She looked gorgeous at the party in sexy cocktail attire, but there’s something very enchanting about a formally dressed Kitty, all elegance and refinement.
I realize I’ve been staring a beat too long when she clutches her wrap to her arms. “Uhm, are you going to let me in or not?” There’s not a hint of apology at her tardiness, just saucy brattiness daring me to shut the door. But she’s got the upper hand, at least for now, since she knows I want her here for this meeting, and apparently, she’s not one to let me forget it.
“Come in.” The order is harsh and brusque, stern in response to her sass. I know I’m not de-escalating the situation, but I’m angry and I won’t hide it when it is so warranted. I watch as she enters, rewarded with the view of her backside I’d wanted. But I keep my face neutral, not letting her have the victory.
Grant steps forward, taking her wrap and purse, disappearing silently like the ghost he’s trained to be.
With the soft click of a brass door latch, we’re alone, our eyes on one another, and it feels like lines have been drawn. But we’re both toeing the chalk, washing it away with every glance, every sigh, every concession as we pull together, orbiting ever closer even as we fight the magnetism.
That she is so easily able to play me startles me, and I knowingly break the connection. Giving her my back, I walk into the living room where I awaited her, gesturing toward the wet bar.
“Would you like a drink before dinner?”
She follows but answers negatively. “No, thank you. Can we just get this over with? Tell me your game plan, I’ll get on board, and we can go back to our regular lives until dinner with Nikolai. Then nobody has to die, especially not me, and you save face with the scary mobster.”
It’s not a bad plan. In fact, it’s the one Caleb told me was my best bet if I was going through with this, and rationally, I agree with him. And with Kitty. But nothing about the way she makes me feel could be described as rational.
I meet her gaze, my voice dropping to a commanding growl. “This will take however long it takes. You’re playing a dangerous game, kitten, and impatience will do you no favors.” She bites her lip, looking scolded, and it softens my anger, but only slightly. “But if you want to get this show on the road, let’s eat.”
I pass through to the formal dining room, seeing the large table is set for two, my place at the head of the table and Kitty’s to my right. Soft candlelight already glows from the tall candles in the middle of the settings.
“Sit,” I offer, pulling out her chair for her and then pushing it in once she sits.
Her awe as she looks around the room is obvious, her jaw dropping and her manicured finger running along the heavy handle of the knife on her right.
If it were anyone else, I’d take it as a threat, and perhaps I should consider that Kitty might be the most dangerous person I’ve ever dined with, not because I think she’ll stab me with a knife more suited to butter than gutting someone, but because she brings things to life inside me that I do not have the time or inclination to pursue, but here I am, regardless of any choices I might have rationally made.
“Let me get our dinners,” I say, not waiting for an answer. In the kitchen, I pull two plates from the warming drawer, thankful for the kitchen staff’s stellar service. My chef could work in a three-star restaurant in town, but I pay her well enough to stay here, cooking for the occasional party but more frequently, for me and the other staff. And of course, the hours beat the hell out of anything she can do in a restaurant in NYC.
Using a white linen cloth, I carry the plates back to the dining room and set one before Kitty and one in front of my own chair, laying the protective cloth aside.
“Should be warm still. Chef doesn’t believe in microwaving things so she left them in the warming drawer, though that was nearly thirty minutes ago.” It’s an accusation, sharp and biting.
Kitty’s lashes flutter at the dig, her eyes searching the plate and then lifting boldly to meet mine. The air is charged, and I wonder if she’s going to sass back again at being called out on her tardiness.
I can see the argument ramping up in my mind, already planning my words and wondering if she fights fair or hurls barbed insults.
Her narrowed eyes search mine, the fire in their depths hot with fury, and her intake of breath makes me think she’s preparing to yell, but then she blinks and it’s washed away so completely I almost think I imagined it.
Instead, she quietly says, “I’m sorry I was late. I should probably lie and say I got held up in traffic, but the truth is, I wasn’t sure about coming. You’re not exactly my normal dinner date type. But I should’ve called. I’m sorry.”
The words suck the air out of the room, changing everything from adversarial to cooperative. I think we might actually get out of this with both of us alive and my gaining access to the caves if we can truly work together.
“Apology accepted. Thank you.” I uncork the bottle of wine, a fine Aussie Shiraz to go with our dinner, pouring us both a generous glass and then lifting mine in toast. “To unintended meetings, successful partnerships, and everyone getting what they want.”
Kitty raises her glass, but I see the flutter of her pulse at her neck at my words and wonder what exactly it is that she wants. The image of her on her knees flashes in my mind again, but I force it away in favor of work, foregoing pleasure for business like time after time before.
We clink and take a sip of the delicious wine before Kitty looks at her plate and asks, “What’s for dinner?”
I look down, barely able to take my eyes from her. “Chef said beef marsala, garlic broccoli, and her secret potato mash recipe.” I shrug. “The potatoes are one of my favorites.”
Kitty smiles at the small share, forking a small dollop of the creamy fluff. “What makes the recipe so secret?”
I don’t answer, wanting to see her face when she tastes them for the first time. Her eyes fly open wide and she talks around the mouthful, “Oh, my God! These are amazing.”
She takes another bite, less dainty this time, and continues talking while savoring, “Mmm, there’s cream cheese, isn’t there? And garlic butter. I could live on these.” I think she’s telling the truth, judging by the way she’s shoveling them into her mouth. If she went any faster, I’d recommend getting her a serving spoon, or maybe a ladle, to save her time.
I grin, picking up my own fork to enjoy the dinner as well. Eventually, she moves on to the beef and broccoli, but after the mashed potatoes, we’ve transitioned to more casual, even friendly conversation, and I vow to thank Chef again for her magic way with food. Guess that James Beard Award wasn’t for nothing.
“So if we want to fool Nikolai, we need to be as in-sync as any real couple, know all the idiosyncrasies and the answers to any questions. Open book, deal?”
I offer the deal, knowing I won’t return the full picture of my life but hoping I can give her enough to draw her truth out. Because I want to know her, every little tidbit and detail, to save and savor for after this mess is cleaned up and she’s gone.
“Deal,” she says, opening the door to the devil. “Shall we play Twenty Questions? Or Truth or Dare?” she asks playfully.
“While daring you to do things might be the highlight of my night—hell, maybe my life—for tonight’s purpose, perhaps we should stick with twenty questions. See what kind of trouble we can get into that way,” I say flirtatiously, an edge of sex deepening my voice.
Kitty smiles and lifts her eyebrows, although I think she’d have preferred Truth or Dare for the same reasons I’m avoiding it.
“Okay, easy ones first. Favorite color, food, song, movie, and why.” She ticks off each item on a finger. “My faves . . . color, light yellow, not canary like Big Bird but soft like baby blankets and flowers. Food, new one just now, these mashed potatoes, but before that, a fresh blueberry muffin with applesauce. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Song, Alicia Keys’ Empire State of Mind, not the one with Jay-Z but just Alicia, beca
use I used to sing it and tell myself I was going to move here. It’s like my anthem rally. Movie, Tomb Raider. Long story, just trust me that I don’t have some weird Angelina Jolie thing. Your turn. Give me all your basics.”
She throws all that out there like it was on the tip of her mind, and I wonder if that’s the case for most people because I don’t function like that. Not at all.
“Okay, color. Well, I guess for clothing, I’d say dark grey or black. For other things—”
Kitty tsks, interrupting but smiling congenially. “Not like that, just what’s your overall favorite color in the world? The one that makes you smile and catches your eye every time.”
And suddenly, I know. Looking her in the eyes, I answer truthfully. “Blue, not quite bright like sapphires, but not as deep as navy. Somewhere in between, with flecks of brown.”
It’s obvious to us both that I’m describing her eyes, and she blushes, her hand covering her mouth, but I saw the smile.
“Flatterer. What about the rest?” she encourages.
I grin, tapping the edge of my plate with a finger. “Food’s easy. These mashed potatoes, though I have a favorite breakfast, dessert, and so forth. It’s hard to decide on just one thing.”
“Ooh, now that’s a compliment to your chef. Song?”
A playlist runs through my mind, and I almost name two other songs, one my favorite car jam and one my most-played calming classical symphony, but I settle on something else.
“Started from the Bottom by Drake. I used to sing it with my squad, so it’s got good memories. Movie, uh . . . Die Hard, I guess? I don’t really watch movies or TV that often, but I watch Die Hard every Christmas so I guess it’s a favorite.”
“Your squad?” she asks, and I have a moment of mentally kicking myself for exposing that much.
“I was in the Army for a while. My squad worked well together, and we had some fun even in the godforsaken places we were stationed.”
“How was the Army for you? You don’t seem like the type to take orders and obey commands.” Her words are light, but the huskiness betrays her true meaning, her true desire to have me tell her what to do even as she chafes against that same desire.
“I didn’t if I could help it, but I recognize the importance of having someone ultimately responsible for the mission. Sometimes, it was me. Other times, someone higher than me or someone with a different skillset. As long as it was a success, I was okay with that.”
“This mission with Nikolai, are you ultimately responsible for that? Or is someone else pulling the duty card on this one?” she pries, taking us back to the elephant in the corner. The axe over our necks begins swinging again, Nikolai’s threat echoing in my head.
“This one’s on me. Nikolai has something I want. I have something he wants. It’s simple supply and demand, bartering one valued item for another.” I lift my shoulder dismissively like it’s an easy equation, not one with a multitude of moving parts and considerations.
“You make it sound so easy, but our dinner tonight says it’s not,” Kitty points out. “That you wanted to have me over, go over our stories, tells me that you’re concerned.”
“I’m not concerned per se,” I lie, “but I like to be prepared for every foreseeable outcome. This was something I did not see coming. I don’t like that, and I’m rectifying it as we speak.”
“So that you can sprinkle your dad’s ashes in some remote cave?” she asks, and I can tell in her voice that she doesn’t believe that story at all.
Problem is, if she doesn’t believe me, Nikolai probably doesn’t either, and I need him to think that’s all my trip into his territory consists of. If he thinks there’s something more, something I’m not telling him, he’ll shoot first and ask questions later.
I nod, and she demands, “Tell me about him, your dad.”
Normally, I would never share a single thing beyond the bare bones of what could be found online. Life is safer when you neither confirm nor deny any bit of information.
But something has changed between us with the chit-chat and banter, the wine loosening our tongues, the charge between us making me buzzy with the desire to continue our conversation at almost any cost. Talk about damn near anything or nothing at all.
I recognize the oddity of it and council myself to tread carefully, speaking in broken sentences as I pull my thoughts together.
“My dad was a workaholic of the worst kind, obsessive and passionate about his work. Often to the detriment of me and Caleb, who would go weeks without seeing him. But we had Mom, and she was better than any two parents could be. Then she was gone, and we didn’t have one remaining parent. We had none because Dad was still always gone. Jetting here, working there, and we spent our time in this big house with the nannies and staff. Grant, the house manager you met? He taught me to ride a bike, drive a car, and helped me get ready for my first date. He’s been more of a father than my own dad was, and even he kept me at arm’s length, always professional.”
I clear my throat, the emotion thick in my chest and head, and it takes me a minute to realize that Kitty isn’t saying anything.
I chance glancing at her and can see the shine of tears in her eyes. I don’t want her pity so I wrangle the story back to more generic ground.
“Anyway, Dad owned the company, and I got plenty of jokes about a guy named Stone owning a gem dealership. When he died, I took over as majority owner. Caleb has a share as well. Dad kept the company small. Whether intentional or not, I don’t know.”
I pause, knowing that’s not quite true, and Kitty picks it up. She looks around us at the fancy house, fine china, and even down at the antique Persian rug beneath us. “He kept the company small? Then how’d you do all this? Should I assume he did some deals with rough men like Nikolai as well?”
I chuckle. She’s smart as a whip. “Small is relative in the gem industry. We were already a large market share, but Dad controlled the contracts to keep them, and him, off the radar. It’s a lot easier to do things when you don’t have to file with the SEC. But I’ve grown it into one of the largest gemstone companies on the globe, providing stones to all the major jewelers.”
There’s pride in my voice, hard-earned and rough-scrabbled success from my own decisions, my own guidance. People may think I’m some rich brat who was handed a fully-formed company that I barely have to steer, but they couldn’t be more wrong.
I was handed a roughshod shamble of a company that barely skated by on legalities and made most of its income in underhanded dealings at my Dad’s leadership. And I’d spent most of my youth pointedly ignoring any business lessons he might’ve tried to pass along to me, running away to the military and staying away long after I was out. But I’d learned quickly and well when I took the reins.
Through my own brains, the lessons the Army taught me, and a little bit of what Dad soaked through my skin over the years, I’ve built a juggernaut and I’m damn proud of it.
It might still be too much information, too personal, but most of it is publicly accessible and I’m sure she’s Googled me by now. I know I Googled Kitty Williamson as soon as she’d left.
Problem is . . . she doesn’t exist. Well, unless she’s a remarkably well-preserved seventy-two-year-old from Charlotte, North Carolina.
“Now Kitty, tell me all about you.” It’s a demand, abrasive and forceful, but one I leave intentionally open-ended to see if she’ll volunteer the truth.
I can see the very real flush of her cheeks, but I do wonder if her answer’s going to be fake, just like everything else she’s told me. Her mouth may lie easily, but she can’t be feigning her body’s reaction to me. I’m certain of that.
She smiles, but it’s strained, and she stammers for a moment before answering. “I don’t know where to start.”
Her guardedness disappoints me after I shared so openly and honestly, though with a strategic ulterior motive to put her at ease. The anger our easy connection had doused returns hot and fiery in my gut at her sidestep.
I reach across to grab at her wrist, holding it tightly and pinning it to the table, knowing things are about to get bumpy and I don’t want her running out of here in avoidance of the situation. Something tells me she might, and I won’t let her go. Not until I get some answers.
“Why don’t we start with your real name and how you got into my party when you don’t work for Mostest Hostesses?”
Her eyes flare wide in shock, and then I see the fear flash through them.
Busted, Kitty.
Chapter 10
Emma
Oh, shit.
I know my eyes are wide as saucers because I can see every hard line in the set of Nathan’s mouth as he glares at me accusingly.
This is salvageable. It has to be, because if I can’t save this, I’m afraid the talkative fun we’ve been having is going to be the last happy memory I’ll ever have.
If Nathan finds out just what I’m up to, I’m afraid I’ll end up like Anna, even if I’m less inclined to think he had anything to do with her death than Claire is. But I admit that my judgment is pretty clouded already with Nathan’s dark magnetism, his sexy smile that borders on a smirk, and the way he makes my pulse pound with every carefully chosen word.
I force my breath to slow, adopting a calm I don’t truly feel. I laugh lightly. “Did you really think women working as paid hostesses for your parties would give their real names? I imagine each of them has a life outside of being paid entertainment, even if it’s not nearly as seedy as some might perceive.”
I’m hoping the small slur will get him to give me a little leeway, a slight concession so that he doesn’t jump back to full-fledged anger. But his lips don’t even quirk, maintaining a hard-pressed look of bare restraint.
“Fair enough. But that didn’t answer my questions. What’s your name, and why has Mostest Hostesses never heard of you?”
Power Play Page 10
