by Blue Saffire
“I appreciate your candor,” I say, looking at him over my shoulder to watch while he pulls a pair of large, leather-bound menus from the hostess station. “I’ve got to be honest, I much rather build the restaurant and install a chef of my choosing. Those actually owned by chefs rarely thrive—in my experience, they don’t have the temperament for running a business.”
The dining room he’s leading me through stands in direct opposition to what I just said. Even in the middle of the day, without its army of formally attired patrons, the place is opulent. Muted, gold wallpaper. Crisp white linens. Crystal chandeliers. Gleaming silver. Fine crystal and china. Either chef Fiorella is turning a hell of a profit or he’s drowning in debt. I make a mental note to find out which.
“Usually, I’d agree with you, but Davey has a secret weapon,” he says with a laugh. “His daughter, Silver, is in charge of the day-to-day operations, which frees him up to do what he does best.”
This is the first time I’m hearing about a daughter. I’m envisioning a spoiled princess who does little more than pick out centerpieces and collect a paycheck. Someone who is less secret weapon and more financial drain.
“Will Mr. Fiorella be joining us?” The least I can do is tell the man no to his face.
“He will,” Patrick says, ushering me toward a choice table in the middle of the lush dining room. “Davey and Silver will be joining us shortly.”
13
Silver
There are very few things I hate in life. I hate it when Noah is sick and I can’t make him feel better. I hate it when the pizza place I order from at 3AM forgets to put jalapeños on my pie and I hate—absolutely hate—when my father’s fishmonger tried to pull a fast one on me.
Jean Luc? Sure. He’s an idiot. But me?
Me?
Oh, hell no.
“I don’t need to get my father,” I say into the receiver, doing my best to keep my tone as professional as possible. “Do you know why?” I catch movement from the corner of my eye and whip my head around to catch the fish delivery guy trying to make a break for it. I snap my fingers and he freezes. “Because I have eyes, Hank. I have eyes and a brain and both of them are telling me that your guy did not deliver me two crates of Langoustine. He delivered me one crate of Langoustine and one crate of crawfish.
I let him try to song and dance me for a few seconds before cutting him off. “You’re right, Hank—crawfish is a fine substitute.” I lower my voice. “But not at three-grand a crate, you shifty little bastard.” His back-pedaling shifts into high gear so I up my volume and talk over him. “I want my Langoustine. I want it now and I want a five-hundred-dollar credit on my account for my trouble and if I have to, I’ll come down there and squeeze both out of your crawfish-loving ass.” In front of me, the delivery guy looks like he’s caught between swallowing his tongue and coughing up a lung. “Are we clear?”
Hank mumbles an apology, something about there being a mix-up on the delivery truck and to tell my father hello for him.
“Of course, Hank,” I say, all sunshine and roses. “Give Beverly my love.””
When I turn to hang up the phone, I find my father standing in the doorway of the kitchen, beaming with pride.
“He sent crawfish again,” I tell him, waving an arm at the crates stacked on the delivery guy’s hand truck. “What the hell are we supposed to do with a hundred pounds of crawfish?”
“You can boil it.”
My father starts laughing while I turn my glare on what has to be the most clueless human being I’ve ever met in my life. “If you ever bring me crawfish again, I will boil it,” I say. “And then I’ll shove it straight up your ass.” He turns as white as a sheet while my father laughs so hard, he sounds like an asthmatic donkey. “How does that sound?”
“I—well—not—” The poor guy can’t pick a word and stick with it, so I decide to have mercy.
“You’re going to take this crap out of my restaurant, right now—I don’t care about your other deliveries,” I say before he can start to feed me excuses. “And you’re going to bring me my Langoustine. One hour.” I hold up my index finger, inches from his face. “You have one hour.”
The delivery guy does his best impression of a bobblehead, nodding so fast and hard, I’m afraid his neck is going to break. “Yes, ma’am.”
Now that my point is sufficiently made, I dial it down a tad. “Please don’t bring me crawfish again.”
He keeps nodding while I watch him heft the crate of Langoustine up onto the prep table so the small army of prep chefs that watched the entire episode with wide-eyed wonder can get to work, prepping for dinner service.
Before I can say a word, they descend on it like a pack of jackals while Hank’s delivery guy hustles off with his unwanted crawfish.
As soon as he’s gone, I pull off my apron and toss it in the bin. “That’s the third time this month,” I say to my father, who is slowly but surely recovering from his fit of laughter.
“And you handle it like a pro,” he tells me, wiping laughter-induced tears from his eyes.
“A pro?” I wash my hands in one of the prep sinks, scrubbing off the fish smell. Working front of the house usually goes better when I don’t smell like a bait shop, as my son would say. “I’m not sure how professional it was of me to tell that poor guy I was going to shove a hundred pounds of boiled shellfish up his ass.”
“Okay,” Dad laughs again, nodding his head. “Maybe pro is the wrong word.” He gives me another face-splitting grin. “You handled it like a Fiorella.”
“That’s more like it,” I say, pulling a towel from the stack to dry my hands. “What are you doing here?” Dinner service doesn’t start for hours, which means he should still be at home, sleeping. Chefs keep the oddest hours.
“Well…” he says, cocking his head at an angle that almost always means trouble for me. “Patrick brought in a potential investor for the New York project.”
The New York project.
A fifty-table fine dining restaurant, in the middle of Manhattan. It will put our current twenty-table New York establishment to shame.
It’s supposed to be my project. Mine to spearhead. Mine to run.
Mine.
I have my own line on investors. People who have deep pockets and won’t micromanage every decision I make. People who know me and trust my ability to run a restaurant.
“I don’t remember you saying anything about an investor meeting,” I say, smoothing a hand down the front of my slacks. His silence tells me I don’t remember because he never mentioned it to me. “I thought that since we agreed that I’d be taking point on the New York project, you were going to let me meet with investors on my own.”
Because I’m tired of wearing training wheels.
Like he can read my mind, my father gives me the kind of indulgent smile you’d give a favorite child who’s clearly past the point of reason. Which I suppose is exactly how he sees me. “Of course. Then I came in to enjoy lunch with my good friend and my beautiful daughter.”
Instead of pushing the matter, I force myself to smile. “In that case I’m glad you’re here.” I tuck my arm through his and let him lead me from the kitchen.
“Lilah showed up at my place last night,” I say. Near the center of the room I see Patrick and his investor, sitting at a table in the center of the room. “Did you know she was in town?”
“I didn’t.” He pats my hand. “Delilah hasn’t spoken to me in months, not since I told her she needed to stop being foolish and start taking her life seriously.”
“Dad—” I start to tell him that Lilah needs more from him than stern lectures and disapproval, but then Patrick sees me and stands, smoothing his tie with a friendly smile. I asked him out once, just to make my father happy and he very politely, very gently turned me down. I’m glad he did. It would’ve felt like going on a date with one of my brothers.
“Patrick, it’s nice to see you again,” I say, overly formal for the sake of the man slowly ris
ing from his chair in front of me. I can’t see his face but there’s something about him that’s familiar. Reaching Patrick, I put my hand on his arm and squeeze, tilting my face upward so he can kiss my cheek.
“Silver,” he says, pulling back just enough to give me a smile. “I’d like you to meet the CEO of The Bright Group, Tobias Bright.”
14
Tobias
It’s 6AM and I’m still in bed. I should be at the office by now, putting out fires and chewing my way through my usual non-stop parade of morning meetings and conference calls.
Angus has called me every fifteen minutes since 4AM. I finally shoot him a text that simply read, taking my time this AM. I’ll call when I need a pickup.
The phone started ringing immediately after I hit send. He probably thinks my text is some sort of code for Help! I’ve been kidnapped.
Which I have to admit is a valid assumption. I don’t take my time.
Ever.
But I’ve never woken up to a soft, beautiful woman in my arms either. Her breath on my neck. Lax hand curled against my chest. Legs tangled with mine.
I like it.
I like her.
Entirely too much.
The thought should push me out of bed and out the door. Instead, I find myself wondering if I can make it to the bakery across the street for coffee and pastries and back before she wakes up.
The longer I lay here, the less I want to get up. The deeper I feel myself dig in. I can easily imagine spending the entire day, right here.
With her.
But if I keep ignoring Angus, he’s going to call in the National Guard to kick my door down. So, coffee, pastries and a quick call to Angus, letting him know I’m not dead and there won’t be a ransom note any time soon. And then I’ll see where the day takes me.
Slipping from the bed as silently as possible, I walk my way to my dresser. Pulling open the top drawer to grab a pair of boxers, I notice them right away.
My pictures.
One of my brothers.
One of my mother.
Heart knocking in my chest, I pull them out to look at them. I always keep the one of my mother behind the one of my brothers and me. I don’t know why. Maybe because I have to prepare myself to see her. I have to psych myself up to remember what she looks like. What it felt like to have her arms around me.
That’s how I know Argenta saw them. That she stood right where I am now and looked at my family.
I remember the way she asked me about Gray, insisting she could sense a bond between us. The way I opened up to her, told her about my mother’s death. Things about myself I’ve never told anyone before. Not even my own brothers.
I feel exposed. Cut open and raw.
I feel manipulated. Played with.
She was in here alone. Going through my things. Learning my secrets. Finding my soft spots.
I want to own my own restaurant someday.
I’m suddenly sure she knows who I am. What I can do for her financially if she manages to set her hooks into me—and she almost did. She almost managed to do in a handful of hours what some women have made their life’s mission.
She got closer than anyone.
I get dressed quickly and quietly, thinking about everything she said to me. It all seems so ridiculous, in the cold light of day. Contrived, the way she turned up at the club, all alone, all but falling into my lap. Giving me just enough to intrigue me. Just enough to make me want more, blowing past every one of my defenses.
And I let her.
I let her in.
I almost fell for it.
15
Silver
I wake up, gloriously naked, aching in all the right places and grinning like an idiot.
I also wake up alone, the warm morning sun streaming through the floor to ceiling windows. Sitting up, I look around the bedroom. My dress is hanging from a stainless-steel suit rack. My shoes are parked underneath it, as neat as a pin.
Something about seeing it hanging up instead of on the floor where I left it tickles the back of my throat, a soft niggling that feels strange. Almost feels like panic.
Calm down, Silver. So, he hung up your dress and moved your shoes. It doesn’t mean anything. You’re going to find him in the kitchen, drinking coffee. Maybe reading the paper. It’s barely 7AM. Where else could he be?
Since I really don’t want to put it back on and my borrowed sweater is somewhere in the kitchen, I gather my courage and the bed sheets around me and exit the bedroom.
The place looks as enormous and empty as it did last night. It takes me less than a few seconds to determine that I’m alone.
Tobias is gone.
The niggling in the back of my throat starts to squeeze.
Relax. Maybe he went for coffee. Maybe he left a note.
I check the kitchen island, doing my level best to not think about what I let him do to me on it only a few hours ago.
Nothing.
But my cake is gone and the forks are no longer in the sink. Even the box from Tiffany’s is missing.
It’s as if every sign of what happened between us, and of me, has been completely erased.
The squeezing sensation starts to spread. Anchoring itself inside my chest, it starts to claw at my lungs.
So, he didn’t leave a note. So, he didn’t wake you up before he left. That’s okay. You’re a big girl. You knew what you were asking for when you agreed to come home with him, and besides, he told you last night that he wasn’t a nice guy. That what was happening wasn’t real. He warned you.
And I didn’t listen.
I thought I felt something. That, despite what he said, he felt it too.
I was obviously wrong.
I don’t know how long I stand here, waiting for something to happen. For the elevator to let out a soft ding! before spitting Tobias out with coffee and maybe some of those chocolate croissants from the bakery across the street. For him to smile and take me back to bed. For this horrible aching pit in my chest to finally close so I can breathe again.
None of those things happen.
Tobias isn’t coming back.
Dragging my bedsheet to the bathroom, I feel like I’ve stepped into one of those Swiss spas my mother loves to drag me to as her idea of mother-daughter bonding. Never mind the fact that I don’t even see her from the time we check in to the time we check out. Smothering the insane urge to laugh, I find a brand-new toothbrush and toothpaste sitting on the edge of the sink. Fresh towels near the steam shower. A plush robe hanging from a hook.
Ignoring the shower, I rip open the toothbrush and brush my teeth. Splash cold water on my face before looking at my reflection. I don’t usually wear a lot of make-up so raccoon eyes are at a minimum. My hair is a mess, long since escaped the topknot I pulled it into last night, so I re-wrangle it into another loose bun before securing my toga and making my way back to the bedroom. I’ll get dressed. I’ll leave a short, thank you for last night. It was lovely note, call an Uber and leave.
I’m halfway between the bathroom and the bedroom before I notice him.
A total stranger, standing in the kitchen area.
No, not a total stranger.
Tobias’s driver, Angus, wearing a hand-tailored suit, a Bergdorf’s shopping bag dangling from one hand, a cup of coffee from some trendy place on 5th street in the other. Face an impenetrable wall of polite stoicism. It makes me wonder how many times he’s done this.
Taken out his boss’ trash.
Before I can say anything, he holds the cup of coffee out to me. “It’s alright,” he says, properly reading my hesitation. “I promise it’s safe to drink.” When I take the coffee, he holds the bag out to me. “Mr. Bright thought maybe this would make your exit less embarrassing,” he says in that same, vaguely British accent I remember from last night. “After which I’ve been instructed to drive you wherever you wish to go.”
Because I really do want to burn that infernal dress and dance around the flames, I take the bag, t
elling myself it’s okay. I know where he lives. After I make my escape, I can have whatever is in the bag cleaned and sent back to him by the end of the day. It’s not a gift. It’s a loan.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “I’ll be just a few moments.”
“Of course,” he says, giving me a small, detached smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I’ve been marked for slaughter. Best not to get attached to the ones you’ve been charged to get rid of.
In the bedroom, I dump the bag out onto the rumpled bed. A La Perla bra and panty set. A pair of Saint Laurent jeans. A red silk Chanel blouse. A pair of soft, brown leather boots. All correct sizes. There are even socks. Makeup. A hairbrush.
Okay, so maybe I over-reacted. Maybe Tobias didn’t simply use and abandon me. He obviously put thought into…
That’s when I see it.
The diamond bracelet he gave me last night, on the nightstand. Underneath it, a stack of cash, held together with a purple and white band that reads $10k.
There’s a note.
Circling the bed, heart hammering and trying to claw its way from my chest, I pick it all up—the bracelet and the money—to read the note.
Not sure what the going rate is. If this doesn’t cover your services, speak to Angus. He has authorization to supply you with additional funds.
A prostitute.
He thinks I’m a prostitute.
I stand here, staring at my hands, what’s in them, trying to remember if there was anything I did or said that would make him think that. Other than the fact that I was dressed like one, agreed to go home with him and let him…
I don’t realize what I’m doing until it’s already done. Until the money and his note are shredded and thrown around his room like confetti. Until I’m dressed in the dress and shoes I walked in wearing and heading for the elevator.