by Cleo Coyle
“Don’t you think this invitation is a little rushed?” Quinn’s deep voice rumbled in my ear. “Thorner was injured in the bombing. What’s the damn hurry? There’s got to be an ulterior motive—”
“For all I know, a nurse is going to wheel Thorner to the table and right back into an ambulance after dessert. If he’s willing to take such pains to be gracious, then how could I refuse?”
“Your powers of deduction are failing you, sweetheart. Or maybe the air in that limo is a little thin—”
“Don’t patronize me. I have Matt Allegro for that. He actually forbid me to go to this dinner. Can you believe that? I reminded him we were living in the twenty-first century, not the sixteenth.”
“Sounds like the guy was worried. I know how he feels.”
“There’s a security escort in a black SUV, right behind this limo as I speak. And Eric’s driver assured me both vehicles were checked for bombs, by a member of the NYPD Bomb Squad, before they picked me up. And speaking of bombs, do the police have a person of interest yet?”
“I know they haven’t arrested anyone,” Quinn replied.
“Well, I plan to ask Thorner about it.” Along with a whole lot of other things . . .
A traffic light switched to green as the limo approached the intersection, and the mute driver turned onto Water Street.
“The Source Club is just up ahead. I have to say good-bye.”
“Well, order something expensive, thank him, and part company. I’ll give you a call at eleven or so—just to make sure you’re home safe and sound.”
I knew that tone. “You’re not fooling me with that ‘safe and sound’ stuff. Like I said, this is a business dinner.” I lowered my voice. “Really, Mike, if I were going to step out on you, would I call you to tell you about it? If you think so, then your powers of deduction are slipping.”
I knew I’d said the wrong thing the moment I said it. Only now, I couldn’t set things right. The limo had stopped at the curb, and an usher in a tux opened the door for me.
“Good evening, Ms. Cosi,” he said, extending a gloved hand. “May I escort you to Mr. Thorner’s table?”
“We’ll talk at eleven. I love you,” I whispered into the cell. But Quinn had already hung up.
Twenty-six
IT was a good thing Eric Thorner stood as I was shown to his table or I might not have recognized him.
I was no expert on the Tribe of Tech, but one thing I did know about the young lords of the digital domain was that they had an aversion to formalwear. Business attire was anathema, jackets seldom worn, and neckties were as welcome as a silver cross on a Victorian vampire.
This club, however, had a dress code for dinner service and Thorner had mothballed the denims, flannel shirt, and Yankees cap in favor of a gray, London-tailored wool suit and a buttoned-up shirt so white it seemed luminous in contrast to the ebony-silk tie knotted tightly around his neck.
“Mr. Thorner, I can’t believe how fabulous you look—”
“Wow, Ms. Cosi! You look amazing—”
We halted our overlapping compliments and laughed.
“I guess it’s a good thing we both clean up so nicely,” I said and meant it because I still couldn’t believe I was here.
Last year, the New York Times magazine had done a splashy spread on the Source Club, highlighting its art, architecture, spa, cigar room, and world-class wine bar. The membership roster was a who’s who of Wall Street’s most successful investment bankers; the digital world’s newly minted tech founders; and the actual world’s wealthiest aristocrats (the ones who maintained a pied-à-terre with a 212 area code, anyway).
Tucker had drooled all over the Times spread, bringing it in for me and the rest of my baristas to shake our heads over. (The palatial enclave carried annual membership dues north of $50,000—and that didn’t include the costs of drinking, dining, squash court time, personal trainers, plastic surgery, overnight accommodations, intimate concerts with rock legends, lectures by Nobel laureates, or anything else the club offered.)
As for the architecture, the street entrance through which I’d been escorted was sufficiently grand (no surprise, since the century-old building was once a bank). Its vaulted, stone archway and busy Beaux Arts base felt like a nod to the more traditional private clubs of New York like the Harmonie, Metropolitan, Knickerbocker, and the oldest of them all, the Union Club, with a “past members” list that included John Jacob Astor, Cornelius Vanderbilt, William Randolph Hearst, and Ulysses S. Grant.
While those old-guard clubs were primarily located in Midtown, downtown was the new place to be, and the barely ten-year-old Source Club was considered the hippest haven in New York.
The dramatic River Room, in which I now sat, was an architectural marvel. An ode to modern minimalism (and maybe Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater), the three-story-high structure of one-way glass had been built to extend off what was once an old pier along the Manhattan side of the East River.
Beneath our feet, the river ran. Beyond the glass, boats floated by and fast-moving ferries crossed to Brooklyn’s shore where lights twinkled from the high-rises of hipster Williambsurg and the tech town that ate DUMBO (no, not the adorable little Disney elephant but the shorthand way New Yorkers referred to the area “Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass”).
I couldn’t help feeling nervous when I walked into this glittering dining room of crystal and orchids, but Thorner’s earnest greeting put me at ease.
“Thank you for coming, Ms. Cosi.”
“Please, call me Clare.”
“I’ll grant that wish, as long as you call me Eric.”
“Of course . . .”
The last time I saw Eric, he had had a jagged eight-inch thorn of glass pricking his neck. Mere days later, there was no outward sign of injury—no bandages, slings, and no stiffness. His movements appeared fluid as he elbowed the maître d’ aside to pull out my chair himself.
As he smiled down at me, Thorner’s expression was all warmth and camaraderie (no smirking this time). His golden, surfer hair had been trimmed, making him appear older—until those killer dimples flashed, revealing the boy inside the man.
He returned to his own seat and for a long, uncomfortable moment he studied me without speaking. Embarrassed, I glanced away, only to be reminded that pretty much everyone else in this dining room was staring at me, too.
Stranger still, some of those gawking were public figures themselves—a network news anchor; an award-winning actress; the scion of an Italian fashion house.
Why in the world are they curious about me? Do I look freakish? Out of place?
On my way to the dining room, the usher had led me across a transparent sky bridge, and I caught my reflection in the tinted glass: the beaded Chanel dress looked stunning. Madame had selected it for me from her own vintage closet. Her seamstress friend had speedily custom tailored the garment, letting it out here and there (and there!) to accommodate my curves.
Maybe it’s simply the dress they’re staring at . . .
“Does everyone merit this sort of attention?” I whispered to Eric.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Clare, inside and out, and you should be admired. But . . . I think they’re staring because tonight you’re a mystery woman—to them, at least—and you happen to be my date.”
That’s when I understood.
Thorner was of no particular significance in this company, just another billionaire member of the club. But a week ago, the bomb in his limo made him worldwide news, and this was his first appearance in public since the explosion.
“Honestly, I’m not convinced you really are Eric Thorner. You might be a corporate double, or a clone. Or was it the clone that was taken away from my coffeehouse in an ambulance?”
Eric laughed, loud enough to turn heads. “I assure you it was me, and I can prove it.” He lowered his voice. “Later, I’ll show you my scars.”
The waiter delivered the menu, but I hardly glanced at it. “Are you as un
comfortable as I am with all this . . . attention?”
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” Eric’s gaze remained on the menu card. “Is there anyone not staring at us? I can’t look. You’ll have to tell me.”
I raised my menu in front of my face and peeked over it.
Though scrutiny seemed intense, I discovered that not everyone was paying attention. There was a young prince from the House of Saud who didn’t seem interested in anything more than the model-perfect trio of women who were his dinner guests. Another table had a pair of Hong Kong businessmen who hadn’t stopped talking (in Cantonese) since I arrived, leaving their ignored wives to sip their drinks with bored expressions.
Then my eyes were drawn to a raised table in the corner, where a broad-shouldered man in an exquisite, black, pinstriped suit was holding court with a pair of tieless younger men in sport jackets.
In his mid– to late fifties, the big man was bald and blustery, a larger-than-life rooster type. It was the deliberate manner in which he ignored us that made me curious. It felt like a ruse—as I watched his table, I noticed his companions stealing glimpses in our direction, and then the rooster himself snuck an intense peek.
“There’s a Mr. Clean in Caraceni across the way—” I subtly tilted my head. “He’s dining with a young pair of techie types. They seem to be trying very hard not to stare at us.”
Eric masked his smile with his menu. “I’m impressed with your powers of observation. That’s Grayson Braddock, and the guys with him are his nephews. More than anyone else in this room, those Aussies would kill to know what I’m up to.”
“I’m sorry, did you just use the word kill? Given what happened last week, you don’t actually think . . . ?”
“I do, Clare.” He met my eyes. “And I’ve told the authorities as much.”
I blinked a moment, unable to believe what Eric had so easily admitted—and as coolly as if he’d just conveyed the weather.
I glanced around, wondering where the undercover detectives were. If Braddock was a person of interest, he had to be under surveillance by the NYPD. Not quite sure how to act, I followed Eric’s lead, tried to remain calm, and cleared my throat.
“Can you tell me why Braddock is so angry with you?”
“He and I are competing head to head on a time-sensitive project. So I’m sure the man would poison us both with Mulga snake venom if he thought he could get away with it.” Suddenly Eric grinned. “By the way, enjoy the food. It’s a very special night. Grayson Braddock is hosting this dinner service. His favorite celebrity chef is cooking.”
I nearly dropped my menu.
“I’m joking, Clare. Chef Harvey wouldn’t dare poison us. Not here. For one thing, it would ruin the sales of his new cookbook—Braddock’s publishing company released it just last week. All bets are off when it comes to his boss though.”
“If Braddock blew up your server farm, he would have the advantage in this race of yours, wouldn’t he?”
Eyes on the menu, Eric nodded. “He would. Braddock is a legacy mogul, a gatekeeper of the old order. His latest social networking venture failed miserably—remember the jokes? The InZone is out. And, of course, Who’s in the InZone? Nobody!”
I had no idea what Eric was talking about, but when he laughed I smiled and nodded appropriately. “I guess that failure embarrassed him?”
“Big time. His systems thinking is outdated, and his empire is crumbling. It matters not that he’s launched Interweb equivalents for his magazines and newspapers because he can’t monetize sufficiently to plug the leaking revenue—and he detests the very idea of me. In his Forbes magazine profile last month, Braddock had the nerve to call me a ‘baby billionaire in a carnival business.’”
I wanted to know more—about exactly what they were trying to get to the market and who exactly might have planted that bomb (certainly Braddock wouldn’t have done the dirty work himself)—when I saw movement from Braddock’s direction.
“Heads-up,” I warned. “Your favorite legacy mogul is approaching this table right now.”
Twenty-seven
GRAYSON Braddock loomed large as he approached our table. Standing well over six feet, the Australian-born magnate had draped himself in hand-sewn Italian silk.
If Mike Quinn were here, he would have mumbled something about an easy target. That would have been true on the firing range; in this dining room, I wasn’t so sure. Men like Braddock didn’t get where they were without learning how to dodge a few bullets.
“Good to see you, Thorner.” Braddock’s tone was formal, but he didn’t offer his hand.
Eric didn’t bother to rise. “Good to be here, Braddock.”
While the two exchanged vague pleasantries, I studied the man. The cut of his dark jacket accented his broad shoulders and thick-muscled arms, and Braddock’s beefy hands, though manicured, would have done a professional boxer proud. (Actually, if it wasn’t for his expensive clothes and the civilized surroundings, I could easily mistake the billionaire for one of the bodybuilding stars of Live Studio Wrestling, a show my cigar-chomping pop watched every Saturday when I was growing up in western Pennsylvania. I could almost imagine Braddock, with some name like the Aussie Annihilator, going toe-to-toe with Bruno Sammartino at the old Civic Arena.)
“Rough business the other day,” Braddock was now saying, “but I see you’ve recovered nicely.”
“Yes,” Eric returned, “I couldn’t wait to get back to work on a certain project.”
“Well, you’re not working now, are you?” Braddock rested his hand on the back of my chair. “Good to see you finding new . . . diversions.”
The tone of Braddock’s voice pricked me into risking a glance up. I found his gaze fixed on my cleavage.
From this angle, only I could see his little invasion. He didn’t appear bothered that I’d caught him in the act. Instead he slowly moved his attention from my breasts to my eyes, finishing his bit of fun with a leer.
The message was clear—a man like me does what he wants and feels no shame about it.
Another woman might have blushed or looked away in embarrassment. But I’d taught my daughter (just as Madame had taught me) never to allow any man to make you feel uncomfortable for simply looking like a woman.
Natural interest and admiration was one thing, lack of respect another, and I returned the man’s open leer with a disdainful smirk worthy of any self-satisfied tech brat.
Grayson Braddock arched an eyebrow when our gazes locked. My reaction had surprised him, and he faltered for the slightest second.
“Anyway . . .” He glanced back across the table. “I find it’s always better to move on and forget the things you can’t control—ah, I see my guest has arrived. You know Donny Chu, don’t you, Thorner?”
Eric’s eyes widened at the approach of a stocky, young Asian man with a buzz cut and an open-collared shirt under a navy blue blazer.
Braddock gripped the newcomer’s hand, then hooked a possessive arm over Donny Chu’s shoulders and led him back to the raised table. Braddock’s corporate cronies greeted the Asian man like he was a long-lost relative—hugs, pats on the back, laughing grins.
Eric gritted his teeth and quietly cursed.
“What’s wrong?”
“Donny Chu was my special projects director until I fired him about a year ago. We were working out of Los Angeles then—”
“Why did you fire Chu?”
“We clashed over . . .” He waved his hand. “It was personal stuff. Anyway, last I heard, he’d gone back to Silicon Valley to launch his own start-up, but I always knew Donny didn’t have what it took to go it alone.”
A burst of laughter erupted from Braddock’s table. “Looks like Mr. Chu found a new employer.”
Eric nodded. “His nephews must have brought him in, probably met him at Stanford. It seems they’ve joined forces to combat me, but I’m not going to let that happen. Maybe you could help me with that?”
I raised my palms. “I shouldn’t be involved in a co
rporate throwdown.”
“You’re involved already, Clare. Braddock just saw you with me.”
“But he doesn’t know who I am.”
“Believe me, by the end of the evening he will.”
“What does that mean?” I glanced around. “Does this restaurant have some kind of face recognition system I should know about?”
“No . . .” Eric flashed me a cryptic smile. “Let’s just say . . . you’re bound to make an impression.”
I was dying to know what prompted that remark, but Eric quickly changed the subject. “See anything you like on the menu? Chef Harvey’s featuring Poulet de Bresse—the real thing, too, not Blue Foot chickens from Canada. They’re flown in special from France.”
I groaned (couldn’t help it).
“What’s the matter? You don’t like chicken?”
“No, it’s my daughter.”
“Your daughter doesn’t like chicken?”
“Bresse chickens are the reason my daughter is too busy to do more than text me a string of trite abbreviations.”
I briefly told Eric about Joy, her apprenticeship in Paris, and the Bresse chicken incident, which resulted in her promotion to saucier. The story made him laugh till he cried (I guess flying chickens and irate French chefs can do that).
Wine appeared and soon we were both laughing. Eric was so easy to talk to that I ended up telling him all about Joy’s relationship with Sergeant Emmanuel Franco—a good man and a good cop—and my wish to sprout wings and fly to Paris to talk some sense into her before she lost him.
And the wine kept flowing . . .
Looking back on it now, I’m firmly convinced the Source Club waitstaff mastered some sort of service kung fu mind trick where they refill your wineglass without your ever noticing. Whatever the case, their superb service made drinking effortless, and before I knew it, nature called.
Twenty-eight