The Financier (Hudson Kings Book 2)

by Liz Maverick

  Jane flinched.

  “Something happened,” Mr. Dawes prompted.

  This clearly interested him. Oh, god, here we go. “I was an excellent office manager,” Jane said.

  “So?”

  Oh, screw it. “I made the mistake of having a relationship with my boss. When it didn’t work out, he made things hard on me.”

  A very long silence transpired.

  Jane cleared her throat. “That wasn’t in the vetting, I guess. Was that too much or too little information?”

  He cocked his head to the side.

  Jane leaned forward. “I want you to know that I’m very experienced at handling the unusual. Change has never bothered me, I eat ‘transitions’ for breakfast, and I’m good with difficult men.”

  Another long silence.

  “Right. Difficult men,” Mr. Dawes said. “Listen, Jane, I need to be straight with you. Part of what I do requires that I hang out with dangerous people. Right now, some of those people aren’t too happy with me. I want to make it clear that I don’t expect any of them to come to my apartment. They are unhappy with me. Only me. But I thought you should know that . . .” He suddenly looked askance, his thoughts far away. “Shit, maybe this—”

  Oh, no you don’t take this opportunity away from me! “You work with Cecily’s fiancé, Shane, right?”

  “Right.”

  “He’s a mercenary.”

  Mr. Dawes hesitated, then: “Right.”

  “I’ve been warned.”

  “I don’t know what you were told, but—”

  “Listen.” Jane felt a wave of emotion pass through her, and she knew Mr. Dawes didn’t miss it when her eyes flooded with tears. I need the money. I really, really need the money for Nana and a place to live so I can figure out what to do. “You have a situation,” she said, choking a little. “I have a situation too.”

  Mr. Dawes kindly looked to the side while Jane successfully reined in the tears and pulled herself back from the weird vulnerability she’d just displayed. Suddenly he said, “Here are the instructions. What questions do you have?” He produced a piece of paper with a lengthy numbered list. It was very organized. The paper was thick, a creamy off-white, and, as an artist, Jane kind of hated that it was being used for house-sitting instructions. “When you get there, call this number, and I’ll walk you through the fish-tank protocol.”

  Suddenly, he hesitated. “Some of the fish have already died. They’re still there. You’ll have to—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” Jane said briskly. “Okay, so I should go there tomorrow? I should start tomorrow?”

  “Yes.” Mr. Dawes handed over a key chain with three keys on it. “Door to building, door to apartment, door to downstairs mailbox. Got it?”

  “Yes, Mr. Dawes,” she said as she took the keys.

  His eyebrow raised, and a small smile crossed his face.

  Jane reared back slightly. “Oh, should I call you something else?”

  His smile got a little wider. “Definitely call me Mr. Dawes.”

  Jane felt herself get a little hot. “Yes, sir.”

  His smile apparently forgot itself and turned into a grin. “I’ll give you information for the delivery services I use. Buy whatever you need but don’t throw a party in my place, right?”

  “Whatever I need? Like cleaning supplies? Or like fresh Maine lobsters?”

  He actually shrugged. “Either. Whatever. Just no company. No parties.”

  “I am one hundred percent not throwing a party at your place, Mr. Dawes, sir,” Jane said solemnly, enjoying the change in Nick Dawes’s expression every time she called him something fancy. “My number one job will be to make sure your fish don’t die.”

  Wrong thing to say, apparently. Serious concern flickered in Mr. Dawes’s eyes. Jane quickly added, “And if you’ve been receiving regular cupcake delivery service or something, I’m not going to tell them to stop just because you’re not living there.”

  He stared at her, and Jane thought she’d got him again, but then he frowned and said with some annoyance, “You were supposed to be—”

  “Boring, just stupid enough, and unassuming,” Jane supplied helpfully.

  He let out a snort and said with equal parts disdain and admiration, “Goddamn Ally.”

  “Did I just blow the interview?” Jane asked.

  “I already gave you the keys,” Mr. Dawes faux grumped.

  But you could take them back. Man, you’re adorable, Jane thought. I mean, you’re obviously gorgeous and rich, but you’re really worried about your fish.

  The waitress appeared. “Hey. Got a to-go bag for you all ready, Nick.”

  “Actually, I’m staying a little longer than I expected. Could you bring out a bottle?”

  Jane raised both eyebrows. Okay, so I definitely nailed the interview.

  “Red, dark fruit,” the waitress said, glancing over at Jane. “He hates Chianti.”

  Noted, thought Jane. Mr. Dawes, sir, hates Chianti.

  After the interview, Jane headed back to Ally’s to pack up her stuff. Ally poked her head around the corner of the living room door and watched Jane sitting on the couch, stuffing a duffel bag. “Is that you muttering?”

  “Yep,” Jane said darkly.

  “He didn’t hire you?” her friend asked incredulously.

  “Of course he hired me,” Jane said. “Thank you very much for setting it up.”

  Ally’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m mad at myself.”

  This got Ally to come and sit down on the couch on top of the pile of Jane’s underwear and socks. “For what?”

  Jane paused, mid stuff. If her cheeks still burned in humiliation thinking about it, she clearly wasn’t over it. “I shouldn’t have stayed for the wine.”

  Ally’s eyes widened. “Did something happen?” she asked with a note of menace in her voice, like she was perfectly prepared to go punch Mr. Dawes in the gut if “something happened.”

  “No! Good lord, no. He gave a speech about pH balance for twenty minutes, and then we left. It was completely innocent.”

  “A speech about what?”

  “pH bal—oh, never mind. It was completely innocent.”

  “You’ve said that twice now,” Ally pointed out.

  “Ugh.” Jane frowned. “I think that’s just me reminding myself not to like my boss too much. The best part about learning about pH balance was watching his mouth. He has really sexy lips and incredible teeth. When he says the word ‘alkaline,’ you can see a bit of tongue. It’s just not fair, not after what I’ve been through. Am I being tested?” She looked almost desperately at Ally. “It can’t happen again. The mess I got myself into with Bill . . . it can’t happen again.”

  “Don’t worry. What else is there to say? I’m sure you won’t hear from Nick again until the job’s over.”

  Of course, that comment immediately annoyed Jane. For absolutely no good reason.

  And then Jane’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen, gave Ally a knowing look, and held the phone out so her friend could see who was calling.

  Ally blurted out a laugh, and Jane took the call, shaking her head. “Jane speaking.”

  After a pause, Nick Dawes said, “Hello, Jane.”

  “Hello.”

  After another pause, he asked, “Are you home?”

  Jane held the phone out at arm’s length and stared at it suspiciously before putting it back to her ear. “Yes. I’m with Ally.”

  “Right. Good. I realized I should have called you a car service.”

  “Why?”

  Mr. Dawes let out a soft, startled laugh. This question seemed to surprise him. Or maybe it was the fact that she’d questioned him at all. “Did you take the subway?”

  “Of course.”

  “Which I’m sure involved a walk in the dark to Ally’s place.”

  “It often does,” Jane said.

  After a truly awkward silence, during which All
y stared at Jane while making a variety of ridiculous and questioning facial expressions, Mr. Dawes said, “But you’re home now.”

  “In fact, Ally’s right here. Do you want to talk to her?” Jane asked hopefully.

  Ally gave her a look that said she thought Jane was nuts, but Ally had nothing to worry about because Mr. Dawes said, “That won’t be necessary,” and hung up.

  Jane’s phone disconnected the call. How very awkward. Presumably she still had the job.

  Then she looked up at Ally, who seemed inappropriately amused.

  “I don’t think I like him very much,” Jane said with a sniff, tossing the phone aside and resuming her packing.

  But what a great voice.

  CHAPTER 4

  The next day Jane showed up at the penthouse with her duffel bag, her portfolio, and her purse.

  After crossing the threshold and closing the door behind her, her jaw dropped to the floor, along with her stuff. Loose pennies rolled out of her purse across the herringbone parquet floor as she took in the majesty of what a healthy bank account was capable of in New York City.

  I am one hundred percent throwing a party at your place, Mr. Dawes, sir.

  Even if she’d had a ten-piece luggage set, she still would have felt dwarfed standing in the sleek foyer of Nick Dawes’s place. The fish tank was round and massive, and it dominated the circular entryway. A closet door built into the wall of this rotunda had been left open, revealing that these lucky fish commanded more accessories and equipment than a football team. The closet was also, by itself, larger than any bathroom in any apartment Jane had ever lived in.

  But real life reared its ugly head when she walked around the side of the tank and found four fish on the floor in the middle of an uneven stain in the shape of water spatter. “No! Oh, no, no, no, no!” She knelt down on the floor, but even if she’d known anything about fish CPR, these fellas were past trying. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner,” she whispered. She pulled a tissue out of her purse and laid it over the corpses and then went to the kitchen to get a spatula.

  The kitchen—done up in full slabs of statuary marble—immediately presented some challenges. It wasn’t merely that Mr. Dawes was clean. He was so minimalist it was hard to find common things a normal human being would use. As far as Jane could tell, he didn’t own a spatula because he didn’t cook anything. The refrigerator was empty save for a jar of olives and a lunch bag cinched with a binder clip. Huh. He probably didn’t cook anything because he’d just sort of forgotten to own stuff.

  The apartments in her past life contained things like seven different kinds of salt, or “just-in-case” wrapping paper for even minor holidays, crammed on top of plastic storage bins full of seasonal clothing, so that every winter, every time you needed a hat, you were also going to get beaned by an unwound bolt of St. Patrick’s Day wrapping paper and showered with glitter for somebody’s fiftieth anniversary.

  Jane walked into the living room and confirmed that the décor throughout the house had made a commitment to consistency. A palette similar to the one in the kitchen featured gray plush sofas, white walls, marble, brass fittings, and crystal chandeliers with heavy rectangular drops that managed to be both opulent and manly at the same time.

  Whoever had designed the place had used as few pieces of furniture as possible, and there were no tchotchkes (always useful for providing clues about the owner’s personality or life) on display.

  The sole bookshelf here hosted six hardcovers kept upright by bookends made out of solid brass. (“Yes, Inspector, he did it in the kitchen with a bookend!”) The fact that they were crafted in the shape of a bull and a bear showed an alarming lack of imagination for a Wall Street jockey, but hopefully they’d been a gift from someone Mr. Dawes really loved and didn’t want to insult.

  That hope was not buoyed by the first five books, notably The Art of War, How Not to Be an Idiot Overseas, Who Gets What—and Why: The New Economics of Matchmaking and Market Design, Moneyball, and Liar’s Poker, but the last book was some consolation; it was a slim, stained clothbound volume of poetry by Robert Browning.

  Stuck between the poetry and the bookend was a picture. Jane slipped it out and took a look. It was clearly Nick Dawes as a young man, kneeling on a lawn somewhere. He looked high-school age, sporting unruly hair without a particular hairstyle, clearly before he’d quite finished growing into his body. His arm hung around the neck of an enormous golden retriever.

  Before she could snoop further, her cell phone rang. Jane’s eyes widened when she saw the name. Is he planning to make a habit of this? She clicked the green button and said, “Hello, Mr. Dawes, sir. I’m just now at your apartment. Settling in.”

  “I know. I neglected to tell you about the surveillance cameras. It slipped my mind.”

  The surveillance cameras slipped your mind? Holy . . . what the . . . oh, thank god I did not look through his medicine cabinet or his underwear drawer. She tugged the hem of her skirt down from where it had been riding up.

  “Is that a deal breaker?” he asked.

  Jane looked around at the expensive digs, thought about the fact that she’d be eating Maine lobster at least once a week for the term of the gig, considered her checking account of negative $327, remembered how much she loved Nana, and decided very quickly that she could keep her curiosity in check and her clothes on. However: “If I’m here to watch over things, what do you need cameras for?”

  “You’re there to watch over the fish, Jane,” Mr. Dawes said, not actually answering the question. “There are no cameras in the bathroom, obviously.”

  Yeah, you’d think that would be obvious. But nothing about Mr. Dawes was actually obvious. He was so minimalist he practically didn’t exist. He was a gorgeous painting who might not have an actual personality beating within his breast. But he probably did have really valuable possessions that required surveillance cameras to protect. Like, say, that painting with the single black paintbrush stroke. “Then, no, surveillance cameras are not a deal breaker. Since you called, I’m actually looking for a spatula.”

  “What?”

  “A spatula. Where’s your spatula?”

  “Why would I need a spatula?” Mr. Dawes asked.

  Seriously. This was a serious question. This man does not use his kitchen. He does not cook meals. What does he do in here? Well, the butcher-block island was quite large; there were many things a person or two could accomplish on top of it. Ugh. Jane. Repeat after yourself: He. Is. Your. Boss.

  Jane forced her mind back to possible answers to the spatula question: Omelets. Dead fish removal. Spanking sex. Spanking Nick Dawes would probably be really fun. You should be grateful he doesn’t have a spatula. Stay out of trouble this time around. “You know what, sir? I just realized this is the sort of problem that can be solved by a minor purchase online using your account.”

  “Maybe it is better that you’re smart,” he said. “If you have trouble with any of the passwords, let me know.”

  Jane laughed. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  He paused. “I didn’t mention the frog. There’s a frog in the tank. Food’s in the fridge. It’s on the directions, but I figured I should point it out. I should specifically tell you there’s a frog in there.”

  “Got it. I’m being recorded. And there’s a frog.” All in a day’s work.

  “That’s about the size of it,” he said.

  “Anything else, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Well, call me anytime,” Jane said. And oddly, when he hung up, she sincerely hoped he would.

  She went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, took out the brown paper sack, and removed the binder clip.

  Then, she unrolled the top, looked inside, and screamed at the top of her lungs, following up with a blue streak of the worst words she could think of streaming out of her mouth.

  Jane slammed the refrigerator door and retrieved the impeccable off-white instruction sheet from her purse. Fair en
ough. Down at around point twenty-seven of the fifty-two-point fish-tank instruction sheet was a small note about the frog and its so-called “finicky eating habits.”

  “Oh, god. That’s just disgusting.” The only thing my boss keeps in his empty fridge in his empty life is a sack of mosquito larvae.

  Standing in the middle of superhot, superrich Nick Dawes’s multi-million-dollar New York City apartment, with a view of the river and the glamorous green and white lights of the neo-Gothic Woolworth Building . . .

  Jane was not impressed.

  CHAPTER 5

  Tristan had a sweet apartment in one of those new-construction buildings located near the High Line, but the nearby transportation options were shitty. It was the sort of place that made it unnecessary to leave for any reason, as long as you were content to confine your needs to the offerings of the onsite concierge. Anyway, Nick suspected Tristan didn’t care how far he had to walk to the subway, because he was one of those guys who was always on his bike. He’d biked to the heist. Seriously. The guy showed up to help steal $20 million in a flannel shirt, Carhartts with the gear-side leg rolled up, and a beard that looked just this side of lumberjack.

  Nick could only hope the guy was deeply in touch with his sensitive side today, because it was the first time since the cock-up that he’d seen him in person. There was an even chance Tristan was feeling like test-driving that hipster ax he carried around in a backpack nestled next to his laptop. Yeah, the guy owned a designer hatchet, and Nick figured he was probably the first guy Tristan had ever thought seriously of using it on.

  Nick and Chase worked some persuasive techniques on the gum-snapping porter holding down the front desk and went up the elevator to Tristan’s floor. Down the hall and around the corner and there they were.

  Tristan looked through the peephole. “Oh, man. No. Seriously? No. Dude, I don’t even want to see you. You have seriously messed with my mojo.”

  “I need to talk to you,” Nick said.

  “You find the money?”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  “Good-bye,” Tristan said.

  Chase grinned at Nick and pounded on the door with one massive fist. “Hi, Tristan, I’m Chase. And I have a really big gun that I can use to blow your door off its hinges.”