Читать книгу Sizzle in the City - Wendy Etherington - Страница 8

“MR. BANFIELD, YOUR brother is on line one.”

Trevor glanced up from the financial report he’d been reading to see his assistant filling his office doorway.

Hands planted on her ample hips, Florence Windemere scowled. “He’s very insistent.”

“I’ll bet.”

Max was, no doubt, caught in yet another mess of his own making. Who else could he call?

“Did he flirt with you again?” he asked Florence.

“Cheeky, that’s what he is. Unprofessional, too.”

Trevor smiled slightly at the flushed indignation of the woman who’d been his childhood governess after Max had gone off to boarding school at age eight—the year of their parents’ divorce. “So was I at one time.”

She drew herself to her full five-foot, one-inch height. “You were simply energetic, maybe a bit precocious and certainly a child. He’s a grown man.”

“He appears to be anyway.”

Florence gave him a sage smile. “There comes a time, my boy, when you have to push the baby bird from the nest.”

“Would you have given up on me?”

“He’s not you.”

“Which I, for one, am thankful. He is my brother, however.”

“Older brother,” Florence reminded him significantly as she retreated from the room.

Trevor understood her implication—the older sibling should be wiser, looking out for the younger. Somehow, almost right from the beginning, his family had been turned backward. And they’d all been paying for that quirk of fate ever since.

Bracing himself, Trevor lifted the phone receiver.

“Know anything about the hotel business?” Max asked him casually.

Way too casually.

Recalling the time Max had asked him about the hot-air-balloon business, only to have his ever-ambitious brother ignore his advice and buy four used ones with the ridiculous dream of them bobbing over and around the skyscrapers of Manhattan and/or Paris, Trevor knew he had to nip this blossoming idea in the bud. “It’s volatile, labor intensive, multifaceted and in no way, shape or form an industry you should be involved in.”

“Ah.” Long pause. “Uh … okay. What’d ya think of that Jets game on Sunday?”

Trevor got a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

And not just because the Jets played football and it was the middle of April.

“What’ve you done?” he asked Max.

“Me?” he asked with affronted innocence that was well practiced and generally effective. “Not a thing. Though I did have a spicy dinner with a hottie from Venezuela last night. Maybe she’s got a sister, you could come with us next time.”

Max the Pimping Earl. Lovely. “I can get my own dates, thank you. Did you take Ms. Venezuela to a hotel?”

“No. My apartment.”

“Did you eat in a hotel restaurant last night?”

“Uh, well—Hmm … Let me think.”

He shared genes with this man. It was terrifying.

And since Trevor didn’t have time to wait for the how-can-I-save-my-ass Max thought process to play out, he prompted, “Where did you have dinner?”

“I can’t quite remember the name,” Max said faintly. “It might have been a color.”

“What color?”

“Hmm … red, maybe yellow.”

“Where were you?”

“The Theatre District?”

“You’re not sure?”

“I was half-pissed. We had drinks before at the top-floor lounge.”

The Theatre District was clogged full of hotels. But a hotel with a restaurant whose name was a color—red, maybe yellow—and had a bar on its roof?

“Golden.”

Max coughed.

It was mostly a tourist place, but the hotel had endured for more than fifty years and the lounge had its moments being hip and interesting, depending on the nostalgic whims of the NYC elite.

“Oh, damn. That’s my other line. Gotta go.” Max hung up abruptly but not unexpectedly.

Having flown into New York that afternoon from San Francisco, Trevor had grabbed newspapers at the airport, but other than glancing at the headlines in the cab, and answering a few pending emails on his phone, he hadn’t delved further.

Max, at least in this country, was not front-page news.

An internet search on Max yielded thousands of hits on an article titled “Financial Finagling” in the New York Tattletale. The author’s name was Peeps Galloway.

Talk about cheeky.

“Financial guru?” he muttered aloud as he read. “Since when?”

He had to shut his eyes when he reached the part about The Crown Jewel. Bloody hell, Max owned a hotel.

Clearly, their mother’s most recent husband was gullible as well as rich, as their father had indeed cut off his oldest son financially.

At least publicly.

Trevor forced himself to read the rest, wincing when he read his father’s title. He’d probably be getting a call from his secretary by tomorrow. Maybe even the old man himself. The heir apparent had indeed slithered away from several sticky situations, and yet again, it would no doubt be Trevor’s responsibility to shove the mess under the rug.

He’d officially become his family’s janitor.

Being the second son of the Earl of Westmore—who was related, by some convoluted and ancient way, to George III of England—Trevor had always known he’d have to make his way in the world. Nothing was going to be handed to him.

His brother would one day be the earl, and Trevor was largely superfluous. Like an insurance policy.

Frankly, Trevor had been relieved by his sibling’s departure for boarding school and had blossomed under Florence’s watchful, caring eye, even as Max fell in with a group of arrogant, troublesome boys who thought their future titles made them invulnerable.

The divorce hit him harder than you was a good excuse he got for his brother’s behavior. He worshipped your mother and doesn’t know how to cope without her. Or, Max has the pressure of the title on his shoulders.

During those days Trevor had resented being metaphorically shoved in a drawer and forgotten about, so he’d dreamed of becoming a teacher, then a poet, then a rock star. Thanks to Florence, he eventually learned to play to his advantages—athletic skill, a fair amount of charm, a strong dose of good sense and a trust fund to get virtually any venture started.

So, as his father mourned the loss of his marriage and Max had taken advantage of his distraction, Trevor had decided he’d run his own business. He’d be in control. He’d escape family obligations.

Not so fast, my boy.

Even after he’d left for America in his early twenties, he’d been dragged into Max’s troubles. He made excuses. He’d reasoned with his brother. Apparently, no one else could. When his business became financially successful, he’d bailed out Max of several money crises.

Trevor had always understood his actions reflected on the rest of his family, on the ancestry to which he was forever linked by blood. Max loved parties, women and being important.

There were whispers that Trevor was the better successor to the title. That Max would never grow up. Yet, unless the line of succession was somehow eradicated, they were stuck.

Max was more like their mother—flighty and unpredictable. But while she was kind and generous, Max was inherently selfish. He expected others to pick him up when he fell down. Even at an early age, he managed to blame the crayons on the wall or the snags in the tapestries on his “energetic” little brother.

Yet Trevor and Max were bonded by a single truth—neither of them wanted to become their father. The stoic earl. Distant, but devastated by his divorce.

So Trevor had learned discretion and discipline at the stable hand of Florence. Nobody had to explain his partying the night away with hot women, too many cocktails and getting his picture printed in some trashy rag as a result.

Thirty odd years after their home life had imploded, Max had never learned that lesson.

Maybe they all should have realized that the crayons on the wall would lead to lousy financial and business management, gambling debts and embarrassing questions by peers and friends.

Trevor used to be proud that his father looked to him to help his brother, to coach him out of whatever ridiculous mess he’d landed in. There was no real harm in him—other than to his own family. But wasn’t there a time to push the baby bird from the nest?

The intercom buzzed, and Florence’s voice floated out. “Your father’s on the phone.”

“Brilliant,” Trevor said sarcastically.

Project Robin Hood, Day Four

The Crown Jewel Hotel

A HOTEL SUITE’S BEDROOM wasn’t the strangest place Shelby had used as a temporary kitchen and prep area, but it was damn close.

With a metaphorical shrug for the oddities of her job and praying the health inspector didn’t make a surprise visit, she removed another tray of mini crab cakes from her warming ovens as the door swung open.

“I’m in with Banfield,” Calla said, poking her head around the door.

Shelby set the hot tray on a trivet. “That was fast. You’ve barely been here fifteen minutes.”

Calla grinned. “I’m pretty impressed myself.” She pursed her lips. “‘Course it helps that he’s a dense and raving egomaniac.”

“It sure can’t hurt. Is Victoria here yet?”

“Just walked in.”

“Make sure she stows her sharklike tendencies. She might scare him off.”

“He seems pretty much dazzled by boobs, a heartbeat and a smile. V could manage him in her sleep.”

Transferring crab cakes to a serving platter, Shelby felt a rush of excitement. This crazy Robin Hood plan might actually work.

Asking questions of the well-connected crowd, Shelby and her friends had learned Max was throwing a cocktail party in his suite to celebrate the “Under New Management” kickoff of the hotel. Victoria managed to get invited under the guise of offering PR services and promising to bring the press—aka Calla. She’d also suggested Shelby as the caterer, which Max had jumped on, presumably because his kitchen was currently understaffed, though Shelby suspected her undercut rates had pushed her to the top of the list.

She and her friends were going to mingle and listen, hopefully instigating themselves in Max’s life and business, which would, presumably, lead to proof of his financial schemes. Or at least give them a new angle to take to the police.

Know thy enemy as thyself, right?

Calla was going to offer to interview him for a piece in City Magazine, one of her regular clients. The fact that she’d already secured their quarry’s cooperation made Shelby all the more grateful for her friends’ support.

“You’re the best,” she said to Calla as she added sprigs of lettuce and lemon wedges to decorate the platter.

“Remember this was all my idea,” her friend said saucily as she flipped her wheat-colored ponytail over her shoulder and turned to leave.

Moving to follow, Shelby caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the wall. She’d made an effort to tame her wavy, shoulder-length auburn hair into artful curls. Only to have the thick mess turn frizzy beneath the heat of the ovens and the sweaty job of hauling all her equipment from her delivery van to the penthouse suite.

Oh, well. She had Calla and Victoria to dazzle Banfield. As long as she kept him and his guests fed, she’d done her job for the night.

Balancing the serving tray in one hand, she managed to open the door and ease her way into the main room without dropping anything.

At least until she hit what felt like a solid wall. With a grunt of frustration, she watched two precious crab cakes tumble toward the floor.

She was going to go broke saving her parents from financial ruin.

“Pardon me,” said a silky, English-accented voice.

“No, problem,” Shelby said, quickly glancing up, “I’ll—”

She nearly dropped the entire tray as she got a look at the man attached to the exquisite voice.

Wavy black hair, blue eyes like the depths of the deepest sea and a trim physique encased in a meticulously tailored charcoal-colored suit.

Damn. Why doesn’t my hair look better? was the only thought she could manage.

“I’ll keep this one if you don’t mind,” he said.

Which one? Me? She was nodding before she’d even completed the thought.

As he straightened, she noticed the crab cake he was raising toward his mouth.

Wow, he has a great mouth, too.

Raising her gaze to his eyes, a jolt of sheer pleasure shot through her. She got the sense that he understood the effect he had on her. Or else he really liked crab cakes.

After chewing and swallowing, he sipped his cocktail—a martini with two olives—then smiled.

Though his eyes were steady as a rock, there was something fun and alluring about his smile. As if the rest of his perfection was hard-won. As if rebellion was natural and refinement a birthright he’d reluctantly accepted.

“You’re the chef?” he asked.

“Yes,” she managed to answer without stuttering.

“More crab than fluff,” he commented. “Rare at these gatherings.”

“I grew up in Savannah. It’s a Southern-pride thing.”

“Well deserved.” He angled his head. “And the accent fits. I got the sense you weren’t from here.”

“You, either.”

He nodded. “I was raised in London.”

“That fits.” Given the nature of her undercover plan, she wondered at the quirk of fate that had presented her with a flesh and blood James Bond in the middle of her investigative adventure. “Shelby Dixon,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Trevor,” the man said as he enveloped her small hand in his elegant, long-fingered one.

Their gazes held as they shook.

Shelby would have been happy to let their closeness linger for the next decade or two, but she was supposed to be working, both as a caterer and a spy.

A quick scan of the room noted several new guests. Max had assured her there would be no more than fifteen, but they were pushing twenty-five. Good thing she’d made extra hors d’oeuvres.

Drooling over the luscious Trevor No-Last-Name-Given would have to wait.

And why hadn’t he given a last name anyway? Wasn’t that odd? He was probably Max’s bookie or possibly something even more nefarious. But by the time she’d considered this and turned to question him, he was walking away … directly toward Max.

The hotel owner-swindler welcomed Trevor with a hug and a broad grin.

“Well, damn,” Shelby grumbled.

She should have expected this turn, as no man could be that perfect and have moral standards, too. If he was Max’s investment recruiter, it was easy to see how the lousy crook had gotten his hands on thirty-million bucks. There was probably a line outside his office door to get in on the next deal.

Guests were starting to come to her to get a crab cake, so she reluctantly tore her gaze from Max and Trevor and roamed the room with her tray. After a while, she retreated to the bedroom to load up again, adding prosciutto-wrapped grilled-chicken bites, as well.

She passed Calla chatting up the hotel manager and hoped her friend was getting insightful info to use in their quest to bring Max and his schemes down. Full bellies and a cocktail or two were secret weapons in getting people to talk incessantly. Maybe she should share that tidbit with law enforcement.

She found Victoria next to the windows of the twenty-ninth-floor suite and offered her appetizer selections to her fellow conspirator, whose eyes were uncharacteristically dazed.

“I love New York,” Victoria said, staring in Trevor’s direction.

“He has an English accent, too.”

Victoria’s eyelashes fluttered as her face glowed with pleasure. “Oh, my.”

“However …” Shelby said sharply, striving to bring Victoria back to her senses, “he seems pretty friendly with Max, so no matter how beautiful he is, he’s now moved to second on the list of suspicious characters in this room.”

“He’s number one in my book,” Victoria said, licking her lips.

“Helloo?” Shelby waved her hand in front of her friend’s face. “Revenge? Vigilante justice? Any of these concepts sound familiar? Max is Project Robin Hood’s Enemy Number One. He’s our Sheriff Nottingham, our Al Capone. And anybody who cozies up to him is an accessory simply on principle.”

“You’re right,” Victoria said slowly. She took a step in Trevor’s direction. “I’ll do some up-close and personal investigation.”

Shelby caught her friend’s arm. “Not so fast, Eliot Ness. I think observation is the best plan for now. Besides, I’ve already made contact.”

“So?”

“I saw him first.”

Victoria crossed her arms over her chest. “Really?”

“His name is Trevor.”

“Trevor what?”

Blushing, Shelby shrugged.

“You can’t be that committed to him. A conversation that didn’t last long enough to get his full name? Get a hold of yourself. I thought he was Enemy Number Two.”

Even more embarrassed, Shelby recalled her conversation that morning with her mom, who’d sounded so tired and defeated. The doctors had increased her anti-anxiety meds, and she was having a hard time adjusting. Not daring to glance at the object of her and Victoria’s conversation, she rolled her shoulders. “He is,” she said firmly.

And he was.

Except he was also the most beautiful man she’d ever laid eyes on.

No one could tell her fate wasn’t enjoying a hilarious and cruel joke at her expense.

“Go chat him up,” Shelby said to Victoria. “Maybe you can get his last name.”

“Oh, no. This one’s all yours.” With a knowing smile, Victoria took Shelby’s tray and glided away.

Well, she’d asked for it. She ought to be woman enough to take it.

After sending a glare toward Victoria’s retreating back, Shelby started across the room toward Max and Trevor. Along the way, several guests stopped her to compliment the culinary offerings and ask if there were more. She assured everyone there was and indicated Victoria, who, despite her smart-ass tendencies, was one of her best and most loyal friends.

A definite BFF, since she’d gracefully conceded the path to Trevor and was currently doing Shelby’s job, as well.

Trevor is a bad, bad man, her conscience reminded her.

Actually, she didn’t know that for sure. Probable, but not certain.

She could only help her parents through this hardship if she knew the facts. This investigation was her duty as a daughter. This was business, not romance.

On the way toward her prey, she noted an unbalanced collection of the female population surrounding Trevor and Max. This phenomenon could be easily explained. Because, while Max had Trevor’s dark coloring, his eyes were a muddy brown, he was shorter and more rotund than the sophisticated Englishman she’d met earlier, and there was a distinct shiftiness in his eyes.

Wow. She really needed to focus on what she was supposed to be doing here.

Yet another guest stopped her. “I’m dying for one of those delicious crab cakes,” the clearly desperate woman pleaded.

Shelby cast a glance at her gorgeous goal. Like she’d get his attention in her wilted white chef’s apron and limp hair anyway. However, he’d seemed to enjoy the crab cakes … “Okay, sure,” she said to the desperate guest.

Retreating to the prep room, she assembled another tray of crab, but halfway through her task, she was startled by hot and mysterious Trevor walking in, then closing the door behind him.

“How do you know Max?” he asked without delay.

“I’m his caterer.” His curiosity only furthered her suspicions of him. He was protective of Max. Meeting that alluring, blue-eyed gaze boldly, she added, “How do you know Max? You two seem like old friends.”

“We know each other well,” he returned vaguely as he moved toward her. “What about the writer and the icy brunette? You’re friends with them.”

“How do you know that?” she accused, wincing, as she realized she’d inadvertently confirmed his assumptions.

Some secret agent she was.

He smiled, confident and tempting. “I saw you talking to them earlier, just as you obviously saw me with Max. The brunette even refilled your food tray.”

“You’re observant.”

“I like watching you.” He brushed a strand of hair off her forehead in a surprising, quick and intimate gesture that made her mouth go dry. “You stand out in a crowd.”

“You, too,” she managed to whisper.

His penetrating stare unnerved her nearly as much as his proximity.

He was a friend of her enemy. He shouldn’t fascinate her. She wasn’t one of those women who went after bad boys, hoping to change them. She wasn’t intrigued by danger or darkness.

And more turmoil she certainly didn’t need.

But she didn’t step back. If anything, this endeavor of justice was about standing her ground, standing up for her parents, who couldn’t endure alone.

She wasn’t about to retreat now.