“I did own it,” he offered, hearing his defensive tone ring throughout his ridiculously large kitchen and cringing. “I called Jasmine. I told her I jumped to conclusions. I offered to help. I’ll show Nikos the drive.”
Win snorted his disapproval. Simon knew the one. It meant he had to atone bigger—harder—and faster. “And the lovely Jasmine? How do you plan to make up for forgetting to mention her ex-husband is your father? Would you just chalk it up to ‘oops, my bad’? Or are you willing to go the extra mile?”
Simon let his head sink into his hands. “First, he’s not my father. He donated some sperm. Edward Jones was my father right up until the day he died ten years ago. And I did apologize. Well, at least as often as she’d pick up the damn phone. If I hadn’t yelled Frankie’s name right out of the gate, she’d have hung up again.”
“It’s nothing less than you deserve. I told you from the start, honesty would be the only route to take with Jasmine.”
He sighed, turning his head away from Win’s open admonishment. “I was going to tell her. It just kept getting harder and harder.”
Win tapped his finger on the table Simon sat at. “Which part was the hardest, young man? The part where you planned to steal what you thought was Ashton Archway’s finest possession—his wife—like you were snatching up a Ming vase, and rub it in his face—or the part where you thought you could get away with it? Clearly, sir, you underestimated your opponent. Ashton Archway quite obviously didn’t find Jasmine as valuable as he should have—or you’ve come to. It would have been no skin off his nose, as you say. He would have just replaced her with another Ming vase. A warm, beautiful, smart woman like Jasmine is nothing but a replaceable toy to a man like your father.”
Simon slammed his fist down on the table. “I get it, Win!” he roared. “I get it—lay the hell off.”
“Do not raise your voice with me, Simonides. I’m most certainly not afraid to take you over my knee. Now, no more mewling like a newborn kitten. You did this. You shall find a way to fix it. I shall help. Pick that phone back up this instant and tell Jasmine and Frankie we’ll be right over, not only with the proof of her innocence, but with a plan.”
Win’s hand clamped down on Simon’s shoulder in that warning from days of old. “Now, Simon.”
Nothing had changed since Win had come into his life when he was eight years old, and Edward Jones had insisted Simon have consistency in his, up until then, reckless, resentful early youth. He’d hired Win to take care of Simon while his mother traveled with him. When his mother met and married Edward, a wealthy lawyer and part owner of a minor league baseball team, he’d changed everything in little Simon’s world.
Edward treated Simon like his own son in every sense of the word—even when Simon didn’t welcome it. Instead, he continued to love Simon without his consent and much to his aggravation. And while this new man in his life had more money to spare than God, he made Simon tow the line.
When Simon was sixteen, Edward insisted he get a job, and then smiled proudly when Simon told him it was at the local convenience store as a cashier. He patted his son on the back and took him to open his own savings account.
There were no fancy sports cars, no private schools, no expense accounts, no overindulgences on behalf of Edward. Outwardly, most wouldn’t have known Simon’s father was a multimillionaire, and that was because Edward wanted Simon to learn the value of hard work, honesty, and the ability to spot sincerity from a mile away.
What there was in return was an abundance of Edward’s love and constant support. His advice, his warm bear hugs, his infectious chuckle, his evident pride in his son Simon, and his legacy as one of the kindest, most genuine men Simon had ever known.
His father made him work through college, and he suffered the wrath if his grades didn’t meet Edward’s approval. He wouldn’t have a boy who could only catch a piece of cowhide—he saw to it Simon got his degree in finance. His father also was responsible for keeping his head on straight when he’d made it to the NFL. Edward kept his ego from exploding. He’d taught Simon to give back instead of recklessly indulging.
Edward was the man Ashton could never be—the father he could never be.
Winchester was whom Edward had entrusted Simon to all those years ago, and when Simon’s accident took his sight, Win picked up where Edward left off. Win never failed to remind him exactly who was in charge, and he wasn’t afraid to tell him he was wrong. He kept him in line.
Win had frowned upon Simon’s old childhood resentments when his mother had no choice but to tell him who his biological father was after he’d found a picture of them together.
And then Simon began to nurse his anger about Ashton’s rejection like a bottle of booze. He nursed the resentment that while he lived in a rundown trailer with his mother, Ashton Archway lived in a mansion. He nursed the tears his mother had cried when jobs were scarce, and she’d almost lost their home, forgetting that shortly after that, life had become pretty damn good with the entrance of Edward.
It burned his gut that Ashton was once a huge fan of the team Simon had played for. The man who’d spawned him, in what could only be called irony, loved the star quarterback.
Meeting Ashton wasn’t a problem. He was, after all, Simon’s biggest fan. Yet it was after that very meeting, at which Ashton let Simon know under no circumstances did he want anything to do with him and his “married into money” mother, that Simon began to cultivate a plan. His plan didn’t change when he lost his sight—it was what got him through the grueling heartbreak, the endless hours of relearning how to walk across a room without taking out a lamp. In fact, it strengthened his hell-bent plan for revenge.
To take what Ashton Archway called his most prized possession.
Jasmine.
It mattered little that Ashton divorced Jasmine to buy up, as she’d put it. What mattered was showing him he could have whatever he wanted now, because Simon Jones had turned out just fine—and he had more money than he knew what to do with.
The goddamned trouble with all of this was, his revenge might as well have been plotted by an eight-year-old. He should have told Jasmine about Ashton from the start. From the moment he’d decided he was no longer interested in hurting the tire mogul who’d left his mother like so much trash.
Each moment spent with Jasmine made it harder and harder. Each moment spent with her, he fell more deeply in love.
He toyed with the cell phone Win left at his fingertips.
Christ. He’d fucked up. Every lesson Edward had ever taught him, he’d defiled. Disgust for his behavior welled up in him, threatening to incapacitate him.
And Win was right—it was time to atone.
Simon arrived at Frankie’s apartment three hours later, hangdog, and with the biggest bouquet of flowers she’d ever seen in hand.
Win gave him a hard nudge inside. “Miss, it’s always a pleasure to see you.” His warm eyes smiled, his big hand reached for Frankie’s.
Taking a deep breath, Frankie addressed her accuser, fighting to keep her anger with him from her voice. “Simon, how’s life treating you?”
He winced. “Better than you?” He held out the flowers to her, his face hesitant. “I don’t know what they look like, but Win assured me the cost of them was on par with a space shuttle ticket.”
She sniffed them, savoring the lilies of the valley interspersed with so many roses, she lost count. “He’s right.”
Simon almost grinned. “Good. So what’s next? A kidney? My pituitary gland? I’m down with whatever you need.”
“If that’s not the truth,” Jasmine drawled from the doorway, though she couldn’t hide the look of longing flitting through her eyes when they landed on Simon’s big frame. Frankie noted her friend erased her yearning just as quickly as she allowed it.
An uncomfortable pause turned into at least a full minute of awkward before Win finally said, “We are here to profoundly apologize for the devastation Simon’s brought you, Frankie, and you as wel
l, Jasmine. He shall bow and scrape appropriately at your command. I’ll see to it.”
Frankie couldn’t help but laugh. Simon was like a chastised child, still smarting over his wrongdoing. “How about I make us all some coffee, and we sit down and talk?”
“I’ll help,” Jasmine added. “To be sure we put the proper amount of arsenic in Simon’s cup. We want a clean kill.”
Win’s head reared back and he laughed when Frankie nudged Jasmine and scowled. “I’d hold the measuring cup. However, I fear we need Simon as our pawn in our dirty game of pool. Thus, for now, I declare he lives. After we’ve had our way with him, he’s all yours, Miss Jasmine.”
Satisfied, Jasmine and Win went into her small kitchen to hatch Simon’s diabolical end over a pot of freshly brewed coffee.
“Frankie, I was wrong,” Simon said, using his cane and his nose to move closer to her.
Her chin lifted, and her voice was strong and clear when she replied, “Yeah. You were. You totally tightened my noose. But I’m not sure if that bothers me nearly as much as what you did to Jasmine. It was cruel. So I’ll just say this and then I’ll let it go. Win told us about you and Ashton, and the way he treated you...why you wanted to hurt him like he hurt you and your mother. I know what that kind of anger can do to you. But you really blew it. I know I’m like the pot calling the kettle black when it comes to anger management here, but wow. That said, for some ridiculous reason, I don’t think you’re a horrible person. I can’t say the same for Jas, but I believe you truly feel something for her you didn’t expect.”
Simon blew out a breath he’d been holding, his wide chest deflating. “I did something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life. But I swear to you, Frankie, the second I sat next to Jasmine in that bar, everything changed for me. All I can do now is apologize to her, and to you. I’ll make sure Nikos has a copy of that USB drive if it’s the last thing I do, and I’ll help you do whatever you need me to do with Mitch.”
Frankie paused, unable to see anything but genuine concern on Simon’s face, genuine remorse. She put her arm around him and gave him a hug. “So let’s go get us a piece of Mitch.”
Simon held out his arm to her, and Frankie took it, and together, they walked to the kitchen.
Win attached the Bluetooth securely to Simon’s ear. “How does that feel, sir?”
“Good, Win. Thanks.”
Jasmine’s heels clicked against the floor almost twenty-four hours after they’d sat huddled in Frankie’s tiny kitchen hatching the best plan of attack. “Gentlemen, Frankie, are we ready to go slam some hokey chef ass?”
Simon smiled in Jasmine’s direction, so sweet and loving, Frankie hurt for him. “Ready as I’ll ever be, cupcake.”
Jasmine placed a finger on his chest to stop him. “I’m not your cupcake. We’re doing this for Frankie, who deserves to be exonerated after you all but pounded more nails of suspicion in her coffin.”
“Let it be, Jasmine,” Frankie chided.
Simon had only been looking out for Nikos. She’d had all night to do some thinking—what else was there to do when she couldn’t sleep?—and while she didn’t like it, Frankie understood the bigger picture. Simon had reacted the way any good friend would. She only wished it hadn’t been in front of everyone at the diner.
Jasmine straightened her sweater, smoothing it over her svelte hips. “The hell I will. Now let’s go get that damned recipe from that douche bag, and then I can be rid of the whiny ex-football player.” She stalked from the room, the crunch of her heels an indication of her fury with Simon.
“Hey! I’m not whiny, just blind, and I said I was sorry,” Simon reiterated.
“That’s so not working in your favor anymore! Not the blind and definitely not the sorry, pal!” Jasmine called on her way out of Frankie’s back door.
Frankie shared a glance with Win. “You’re worried, miss?”
She ran a hand over her forehead, shoving the stray strands escaping her mussed ponytail away from her face. “Are you kidding? How can we ever hope to get the recipe back if we have to mediate the Hatfields and the McCoys? We need clear heads and distractions while Simon looks for it. Maybe we should just revert to plan B and beat the recipe out of Mitch—or at least demand he just give it back to us.” They’d nixed that idea in favor of having no solid proof Mitch actually had the recipe.
Win placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Please don’t fret, Frankie. I know my Simonides, and his remorse for putting that thought in Nikos’s head knows no bounds.”
Her sigh was shaky. “I know he was just standing up for his friend. If I’m honest, it did look pretty bad.”
“All evidence did point to you, miss.”
Anger tingled in her gut. Redemption, vindication motivated her. “Just like Mitch wanted it to.”
She knew that now without a shadow of a doubt. Mitch had used her as his patsy. Dying or not, he epitomized shithead right to the bitter end. He’d known exactly what he was doing. Though, in all of her hours spent thinking, she couldn’t figure out what he planned to do with the recipe. Revealing its ingredients on the show was totally crappy, but what would Mitch gain from it other than happy fans?
Win held out his arm in his usual gallant fashion. “Shall we go catch a snake, Frankie Bennett?”
“All or nothing,” she muttered, allowing him to escort her to Simon’s car, waiting by the crumbling curb in the back alley so if any lingering paparazzi were about, they could escape. Frankie took a deep breath, relieved to find no one.
As they drove the last leg of the trip to Mitch’s, Jasmine went over the plan one more time. “Okay, so here’s the deal. Simon, open your ears because if you screw this up, you won’t just be missing your sight.”
“Sooo sexy,” he crooned from the backseat with a seductively playful tone.
Frankie squeezed his hand to quiet him when Jasmine flashed an irritated frown in his direction.
“Frankie, you called Mitch and told him Simon wants to meet him and that you have the finished recipe for his last show, right?”
“Check,” Frankie confirmed, the memory of that phone call made her stomach gurgle uncontrollably. “He was all over the fact that a famous ex-pro football player wanted to meet him. Mitch is nothing if he’s not being properly adored.”
“And he has no clue you know anything about Hollywood Scoop?”
She shook her head with a devious grin. “Nope. When I asked him how the show was going with the new recipes, he asked why I didn’t watch to find out for myself. I told him how sorry I was I hadn’t answered his phone calls, but I’d been really busy getting settled in my new apartment, and I couldn’t afford a television and I have no Wi-Fi just yet. Oh, and I also told him Gail’s been out of town as casually as I could so he wouldn’t know reporters have been calling her.”
Which wasn’t a total untruth. She really didn’t have a television. But Jasmine did...
Jasmine snickered. “He really is a complete ass. I guess we can be thankful those reporters haven’t found out where you live or we’d be sunk. Now, Simon—”
“Yes, lover?”
Jasmine reached over the seat and flicked his arm. “Knock it off. I’m not your anything.” She cleared her throat. “So your job is to appropriately gush and talk about kitchen whatever.”
“Gadgets,” he provided. “I’ve done my homework. He has all sorts of overpriced doodads, but I’m particularly fond of the magnetic measuring cups.”
Frankie watched Jasmine fight a sneer. “Yeah, yeah. A-plus. You did your homework. Whatever. So after you’re inside for a couple of minutes, you get a phone call and that phone call will be me—out on the back verandah, looking into the prick’s study. Frankie, are you sure I can see into the windows?”
She nodded, clenching her fists, her heart starting to pound faster. “Absolutely. Mitch had them replaced with floor-to-ceiling windows because he worked best in the mornings when the sun was brightest on that side of the brownstone.”
Jasmine frowned. “Wasn’t it you who did all the office work?”
God, hindsight was a beautiful thing, wasn’t it? “For all the good that does me now.”
“Don’t give up the ship, kiddo. The fat lady hasn’t even warmed up. Now, Simon, you make like the phone call’s important and ask if there’s somewhere you can go for a bit of privacy. That’s where I come in, and Frankie, you keep Mitch busy. Do whatever you have to do until Simon finds his way out of that study.” She bit the tip of her nail with a worried frown. “Jesus, are we sure Voula’s recipe’s in the study? Really sure?”
Frankie chewed her lip, fighting back the worry that had plagued her for the past week. “It’s where Mitch keeps everything important. At least it was when I was married to him. It’ll probably be in the third drawer down on the left side of his desk just like we discussed. He kept all of his financials there, everything that had to do with anything of importance. If it isn’t there, then I’m essentially screwed, but no harm, no foul. We just leave like we never planned to steal anything.”
Jasmine sneered. “No. Then we beat it out of him. He’s got it. I know he does. I don’t understand for what purpose, but he does. Don’t worry, honey. Please. The only thing you have to worry about is that the whiny ex-ball fumbler will screw this up.”
“I am blind, Jasmine. It will be you who’s directing me from the verandah.”
“Always with the blind card. It didn’t stop you from being a liar.”
With a snarl, Frankie snapped, “People! Please, please knock it the hell off! I’m already eggshell fragile here. I haven’t slept in a week worrying about what Voula and Barnabas think of me. I’m tired, and I’m afraid to screw up my one shot at making this right. So stop fighting and let’s focus on getting Voula’s recipe back before Mitch turns it into a three-ring meatloaf circus, okay? Please?”
Burning Down The Spouse (Ex-Trophy Wives Book 2) Page 30