Nick let out a snort of laughter. “Lurking? Really?”
“What else would you call it?”
“I’d call it doing my job.”
“As I understand it, your job is to drive the car.”
“I fill in as a handyman, too.”
The latch on Lyman’s office door clicked, and the heavy brass knob turned. Zoë and Nick turned in unison.
A stocky Asian man in a black suit, carrying a black leather briefcase in one hand, stepped out. His cheeks were flushed, and the muscles in his jaw flexed. “Our latest offer is very generous. You will regret your decision.”
Lyman followed and herded him toward the front door. “I don’t believe I will.”
Zoë glanced at Nick and read silent agreement in his eyes. Together they fell into step behind Lyman.
After Lyman opened the door, Watanabe paused at the threshold. “May I tell my superiors you will at least consider it?”
A tiny tremor shook Lyman’s hand as it gripped the knob, and his knuckles turned white. “Tell your bosses I don’t want to see or hear from you again. If I do, I will file a harassment lawsuit. I have already been in touch with the police.”
Victor Watanabe’s face mottled purple and red. He gave a sharp nod, turned, and marched toward his car.
Lyman shut the door with a solid thud then leaned against it. He glanced from Nick to Zoë then gave a shaky laugh. “I know it’s early, but I believe I could use a nip of Grandfather’s special blend about now.”
Alarmed by his pallor, Zoë reached for his arm. “Come sit down, and I’ll get you a glass. Is that what you keep in the decanter in your office?”
He nodded. “I hate confrontations of any kind, but that man won’t take no for an answer. I just want him to go away and leave us alone.”
Nick reached for the door knob with a look of stolid determination. “Don’t worry about him. I’ll make sure he gets the message.” He opened the door and stepped outside, pulling it shut behind him with a loud click.
Zoë wasn’t sure what he planned to do. He probably wouldn’t punch out a Japanese businessman in the driveway, but who could say? In the two days she’d known him, Nick Rosetti had been anything but predictable. At least his physical presence was more intimidating than his employer’s. She led Lyman into the living room then brought him an inch of whiskey in a cut-crystal tumbler. He swallowed it in one swift gulp then gasped and coughed.
He blinked a couple of times and coughed again before handing the glass back. “I’m afraid I’ve never been much of a drinker. Grandfather would be gravely disappointed.”
The front door opened and closed moments before Nick walked into the living room.
“Watanabe won’t be bothering you anymore.”
“Thank you, Dominic. I hope you’re right.” Lyman turned to Zoë. “I hope you and Marian had a better morning than I did. Because of that blasted man, I didn’t get much work done on GRAMPA.”
“We had a very fruitful outing. I’ll let her tell you about it.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “The groceries! Omigosh, I forgot the groceries!”
She grabbed Nick’s sleeve and dragged him toward the kitchen. “You…come help me right now.”
He stumbled as she pulled him through the back door at full speed. “You left the food sitting out in the driveway all this time?”
“It wasn’t that long. Besides, it’s cold outside. Everything will be fine.” She jerked open the back hatch of the Mini and prayed she was right.
“It might be cold outside, but you clearly had the heat cranked up in the car.” He peered into a bag as he hefted two more from the back with the other hand. “There better not be any ice cream in here.”
There was.
She bit back the word on the tip of her tongue. Marian had been so excited about the key lime pie sorbet. If it was melted, Zoë would have to make a quick ice cream run after lunch. “Just help me get everything inside.”
Nick helped put the food away with remarkable efficiency and only a few cracks about the more unusual items, most of which could be blamed on Marian’s pregnancy cravings. Before putting the sorbet in the freezer, Zoë gave it a squeeze. The carton flexed, but only a little. There was still hope. She would check it again in a few hours.
Because she’d been gone most of the morning, lunch consisted of sandwiches and deli coleslaw, but at least the bread was fresh and the meat and cheese sliced thin. The others had nearly finished their leftover brownies when Zoë’s phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID: Madelyn Li—the owner of Phoenix, Ltd. and her boss. Her stomach did a flip flop. Madelyn must be back from her honeymoon, and Risa would have filled her in on the Prescott job.
“Excuse me. I need to take this.” She hurried out of the kitchen.
“Feel free to use my study,” Lyman called after her.
As soon as she closed the office door, she tamped down her nerves and answered the call. “Hargrove here.”
As expected, her boss’s voice replied. “Zoë, it’s Madelyn.”
“Hi, Boss. How was Nassau?”
Madelyn sighed. “Hot, and how many times have I told you not to call me Boss?”
Zoë’s laugh cracked a little. “More than I can count.”
“Risa tells me we have a new client, and you took the initiative to accept the job on your own.”
Zoë couldn’t tell from Madelyn’s tone whether she approved or not. “That’s right.”
“How are things going? Have you run into any significant problems?”
“So far, so good.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Please tell Mr. Prescott I’ll call him later this afternoon for his perspective and to thank him for his business.”
Zoë’s stomach tightened. The job seemed to be going well, but would Lyman give her a good report? “Will do.” She heard the sound of shuffling papers on the other end.
“I don’t see a duration or end date for the job in the file.”
“It’s open-ended at this point.”
“Okay. In a week or so, I’ll send Casey to fill in for you so you can have a couple of days off.”
Casey Callahan was Zoë’s favorite fellow operative at Phoenix, Ltd. She was warm and friendly, and the Prescotts would love her. Maybe too much. Casey was also a fabulous cook. What if Lyman asked to make the switch permanent?
“Um…I’m not sure that will work. It might raise Mrs. Prescott’s suspicions… I’ll get back to you on that next week.”
“I’ll discuss it with the client. I’m certain he doesn’t expect you to work twenty-four/seven indefinitely.” Madelyn’s tone signaled her switch to boss mode.
“Whatever you say, Boss.”
“And stop calling me Boss.”
Zoë rang off and returned to the kitchen with only a minor dent in her confidence.
“Is everything okay?” Marian asked when she walked in.
Zoë smiled and began collecting the dirty plates from the table. “It was the head of the agency I work for. She was just checking in to find out how things are going.” It was always better not to lie, if possible.
“And what’s the name of this agency?” Nick had a self-satisfied look, as if he’d tricked her and knew it.
Her brain froze.
If she gave him the correct name, he’d figure out her cover in a couple of minutes on a computer. Madelyn insisted the identities of her agents be kept confidential, but the company had a robust, professional website that explained its business in detail.
She sent a questioning glance to Lyman, who gave his head a tiny shake. Think fast. “Um…We Cook for You.” Sheesh. That was so lame there couldn’t possibly be a company in Chicago with that name.
Nick seemed satisfied for the moment—at least he didn’t grill her any further. He excused himself to continue his work on the elevator, and the others headed off to their afternoon pursuits—Lyman to tinker with GRAMPA and Marian to read. Zoë spent the time reviewing her recipes for dinner and organizing everything she
would need. This meal was critical. She’d run out of excuses.
She had decided to make old-fashioned chicken and dumplings for a couple of reasons. One—she’d watched her grandmother make it for Sunday dinner more times than she could count, and two—she’d found a recipe on the Internet that didn’t look too hard. Two hours later she was covered in flour from head to foot, and the dumplings didn’t look much like Grandma’s. But the kitchen smelled delicious, and all the ingredients were finally in the same pot, simmering on the stove, so she counted it as a win.
“Do you always make such a mess when you cook?”
The sound of Nick’s voice startled her like a cold hand on the back of her neck. She spun and dropped the big metal spoon, which clattered to the floor, creating a slippery puddle of pale yellow broth.
She glared at him. “Always.” And are you always such a jackass?
He grabbed a paper towel and squatted by the puddle. “I’ll clean this up for you.”
“Yes, you will.”
He tossed the dirty spoon into the sink and blotted up the mess. “There. Good as new.” Pushing to his feet, he turned toward the pot on the stove and sniffed the air. “That actually smells good.”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”
“Yeah, I really do.” A slow grin spread across his face.
Zoë gritted her teeth. After growing up with five older brothers, she recognized a male who thought he had the upper hand. “If you don’t want to eat my cooking, you can always go out. There’s a fast food burger place on the highway about fifteen minutes from here.”
His grin widened. “But free food is one of the perks of the job.”
She turned her back with a wave toward the fridge and pulled open the silverware drawer to set the table. “The Skinny Suppers are still in the freezer. Help yourself.”
Nick stepped behind her—so close his breath stirred the top of her hair. She had a sudden vision of his arms sliding around her but gave herself a mental kick.
Don’t be silly. Why would he do a thing like that?
“Don’t be so touchy. I’m looking forward to tasting your…um…whatever that is.”
“It’s chicken and dumplings.” She grabbed a handful of cutlery, slammed the drawer shut, and then thrust the utensils into his hands. “Make yourself useful and set the table.”
****
Nick took the silverware and did as he was told but rewarded himself by sneaking an occasional peek at Zoë. He couldn’t remember when he’d had as much fun teasing a woman. It might have been the time he’d switched his sister’s toothpaste with a tube of his father’s hemorrhoid cream when he was thirteen. Angela had shrieked like a howler monkey and chased him through the house with a metal-bristled hairbrush. Zoë was keeping a tight rein on her anger, but he could almost see smoke rising from her ears as she organized the rest of the meal.
The more time he spent around her, the less convinced he became that she posed a danger to the Prescotts—her reactions were too genuine. Besides, she was too much of a klutz. But he still wondered what she was doing here. Was it possible she’d managed to convince the owner of a bona fide personal chef agency she actually knew how to cook?
When everything was ready, she sent him to call Marian and Lyman to dinner. He found them in the living room, watching the news. Before he could speak, a change in the anchor’s tone caught his attention.
“…and in developing news, a brazen bank robbery occurred this afternoon at the Evanston branch of the First National Bank of Chicago. Two masked gunmen ordered the customers to the floor before almost making off with thirty-five thousand dollars. As the men fled, a guard fired one shot, and they dropped the bag containing the money. One robber lost his mask, and witnesses were able to give a detailed description to police. If you have any information about this man, please contact the Evanston Police or the FBI at this number.”
A police artist’s sketch of the perpetrator appeared on the screen.
“Oh, my God.” Marian whispered the words against fingers pressed to her lips.
Nick’s chest tightened. Her skin was pale and waxen, as if every ounce of blood had drained away.
Lyman reached for her hand with a worried frown then glanced at Nick. “That’s her bank—the place we met.” He slid an arm around his wife’s shoulders and cradled her against his chest, speaking softly against her hair. “It’s all right. The report didn’t mention any injuries to employees or customers. I’m sure the vice president would have called if any of your staff had been hurt.”
She pulled back a short distance. “I’m sure you’re right. I just had a little dizzy spell. I’m fine now.”
Nick had seen dizzy spells and was pretty sure that wasn’t one, but he couldn’t contradict her in front of her husband.
Lyman hopped up. “I’m calling the doctor.”
“No, no. Don’t do that. I’m sure I just need to eat.”
Eat. Oh, yeah. “That’s what I came to tell you. Dinner is ready.”
When they walked into the kitchen, Zoë pointed to the table. “I hope you don’t mind eating in here. The dining room seemed kind of formal.”
Lyman pulled out Marian’s chair and seated her then took his place at one end of the table. “I’ve always preferred eating in the kitchen. The dining room is beautiful, but it was designed to seat twenty-four. We would either have to cluster at one end or shout at each other.”
Marian gave her husband a shaky smile. “I think the kitchen is cozy.”
Nick was relieved to see the color returning to her face.
Each place was set with an individual tossed salad and a big bowl and spoon. Zoë placed a white china tureen with a matching ladle on the middle of the table then slid into the empty chair next to Nick. “I wasn’t sure if you like white or dark meat, so please help yourselves.”
After Lyman served Marian and himself, Nick filled his bowl with a couple of dumplings and a nice leg and thigh.
Zoë eyed his bowl then swirled the ladle in the tureen. She brought up a plump breast and offered it to him. “Are you sure you don’t need this, too? I wouldn’t want you to go hungry.”
“I’m fine. Besides, I’ve always been a leg man.” He allowed himself one pointed glance at her very fine legs then grinned.
Her face flushed pink, and she focused on filling her bowl, her frustration permeating the air in an invisible cloud. Nick choked back a laugh. He was sure he’d be getting an earful if Lyman and Marian weren’t sitting there. He cut off a piece of dumpling with his spoon, scooped it up along with some broth, and slid it into his mouth.
Gack.
He swallowed quickly before his taste buds had a chance to rebel. What had Zoë done to the broth? Or, more accurately, what hadn’t she done? The dish looked fine and smelled appetizing, but it tasted like someone had briefly dunked a cooked chicken in a pot of hot dishwater, minus the detergent. He glanced around the table. Lyman had set his spoon down and was regarding his food as if it were a perplexing math problem. Marian’s wrinkled nose spoke for her. Zoë had just brought her spoon to her lips.
When the first sip hit her tongue, she grimaced. Then her eyes widened. “The salt!”
That sealed it as far as Nick was concerned. No experienced chef would ever forget such a basic ingredient.
“The broth does seem a bit…er…lightly seasoned,” Lyman said. “Perhaps—”
Zoë jumped up from the table. “I’ll get it.” She ran to the stove, grabbed the salt and pepper shakers from the counter, and scurried back. “I forgot to put these on the table. I…um…don’t believe in over-salting. It’s unhealthy, especially for pregnant women. Bad for the blood pressure.”
Nick raised one brow. “What if I prefer a little flavor in my food?”
“Then you’ll die young. Here.” She slammed the shakers down in front of him.
“I’ll take those when you’re finished,” Lyman said.
“Me, too.” Marian held out her hand.
Lyman patted it. “Just a dash, my dear. Your doctor said you’d have less trouble with your ankles if you restricted your salt.”
Marian heaved an injured sigh. “I can’t wait for the baby to come. I’m really getting tired of being pregnant.”
Her husband gave her an indulgent smile. “It won’t be much longer.”
After everyone doctored their food, the meal proceeded without incident. With a liberal application of salt and pepper, the chicken and broth weren’t half bad, and the dumplings turned out to be surprisingly light. For dessert, Zoë served cookies and the salvaged key lime sorbet.
Marian took one bite and closed her eyes with a blissful smile. “Mmm. This is almost worth the low-salt thing. In fact, I think I could live on sorbet for the next few weeks.”
After dinner, Zoë remained in the kitchen, and the Prescotts retired to the living room to watch television. Nick worked on reassembling the parts of the elevator motor he’d cleaned. Tomorrow morning he should be able to give it a test run. When Lyman and Marian went to bed, he said goodnight and went out the back door toward the garage, but instead of going directly to his quarters, he headed around the side of the house to begin his nightly patrol.
Heavy clouds obscured the moon, making it difficult see, even after his eyes adjusted to the lack of light. He rounded the corner and glanced up at the windows in the Prescott’s bedroom. Soft light glowed through the slit in the heavy drapes. Unless he opened the curtains, Lyman wouldn’t see a light outside.
Nick withdrew a small, powerful flashlight from his coat pocket. Swinging the beam across the lawn and stopping briefly here and there to examine the denser shrubs and trees, he made his way around the house and grounds. As expected, he saw nothing unusual or out of place, so he switched off the flashlight and walked back across the courtyard to the garage.
He’d feel better if the estate had a few motion sensor lights but hadn’t been able think of a plausible way to broach the subject with Lyman. After all, security wasn’t supposed to be the chauffeur’s domain. Once he’d completed his rounds, he retired to his apartment and settled down in front of the small television with a bag of pretzels and a beer.
Boiling Point (Phoenix, Ltd. Book 2) Page 7