by Ruby Vincent
He gave me his back. “Jackson, show her out.”
Rolling my eyes, I said, “Left leg. Above the knee.”
“What—”
Bang!
Jackson dropped, howling. He clutched his knee—rolling on the floor.
“What have you done?!” La Roche roared.
“You asked, I gave,” I replied. “I made that shot with barely a glance, smack where I said the wound would be. You have the bullet, the victim, yourself as a witness, and proof my skills extend far beyond closer and girlfriend. Is that enough to bury me, La Roche?”
Fury poured from his eyes.
“Can we stop playing games now?”
Jackson wailed on the floor.
“Be quiet,” I snapped. “It’s a flesh wound. Put a Band-Aid on it.”
Thunderous footsteps echoed down the hall.
“Well?” I asked La Roche. The gun disappeared into my bag as two guards appeared on the scene, guns pointed and sweeping for threats.
“Sir,” one cried. “What happened?”
La Roche didn’t look away from me. “What happened is I would be dead by now if there’d been an actual threat. Jackson had an accident. Get him cleaned up. Remember the contracts you signed.”
“Sir?”
“Go,” he ordered.
They helped Jackson up and left, leaving the two of us alone.
“Come to my office.”
There wasn’t a reason not to follow him. La Roche led me up a familiar path to the grand room where we made a precarious deal. Fitting it should be home to another one.
He slammed inside, making straight for the wet bar.
“Grady Shelton,” he said. “What do you want with him?”
“I have a situation. I need a large amount of money fast. Doesn’t need to be real.”
La Roche paused with the whiskey halfway to his lips. “He mentioned his work with the superdollar.”
“He did,” I confirmed. “I believe we can make a trade in his favor. Naturally, typing ‘Grady Shelton, Counterfeiter’ gets me nothing on Google. How do I get in contact with him?”
“You’re under a mistaken impression of how my organization works,” he said. “People don’t just show up on my doorstep, shoot my staff, and walk out with the name and contact of my associates. They expect me to protect them as diligently as I protect myself.”
“Meaning?”
La Roche claimed his seat. “Meaning, you tell me exactly what you want from him and why, and I’ll consider passing the message on. That was a party. This is business. Business goes through me.”
I sensed the shift of the balance of power tilting his way.
Silently, I opened my bag and tipped forty thousand dollars on his desk. He didn’t blink.
“I need two hundred grand to pay a ransom,” I said bluntly. “I have it, but paying would wipe me out, and we all know blackmailers can’t resist coming back for more. This is how much I can spare. I need to make it stretch.”
“You want two hundred thousand dollars for forty?”
“I want two hundred thousand pieces of worthless paper for forty thousand American smackaroos. I could give him ten dollars and he’d have the better deal. You know it, La Roche. Grady will be very interested in talking to me. Give me the number.”
Nodding, he peeled a bill off the pack, holding it to the light. “Who is blackmailing you?”
“That’s not important.”
“It’s important enough that you’re coming to me instead of Killian, or the men you work for. I’m certain there’s a reason. I’d like to hear it.”
“Whatever it is you’re trying to hint at, you’re wrong. It’s not that I don’t trust Killian or the Merchants.” I cleared my throat. “I was... indiscrete in my past. There’s a tape of me saying and doing things with an old boyfriend. It was made without my knowledge or permission.”
Wrap every lie in a kernel of truth.
“The wrong person got their hands on it, and they’re threatening to release it if I don’t give them the money. I don’t want this getting bigger than it is,” I said. “I don’t want Killian to know. I’m looking to end this quickly and quietly, Mr. La Roche. Will you give me the number?”
He drew out the silence to almost dramatic effect.
“No,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t need Grady. I keep a healthy stash of his product on hand—as I mentioned, everyone must give me means,” he said. “You can have your two hundred grand in the time it takes me to fill a duffle bag.”
“You’re helping me,” I said slowly. “Why?”
“Believe it or not, I don’t approve of young women being taken advantage of in this way. My business of separating fools from their money is an art form. It takes skill, ingenuity, patience, and timing. It’s your intelligence outwitting someone who should know better.
“These types of situations are none of the above. Even the lowest form of trash can bed a woman, and hide his camera phone in the bookcase. As you’ve proven yourself up to the task of turning the con on them, it’s only right of me to assist.” He held out his hands. “That’s why I’m here. To help the smart and patient get what they’re after.”
I said nothing.
“Come with me.”
La Roche and I left the room. I was on his heels down the stairs and through the hall the men took Jackson. Voices sounded on the other side of the door at the end of the corridor.
“—not that bad. How’d you fucking shoot yourself?”
We turned a corner, and I realized where we were going.
La Roche stepped inside his gallery, heading for La Libertad and his wall of Aurelio Molina. I stopped in the archway. Curiosity stayed me, not fear. If La Roche did something foolish, my gun was in reach.
What are we doing in here?
The aging con artist reached behind a portrait of a curly-haired woman in a poofy dress.
“Do you keep a safe back there?”
“I do.”
A soft hiss hit my ears.
La Roche stepped out of the way as La Libertad came off the wall, hanging on the door that appeared.
“Safe room,” I said.
“Safe room. Vault. Keeper of the items my associates entrust to me.” La Roche stepped inside. “You may come in.”
I did so—walking inside the opposite of my imaginings.
La Roche’s safe room was a cozy den complete with a sunken area for the leather couch and coffee table. Decorative wall lamps provided a light brown hue over the room. He had a big-screen television, desk, and computer. None of those were the sight to see.
Paintings covered the walls. Hanging proudly above a bust of a stern man was Killian’s The Lacemaker. There were many display stands, all holding items that looked priceless—though that may have been just to the person whose life would be ruined if La Roche made use of his leverage.
La Roche moved a painting and revealed an actual wall space. My tension loosened at the stacks of money he counted out on the coffee table.
“Here you are, my dear.” La Roche put them in a bag and handed it to me. “I truly hope you resolve this indiscretion. If they don’t return your tape or ask for more, feel free to come back. I’m certain I can consult on methods to end this threat for good.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “I’d also appreciate—”
“Me keeping our little meeting to myself,” he finished. “You have my word.”
I was tempted to ask if his word meant anything, but there was no use in antagonizing the man after he handed a bag full of all my problems solved.
“Thank you.”
He waved me on.
I walked out of La Roche’s Leighbridge mansion with a bag of worthless paper that was worth everything to me. Duncan would not harm my father again.
It was time to take her leverage away.
Chapter Seven
“I can’t do that.”
“You have to.”
“I can’t,” I repeated. “I don’t have a say in these things.”
“Get one.”
I scowled. “Have you noted your habit of telling me what to do instead of asking?”
“It’s a quirky trait of mine.”
“Quirky wasn’t the word I was going to use.”
Sinjin lay sprawled across my lap, preventing me from doing something about Cash’s smirk.
We were in his office—because where else would we be. Going over the plan for Vega—because what else would we be doing. The guys were so close to finding Kieran, they could smell his aftershave. All they had to do was go through La Roche to get him. Nothing would stop them.
“Mercer convinced Emily Chandler that she really wanted the great Ryan Sinclair to cater her charity event,” Cash said. “She dumped the old one with two weeks to go. If Sinclair doesn’t say yes, she’ll be forced to hire someone else, and you won’t have an excuse to be there.”
I folded my arms. “Wouldn’t it be easier to get me on the guest list? I can keep an eye on Vega just as easily. Actually, it’ll be easier.”
Mercer shook his head. “Tickets are twenty grand a pop.”
“Twenty?” I cried.
He chuckled. “It’s all for charity, right? Either way, Emily would only spare two, and she’s sending them to Vega for free because she knows he’s not stingy about supporting a worthy cause. It’s one for him and his daughter, beautiful. She wouldn’t spring for a third.”
“No, I get it,” I sighed. “The best way to get me in the party is for me to work it. And as luck would have it, I’m the sous chef to a caterer. It’s a good plan, but it doesn’t take into account that the mere act of asking him last minute, would enrage Ryan into saying no.”
“You make him say yes,” Killian repeated.
“I cannot make that man do anything. It’s a ton of work pulling these things together at the last minute. He already runs a full kitchen. Why would he take on this job just because I ask him to?”
“We could always trade assignments,” Sinjin put forth. “You break into the heavily secured mansion, and I’ll convince the cook to do this job. I’m willing, Bunny, but I’ve got a feeling Sinclair won’t like my method of persuasion.”
I gritted my teeth. Sinjin didn’t go for subtlety.
Two weeks until the heist. One hour until I had to be in Mercy Park, dropping off a bag of money. He was right. We all had our jobs to do.
“I’ll talk to him,” I got out. “Today. I’m meeting up with Gianna anyway. Ryan will get a visit, and I’ll convince him to work the party.”
“Good,” said Cash. “It’s a straight hit on this one. Break in while he’s out of the house and take the vase. Based on the projected resistance and security measures, I calculate three hours to do the job.”
“Who leaves a party in less than three hours?” I asked. “My part will be simple. I’ll keep an eye on him, and text you when he leaves.” I lifted Saint’s head from my lap. “No time like the present. It’s best to talk to Ryan before the lunch rush. Bye.”
I popped a kiss on Sinjin’s lips, then did the same to Brutal and Killian. Mercer was meant to receive one too. I bent to kiss him, and spider fingers crawled up my bare thigh.
“Mercer!” I danced away, giggling. “Stop. I told you I’m ticklish.”
I tried again. He skated up the other one.
I nipped his nose in retribution.
Leaving the office, I grabbed my things from my bedroom, and went out back where we kept our cars. I chanced a glance to the third floor.
The blinds were closed. No reason they should look and see me. Nothing out of place if they do.
Just a normal woman checking the trunk to ensure the bag of counterfeit hundreds she got from a crafty con man is where it should be.
It was.
The blue backpack sat innocently next to my spare tire.
I closed the trunk, got in, and made the short drive to Salvatore’s.
Ryan was in his office when I arrived. He mumbled to himself as he organized next week’s menu. Frowning. Stabbing the keys. Shaking his head. Then nodding at the final choice. I knew for this was a state I found him in many times.
“Chef?”
Raising his head, he squinted at me over his glasses. “Adeline. Come in.”
“Sorry to bother you, Chef.” I closed us in the small space.
A tiny, tucked-away corner of the kitchen, the office didn’t have much to say for itself besides a desk, computer, file cabinet, and a small wine cooler. I pulled a chair next to him.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I heard about the breast cancer charity dinner in two weeks,” I began. “A friend of mine said Salvatore’s was called to cater.”
“Ah. I see where you’re going with this. I would’ve asked you to join us, but I turned down that event.”
“My friend told me that too. I know how busy you are, Chef, and that this cause means a lot to you.”
Ryan’s mother passed a few years ago in a battle with breast cancer. It was something he didn’t speak much about. It came out in the early hours of the morning over glasses of wine and plates of our latest test recipes.
“I was thinking this was another chance for me to help. I could plan the menu, give it to you for final approval, and handle the prep myself.”
His brows scrunched. “You plan the menu? People book Ryan Sinclair for Ryan Sinclair’s food. Not Adeline Redgrave’s.”
A straight shot through the heart. Accurate all the same.
“I don’t mean to overstep.”
“You are,” he stated. “I’ve turned down that event. That’s the end of it. If there’s nothing else, go.”
“I’ll convince the cook to do this job. I’ve got a feeling Sinclair won’t like my method of persuasion.”
I sighed. I like you, Ryan. I’m trying to save you a stay in our dungeon. Work with me.
I checked the time. Work with me quickly.
“Sorry, Chef. I guess I got too excited at the mention of Mateo Rivas. Having a legend like him eat my food is a dream of mine. Even if my name isn’t on it.” I got to my feet. “I’ll leave you to it—”
“Hold on.” Ryan stopped me with my hand on the knob. “Did you say Mateo Rivas?”
“Yes. The chef and critic. Do you know him?”
Ryan reddened. “Of course I know him.”
“I have every cookbook he’s published. He’s amazing.” The red was shifting to a purple hue. “I messed up every attempt to make béarnaise sauce until I used his recipe. He is—”
“Did you say he was attending the event?” Ryan sliced in. “How do you know? Who told you that?”
“The friend I told you about. She said how great it was we were catering because I might meet Rivas.”
“Rivas,” he hissed.
I bit back a smile.
The ride that brought the great Ryan Sinclair, Leighbridge’s up-and-coming jewel, down to a family restaurant in Waterford, was the kind of crash you looked away from. He’d always been haughty and difficult to work with. In those days, he was even worse. Everything he cooked was perfection, and he wouldn’t hear otherwise.
One night, the critic Mateo Rivas ate at his restaurant, Sinclair’s. He ordered penne alla vodka with a roasted pepper salad, and a bottle of prosecco. He wrote the next day how glad he was the sommelier recommended an excellent bottle of wine. It drowned his taste buds and then his sorrows after forcing himself to swallow that “bland, uninspired, could-order-off-a-drive-thru-menu meal.”
Ryan’s explosion at the review kicked off a chain of events that landed him here. If people had archenemies outside of comic books, Mateo Rivas would be his.
“Maybe Rivas’s company will cater the dinner,” I mused. “He’ll be attending, but there’s little time left, and they could spin it as an opportunity for publicity. I’ll tell her to give that spin a try if they can’t find anyone—”
“No,” Ryan barke
d. “We’ll do the event. Adeline, make yourself available tomorrow and every day for the next two weeks. We begin menu-planning tomorrow.”
“Are you sure? I thought you were too busy.”
“That was before I realized what a bind they were in. To bend to serving Rivas’s slop is less than they deserve.” I’d never seen his lip curl like that. “This is a good cause. The least we can do is lend our time.”
“Of course, Chef.” I didn’t grin. That would be wrong. “I’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Eight a.m.”
I waved bye over my shoulder. In the alleyway, I dialed Mercer.
“Lovely.”
“Mercer,” I greeted. “I need you to call your friend, Emily, and get her to put Mateo Rivas on the guest list. He’s—”
“The critic,” he said. “We’ve met.”
I couldn’t read in his tone what kind of meeting they had. I chose not to ask.
“He’s Ryan’s nemesis, and the sole reason he changed his mind on catering the party. Ryan’s going to make him eat his food and like it. As such, I need the organizer to back me up when he calls to confirm he’ll be there.”
“A nemesis? I thought my life was interesting. Even I don’t have one of those.”
I made my way to the parking lot. “Really? You’re a cup of sugar and honey in the life of everyone you’ve met?” I teased.
“Of those still living, yes.”
I laughed. “Don’t sound so disappointed. You could drive someone into a pit of deep, abiding, petty hatred too.”
“Put that on my bucket list,” he said. “I’ll talk Emily into sending the invitation. It won’t be free though. I’ll have to work on Mateo to get him to accept.”
Again, I swallowed the urge to ask for more details.
“Never fear, lovely, this is what I do. Mateo will be there.”
My heart panged at the thought I sent Mercer into someone else’s bed.
“Adeline?”
I was quiet.
“I’m not going to sleep with him, love.” How he always knew what I was thinking was his secret power. “I’ll invite him out for drinks, talk up the event, and sweeten the deal with a number for one of my more influential friends. No sex needed for this one. And if there was, credit me with enough tact not to brag to you about it.”