“By making sure I invest it wisely.” Vilma unwrapped two steaks, placed them on a plate, and set the plate on the counter so the steaks could come up to temperature. “What about you? What do you do to pay the bills?”
“I run a tech company. Our market share isn’t large enough for us to enter the lexicon and become a verb like Google has, but I’m proud of the products we’ve made. Instead of simply keeping up with what’s trendy now, we try to predict what will be popular a year or two years from now to make sure we don’t get left behind. That’s the fun part.”
“What’s your specialty? Games, apps, social media?”
“We cover all those bases and then some.”
“Yes, but what do you do best? Many companies do several things well. The best focus on doing one thing great.” Vilma stirred the sauce, then turned to look at her. “If I asked you to name the one thing you’re most proud of, what would you say? What’s your claim to fame?”
Brooklyn was surprised that the first thing that came to mind wasn’t a professional accomplishment but a personal one. “I’m most proud of the relationships I’ve made. That probably isn’t the answer you were expecting.”
“No, but it tells me a great deal about you.”
“I’m not sure how to take that. Did I just lose you as a potential investor?”
“I invited you here because I’m interested in you, not your company. You can forward me a prospectus if you like. I’ll take a look at it and see if your company intrigues me as much as you do.”
“I will.” Brooklyn channeled some of Brooke Vincent’s bravado to emphasize her point. “I think you’ll like what you see.”
“Believe me. I already do.”
Vilma’s intense gaze belied her relaxed demeanor. Brooklyn had never met anyone who was such a study in contradictions. Who was this mysterious woman who had entered her life, and what did she have to do to convince her to stay?
“Are you sure you don’t need any help with dinner?” she asked.
“I can tell you’re used to being in control. You don’t form a successful company unless you have the drive to make your dreams come true. Let someone else take the lead for once. Sit back. Relax. I’ve got this.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Vilma’s words gave Brooklyn the permission she needed to let go of the uncertainty she had been feeling for the past few days. She made a conscious decision to live in the moment instead of continuing to dwell on the past. And this moment was not about what she had lost but what she might gain.
“Would you like to hear some music?” Vilma asked.
“Yes, please.”
A person’s music choices often offered telling glimpses into their personalities. She was anxious to get a peek into Vilma’s inner psyche because it was obvious Vilma wasn’t in a hurry to share the information on her own.
Vilma gave her smart speaker a verbal command. “Will you hold it against me for using a product made by your competition?” she asked as the sultry voice of a woman Brooklyn didn’t recognize began to swirl around the apartment.
The singer’s voice sounded like honeyed whiskey. The music accompanying her had the same feel. Vilma hummed along to the music as she cooked, her rich alto blending in with the slinky bass guitar. If the song offered a representation of her personality, the woman was sex on legs.
I can work with that.
Brooklyn sank lower on the couch. Between the drink and the music, she was finally starting to relax. Her limbs felt lighter as the tension in her shoulders, arms, and legs gradually lessened. “If you promise not to make a habit out of it, I might find it in my heart to forgive you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Brooklyn loved the back-and-forth. The flirting. The slow process of feeling each other out. She didn’t know if it would lead anywhere, but she didn’t care. She was too busy enjoying feeling something she hadn’t felt in days: safe.
* * *
Santana held her hand over the cast iron grill pan to check the temperature. The tutorial she was watching said she was supposed to make sure the pan was screaming hot before she placed the steaks on it, but setting off the smoke detectors might ruin the mood she had gone to such great lengths to set.
She turned the heat down a little just in case. She was about to reach for the first steak when she noticed Brooklyn had grown quiet. An unusual circumstance given how much she clearly loved to talk. Whenever they interacted with each other, Santana didn’t have to say much. She just had to ask the appropriate leading questions, then wait for Brooklyn to deliver a minutes-long discourse in response.
If they continued to see each other, Brooklyn would eventually expect her to open up as well. When the time came—if the time came—would she be able to do it? More importantly, would she share the details of her own life or Vilma’s?
None of the identities she assumed were anything like her real one. Vilma came closest for three reasons. She didn’t use wigs or facial prosthetics in order to play her, she had lived with the identity the longest, and she endowed her with the same background. No wonder she often found it easier to be in Vilma’s skin than her own. Like now, for instance.
As Vilma, she could admit her shortcomings like she had when she had confessed she wasn’t a very good cook. That was the kind of admission she would never be able to make as herself. Santana was tough. She was strong. She didn’t have room in her life for failure. On her part or anyone else’s. In her line of work, failure was not an option. Because failure could get her captured or killed. Neither was an option she wanted to consider. Not when Brooklyn DiVincenzo was around to provide such a pleasant diversion.
She was wildly attracted to Brooklyn, and she could tell the feeling was mutual. What remained to be determined, however, was if Brooklyn was attracted to her or the woman she was currently pretending to be.
“Are you enjoying the music,” she asked, “or are you getting tired of my company?”
She waited for a response but didn’t receive one. She placed the first steak on the grill pan, set the timer on the stove for four minutes, and wiped her hands on a dishcloth. Then she tossed the dishcloth on the counter and headed to the living room.
When she reached the couch, she realized why Brooklyn hadn’t answered her question. Brooklyn was in the same position she had last seen her in—lying on the couch with her drink in her hand—but she was sound asleep.
Santana didn’t know whether she should apologize for being such a boring date or be touched by the fact that Brooklyn felt comfortable enough to so thoroughly let down her guard around her. She gently brushed a stray lock of hair away from Brooklyn’s face.
“Let’s go with the latter.”
Brooklyn stirred but didn’t wake. Santana slowly slipped the glass out of her grip, removed her shoes, and covered her with a spare blanket from the linen closet. Then she lowered the lights and turned off the music.
“I guess I’m having dinner alone tonight,” she whispered in the sudden quiet.
She returned to the kitchen, adjusted the timer to her liking, and set the spare steak in the refrigerator. After she prepared the mashed potatoes and plated the food, she took a moment to admire her work. Everything smelled incredible and, surprisingly, it bore more than a faint resemblance to the finished product on the tutorial she had been watching. Of all the classes Winslow had subjected her to over the years, none had involved anything practical.
“Why should you learn to cook and clean,” he had often asked, “when you’re rich enough to pay someone to do it for you?”
Naturally, he had neglected to mention that most of the money she possessed didn’t actually belong to her. She had access to it because it was in her aliases’ names, but he was the one who truly held the purse strings. Her only real asset was her house, but it was by no means the only thing she had to lose.
She headed to the dining room table and took a few tentative bites of her meal. The food wasn’t restaurant-worthy, but the st
eak didn’t taste like shoe leather, the mashed potatoes didn’t have the consistency of wallpaper paste, and the wine sauce wasn’t broken. All major accomplishments in her book.
“Thanks, Samson,” she said, raising her glass in his honor. “I owe you one.” Her excitement was blunted by a pang of disappointment as she glanced at Brooklyn’s sleeping form. “Too bad I’m the only one who’s getting a chance to sample my handiwork.”
Brooklyn obviously needed the rest so Santana let her sleep. After she finished her meal, she put her plate and the dirty pots and pans in the dishwasher. She set a bottle of water on the coffee table in case Brooklyn got thirsty during the night and left a light on so she would be able to make her way around the apartment—or out the door if she chose to leave without saying good-bye.
Santana refilled her wine glass and took one last look around. Then she headed to her room, closed the door behind her, and retrieved her laptop. Brooklyn obviously felt safe with her. She wanted to make sure she remained that way.
She booted up her computer so she could continue the research she had started that afternoon. She took a sip of wine as she pored through the images she had downloaded. Faces of dozens of strangers flashed across the screen. She carefully examined each one to see if she could spot a quality she recognized.
“It takes a killer to catch a killer.”
Chapter Eleven
Brooklyn yawned and stretched. She couldn’t remember the last time she had woken up feeling refreshed instead of even more exhausted than she had been before she had gone to bed. She blinked to get her bearings, then reality smacked her in the face.
She wasn’t in her dinky little apartment. She was in Vilma’s spacious penthouse. She hadn’t gone to bed last night. She had fallen asleep on Vilma’s couch.
She covered her face with her hands, wondering if it were possible for someone to literally die from embarrassment. If so, she might be about to accomplish the feat.
She tossed the blanket aside and stepped into her shoes. Now all she had to do was grab her coat, take the elevator downstairs, and make her walk of shame through the lobby.
She checked her watch. It was a little before seven. At this hour, there shouldn’t be too many witnesses. She would send her apologies to Vilma later. Right now, she just wanted to—
“Good morning.”
She turned at the sound of Vilma’s voice. Even dressed casually the way she was now, she still managed to look incredibly put together. Did she wake up at five a.m. each day to start getting ready? Because surely no one rolled out of bed looking that good.
“Good morning.” Brooklyn wrapped her arms around her waist to hide some of the wrinkles in her dress.
“How did you sleep?”
Brooklyn felt her cheeks warm. “Quite well, obviously,” she said, praying the blush didn’t show. “I hope I didn’t drool on your throw pillows.”
Vilma waved a hand dismissively. “That’s what dry cleaners are for. Since you missed dinner, would you like some breakfast?”
Brooklyn’s stomach growled before she could say anything.
Vilma grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes. I’ve got a rib eye left over from last night. I’ll whip up some steak and eggs.”
“Don’t.” Brooklyn grabbed Vilma’s arm before she could head to the kitchen. The muscles felt like corded steel. Her mouth watered as she wondered if the rest of Vilma’s body was just as firm. “You’ve already done enough for me,” she said, releasing her grip. “It’s time I returned the favor. Let me clean up a little, then I’ll make you breakfast. If you’ve got peppers and onions, I can whip up my famous hangover skillet.”
“The master bathroom’s that way. If you’d like to take a shower, I’ve got some clothes you can borrow.”
Vilma was a good three inches taller than she was and her shoulders were broader so any of her clothes were bound to be too big for Brooklyn. Given the choice between looking like a clown rather than a down-on-her-luck call girl, she was willing to accept the tradeoff.
The shower was so spacious she could practically run laps in it. The tile looked—and felt—like marble. The showerheads—all five of them—could be adjusted to provide not only the perfect angle but the perfect spray. The one overhead was set to rain shower. The four on the sides had some kind of pulsing action going that was even more relaxing than being stretched out on a massage table. Brooklyn could have stayed in there all day. She eventually forced herself to turn off the water and reach for a towel.
She dried off and slipped into the clothes Vilma had provided for her—a heather gray sweatshirt and black jeans. She pushed the sleeves of the sweatshirt up to her forearms so the cuffs didn’t dangle below her hands. Then she folded the hems of the jeans so they wouldn’t drag across the floor while she walked.
Even though the clothes had been laundered, they kind of smelled like Vilma. Brooklyn pulled the collar of the sweatshirt up to her nose and took a deep breath, drawing the faint trace of Vilma’s cologne into her lungs.
She felt silly, an opinion that was confirmed when she saw her reflection in the bathroom mirror.
“You’re the CEO of a rather successful tech company,” she told herself. “Stop acting like a teenager with a crush.”
When it came to Vilma Bautista, however, that was easier said than done. Vilma was aspirational, offering her a glimpse of who she could eventually become, not who she was. Yet they somehow found themselves in the same orbit. Hopefully, they would continue to move closer without crashing into each other like a couple of meteoroids on a collision course.
“Better?” Vilma asked when she came out of the bathroom.
“Much. Thank you.”
Vilma handed her a glass of orange juice. “I took the liberty of sending your dress out to be cleaned. Samson says it should be ready in a couple of hours.”
“You didn’t have to do that. I could have thrown it in the washer when I got home.”
“Yes, you could, but my way gives me a chance to earn more brownie points.”
“I think you’ve already earned more of those than you could possibly redeem.”
“Perhaps, but I like to hedge my bets.”
“Is that what makes you such a successful investor?”
“That and a high tolerance for risk.”
The look in Vilma’s eyes made it seem like not all the risks she took were business-related. The idea gave Brooklyn an undeniable thrill. She imagined testing Vilma’s limits. And allowing Vilma to help her push past her own.
“So what makes this dish of yours so famous?” Vilma asked. “I would also love to know how it got its name.”
Brooklyn set her empty glass down and pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail. “I might have overstated its renown, but I stand by its recuperative powers. The name is self-explanatory. My hangover skillet is guaranteed to cure what ails after a night of overindulgence. Thankfully, it tastes just as good even when, like last night, only one drink was enough to put me out like a light.”
Vilma indicated Brooklyn’s empty glass. “More?”
“Yes, please.”
Vilma reached into the refrigerator for the container of orange juice, giving Brooklyn a chance to check out what was inside. Potatoes, steak, eggs, onions, and jalapeño peppers.
“Perfect. I’ll take these. And those. And this. And this. And this.” She gathered the ingredients she needed and carefully set them on the counter. “What are your feelings on cheese? Love, hate, or barely tolerate?”
“I’m flexible.”
“Good to know.” Brooklyn grabbed a bag of shredded cheddar cheese and closed the refrigerator door.
“I would offer my assistance,” Vilma said as Brooklyn began to chop the vegetables, “but you seem to know your way around my kitchen even better than I do.”
Brooklyn diced the potatoes first and dropped them into a skillet drizzled with olive oil. They would take longest to cook so she made sure to get them on the heat first.
“
I’ve been cooking since I was ten so I’ve had lots of practice. I would help my mother and my nonna make Sunday dinner. I come from a large family so there was always lots of food to prepare when all of us got together.”
“Is that how you learned to make your famous skillet?”
“No, I stumbled upon the recipe for that while I was in college. My friends and I were typical poor college students. We had enough money for pizza and beer but not much else. One morning after we’d spent a late night in a few of Boston’s finest bars, we raided each other’s mini-fridges and pooled our meager resources.” Brooklyn pointed her knife toward the steak resting on the counter. “I think the meat in the first batch was canned ham instead of Wagyu beef, but I didn’t hear any complaints.”
“You won’t hear any from me, either, though the waitress at my favorite diner might make a comment or two about the tip she’s missing out on today.”
Brooklyn paused before she reached for the jalapeños. “You weren’t kidding about being a novice at cooking, were you? Do you go out for every meal?”
“Or have something delivered.”
“Then why did you offer to make dinner for me last night?”
Vilma lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I think I wanted to try something different. The results were better than I expected.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to share them with you.”
“Just because it was better than I expected didn’t mean it was fit to be consumed by someone other than myself.”
“Even so, would it be presumptuous of me to ask for a rain check?”
“Perhaps, but I like women who go after what they want instead of waiting for it to be handed to them.”
“Also good to know.”
Brooklyn cracked two eggs in a bowl, dropped a handful of cheese on top, and mixed the concoction with a fork. Then she sliced the steak into bite-sized chunks and seasoned the meat.
“This is turning into quite the production number,” Vilma said.
Brooklyn added diced onions to the pan of potatoes. “The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.”
Heart of a Killer Page 8
