Devil You Know

by Bagshawe, Louise

  “But what? What?” Daisy pleaded.

  “That I don’t know,” Magnus said. “But somebody never wanted this moment to happen. Somebody, or somebodies, took care to see you guys never met. Whether for good motives or bad, I have no idea.”

  Daisy frowned. “I’m going to call Janus and report all this.”

  “That’s a positive idea,” Magnus said. “They’re real pros, let them do the digging.”

  “Who are Janus?” Rose asked, and Daisy filled her in.

  *

  They stayed talking until late into the night. Soren listened, intensely interested; the three women seemed relieved that their lives had followed such different paths.

  “If you’d gone into real estate I don’t think I could have handled it,” Rose said. She felt freaked out enough that there were two identical images of herself in this room; the differences in their careers, in their attitudes, were incredibly reassuring to her. She was distinct, she was still Rose, not a carbon copy, where everything had been predetermined in the womb.

  “I hate business,” Daisy reassured her. “You read much?”

  “Fortune,” Rose said.

  “Billboard,” Poppy added.

  “I know one way you three are all alike,” Soren said. “You’re all highly successful in your fields. Prominent.”

  The girls looked at each other and smiled. “True enough,” Rose said. “I don’t know if we’ll ever get to the bottom of this, but I really don’t think you should stress about it too much. You could go mad trying to figure out stuff that happened over twenty-five years ago. We know each other now.” She shrugged. “My two cents is that we should get on with our lives.”

  “Easier said than done,” Poppy said. “But I guess you’re right. I have, well, I have some stuff on my plate right now.”

  “I just don’t want to lose you both,” Daisy said. “We’ll all go home and never see each other, just the odd transatlantic trip…” Her face fell.

  Soren grinned. “Daisy, what are you talking about? You’re staying here.”

  “I can’t stay here forever, I have a book to write.”

  “You can write wherever you can plug in a laptop. And I have plenty of sockets.”

  “I have an apartment in London…”

  “Hang on to it, it’ll be our pied-à-terre.”

  “And my parents…”

  “We can get them a place here, or they can fly over for visits. It’s only a five-hour flight.”

  “They’re my family.”

  “Yes, and so are your sisters. And so am I,” Soren told her. “Enough games. This is your home.”

  *

  Magnus served champagne and coffee and juice while the three girls continued talking. He couldn’t stop staring at them, but that was only human. He felt an amazing sense of contentment to see Daisy so happy; his prize, whom he had won only after years of pursuit, and whatever came of this, it would give her answers and make her happier in the long run. Magnus had long held the idea that Daisy’s rejection of him was down to her lack of self-esteem, down to some idea she had managed to give herself that her birth-parents had rejected her, when she had no idea what the facts were. Even though her two sisters, mirror images of herself, were sitting with her, he found he had no interest in them whatsoever. His girl sounded completely different—they all did; and the other two weren’t Daisy, weren’t the woman he’d fallen so deeply in love with, so fast.

  He could hardly wait for the other two women to leave, and when they said their goodbyes at midnight, and Daisy had shown them out, with hugs and kisses on the cheek, he closed the door and looked at her.

  “Well?” he said.

  Daisy just shook her head. “It seems like a dream. I would never have believed it unless I’d seen it for myself.”

  “Maybe you can get some answers now.”

  “Maybe. At least I know my sisters are out there.”

  Magnus bent his head to her and kissed her, very gently, very lightly on the mouth, his lips just brushing across hers, his hand holding her in the small of her back. Her lips parted and her eyes were glittering; he felt the warmth of her body and the way it arched in toward him.

  “I don’t want to just be your boyfriend anymore,” he said. “It’s not enough, just not good enough. It feels wrong to me that you can walk around without the world knowing you’re mine.”

  She tensed, not daring to speak.

  “I want you to marry me,” Magnus said. “As soon as possible.”

  Sixty

  Rose arrived back in her apartment with a sense of gratitude that the surroundings were familiar. There was the Financial Times with Daisy’s picture inside; she smoothed it out and put it away in a cupboard. She wasn’t going to throw it away, but she also had had enough of staring at somebody wearing her face, as Poppy Allen had put it.

  She checked her messages. Three from Mom, all worried. Well, it was too late to ring her now; Rose would call first thing in the morning. And one from her assistant Fiona.

  “Ms. Fiorello, Mr. Jacob Rothstein called you and asked you to call him. He didn’t want to say what it was concerning, but I got the impression he thought it was important.” She left a number.

  Rose passed a hand through her hair. Jacob Rothstein? Why would he be calling her?

  Very well, she’d leave him a message. Rose considered not replying at all, but that was impractical. Rose knew herself, knew perfectly well the charge she got from speaking to Jacob. Even when she was fighting with him.

  I’ll just leave a message for the arrogant son of a bitch, she thought.

  She dialed the number, but he answered on the third ring.

  “Jacob,” he said.

  “You called?” Rose asked.

  “It’s late. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you tonight.”

  “Oh, did I disturb your beauty sleep?” Rose snapped. “What’s this about? If you want those papers back, you’re gonna need a subpoena.”

  “I think we should meet,” he said, and there was that lazy, sexy confidence in his tone that she couldn’t help responding to. Her nipples tightened under the prim and proper Chanel.

  It had been so long; he was the last one to even touch her.

  Stop that, she told herself.

  “I have no intention of coming over to your apartment, Jacob. There’s nothing between us.”

  “Well, we both know that’s a crock,” he said, “but I wasn’t inviting you over to my apartment. How about Carducci’s? It’s a late-night bistro in the Village, great food, open till three.”

  Rose suddenly felt a stab of hunger. She’d done so much talking at Daisy Markham’s pad that she hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast.

  “And why would I want to do that?”

  “Because you’ll want to congratulate me,” Jacob said. “I left Rothstein Realty. And I’m the proud owner of a new building.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “It’s in Alphabet City,” he said.

  It took a second for it to sink in, then Rose’s grip on the receiver tightened. “Son of a bitch,” she hissed.

  “Don’t bring my mother into it,” Jacob said, grinning as he pictured her rage. “It would be in your best interest to meet me, Rose. We need to sort a few things out.”

  Rose slammed down the receiver.

  She only paused to freshen her makeup; Rose would never permit anybody to see her mad without looking gorgeous, and especially not Jacob. She reapplied her lipstick and her neutral Shu Umera eye shadow, and spritzed a cloud of Hermès’ 24 Faubourg, walking into it, so that the scent hung on her, but not oppressively so. Damn him! He’d bought her building, her prize? How the hell had he pulled that one off? Rage blew away the cobwebs of her fatigue, and angrily she selected the most important jewels she owned, a stunning pair of canary-diamond earrings with South Sea pearl drops, and a matching canary-and-white-diamond necklace; that was sixty thousand dollars’ worth of rocks, wholesale, she thought furiou
sly. Rose was dressing to show that bastard how successful she was. He would never beat her. Never. Even if he’d just stolen her new, prize-flagship building from under her nose.

  She would be safe, because she would take her own car tonight, drive herself. It was late enough that there would be street parking, even in the Village. Otherwise, she could never have risked wearing rocks like this on the street.

  Rose inspected herself in the full-length mirror. Pink Chanel, high-heeled pumps, diamonds and pearls, a Prada purse; yeah, she looked like a million dollars. He could eat his heart out.

  She strode out of her apartment, locked the door, and went downstairs to pick up her Porsche. Her emotions were churning. Rage mingled with a kind of relief; battles with the Rothstein family, at least, were something she was used to. Jacob Rothstein wanted a fight? Fine. He was gonna get one.

  *

  “Rose.” Jacob stood politely. “Good evening.”

  “Let’s dispense with the pleasantries, shall we?” Rose said.

  Carducci’s was three-quarters full, and she could see why. It had no competition locally at this hour, and it was a little gem, tucked away inside a Village brownstone on a typically tree-lined street, with an old-fashioned awning, and torches burning outside. The icy cold of the winter night melted as soon as you stepped through the door; there was a piano playing quiet ragtime jazz, a blazing fire, oak-paneled walls, a crowded bar, and waiters who all looked to be over fifty and highly confident.

  Candles were on every table, but no fancy crystal or silverware; it was a real Italian steakhouse. The scent of sizzling steaks and roasted vegetables filled the place and Rose’s stomach growled loudly.

  “Hmm,” Rothstein said, grinning, “doesn’t quite go with this sophisticated get-up you’re wearing.”

  Rose sat down. Damn it. Her stupid stomach. She tried to look dignified. “I want to get this over with as quickly as possible.”

  “What, with no time for a meal? I think you need to eat something, at least. They have the most delicious breads here. Focaccia with rosemary and salt…”

  “Goddamn you,” Rose said, sliding into the dark wood banquette opposite him and reaching into the bread basket. She tore off a piece and devoured it. It was absolutely delicious.

  A waiter materialized.

  “We’ll take a bottle of the house Chianti,” Jacob said, “and I’ll have the porterhouse.”

  “Filet mignon,” said Rose, surrendering to her need to eat. “So you stole my building?”

  Jacob looked at her steadily. “I bought it on the open market.”

  “You only bought it because I wanted it,” she retorted.

  He considered it. “Not only. It’s also a great deal. I admire your taste and perception. Renovations and some security, changing neighborhood, I’m looking to make a couple mill on it. It’s going to be the foundation of the JRoth Corporation.”

  “JRoth? Original.”

  “You’re too beautiful to be sarcastic; it doesn’t suit you. I intend to make that building the cornerstone of my company. Unlike you, I’ll only be investing in the city. Profit margins are greater there. I think there are some unexplored pockets of Manhattan due for a rise.”

  “Like where?”

  That grin again. “That would be telling.”

  Rose said, “So, you summoned me here to rub it in my face and tell me I now have two enemies instead of one?”

  “Not exactly.” He took a sip of his wine; it was rich, earthy, and good. Rothstein thought she looked absolutely stunning. Her anger was as fiery and lovely on her as the diamonds that glittered dramatically around her neck and earlobes. “It was a warning shot that I fired across your bows.”

  “Oooh,” Rose said, widening her wolf-blue eyes, “I’m scared.”

  He ignored that. “You never got over what happened to your father.”

  “Don’t even mention my father’s name,” Rose said, coloring angrily.

  “But I have to. Look, my family aren’t saints.”

  “Your family are greedy, evil scumbags who made a fortune from ruining other people’s lives. My father wasn’t the only one.”

  Rothstein shrugged. “I didn’t like what I was seeing at the family company, and I walked out. But you must understand something, Rose. Whatever my father’s faults, he’s still my father. I know you are on some lifelong quest to destroy him, and I’m telling you I’m not going to let it happen.”

  “I don’t have a quarrel with you, Jacob. Just stay out of it.”

  “You’re not listening to me,” he said quietly, “and that’s a mistake, Rose. I will not let you harm my father. You have to let go of the hatred. It’s consuming you. I think you’ve been hanging around Don Salerni too long. You’re nursing this vendetta like you were Italian yourself.”

  “I am Italian. Fiorello, remember.”

  He shrugged. “I meant by birth. Just look at you.”

  She let that pass for a second. “And then, what justice for my father, who’s dead? What justice for all the other tenants your slimy uncle William and your grasping father screwed over? Who compensates all the women that tried to work there and were fired or sexually harassed by the boss? All the harm that Rothstein Realty did, you think I’m going to just let that go?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then you’re crazy,” Rose said, tearing off more bread.

  “No. I just know what the alternative is. I build up JRoth Corp for a few years, let our shareholders see the profits I can make. Prove myself outside of the family arena. And then I go to an investment bank, and I take over Rothstein Realty.”

  “You take it over?” Rose said. “Just like that, huh? You’ve lost it, Jacob.”

  “Have I? You studied those figures you stole. You know how precarious the empire is. Profits are down, vacancies are up, there’s some creative accounting going on.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, her eyes glittering. “I’m not in a position to take advantage of it. Yet.”

  “But you want to wait ten more years, nursing your hatred … come on, Rose. There’s a better way. When I take over, you will get justice. And I will protect my father from being ruined. Because I know if I let you go unchecked, you could ruin him, eventually.”

  “And how exactly am I going to get this justice?”

  “First, you will see him dispossessed of the company. It’ll be a humiliation. But it needs to be done. Second, when I’m in charge, things will change. I will go back through the files and see to it that everybody he ripped off is compensated.”

  Rose snorted. “Everybody, yeah, right.”

  “I’m deadly serious,” Rothstein said flatly. “And I’ll hire people according to merit.”

  “Women?”

  He nodded.

  “African-Americans?”

  “Even Italians,” Rothstein said, grinning. “Look, it’s good business. If I’m paying a salary I want to be able to hire the best. Sometimes even a dumb brunette with a fine rack like yourself can have an idea or two.”

  Rose struggled with herself, trying not to grin. She lost the battle.

  “And you really think you can pull this off?”

  “I know I can. Because I’m going to have the two best property execs in New York working on it. I bet we can own Rothstein within three to four years.”

  “We?” Rose asked.

  He lifted his glass to her. “Of course we. Is there some other, better, property guy in the city that I don’t know about?”

  Rose’s mouth dropped open. “You want to be my partner?”

  “You could do worse. I’m pretty good at it too. I bought that place in Alphabet City.”

  Rose shook her head. “Jacob…”

  “Here you are, sir, madam,” said the waiter, laying down two vast plates of succulent beef, with spinach and roast potatoes and crisp green beans.

  “Why don’t you eat on it,” Rothstein said. “You’ll be in a better mood on a full stomach.”

  She was starving. �
��OK,” she agreed.

  Rothstein took a mouthful of steak and washed it down with the red wine. “Let’s not talk about business. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Like what?”

  He grinned. “Tell me about your day.”

  Rose stared at him, then burst into a peal of laughter.

  “What’s funny?” he asked. “I didn’t think I was being that witty.”

  “My day,” she said.

  “Something happen?”

  “Man,” Rose said. “You think this conversation was a bombshell to me? Not today. Not after what just happened to me.” She shook her head. “You have no idea.”

  “So tell me. I’ve got all night.”

  *

  They ate, Rothstein waiting impatiently while Rose broke off from talking to eat some more food—she demolished everything on her plate, which he enjoyed watching, but not when he was so gripped by her story. He asked her a couple of times if she was joking, but she denied it, and he could see she was telling the truth.

  “So what do you think it means?” he asked eventually, when she was done.

  “I have no idea. It means I have two blood-sisters, and they want me to get to know them, which is fine. But family isn’t like powdered coffee—just add genes and acquaintance, instant sisterhood.”

  He was thoughtful. “Look, what are you doing after this?”

  “Going the hell home and going to bed,” Rose said.

  “Come back with me,” Jacob said. “I don’t think you should be by yourself tonight.”

  Sixty-One

  Rose couldn’t believe she had let herself be persuaded.

  It was late, very late. She may have stayed up later than this before, but this had certainly been the longest day of her life, and she was spending the rest of it at Jacob Rothstein’s place?

  Maybe exhaustion had weakened her will, she thought, as she parked the Porsche in his underground, gated garage.

  Just remember one thing: you’re not gonna go to bed with him, she warned herself. Absolutely, 100 percent not.

  “Hey.” Rothstein was standing over her, having courteously opened her door and helped her out. “Just remember one thing, Fiorello, I’m not going to go to bed with you. Sorry. It takes more than a good steak and a glass of wine to buy my affection.”