Evening Storm (11 page)

It was a slip of the tongue. She meant to say
premises
, not
presence
, but English was her second language, not her first, and when she got worked up she made mistakes. But she couldn't take it back. She knew better than to show weakness to a man like Ryan.

“This is all I have to give, and you don't want it.”

He meant money, prestige, fame. She spun back, stepped into his body, at some level aware of the way her breasts heaved, the shift of fine wool against brocade. “I want something from you,” she said. “Is that what you think, that because I don't want money or clothes or jewelry or a Fifth Avenue apartment that this isn't deadly serious for me? I want the truth from you. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.”

He ducked his head, blew out his breath, then looked up at her through his eyelashes. He was nothing special to look at, but she couldn't stop looking at him. No one could. Half the restaurant watched them cross the room and disappear down the corridor, and that wasn't just because Simone was wearing the most vibrant shade of blue-green outside of a Caribbean beach. It was because Ryan, even when he was relaxed, watching the action, commanded the attention of everyone in the room. Ryan, half-drunk and combative, put everyone on full alert.

He stepped back, regained his composure. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Simone.”

Head held high, she rejoined Stéphane at their table. He lifted an eyebrow, his gaze all-seeing, amused. She shrugged, knowing that he would understand everything that single movement of her shoulders intended to convey. Before Ryan arrived she'd entertained the notion of going home with Stéphane, of having a story to tell Ryan the next time he showed up on her stoop. But after the scene in the corridor, she knew how real chemistry felt, the searing, exhilarating swoop of adrenaline, the way her senses heightened, straining for the touch of Ryan's lips, his body against hers. She wouldn't settle for a pale imitation of the real thing, no matter how out of reach Ryan was.

Ryan stood in the center of the trading floor at MacCarren, Bluetooth headset on, listening to an earnings call, one eye on the TV screens bolted to the columns interspersed through the floor, the other eye on the three screens on his desk. Surrounded by his workday, which was high stress enough without the FBI breathing down his fucking neck, all he could think about was Simone.

“—take share in the quarter with $4.1 billion of fee earning net inflows, including July first subscriptions—”

The scene at the restaurant had worked perfectly in one regard. Simone was a stunning woman, all red hair and glowing curves of shoulders and breasts, and laced into that outfit and giving off sparks, she'd been the perfect high point in the latest installment of Ryan Hamilton, Manhattan Playboy. Two of his friends, drunk as fuck, blown away by Simone's simmering sexual energy, and not fully grasping the concept of no means no, took pictures and posted them. Within hours they were all over the Internet.

He hated himself for it. He never intended to use her that way. Walking into her showroom with Jade was nothing but coincidence. The fact that a perfect storm grew out of that single event, social media buzz, the titillation of sexy lingerie, actresses and supermodels and Wall Street money all coming together to draw everyone's eyes to him was nothing but the best kind of luck. Unfortunately, it also drew everyone's attention to Simone, and that meant nothing but trouble for him.

Simone didn't want that. She'd had it, and walked away. Simone needed nothing from him, and only seemed to want the truth of who he was. Unfortunately, that came at a time when not only could he not give her that, he wasn't actually sure what it meant to be Ryan Hamilton.

“—how do you make this deal work? Essentially, what's your secret ingredient, because on the surface it looks like a pretty vanilla asset under consideration. Maybe I'm wrong on that, but you're deploying three billion of capital in search of the IRRs you're targeting—”

He tuned out again. Right now he was a walking, bleeding ulcer waiting to happen. He rummaged through his top desk drawer, found the supersize container of Tums, popped the lid, shook out three antacids, and chewed them while listening to the investor call, subconsciously processing the flow of information into his ear.

“—math is directionally correct that you just went through on the $1.7 billion given the assumptions that you gave—”

Just another day at MacCarren. Don and Charles stood in Don's corner office having a conversation, and very studiously not looking at him, until both of them cut him a glance through the glass wall separating Don's office from the trading floor. Ryan's heart kicked hard, and his stomach did a slow, tumbling, acid-drenched loop in his gut. He let his eyes go to soft focus, as if he were absolutely focused on the call, waited a few seconds, then turned and spoke into the Bluetooth headset. “Is that in gross cash carry?”

The call continued, so the question must have made sense in context. Good to know his brain was still working. It had been weeks since the party with Daria Russell and the MacCarrens was making him sweat it out. Jock FBI agent was pushing for Ryan to go back and ask again to be let into the scheme, on the hypothesis that if he looked eager, they would be more likely to take him in. Ryan felt exactly the opposite. The more disinterested and cool he looked, the more likely they were to let him in. They've been running this scheme for over fifteen years. They didn't need eager beavers gnawing away at the image they built of mysterious exclusivity. They needed someone with ice in his veins.

Despite the low-simmering acid bath in his stomach, that someone was Ryan.

Fortunately summer in New York City and the social season at the Hamptons provided a nearly endless supply of actresses, supermodels, and socialites to climb into the helicopter waiting at South Street Seaport to ferry them to the whirl of events. And whirl he would, like a fucking top, drinking more than he should, eating less than he should, talking about buying a $16 million house in the Hamptons, and tearing it down so he could build a $30 million house in its place. He had no intention of doing that, but it definitely sustained the rumors that he had lots of money, spent lots of money, and needed even more.

What he really
needed
was to buy stock in whoever manufactured antacids.

What he really
wanted
was to buy a six-pack of beer, sit on Simone's stoop, and drink it. With her, he didn't have to talk, and neither did she. All he wanted was to sit next to her and watch the heat of the day infuse her skin and know that with her he knew who he was. He was the guy who sat next to Simone. That was enough for him.

He turned back to the monitors ringing his desk on the trading floor. A new email alert, with the subject line “Hamptons house party,” from Jenny, Don's assistant, faded from his screen. Ryan folded his arms across his chest, ducked his head, and turned away from the monitor. It wouldn't do any good to appear like he gave a fuck, so he pretended to focus intensely on the investor call, shaking his head in disbelief, leaning across another array of monitors to flick Andy Fieri's shoulder at a particularly inane question. Only when the call disconnected did he turn around and open the email.

It was an invitation to a private house party at Don's home in East Hampton a week from Saturday, for Ryan and a plus one.

This was it. He knew it in his bones. An invitation like that was an invitation into the inner circle. The thought made his stomach loop again, sending acid up the back of his throat.

Knowing that they were watching him, and had access to all of his emails through the company's internal servers, he didn't respond right away. Instead he answered a couple other emails, then went into a men's room two floors down and used the burner cell phone that he picked up when he started dealing with the FBI to set up a time to meet with Daniel Logan. Logan texted back almost immediately with the time to meet at their favorite Midtown parking garage. The next text was simple and quiet:
You've got this almost done
.

Almost done.

He had appearances to maintain, so he mentally reviewed the list of women that would be the right accessory for this dinner party. He texted Lily Graham to see if she was interested in a weekend in the Hamptons. To no great surprise, she was. He'd blow off work Friday afternoon and take her over to Irresistible. It was becoming “his thing” to take the woman
du jour
out for a little shopping trip before their time together commenced. For at least the next few days he had to continue to live up to that reputation.

Seeing Simone before the most difficult weekend of his life, well, that was for him. He shouldn't do it. He shouldn't do this to her, to them. But it was working, and he couldn't let up now.

Then he texted a friend who was connected in the theater world and called in a favor. Very soon, no one was going to want to do him a favor. But if this was the last one he was ever able to call in, at least it meant something to him.

A couple hours later the theater friend's intern arrived with an envelope. After she left, Ryan texted his bike messenger for an immediate pickup. The reply came inside ten minutes. Seth walked through the door to Ryan's building just as Ryan exited the elevator. Ryan beckoned him over and handed him two envelopes, one thick, the other one from the theater friend appearing to hold nothing at all.

“Both to Simone Demarchelier at Irresistible. This one,” Ryan said, holding out the fat envelope, “is from me. The other one is anonymous. You picked it up through the delivery service. No other instructions or information, but make sure it gets directly into her hand, and that she knows it's time-sensitive.”

“Yes, sir,” Seth said.

That's why he hired Seth for jobs outside the delivery service. Scrupulously honest. Unflappable. Tats up and down his heavily muscled arms, and visible in the deep
V
of his bike jersey. The only one Ryan recognized was the marine corp's globe and anchor.

“How much cash are we talking about, sir? Just out of curiosity.”

“Twenty-five grand.” An apology for the scene at the restaurant masked as a tip for treating Daria so well.

If the amount fazed Seth, his response was hidden behind mirrored-blade sunglasses. “And the other one?”

“A single piece of cardstock that's more valuable to me than the cash.”

Seth gave him one short nod. “I'll have them there in half an hour. I have to pick up one more delivery for Irresistible first.”

“Hold up a second.” Ryan gave him another envelope, the same thickness as the first. “That's for you.”

Seth pulled a pocket knife from the zippered pouch on the front of his messenger bag, slit the side of the envelope, and peered inside. “Jesus,” he said. “What's this for?”

“It's a tip.”

“I can't take it, sir,” Seth said, trying to give the envelope back to him.

Ryan left his hands in his pockets. “Sure you can. You put the envelope in your bag, you walk out the door, and you get on your bike and go. Easy.”

Seth left his arm extended. “Am I doing something illegal, sir?”

Not unless his definition of illegal included wooing a woman against her will. “Not even remotely,” Ryan said. “It's a tip. That's all.”

“I get tips from other customers. Ten bucks. Maybe twenty. Not thousands,” he said.

There was a similar envelope in his desk for his assistant, an off-the-books severance package he'd hand her when their world came crashing down. Before that happened, Ryan was going to take care of the people who worked for him. “I'm paying for discretion,” Ryan said finally.

Seth's jaw tightened. “Just so you know, sir, if I find out I am doing anything illegal, I'll be the first person to go to the cops.”

“Fair enough,” Ryan said.

Clearly reluctant, Seth zipped both envelopes into the interior pocket of his messenger bag, then shifted the bag from his chest to his back. “I'll get there as soon as I can.”

***

Simone looked up when Lorrie buzzed the bike messenger into the showroom. He handed her several envelopes, then had her scribble an electronic signature to confirm delivery. She opened the thick one, her name scrawled on the envelope in handwriting she recognized as Ryan's, and blew out her breath at the amount of money inside. “Il est fou,” she muttered. A single piece of paper with the MacCarren logo at the top slid out with the bundled cash.

An outrageous tip for treating Daria so well. Sorry about the scene. It won't happen again.

The second one contained documents from Stéphane, signatures needed on some business papers.

“He said to wait while you signed them.”

Simone signed in all the places indicated with yellow sticky note arrows, tucked them back into the manila envelope, and refastened the tabs. The bike messenger tucked it back into his messenger bag.

The third had no name on the front. Puzzled, she opened it and tipped out a single ticket to Shakespeare in the Park for the performance that night.

“Oh,” she said. She rubbed her forehead with her palm, and looked at the ticket to
Much Ado About Nothing
. A single ticket, worth its weight in gold at the moment, with Daria Russell as Beatrice. Stéphane really was running hot.

After the bike messenger left, she called Stéphane. “Thank you for the ticket,” she said.

“What ticket?”

“The ticket to Shakespeare in the Park.”

“Cherie, once again, I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Stéphane's voice always held that lighthearted note. He'd done this before, sent her secret gifts, denied his role, as a way to win her. She'd find out anyway, if he had a second ticket and sat down next to her. She could just see it, him settling into the seat beside her, smiling his satisfied smile, executing another maneuver in the game of love. But in that moment, Ryan's brand of dishonesty felt more authentic, his anguish real, his ambivalence heartfelt. “Well, thank you. It's a shame we can't go together.”

“I couldn't go even if I did have the other ticket. I have a business dinner tonight. Enjoy yourself.”

Bemused, she disconnected the call and tucked her phone under the counter. She should go. She would go. She would face down her envy and let her love of Shakespeare and Manhattan wash away the memories of the story Ryan told.

***

Simone rather liked going places by herself, and found silence and solitude crucial to her creative process. The humid summer air would wreak havoc on her hair, so she put it up in a loose roll at her nape, dressed in a black silk sheath and black sandals suitable for walking from the Fashion District to the Delacorte Theater, zipped her ticket into the lining of her purse, settled her sunglasses on her nose, and set off uptown.

It was a lovely night for a walk, the city coming alive as the sun set and eased some of the brutal heat. Restaurants were full of people having drinks after work, or a meal, their laughter spilling onto the sidewalks through windows thrown wide. She wasn't hungry, though, so she kept a steady pace walking with the lights until she came to the entrance of Central Park at Fifty-Ninth Street, following one of the interior paths until she came to the Shakespeare Garden on the west side of the Belvedere Castle. She had a few minutes to kill before she could take her seat, so she climbed past the rustic benches in the Shakespearean flower garden to Belvedere Castle's platform overlooking Turtle Pond and the theater.

The theater was set in a bowl of mature trees, the branches and leaves spreading shelter to the north, and two or three stories of black fabric hiding the performance from anyone who was standing on the Castle's overlook. Banks of lights poured down on the stage, and Simone watched as the set dressers laid out props and double-checked the sound. Clumps of people clustered near the theater's entrances, waiting for the moments when they could go in and take their seats. The Great Lawn filled with families playing Frisbee, office workers listening to the clank of aluminum bats against softballs as they strolled home from their day, couples spreading out picnics on the green grass and settling in to enjoy a classic Manhattan summer night.