Sizzle in the City (10 page)

“Life isn’t that simple.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No, but it should be.”

He pressed his lips to hers, then gathered her closer. Their wrapped-around-each-other position had nothing to do with sex, but with understanding. Appreciation. Promise.

She immersed herself in his touch. Her revenge paled against her need to be with him, but her family responsibilities lingered, and she’d dragged her friends into this conspiracy, as well.

Closing her eyes, to both her obligations and her deception, she trailed her fingers across his chest. No matter how new their relationship, she couldn’t continue to lie to him and sleep with him. She was going to have to tell him about the Robin Hood plot.

But when—and how?

Because she knew one thing for certain. Her parents did expect something from her.

They expected her to be honorable.

Project Robin Hood, Day 18
Continental Apartments, The Penthouse

I can’t believe we’re doing this.

Standing in front of his office windows, Trevor reflected on Shelby’s statement earlier that day when they’d met at his apartment and nearly tore each other’s clothes off in their haste to satisfy their need.

“I can’t, either,” he murmured to the empty room.

After spending most of the weekend in bed with her, he’d been unexpectedly called out of town on Monday and just returned to the city at lunchtime. In the cab from the airport, his fingers had tingled with the need to touch her, a weakness he couldn’t seem to set aside. So he’d called her and asked her to meet him at his apartment.

Bold. Maybe even bordering on crazy.

But then his desire for Shelby was that powerful.

How had he survived four days without her touch? Without the sensation of her body becoming one with his?

She was right in thinking their relationship was moving fast. But he didn’t want to slow the pace. He wanted more, more and more.

But was he being fair to either of them? His job was hectic, his family commitments complicated, bordering on impossible. Was he crazy to drag her into that chaos? Was this the right time to get involved with anyone, much less a woman he cared about as much as he did Shelby? Max was messing up his life for the eight hundredth time, and there seemed no end in sight.

In addition to the ridiculous and risky business decisions of the past—the hot-air balloons being followed by an Alaskan king-crab fishing business—Trevor now had to wonder where his brother had gotten the money to buy a luxury hotel.

Turned out their latest stepfather had not bankrolled him. When Trevor had called his mother and chided her for giving Max money, she’d claimed innocence. She’d actually laughed when Trevor had questioned her about the amount needed for the hotel purchase. Apparently the new husband was well-off, but not flush enough to hand over millions to a stepson he hadn’t even met.

Max hadn’t attended their New Year’s Eve wedding, as he’d been mooching off a friend who owned a house on sunny Antigua.

So where had the cash come from? Building condos on spec was one thing, but a real-estate transaction would have required paperwork, legal signatures, a big, fat check.

Was it possible one of Max’s long-shot investments had actually paid off?

Given his lousy luck at the card table and the debts he’d run up from Vegas to Monte Carlo, Trevor didn’t see how his brother had earned thirty million dollars gambling. Whenever he earned the slightest bit of a profit at a venture—the estate sale and auction house he’d started with a couple of mates from school came to mind—he turned around and blew it on a boat or car or monthlong ski trip.

So how’d he get the funds to buy The Crown Jewel?

Considering Max’s attitude when Trevor had last questioned him, the only way he was going to get answers was to conduct his own discreet inquiries. He needed to stay informed, since not only would his father continue to question him, Trevor would certainly be expected to clean up the fallout and head off the media when whatever Max was up to went sour.

His office doorknob rattled, and Trevor didn’t have to turn to know Florence had entered.

Her sigh was heavy. “If you’re going to brood, you might as well go home. Or go find that lovely ginger-haired girl and take her to dinner.”

His pulse thrummed at the image of Shelby. “She had to work.”

“So take your lovely and loyal assistant to dinner.”

Trevor glanced over his shoulder, not surprised to see Florence’s bright pink lips pursed as she fluffed her highlighted blond hair. “Much as I’d like to I already have plans.”

“Go out with a friend. Go to your fitness club. Read a book. Relax.”

He shook his head. “I mentioned I already have plans, didn’t I?”

“Humph. I bet with that ungrateful brother of yours. He doesn’t count.”

“I’ll be sure to give him your best wishes when I see him.”

“See him?” She charged toward the desk with the same determination she’d once used to convince him that without the ability to add and subtract, his trust fund wouldn’t do him any good. “Popin, you need to stay as far away from him as possible.”

Thirty years later, the endearment still made his ears hot. “I can handle him. Why don’t you head home?”

She didn’t move. “I think I should come with you, make sure he doesn’t take advantage.”

“He won’t. I’m checking up, not handing over a check.”

“I should hope not.”

Trevor rounded the desk and kissed her temple. Though she wasn’t officially family, she was the best part of home. “Don’t worry. I have your idea about pushing out the baby bird under advisement.”

Florence looked skeptical. “I suppose his lordship is worried about what the scoundrel is getting into and dragging you into the muck along with it.”

“He relies on me to keep him updated,” Trevor said neutrally.

“Just remember he needs you more than you need him.”

Though Trevor nodded, he knew nothing was further from the truth. He wanted his father’s trust and admiration. Maybe it was the curse of the second son. Maybe it was because he saw his father’s struggle to be confident with his heir. Maybe he was a sap.

At the door, Florence glared at him over her shoulder. “You’re not messing around on that ginger girl, are you, love?”

Trevor grinned. “A beautiful woman who makes cookies and doesn’t care a whit for my bloodline? Certainly not.”

As soon as his assistant left the room, however, Trevor returned to staring at the horizon. Brooding was apt. Florence wasn’t one to mince words or feelings when she cared so deeply. She’d gone from being a caretaker, to a mentor, to a friend.

Though he’d had his share of women he’d
messed around,
playing at romance and true relationships, he wasn’t playing now.

Yet the closer he and Shelby grew, the greater the chance she’d learn what a wash-up his brother was. Plenty of respectable women in London had tangled with Max and heard of his reputation to the point they wouldn’t associate with any Banfield.

Not that anyone would say so publicly. The whispers and pitying stares his father received were almost worse. Frankly, Trevor wasn’t sure how much more the old man could take.

Why he was more annoyed than ever by his brother’s lack of appreciation for all he’d been given, he didn’t know. Why Shelby was different, he wasn’t sure. He only knew he did and she was.

And, he admitted, how deeply that passion would go might change the course of his life forever.

9

Hotelier Misfortune?
by Peeps
Galloway, Gossipmonger
(And proud of it!)

Did you survive Tax Day,
Manhattan?

  My buns and my pocketbook (And you
know
that’s
a Louis Vuitton classic tote, don’t you?) are still chapped. Not sure we’re
getting our money’s worth down there in D.C., but that’s a whole different
kettle of fish… .

  Speaking of fish…a friend recently
had dinner at Golden, the premier restaurant inside The Crown Jewel—you know
the hotel recently bought by financial guru
(cough, cough)
Max Banfield—and his
thirty-six-dollar entrée wasn’t gently sauteed in butter and herbs as
advertised, but fried beyond recognition.

  And, no, darlings, I’m not
transferring to the culinary review page, I point this out to draw attention
to the real flambé, namely the chef shouting in both English and Italian
that he’d had enough of the deplorable situation at Golden and he was “so
freakin’ outta here.” (Not sure of the Italian translation, but it involved
quite a few hand gestures, you get the idea.)

  My friend overheard all this with
several other diners, by the way, because Golden’s recent transfer of
ownership has also included cramming so many tables onto the restaurant
floor that the waitstaff has to turn sideways, which is practically illegal
in nearly every southern state.

  Questionable management
and
a
renowned chef on the run? Sounds like Golden—and The Crown Jewel, in
turn—could be in serious trouble.

  Maybe you should have your fish
fried over in Brooklyn for half the price, instead?

  Keep your ears tuned and your gums
flapping!

—Peeps

S
WIPING
HER
FINGERS
THROUGH
the long, platinum blond wig, Shelby stared at her reflection in complete
dissatisfaction.

The hairpiece had come from a
nearby costume store on 21st, but since they leaned toward the elaborate,
she looked like a cross between Marilyn Monroe and an aging Playboy
bunny.

With way less than C boobs and
lacking a professional hairdresser.

This is never going to work.

She wanted her parents’
retirement money back. She wanted Max punished. She was crazy about
Trevor.

No way all those things could
come together successfully. A soufflé destined to fall, a steak
predetermined to burn.

At least the suit looked nice on
her. Since it was Victoria’s, it probably cost more than Shelby made in a
month. Which led her to consider yet another negative in her life—the
potential loss of her business.

No matter that she was trying
like hell to make everything work out, everything seemed destined to clash.
Her irritation was running over into her deception to her lover and her
intense feelings for him.

She’d left him earlier as he’d
tucked her into a cab in front of his apartment building. Supposedly, she
was meant to be on her way to her catering space. Which she had gone to.
Briefly.
Instead it was time for Robin Hood to kick into action.

She pointed at herself in the
mirror. “
You
are a bad, bad girl.”

Grabbing her bag, she left her
apartment and hailed a cab. Today, maybe today, this whole nightmare would
be over. In her disguise, she planned to lure Max into letting him swindle
her. Then the police would stop following her around and concentrate on the
real problem.

Though Detective Antonio had
been remarkably understanding about ignoring their burglary attempt, he was
stuck “being Homicide’s bitch,” as he’d so succinctly described the night
they’d all gone to the pub, so Max was living high and preparing to ruin
more lives.

And that just burned her
cornflakes.

Plus, if the cops ever did get
close, the rat would no doubt sense the trap and simply move on to the next
city or country.

And just how did her
sophisticated lover fit into all this?

She knew Trevor couldn’t be part
of Max’s schemes, but there was no way a man with his intelligence was
completely ignorant of them. Maybe she was lying to him, but he wasn’t
telling her everything, either.

“An excellent basis for a loving
and lasting relationship.”

“Talking aloud to yourself is a
sign of delusion,” the cabbie informed her. “I’m right here, ya know. Like
talking to a shrink.”

“Are you married?”

“Was. Three times in
fact.”

Yikes.
“I’m going back to talking to myself now.”

He shrugged. “Suit
yourself.”

Shrinks and delusion aside, he
got her to The Crown Jewel in record time. Let the subterfuge
begin…

After paying the cabbie, she
walked into the hotel, trying to emulate Victoria’s confident stride and
I-could-own-the-world-if-I-wanted attitude. As she crossed to the elevator,
she felt a moment of panic when she regretted not asking Victoria and Calla
to come with her.

She’d insisted they stay away,
afraid Max would recognize the three of them together, regardless of
disguises. They’d supported her so much, but she had to take this step
alone.

Approaching suite 1634, she
rolled her shoulders. She was going to ruin this lying, smiling crook and
get her life back.

* * *

“T
HAT
’
S
fascinating,
”
Shelby said, laying her hand on
Max’s arm as she smiled at him.

Max shrugged without modesty.
“Yes, I do have a knack…”

From his other side, a
dark-haired woman linked her arm with Max’s. “Certainly you do, darling.
Over there are some investors you should talk to.” She sent an icy glare
toward Shelby. “You’ll excuse us, won’t you?”

Shelby clenched the stem of the
wineglass she’d barely taken a sip from. “Sure.”

Knowing her plan’s foundation
was shaking, she glanced around the room, wincing as her gaze passed over
the scrimpy crowd and the hors d’oeuvres table. She’d have been more
effective catering this disaster. This wasn’t a gathering of people flush
with cash who could afford refurbished condos in the East Village. She knew
that because everybody here seemed like she usually did, and she had no
money.

These people were here to be
seen, schmooze the future Earl of Banfield, have a free glass of wine, a
complimentary plate of crappy food, then hopefully meet people flush with
cash.

Max soaked in the expectant
atmosphere like a fish moving water through his gills. He showed off
schematics of condos with spectacular views via a 3-D slideshow presentation
displayed on the wall behind the food table. He assured everyone the project
was “well under way” and the address would be “the” place to call home in
six months.

As a completely biased observer,
Shelby noted he promised neither too much nor too little. He was a
pro.

At least her parents hadn’t been
swindled by an amateur.

Though, hang on—

The brunette who’d absconded
with Max had guided him to a woman of about fifty. She had professionally
coiffed silver hair—certainly not a costume wig—wore a gray suit and
matching shoes that Shelby had seen online going for a price with a comma in
it.

She looked capable of investing
in something besides time in front of the mirror. So among the posers, Max
had attracted some actual possibilities.

Hang on to your pocketbook,
lady.

Clearly Shelby’s was safe. Max
had paid scant attention to her, much less asked her to stroke out a deposit
check. What was she doing? A caterer launching her own sting operation? She
felt like a fool.

Time to call for
reinforcements.

She withdrew to a quiet corner
of the room and dialed Victoria’s number from her cell. “This isn’t
working,” she whispered into the phone. “He’s barely spoken to
me.”

“In that suit?” Victoria asked
in disbelief. “The man’s blind, as well as idiotic.”

“The tacky wig is spoiling my
look,” Shelby said.

“I told you to dye your hair,”
Calla said calmly, obviously listening in on Victoria’s end.

“I’m not—” Shelby stopped. She
was lying to her lover and dragging her friends into criminal conspiracy,
but she drew the line at
dyeing her
hair?
Something wasn’t working, all
right. And it was her own sense of logic.

Her mania for
justice.

Then, from the other side of the
room, an unanticipated event changed everything.

Trevor walked in.

Her stomach clenched, and she
must have made some noise out loud, since Victoria asked, “What’s
wrong?”

“Robin Hood’s arrow just went
way left of the target.”

“What the—”

“Gotta go. I’ll call you guys
back.”

Her heart pounding, she
frantically judged the distance between herself, Trevor and the door. Max
hadn’t recognized her, but he’d only seen her once, and then in the capacity
of a servant. He probably wouldn’t have remembered her even without the
disguise. But Trevor knew her well.

Every intimate inch of
her.

Thankfully, the posers descended
on Trevor quicker than they had the bartender. Women flirted; men jockeyed
for position to shake his hand. He was definitely somebody with cachet.
After so many years in the catering business, it was cheering to realize she
could predict human behavior more accurately than some
psychologists.

Her triumph was short-lived,
however, as Trevor glanced slowly around.

Sipping her wine—for real, this
time—she kept her face in profile and hoped the wig hid some portion of her
face. At least Max was in the back of the room. As soon as Trevor moved in
that direction, she was going to skedaddle, as her grandmother used to
say.

When he took a few steps in his
brother’s direction, she inched the other way. A woman and two guys
obviously weren’t going to let Trevor escape them, so they matched him step
for step, the woman keeping up a rapid pace of conversation that would
hopefully be either fascinating or distracting enough to hold Trevor’s
attention.

Then suddenly, inexplicably, he
stopped. His head snapped in her direction. She sucked in a quick breath,
and for a heartbeat, they stared at each other.

He blinked first, and she nearly
broke into a run as he spoke to the people around him just before he strode
toward her.

Her heart pounded as if she were
an animal trapped in a cage.

Tough it out, girl.
Maybe he didn’t recognize her at all. Maybe he
simply liked her suit. Maybe he wanted to know where she’d bought her
wig.

“Shelby, what are you doing
here?” he asked when he reached her side.

“Well, hell.”

“That wig is awful,” he said,
his tone amused but his eyes conveying his confusion at seeing her. All the
pieces hadn’t fallen into place yet—her asking about the meeting for
Victoria’s sake, who was nowhere in sight, her telling him they couldn’t go
out tonight because she had a catering job.

She licked her bottom lip. “I
can explain.”

He slid his hands into the
pockets of his suit pants and waited.

“Meet me in the lobby in ten
minutes,” she blurted.

Then, she skedaddled.

* * *

S
ITTING
NEXT
TO
S
HELBY
at the lobby bar, a glass of fine Scotch in his
hand, Trevor fought for calm. “You don’t have a catering job tonight, do
you?”

She played with the stem of her
wineglass and didn’t look at him. “No.”

“You lied to me.”

“Yes.”

He clenched his hands around his
glass and resisted the urge to hurl it into the mirror behind the bar.
“Would you mind telling me why you said you do?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking
at him finally.

He noted the bleak expression in
her eyes and fought to remain calm. “For what?”

“For lying. For what I have to
tell you.”

In the time she’d fled Max’s
investors’ meeting, she’d taken off the ridiculous wig, false eyelashes and
heavy makeup. She was Shelby again. Although she was Shelby before, too,
even with the additions. She couldn’t hide the way she stood and held her
body, her lovely face, those inviting lips. Not from him.

“Okay.” He couldn’t think of
anything else to say.

“Your brother swindled my
parents out of their retirement savings.”

“He—” Trevor shook his head,
hoping to clear it. Whatever he’d been anticipating, that hadn’t been it.
“Max? The guy upstairs?”

“Yes.”