Читать книгу A Convenient Scandal - Kimberley Troutte - Страница 11

One

Jeff Harper pressed his forehead to the glass pane of his floor-to-ceiling living room window and watched the mass of reporters swarming below.

They couldn’t get a good shot of him at this height, since he was twenty-two floors above Central Park, but once he stepped outside his building they’d attack. Every word he said, or didn’t say, would be used to bury him—shovel after shovel piled on top of his rotting career.

Dammit, he hated to fail.

Before this week, Jeff had been able to live with the invasion of his privacy and had learned to use the cameras to his advantage. The press followed him around New York because he was the last unmarried prince of Harper Industries and a hotel critic on the show Secrets and Sheets. Paparazzi photographed his dinner dates as if each one was a passionate love match. His name had appeared on the list of America’s Most Eligible Bachelors for the last three years running. When pressed during interviews, he always said there was no special woman in his life and he was never getting married. The author of the article inevitably wrapped up with some bogus statement about “Jeffrey Harper just needs to find the right woman to settle him down.” Which was a big hell no.

Why end up like his parents?

He’d mostly put up with the press until he’d seen his own backside plastered across tabloid front pages with the headline “Hotel Critic Caught in Sex Scandal.”

Sex scandal. He wished.

He’d been set up.

And the incriminating video had gone viral.

The show he’d created and nurtured was canceled. Everything he’d built—his career, his reputation, his lifelong passion for the hotel industry—had exploded.

Just like that, Jeff was done.

If he didn’t fix this, he’d never regain what he’d lost.

Only one person might hire him at this point. Of course, he was the one person Jeff had vowed never to beg.

Grimacing, he dialed the number.

The phone rang once. “Jeffrey, I’ve been waiting for your call.”

Not a good sign since Jeff never called.

“Hey, Dad. I was wondering...” He swallowed hard. This was going to be painful. “Is the family hotel project still on the table?”

A year ago, when Jeff’s brother had returned home to Plunder Cove, their father had offered to put Jeff in charge of converting the Spanish mansion into an exclusive five-star resort. He liked the idea more than he’d dared admit. Hotel design, development and management had been his dream career since he was old enough to put blocks together, and he’d steadily worked to become an international expert in the field. But it was more than that. He couldn’t put into words why turning his childhood home into a safe place was important. No one would know why using his own hands to reshape the past meant everything to Jeff. Yet...he’d declined his father’s offer because RW was a mean, selfish, poor excuse for a father, and he’d never respected Jeff.

But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and all that.

“You’ve reconsidered.” RW stated it as fact.

Did he have a choice? “The network pulled my show. I’ve got time on my hands.”

“Wonderful.”

Strange word to use under the circumstances, but his father sounded pleased. The tightness in Jeff’s chest loosened a bit when he realized he didn’t have to beg for the job. He’d half-expected his father would make him grovel. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“There’s one condition.”

He should have guessed that. Those three words lifted the hairs on the back of Jeff’s neck. “Yeah? What?”

“You’ve got to improve your image. I’ve seen the video, son.”

Jeff paced his living room. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“That’s a relief because it looks like you had a quickie in the elevator at Xander Finn’s hotel with a hotel maid. Low-class, son. Harpers pay for suites.”

Jeff ground his molars together. “I paid for a suite.”

He just hadn’t had time to use it while he was undercover exposing a social injustice.

Jeff cared about people and used the power of his name and his show to set things right. The great RW would never understand why Jeff went out of his way to expose the megarich like Xander Finn.

Weeks earlier, Finn had threatened bodily harm to the Secrets and Sheets crew if they stepped inside the gilded doors of his most expensive Manhattan hotel. The threat had made Jeff wonder what the man had to hide. He’d filmed the episode himself, and the dirt he uncovered would show viewers how badly customers were being ripped off by one of the richest men in New York.

Little did Jeff know that he was about to become the one to “break the internet,” with ridiculous GIFs and memes.

The latest one said, “Those who can, run a hotel; those who can’t, become sex-crazed critics.”

“Success is all about image,” RW was still talking over the phone. “Yours needs an overhaul, Jeffrey. Didn’t you know hotels have video cameras in the elevators?”

“Of course, I do. I was set up!” Jeff slammed his teeth together to keep from blurting out what really happened in the elevator. His father hadn’t shielded him from abuse when he was six; why would he shield him now?

No, except for this job offer—with conditions—Jeff was on his own. Always had been.

“Wait.” A flicker of foreboding licked up Jeff’s spine. “How did you know I was in Finn’s elevator? Did he send you the entire video?”

“Xander and I go way back. He’s always been a pain in the ass. No, I haven’t seen it all, but he promises me it gets worse. I get the sense you don’t want the public to see what happens next. Am I correct?”

Jeff let out a slow breath. The small digital slice encircling the internet was bad enough. If the rest went public, there would be no coming back. “What does he want?”

“I bet you can guess.”

Jeff rubbed the back of his neck. “The recording I made of his hotel.”

“Bingo. And a televised statement that his hotel is above reproach. The best damned hotel you’ve ever seen.” RW paused. “Xander wants you to grovel.”

“I’m not doing that. It was one of the worst I’ve ever seen. Think about the people who save for years to vacation at his fancy hotel. No. It’s unacceptable. No one can bully me anymore, Dad.”

“Then we have a problem,” RW said.

“We?”

“Harper Industries has a reputation to uphold and stockholders to please. We can’t go around hiring a sex-crazed—”

“Dad! I was set up.”

“Blackmail only works because you were caught on tape. You screwed up.” There. That was the father he’d expected when he picked up the phone. The superior tone and words dripping with condemnation were signature RW Harper.

“Blackmail only works if I roll over. I won’t do that,” Jeff snapped.

“Think carefully,” RW said. “He’s threatening to release bits and pieces of your damned sex video for eternity unless you agree to his terms. With a constant stream of bad press, you’ll never work in New York’s hotel industry again. Or anywhere else for that matter. Not even for me.”

Jeff pinched the bridge of his nose. “Then he’s got me.”

“Not if we stop him with good PR. It must be done quickly to keep your train wreck from derailing the entire Plunder Cove project. I promised the townspeople their percentage of resort profits and I intend to keep my word.”

“The people in Pueblicito not getting their share. That’s what bothers you the most about what happened to me?”

“The Harpers owe them, son.”

Jeff shook his head. Harpers were pirates—takers, and users. The family tree included buccaneers and land barons who’d once owned the people in Pueblicito. RW was just as bad as past generations because he only cared about increasing profits for Harper Industries.

Greed had destroyed his family.

And now Dad wants to donate profit to strangers? What’s the catch?

Jeff didn’t believe the mean oil tycoon had grown a charitable heart. It wasn’t possible.

“Why now?” Jeff pressed.

“I have my reasons. They’re none of your concern.”

Deflection. Secrets. Now that was more like the father Jeff remembered, which probably meant the old man was stringing the townspeople along in an elaborate con. The RW Jeff knew was a master schemer who fought dirty and stole what he wanted.

“You have a choice. Agree to Xander’s terms or agree to mine.” RW paused for effect. “Together we can beat him at his own game.”

“I’m listening.”

“We offer the public a respectable Jeffrey Harper, an upstanding successful hotel developer. You’ll again be a businessman everyone looks up to. The shareholders will have undeniable proof that you’ve settled down and are prepared to represent Harper Industries in this new venture.”

“How?”

“With a legal contract signed in front of witnesses.”

Jeff frowned. “What sort of contract?”

“The long-lasting, ‘until death do you part’ sort.”

Oh, hell no.

Jeff sat heavily on his couch. “I’m not getting married.”

“You can’t be a playboy forever. It’s time you settled down. Started a family.”

“Like you did? How’d that work out for you, Dad?”

It was a low blow, thrown with force. Jeff would never forgive his parents for the hell they’d put him and his brother and sister through.

RW didn’t respond. Not that Jeff had thought he would. The silence was a hammer pounding all the nails into the bitter wall lodged between them.

After a long minute RW said, “I’m hiring a project manager at the end of the week. When the hotel is ready, I’ll hire a manager for that, too. You agree with my terms and you’ve got both jobs. Don’t agree and you’ll be scrounging on your own in New York.”

I’ve been scrounging since I turned sixteen and you kicked me out of the house, old man.

“Think this through.” RW’s voice grew softer. “The hotel you create on Plunder Cove will be a family legacy. I don’t trust easily, but I have faith you’ll do it right.”

Those words floored him.

He’d never heard anything like them before.

Jeff stared at his size twelve loafers. He wanted to believe what his dad said, but the reality of who RW had always been was too hard to forget—as was the “one condition.” “Come on, Dad. You can’t expect me to get married.”

“I’ll give you a few days to think about it,” RW said.

In a few days, another million people would share those damned GIFs and memes. The social media attack would never stop—unless he fought back.

Dad’s ridiculous plan was the only thing that made a lick of sense.

It pissed him off, but still he growled, “Have your people start the search for a chef. A great one.”

“You want to marry a chef?”

“No, I want to hire one. An exclusive resort needs a five-star restaurant. That’s how we’ll get the ball rolling. A restaurant is faster to get up and running than a hotel and the best ones get the word out fast. Find me a group of chefs to choose from. Lure them from the world’s top restaurants and offer them deals they can’t refuse. I’ll assess their culinary skills and choose a winner.”

“A contest? You’d pit them against each other?”

“Call it part of the cooking interview. We’ll see which one can handle the heat. My chef has to be capable of rising above stress.”

RW produced a sharp whistle through his nose, the one he used when he was not pleased. “You must marry, Jeffrey. That’s my only stipulation. I don’t care who as long as she makes you look respectable.”

Jeff didn’t want a wife. He wanted a hotel.

He needed to make Plunder Cove the best locale in the world, and then he’d have his dignity back. And a touch of something that might resemble a survivor’s victory.

A plan started to form.

The producer of Secrets and Sheets had hounded Jeff for years to do a segment on the Spanish mansion and its pirate past. He’d always said no. Why glorify a place that still gave him nightmares? But now, his childhood home could be the only thing that would help him reboot his career.

“Fine. My crew can film the ceremony in one of the gardens or down on the beach. The reception will be filmed inside the new restaurant. You can’t buy better advertising for the resort.” The press would eat it up.

“Now that’s thinking big. I like it,” RW said.

Yeah? Well, hold on because it’s only the first part of the plan.

Dad didn’t have to know that Jeff was going to dangle the televised wedding to his producer in exchange for something far more important—the final, edited episode of Secrets and Sheets. Jeff wished for the fiftieth time that he hadn’t given the raw footage to the show’s producer. He hadn’t thought to keep a copy and now he was empty-handed against Finn. But not for long. Once Jeff had the recording, he’d release it on every media outlet possible. The blackmail would stop and the world would finally know what Finn had done to his customers, and to Jeff.

No one attacked the Harpers and lived to tell the tale.

For the first time that week, Jeff actually smiled.

* * *

Michele Cox snuggled next to her sister on the twin bed at the group home and softly read Cari’s favorite picture book. Rosie’s Magic Horse was about a girl who saves her family from financial ruin by riding a Popsicle-stick horse in search of pirate treasure. Michele didn’t know which Cari loved more—the idea that a girl could save the day while riding a horse, or that something as small as a used Popsicle stick could aspire to greatness. Whatever the case, Cari insisted that Michele read the book to her at bedtime every night.

Tonight, Cari had fallen asleep before Michele got to the part about the pirates. Michele kept reading anyway. Sometimes she needed her own Popsicle make-believe. When she closed the book, she slipped out of the bed carefully so as not to wake her snoring sister.

Kissing Cari’s forehead, Michele whispered, “Sweet dreams, cowgirl.”

Michele’s heart and feet were heavy as she went down the hall to the staff station. “I’ll call in and read to her every night,” Michele said to one of Cari’s favorite caregivers. “You’ve got my number. Text immediately if she gets the sniffles.” Cari was susceptible to pneumonia and had been hospitalized several times.

“Don’t worry, she’ll be fine. She knows the routine and is getting comfortable here. We’ll take good care of her.”

The pit in Michele’s stomach deepened. It had taken six months for Cari to learn the ropes at this home. Six long, painful months. What would happen if Michele couldn’t pay the fees to keep her here?

“Thanks for taking care of her. She’s all I’ve got.” Michele swiped the tear off her cheek.

“Oh, hon. You go have a good time. You deserve it.”

Deserve it? No, Michele was the one who’d messed up and lost the money her sister needed. She was heartsick over it.

She drove to her own apartment, poured herself a glass of wine and plopped down at the table in her painfully silent kitchen. God, she felt so alone. She was the sole provider and caretaker for her sister after Mom had died six months ago. Her father had passed when Michele was only ten. Cari needed services and health care and a chance to be a happy cowgirl, all of which required funds that had been stolen by her so-called partner.

There was only one way to fix the horrible mess she’d made.

She picked up the envelope sitting on top of her polka-dot place mats. “Harper Industries,” it said across the top in black embossed letters. Pulling out the employment application, she reread the lines, “Candidates will cook for and be judged by Jeffrey Harper.”

Her stomach flopped at the thought.

Michele wasn’t a fan of his show. That playboy attitude of his left her cold. She’d had her fill of arrogant, demanding males in her career. She’d given everything she had to the last head chef she’d worked with and where had that left her? Poor and alone. Because of him, she’d lost her desire to cook—which was the last connection she had to her mother.

Mom had introduced her to family recipes when Michele was only seven years old. Cooking together meant tasting, laughing and dancing in the kitchen. All her best memories came from that warm, spicy, belly-filling place. While the rest of the house was dark and choked with bad memories—cancer, pills, dying—the kitchen was safe. Like her mother’s embrace.

As a young girl, Michele had experimented with dishes to make her mom and Cari feel better. Mom had encouraged Michele to submit the creations in local cook-offs and, surprisingly, Michele had won every contest she entered. The local paper had called her “a child prodigy” and “a Picasso in the kitchen.” Cooking had been easy back then because food was a river of color coursing through her veins. Spatulas and spoons were her crayons. All she had to do was let the colors flow.

But now she was empty, her passion dried up. What if her gift, her single moneymaking talent, never returned?

If Michele Cox wasn’t a chef, who was she?

She tapped her pen on the Harper Industries application. Could she fake it? Jeffrey Harper was an infamous critic who publicly destroyed those who didn’t meet his standards. Would he know the difference between passionate cooking and plain old cooking? If he did, he’d annihilate her.

But if he didn’t...

The Harper chef job came with a twenty-thousand-dollar up-front bonus. Twenty thousand! With that kind of money, Cari could continue riding therapy horses. Hippotherapy was supposed to be beneficial for people with Down syndrome but Michele had been amazed at how her sister had come alive the first time she’d touched a pony. Cari’s cognitive, motor, speech and social skills had blossomed. But riding lessons weren’t cheap and neither were housing and medical bills. Michele’s rent was two weeks late and she barely had enough money in her account to pay for Cari’s care.

Her options were slim. If Harper Industries didn’t hire her, the two of them might be living on the streets.

She signed the application and went on to the final step. She had to make a video answering a single question: Why do you want to work for Harper Industries?

Straightening her spine, she looked into the camera on her computer and pressed the record button. “I want to work for Harper Industries because I need to believe good things can happen to good people.” Her voice hitched and she quickly turned the video off.

Shoot. Where’d that come from? She’d almost blurted out what happened at Alfieri’s. “Get it together, Michele. If you spill all the sordid details, they’ll never hire you.”

She scrubbed her cheeks, took a giant inhale and tried again.

“I am Michele Cox, the former chef at a five-star restaurant, Alfieri’s, in Manhattan. I will include articles about my awards and specialties but those highlights are not the most important aspect of being a chef, nor are they why I cook.

“Food, Mr. Harper, is a powerful medicine. Good cuisine can make people feel good. When the dishes are excellent, the patron can ease loneliness with a bite of ricotta cannelloni. That’s what I do. I make patrons feel happy and loved. I can do that for your new restaurant, too. I hope you’ll give me a chance. Thank you.”

Well. That wasn’t so bad. Before she could change her mind, she pressed Send on the video and sealed the application packet to be sent by overnight mail along with the glowing newspaper articles she’d promised. Today was the day she’d put Alfieri’s behind her and search for her cooking mojo.

A good person should catch a break once in a while.

All she needed was one.