The elderly Frenchman sits at a nearby computer workstation with the padded black chair swiveled away from the monitors. One gnarled hand rests on his cane. Mottled red marks march across the sagging skin of his face.
I give points to Ferrara for not showing any visible discomfort, not even mild annoyance. If anything, Ferrara seems pleased with the way things are going so far.
Huddled behind the geezer so I don’t see her, at first, is the pawn, Deja Booty (or whatever the hell her name is). The minute my gaze sweeps over her, she straightens. There’s everything about hope in her expression like she thinks I just rode in here on my white horse.
Jesus.
I look at Tucker expectantly. I can’t wait to find out what kind of farce is about to play out. More importantly, what the fuck does he want with me?
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Nathan. I believe you’ve already met Mr. Ferrara.” Ferrara inclines his head toward me like a king acknowledging a peasant. Tucker finishes with the introductions in his southern accent like we’re all set to sit down for sweet tea and cookies.
De Hainault thumps his cane on the floor. “The Italian upstart has no grounds upon which to challenge me. I will not stand for this. It’s an outrage.”
Ferrara remains silent, but his mask of calm breaks. I follow his gaze to the girl behind the old man. If looks could kill, he’d have already throttled the Frenchman. Fat tears slide down the girl’s face. The tip of her nose has turned red. I wonder again how old she is because she looks like she’s aged backward since I escorted her from the club floor, getting younger all the time.
“Miss Booty has requested what she is referring to as asylum from Mr. Ferrara,” Tucker explains with a perfectly straight face. “Although she has already formally accepted the terms of her contract with H&S for M. de Hainault, she now wishes to decline. From what I understand of the situation, Mr. Ferrara is inclined to grant her request. M. de Hainault has expressed his opposition most clearly. I don’t have to tell anyone that this turn of events is unprecedented. However, at Harley & Sweet, we manage our clients concerns with the greatest care, which means we will treat this situation with as much sensitivity as possible. ”
Beyond Tucker’s politically correct spiel, the whole deal poses the question of how Miss Deja Booty and Alexander Ferrara came into contact in the first place. . .
Maybe the girl isn’t as dumb as she looks? Could she be the plant sent in by the feds? If so, how would defecting from de Hainault to Ferrara matter? It would depend on what kind of case they’re trying to build. I let the idea roll around in my head until it crumbles under the sheer weight of its improbability. No way Miss Deja Booty is a fed. I’d stake my life on it.
“How can I help?” I ask, hoping it’s something simple like a hit because that would be easier than playing referee between two powerful and influential men fighting over a woman.
“I asked you to come up because I need to remain impartial,” Tucker intones. “Marco will represent M. de Hainault. You, Nathan, will represent Mr. Ferrara.”
Like this is a fucking courtroom trial?
The urge to hit things returns with a vengeance. My fingers curl into fists while I nod like this is normal and, what the hell; I do this all the time.
It’s this damned job. Sooner or later it’s going to kill me.
You don’t try to reach above your station. Understand? And that’s a good thing because weapons are important. They help us get shit done without a lot of fuss.
Tucker may have called moving me inside the organization a promotion, but I knew he was lying. I’m a weapon. I always will be a weapon. Since I’m not a lawyer or even a manager, my presence means I’m insurance in case things get ugly. With Ferrara involved, ugly is almost a given. Since Tucker put me on Ferrara, it means de Hainault is the target. . .
If it comes to that.
But, message received. I give Tucker a slow nod. All I get in response is a flicker of his eyes, but it’s enough. We’re on the same page.
I cross the room and stand next to Ferrara. The billionaire smiles. “Interesting, don’t you think, that we’re finally on the same side?”
My heartbeat pounds in my ears. Blue light from the bank of computer monitors sweeps across Ferrara’s face, painting his tanned skin and blue eyes with a sinister look. He’s always played on his handsome, golden appearance as if he honestly is an angel come down to earth. He hires PR firms to spin every greedy corporate decision he makes into something that’s either good for the Earth or good for the people of the planet or, best of all, both. Maybe he believes his own crap. That work has turned him into an icon with the tree-huggers and the climate-change crowd. The truth is that only one thing matters to him, and that’s Alexander Ferrara.
When I stalked him back when I was planning to take him out for blackballing me with the syndicate, that trait made him predictable. It was the only advantage I discovered and even then, it wasn’t enough of an advantage to overcome his massive security infrastructure.
Now I’m standing six inches away from one of the wealthiest and most powerful men on the planet.
Five years ago, I’d have given my left nut to get this close to the bastard. I smile back at him, and it’s genuine. “Yes, you’re right, it is interesting.”
He extends a manicured hand. “I’m willing to let bygones be bygones if you are.”
That surprises me.
And tells me Ferrara has another agenda, one that’s bigger than tangling with a flustered and sexually frustrated European industrialist long past his sell-by date. One thing I know for sure: sooner or later, Ferrara’s going to want to use my services.
I shake his hand and understand there’s no going back now. I’ve made a deal with the devil.
BROOKE
When I’ve finally put myself back together, I do the best job I can of making sure the rip in Caylee’s dress is as unobtrusive as possible. At least, the club is dark, so the rip won’t show until I hit the streetlights on the sidewalk outside. The jacket I left at the coat check won’t cover the tear or my side boob. I tell myself I don’t know any of these people, and I’ll never see them again. It helps a little but doesn’t take away the embarrassment. I’m too much of a good girl, the kind of girl who always follows the rules to chalk up a night like this to experience and head home laughing.
My body aches in a sweet way, and there’s a thread of remembered ecstasy coiling through my veins I hope won’t go away for hours. Maybe ever. I want to hold on to the memory of Nathan’s touch as long as I can.
Because I can’t stay hiding here forever, I take a deep breath and open the door to the small office, peeking my head out and looking left and right. At the far end, next to the polished black door labeled VIP, there’s no one at the standing desk. The door on the opposite end stands slightly ajar. Thumping music from the club leaks through the opening and drifts toward me.
I slip into the hall thinking I’m going to do just what Nathan said and go home. That’s the sensible thing, right? My curiosity about what’s behind the black door won’t let go. I could take a look-see. What could it hurt?
Here’s the truth: I want to see Nathan again. Things ended too abruptly. I’m not ready to go home and crawl between the sheets and stare at the ceiling replaying every minute of our encounter.
I’m sorry if I hurt you.
His voice was so soft and repentant; it took me a minute to realize this was the same man who only moments before had been so rough and commanding. This voice came from a different part of him, one that’s softer, younger, one that might have been hurt in the past, one that called to the dark places inside me.
I halt and lean against the corridor wall and take a deep, long breath to steady myself. Why do I think about him? Teasing nuance from every word he uttered? I’ll never see him again, and maybe that’s a good thing. Whatever else he is, whoever else this man I only know as Nathan is, he’s a predator. I’d stake my life on that truth. I don’t have to kno
w anything else about Harley & Sweet to figure he works for people who probably have their hands in a lot of nasty, possibly illegal, crap they hide behind fancy clubs and sexy red shoes.
So you’re going to go home and hope things work out for the best for Caylee?
Yeah. What else can I do? It’s not like I’m a cop or even an investigator. I’m a secretary who processes the reports my boss writes about people who try to rip off insurance companies. Big whoop.
My head turns toward the right, and I stare again at the standing desk next to the polished black door. Maybe there’s a printout or a list showing the red shoe women who’ve passed through this evening. It might give me more information about Caylee.
Since I won’t get this chance again, I run down the hall quietly and slip behind the desk and search the lower shelves with my hand. My fingers touch on something smooth and silky. I pull it out, my eyes widening as I realize what I’ve retrieved.
It’s an evening clutch made of black satin, ruched along the top. I rub my thumb over a worn place on the bottom left seam. A large letter B decorates the snap closure. It’s encrusted with Swarovski crystal: B for Barbara, my mother.
Stunned, all I can do is stare and try not to cry.
I spent about thirty minutes this afternoon digging through my closet and every drawer in my tiny bedroom hunting for this bag. There’s no way I would have ever thrown it in a box destined for Goodwill, not even by accident. It’s one of the few things I have left from my mother. I remember her holding it against her body when she came in late at night to kiss me on the cheek. She always smelled of Chanel No. 9 and her lips were cool from the night air. Dad waited for her in the doorway, a tall silhouette I spied through slitted eyes. I pretended to be asleep but watched them kiss until Mom pulled my door closed.
This bag, her kiss, the scent of Chanel, made me feel safe and loved.
So what the hell is it doing here?
I open the clasp and look inside, finding a twenty-dollar bill, a tube of Sex on the Beach pink lip-gloss, and a cell phone. Slowly (because I know what I’m going to see and I really, really don’t want to see it), I pull the phone out and push the home button. The screen lights and then it resolves into a portrait: Samantha.
I can’t run from the truth. She’s the reason my mother’s old evening bag disappeared from my closet.
The world explodes and crumbles into tiny pieces and reforms into a picture I don’t recognize, don’t want to see. I pull out pieces from that picture—memories of the last few days—that put events into perspective.
Samantha watching me sit at my desk trying to figure out which bill to pay this week and which one to put off so we could still buy groceries. Samantha offering to delay college in the fall to get a job. Samantha picking up the Harley & Sweet business card and asking about it. I’d blown her off with a half-assed answer she must have understood immediately wasn’t the truth. At eighteen, her BS detector is turned on high all the time. Except, of course, when it comes to personal safety because, at eighteen, she thinks she is bulletproof and immortal.
I was seventeen when I learned the hard truth that no one and nothing lasts forever, not even the people and things you think you can’t live without. Since Samantha was eleven when our parents died, I shielded her from the hard truths of our situation the best I could. If that protection led to her putting on a pair of red shoes in a last ditch effort to save our failing finances, the fault is mine. Samantha was trying to save us when that was my job. That’s the only logical reason our mother’s evening bag would be stuffed on a shelf in this hallway of this club, right?
I pray I’m wrong.
I have to be wrong because I can’t let my brain go where the red shoes lead.
I push on the black VIP door and discover it’s locked. My balled-up fist hammers on the polished surface. I’m shaking all over, and my dress is ripped, and my mascara is probably smeared, but I don’t care. There’s one thing on my mind, and that’s to get my little sister out of here safely. I pound on the door again and shout. When there’s no response, I lean my face against it, willing myself not to cry. Then the door flies open.
A twenty-something guy in black uniform trousers and shirt stands in the doorway. His nametag reads Davis. He smiles as if he recognizes me. I don’t have time for this.
“Where’s my sister?”
He blinks and frowns. “Um, I’m not sure. Could you tell me her name?”
“Samantha. Samantha Lopez.”
“All right, let me take a look at the roster.”
Roster? A cold feeling stabs my gut. How many women waltz into this club wearing red shoes? I don’t even want to know.
Davis produces a small tablet and swipes his fingers across the surface. I watch his eyes flick left to right while he chews on his bottom lip. “No, I’m not seeing that name.” He looks up at me. “Might she be using a different name? Some of our girls do that.”
Our girls? The cold feeling in my gut turns to nausea. As far as I know, Samantha’s dated a few times and never had a regular boyfriend. She’s always been too focused on her studies.
Or maybe I saw what I wanted to see? Heard what I wanted to hear?
“Yeah, Rachel and I are going to go over some scholarship programs tonight and see which ones we have the best shot at getting.”
Right.
Isn’t that what all eighteen-year-olds do on a Friday night? I’d believed her, and why not? She’d never given me any reason not to trust her.
Using her cell, I punched the button for Contacts and selected Rachel’s number. A teenage voice answers. “Hey,” she says in a hushed voice, “what’s up? Is everything all right? I thought you weren’t going to call. . .”
“Game over. It’s me, Rachel.”
“Oh shit, Brooke.”
“Oh shit is right, but we can talk about that later. Where’s Samantha?”
“She. . . um. . . well, I don’t exactly know.”
“The truth, Rachel, or I’m calling your mom.” I’m calling her mom anyway, but she doesn’t have to know that right now.
“Brooke, seriously, that’s the truth. It’s all I know.”
“What about the red shoes?”
“Oh, yeah, well, there’s that, too.”
It takes everything in my being to remain calm. “Was she wearing the red shoes this evening?”
“Yes.”
I punch the button to close out the call. I can’t say another word to Rachel without ripping her a new one, which will do no good for anyone.
From Davis, who has remained standing in the doorway this whole time, I grab the tablet and scan the list of names. It’s shorter than I thought. Out of all the Crystals and Tiffanys and Ambers, one name jumps out as even more obviously false: Deja Booty.
I point to it. “That one. That’s my sister.”
Davis pales. “Are you sure?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“No, ma’am, you don’t.”
“Where is she?”
“I. . . uh. . .I can’t really. . .”
I push through the opening, fueled by pure fury, and back Davis against the wall opposite and poke his chest with my finger. “You are going to take me to my sister and you are going to do it right now. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I stand with one hand on my hip, the other holding my mother’s clutch. “Well, let’s get going.”
“Yes, ma’am, it’s just that—”
“Are you going to do as I ask or do I have to call Nathan?” It’s only a bluff, but it works.
Davis’ face goes even whiter. Quickly, he turns and leads me to an elevator where he holds a card up to a scanner. When the doors open, he steps inside to scan his card again and punch a number. The doors close, and we’re gliding upward.
Davis looks like he wants to throw up.
When the elevator doors open again, I understand why.
Nathan’s head whips around, his gaze piercing me before mo
ving on to Davis, who is attempting to shrink into himself, and failing.
“I’m sorry, sir, I tried—” Davis begins.
It’s a stocky, balding man who interrupts, walking forward as if wading through muddy water. “What the hell? I thought I made it clear this floor was off limits.”
Nathan steps between the balding man and the elevator. “I’ll take care of this, sir.”
“Oh no, you’re not.” I stalk out of the elevator and cross to my sister.
“What are you doing here?” she whispers when I’m standing next to her.
“Saving your ass,” I hiss back at her.
“Oh God, Brooke, I’m so sorry.” She buries her face in her hands.
An old man seated to my left whacks me on the leg with his cane. “What is the meaning of this intrusion.” I was always taught to respect my elders, but if he hits me again, I might have to rip that cane out of his liver-spotted hands.
“I don’t know what’s going on here, and I don’t care. I’m taking my sister home. Now. Come on, Samantha.”
“She’s your sister?” Nathan stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time.
“Yes, Einstein. She’s my sister and not—” I glance at Samantha. “What were you thinking? Calling yourself Deja Booty?”
Samantha’s face reddens. “It was a joke. Rachel and I were just having fun.”
The balding guy’s head swivels from Nathan to me and back again. Then he shares a long look with a man I didn’t notice at first. He’s blond, tall and movie star handsome, and could have stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine.
Turning his attention back to me, the balding man inquires, “Miss. . .?”
“Lopez. I’m Brooke, and this is my sister, Samantha Lopez.”
“Thank you, Miss Lopez.” He introduces himself as Tucker Voss and then goes around the room, listing their names as if I should recognize them. Or bow or some such nonsense. The only thing that registers in my stunned brain is Nathan’s last name: Costa.
Made: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Boy Games) Page 6