by K. A. Tucker
My stomach instantly tightens. This seemed like a brilliant idea last night. When I was stoned. I’m fighting the urge to get up and leave but . . . No, I need to confront him, I decide. There’s something here. I don’t know what exactly—and it may not prove to be anything except that Jace Everett didn’t want his secret fling with the Mexican secretary from downstairs out in the open—but it’ll drive me insane until I find out.
Natasha reappears, her face a shade paler than it was and looking chastised. “I’m sorry, but we’ll need to reschedule.”
“Why?”
She gives me a pointed stare but then explains in a fake, polite voice, loud enough for her boss to hear, I presume, “We’re awfully sorry but there’s been some sort of glitch with the investment questionnaire you completed for Mr. Everett, and he’d feel much more comfortable locating it for perusal before continuing.”
“So he doesn’t want my money?” This is a first.
“His time—and your time—is valuable. He wants to have the most productive meeting possible. As soon as I can locate the files, I will give you a call and we can reschedule. Again, we’re very sorry about this.” She doesn’t sound sorry at all as she scans my dress again. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s happy this played out as it has.
What I do know is that this is my best and likely only shot at getting information out of Jace Everett.
With a deep breath, I get up and straighten my skirt. And then I stalk forward and push through the door, because I didn’t get where I am today by playing by other people’s rules.
It’s the scene from the magazine photo. Same walnut desk, same daunting city view. Even the same blue pinstripe suit.
The only difference is that Jace Everett isn’t posed on the edge of the desk with a brash smile. He’s sitting in his chair, a stack of papers in his hands, a phone pressed to his ear. His blue eyes are full of irritation as he watches me stalk into his office, Natasha on my heels.
“I’m sorry, I told her,” she blurts out.
I ignore her and approach his desk with all the confidence I can muster as my heart pounds against my breastbone. “Hi, I’m Maggie Sparkes of Sparkes Energy.” I’ve never used my family’s status so blatantly before. I’ve also never used my looks like this before. I push the icky feeling away. There’s no way he hasn’t heard of Sparkes Energy. We’re traded on NASDAQ for fuck’s sake.
And there it is. The realization in his eyes. “I’ll call you back,” he murmurs, hanging up. He stands, adjusting his tie as he rounds his desk. “Miss Sparkes. I’m so sorry we’re starting off on the wrong foot.” I take his proffered hand, keeping my eyes on his face, unable to shake the thought that I have a naked picture of him tucked in my purse. I wonder what he’s going to say about that.
“I’d like to see what you can do for me,” I say instead, clearing my voice because I’m sounding too unsteady for my liking. “Though I’m beginning to wonder if this firm is too disorganized to help me.”
“We’ve never had an issue like this before.” His eyes flash past me, and I apologize quietly for throwing his assistant under the bus, even if she is a bitch. A flicker of amusement touches his expression. “But I’m feeling quite confident that we can have a good conversation despite the missing paperwork. Thank you, Natasha.” His look is as much a dismissal as anything I’ve ever seen.
She shuts the door on her way out, leaving us alone. “So . . . Sparkes Energy.” He pulls out a chair for me and I take it, feeling his gaze rake over my body. Does he recognize the dress as Celine’s? I study his perfectly coiffed blond hair as his back is to me. Does he know that Celine is dead? Does he care? When did he talk to her last?
This man was once my salvation. Now he will be my ruin.
“I would have thought that your family already has a firm to manage your investments.”
“They do. And I do. But I like to venture out every once in a while. I have money to do that with, with the right person.”
“I’m sure I’m that person.” His chemically whitened teeth gleam as he begins to laugh. “How’d you come across my name?”
I had a feeling he’d ask me this. I can’t go throwing around names of his other clients, because I don’t know any. I briefly consider hurling Celine’s name at him to see how he’ll react, but it’s too soon, too abrupt. So I reach into my purse and pull out the magazine, tossing it on his desk. “It says that you’re very good.”
He regards the cover with a smirk. But I notice that his cheeks don’t flush. He’s not embarrassed by the attention. I can’t relate, and my pinpricks of distrust grow stronger. When a prominent environmental magazine did a full exposé on me last year and people started pulling out their copies with big grins on their faces, it was all I could do not to crawl under nearby tables. I didn’t even want to do the stupid profile to begin with. Celine is the one who convinced me I should, to get the attention of both investors and activists.
Maybe Jace really is the cocky SOB that Dani claims. But why the hell would Celine have been with a guy like this? She was too shy, too sweet for him.
“I don’t recall them talking very much about my professional career in here.” Letting the magazine fall to the desk, he leans back in his chair and settles amused eyes on me. He must think I’m more interested in his skills as an eligible bachelor.
Whatever works.
“I’m at a loss here, Maggie Sparkes. Normally I like to do my due diligence, learn about the client—their goals, their financial situation. I’ve had no time to prepare. I don’t know what you have in mind.”
I pick up a pen and scribble down a figure on my business card that I know will blast through any “minimums” he may have. I slide it forward. “You’re the expert. You tell me how we can make this grow.”
His shoulders lift with a sizeable inhale, and when he raises his gaze, his long lashes bat. They fucking bat. “We have plenty of options.”
I figured as much.
“What market sector are you interested in? If I had to guess . . .” He looks at the business card again. “Health care?”
“You read my mind.” Clifton Banks, our family’s aptly named financial planner, normally guides me in this area, and I’m happy to let him do so. I have other people who manage the nitty-gritty details of fund management as it relates to the foundation, the kind of things that make me want to scratch my eyes out when I’m forced to listen for too long.
Luckily I can pretend to be either enthralled or knowledgeable when I must.
We spend forty minutes—double my allotted meeting time—going over hedge fund strategies, Jace explaining risk and return profiles, instruments and diversification; things that are beyond my basic understanding but prove to me that either he’s a complete bullshitter or he knows what he’s talking about. He seems meticulous in his notes, jotting down my risk thresholds with tidy handwriting, plying me with just enough charm to hold my attention, without any opportunity to be accused of inappropriateness for a first meeting.
His eyes only occasionally wander to the deep V dip of this dress, when he thinks my attention is busy reviewing documents that he’s handed me to sign.
I watch and wait, searching for a good opportunity to bring up Celine. I know there will definitely be no good opportunity to whip out the naked picture of him from my purse.
Before I know it, he’s leading me to the door. “So, you don’t live in New York?”
His hand grazes the small of my back and I try not to stiffen. “No, I actually hate this city. I’m leaving for San Diego as soon as possible.”
He chuckles and I somehow feel it in my chest. His hand rests on the door handle, but he doesn’t open it, simply standing there, just on the edge of my personal space, gazing down at me. He’s tall; a good five inches taller than me when I’m not in heels, I’m guessing. His eyes flicker to my blood-red lips oh so quickly before shifting back up to my eyes.
There is certainly a reason why every woman in this building
knows who Jace Everett is.
“How long do you expect to be in New York?”
I sense a proposition coming on. Drinks, to discuss business. Dinner, to discuss my organization.
A nightcap, to discuss favorite positions.
I need to end whatever is happening right now. “Just until I sort out a friend’s estate. She died recently.” I peer up at him, seeing my chance, my heart pounding. “She actually used to work in this building, on the forty-second floor. Celine Gonzalez. Maybe you knew her?”
A flicker of surprise catches his eye that I can’t quite read but know I didn’t imagine. His brow furrows slightly. “There are so many people in this building . . . I’m sorry for your loss.”
That’s all. Grady promised I’d learn something by his body language, but this tells me nothing, except that Jace either truly doesn’t know Celine or he’s a phenomenal actor. Which is it?
I reach into my purse, pinching the edges of the paper between my fingers, preparing to blindside him so I can gauge his reaction.
The door opens with a knock, forcing Jace back a step. “I’m sorry to interrupt. Hey, Jace. I mean, Mr. Everett. I grabbed your lunch for you,” Natasha offers, holding up a container of salad.
More than a hint of adoration shines from her eyes as she stares at him.
“Thank you,” he says politely, all traces of the asshole from earlier gone, but barely giving her a glance. His attention is fully on me, his business card magically appearing, held up between two manicured fingers. “Let me get on this right away so we can finalize the rest of the paperwork while you’re still in the city.”
I know that he doesn’t really need to see me in person. It’s nothing a printer and a FedEx delivery service can’t solve. People arrange for these sorts of investments without meeting all the time. But this gives me another chance to see him face-to-face, to hopefully get answers. So, I nod.
“Make arrangements for Maggie to come in on Friday, Natasha.”
“Your calendar’s full,” she says, lips pursed.
“Then bump someone.” He fires a sharp glare at his assistant before warm eyes shift back to me. “We’ll be in touch soon.”
I pull my hand out of my purse to accept his card, noting a third handwritten number scribbled on it, marked “personal cell.” I’m guessing he doesn’t give that out to just anyone. “Great. Thank you for your time.”
I stroll down the hallway, feeling two sets of eyes on my back.
————
“So how did it go?” Dani steps into the elevator ahead of me and hits the “L” button. I wasn’t expecting her to be waiting in the FCM lobby for me.
I rest my head against the wall and close my eyes, trying to ignore the fact that I’m trapped inside this little metal box again as it stalls at what feels like every floor. It’s lunch hour, and we’re sixty-five floors up. Unfortunately there is no express trip down.
“Fine.” I’m not really sure what to do next. The longer I keep up this charade, the more awkward it’s going to get. And I don’t think I want to piss Jace Everett off after handing him a pile of my money to play with.
“Was he nice to you?”
“Yes, he was.” More so than I had expected, actually. I pause. “His assistant, on the other hand . . .”
“I should have warned you.” She drops her voice. “She’s more Marnie’s friend than mine.”
“How long has he been screwing her?”
Dani’s eyes widen with shock. The seven other passengers suddenly stand taller, their ears perking up.
“I don’t care,” I quickly clarify. “I just want to know if I’m going to be dealing with a possessive bitch.”
“She wouldn’t risk getting fired by pissing off his clients and losing money for him. She loves her job. And she does everything for him. Grabs his lunch, picks up his dry cleaning, books all his reservations.”
“Why am I not surprised?” He seems like the kind of guy who would expect a woman to take care of all his personal needs.
We ride the elevator the rest of the way down in silence. It’s not until we’re outside and away from prying ears that Dani speaks again. “It happened back in October. As far as I know, it was just the once and they were drunk. But please don’t even hint that you know because Natasha would probably get fired and I don’t want to be the cause of someone getting fired, even if she’s not all that pleasant.”
“Wouldn’t his job be on the line, too?” A lot of companies don’t condone relationships in the workplace, let alone bosses sleeping with their assistants.
“Doubt it,” she mutters. “Rumor has it Jace had a short and steamy affair with a married coworker that turned ugly. He’s still there and the coworker isn’t.”
“Because it was his daddy’s firm.”
Her eyebrows rise knowingly.
“So, by the daggers she was shooting at me, I take it Natasha wishes it was more than just the once?” Despite the fact that she has a boyfriend, it would seem.
Dani chuckles. “The second you went into that office, she called Marnie and chewed her out. Then Marnie called and chewed me out. I guess they weren’t expecting you to look the way you do.”
Because you told them I was nothing Jace Everett would be interested in, based on how I showed up yesterday. I guess showing up like an aid worker who’s barely run a brush through her hair was a good idea after all. Natasha never would have agreed to smuggle me into the calendar otherwise.
“Hot dog?” she asks, handing the vendor a twenty and collecting her lunch, dumping streams of condiments on it like a pro.
“No, thanks. And you can let Natasha know that her boss is not my type, so she has nothing to worry about.” As appealing as he may look, I’m not attracted to arrogant men. I just want to know how he knew Celine and move on.
Dani takes a giant bite and then dabs at the mayo on her lip with a napkin. When she pulls her hand away, there’s a secretive smile there. I see a decision made in her twinkling eyes. “You sure? Because you might be interested after you see this.” Punching her password into her phone, her crimson-painted thumb scrolls through her pictures. “You can’t ever let anyone know that I have this,” she cautions, hiding the screen, completely serious. Only when I nod does she hand me her phone. “It was a big work party. Celebrating someone’s retirement, or something. They got loaded and went back to his place. She took this the next morning. Before he woke up, realized that he had banged his assistant, and kicked her out.”
My jaw drops open when I see the picture on the screen. Jace Everett, sleeping peacefully on his back, tangled in white sheets that don’t quite cover his nakedness.
“How’d you get this?”
“Natasha sent it to Marnie and, well . . .” Dani rolls her eyes. “Marnie thought Celine and I would appreciate it.”
I stare at the picture that matches the one in my purse. Dani giggles, assuming that I’m enthralled. But really, my mind is three thousand miles away, back in California, on a Berkeley friend who dated a guy for a short period of time. He liked to text her random dick pics. For months after the relationship fizzled, he kept sending them. He must have thought they would win her back. It was a big topic of discussion one night among a few friends, and she forwarded one of these pictures to all of us in our group messenger chat, to settle a debate.
Well, one of my other friends in the group chat was married and the picture automatically downloaded to her photo album and her husband saw the pic on her phone and . . .
This is how misunderstandings happen.
This guy, who Celine privately professed would be her salvation and her ruin, was screwing his assistant.
“What did Celine say when she saw this pic?”
“Um . . . not much from what I remember.” Dani’s eyes are squinted, like she’s thinking back to that day. She winces. “Oh, well Celine was having a hard time that day. I found her in the lady’s restroom, bawling her eyes out.”
“Over the picture?”
“No! Over her mom. She said her mom had the flu and she wished she could be there to take care of her. Given how sick she already was, Celine was worried that it might put her in the hospital.”
Would Celine have used Rosa’s health as an excuse to explain away her tears over a man? “So she wasn’t upset by it at all?”
Dani frowns. “I don’t see why she would be. She’d be jealous, if anything. Hell, I am! Look at him!”
“Yeah.” I’ve spent plenty of time looking at that picture.
My stomach sinks as the flimsy theories I’ve been clinging to for the last few days drown in improbability. While I still have some questions—about her phone and who sent her flowers and how she’d become so infatuated with a guy she might not have had a connection with at all—I’m beginning to wonder if Detective Childs was right. Maybe this was nothing nefarious. Nothing sensational.
Just a mentally unstable woman who killed herself over a broken heart.
CHAPTER 8
Maggie
“Did you get the files?”
“I did. Almost crashed my computer,” Hans announces, his voice a song in my ear. “And I, of course, have a brilliant idea!”
“Okay, I’ll bite.” I’m smiling as I listen to him. His excitement is palpable.
“Well, Celine was somewhat of a regular at Hollingsworth. So I spoke to the director and, as long as all of the costs are covered and I organize this on my own time, they are willing to let us hold a special exhibit and silent auction in her name in their gallery.”
Warmth fills my chest. “Oh my God, Hans. That would have been Celine’s dream.”
“Oh, I know,” he says, matter-of-factly.
“Seriously, Hans. This is amazing. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. So, you’ll just have to write me a big, fat check.”
I roll my eyes but laugh. “Story of my life. No problem. When do you think we can do this?”