by Cleo Coyle
IF I had known the challenges that would come with one trip to the powder room, I (frankly) would have held it.
The first challenge was finding the room itself.
A waiter discreetly pointed toward one end of this giant, glass cage, but I was lost until another waiter explained that the twenty-foot waterfall in the corner was a hologram, complete with falling-water sound. As I approached, I could see it was a canard—a mere display of dimensional lighting, and I walked right through (staying dry as a bone, thank goodness).
On the other side, I found an empty corridor, eerily backlit by that holographic spigot. One end of the corridor appeared to house the men’s facilities with faux-stone columns guarding the darkly lit lounge of leather sofas and heavy oak paneling.
In the other direction, I saw a flowery bower of an archway. Inside was a lounge of sumptuous sofas and antique, gilt-edged mirrors where twin girls gently strummed identical harps, their sweet strains mingling with the sounds of that holographic waterfall.
Okay, now I really had to go!
Moving faster, I found the stalls.
Everything was gilded in here—the sink, the mirror, the TP dispenser, even the . . . well, everything. Frank Lloyd Wright might have been the inspiration for that dining room, but someone had gone all Donald Trump on the ladies’ lounge—1990s-Atlantic-City-casino Trump, to be exact, which brought to mind one of Madame’s many axioms:
“Wealth is not a singular idea, dear, and money does not equal taste.”
True, taste was never a given where money was concerned, but wealth could certainly buy you space. These bathroom stalls were bigger than some Manhattan apartments, with amenities catering to a girl’s every personal need.
On the way out, I paused at one of the antique mirrors to check how the seams in this vintage dress were holding out against my formidable curves. Gazing at my reflection, I noticed a blond Amazon enter the ladies’ lounge and storm right up to me.
Draped in a jewel-trimmed gown of aquamarine with a daring slit up one leg, and a décolletage nearly to her navel, she seemed wobbly as she walked, but I couldn’t tell the cause—the six-inch fetish heels on her pedicured feet? Or the oversized martini in her manicured hand?
Her loose, flyaway locks formed a blunt-cut Jazz Age halo of yellow fire around her scowling face. Looming over me, she tossed her sun-kissed crown and addressed my reflection in the mirror.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Excuse me?” I turned to face her.
“Eric’s last fling is hardly out of the morgue, and he’s already sniffing up a new cougar?!”
The strident pitch of her voice might have embarrassed me, but this wasn’t the kind of restroom with an echo. The pink-fabric wallpaper (thick as soundproofing), effectively absorbed the ear-splitting decibels, and I noticed those twin harpists began to strum louder. (Now I knew why they were here—to drown out the catfights.)
I also solved another mystery: the blonde’s wobbling wasn’t caused by her Everest heels. She fairly reeked of overpriced gin.
“How do you know Eric?” Her eyes, the same aqua shade as her gown, had narrowed into pissed-off slits. “Are you his maid? The cook? Or just another hired babysitter like that sniveling rat Anton?”
“I don’t know who you are, but stop it,” I replied, voice level but firm. “You’re causing a scene.”
With a crooked smirk, she placed an index finger on her chin and looked me over like I was a horse at auction. Her appraisal was so obvious I half expected her to check my teeth.
“I’ll admit you have more class than his last piece of trash. But hopping from a B-list actress to a divorcée—well, it’s no wonder someone tried to blow him to kingdom come.”
How does she know I’m a divorcée? I thought, and then I realized, She doesn’t.
The “B-list actress” was clearly Eric’s late girlfriend, Bianca Hyde. But who was this other woman, this divorcée?
“Back up,” I said. “Exactly what divorcée are you talking about? And who are you?”
“Age before beauty—I asked you first.”
“Look, whatever you think is happening, it’s not. Eric and I are having a business dinner—”
“Monkey business, you mean!” Aqua eyes flashed, and her scowl morphed into a smug grin. “I’ll bet Eric’s already sent you those damn blue roses, hasn’t he?”
My silence was all the reply she needed. The martini glass slipped from her fingers and shattered on the pink-marble floor. I leaped back to dodge flying glass as an attendant rushed over to make the mess vanish.
The blonde was already gone, heading for a vacant stall.
“Bad things seem to happen to the women around Eric,” she called over her shoulder. “Keep your distance, honey, or something bad might happen to you.”
As soon as she closed the carved (and, yes, gilded) stall door, I bolted for the dimly lit corridor. But I was so busy watching my back, I accidentally smacked into a solid wall of Outback muscle.
“’Ere, hold up there, sheila,” a voice both masculine and familiar commanded. “What’s the rush? You and I have some things to discuss.”
Twenty-nine
I WAS astonished at how much larger Grayson Braddock appeared with my nose buried in his chest. I took a quick step back—away from the aroma of expensive cigars and even more expensive cologne (a little too much of it).
“Been meaning to ask since I saw you with junior. Didn’t I see you skiing in Telluride over the holidays? Or maybe it was that New Year’s bash at Lighthouse Bay in Barbuda? You look mighty familiar.”
“I work for a living, Mr. Braddock, and I spent the holidays here in New York. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“If you spent December in this dismal town, you must have been working, and it must have been profitable.” He folded his arms, tapped his cheek. “Finance? Hedge funds? No, I would have heard of someone like you.”
“I really have to get back to Eric’s table.”
Braddock sidestepped, using his larger body and outspread arms to block my run to the end zone. He must have seen my reaction because he threw up his enormous hands.
“Easy now, sheila. Just want to talk, that’s all.”
“My name is Clare, not Sheila.”
“Aw, don’t take offense. That’s just my Down Under showing. Beautiful name you have, Clare. Please call me Gray. All the ladies call me Gray . . .”
I didn’t feel threatened—yet—but I checked my surroundings. Though the restaurant was populated, this area behind the faux waterfall was out of sight and nobody was in this dimly lit passage at the moment. (Where was a sloshed, angry blonde when you needed her?)
“We must have met before, Clare. Give me a hint.”
“You’re fishing, Mr. Braddock.”
“Fishing, eh? Okay then, tell me: What will it take to reel you in?”
“Better manners.”
He chuckled, a deep rumble. “In my experience, that’s not what women want, but . . .” He stepped closer. “As heuristics go, trial-and-error should find me the right bait.”
Maybe I should bait him.
“Have the police paid you a visit yet . . . Gray?”
He stopped laughing. “Is that what he told the police? I’m not surprised; I make a mighty convenient scapegoat.”
“You’re also an unconvincing victim.”
“Don’t believe everything that baby genius says. Have you ever heard the real story about how that first little mobile phone game of his became a hit? Little Donny Chu gave me the scoop. Quite a tale . . .”
“You’re talking about the game that launched his business? Pigeon Droppings?”
“That’s the one.” He laughed again. “Bet the story of how he got those birds off the ground was never a subject of your pillow talk.”
“Don’t make assumptions, Mr. Braddock.”
“What? You’re not Junior’s girlfriend?”
“No.”
He rubbed his prodigious ch
in. “You don’t strike me as a techie, and you’re not a member of this club . . .” He thought a moment and smirked. “Oh, now I get it.”
“What?”
“That boy . . .” He shook his head, tossing the infuriating insult before swaggering away: “He just can’t keep his hands off the help, can he?”
Thirty
I returned to the table with a strained smile, attempting to shake off the slimy encounter with Braddock by way of a vow to nail the SOB for planting that car bomb.
As soon as I sat down, the main course arrived. Eric dug in, and so did I . . .
“So tell me, Eric, how is the investigation going?”
The straightforward inquiry changed his mood. He shifted on his chair. “Let’s enjoy our dinner, Clare, and skip the dark talk.”
“Let’s not.”
Eric blinked, surprised at my bluntness.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I have some stake in the situation. My coffeehouse was wrecked, my life disrupted, I was injured, and my baristas nearly forced into unemployment.”
“You were injured?” He looked stricken. “Nobody told me.”
“Just some shrapnel in my back, it’s practically healed now.” I lowered my voice. “That’s why I couldn’t go strapless.”
“I’m so sorry . . .” Eric set his glass aside. “And you’re right. You deserve an explanation, though a little bird told me you’ve already been briefed.”
“That bird wouldn’t have a military crew cut, would it?”
“You know DeFasio?” Eric shook his head and chuckled. “Now I understand.”
“What’s so funny?”
“The lieutenant had his dog sniff up my limo twice when I told him who my dinner companion was going to be.”
“I noticed you have extra security watching your car, as well.”
Eric shrugged. “That’s the way I’m going to have to live from now on. One driver with bodyguard training isn’t enough.” His expression went from serious to glum, and I suspected he was thinking about the death of Charley, that former NYPD officer.
“If you’re sure Braddock was the one who had the bomb planted, he had to have hired someone, right? You fired Donny and he’s now obviously working for Braddock. Could anyone else in your business have a bone to pick with you?”
Eric snorted. “I’m on top of a thirty-billion-dollar-a-year industry, Clare. I didn’t get here without stepping on a few toes. And I’m not alone. The digital domain is like the Wild West. There aren’t any rules, only winners and losers. The winners are sitting all around us. And because we’re the winners, we’ve made enemies. Sometimes we are enemies.”
“Well, someone got access to your limo—and your schedule. Could someone in your company be working with Braddock, behind your back?”
“No way.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I staked my family fortune to start this corporation, and the people with me now were with me in the beginning. We all worked together and we all got rich together. My company is like a family . . . hell, some of us are family.”
“What about old girlfriends?”
Eric looked stricken. He stopped eating and put down his fork. “What do you mean by that, Clare?”
“One of your ex-lovers confronted me in the restroom.”
“Who?”
“That one there,” I said, pointing to the sloshed blonde with the daring gown who’d just emerged from behind the holo-fall.
“Eden?” Eric laughed. “That’s my sister, Clare! Eden Thorner-Gundersen—she used to manage my late father’s business, but she works for me now. She’s my New York office manager.”
Eric glanced at the shaky woman, and then met my gaze. “You’ll have to forgive Eden for any misunderstandings. She’s protective of me; and she’s really only unreasonable when she drinks. You’ll meet her again soon—under better circumstances. I think you’ll find her quite likeable.”
Hard to imagine, I thought.
Eric noticed my expression. “I mean it. Eden is a very interesting person. One of her passions is protecting wildlife. She just came back from tagging wolves in Wyoming.”
That did sound interesting, but it failed to win me over.
With a wary gaze, I tracked the woman’s less-than-steady course to a table across the room. She sat down with a single dinner companion, a lean, middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper ponytail. He wore the required jacket for the club’s River Room, but the embroidered blue green Nehru didn’t look anything like the business attire around him.
“I’m glad she’s having dinner with Garth,” Eric said, tilting his head toward their table. “A talk with the Metis Man will straighten her out.”
I blinked. “Did you just say Medicine Man?”
“No, but you’re not far from the truth. Garth Hendricks is a very important person in my organization. Sometimes I think of him as the Energizer because he inspires me and my staff. Sometimes we joke that he’s the Ventilator—because he allows my people to vent. He’s like a father confessor and court jester rolled into one. But his official title at THORN, Inc., is Metis Man.”
“Metis . . . that’s from Greek mythology, isn’t it? Metis was a goddess?”
“Goddess of wisdom, spouse of Zeus . . .” He smiled and nodded. “I’m totally impressed that you know that, but somehow I’m not surprised.”
Of course you’re not surprised, I thought. You probably have my whole life outlined in that secret file of yours.
“So Garth doesn’t mind being named after a goddess?”
“He chose the name! And he’s always been big on gender equality. Garth was a mentor of mine before I ever met him.”
“How could that be?”
“I read his books—more like devoured them. New Management for a New Century, Make It Don’t Break It, Puncturing the Donut—”
“Did you just say Donut as in coffee and—?”
“It’s part of a bigger philosophy. In that sense, Garth is like a medicine man. He runs our youth outreach and talent scout programs, App This!, and the local chapter of the Junior Rocketeers, and he’s the unofficial company psychologist. I’ll introduce you.”
“I’d like that.”
And for a very good reason . . .
If I was going to learn this company’s secrets, including who might be working with Grayson Braddock to undermine Eric, then this ponytailed father confessor was clearly the “Metis” man to ask.
Thirty-one
BY the time the dessert menu arrived, I was starting to feel fatigued (the night had thrown me more to deal with than I’d bargained for), but Chef Harvey’s whimsical selections managed to perk me up, including something called the Billionaire Twinkie.
“Now, that I’ve got to try.”
“Oh, yes, me too—”
Unfortunately, we never got the chance. Before we could order, a waiter arrived with a silver tray.
“Excuse me, Mr. Thorner, I have a special dessert tray prepared just for you and your lovely guest by Chef Harvey himself.”
“A surprise?” Eric said, slightly wary. “What’s on it?”
“Chef Harvey has titled his offering Baby Carnival Treats, and it comes with the compliments of Mr. Grayson Braddock.”
Eric’s eyes narrowed with anger, but he quickly masked it behind a stiff grin. The waiter set the tray in front of us along with a special mini dessert card, which described the beautifully presented entrees.
“We have two candied apples, glacéed with Calvados and raw honey, and garnished with shredded Tanzanian coconut and crushed macadamias. These sweet, tiny apples are a Fuji and crabapple hybrid grown in Chile. Beside them are mini–cotton candy clouds in flavors of pink champagne, candied Meyer lemon, and sweet jasmine tea . . .”
While the waiter spoke, I glanced in the direction of Braddock’s table. The bald billionaire lifted his wineglass. The predatory grin rattled me enough to miss the skinny on the gourmet popcorn balls, the Sno-Cones laced with flavo
red vodkas, and the cute, little funnel cakes drizzled with roasted white chocolate.
“Shall I carry a message to Mr. Braddock, sir?” the waiter asked.
“In a bit,” Eric replied through gritted teeth. “For now, could you please bring us a coffee service? The chef’s special selection, please.”
“Right away.”
As the waiter departed, Eric faced Braddock and lifted his own wineglass, returning the shark’s grin with a bitter smile of his own.
“What’s this about?” I whispered. “Should I expect the candy apples to be injected with Mulga venom?”
“Braddock doesn’t need to poison us,” Eric whispered back. “His insult was enough; the news is already traveling.”
Eric was right. The little “special dessert” menu cards were being distributed to every table and people in the know were taking out their smartphones. The gesture reminded me of the Forbes magazine profile he’d mentioned earlier—the one where Braddock had called Eric a “baby billionaire in a carnival business.”
Eric gestured toward the goodies. “He just doubled down on the insult with this tray of ‘Baby Carnival Treats.’”
Before I could reply, the coffee service arrived. The waiter French-pressed, poured two cups, and waited for us to taste. Eric hadn’t touched the dessert tray, now he ignored the coffee.
“Tell me what you think, Clare.”
With Eric waiting and the waiter hovering, I quickly sampled the brew. I found the coffee smooth and generally flavorful, but unbalanced and one-dimensional.
“It’s fine.”
Eric narrowed his eyes. “What’s the problem?”
“I’m your guest, Eric, and my nonna always told me, if you can’t say anything nice . . .” I shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry for having an opinion, Clare, especially about something on which you are an expert.” Eric tasted his own cup and frowned at the waiter. “This is not what I ordered. I asked for the chef’s selection coffee.”
“Yes, sir,” the waiter replied. “This is our guest chef’s coffee selection for the evening—Ambrosia.”