by Tee O'Fallon
Enormous crystal chandeliers hung from high ceilings, catching the light and sparkling like diamond clusters. Mahogany wall paneling contrasted with the gleaming white marble floors. Through one of the arched doorways was the Rose Club, an elegant venue hosting famed jazz musicians from around the country. With its red velvet drapes and matching red leather chairs, it embodied the classically dark intimacy of a traditional Southern jazz club.
All around them the hotel buzzed with activity. Workers rolled boxes, wooden crates, and supplies in every direction. On one side of the hotel’s main entrance someone was polishing the marble floors, and on the other, two men carefully hung a massive portrait of Fiorella La Guardia, New York City’s ninety-ninth mayor.
“This place is really something.” Jack looked up at the stained-glass ceiling.
“That it is.” She turned in each direction to take it all in, suddenly realizing there was none of the sanding going on that Jack had warned her about. The inside air was fresh and clear. “Guess they’re not sanding today after all.” She looked at him, but his gaze was focused across the lobby on a group of men, including Andrew, wearing dark suits. Very expensive dark suits, if she was correct in her fashion assessment. She’d been around the rich New York City set long enough to recognize a designer label, even in menswear.
One man in particular stood out. Literally. He was tall and fit, with silver hair, and he towered above the others. But it wasn’t just his physical presence that was so eye-catching. It was his overall demeanor. The aura he exuded was one of confidence and power.
Dom exuded those same traits, but in an entirely different way. His mannerisms were protective and heroic. This man’s were arrogant and condescending.
“I think that’s Chris Shane.” One look at Jack told Daisy he’d already noticed the distinguished gentleman. He was staring, fixated on the group of men. “I’ve never met him personally, though.” She’d seen his photo in an article in New York Magazine, detailing the Piazza’s massive renovation. “He’s president and CEO of Fairhaven Hotels and Resorts. This is Shane’s flagship hotel. He footed a good portion of the bill for this renovation out of his own pocket.”
Jack whistled. “Chicken feed.”
“Golden chickens, maybe.” She nodded in agreement. “I read that the luxury suites were retrofit with 24-karat gold-plated sink fixtures.”
He snorted. “I’m just a truck driver. Doubtful I’ll ever be in a position to use a bathroom that cost more than two years of take-home pay.”
“Daisy!” Andrew broke from the group and walked briskly toward her. He hooked his arm around her waist and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. “It’s good to see you.”
“Hello, Andrew.” She gestured to Jack. “This is my new driver, Jack Schneider.”
The two men shook hands, but Andrew barely looked at Jack and his demeanor was snooty and dismissive.
Andrew really is a snob. Just as Dom said he was.
“I have to apologize,” Andrew said, “but I’m swamped with meetings today. Did we have an appointment? I don’t remember seeing you on my calendar.”
“We didn’t,” she reassured him. “I came to see the ballroom tables to verify my arrangements will be the right size.”
Andrew glanced nervously back to the group of men. “Normally, I’d take you around myself, but Chris Shane is doing a walk-through today and he’s brought all his executive VPs with him. Shane doesn’t normally do walk-throughs, but the Piazza is by far his most elaborate and expensive renovation yet, and he wants to personally inspect the place before the reopening celebration.”
“Don’t worry.” She tapped the rolled-up drawings in her bag. “I can handle this alone. I just need a few minutes in the ballroom with my sketches. Jack brought urn samples for you to choose from. They’re outside in the truck, and I think any one of them will do nicely for those potted palms.”
Hands shaking, Andrew straightened his tie. “Unfortunately, I don’t have time to see the urns today. Pick whatever you like. I have complete faith that you’ll make the best selection. Now you’ll have to forgive me, but I really should get back to Shane. Thank you for understanding.” Without waiting for a response, he spun and practically ran back to where Shane stood in the middle of his executive groupies, almost like a king holding court.
As she watched his hasty departure, Daisy giggled. “Talk about flustered. We’ll go with the black urns.” When she turned back to Jack, he was watching her.
“You didn’t have to introduce me.” He smiled. “That guy doesn’t give a shit about any of the people working in this place. To him, they’re all beneath him. But I do appreciate it. That’s one of the things I like about you. You’ve never treated me like a lowly hired hand.”
“That’s because you’re not a lowly hired hand. You’re my driver, and you deserve just as much courtesy and respect as anyone. You—” Someone wheeled a hand truck so close to where they were standing, she had to jump to avoid getting run over. When Jack reached out to steady her, there was something warm and genuine in his gaze.
She swallowed, wishing like hell that when he looked at her that way she felt even half of the crazy, passionate sparks she experienced with Dom.
Maybe it will come with time.
She cleared her throat. “As I was saying, you work for me, but that doesn’t mean you are beneath me.”
He chuckled, rubbing her arm softly. “You are truly a rare gem.”
Daisy laughed with him. “And you are truly a smooth talker.”
“Maybe so, but I meant every word.” He locked gazes with her a moment longer before dropping his hand.
Sharp laughter had both of them turning to watch Shane.
She readjusted the bags on her shoulder. “Look at the way they’re all watching him. It’s as if every word that comes out of his mouth is the word of God.”
“When you have that much money people do whatever you tell them to. And if they don’t, you buy them off.” He continued watching a moment longer. “I need to hit the john. I’ll catch up with you.” He turned abruptly and strode into the lobby in the direction of the restrooms.
Well that was strange.
There’d been a definite hint of resentment in his tone as he’d voiced his hard-bitten opinion of people with money. Shane, to be specific. Could simply be that Jack came from humble roots, whereas the article she’d read painted Shane as someone who’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
As she watched Jack’s departure, she noted that he walked slowly and deliberately, subtly turning his head to each side, then up to the left and the right. Almost as if he were scoping out the place.
When he tilted his head to the gilded balcony overlooking the lobby, she followed his gaze. Staring down at them was another man in a dark suit, but this one was different. He was nearly motionless, and when he turned his head she saw a coiled wire running from his ear and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. He looked exactly like those Secret Service agents that protected the president.
Was the president attending the Piazza’s celebration?
Curious, Daisy did a slow three-sixty and counted at least five more of these bodyguard-type guys with the same earpieces stationed around the lobby. She expected the mayor and other local politicians to attend the hotel’s big event, but not the president.
When she searched for Jack again, he was gone. She grabbed her rolled designs from her shoulder bag and took the short stairway down into the ballroom. This room was even more stunning than the lobby.
Freshly polished white marble floors glistened in the romantic light provided by three of the largest crystal-beaded chandeliers Daisy had ever seen. Gold and cream brocade drapes tied off with gold rope tassels lined every wall. Intricate molding decorated the arches that spanned giant fluted columns reaching upward to the vaulted ceiling.
Craning her neck to take it all in, she meandered between the large round dining tables. Each one would eventually be set with sparkling
cream china and gleaming silverware, and each had a clear view of the orchestra section and the dais set up at the far end of the room. She imagined there would be many speakers during the celebration. A lot of standing and clapping, and all in high heels. She grimaced at how her feet would be aching by the end of the night.
Unrolling one of her sketches, she verified her arrangements would indeed work with the dining tables. Next she inspected the previously determined locations for the large potted palms. For forty minutes she walked the entire ballroom, making notations on her drawings as she went.
“Everything’s good to go,” she said to no one in particular. Except she still needed a backup driver. Whoever she hired would have to be strong enough to manhandle the heavy urns and not be squeamish about getting his hands dirty.
By the time the dozen or so urns were filled with soil and potted with palm trees and other cycads, they’d weigh far too much for her to be of any assistance. It would take two strong men to get the urns in and out of the truck and then maneuver them into position.
“Time to call the temp agency. Again,” she muttered, rolling up her design. And time to find Jack. There was so much to do and never enough hours in the day.
After one last look around the room she went back to the lobby. Pounding hammers and power drills echoed as contractors affixed new crystal sconces and period oil paintings on the mahogany walls.
At first, Jack was nowhere to be found. Then she caught sight of him on the upper balcony, surveying the lobby. She waved to get his attention, but he didn’t notice. He seemed focused on something in the far corner. She followed his gaze and saw…nothing. At least, nothing that seemed noteworthy.
Hefting her bags over her shoulder, she mounted the gilded stairway to the balcony level and turned left in the direction where Jack was standing. Just as she called out to him someone kicked on a power saw, obliterating her words. When he turned his back to her and rounded a corner out of sight, she hustled after him. They really needed to get back to the shop.
“Ja—” Some other noisy power tool cut her off, so she followed in the direction he’d gone, determined to get back on the road.
Lighting in the partially renovated hallway was dim, with not all of the new sconces attached to the walls yet. A power saw buzzed as she passed an open doorway where contractors were putting the finishing touches on some baseboard molding. The rasping sound of the saw followed her down the hallway where she found Jack peering at a dumb waiter.
What’s the big attraction of a dumb waiter?
There was something about his body language and the way he was looking over the place that struck her as peculiar.
Angled away from her, he rested his hands on the balcony railing and again scanned the lobby below. The only thing of any interest that she could see was the painting Christopher Shane was inspecting.
With his back completely to her now, Jack tilted his face skyward, probably to admire the incredible stained-glass ceiling. Then he looked at the two far ceiling corners. Nothing of interest there. Just a couple of security cameras.
Since she already knew he couldn’t hear her over the saw’s loud screeching, she walked up behind him and touched his arm.
He whipped around and grabbed her wrist, jerking her up on her toes. His other hand clenched into a fist, then reared back. She cringed, certain he was about to slam it into her face. The look in his eyes was…deadly.
Pain shot to her shoulder, and she gasped. Her heart raced, and she struggled in his grip. The bags she’d hooked on her other shoulder began slipping down her arm, and the chop saw shut off just as her bags landed on the bare wood floor with a loud thud.
Jack released her. “Fuck. I’m sorry. Are you all right? I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Gone was the angry look in his eyes. Frown lines creased his forehead.
She backed away, her heart still pounding, readying to dig out the canister of pepper spray from her bag and empty it into his face. “What the hell was that about?”
His brow crinkled with even more concern, his expression one of regret. “You surprised me, that’s all.”
“I can see that.” She’d also seen the brief yet unexpected malevolence burning in his eyes. Until he realized it was only her standing behind him, he’d been about to mash her face in with his big fist.
He cursed again and reached for her arm. She took another step backward, still freaked out by his disturbingly violent reaction. Then again, with the chop saw buzzing, there was no way he would have heard her approach. She might very well have reacted the same way.
The memory of how she’d nearly pepper-sprayed Dom and Gray in Alex’s old apartment a year ago flashed before her eyes.
“Daisy, please don’t pull away.” He reached for her again, and this time she let him massage her wrist with his thumbs and forefingers.
“What are you doing up here?” Her heart rate began to slow.
“I was killing time waiting for you, so I came up here to take a look at the restoration that’s still in progress. I’m sorry if I hurt you.” The latent concern in his eyes and the sincerity of his words made her feel guilty.
“It’s okay.” She smiled, tugging her wrist away and holding it up for inspection. “See? Nothing broken.” Although her skin was dotted with pale red marks where his fingers had grabbed onto her wrist. “Let’s go downstairs. I really do need to get back to the shop.”
She leaned down to grab her bags, then turned to give him a reassuring smile. His face was tight with tension as he looked back at her. “I’m sorry if I overreacted,” she said, hoping to make him feel better.
Without uttering another word, he followed her back down the stairway. When they stepped into the lobby, he turned her gently.
“What can I do to make this up to you? I need to redeem myself so you won’t cancel our date tomorrow. I hope you’re still looking forward to it.” His brows raised in obvious question.
“Of course I am.” I think. “And you have nothing to make up for.”
“You’re not going to fire me?” He grinned sheepishly.
“Hardly. The shop has never been busier, and I need you now more than ever. With all your trips to the hotel you can barely keep up with the other local deliveries as it is.” Again she was struck with her desperate need for another driver.
“Then let me help you with that,” Jack said. “I have a friend who could use a little extra income right now. I’ll bring him around the shop.”
“Sure. Why not?” If Jack vouched for someone, she’d hire him.
They headed to the hotel exit and out into the fresh spring air. She felt downright hopeful. Tomorrow night she had her first date with Jack. That was what she needed to concentrate on. That, and what she should wear.
Unfortunately, thoughts of clothing had her thinking back to last night when Dom had managed—in the span of three minutes—to come a hair’s breadth from getting her completely out of her clothes.
Damn, damn, damn him to hell and back.
No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. But she had to, because Dominick Carew would always be a pig. One she was better off without in her life.
Chapter Eleven
Thursday afternoon, Dom waited on the roof of the ten-story building overlooking the bodega Jimmy Gonzalez frequented every afternoon to support his habit.
Strong winds buffeted the roof’s vent pipes that Dom stood between to conceal his location. He stepped over the sniper rifle resting in the open tuba case he’d purchased from a music store in Queens. He turned his face into the wind to gauge its speed and direction. Twenty miles an hour oblique with a right quartering crosswind.
Next he scanned the streets on either side of the bodega, noting how an American flag hanging in front of a nearby shop fluttered in the opposite direction, indicating a left quartering crosswind. Typical for a big city, with tall buildings creating a wind tunnel along the streets traveling in a completely different direction from the wind aloft.
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Flexing his fingers, he looked over the edge of the concrete wall down to the storefront across the street. A green canopy hung over a glass door flanked on either side by large plate-glass windows. A few hundred yards was an easy shot. For him, anyway, but he’d taken extra care sighting in his scope just the same.
He glanced at the video camera on a nearby telephone pole. The city had hundreds of traffic cams and HD-streaming cameras, footage from which could be viewed from anyone’s personal computer. The one covering the intersection near the bodega was brand-new, having been placed there only recently at the discrete direction of the NYPD. The official excuse was an increase in speeders through that intersection. The real reason was to immortalize what was about to go down.
When a gust of wind blew in his face, he tugged off his New York Yankees ball cap and placed it backward on his head. A glance at his watch told him ten minutes to go before showtime. He let out a cynical laugh. Smith was a no-show. Seemed like the plan was working.
Thank you, Gray.
As if on cue, Dom’s cell phone vibrated. It was Smith. He grinned and took the call. Before he got in a single word, the other man’s voice bellowed in his ear.
“I can’t get there. Abort!” Smith was pissed. “Your fucking buddies pulled me over and made up some bullshit story about parking tickets and a bench warrant. I don’t have any parking tickets. Motherfuckers. It’s mistaken identity or some other shit. You’ll have to reschedule.”
Since getting Smith pulled over by the uniforms on the way to witness Dom’s hit was all part of Gray’s plan, he’d fully anticipated the last-minute call.
“No way. I’m doing the job. It’s not my fault you’re late. And they’re not my buddies. They fired my ass.” He held the phone from his ear as Smith let loose with a string of obscenities. He had to give the guy credit. Some of the shit coming from his mouth was truly poetic. “I’ve invested too much time in this already. You can verify through other channels.”