He swiped the heavy linen napkin across his mouth. “Okay, so if not me, then who is?”
Harrington looked at him, amused. “You mean Russo?”
Inwardly, Liam cursed, annoyed that he was so transparent. But outwardly, he shrugged and kept his cool. “Sure. Them and anyone else. I just want to know who my competition is.”
Harrington twirled some pasta onto his fork and then chewed slowly. “This is a huge and important project,” he said, after he swallowed. “The anchor tenant insists that we consider as diverse a cross section as possible. I’m bringing in all sorts of qualified construction managers to see what they have to offer.”
No use in pretending now. “But one of them is Russo, right?”
Next to him, Liam felt Hana press her arm to his; a warning to ease off. He forced himself to take a sip of his wine and tried to look relaxed.
Per Se was the kind of restaurant that many people would only go to once in a lifetime. And, let’s face it, most people would never dine in at all. The chef and owner were world-renowned. They brought ballerinas in to train their waitstaff to be more graceful as they served. They only offered two nine-course tasting menus, and a lesser, five-course menu at the bar. The menu changed every night—chef’s choice—either vegetarian or not.
Harrington’s date, a Latvian model named Iveta, who looked like Gigi Hadid with Anna Nicole Smith boobs, frowned as she pushed her pasta around with her fork. It was hand-cut tagliatelle showered in a generous pile of shaved black truffles. It cost one hundred and twenty-five dollars extra per portion, on top of the already astronomical price tag for the prix fixe meal. So far, Iveta had ordered all the extras, but hadn’t eaten more than a bite of anything that had been put in front of her.
“Is this a date or business meeting?” she pouted in her thick accent. “I thought we were having nice double date.”
“Agreed,” said Hana firmly. She shot Liam a stern look and then turned to Iveta. “Iveta, no kurienes tu esi Latvija?”
Iveta smiled, delighted. “But you speak Latvian! How wonderful!”
Hana held up her hands. “Just a little. My family spent a year or so there when I was a teen. It’s a beautiful country.”
Thank God for Hana, Liam thought as the two women chattered on about the small village Iveta had grown up in. She can smooth anything over. Hana was perfectly at ease in this rarified environment, wearing a sleeveless black leather Balmain sheath, her hair pulled back and gathered at the base of her neck in a thick knot, highlighting the enormous ruby earrings that he had given her for Christmas. This restaurant was full of the most powerful men in Manhattan, all of whom had ridiculously beautiful women sitting at their sides. Liam thought that Hana outshone them all.
Liam saw Harrington brush her with a frank look of admiration and he quelled a jealous surge in his chest. He reached over and took her hand. Hana’s ring finger was empty, but there was still the faintest light mark where her wedding ring used to be. Liam hated that mark.
I’m going to marry her, he thought, imagining a stone the size of a sugar cube covering up that spot, something that would leave no doubt that this extraordinary woman was his.
It wasn’t the first time he’d thought this. In fact, he’d asked her to marry him the moment her divorce was final, and five times, in more and more extravagant ways, since then. The top of the Empire State Building, in a floating cottage in Bali, on the cliffs of Lake Como under a full moon, waist-deep in the ocean on the Cayman Islands, on a rooftop of a private riad overlooking Marrakesh... And every time she had shaken off his grand gestures with a tender kiss and a small smile of regret. “Too soon,” she always said. “I’m happy the way things are.” And he had backed down, secretly planning something bigger and better for the next time, wondering what he could do to change her mind.
A phalanx of waiters silently slid their pasta dishes away and replaced them with a playing card–size slice of Miyazaki Wagyu beef dotted with honeycombed morel mushrooms and tiny wild onions. Another hundred dollars extra, each. Liam did a quick calculation in his mind. With cocktails and wine, the bill would be nearly four thousand dollars.
Liam felt a rush of frustration as he looked at Mark Harrington cutting into his steak. He needed this project. It was a skyscraper. The kind of building that he’d done a dozen times over with Russo Construction, but that South Side Construction hadn’t landed yet. One skyscraper was all it would take. Then they could eat in this stupid restaurant every night if Hana wanted to. He could buy her the moon, and maybe she would finally see just how serious he really was.
He was startled when Hana gently slid her hand out from under his so she could eat. He’d forgotten he was holding on to her.
“Try a bite,” she whispered to him. “It’s delicious.”
He smiled at her and dutifully picked up his fork and knife, certain she was right.
Chapter 11
Bridget checked her reflection in the mirrored doors of the elevator as she rode up to Scarlett’s penthouse. Hair, good. Lipstick, good. Violet silk crepe de chine Stella McCartney blouse, good. Black suede Versace miniskirt with a matching black suede trench, better. And of course, her signature Louboutin work boots. All her clothes were at least three years out of date, relics of another time when she thought nothing of spending an afternoon at Barneys and coming out with five new outfits with shoes and lingerie to match. She had sold some pieces here and there to make ends meet over the past few years, but she had always been careful to keep enough of her old wardrobe so that she could go anywhere in Manhattan and blend in.
For Scarlett Hawkins, Bridget had pulled out some of her best. Knowing that the mega-star never missed a detail.
Scarlett, citing her unusual private life, had always needed a certain level of trust and discretion from the people who worked in her many homes, and for years she had depended on Bridget and Steele Construction for her most sensitive requests. So even after Steele Construction had outgrown most residential work, and up until the rat incident, Bridget always personally oversaw anything Scarlett needed done on her New York properties.
The doomed corporate renovation of Scarlett’s offices had felt like not just a natural next step in their professional relationship, but a personal thank-you gift from Scarlett for all the discretion and loyalty Bridget had shown her over the years.
But, thought Bridget, as the old feelings of shame and anger started welling up just as the lights on the elevator ticked ever upward, floor by floor, best not to think about all that just now.
She took a deep breath as the elevator stopped at the private hallway of Scarlett’s penthouse. The doors opened, revealing the grand dame herself.
“Bridget, darlin’,” sang out Scarlett as she stepped forward and engulfed her in a warm, sweetly scented embrace. “It’s been much, much too long.”
“Scarlett,” murmured Bridget politely as they broke the hug. “It’s good to see you.”
Exactly the same, thought Bridget. The woman must drink the blood of virgin club kids. Scarlett’s face had none of the tight, shiny, pillowy look most Manhattan women of a certain age and class sported. If there had been nips and tucks—and, of course, Bridget knew that there had been more than a few—they were done so cleverly that Scarlett could always just claim healthy living, good genes and a vat of La Mer, and you could almost—almost—believe her.
“Well,” said Scarlett, stepping back, “you look as sexy as ever, Miss Steele. Come on back to my kitchen where we can chat. I just baked up a strawberry crisp. First of the season. I hope you’re hungry.”
She followed Scarlett into her bright and airy kitchen—easily as big as Bridget’s entire current apartment in the East Village, and, like all the rooms in Scarlett’s penthouse, adorned with a breathtaking view of Central Park from every window. Bridget sat down at the enormous marble-topped island and tried to calm her fluttering stomach. The room sm
elled heavenly, of course. People made fun of Scarlett’s extensive staff and ridiculous wealth, claiming that they all could have perfect homes and perfect lives just like Scarlett if they also had all her cash and help, but Bridget knew that Scarlett was no fake. If she said she baked a crisp, then she herself had been in that kitchen all morning, stewing up fruit and toasting those almonds. And Bridget knew from experience that whatever Scarlett put in front of her was going to taste better than any other version of the dish she’d tried before. But still, she didn’t feel much like eating at the moment.
“Tea or coffee, darlin’?” asked Scarlett as she bustled around, setting out bowls and cutlery and dishing out the dessert. She was wearing an acid-green Chanel cashmere twinset, a tweed Burberry skirt and a long strand of black Tahitian pearls. Bridget amused herself for a quick second, imagining the extremely risqué underwear the multibillionaire was undoubtedly wearing underneath her preppy drag.
“Tea,” Bridget answered, watching Scarlett put out cream and sugar in what she was sure was a sedate little multi-thousand-dollar tea service. That was probably Queen Victoria’s favorite teapot, she thought as Scarlett carefully poured hot water from the kettle into the homely white pot.
“You just go ahead and try that crisp and tell me what you think,” said Scarlett.
Bridget reluctantly tasted a bite of the warm dessert and, despite her nerves, held back a groan of pleasure.
“Good?” asked a smiling Scarlett. She always liked to watch a woman eat.
Bridget nodded and took a second mouthful. “Amazing.”
“Good.” Scarlett poured out the tea for both of them and sat down across from Bridget. “Because now that I’ve made you comfortable, we should probably clear the air.”
Bridget gulped, the sweet dessert suddenly turning to ashes in her mouth. “Oh?”
Scarlett rolled her eyes. “Don’t play coy with me, Bridget. You know there’s venom between us that needs to be sucked right out of the wound.”
It felt like a trap, so Bridget tried to swerve. “Well, I heard you wanted to renovate your bedroom suite,” she said.
“Yes,” said Scarlett. “I do. And it says something about how highly I think of your work that I went through those toad-licking Ludley brothers to hire you.”
“They’re not that bad,” she said, unwilling to let Scarlett see how far she had sunk.
Scarlett shook her head mournfully. “Well, now you’re just lying to me, darlin’.”
Bridget pushed the dish of dessert away, not willing to play cat and mouse. “What do you want, Scarlett? What am I doing here?”
Scarlett took a sip of her tea, pinky straight up in the air. “Fine. Cards on the table. I’m taking Scarlett Hawkins Inc. public this year.”
Bridget’s eyes widened. Scarlett had resisted going public for over a decade, insisting she would know when the time was right.
“Doing something like this is a big god damned deal with many tiny and moving parts. Nothing can go wrong. Not a hint of scandal nor a sniff of gossip.”
Bridget nodded, wondering where this was going.
“Of course, my fans have long accepted my Sapphic predilections. Lesbian chic is part of my brand. It makes America feel warm and openhearted to embrace my sexuality. But as you know, I also like to indulge in other, less wholesome proclivities that might not be so readily accepted.”
Bridget nodded, keeping her face carefully neutral. Scarlett was so deep into S and M that she made Christian Grey look like Pope Francis.
Scarlett took another sip of tea and then looked at Bridget’s untouched cup, one eyebrow raised. “Do you not care for Lapsang souchong? I’m so sorry, I should have asked.”
“It’s fine,” said Bridget. She took a hasty swallow. “It’s delicious.”
“In any case, I have been informed that I might need to, shall we say, tone down my more public forays a bit for the sake of Joe and Josephine Q. Public. But I have absolutely no intention of giving them up altogether. After all—” she took a large bite of her crisp “—what’s the point of life without a little bit of fun?”
“So you need me to fix up your sex dungeon and keep my mouth zipped.”
Scarlett looked startled, but then, after a second, she laughed. “Well. I’d rather we called it my pleasure palace. And I’m hoping for a rather substantial upgrade, not just a fix-up. I’ll be unable to go to some of my favorite clubs, but if I must go underground, I shall do it in the utmost style.”
Bridget shook her head. It wasn’t that she really minded doing this kind of work for Scarlett. She had done it for years. But this was definitely not the foot back in the door she had hoped for. “Does your master suite even need any work?”
Scarlett waved a hand in the air. “Oh, yes. The bathroom, too. Oodles of work.”
She looked at Scarlett. “Why me? After all this time?”
Scarlett calmly met her eyes. “Because I can trust you, darlin’. After all the bad blood that passed between us, I expected you to go running straight to Page Six. Sell my story. Tell them all my dirty secrets. Maybe even get a book deal out of it. But you didn’t even peep. And I know you needed the money. I’ve kept tabs on you, sugar.”
Bridget felt tears of anger well up and threaten to spill over. “Then why didn’t you call?” she blurted out.
Scarlett widened her catty gray eyes. “I think mistakes were made on both sides, darlin’.”
Bridget felt almost compelled to spit out her anger and hurt, like she’d been holding it in a knot in her throat for years. “I know I screwed up, but I can’t believe you just dropped me like that, Scarlett. Did you know that I lost everything? That Dylan and I had to move back in with my mother and live with her for an entire year while I looked for work? It was the lowest point of my life and you just abandoned me. I thought we were friends.”
Whoa. Definitely hadn’t meant to go there.
Scarlett nodded. “We were. That’s why I want to hire you now.”
Bridget pulled her dish back over and stuffed another bite into her mouth, trying to muffle her anger. The dessert had gone cold and gummy.
Scarlett sighed. “You made huge mistakes, Bridget. You know that’s true.”
“I made mistakes, Scarlett. But I never meant to hurt you or your company in any way.”
Scarlett re-poured herself a cup of the golden tea, and used a pair of silver tongs to add two lumps of sugar. “And yet, you did. I nearly had a boycott on my hands after the mess you pulled, Bridget. Not to mention that I had to hire a new contractor, and we ended up a year behind schedule.”
Bridget held down a bitter laugh. “I can’t believe you brought in Russo to finish my work.”
Scarlett shook her head. “Well. I had to bring in somebody. And they were the best.”
Bridget stirred her tea. “And how did those exposed two-by-fours come out?”
Scarlett rolled her eyes. “Oh, you know they were hideous. I had Russo pull them all down and had to hire a new architect for a redesign, which added another four months to the job. You were absolutely right about that. I can admit it.”
Bridget picked up her cup and took a sip, hiding a small smile of satisfaction.
Scarlett reached over and placed her hand on top of Bridget’s. “In any case, I should like this all to be water under the bridge. I forgive you and you forgive me and then you come and do your work in that lovely way you always did before.”
“And keep my mouth shut.”
Scarlett nodded, a complacent look on her face. “I will tell your horrible bosses that you are totally in charge. I only want people working here that you absolutely trust. You will have full say over who comes in and out. Oh, and there will be some structural work, so hire that architect you used to work with. That pretty Ava girl.”
“Ava Martinez?”
“Yes. Another woman who kn
ows how to keep her mouth shut.”
Bridget nodded. It wasn’t like she really had a choice. It was this or keep working in sales forever. And who knows, maybe it would lead to more than it seemed. “Okay. I’ll set it all up. It might take a minute to figure out what subs to hire. But I’ll find them.”
Scarlett clapped her hands together. “Excellent. We’re back in business.” She swung off the stool and headed to her gleaming Sub-Zero, hauling out a bottle of Cristal. “I think this calls for something a little more celebratory than tea, don’t you?”
She popped the bottle open before Bridget could answer, pouring the fizzing drink into a pair of sleek stemless glass cylinders. The handblown glass was so thin that Bridget felt she could break through it with the slightest pressure of her fingers.
“To our reunion, to this project, to letting bygones be bygones,” said Scarlett, tipping her glass against Bridget’s with a pretty, bell-like chime. She raised the drink, but then paused for a moment, holding it a few inches from her mouth and catching Bridget’s eyes. “Don’t screw it up,” she added, and then, just barely, smiled.
Chapter 12
Jay was standing at the cheese counter in Eataly, the five-thousand-square-foot, all-things-Italian food hall in the Flatiron District. He was pressed shoulder to shoulder with a crowd of well-heeled, hungry Manhattanites on their lunch breaks, and thinking about what his Italian-American grandmother would have made of the fact that he was seriously considering buying some cheese for fifty dollars a pound.
It wasn’t even that extravagant compared to other things he could buy in this place: twenty-five dollars for a sixteen-ounce package of pasta, a nugget of black truffle for three hundred and fifty dollars, five hundred dollars for a bottle of balsamic vinegar that came in its own velvet-lined box.
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