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The New York Tattletale

April 17

Party Like a Hotel Magnate by Peeps Galloway, Gossipmonger (And proud of it!)

A quick drop-in before your weekend in the Hamptons …

Oh, not spending your days at the luxurious retreat of the well-to-do?

Maybe you’re drowning your sorrows over your tax bill at the local pub. Or possibly spending your generous refund at Bloomys or Barney’s? (I hear there’s a fabulous shoe sale at the later—just ask for Damon.)

Whatever your weekend plans … never fear, dear readers, I’ll make either your shopping or your weekend shift at the tourist trap turn-and-burn palatable.

Speaking of tasty, I hear Max Banfield had an ooh, la, la soireé at his new hotel, The Crown Jewel, last night. Crab, so fresh from the sea the claws were still twitching, and chicken lettuce wraps were among the food offerings, with the night ending in raspberry creme-filled chocolate truffles.

Need I say yum?

No, I’m sure you have your own version of lusciousness to reflect upon.

Didn’t I tell you about Damon?

—Peeps

Hotel magnate?

Was that a promotion over financial guru?

Trevor tossed aside the newspaper Florence had set on his desk.

Instead of worrying about his brother, he stared out his window, where the streets below teemed with the usual afternoon Manhattan chaos. He’d planned to spend the weekend at his house in the Hamptons, but instead of anticipating the escape and relaxation, his thoughts turned to the sensational kiss he and Shelby had enjoyed the night before.

He’d crossed a line with her and didn’t regret it in the least.

He should have been concentrating on Max and tempering his latest mistake—or at least diminishing its press-worthy moments—but instead Trevor’d found his attention straying to the stunning caterer all night. The usual responsibility to his family paled in comparison to her vibrancy and glowing smile. As practicality seemed to be her mantra, he sensed even she wouldn’t approve of him being so distracted.

He was reminded of the genetic, and sometimes irrational, impulses he’d inherited. Impulses that ruled his mother’s life and ones even his stodgy father had indulged in long enough to produce him and Max.

Perhaps Trevor’s rebel past wasn’t so easily left behind.

And yet he’d been self-possessed enough to recognize the determination in Shelby’s eyes. Just as his mother had resolved to possess jewels, clothes and husbands, Shelby had her own goal in mind.

What, he wasn’t entirely sure. But it somehow involved Max.

He’d confirmed only two things the night before—Max’s financial windfall had indeed come in the form of their latest, wealthy, clearly gullible stepfather. And their father was monumentally annoyed about his name appearing in the American gossip rags.

Surely you can control this situation, Trevor, his father had said on a cell-phone call from his office in London. I have important issues before Parliament to address in the coming weeks. I don’t have time to explain this nonsense.

I’ll handle it, sir.

He’s a grown man, his father had continued. Reason with him. You’re the only one he listens to.

But Max didn’t listen to him. He didn’t take his advice or take responsibility. He wasn’t even a grown man. Not really.

He went to Vegas and blew money. He ran up debts at the London card clubs and pubs.

In some respects, Trevor knew he’d failed his family. At the same time, he had the sense to not remind his father that he was the one who’d married and divorced the flighty, but beautiful woman who’d created Max, who was, in turn, creating the present problems.

You could be the first son, his conscience reminded him firmly. Then you’d be required to follow in the earl’s footsteps as well as adhere to every edict that fell from his lips.

Not that Max was following this ancient rule.

Still, there were significant blessings in Trevor’s life. Starting and ending without the burden of an earldom. He had his future well in hand, and it didn’t include addressing Parliament, clamoring around a moldy country castle or lording over a London flat, no matter how tony the address.

He had a business to run.

With that bracing reminder reverberating in his mind, he turned back to his desk and the pile of contracts awaiting his signature.

Before he’d read more than a few paragraphs, the intercom on his desk beeped. “Shelby Dixon is here, sir,” Florence said. “She doesn’t have an appointment but assures me you’ll see her.”

Not only would he see her, he craved her presence.

He took a second to lift his eyes heavenward and repent any resentful thoughts of the last week. Since they were certainly numerous, Florence buzzed through again before he’d managed to respond.

“I’ll see Ms. Dixon,” he said into the intercom with what he hoped was a calm, professional tone.

In the intervening moments, his heart kicked against his ribs; his body hummed. He remained standing out of pride. She’d somehow found him, and he wasn’t sure if he was impressed or concerned.

Attitude first, Shelby stalked into the room. She performed a mock curtsy in front of his desk. “Your Lordship.”

“Ah … no.” Suppressing a wince, he paused to drink in the amazing, furious sight of her before extending his hand toward the chair in front of his desk. He waited until she sat before he lowered himself into his own seat. “I don’t have a title, though the doorman at my apartment building does persist in calling me Mr. Banfield. I prefer Trevor.”

“Your father is the Earl of Westmore,” she accused, her eyes more vividly green than the night before.

Perhaps rage brought out the distinctive color?

“He is,” Trevor said calmly. “I’m the second son, however, so I’m only significant if my older brother dies.” As his blunt words registered, shock flittered across her face. “No worries, he’s in excellent health.”

“Your older brother is Maxwell Banfield.”

Since the connection had been made, he saw no reason to deny it. Though, like many times in the past, he wanted to. “He is.”

“And you were at the party last night because …?”

“I was toasting my brother’s success.”

“You didn’t tell me he was your brother.”

He smiled. “Didn’t I?”

“No.”

“It hardly matters.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I think it does.”

Trevor shrugged. He loved her suspicious nature. He liked that she wasn’t buying his story completely, and she certainly didn’t appear impressed by his lineage. She should be sucking up to him, hoping for an introduction to his influential family or at least pushing for a booking.

Instead, she seemed genuinely, personally annoyed.

Wasn’t that great?

“Did Max pay his catering bill?” he asked, wondering who exactly she was mad at and why.

“Yes.”

“Did he come on to you?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry. He’s always had questionable taste in women.”

“I didn’t want him—” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re pretending not to understand why I’m here and pissed off.”

He reached deep for an innocent expression. “Why would I do that?”

“I have no idea.”

As much as he was attracted to her, and had planned to call her with both a dinner invitation and a quote on catering a business event, he didn’t know her well enough to throw open the family-closet door and let her see inside. He didn’t want her to suspect how big an embarrassment Max was to the family, or how Trevor was convinced this latest venture would be yet another failure.

Of course if Max’s check didn’t clear, or Shelby was a big fan of gossip mags, then his efforts at subterfuge would fail no matter what Trevor did or didn’t do. “Well, I’m pleased you’re here, but I’m truly in the dark about why you’re aggravated.”

“You kissed me.”

He didn’t have to pretend to be surprised by that accusation. “I’ve been complimented heavily in the past on my technique. Can you be specific about why you’re disappointed?”

Leaning across his desk, she propped her chin on her fist. “Can you explain why even absurd questions sound intelligent when spoken with an English accent?”

Her sass and directness were enthralling—as well as her proximity.

He tilted toward her. Their faces were bare inches apart. “That’s a fascinating debate. Why don’t we discuss it over dinner tonight?”

She simply shook her head. “Not so fast, Your Lordship. You kissed me while deliberately keeping your identity a secret. In fact, the only reason I found you was because Calla never throws anything away, and she uncovered a magazine article about you landing a high-dollar contract last year.” She raised her eyebrows. “At least I know you transport legitimate goods now.”

“What did you think I transported?”

“Could’ve been anything.”

“Like knockoff designers bags, I suppose.”

“Yeah, maybe, but I don’t like those. It’s real or nothing for me. I buy vanilla from Madagascar, for heaven’s sake. I was thinking more pharmaceutical for your possibly illegal transportation business.”

Terrific. The woman he had a massive crush on thought he was a drug dealer. “All the more reason for dinner. There’s a lovely Italian restaurant down the street.”

She angled her head, considering him. The anger had been doused, replaced by interest. “Why didn’t you want me to know who you were?”

“I don’t like to advertise my family background. It tends to make people act … unusually.”

“Suck-ups.”

With a satisfied grin, he nodded. “Precisely.”

“Why doesn’t your brother talk like you?”

“Max puts on an American accent. He likes to blend.”

By the way she cocked her head, Trevor assumed she found that as odd as he did, but he didn’t really want to discuss Max’s idiosyncrasies.

“I like your accent better.” Her eyes smoldered into golden. “Is this Italian place down the street Giovanni’s?”

Fascinated by the way her eyes changed in rhythm with her mood, he slid his finger down her arm. “It is.”

A smile teased her lips. “I could eat.”

“Excellent. Perhaps we could also work on my kissing technique. I’d hate to be a disappointment the second time around.”

“Were you planning this practice during dinner?”

“I could wait till after. Or be persuaded to before.”

Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “Let’s see if the pesto sauce is as good as I remember.”

Pleasure and anticipation raced down his spine. Their chemistry had been pretty electric the night before—maybe even more so because of the suspicion between them. “I’ll speak to the chef personally.”

“His name is Mario.”

He walked around the desk and assisted her to her feet. “He’s not your knife-wielding cousin or boyfriend, is he?”

“My cousin lives in Fort Lauderdale and runs a car wash, and I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“I always thought the men of New York had good taste. Clearly, I’ve been misinformed.” He opened his office door and allowed Shelby to proceed him. “I’m leaving, Florence.”

“For the day?” His secretary’s pink painted mouth rounded in shock. “It’s barely after five.”

“It’s Friday. Go home. Enjoy yourself.”

“Yes, I remember how. Do you?”

Trevor narrowed his eyes briefly as he passed Florence’s desk. “Of course I do.” The last thing he needed was Florence blabbing about his obsessive tendencies. Success didn’t come without sacrifice, after all.

The irony that his secretary wanted him to slow down and have babies she could spoil, while his mother’s worst nightmare was becoming a grandmother wasn’t lost on him.

“But you’ll miss out on your workaholic merit badge for the week,” she called after him.

“Good night, Florence,” he said, refusing to rise to her critique.

To his relief, Shelby laughed. “And here I thought we had nothing in common. My friends and assistants are always trying to get me to work less and play more.”

“Easy to do when it’s not your company on the line.”

“Exactly.”

Trevor pressed the button for the elevator, which arrived immediately.

“Is your brother a crook?” Shelby asked abruptly.

He nearly stumbled. It was rare for him to be knocked off stride, and this woman had done it twice in ten minutes. “No. Why do you ask?”

She shrugged as the elevator doors slid closed. “Just curious.”

CALLA WALK ED AWAY FROM a lovely spring evening, through the police-station door and into chaos.

The large, pitiful waiting room, painted a dingy gray and containing no more than ten folding chairs, strained at all the emotions and activity.

In one corner, a group of people stood in a circle, holding hands and praying. A trio of women cried in the other. A pair of children bounced and giggled on their chairs as a harried-looking woman stood nearby and yakked into her cell phone.

Lording over the masses, a bored-looking clerk sat behind a high, imposing faded wood counter and flipped through a magazine.

Lady Justice could hardly be proud.

But then Calla figured the police had a mostly thankless, as well as dangerous, job. They’d no doubt be grateful for her help.

Shifting her briefcase strap on her shoulder, she approached the counter. “I need to speak to someone in the fraud department.”

The clerk never looked up. “Appointment?”

You needed to make an appointment to report a crime? “No, it’s rather urgent. If you could just—”

“Is anybody in immediate danger?”

“Yes, I guess so. My friend Shelby’s parents trusted this guy with their life savings, then he took off for parts unknown, but then we—Shelby, me and our other friend Victoria—read an article last week about how he’d bought a hotel right here in Manhattan. So, you can imagine how surprised we were. Where did he get the money to buy something like that?” She jabbed her finger on the counter to emphasize her indignation. “On the backs of gullible seniors, that’s where. So, as you can see, it’s imperative that I talk to somebody right away.”

The clerk looked up, her expression weary. “Is somebody about to die?”

Calla blinked. “Uh … no, but—”

“Everybody’s busy.” The clerk’s attention went back to her magazine.

It was no wonder Max Banfield was running around free as a bird.

But Calla had been a newspaper reporter in her hometown of Austin before she’d moved to New York and become a features writer. She’d navigated the turbulent waters of Texas politics, she’d interviewed presidents and kings, she’d even gone on safari in Africa last year. And she knew charm would get her further than bullying.

“I know you’re extremely busy,” she said sweetly to the clerk. “But I’m in a bind. I have important information on a fraud case that could really—”

“Are you high?” the clerk asked, nonplussed.

“No, of cour—”

“Do you know it’s Friday night?”

“Yes, of cour—”

“Then go away.”

Okay, maybe charm was overrated.

Before Calla could figure out her next move, a heavyset uniformed officer appeared at the end of the hall.

Calla rushed toward him before anybody in the waiting room could move. “I need to see somebody in the fraud department!”

His gaze flicked over her with a hint of male interest before he rolled his eyes. “Lady, I got—”

“Please. It’s an emergency.”

“It always is.” He sighed and pointed down the hall he’d just emerged from. “Sixth door on the left. See Detective Antonio.”

“Thank you,” Calla breathed, barely resisting the urge to kiss his pudgy cheek.

“Don!” the clerk shouted, leaping to her feet.

“What the hell you want me to do, Mary?” he hollered back. “I got an attempted murder to deal with here.”

Calla barely heard the renewed wailing from the waiting room, she was too busy scooting down the hall.

The sixth door on the left had the pealing, fading letters of Detective Division printed on the smoked glass. Drawing a deep breath and hoping not everybody inside was as cranky as the front-desk clerk, Calla turned the handle.

The room she entered was scattered with several metal desks, each containing a computer monitor and various personal items. A water cooler and coffee station took up most of the space in the back, and directly across from her was a closed office door that read Lieutenant Meyer.

Except for the distant ringing of a phone, it was blessedly quiet.

Better yet, only two people were inside—a woman in a well-worn brown suit, who answered the phone, and a dark-haired man, typing rapidly on a keyboard.

She approached him, confident when she revealed her information, he’d be interested. Detectives moved up the ranks by solving cases, right? Certainly this one would be no exception.

Up close, she realized his hair wasn’t brown but black—thick, wavy and slightly mussed, as if he’d raked his fingers through the locks repeatedly. His hands were large, and his broad shoulders strained against the confines of his wrinkled black shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to reveal darkly tanned and muscular forearms.

This was not a man to be messed with.

“Detective Antonio?” she asked, hating the tentative note in her voice.

After a few more strokes of the keyboard, he lifted his head. His face was handsome and sculpted but hard. His lips might have been full but were flattened at the moment with a scowl. Eyes, green as a shamrock, but imparting none of the cheeriness of Ireland’s symbol, stared back at her with vivid reluctance.

“Yeah?” he returned, giving her a quick look from head to toe.

His expression didn’t soften with the perusal, and she found herself struggling not to be insulted. Granted, it had been a long time since she’d been the Cotton Bowl Queen, but she generally got a spark of interest from most men.

She’d even had her hair highlighted and gotten a glowing spray tan the day before.

Like that matters. Get on with it, girl.

She held out her hand. “I’m Calla Tucker.”

He rose, but not before expelling a tired sigh. “Devin Antonio,” he said, wrapping his hand around hers.

Fire darted through Calla’s body at the touch of his calloused palm. She flinched at the sensation and yanked her hand back, but it continued to tingle in the aftermath. He must have felt something similar since he glanced from her to his own hand and back again.

Now there was heat and anger in his remarkable eyes.

Though the tingling lingered, making her light-headed, she ignored it. She was supposed to be helping Shelby, not flirting.

“Devin,” she said after clearing her throat. “That’s an unusual name for an Italian.”

His scowl deepened. “It’s Irish. My mom was.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. She passed away?”

“Hell if I know.” He extended his hand to the chair opposite his desk. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you,” she said automatically, though her thoughts were whirling. She’d traveled enough to know war and despair existed everywhere and on many different fronts. But even in abject poverty she’d seen families stick together and work hard to make the most of their circumstances.

She found it incredibly sad that Detective Antonio didn’t know that kind of comfort.

“Reporters are supposed to stay in the press room,” he said shortly.

“I’m not a reporter.” She waved her hand. “Okay, I was at one time. I’m a features writer now. Mostly for travel and lifestyle magazines.”

“And you’re here to do a story on me.” He glanced at his watch. “At seven o’clock on a Friday night?”

“No story, and why does everybody keep reminding me about the day and time? Writers work at all hours. Silly me, I thought the police station was pretty much a 24/7 seven operation.”

“It is, but not for me. I was on my way out.”

“You were typing.”

“Finishing up a report. Are you in some kind of trouble, miss?”

“It’s Calla, and, no, not me. It’s my friend Shelby, specifically her parents.”

Before he could interrupt or, worse, throw her back to the front-desk diva, Calla told him about how the Dixons had given their life savings to Max Banfield, only to see it go into his pocket.

“I’ve got statements from six other couples right here,” she concluded, fishing in her briefcase for the folder containing the transcriptions she’d painstakingly documented from her recorded phone interviews. “They all implicate Maxwell Banfield as the head of the investment company.”

The detective didn’t even glance at the folder she laid on his desk. “Investments come with a risk. I’m sure Mr. Banfield explained that to his clients.”

“But he didn’t even invest the money. Weeks after cashing the check, the phone number he gave was disconnected and the office abandoned.”

“Fraud is a difficult case to prove.”

“Then your job must be pretty damn miserable.”

He stared directly at her. “It has its moments.”

Was that his attempt to compliment her or was she one of the miserable moments? The guy was impossible to read.

“Look, miss, I—”

“Calla.”

“Fine. Calla.” He shoved her folder across the desk. “I’ve got ten open cases to work. And it looks like one of them is going to be transferred to Homicide, since the harbor patrol found my suspect floating in the East River about two hours ago.”

She pushed the folder toward him. “Then you’ll only have nine cases. You’ve got room for one more.”

“No. I’ll have to work with Homicide exclusively for the next few days, catching them up on all the background, which means I’ll be even more backlogged once they take over.”

Frustrated, Calla rose and turned away from him. Shelby and Victoria were right. The only way they were getting results was to get them on their own. She was wasting her time with the hot, angry detective.

“These statements aren’t admissible in court,” he said.

Calla turned. He’d opened her file. Suspicious of his curiosity, she nodded. “I know. I have the digital recordings to back up everything.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. All these people would have to be interviewed by a cop.”

“So interview them.” She glared down at him, feeling better that she had the height advantage. “You guys know something squirrelly’s going on. Mrs. Rosenberg lives right here in the city, and she told me she filed a report with you guys months ago. Why won’t you help?”

“The case crosses state lines. That makes it federal.”

She leaned over, bracing her hand in the center of his desk. “Oh, that’s just crap. Unless Banfield walks into a bank with a loaded pistol, it’ll be years before the Feds get around to this case. And why should he resort to violence anyway? He’s doing just fine, smiling and lying and taking every meager penny these hardworking people have spent their lives earning. It’s unconscionable.”

He stood, taking her advantage with a single movement. “Where the hell are you from?”

“Texas.”

“That explains it.” He raked his hand through his inky hair, just as she’d imagined earlier.

The state of attraction along with dissent was foreign to her. When she liked a guy, she liked him. She had no idea what to make of this encounter. Or of him and where he stood.

“I’m not supposed to tell you what I’m about to,” he said, sounding as aggravated as he looked. “But I don’t want you going all Wyatt Earp on me and shooting down the guy at the local watering hole.”

“Wyatt Earp’s showdown took place in Arizona, not Texas.”

“You’re sure?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Pretty positive. Not to mention that happened about 130 years ago. Texans are independent and self-sufficient, not idiotic.”

“Stubborn comes to mind,” he muttered. “But whatever. I actually know about Banfield. One of our guys interviewed Mrs. Rosenberg, but we couldn’t find anybody else to corroborate her claim.”

“That’s because Banfield moves all over.”

“He’s technically a Brit. And now he’s bought a hotel in midtown.”

For the first time, Calla realized there was more going on behind the detective’s emerald eyes than resentment. “He certainly has.”

He tapped her folder with the tip of his finger. “I’ll look into the statements of the other victims, though you should know that people are reluctant to go on record about being duped.”

“I have complete faith in your powers of persuasion, Detective.”

“I’ll contact you if I have any questions. You got a card?”

She pulled one from the front pocket of her briefcase and handed it to him. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”

His mouth twitched on one side, as if he might actually be tempted to smile. “All part of the community-service motto.”

“Good to know.”

She turned to leave without shaking his hand again. She finally felt as if they’d reached an even keel. The last thing she needed was to incite her lust again.

“And, Calla …”

When she turned, she found his perpetual scowl in place—which somehow didn’t lessen his attractiveness. His toughness made him all the more appealing. “Hmm?” she asked, perfectly aware she was staring.

“We’d really rather keep our information to ourselves for now. Let me look into this. No more victim interviews. Don’t go to the press. Don’t approach Banfield, don’t talk about him, don’t contact him in any way. Clear?”

A picture of the party the night before flashed in Calla’s memory. “Oh, sure.” She swallowed. “I imagine the NYPD looks down on vigilantes.”

“You bet your cute Texas ass we do.”