Deceptive Innocence (4 page)

What makes these interesting is that there is no preceding text conversation that explains them. They come out of nowhere, as if Mr. White wants to send a signal, letting Lander know what’s going on without creating a record that could come back to haunt him.

Which means there are secrets to be learned here. I look around for something to write on and eventually settle on a seemingly forgotten receipt that’s peeking out from under the couch and a pen that was left on the coffee table. Quickly I write down the dates of White’s messages before moving down to the next contact who’s texted Lander. This one is from someone named Paolo. No last name is recorded. The text simply reads,
Are you sure they won’t check?

That’s it. There’s no response to the text. Could be nothing, but still, worth looking into.

I switch over to his emails. Budgets and policies, various rules of finance, nothing here of interest . . . but the dates these emails came in . . . there’s something weird there. The emails are too few and come too far between.

He’s been deleting things. And that would make sense as a matter of course, except for the things he’s
not
deleting. Each email is so exceedingly benign. Some of it contains confidential information but nothing scandalous . . .

. . . which makes me think that what’s been deleted must be pretty damn interesting.

The trash folder has been completely emptied.

“So many secrets, Lander,” I murmur as I carefully put the phone back exactly where I found it.

I climb to my feet and take a moment to admire the view before going to explore the rest of the penthouse.

I search for hours but I don’t find much else and eventually I call it a night. I pin a note on the pillow next to Lander. One sentence, two words:

Thank you.

And with that I walk out.

The game is in full swing.

chapter six

I
t takes exactly
thirteen hours for him to call. Since I left at four a.m., that brings it to precisely five in the afternoon. By that time I’m on the other side of the park, on the Upper West Side, preparing for stage two.

I’ve since programmed his line into my caller ID, but when I pick up I wait for him to identify himself anyway.

“How’d you get my number?”

It’s not a real question. I know damn well that the manager of Ivan’s gave it to him. He’s the one who gave Lander my name too. It took some grilling to get that out of him . . . but I can be surprisingly intimidating when I need to be.

“Your boss gave it to me,” Lander confirms, “or I suppose I should say, your
former
boss.”

“Yep. Quit this morning.” I keep my tone light, even perky. It doesn’t quite match the moody black stretch knit dress I’m wearing: high neckline, hem right above the knee, an extrawide belt wrapped tightly around my waist, and the kind of sleeves that give the appearance of shoulder pads. It’s severe and sort of a throwback to the 1980s. I can’t say I love the look, but I know my next employer will . . . and judging from some of the leers I’m getting, a lot of other men do too.

“So I was told,” Lander says. Even now his voice sounds groggy. There’s something comforting about it. I can imagine what it would be like to wake up to that voice, snuggled up in his arms.

It’s absolutely not what I’m supposed to be thinking about.

“You also snuck out on me,” he continues.

“You were dead to the world. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Yeah, that’s not like me,” he muses. “I’m usually such a light sleeper.”

“Well, you did drink a lot.” It’s not really true; he probably had three drinks over four hours, but that’s my explanation and I’m sticking to it.

I stop in front of the building where my interview is to take place. The doorman stares right past me, as stoic as a guard at Buckingham Palace.

“Hate to cut this short, but I gotta go.”

“When will I see you again?”

“Soon.”

“When’s—”

But I hang up before he can finish his question. With a plastered-on smile I give my name to the doorman as well as the names of the people I’m here to see. He nods curtly and calls over to one of the security guys, who proceeds to walk me down the halls and corridors to the correct elevator.

“Are you here for the personal assistant job?” the guard asks. “You look more like a Wall Street power player to me.”

“No, not my thing. I manage lives, not money.”

“‘Lives, not money.’ I like that.” The guard chuckles, flashes me a grin that is flirtatious and stupidly hopeful.

I return his smile with one that offers no encouragement but doesn’t go so far as to completely dissuade. I don’t mind his interest. One day I might even encourage it if it suits my purposes. But right now I have more important things to worry about.

When we finally get to the elevator and then I get to the right floor, it doesn’t take me long to find penthouse 1400. I press the little doorbell by the side of the door and roll my shoulders back, making sure that my posture is perfect.

In a matter of seconds the door is yanked open by a man in his late thirties, broad shoulders, short, professionally cut sandy-blond hair. His pale-blue eyes roam over me unapologetically before he reaches my face.

“You must be Bellona Dantès.”

I smile warmly at Lander’s brother. “Everybody calls me Bell.”

Once inside the
sitting room, Travis Gable motions for me to take a seat on a very sleek but uncomfortable chair. The whole room is done in black and white, the furniture angular and modern to the point of being cartoonish.

“Bellona . . . I haven’t heard that name before,” he says as he sits across from me, crossing his ankle over his knee. “Is it Italian?”

“Sort of. I was named after the Roman goddess of war.”

“Really,” he says dryly. “Are you looking for a fight?”

“No, just a job.”

His mouth curves up for the first time. “Good answer.” He examines me again. His brow furrows ever so slightly. Maybe he thinks I look familiar. But it’s been over ten years since we last met. I was barely eleven and he was . . . what? Twenty-eight? The cards have been shuffled and reshuffled so many times since then. He’ll never make the connection.

“And you go by Bell,” he says, tasting the nickname. “I like it.”

“Is Mrs. Gable here? I understand that she’s the one I’d be working for.”

“She’s at a med spa.” He puts his cell on the glass coffee table that sits between us, next to a display of bleached white coral. “I once assumed personal assistants were just for celebrities. But my wife, Jessica, is disorganized, frenzied, and a little too fond of her dry martinis and prescription pills.”

“A risky combination.”

He shrugs as if indifferent to his wife’s welfare. “She needs help running her own life; that’s why you’re here. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend a fortune on an assistant just to keep the world from discovering she’s an idiot. If I’m going to hire you, you’ll be expected to serve us both.”

Serve
. It’s an interesting choice of word. My feeling is that it’s been chosen carefully.

“You speak Spanish?” he asks.

“
Fluidamente
.”

“Good. Every once in a while I’ll need you to arrange and keep track of certain off-hour appointments for me or deliver messages. Sometimes I’ll use you as a translator when I meet with Spanish-speaking investors. This PA job requires . . . finesse and organization, a strong work ethic, and, if you don’t mind my saying, humility. I need someone who’s prepared to do it all.”

By which he means all the things that an executive assistant should be able to handle on her own, unless some of these meetings need to be kept off the record and away from regulators’ eyes. In which case: use your personal assistant.

“Of course, Mr. Gable,” I say smoothly. “As I’m sure you’ve seen on my résumé, I’ve worked in this kind of position before.”

“Right, right, I checked that reference . . . You worked for Stephan George, the real estate mogul.” He unbuttons his jacket, drapes his arm across the top of the sofa. “Or at least he was approaching mogul status, from what I understand. Shame about what happened to him.”

I nod solemnly, letting my smile slip. “It was completely unfair. He was innocent of all those charges.”

It’s the right answer. Travis and Jessica have gone through more than ten personal assistants in the last decade; only three of them have lasted more than three days, and
all
of them previously worked for employers who had some dubious legal dealings in a white-collar kind of way—which probably means that Travis likes to hire people who he doesn’t think will have ethical qualms about being immersed in his more sordid dealings.

The very thought makes my heart dance.

“Of course, of course,” Travis is saying. “Tell me, where is the good Mr. George now?”

“They say he’s somewhere in Latin America, but really, it’s anyone’s guess.”

“If you did know, would you tell me?”

“I like Mr. George,” I say cautiously, “and I’m very loyal to my employers even after my services are no longer needed for . . . for reasons that are beyond everyone’s control.”

Travis steeples his fingers. He could pass for a James Bond supervillain in that pose.

“George took off almost a year ago,” Travis continues. “Your résumé says you’ve been bartending since then at some place called Ivan’s?”

“It’s one of Micah Romenov’s bars.”

The surprise registers on his face. Romenov is known to have some illegal dealings, although he’s never been busted for anything. He’s one of those criminals that has a mystique about him, the kind that people like Travis Gable find awe-inspiring rather than repellant. Most importantly, everybody knows that if you’re working for Romenov in
any
capacity, even at the lowest level, you have to be good at holding your tongue, turning a blind eye, and, in a weird way, being completely trustworthy. No one steals or betrays Romenov.

Which makes me quite a valuable employee.

“He was a friend of Mr. George and he was doing me a favor. I just needed to earn an income while I looked for work in my field.”

I’m momentarily startled by the ringing of the landline, but Travis doesn’t show any sign of registering the sound. “I like you,” he says.

“Glad to hear it, Mr. Gable.” The phone stops ringing and the sudden silence emphasizes the intimacy of this meeting, taking place in a penthouse, not an office . . . and his wife nowhere to be seen.

“Lloyd, Jessica’s last personal assistant, was good at his job . . . or at least we thought he was, we
both
thought he was,” Travis emphasizes, as if to highlight the shared responsibility for the last assistant’s hiring. “Turns out he had a drug problem. I can’t have that. People say things they shouldn’t to people they shouldn’t when they’re under the influence. I already have to monitor my wife, so I don’t want to have to worry about some assistant too. Are you a big drinker, Bell? Abuse any substance at all?”

“I don’t do drugs and I always stop after my second glass.”

“That’s good. Very good.” He presses his fingers to his lips. Studies me a little longer. “And I like your outfit,” he finally adds. “It flatters you.”

“I try to dress to impress.”

There’s a sound as the front door opens and closes, then the light click of heels moving down the hardwood floor of the hall.

Travis never takes his eyes off me. “I’m going to give you a chance. You’ll mostly be here with Jessica, but remember, if I’m the one who’s given you a task, I’m the one you’ll be reporting back to on how it went. You will not leave word with my wife or anyone else. Understand?”

“I understand.” I lower my head submissively. “I’m truly grateful for this opportunity.”

When he only answers with a smile I get up, keeping my eyes on the polished floor. “When shall I start?”

“Monday. Be here at eight.”

I nod and turn to leave, and nearly collide with a woman sporting strawberry-blonde hair arranged in a low bun. Her dress is a cinch-waisted, full-skirted brocade number. I know she’s pushing thirty, but she has that ageless quality that the rich sometimes do when they purchase their sophistication and elegance from Ralph Lauren and Dior. She looks a little like the kind of doll you collect and never take out of the box for fear of decreasing its value . . . except for her bloodshot eyes, which are trained on Travis.

“Hello, darling,” she says, looking past me, trying to catch Travis’s eye. But he’s occupied with his phone. He doesn’t even really acknowledge her . . . similar to how she’s not directly acknowledging me.

“I just spoke to Lander,” she says, now pulling on her fingers nervously. “He’ll be here in a few minutes to drop off the piece for the charity auction.”

There’s a weird dynamic going on between these two, but I can’t really dwell on it now. Lander’s discovery of my latest career move has to be carefully controlled. Which means I can’t be here when he arrives.

“I’ll be leaving, then,” I say quickly, turning back to Travis. “I’ll be here on Monday at eight a.m. sharp. If you need me to work over the weekend, just give me a call.”

I move to leave, but Jessica grabs my arm. Her grip is surprisingly strong. “I don’t understand,” she says, her voice much weaker than her grip. “Have you offered her the PA job?”

“Yes.” Travis sighs as he starts scrolling through the emails on his phone. “I did.”

“You told me I would be allowed to interview my own assistants.”

“You weren’t here. I was.” His fingers tap out a message on the screen.

“You didn’t even tell me you scheduled one!” She glares at me, and her grip tightens. “Sit down. Your interview isn’t over.”

“Don’t be rude, Jessica,” he says, but he’s distracted and clearly uninterested in the conflict that his wife would like to draw him into.

Exactly how much time constitutes the
few minutes
before Lander will arrive?

“I know you’ll be happy with my performance,” I say, trying to gently wriggle my arm free without further ticking her off. “If not I’ll completely understand if you feel the need to let me go. When I come back Monday we can play it by ear.”

“I can’t let you go since you don’t even have the job yet!” Her voice is escalating, but she sounds more panicked than angry.

Travis sighs, puts the phone back in his pocket. “I just
gave
her the job. And no one is letting her go . . . not unless I decide it’s necessary.”

“For fuck’s sake, she’s
my
assistant, T!”

As soon as the words escape Jessica’s lips, she presses them together until I can’t see her lips at all, as if she’s hiding the instrument of her impetuousness.

For the first time I notice the dark clouds that can be seen gathering outside the penthouse’s massive windows. It’s almost as if Travis summoned them up himself.

“Nothing is yours.” Travis’s voice is surprisingly calm, almost casual. “Not this home, not the limo, not the clothes or the jewels or even your friends, who only want to hang out with you because you married into my family. It’s
my
wealth that pays for everything. It’s my name that elevated you. I’ve
given
you nothing, Jessica. Without me, you
are
nothing. Everything in your life is on lease. The girl is hired. That matter is settled.”

Jessica’s hand drops from my arm. And for a brief moment I’m too shocked to move. In my neighborhood it’s not uncommon to come across men who occasionally throw drunken punches at their wives and girlfriends, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen a man stab a woman to death with words.

Because Jessica is definitely dying—right here before me, she’s bleeding. Travis has used insults to cut open every artery.

I shift my weight awkwardly from foot to foot, my eyes bouncing between Travis and Jessica before settling on the latter. “I really look forward to working with you, Mrs. Gable,” I say softly, as if my own feeble words might serve as gauze and Band-Aids. I then turn to Travis and add, “And for you, Mr. Gable.”