph’s wife feels acutely, I’m sure.

  “I’m sure I can find the right investment for you,” I say. “Why don’t you and I discuss this further? I’ll need to know exactly what assets and so forth you would like moved.”

  He dabs his nose with the handkerchief, appearing relieved that I seem willing to help. “I always count myself blessed to meet just the right person for a job so often at my own. I’ll be certain that the bill for your stay is adjusted accordingly.”

  “That’s unnecessary.” I have no intention of accepting his handouts. “Consider it my appreciation for how well the Eaton has taken care of me in the past.”

  This pleases him to no end. He rises to his feet and shows us to the door. In the lobby, Luca smacks my arm. “You’re doing this for his thanks?”

  “I owe him one,” I say darkly.

  “Whatever.” Bored Luca has returned. He jerks a thumb toward the bar off the lobby. “Drink?”

  “I have plans tonight.” I check my watch. “There isn’t time.”

  “Dance card’s full, huh?”

  “I was thinking you might like to join,” I say as he walks with me to the valet station. I hand them my slip. Malcolm had sounded reluctant when he’d called with the details and I’d asked to bring a guest to the gala. Once I’d assured him it wasn’t a woman, he’d agreed. Everyone is likely to be on their best behavior at the event tonight. Luca’s presence will provide some much-needed chaos.

  “What do I have to do?” he asks.

  I shrug, knowing exactly how to tempt him. “Drink too much and start shit. You game?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Twenty minutes later, I park the Vanquish in the private garage of Twelve and South. I’d closed on the penthouse over two weeks ago. Cash transactions move more quickly than financing, but I stayed at the Eaton until a professional decorator had finished the space to my preferences. Walking inside now, I know I made the right decision. It’s important to me to be seen, and one can’t help but be seen when half the walls are glass windows. But inside my house I want to feel free, not only of the expectations of others, but of myself.

  The decor is simple—clean lines with nods to my travels. The walls have a fresh coat of bright paint and the wood floors are polished. Everything is arranged to my exacting specifications. An oversized abstract painting I purchased in Holland centers the lone living room wall. There’s an L-shaped couch in tan leather facing the window to the city below with two mid-century modern chairs opposite it and a live-edge coffee table stretching between them. The Persian wool rug, my concession to comfort, anchors the pieces.

  The focal point of the master bedroom is a king bed on a low-rise platform with a simple wood headboard sourced from a local artisan. A single nightstand from the same maker sits to one side. Two night stands send the wrong message when a woman stays the night. The linens, a favorite, were imported from a London company that also supplies Buckingham Palace. Quality trumps quantity at every angle.

  In the closet, my suits hang evenly spaced according to color. A gallery light illuminates a selection of neatly rolled silk ties on display next to them. My shoes, mostly Italian leather, have been polished and lined on an opposite rack. The chest of drawers is filled with silk pajama bottoms, jeans, t-shirts, and the rest of my private wardrobe.

  But while most of the house is simple with a stress on minimalism and bespoke pieces, my favorite room is full to bursting: the kitchen. The cuisine at the Eaton was excellent, but it’s not a home-cooked meal. I’d learned the value of that in Francie’s cramped kitchen in Queens. I’d clung to it in the barracks in Iraq. Cooking has always been my sanctuary, and I spared no expense here. The high-gloss, white cabinets are fully stocked with stainless steel cookware and French enameled cast-iron pots. A column of drawers neatly house every possible utensil needed to create my favorite dishes. The espresso machine is imported from Italy. I’ve learned how to pull a proper shot over the years. I run my finger along the sharp edge of a Wüsthof knife longingly before returning it to its slot on the block. The kitchen will have to wait, unfortunately.

  Tonight’s required tuxedo hangs in front of my suits, freshly pressed by the hotel staff this morning. Sometimes obligation gets in the way of pleasure — a truth I’ve known for a long time. At least, this evening, business and pleasure will definitely mix.

  17

  Adair

  The Alumni Club at Valmont University caters to its privileged former students with a palatial private restaurant and ballroom near the campus’s football field. In the spring it’s rented for weddings and galas. I’ve been to a dozen private events here since I was a student. Tonight it feels like I’m going back in time, though, because it’s the first time I’m going to see Sterling Ford on the VU campus in years.

  I almost hate to admit Poppy was right about the dress. I haven’t worn a silk gown since my jean size reached double digits. Usually it clings a bit too much to my hips. This dress skims over me, just closely enough to showcase my ample curves without making me feel self-conscious. It’s either made of magic or I’m officially delusional, but regardless, I don’t care.

  Less glamorous is the box of dog treat cookies I’m lugging into the kitchen in my Louboutins. Trust Poppy to remember what she’d previously forgotten at the last second. She meets me at the door, grabs the cookies, and deposits them with a pass
ing volunteer. Poppy, never one to shy away from color, is radiant in a green satin gown that twists over one shoulder. Matching emerald earrings dangle from diamond hooks, nearly reaching her shoulder. They sparkle against the black curtain of hair that swings freely down her back. I’m about to compliment her when she grabs my arm and drags me into a walk-in pantry.

  “He’s here,” she informs me in a low voice like the walls might be listening. “Cyrus saw him.”

  “So?” I pretend this news doesn’t send my stomach plummeting to the floor.

  “You were hoping he wouldn’t come,” she says.

  “But I knew he would.”

  “At least, you look fabulous.” She spins me around to examine her work.

  “It doesn’t really matter how I look. He’s seen me before.” I refuse to let tonight become entirely about Sterling.

  “He’s never seen you looking like this,” she says.

  Maybe that’s why I’m so calm. Yes, I’m back here where everything started between us. But when I slipped on my gown I didn’t find a girl looking back at me in the mirror. So, it had taken a fair bit of fashion tape to keep the girls inside the dress’s lightly-boned bodice. No panties exist that could be worn with the closely draped silk skirt, but I felt powerful in the crimson number. Usually, I wanted to fade into the background at these events, eager to avoid the same crowd I’d known my whole life. Tonight? I want to be seen. I want him to see me. I want him to face what he left behind.

  “Are you ready for this?” she asks.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  We’ve been having some version of this conversation for the past two weeks. Together, we dissected every moment of the disastrous dinner at my house. I told her about my confrontation with him in the hall, but I might have left out the bit where he admitted why he came back.

  For you.

  I omitted that part because I’ve been trying to forget he said it. I haven’t had much success.