Flawless (A Love, California Series Novel, Book 1)

by Jan Moran

  “I would have told her to go to hell,” Fianna said, shaking her fist after her.

  “Our friend here is the master of control.” Dahlia turned to Verena, alarm in her eyes. “Did Derrick say anything to you about Marvin?”

  Verena shook her head. “Maybe she’s lying. Marvin called, left a message for me just a few hours ago. How could he…?”

  Dahlia pulled a cell phone from her purse. “I’ll try him.” She tapped his number and waited. She shook her head sadly. “Voice-mail.”

  “We have to go to his home. Has anyone seen Derrick?”

  “By the door, talking to the mayor,” Fianna said.

  Verena started for the door, her friends following after her. She gulped, thinking about Marvin. She couldn’t believe he would commit suicide. He had a sweet wife and lovely children. He simply wasn’t the type to do such a thing. Why, why? She had to speak to Derrick.

  When Derrick saw her, he excused himself. With his trim figure and air of authority, he cut through the crowd with ease. “Verena, we need to talk.” He arched his neck, compulsively straightening his formal black bow tie. Verena watched him closely. Lately Derrick had been easily agitated.

  She touched his shoulder in an effort to connect with him. “I just heard the news about Marvin.”

  Derrick didn’t acknowledge her comment. “The mayor would like to see you now.”

  “Wait, you knew, didn’t you? When were you going to tell me about Marvin?” Verena ached for her dear friend.

  From the corner of her eye, Verena saw Scarlett nod to Dahlia and Fianna to continue talking, while Scarlett listened inconspicuously to her and Derrick. Scarlett was always on the alert.

  Derrick averted his dark eyes from Verena’s accusatory glare. After a moment, he turned back to her. “Come on, blue eyes, I didn’t want to spoil your special day,” he said, his voice conciliatory, nervously smoothing his already impeccable black hair.

  “Spoil my day?” Verena couldn’t believe what he was saying. “I’m not ten years old. Marvin was my friend and mentor.”

  “We didn’t expect this,” he said quietly.

  “Who is ‘we,’ Derrick?”

  Before he could answer, Greta appeared behind him, her arms folded, listening. “Aren’t you going to tell her?”

  Verena stepped back. Greta was a tough woman, but she was a reporter, and her job was to dig up the facts. “Tell me what?” Verena asked, composing herself.

  Greta put a hand on her slim hips, clearly relishing her role. “That none of the Herringbone Capital portfolio companies Derrick introduced to Marvin were paying their notes.”

  Derrick lifted his shoulders, let them drop. “What could we do? Times are hard. We’re in a recession.”

  Verena inclined her head. “I thought those companies were among your most successful.”

  “They are,” Derrick said. “Verena, it’s complicated.”

  “I’ll say,” Greta interjected with a smirk on her face.

  Derrick shot Greta a look that would curl toes.

  “Then why weren’t they paying their debts?” Verena had no reason to believe Greta, but something didn’t ring true.

  “I’ve been investigating. Looks to me like they had instructions not to pay their notes,” Greta said. “And what did they all have in common? Herringbone Capital.”

  “Butt out, Greta,” Derrick said, lowering his voice. “Verena, listen to me. Marvin was in trouble, and Herringbone merely instructed our companies not to get involved, to conserve their cash.”

  Verena stepped back, confused as to why he would issue such an order. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s the economy; National Western Bank was over extended.”

  Greta cut in. “But if your portfolio companies had paid their loans, they wouldn’t have been in trouble.”

  “We don’t know that, Greta,” Derrick said. “But there have been rumors in the financial circles that the bank had serious problems, far beyond what we knew then. And now it seems the talk was true.” He turned to Verena. “Poor Marvin, God rest his soul.”

  Scarlett moved in behind Verena, and put her arm around her friend. “If you want to go to his home, I’ll go with you. But he’s probably been taken away by now, Verena. I can check on this tomorrow.”

  Verena nodded, fighting a public display of grief. Although she despaired for her friend and his family, she was aware of her duty tonight. “There’s nothing we can do for him now.” She glanced over her shoulder and noticed the merchant buyers from Nordstrom and Neiman Marcus. “We should stay. I know a lot of people here came because of me. I’ve spoken to most of them, but—”

  Derrick cleared his throat. “I have to go; I’ve got some business to attend to. A conference call with our Tokyo investor just came up.” He gave her a peck on the cheek before he turned to leave.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Perplexed and unconvinced over Derrick’s explanation, Verena was actually relieved he was leaving.

  Verena plastered on a fake smile and circulated through the room, doing her duty and speaking to the people she needed to acknowledge and thank for coming.

  When she managed to disentangle herself, she returned to her friends. “I need some fresh air.” She started for the door. She was feeling faint, and she didn’t know if it was because of Marvin, or due to the fact that she had barely touched her dinner.

  “We’ll go with you,” Scarlett said.

  Outside the ballroom, Verena started up a circular staircase with Scarlett, Fianna, and Dahlia close behind. The four friends hurried through the lobby to the rear of the hotel overlooking the pool, turning heads in their wake.

  “Give me a few minutes,” Verena said to her friends, breathing in the mild evening air. She knew they meant well, but she needed to calm her nerves. “I just need to clear my mind.”

  Dahlia looked at her closely. “Are you sure?”

  Verena nodded. “It’s been a wild week.”

  “Let’s let her relax, ladies. We can have a cocktail in the Polo Lounge inside,” Dahlia said. “Verena, join us whenever you want.”

  Verena watched them go back into the hotel, glad that she had such good friends. They understood, and had always supported each other. They’d all had their share of difficulties.

  She walked alone through the deserted pool area, inhaling the sweet scent of jasmine on the summer night air. Although the evening was cooled with a gentle breeze, Verena wiped beads of perspiration from her upper lip. She drew a ragged breath, her hand on her chest as she exhaled, trying to calm her breathing. Marvin had been the banker for her company ever since she had taken the reigns after her parents’ deaths a decade ago. Over the years he had become a trusted mentor and a good friend.

  She still couldn’t believe he would have committed suicide. Her heart sank again and she closed her eyes as thoughts rushed through her mind. Marvin, Derrick, National Western, the Asian expansion. She’d probably have to arrange other financing. The debut in Asia was mere weeks away. Could she act fast enough?

  She’d been depending on Marvin’s commitment. She hadn’t even thought to look elsewhere. But why should I have? Marvin had set up the financing for her a year ago.

  At that thought, Verena remembered the first time she’d met Derrick at a cocktail party. They’d had a business discussion over candlelight, and he had questioned her on the wisdom of having a relationship with just one bank. ‘Entrepreneurs always need multiple sources of funding, just in case,’ he’d told her then, as he’d twined his fingers with hers, before leaving a lingering kiss on her lips. Only Derrick could seduce a woman while speaking business. And plenty of women seemed to fall at his feet.

  He’d certainly remind her of that comment now.

  Why hadn’t Derrick warned her about the bank’s imminent demise? If he’d warned the other companies in Herringbone’s portfolio, as Greta had asserted, why hadn’t he warned her, too? She was his fiancée, after all. She drew her brows together in thought. Som
ething didn’t seem right, and she didn’t like it. She would ask him tomorrow.

  As she walked, watching the moonlight wavering over the faint ripples on the pool’s surface, Verena thought of her grandmother, Mia, and her parents, and how hard they’d worked to build up the business. It had been a slow process, ‘brick by brick,’ as her father had been fond of saying. Her father, Joseph, and her mother, Angelica. How she missed them; she’d ached for them every day of her life since—

  A large man in a white shirt stepped in front of her. “Excuse me, do you have a light?”

  Verena jerked her head up, startled. “No,” she snapped. “And you shouldn’t jump out in front of people like that.”

  “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  His voice was a deep, warm baritone, and he sounded genuinely apologetic. Bright pool lights behind him illuminated his broad physique.

  She couldn’t make out his face, but she could see a cigarette dangling from his silhouetted fingers. “Besides, you shouldn’t smoke.” She heard him sigh.

  “I know. I quit, but I really need a cigarette right now. It’s been one of those weeks.”

  “Tell me about it,” she muttered. He made no reply but remained rooted to the ground before her, blocking her way. She put up her hand to shield her eyes from the light. “I can’t see you, and you’re in my way.”

  He stepped aside, and brought his face near hers. “Is that better?”

  A shaft of light from the pool shone on his face. Verena caught her breath. Behind his engaging smile, his white teeth sparkled. His eyes crinkled in a nice way when he grinned, and his kind face drew her in. He looked around her age, maybe a couple of years older—about thirty, she guessed. With tanned skin and sun-streaked, chestnut brown hair, it was obvious he enjoyed the California sunshine. He also had a distinct inviting aroma about him—garlic and rosemary. She looked at his clothes. White jacket, thermometer in a slender pouch sewn onto the sleeve, casual cotton pants. “You’re a chef.”

  He laughed and bowed. “At your service.”

  “You smell wonderful.” Verena grew warm. With her fair skin, she blushed easily, and she was glad it was dark outside. She was far too old for such immature reactions.

  “Hungry?”

  “I had dinner, sort of, but I didn’t really eat it. Actually, I’m starving.”

  He raised his eyebrows, alarmed. “What was wrong with it?”

  Verena realized he thought she didn’t like the food. It must have come from his kitchen. “No, it was delicious, but I can’t eat much before I have to appear in public or give a presentation. Audiences make me nervous; it’s stage fright, I guess.” She laughed. “I’m always starving by the time an event like this is over. Everyone else has eaten well, and then I have to find a late night diner. Or room service.”

  “You’ll have none of that tonight. Come with me.” He took her hand and smiled at her again when she hesitated. “What’s the matter?” He glanced down at her barren left hand—Derrick hadn’t given her a ring yet. “Boyfriend waiting for you?”

  There it was again, that warm feeling that grew along her neck. “No, not really, but my friends are waiting for me in the Polo Lounge.”

  “They’ll be fine, but you should eat something. Look, you’re so weak you’re shaking. I’ll call the maître’d at the Polo Lounge for you. What’s your name?”

  “What’s yours?”

  “Ah, my manners. Forgive me, too much time in the kitchen. My name is Lance, Lance Martel.”

  “Verena Valent.”

  “Beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” A smile curved on his full lips. “You’re going to eat well tonight, Verena. Come with me.” He took her hand, letting his fingers glide to her fingertips in a causal, friendly grasp.

  His fingers felt magnetic. She was starving, and he seemed innocuous enough, though he was disarmingly attractive. Not in the powerful, intense way Derrick was, but in a charming, friendly manner. She hesitated for a moment, and then thought, why not?

  2

  Lance led Verena into the back of the kitchen where the white-clothed staff was finishing clean-up for the night. “We have a limited menu at night for room service, so most of the kitchen is clean now,” he said.

  He walked ahead of her, nodding to a few workers Verena guessed were sous chefs and line cooks and servers. He drew a wooden stool up to a stainless steel counter for her and waved his hand. “Mademoiselle, your throne.”

  Before she sat down, Verena ran her finger across one of several large, gleaming knives on the table. “These are amazing.”

  “And razor sharp. Be careful, we have a lot of dangerous tools in here. I’ve got the scars to prove it.” Frowning, he held up a hand and pointed to an array of thread thin scars.

  She tried not to stare. He was missing half of the third finger of his right hand. “Oh, my, that must have hurt.”

  He grinned at her, and flicked up his finger. “Just kidding,” he said, chuckling. “Old chef’s joke. But you could perform surgery with these knives.”

  Verena smiled at his silly comment. He clearly liked to entertain people.

  She perched on the stool and watched him gather the professional tools of his trade. He brandished a copper skillet. “Anything you won’t eat?”

  “Hmm, maybe a Big Mac.”

  “I don’t blame you.” He looked up at her and paused, his golden amber eyes fixing on her. “Can I get creative?”

  “Sure.”

  Lance placed the copper sauté pan on a cooktop, adjusted the gas flame, and poured a measure of oil olive into one pan. He reached for a bunch of fresh green herbs—oregano and basil—selected an impressive knife and, wielding it with expert ease, began to chop with speed and precision. The blade tapped in staccato rhythm against the cutting board. As he chopped, the fragrant leaves spilled forth their aroma to scent the air. Verena breathed in, savoring the culinary magic.

  Verena watched his fluid movements, impressed with his casual confidence in the kitchen. It was evident that this was his territory, his domain, just as the skincare salon was hers.

  He whipped out a copper saucepan, turned on another flame. Next came whipping cream, sprinkles from little stainless steel bins—shallots and garlic, she thought—followed by cracked peppercorn, and several taps and shakes from a collection of worn stainless canisters delivered in a measured, almost hypnotic pace. Tap, tap-tap, tap, tap-tap. Verena noticed the tendons in his muscular forearms rippled as he worked. She’d never seen a professional chef at work, and she was mesmerized by his natural body rhythm and skill.

  He glanced up at her. “You’ll eat fowl, won’t you?”

  She was jolted from her thoughtful gaze. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Fowl, as in birds. I’ll bet you like squab.”

  A smile danced on her lips. “Of course, I’m game.”

  “Usually I’m the one cracking the jokes.” He grinned at her as he tossed more fresh herbs and ingredients into the mixture. He crossed the kitchen and opened a stainless steel refrigerator door. A moment later, he had his prized squab, and set to work trimming and dressing the dish.

  “Hey boss,” one of the workers called out as he gathered soiled towels. “Need a hand?”

  “No, I’ll take care of this special order,” Lance said with a wink.

  “You seem to enjoy your work,” she said, watching him.

  “What’s not to love about it? Feeding people great food makes them happy. And everyone has to eat.”

  He lifted a corner of his mouth in what Verena was quickly recognizing as a nearly omnipresent grin. Many of the men she met were intent on being smooth and sophisticated, or forever youthful in a way that could only work in Los Angeles, and especially in Hollywood. Lots of men in Los Angeles seemed to be on the verge of an important, too-good-to-be-true deal, or professed to know someone, who knew someone, who could make their dreams come to fruition.

  She’d heard it all in the salon, every story one could ima
gine. The incessant chatter was enough to make her head hurt at times.

  And then there was Derrick—and his senior partner, Thomas Roper—who exuded the kind of power only derived from marshalling great sums of money; they were the dealmakers, and everyone with a dream of overnight riches and fame seemed to pursue them. That wasn’t why she was with Derrick—not at all. No, he insisted she was the only one who had truly touched him, and she admired many things about him, such as the fact that he was so accepting of her younger sisters. With Mia’s tenuous health, Verena’s younger twin sisters were her responsibility.

  But this man before her, who clearly derived such pleasure in preparing a meal for a woman he’d just met, seemed genuine, authentic, relaxed in his skin. “How did you learn to cook like this?” she asked, trailing her fingers along the counter’s cool stainless steel surface.

  “I’ve always loved cooking—while other kids were watching cartoons or playing video games, I was watching cooking shows on television and sneaking into the kitchen after my mom went to bed. Later I went to culinary school in San Francisco, even worked in Europe for a while.” He paused and gazed straight into her eyes. “Someday I’d like to have my own restaurants and food lines. I have a plan, and I’m saving for it.”

  “Saving? Or trying to find investors?” She realized she sounded jaded.

  “Saving,” he replied firmly. “I make my own way.”

  Verena felt her cheeks flush. He was sharing his most precious goals, she realized, and it touched her. Verena liked listening to him, his voice was as rich and smooth as the cream he poured into the saucepan.

  “Do you pick up hungry women by the pool like this every night?” As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. It was none of her business. What difference did it make?

  But he didn’t take exception to her remark, or if he did, he didn’t show it. He shrugged. “Usually I clean up and leave, but it’s been a busy week. We’re short-handed, and I’ve had to do more cooking than usual.”

  When she looked quizzical, he added, “I’m the executive chef, which means I have general management duties.”