Jasmine sneered. “No. Then we beat it out of him. He’s got it. I know he does. I don’t understand for what purpose, but he does. Don’t worry, honey. Please. The only thing you have to worry about is that the whiny ex-ball fumbler will screw this up.”
“I am blind, Jasmine. It will be you who’s directing me from the verandah.”
“Always with the blind card. It didn’t stop you from being a liar.”
With a snarl, Frankie snapped, “People! Please, please knock it the hell off! I’m already eggshell fragile here. I haven’t slept in a week worrying about what Voula and Barnabas think of me. I’m tired, and I’m afraid to screw up my one shot at making this right. So stop fighting and let’s focus on getting Voula’s recipe back before Mitch turns it into a three-ring meatloaf circus, okay? Please?”
Jasmine reached back and squeezed her friend’s arm, narrowly missing Simon’s also consoling touch. “I’m sorry. You’re right. So I’ll be hiding in some bush on the verandah, directing you, Simon. That’s it. That’s the plan.”
Now that Jasmine had laid it all on the table, out loud, Frankie had to fight back the million and one misgivings she had and take a deep breath.
Jasmine looked at them all. “We good?”
They pulled up to Mitch’s brownstone with a hushed glide of Cadillac, parking in Frankie’s old spot. Her stomach jolted again, her hands shook. “We’re good.”
Jasmine grabbed her cell phone with a grimace. “Ring-ring, Mitch’s minion calling. It’s that Juliana again.”
Frankie chewed her lip again. In order for this to work, Mitch had to be alone. If Juliana was with him, they were screwed. She’d specifically told Mitch that Simon didn’t want anyone else present because he was a private man.
Jasmine pushed the phone at her. “I think you should take it. If she’s with Mitch, if she starts asking questions, hang up and pretend you lost the signal, and we table this for another day.”
“Jesus, Jasmine. You’re the most devious person I know.”
“How do you think I caught Ashton tapping his latest victim?”
Frankie took the phone, praying she could pull this off. “Juliana? Hey! How’s it going?” Jasmine smiled and gave her a thumbs-up of approval.
There was the smallest of sobs before she said, “Frankie, I’m sick over this, but if I don’t tell you, I’ll never sleep another wink.”
Frankie imagined poor Juliana, tired, rumpled, beaten by Mitch and his demands. Instantly, she pitied the woman who’d had to step into her shoes. “O . . . okay. What’s on your mind?”
“Mitch is a liar. A low-down, dirty, rotten douche bag.”
Frankie almost barked a laugh. Ah, enlightenment.
“He’s lying to you, Frankie! He isn’t dying of anything. He’s healthier than a twenty-year-old. He’s not dying of cancer. He wasn’t even a little sick on Christmas Eve. It was all part of a plan to get you to come back to the show. Mitch paid some out-of-work actor to come to the hospital and feed you that story. He knew damn well it would take something drastic to get you to come back. He knew it!”
Frankie’s mouth fell open. That fucking bastard. She gripped the phone tighter to her ear, fighting for composure. “Are you joking?” She knew Juliana wasn’t. Knew. Yet those were the only words of disbelief she could find.
Juliana sniffled and blew her nose into the phone. “I swear it, Frankie. I have the proof. I’ll give it all to you, but not before I go to Bon Appetit and expose him for the pig he is! You have to believe me. I was suspicious about you coming back so easily. Mitch said it was because you wanted him to consider reconciling, but I didn’t believe it, so I started to dig. It took a little while, but it wasn’t hard to figure out. Mitch is such an idiot he left a paper trail. He was so smug and sure you’d never find out.”
Frankie’s stomach heaved. “Mitch lied to you,” she murmured, holding up a hand to thwart Jasmine’s concerned gaze.
Juliana snorted her displeasure. “He lies to everyone. I begged him to tell you the truth after I found out what he’d been up to. I knew he needed your help with those recipes because his ratings have tanked, and the execs were considering cancellation. I knew he was cheating on you with Bamby, I just didn’t have the guts to tell you, but I never thought he’d stoop so low and tell you he was dying. I never thought he’d be so afraid to lose his limelight that he’d steal some poor woman’s recipe and try to sell it to someone to mass produce for the frozen food section of grocery stores.”
Frankie gasped. The depth of Mitch’s fucked-up-edness was endless. She put a hand to her mouth to bite her finger to keep from screaming. She’d fallen for it. Nikos and everyone else had been right. Mitch was that much of a scumbag. How she could have ever believed otherwise bordered unreal. Stupid, stupid Frankie.
Juliana didn’t appear to hear Frankie’s gasp; clearly, unloading her burden was the only goal. “I don’t know where that recipe is, but I know Mitch has it. He caught me eavesdropping on him when he was talking about the terms of this contract he’s trying to finagle with that frozen foods corporation and fired me, but it was only seconds before I was going to quit! And now I’m going to hang up because I’m so disgusted with myself for hiding Mitch’s affair with Bamby and everything else that I can’t stand being in my own skin. I’m disgusted that I was afraid to lose my job. But no more. I won’t be a part of something like this. Not anymore! I’m sorry, Frankie. I’m so sorry!”
The phone went dead.
Well, now. That bit of information made everything so much easier.
Mitch wasn’t dying right now, but, oh, when she was done, he’d be on his knees, praying he was.
“Frankie? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Jasmine prodded.
She smiled then.
Wide.
Sly.
“You bet I’m okay, and if I were you, Simon, when we get inside that brownstone, I’d listen for the scrape of a kitchen knife against Mitch’s neck. Does anyone know if they have the death penalty in New York?”
After retelling Juliana’s story as quickly as she could, Frankie fought the urge to forget their best-laid plans and storm Mitch’s castle instead.
“You have it together, Francis?” Jasmine asked.
Frankie’s nod was curt. Sure, she had it. It was all together.
“Okay then, Mouseketeers. This is it,” Jasmine announced, sliding down in her seat so Mitch wouldn’t catch sight of her. “Good luck, sweetie, and go get ’em!”
“Aw, thanks, cookie—”
“Not you, dumb ass,” she retorted from her hunched position in the front seat.
Simon turned his head in Frankie’s direction. “Ah, love. Ain’t it grand?”
Frankie fought a snort, escorting Simon up along the walkway lined with decorative stone she’d specially ordered herself from Italy. “She’ll forgive you, Simon. Maybe not exactly in the way you want, but she will. Just give her time.”
He paused in his step for a moment, pulling her hand under his arm. “You do know I feel like grade-A shit for buying into this, don’t you? I was just looking out for Nikos. After Anita . . . I just didn’t want to see him hurt like that again.”
Frankie gulped crisp air into her lungs. “I almost understand. I think I was forever going to pay for Anita’s sins, so it’s probably better it’s over between Nikos and me.” Christ, that hurt to admit. But Nikos had allowed his mistrust to overrule even the slight possibility that she was telling the truth. Mitch’s betraying her with another woman didn’t match this kind of hurt.
“I should have given you the benefit of the doubt, but it looked so bad, Frankie.”
“You know a thing or two about the tabloids, Simon. You’re an ex-pro football player. If it isn’t bad, or if it doesn’t look bad, how would they ever sell papers or get ratings? Forget that. This isn’t just about Nikos. It’s about Voula and Barnabas and how they welcomed me when I was as low as I’ve ever been. I care about them, Simon. If anyone can buy Voula’s meatloaf in
the frozen food section, which is what Juliana claims Mitch plans to do with that recipe, then why would they travel from all over just to have some at the diner? That recipe’s been in her family for generations, and if it wasn’t for me, Mitch never would have known about it. I feel partially responsible for this.”
“I don’t think Nikos will want things to be over when he knows the truth, Frankie. He’s a little head over heels for you.”
Her heart throbbed in anguish for Nikos, but facts were facts. “For me? The real me who’s fighting for what she wants in life, or the Frankie who needs a knight in shining armor? I can’t live without trust, Simon. I wouldn’t do it with Mitch and I won’t do it with Nikos.”
“How about this—we go and get this damned recipe from that slug, and we don’t make any final decisions until we return it to Voula?”
Her mind was made up. No amount of crying at night before she finally fell asleep, no amount of missing Nikos would make her budge. But for the sake of this working, she nodded her head. “No final decisions.”
They took the five steps leading to the door and stopped. “So here we go, sunshine. You got your game face on?”
Frankie forced a smile as she rang the doorbell. “Ready, set, hut.”
Mitch opened the door, his face a wreath of smiles and goodwill. His greeting was warm, despite the dismissive glance he gave Frankie.
“Simon, it’s wonderful to meet you.” He extended his hand, touching Simon’s.
And Simon responded by grabbing it and pulling it to his chest as though he held the very hand of God—like a teenage female who’d just stumbled across Robert Pattinson. “Omigahhhhhd!” he squealed, rivaling any third-grade girl. “You’re Mitch in the Kitchen! Oh, man, I love you. Just big love from old Simon to you. You are hands down, the best chef ever. I mean, I know a lot of folks think that Tyler Florence is the shit, but he’s no you!”
On that note, the one that left Mitch’s ego appropriately fed, she and Simon entered the lion’s den.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
From the journal of ex-trophy wife Frankie Bennett: As I reflect, again, I reiterate—spies we ain’t.
“Do you know your left from your right?” Jasmine hissed in Simon’s ear?
“I do.” He at least kept his answer vague so if Mitch heard him, he wouldn’t suspect foul play.
“Then take approximately three steps forward, make a hard right, and turn around, numbskull.”
“Hey, quit with the name-calling. You’ll mess up my step count.”
“Would you shut up? You’re not supposed to say anything suspicious, superspy! If Mitch hears you, he’ll catch us.” Christ, if Simon didn’t get this right, she’d beat him with his walking cane personally. A deep breath later and she was watching him fumble in his pocket for the bobby pin to pick the desk’s lock. “Be careful, Simon!”
Well, it was too late for that. Jasmine gasped. The bobby pin fell and skidded under the desk. “Oh, for the love of!”
“Blind here,” he whisper-yelled back. “If you’d just stop barking orders at me, I wouldn’t have dropped it. Jesus, Jasmine.”
She crouched lower in the rhododendron bush to get a better view with the binoculars Simon had purchased for just this reason, fighting the sting when a branch cut through her nylons. “Oh, stop, please. You weren’t so blind you couldn’t lie to me. Wait! I see it. Get on your knees, bad boy, and slide your hand forward to about one o’ clock.” Simon did as he was told, clasping the bobby pin to stand up, thwacking his head on the edge of the large antique desk.
“Ow! Damn it, Jas, you’re supposed to be my eyes.”
“Oh, suck it up, girlie, and pipe down. Weren’t you the one who played football? Did you cry like a girl when someone tackled you?”
Simon cleared his throat. “I did not, but I had a helluva lot better guards watching my back than you, gorgeous. Now stop barking at me, and let’s do this before we get caught.”
A shaky breath later and she was back to directing him. “Reach forward, Simon, and hang on to that bobby pin like it’ll win you the Super Bowl.” On closer inspection, Jasmine saw his hand hovered right in front of the keyhole. “Good, now make sure that thing’s right side up, and jam it in there.”
He tried not once but four separate times before she lost her cool with a slap to her forehead. “No, fool. Stop. Catch your breath. Listen to me. Lean forward.”
Simon did as he was told.
“Niiiice. Now keep your hand straight and feel for the keyhole.”
His chuckle slipped into her ear, making her shudder uncomfortably. “You’re hot when you play spy.”
Her sigh was ragged. “Simon—this is for Frankie! You know, the woman you helped trash because you wouldn’t listen and who now no longer has a paycheck?”
Instantly, Simon was all business, successfully jamming the bobby pin into the keyhole. “Yes!” she cheered, then slipped on the rocks in the garden. She grabbed on to a branch of the bush to right herself, glancing around to see if anyone had caught her yet. “Okay, you’re in. Pull out every paper in that damned drawer.”
Simon began digging, setting everything on the desk in front of him.
“Hold each one up so I can see it clearly,” she ordered, her heart racing. “Ohhhh,” she cooed, “their divorce papers. Put that one down and say something random, like you’re talking to a business associate. Say it loud, so that dipshit hears you, and Frankie knows we’re in the thick of this.”
Simon obeyed by barking into the phone, “How many times do I have to tell you, Don, no more endorsements for Nike! Jesus Christ, I’m blind, and even though blind men ‘just do it,’ too, we don’t do it while we’re running alongside a horse!”
Jasmine straightened. “Your agent did not suggest you do a commercial running alongside a horse.”
“Yeah, yeah, he did.” He held up another paper over his shoulder.
“No! Damn. That’s not it. But wait, it’s his checking account statement. Stop right there. I’m not ashamed to say, I wanna know how much he’s bilked Frankie out of.”
Simon slapped the paper on the desk. “That’s not nice.”
Her next words were petulant. “What would you know about nice?”
“I know what I was going to do to you wasn’t nice.” He sifted through more papers, holding them up.
“Using people never is, and no, no, and no. It’s not in that batch. Damn!”
“That was only how it started, Jasmine. The moment I sat with you at Foofy’s, I knew revenge wasn’t what I wanted anymore.”
“Fluffy’s, idiot. Will you ever get that right? And it doesn’t matter. That you even considered doing something like that to me—to any-one—makes my skin crawl.”
Jasmine refused to continue her internal battle about Simon. That she could remotely consider still caring for him after he’d set out to do something so immoral made her wonder who she hated more—herself for still wanting him or Simon for having the kind of gall it took to do something so malicious.
“Hatred, resentment, years of it, does ugly things to a man. Win told you what I said only minutes after we met, didn’t he?” He flashed another piece of paper.
“No, that’s not it, and yes, Win told me, but why would I believe him any more than I believe you. He has your best interests at heart, dirtbag, not mine.”
“Win only does what’s right. I think it’s obvious because I’m here with you right now. He wouldn’t have let me get away with not making this thing right.”
“And would you have been making this right if Win hadn’t forced you?” She plucked a leaf from Mitch’s rhododendron and shredded it with a maniacal smile.
“Yes, Jasmine. Yes.”
That one word shouldn’t have held much water. It was only a word. Yet it chiseled at her heart like an ice pick, forcing her to see the power of such a long-festered resentment. “Oh, wait! Omigod, Simon, I think you found it!” Jasmine peered closer, adjusting the binoculars to focus on the well-worn
piece of notepaper he held. “Ohhh, that’s it! Put all those other papers back in the drawer, and let’s get the hell out. I can’t believe you did it! You did it!”
Simon palmed the recipe, scrambling to drag the pile of papers back to the drawer and shutting it with agile hands.
Jasmine sucked in a deep breath. Thank you, God. “Okay, now get the hell out of there before Frankie has to do something drastic.”
Simon turned to the windows, his winning smile, arrogant and pleased with himself, wide on his face. He held up the recipe in two fists and gave her the sign of victory.
So caught up in his coup, he completely ignored her gasp.
She ducked behind the bush, fighting a yelp of pain when a branch caught her cheek. “Simon!”
Nothing. No response in her ear. Oh. Dear. God. In. Heaven.
“Simon!” she whisper-yelled. “Turn around, you gloating fool . . .”
Frankie was hot on Mitch’s heels, fear of being caught at a premium. “See? I told you Simon was just fine, Mitch. He’s really good at being blind. Gets around just fine, don’t you, Simon?”
Simon turned around just as Frankie saw him letting what she prayed was the recipe slip to the floor. She faked a loud cough so Mitch wouldn’t hear the notepaper rustle as Simon followed suit and yelled into the phone, “I told you, no, Don! What about me and maxi pads says ex-pro football player?” He covered the earpiece and whispered into the room, “Agents. You know how it is, right, Mitch? Always looking for the next buck.”
Mitch gave Simon a skeptical glance, then appeared to remember Simon couldn’t see it. He moved toward Simon, and square into the path of the recipe, all alone and needing someone to pick it up by Simon’s feet. “Here, let me help you, Simon. You’d probably be more comfortable in the great room anyway. My office gets so cold.”
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