Mikalo's Flame

by Syndra K. Shaw

  He stood, his hand out to me.

  I rose, his arms at once gathering me to him, his lips pressed to my forehead.

  “Your scent,” he breathed against my skin. “I love it.”

  Pulling away, I turned, pulling him along with me.

  “Let’s get you home before we get into more trouble.”

  He laughed, following me as I turned down the path.

  We walked, hand in hand, around the corner.

  We stopped.

  Deni stood hand in hand with a very young handsome man.

  She smiled.

  I smiled back.

  With a nod of her head, she passed, her gorgeous, silent stranger in tow.

  I glanced at Mikalo who waited, confused.

  She took several steps and then I heard her stop.

  I turned.

  She was facing me.

  “You’re glowing again, Ronan,” she teased. “A fresh glow. Minutes old.

  “In fact, he’s still got beads of sweat on his forehead,” she then said, looking at Mikalo with a grin.

  “I mean, seriously,” she continued. “This is getting damn near ridiculous.

  “Do you guys ever stop?”

  And with a smile and a small squeeze of her young man’s hand, she turned to go.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You have to be joking,” he repeated.

  “I’m telling you, Bill,” I said. “He sat exactly where you’re sitting, claimed M&A as his, and then insisted he and ‘Partner White’ --”

  Bill laughed.

  “Partner White?” he asked.

  “Yeah, the newly ordained Partner White.”

  “Does this make you ‘Partner Grace’?” he teased.

  “No,” I said. “What it makes me is crazy and irritated and annoyed.

  “Anyway, Abby sent Marcus to follow me around and make sure the work I’m doing for the Byzans is up-to-scratch, or something.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said. “Who the hell can focus with that cologne-drenched, greasy-haired Neanderthal breathing down my neck?

  “Anyway we can get her to call him off? The boy is fucking annoying.”

  “Yeah, yeah, let me have a few words with Richardson upstairs.”

  He paused.

  I sighed, relieved Rainier Richardson, Managing Partner, was going to get a heads-up. One word from him and they’d have to back off.

  “I guess it makes sense now,” he then said.

  “What’s that?” I asked. “What makes sense?”

  “Why you were a no-show at the dinner last night.”

  I leaned back in my chair.

  “What dinner?”

  “Ah,” he said, his eyes suddenly on his shoes.

  “Let me guess: the Byzans had a dinner and Marcus and Abigail sat front and center and did their best to worm their way into their lives.”

  Bill nodded.

  “Yep. And you had no clue?”

  “No one told me,” I said.

  “Then Marcus didn’t have the okay from you to offer them tax planning suggestions?”

  I closed my eyes and groaned.

  “He didn’t.”

  Bill nodded.

  “He did,” he then said. “And even I knew it was bad, bad advice. When someone questioned him, he kinda shrugged, said it was your idea and they should talk with you.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ! What is it with this people? Seriously?”

  “Gotta hand it to ‘em, Ronan. They do have pretty big balls to be this overtly nasty and desperate.”

  “But what’s the end game, Bill? What’s the point of it?

  “I mean, I get that Abigail doesn’t like me. Yeah, whatever. I don’t give a shit. I’m not her biggest fan either. Who the fuck cares, right?

  “And I get that she really, really wants her children to marry well, or something.

  “So if she wants to try and, I don’t know, pucker up and kiss Byzan’s ass to try and make that happen, then fine. Go for it.

  “I just don’t get what any of that has to do with me.”

  “Mikalo Delis.”

  “So that’s what all this is about?”

  He nodded.

  “Janey mentioned something along those line,” I then said. “That Abby is angry that he and I might get married or something.

  “But I still don’t get what’s driving her to amp her bitchery off the map. So what if I marry Mikalo someday -- and I’m not saying I am, by the way.”

  “No?”

  “I’ve known the guy five minutes! Like I told Janey, check with us in a few years and see where we are.”

  “Listen,” he began, “whatever’s driving Abby has nothing to do with you or whatever this is with Mikalo or your work or your clients or, really, even the Byzans.

  “What’s driving her to sabotage you is something much deeper and, frankly, something that doesn’t have an answer and can’t be fixed by any sane, rational, perfectly understandable thing you could do.

  “Simply put,” he continued. “It’s jealousy. And, now that I think about it, I realize it’s not simple at all. It’s complicated and deep and is something she probably has no control over.

  “Think about it,” he quickly said, quieting me. “You come in here fresh out of law school. Top of your class, big offer in hand, law firms falling at your feet to bring you on board. No Junior Associate title for you. It’s straight to the top.

  “You’re young, gorgeous, driven, fiercely intelligent, unapologetically brilliant, and you work your ass off and you succeed. Quickly.

  “It’s a success you earn, Ronan.

  “And then there’s Abby.

  “Older, not as brilliant, not as polished. Her success is earned, of course, but it’s one that takes many, many years. A success that’s not based on amazing work or even smarts. It’s based on time. Being here for years and years and years. Working diligently. Adequately. Sometimes brilliantly. Sometimes not.

  “But a success earned by diligence and time isn’t the same as one earned by brilliance. No matter how many hours she puts in, she will never be considered at the same level you are.

  “For someone of her ego, which is massive, by the way, that’s rough.

  “And then you add your Greek god billionaire boyfriend to the mix?”

  He paused before continuing.

  “Just be grateful she’s not boiling a bunny in a pot on your stove.”

  “And none of that is my problem, Bill,” I said. “None of that excuses her taking steps to hurt my relationship with one of the Firm’s biggest clients, taking steps to hurt my reputation by spreading malicious lies, and doing her damndest to relegate me to the sidelines in favor of her son-in-law to be.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “It doesn’t. But now you know what’s driving her.

  “You understand, of course,” he continued as he stood to go, “That she’s not going to stop and, eventually, if you don’t do something to rein her in or stop her or just, for God’s sake, shut her the hell up, people will start believing the lies.”

  He paused at the door before looking back.

  “Like it or not, Ronan,” he then said. “This is war.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was dark when I got home.

  No sign of Mikalo.

  Strange.

  I checked upstairs, half convinced he’d be waiting naked and ready for me in bed.

  No such luck.

  Damn.

  It really was odd. Not that he needed to be here when I got home. It’s just he usually was. And if he wasn’t, if he was downtown seeing his close friend Virginie or in a late- meeting with his company’s American representatives, he’d usually let me know beforehand or, at the very least, leave an apologetic note.

  To not be here with no clue as to where he was, well, it was a bit disconcerting.

  Now, what to do?

  I sat on the bed, not sure if I should just u
ndress and do dinner here. Leftovers from the fridge or something from the freezer. Or maybe just change into something more casual and head out for a slice of pizza. Or ...

  Damn, this was a bit pathetic. One night without Mikalo and I suddenly can’t decide what to do with myself.

  The cell phone rang.

  Deni.

  “Hey,” I said, answering it.

  “Okay, so you’re not dead.”

  “What?”

  “Are you on death’s doorstep? Trapped under something heavy? Have two broken legs and can’t walk?”

  “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t think so. So where are you?”

  “Home. How long have you been drinking?”

  “I’m not joking, Ronan.”

  “Joking about what?”

  “I spy with my little eye a rich skank hanging all over your boy.”

  I paused, not sure what to say.

  “Daniel,” she then said, mentioning the name of our favorite restaurant. “Get off your ass and get here.”

  “Wait,” I finally said. “You’re saying Mikalo is at Daniel with Mara Byzan?”

  “No, not just with Happy Thighs Byzan. He’s also with Abigail White and Rainier Richardson --”

  “The Managing Partner?”

  “-- and a bunch of other work people. And The Byzan, she’s almost climbing all over him. And you’re nowhere to be seen and, I’m guessing, had no clue this was even happening.”

  She was right. I had no clue. And Mikalo never told me there was a dinner planned for tonight.

  Shit.

  I waited, my mind racing, the phone still clutched to my ear.

  “So?” Deni asked.

  “He never told me,” I finally said.

  “Fuck that. Are you sitting?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Are you sitting?” she repeated, louder.

  “Yes.”

  “Stand up.”

  I did.

  “Go to your closet, pick out the sexiest dress you can find, put a bit of armor ‘round your neck, step into a pair of serious kick-ass heels, and then get over there and kick some ass.

  “I’ll send my driver to pick you up.”

  “Will you be there?” I asked.

  “No,” she said quickly. “I’m with someone and our night here is done. We have other plans.

  “So, go now and get ready.”

  The phone still to my ear, I walked into my closet.

  “Thank you, Deni.”

  “The red YSL with the deep cleavage -- you know, the one with the small silver belt -- and the Louboutin pumps.”

  Yes, I saw it hanging before me.

  “Perfect,” I said.

  “And don’t you dare leave until you’ve drawn blood.”

  Click.

  I hung up the phone, the color rising in my cheeks.

  I refused to believe Mikalo was involved with Mara Byzan. Like he said, she wasn’t his type. And I believed him. Trusted him.

  But he was there and I was here.

  There was more to the story. It wasn’t that simple. It didn’t feel that simple.

  Unless he assumed I knew. Unless he got an invitation, believed it was a client of mine wanting to have a bit of social time and, as my Significant Other, felt it made sense to be there.

  Yes, that made more sense.

  Just as Abby or Marcus lying their asses off and assuring Mikalo I knew and would be there as well made sense.

  Oh yeah. That made sense.

  Still ...

  I grabbed my phone and quickly texted a brief “Where are you?”

  Seconds later, he replied.

  “Where r YOU?”

  My fingers barely keeping up, I typed out a quick “At home”

  His response was almost immediate.

  “At dinner. Daniel. Please come. Quick.”

  Now that was the Mikalo I knew and loved and trusted.

  I snatched the dress off the hanger and reached for the familiar red-soled heels.

  Damn, I couldn’t wait to kick some serious ass.

  Seriously.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Abby turned white as a sheet when I walked in.

  And Marcus, following her stare, damn near choked on his champagne.

  Oh, this was going to be fun.

  Angling my way through the tables dotting this jewel box of backlit, modernist culinary perfection tucked into New York’s Upper East Side, I approached, one eye on Mara doing her damndest to sit way too close to Mikalo, the other on Mikalo desperately, politely, discreetly rebuffing her.

  And in the middle of the table, next to Mara’s father, sat Rainier Richardson, the managing partner of Macfarlane, Schaal.

  Elegant as always in his dark suit and crisp white shirt, a jaunty red pocket square peeking from the front pocket, he, with his silver mane of lush hair, would turn heads in any room.

  Older with a masculine square jaw, an easy smile, and beautiful grey eyes, he had made the move from the London office over ten years ago, entirely rejuvenating the NY office, his iron fist in a velvet glove approach coupled with his deep voice making Macfarlane the power it was today.

  Noticing me, he smiled as I drew near, standing to greet me.

  “So nice to see you, Miss Grace,” he said as his hand wrapped around mine. “I’m happy to see you’re feeling better.”

  The wait staff as efficient as ever, one had already appeared with a chair, easily sliding it beneath me as I sat, a second expertly making room on the already crowded table for a new wine glass and space for another plate.

  I paused, smiling, not sure what to say.

  And then I decided this was a battle I didn’t want to fight.

  “My back,” I finally said. “It’s better now. Thank you.”

  And it’d be a hell of a lot better if Abby and Marcus would stop stabbing me in it, I wanted to add.

  But I just smiled and took a sip of wine.

  Mikalo watched me.

  Poor boy, so eager to not make a scene, but so desperate to get away from The Byzan who had linked her arm in his and was all but licking his cheek.

  I looked at Abby on the other side of the crumpled, rumpled, hapless Mr. Byzan.

  Dressed in a stiff Chanel suit, she sat facing me, dark and pale, like some faux Chinese Dowager Empress.

  Her black hair painfully pulled back into a neat bun, the pallor of her skin accented by the red of her lips and the dark of her penciled-in brows, a rope of pearls wound around her neck, she calmly watched me, her eyes imploring me to be silent and not bury her in front of Richardson.

  Not yet, bitch. I’ll bury you, but not tonight.

  On the other side of Richardson sat Marcus, shoulders slumped, his elbows resting on the table, his tie loose and messy, the sweat staining his upper lip betraying his nervousness, his fear.

  I watched him, holding his gaze, feeding on his weakness, his inexperience, before he caught himself, sitting up, straightening his shoulders, determined to show me his strength, his power.

  Fool.

  I winked, knowing it’d throw him.

  It did.

  His glass stopped half-way to his mouth, his tiny mind not sure what to make of this unexpected flirtation.

  To his side sat Mara.

  Drunk.

  Of course.

  Messy blonde hair (though no tiara), a silk and linen designer shift falling from her shoulder, a tired fur sagging down her back and around her elbows, her skinny legs shrink wrapped in even skinnier jeans. Her claw-like fingers clutching one glass of wine, the second filled to the rim and waiting on the table before her.

  And her arm still linked desperately to Mikalo’s.

  She turned and blinked, as if seeing me for the first time.

  “Hey ...” she began before trailing off into a small hiccup.

  “Hello, Mara.”

  She stared, her mouth slack.

  “We met before,” I patient
ly offered, my words slow. “At Macfarlane --?”

  Swallowing a belch, she turned back to Mikalo, ignoring me, a goofy smile on her lips as, inches from his face, she watched him.

  “It’s nice to see you, too,” I said.

  I caught the eye of her father who, with a small nod, apologized.

  A smile from me in return followed by a nod, my heart touched by this sudden show of sincerity and class.

  Him I could like, I decided. To have a daughter like that and still have the strength to live? It was impressive.

  “Hello, Mikalo,” I then said to the handsome hunk sitting on the other side of The Byzan.

  He smiled weakly, relief all but pouring out of his eyes as they caught mine.

  “I am so glad you are here, my Grace,” he then said.

  Abby’s mouth twitched.

  Marcus took another drink.

  Mr. Byzan and Richardson barely noticed.

  And Mara, staring into her wine glass, not so discreetly belched.

  “Me, too,” I said with a small smile.

  “Not to discuss business too much,” Richardson began.

  “Boring,” Mara said loudly.

  “But I do have some questions,” he continued, ignoring her. “About some tax-planning advice you’ve given the Byzans regarding the US holdings of their estate.”

  I hadn’t given them any advice. I glanced toward Marcus and Abby.

  Marcus looked at the table, avoiding my gaze.

  Coward.

  Abby watched me cool, calm, and collected.

  Bitch.

  “And what advice would that be?” I asked.

  Richardson responded, describing an overly complicated restructuring that only the most amateur and insanely ambitious lawyer would even think of suggesting. A plan that Richardson knew wouldn’t work. Something Mr. Byzan knew wouldn’t work. And something they’re pretty darn sure I knew simply wouldn’t work.

  The trap was being laid.

  God, I loved Richardson.

  “Forgive me,” I said when he had finished. “I don’t remember suggesting that.

  “When was this?” I then asked.

  Richardson looked to Marcus.

  “When was this again, Marcus?” Richardson asked him.

  “It was yesterday, Rainier,” he replied, awkwardly over-pronouncing his name as Rain-YAY.

  “Yes, yesterday, Rainier,” Abby calmly interrupted, gently correcting Marcus by pronouncing Richardson’s first name correctly, the last syllable smooth and gentle.