Sizzle in the City (16 page)

The man was the most contentious, aggravating, bossy…sexier-than-sin— She stopped her internal tirade and cleared her throat. “We’re still considering our options.”

“Hell.” He polished off his beer and laid some money on the bar. “See ya, Jimmie,” he called to the bartender.

“Where’re you going?” she asked. She’d come to scold him. A lot of nerve he had not to even stick around for her censure.

“Home. To bed.”

A vision of his rumpled dark hair and naked, leanly muscled body tangled in soft cotton sheets wavered before her. She grabbed the bar to steady herself before calling after him. “You could help, you know.”

He barked out a laugh. “Under your direction.”

“Naturally.”

“No, thanks.”

* * *

“S
HEL
,
THERE
’
S
A
GUY
named Henry Banfield out here to see you.”

Elbow deep in floured dough, Shelby glanced toward Pete, hovering in the doorway between the front office and the workroom. “There is?”

“Yep.” Pete angled his head. “Trevor’s father?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Uh-oh.”

Shelby put on a brave smile, though her stomach was rapidly tying itself in knots.

Pete kept the bills paid and answered phones a few days a week in between classes at NYU. Someday, he’d be a brilliant accountant. She felt fortunate to have his good sense on the payroll.

“Send him on back.”

“I could tell him you’re busy.”

“No.” She headed to the sink to wash her hands. She couldn’t imagine whatever the earl had to say would be encouraging, but she didn’t see how delaying the confrontation would help. “I’ll see him.”

“Okay. I’m gonna transfer the phones back here and take off. I’ve got a world-history midterm tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks, Pete.”

She heard voices in the front room, then Lord Westmore entered the room.

Dressed in a tailor-made charcoal-gray suit—not tweed—he looked more like his son than ever.

Shelby swallowed the lump in her throat as she dried her hands. “Good afternoon, your lordship. What can I do for you?”

His hands clasped behind his back, he wandered around the room, pausing at the stove top. “Chicken soup?” he asked.

“Just chicken,” she said, wondering where this was going. Was he casing the joint or assessing its value? Either way, she doubted the earl had troubled himself to come to her kitchen to chat about culinary endeavors. “I’m making chicken potpies for a charity luncheon tomorrow.”

“Really?” He actually smiled. “I enjoy a good chicken potpie.”

“Do you?”

“Though I’m especially partial to roasted beef.”

“Trevor mentioned that.”

“He thought the meal was dull. But I like tradition.”

“My mom made grilled-cheese sandwiches every Tuesday night when I was growing up. ’Course, that was probably because it was the only thing she knew how to make without burning the house down.” She halted the urge to continue rambling. “Were you expecting to find Trevor here?”

“No, I came at this time because I know he’s at his office.” He stopped on the opposite side of the center island. “You and my son have become quite close recently.”

Then again, maybe she’d rather talk about food. “We have.”

“You met when you catered a party for Max.”

“That’s right.”

“A party you and your friends used to garner information about Max and his allegedly illicit business ventures.”

She braced her hands against the counter.
Yes, it started with a lie. Thanks for the reminder.
“Do you have a point, your lordship?”

His gaze met hers. “You’re very direct. You remind me of my former wife. Different coloring, of course, but full of fire and independence. You know what you want.”

“Yes.”

“But you’re not capricious and unreliable.”

“No.”

“And right now you want my son?”

Shelby pursed her lips. “It took you quite a while to get around to that.”

His face flushed. “I have difficulties communicating with women at times.”

“We’re all just a little bit different,” Shelby said sardonically. “It must be frustrating.”

“Simply maddening.”

“So you came here to find out if I’m using him? For his rich friends as potential clients or the luxury of sleeping in his high-rise apartment?”

“Maybe both.”

“With his looks and success I imagine he’s caught the attention of a number of women who’re interested in the… Let’s call them
benefits
that come with being involved with him.”

“Yes, he has.”

“Did you warn them off, too?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sorry, my lord, but, as they say in my neck of the woods,
that dog won’t hunt
here.”

Looking resigned, he nodded. “I was afraid of that.”

Though she didn’t have to like it, she understood his suspicion. A father should safeguard his son—even if he’s the second, just-in-case one—like a daughter should honor her parents. They were alike in more ways than either of them wanted to admit. “As much as I long to tell you that my relationship with Trevor is none of your damn business, I’m aware your intent is to protect him.”

“He cares for you very much.”

“I feel the same. He’s already offered me money for my parents. I won’t take it.”

“Not yet.”

She shook her head. “Not ever.”

After holding her gaze a long moment, he again nodded. “I believe you.” He paced the length of the island, then back. “And I misjudged you.” He shrugged. “It happens, though I like to think not often. There was my wife…” He trailed off. “But then I have Max and Trevor, so I can hardly call the relationship a mistake.

“I was young and impulsive—hard as that may be to believe now.”

“It is.”

“Perhaps I learned from my mistakes. Or lost my nerve. But family obligations, and the title, require a decorum Trevor isn’t burdened with. He has more freedoms. I imagine that’s why he chose to live in America. As a result he’s done more with less.”

“You might try telling him this. He needs to hear it.”

“Yes, well, we need to get through this Max business. Do you really think he deserves to go to jail?”

“At the very least.”

The earl sighed. “Bloody Americans, bent on retribution.”

“You
are
still pissed about us kicking your butt at Yorktown.”

He chuckled, and the humor made her ache for Trevor all the more. She was crazy about that smile, and the events of the next few days were likely to determine how often she might get to see it in the future. “Are you aware my ancestor led the attack?” he asked.

“And got his butt kicked.”

He inclined his head, the elegance of the gesture certainly genetic as she’d seen her lover do the same thing many times. “I hope you make him happy.”

“Me, too.”

“Do you love him?”

“Yes.”

She’d answered instinctively, probably rashly, but she couldn’t regret the truth. There were too many deceptions, slights and injustices already.

“Have you told him?”

“No.”

“Don’t wait. Trevor deserves to be happy, and I think you do that very well.”

She thought so—for now anyway. The lies and the plots were incredible obstacles to overcome however. When the business with Max was over, would she always be a reminder of his brother’s downfall? And what if they didn’t get enough evidence to have him arrested? Would she grow to resent Trevor?

“As long as we’re sharing confidences,” the earl added, “I should admit there are times I wish Trevor could have been my firstborn and heir. If the birth order had simply been reversed.”

Wishing for something impossible to change seemed like a giant waste of time to Shelby. “Why does birth order matter?”

“It does” was all he said.

But if Max went to jail, couldn’t he be disinherited? She didn’t know how that kind of thing worked in the U.K., but with enough political and legal wrangling, she imagined anything was possible.

“Trevor would make an excellent earl,” Shelby agreed.

As the words escaped her lips, fear surged through her.

What if that happened?

He would have a seat in the House of Important Noble People, or whatever they called it. He’d have to go back to England. His wife would be a
countess.

She wasn’t countess material.

And even without the title, he was still British nobility, and she was a caterer. He moved goods back and forth around the world; she boxed cupcakes and sold them to the neighborhood coffee shops.

She was a fool to think she could hold on to the man she loved so deeply.

The earl crossed to the stove, lifted the stock pot lid and inhaled. “You’re an excellent cook.” He glanced at her over his shoulder, and she fought to focus on him instead of the dread slithering through her veins like poison. “Sorry. It’s
chef,
isn’t it? I expect you can make lemonade quite easily.”

“Lemons and sugar.”

“I’ll leave that to you.”

The metaphor between her and Trevor’s relationship, making something good and sweet out of something that started bitter wasn’t lost on her.

But it didn’t give her the hope the earl undoubtedly intended.

“So, during my meeting this morning with Trevor,” the earl continued, “after viewing the evidence compiled against Max, it occurred to me that my burden on Trevor has been too great. I realized I could assist instead of order or criticize. So what exactly goes into making a chicken potpie?”

15

T
REVOR
WALKED
INTO
a scene in Shelby’s catering kitchen that caused him to come to a halt in the doorway.

His father was wearing an apron and stirring something on the stove. Calla and Victoria were sitting side by side on the counter. Each had a plastic bowl in their lap and flour on their hands. Shelby was dipping a ladle into a pitcher that looked remarkably like lemonade.

He blinked at the homey atmosphere. Something was really wrong and really right.

Father is wearing an apron.

That was probably the wrong thing.

“You’re having a party and didn’t invite me?” he asked, entering the room.

“We made lemonade,” his father said with a joy on his face Trevor had only seen a few times in his life.

Calla toasted him with a V-shaped crystal glass. “And lemon-drop martinis.”

“Chicken-pot pies have been promised,” Victoria said in her usual dry tone. “If Henry will get a move on over there…”

“Henry?” Trevor managed to echo.

Shelby put down the ladle she was holding and closed the distance between them. “Hey.”

Just that quickly, the world narrowed to two. He braced his hands on either side of her waist. “Everything okay?”

“We’ve had our strange moments.”

“Was one of those tying an apron around the lofty Earl of Westmore’s waist?”

“Oh, yeah. He got through it.”

“And you?”

“I’m great.” Though there was a hint of tension in her smile, she moved closer, brushing her lips across his cheek. “Even better now.”

“
Aw,
look how cute they are,” Calla said.

Shelby grinned. “Calla’s had two lemon drops already.”

Trevor pulled Shelby tight into his embrace. It was like coming home, only better. His kissed the top of her head. “I can tell.”

Desire crawled through his veins as she loosened his tie, sliding it from around his neck and looping it around hers like a scarf. She linked their hands. “Come join us.”

He’d thrown himself in with Robin Hood and her compatriots. He supposed it was time for some merriment.

Though there was also hard work—stirring, chopping, kneading, rolling, scooping. With the potpies for Shelby’s luncheon stored in the walk-in fridge, the gang was left to make their dinner.

Unable to face a potpie after all the ones they’d slaved over, they formed dumplings from leftover dough and added chicken and vegetables. They poured fresh stock, thickened with flour for the broth. Shelby directed his father on how to make a loaf of herbed bread, and Trevor opened the wine.

Gathered in folding chairs in the back corner of the kitchen, they feasted. Not even a party in Sherwood Forest could have competed.

“I don’t want to ruin the mood,” Trevor said, “but we need to talk about Max.”

Victoria groaned. “How ’bout I just run over the creep the next time I’m following him?”

When the earl’s face registered shock, Shelby patted his hand. “Sorry, Henry. Victoria’s even more direct than I am.”

“Quite all right, my dear.” The earl offered her a slight smile. “Max can’t continue hurting people. He has to change his life. The Banfield name is at stake.”

Ever since their talk that morning, Trevor was finding his father’s change of heart a little unnerving. He appreciated the earl not warning Max of the forces moving against him, but he wasn’t sure how to take his father’s active involvement in the Robin Hood project.

The fact that, apparently, it came down to the family reputation shouldn’t have been so surprising. It was also entirely possible the old man was as pissed off at Max as Trevor was.

Calla frowned into her water glass. “Detective Antonio is out of patience with us. If we’re not careful, we’ll be the ones behind bars.”

“I think we’re all tired and frustrated,” Trevor said. “We need to expose Max’s crimes and end this.”

“We need a better plan than the last time we confronted Max,” Shelby pointed out.

“I’ve been giving that some thought,” Trevor said. “How about if we’re honest?”

Victoria gestured with her fork. “I’d bet my Mercedes Max knows zero about honesty. It’s worked pretty well for him so far.”

Trevor sipped his wine. “Well, we won’t be telling him everything. Just enough to lure him into our trap.”

“Which is?” Shelby asked.

“We’re not having any luck contacting anybody from the investors’ meeting or finding proof of defrauded victims Shelby hasn’t already documented, so what if we’re the fresh evidence? What if we go with Shelby’s original idea and become Max’s next mark?”

“We, as in all of us?” Calla asked, glancing around the table and looking doubtful.

“We’ll plan everything together, but I think we need one investor, and I have the perfect woman in mind.”

Everyone fell silent as they all looked to Shelby for her reaction.

“I’m fine with being the would-be victim,” she said. “I think I’d enjoy the end result all the more. But how? Do I pull out the blond wig and false eyelashes again?”

Victoria frowned. “I vote no on that part.”

“I wasn’t thinking of Shelby actually,” Trevor explained quickly before they ran full tilt with costume ideas. “How about my administrative assistant?”

“Florence?” the earl and Shelby asked at the same time and in the same disbelieving tone.

Trevor tried not to take their reaction as criticism. “Yes, Florence. Max was at school when she was my governess, and only met her a few times. She recently came out of retirement to work for me, and Max hasn’t ever bothered to come to my office here in New York. He won’t recognize her, and more importantly we can trust her.

“I’ll bring her to the next investors’ meeting, and we’ll say she has family money she wants to invest in one of the new condos. Simple. He’ll trust us, because he’d never dream I’d betray him. I’ve invested too much effort into bailing him out of trouble.”

Shelby cocked her head in confusion. “Does Florence have family money?”

“Does she need the actual cash?” Calla asked. “Why not just say she does? He gave you a bad check. Let’s return the favor.”

“I think the money should be real for this to work,” Shelby said. “If he cashes the check and it clears, won’t that be stronger evidence for the police? A paper trail?”

“Hold on.” Trevor scowled at Shelby. “What bad check?”

“Sorry,” Calla said, shoving a bite of bread in her mouth and looking guilty.

“The check from Max for my catering services at the hotel,” Shelby admitted. “It bounced.”

Trevor ground his teeth together. “You have to let me—”

“No, I don’t.” Shelby shook her head. “I knew the risk of him stiffing me going in. It was my decision to go ahead anyway.”

“There’s an easy solution to the problem of the money,” Victoria said, “I’ve got plenty—”

Shelby waved her off. “No. It’s too big of a risk.”

“
I’m
giving Florence the money,” Trevor said firmly.

Shelby narrowed her eyes. “Oh, no you’re not. We’re not using your money, either.”

Trevor laid his hand on her thigh, squeezing it lightly to calm and reassure her. “She’ll be borrowing it to get to Max.”

“Unless he takes off before we can get him arrested.” Her expression was mutinous. “And I don’t like dragging Florence into this. I’ll be the mark.”

“Florence doesn’t mind,” Trevor insisted. “Trust me, she’ll enjoy the adventure.”

Shelby seemed on the verge of offering another excuse when Calla said, “If you’re the mark, Trevor will have to deposit the investment into your bank account.”

Shelby’s face turned white. “No. He can’t.”

The earl abruptly covered Shelby’s hand with his. “This isn’t what I meant earlier.”

She focused on him. “I know.”

While Trevor, and presumably the other women, remained confused, his father added, “How about if you use my money?”

“No way.” Shelby jerked to her feet, tossing her napkin on the table. “I appreciate everybody’s help, I really do, but all of you are spending way too much time and energy on this. I’ll keep researching and looking for people willing to give statements to the police. There’ll be no more surveillance or break-ins or any of it. I can do this.”

“On your own?” Victoria finished for her.

“That’s not fair,” Calla said. “We want revenge as much as you do. It’s not right what Max is doing.”

“You need us,” Trevor said, his voice tight with disappointment. Why wouldn’t she trust them? Him especially? The ache in his heart spread. He loved her, and she was rejecting him.

“Let your friends help, Shelby,” the earl said quietly. “They want to share in the responsibility.”

“Shelby, why don’t you come to the meeting, too?” Trevor suggested. “You can pose as Florence’s daughter or niece, maybe her secretary. You’ll be right there to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

Shelby stood rigid, and Trevor fought for the words that would convince her.
All for one, and one for all?

Oh, wait. That was
The Three Musketeers.

Tentatively, Calla raised her hand. “I could use some extra cash. Any of you guys want to deposit a big, heaping pile of it in my bank account, I’m cool with that.”

Her silly offer broke the tension.

“Okay. Hell.” Shelby looked skyward, then dropped into her seat. “We’ll do it. It’s a good plan.” Under the table, she laced her fingers through Trevor’s. “But Max is already suspicious of you. You questioned him about his CD investment, and he knows you’re watching him. What if he senses the trap?”

“He’ll take off like a jackrabbit,” Calla said.

Victoria drummed her fingers against the table. “We’ve come too far to risk spooking him now.”

“What if I escort Shelby and Florence to the investment meeting?” the earl offered.

Before Trevor could be little more than shocked by his father’s offer, he continued. “Naturally, he won’t suspect me of trapping him.”

“Are you sure you want to be that involved?” Trevor asked his father.

“Love isn’t always easy, son,” the earl said, resignation in his eyes. “I want to be there.”

“Provided your sudden appearance doesn’t scare him to death,” Victoria said drily.

“He won’t be scared,” Trevor said, certain it was true.

Having his powerful father there would make Max bolder than ever. After seeing his brother through Shelby’s eyes, he’d gained a bit of insight into his character just as she had. Max would puff up like one of the hot-air balloons he was now notorious for wanting to buy.

Trevor exchanged a meaningful glance with Shelby, who nodded. “I think it could work.”

All for one.

Condos for Sale!
by Peeps Galloway, Gossipmonger
And proud of it!

On guard, fellow Manhattanites!

   Did you hear one of our beloved avant-garde artistes in the East Village has gone on to that great Picasso painting in the sky? Yes, I know, let us all shed a tear into our whiskey sour. (Which is
the
hot drink of spring, by the by.) He will never be forgotten by all who cherished his groundbreaking work.

   But we all must go on…on to the real-estate section of this quality publication, as an oh-so-discreet ad for a new condominium development has been placed. (See pgs. 9 and 10 for the full-color spread.) Through a delightful real-estate agent named Alice, you, too, can get all the deets on the budding project. And even get in on the ground floor of what’s sure to be Manhattan’s new IT address!

   One scoop you won’t get from the lovely Alice, though, is the brainchild behind this development. (You know I know, and you know I’m going to let you know. ’Cause, you know, we’re buds.) It’s Max Banfield! Imagine our very own, newly crowned hotel mogul and future earl already branching out to other ventures! It makes a shoe diva proud, doesn’t it?

   Apparently those stories of trouble over at the Crown were greatly exaggerated. Who would start such an unsubstantiated rumor? The nerve of some people.

   (For a list of my own sources, please present yourself to 700 Pennsylvania Ave, Wash, D.C., and check out that charming old document under glass called The Constitution. Amendment number one is a doozy.)

   Be sure and invite me over for a cocktail when you move into your new lush pad!

—Peeps

Project Robin Hood, Day 26
The Crown Jewel, Suite 1634

S
HELBY
POSITIONED
HERSELF
behind Henry and Florence as they rode up in the elevator.

“Relax,” he said, glancing at her over his shoulder. “It’ll be over soon.”

She nodded, but her thoughts drifted back to the last time she’d been in this building, when the betrayed look on Trevor’s face as he’d confronted her in her ridiculous disguise forced her to admit her plot against Max.

Much had changed; some couldn’t be altered.