Sizzle in the City (8 page)

“Thanks, that would be great.”

He linked his hand with hers. “For you, anything.”

The warmth of his touch chased away the sharp edge of her doubt. She was getting paranoid, imposing her own troubles and uncertainties on his reactions. She’d asked; he’d answered. Was she supposed to interrogate the man? They barely knew each other. Maybe he did share secrets with his brother. She couldn’t possibly expect to be privy to them all.

As they shared coffee and dessert of a rich and dark chocolate mousse, Shelby told him about her first attempt to make mousse for a family gathering, which was a complete disaster, top to bottom.

“Making truly great mousse requires considerable skill, doesn’t it? How old were you?”

“Eight.”

He coughed. “That’s awfully young. You didn’t ask your mother for help?”

“No way. Mom can’t cook anything that doesn’t come from a microwaveable box. My grandmother taught me. She was a great cook.”

“Was?”

“She died three years ago.” And, boy, could Shelby have used her advice at the moment. Granny would have known what to do about this swindling business. Though, given her fiery nature, she likely would have approved of the
any means necessary
avenue for justice. “She had a stroke playing the back nine of her favorite golf course.”

“I’m sorry,” Trevor said gently.

Shelby smiled. “She’s probably still ticked off. Her score card showed she was on track to hit par.”

“My father and his friends are obsessed with golf, as well. But then he has no culinary taste, much less skill, so he hardly compares to your grandmother. His favorite meal is well-done roast beef and boiled potatoes.”

“Roast is comfort food,” Shelby said neutrally. “I imagine it’s stressful to be an earl.”

“I doubt it’s all that taxing. And he dictated roast three to five days a week. Probably still does. He likes predictability.”

“And you don’t?”

Leaning close, Trevor laid his hand on her thigh. “I like surprises.”

Oh, good. You’ll be thrilled when you discover I’m a big fat liar.

Shelby ignored the warning. Instead, she angled her body toward Trevor. The heat of his hand was separated from her skin only by her dress’s thin, clingy fabric.

The fact that they were introduced through subterfuge was a vague worry. Desire hung between them, an impulse unfulfilled.

As yet.

Though his gaze dropped briefly to her lips, he continued. “The crazy thing was at Westmore Manor we had—”

“Westmore Manor. Seriously, your childhood home has a name?”

“The entire property has its own postal code. Is that helpful?”

“Not in the least.”

He wrapped his arm around her waist. “I’m trying to compliment you, would you like to hear how?”

“Oh, please continue.”

“At Westmore Manor…” He cast a glance at her, and she mockingly rolled her eyes. “We had an actual chef in charge of the kitchen. A highly accomplished French chef. He wanted to make Coquilles Saint-Jacques, Brie tarts and escargot with mushrooms.”

“And your father wanted beef and potatoes.”

“Chef Frances, carrying his German-made knives, ran cursing from the house one night during dinner when I was fourteen.” Trevor’s eyes lit with the memory. “But before that, I used to sneak down to his kitchen and try the food he
wanted
to cook. He had such passion. Passion my father was apparently determined to stamp out.”

Shelby watched the shadow fall over his face. “Like with you.”

“Not exactly. He wanted to control, more than omit.” His expression cleared, the charm she’d become accustomed to reasserting. “But I didn’t suffer for the challenges I’ve faced. Neither, I expect, has Chef Frances, since he now owns one of the most accomplished and prestigious restaurants in London.”

“One you financed.”

His eyes registered shock.

She flushed, self-conscious by her blurted response. “Just a hunch.”

“You’re a continual surprise—another compliment. The original one was that you remind me of Chef Frances.” He trailed his fingers across her cheek. “Full of energy and passion.”

She leaned into his caress. “A rarity in Westmore Manor?”

His smile flashed. “Not for everyone.”

The man was amazing. Clever. Desirable. Interesting. What more did she need?

From the depths of her purse, Shelby heard her phone buzz, indicating a text message had come through. Wincing, she leaned away from Trevor. “Sorry. Do you mind if I check that? I have a big luncheon to cater tomorrow, and the hostess keeps adding to the guest list.”

Gracious as always, Trevor said, “Go ahead. I have some difficult clients myself.”

When Shelby pulled out her phone, she noticed the text was from Calla. She started to ignore it, then saw the beginning,
Never mind asking T…

She clicked on the message. In full it read,
Never mind asking Trevor. We’re going to break into Max’s office instead.

Oh, goody. Shelby the Caterer and her gleeful, oh-so-passionate band of vigilantes seemed destined for the slammer.

* * *

“W
HAT
ARE
YOU
UP
TO
?”
Trevor demanded as he strode into Max’s office the next morning.

Seemingly unfazed by Trevor’s abrupt entrance, Max leaned back in his black leather executive chair. “Good afternoon to you, too.”

Trevor braced his hands on Max’s desk. “Investors’ meeting. Ring any bells?”

“I hold lots of meetings. I’m a busy man.”

“And an evasive one.”

“I don’t answer to you.”

“I’ll remember that the next time you invest in hot-air-balloon rides.”

Something was definitely going on with Max. Trevor knew by now that strong-arm tactics would get him nowhere with his brother. However, the idea of Max using one of Shelby’s friends, and the consequences that might ensue, had affected his judgment.

Reaching deeply for his usual control, he lowered himself into a wide leather chair opposite Max. His brother’s business address was fairly shabby, but he’d made himself and his guests comfortable in furnishings. “If you needed investors, you could have come to me.”

“It’s a small project. Nothing you’d be interested in.”

“Try me.”

Max expelled a long-suffering sigh. “Real estate. It’s a real-estate investment.”

“Where?”

“Downtown. A loft in the East Village. An artist died, and his grandmother, who owned the building, wants me to find a contractor to divide the property into condos, then sell them.”

Great day.
Max knew less about contractors and real estate than he did about hotel ownership. His tendency was for poker and roulette. How he’d have better luck at a game that involved actual skill and judgment, Trevor couldn’t imagine. “So the investors are for condos?”

“Yes.”

“It seems awfully early in the process to be looking for buyers.”

“The building is in a very desirable location.”

“So you’re going to get them to invest in a condo that isn’t even built yet.”

“It’s done all the time.”

“With established developers perhaps.” Frustrated, Trevor rose and wandered around the office, full of books, artful lighting, polished cherry furniture, the latest electronics. A facade of a workspace. Like Max himself. “Who’s going to build the condos?”

“I haven’t decided. I’m taking bids.”

“Don’t you think owning a hotel and developing East Village condos are a bit too much to take on at the same time?”

Max’s expression became petulant. “You handle multiple projects. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because you tend to lose interest rather quickly. Both hotel ownership and contracting involve commitment for more than a couple of weeks. How’s your new girlfriend by the way?”

The abrupt switch in topic caused Max’s left hand to jerk. He tried to cover the move by linking his fingers, as if that had been his intention all along. “Great. We’re spending the weekend in the Hamptons.”

“What’s her name?”

“Julie. She’s delicate, and needs me. She had a recent tragedy.”

A horrible, but near certain, idea occurred to Trevor. “She wouldn’t happen to be the former lover of a downtown artist, whose grandmother has just inherited a building?”

Red spots suffused Max’s cheeks. “Now that you mention it…”

Trevor’s stomach turned. The artist’s body probably wasn’t yet cold. And what had Max, and the fickle girlfriend, said to his grandmother to get her to agree to the condo development?

This was a step down—way down—from ill-advised, bordering-on-ridiculous business deals, from running up tabs in pubs and losing cash he didn’t have to Vegas casinos. This was sleazy. Maybe Trevor should have expected his brother’s continual downfall. Maybe he should have sent him home when he’d shown up in New York two years ago, claiming he wanted a fresh start. Maybe he and his father should have actually cut him off, instead of continuing to quietly bail him out. Though he’d hoped Max would see the futility of the path he was traveling, another part worried he was too far down the road to find his way back.

Still, Trevor’s responsibility to his family legacy loomed. Max was the future of the Banfields, however much they were all concerned about what would happen when he eventually got his hands on the jeweled coffers.

“Deals like this are made all the time from inside sources,” Max said, his tone defensive.

“Yes, I’m sure they are. Why should grief and ethics get in the way of making a buck?”

“Easy for you to say—you have a lot of bucks.”

“I earned them.”

“I’m entitled to them.”

Angry by the almost comical twist of fate that had given his father an irresponsible heir and a dependable—though superfluous—second son, Trevor clenched his fist. He truly didn’t want the title. Not that he could have it, even if wishing would make it so. The guilt over the fact that he didn’t want Max’s burden was no doubt what made him desperate for his brother to make a success of his life.

He and his father were bailing water out of a leaking lifeboat, though no amount of speed seemed capable of keeping the dream vessel afloat.

“How are bookings at the hotel?” he asked his brother, facing him with a smile and hoping to diffuse the tense atmosphere.

“Okay, I guess. I haven’t talked to my manager in the last few days.”

Like a toddler with a shiny new toy, Max was already bored with his. The only question now seemed to be which financial misstep would be the first to cause him to fall.

“You might want to check in with him,” Trevor said as he moved toward the door.

“Yeah, I was just about to do that.”

Trevor had his hand on the knob when Max called after him, “Do you know any contractors you can introduce me to?”

Over the years, Trevor had placated, enabled, tried the buddy system and bailouts. Nothing seemed to get through Max’s unrealistic expectations. Florence wanted Trevor to push the baby bird from the nest. Time for some tough love.

And yet he could hardly refuse such a simple request.

“I’ll send you some names. When is the investors’ meeting?”

“Next Thursday at seven. Suite 1634 at the Crown.”

Trevor suppressed a jolt. “That’s fast.”

“I need to judge interest before I start construction.”

He needs money before he starts construction.
“Of course you do.” Trevor met Max’s gaze with a glare. “If you embarrass this family again, I’m finished defending you.”

Max frowned. “Since when have I embarrassed anybody?”

Trevor dearly hoped delusional tendencies weren’t contagious. Especially since he was pretty sure they were hereditary.

7

Project Robin Hood, Day Eleven

The Campbell Building

“I
CAN
’
T
BELIEVE
WE
’
RE
doing this,” Shelby said, staring out her van’s windshield at the dimly lit back door of the building where Max Banfield rented his business office.

The differences between him and his brother were apparent not only in appearance, intelligence and integrity, but also success. The brick on the small midtown building was a dingy gray and sandwiched between a sketchy looking Chinese restaurant and a twenty-four-hour gym.

Of course, if Max rented in a luxury high-rise, they wouldn’t have a prayer of breaking in, either.

“It’s not like we’re going to steal anything,” Victoria said matter-of-factly.

“Actually, we are,” Calla reminded them from the backseat.

“We’re stealing information.”

“Should be no problem for a gang of criminals like us,” Shelby commented sarcastically.

“We’re not criminals,” Victoria said.

Calla leaned forward. “Nor a gang.”

Shelby was pretty sure those excuses wouldn’t go over well with the arraignment judge. “Before your mood-killing text, I was having a really nice time the other night,” she said, pulling on a pair of fleece gloves, which Victoria insisted they needed so they wouldn’t leave fingerprints.

Victoria glared at her. “So sorry we interrupted you getting laid.”

Shelby stared right back. “I’ve got several pieces of my life hanging by a thread, so a little compassion wouldn’t be out of place.”

Calla exchanged a look with Victoria. “Clearly, she could use the sex.”

Victoria pulled her own set of gloves from her handbag. “She and the hot Brit can pick up right where they left off…after we find out the details of the investors’— Duck!”

Shelby’s head and Calla’s nearly collided as they dived toward the center console. Just over the dashboard, Shelby saw a broad-shouldered guy carrying a huge canvas bag as he exited the gym beside the office building. “That was close,” she whispered as the guy ambled down the street.

“Who works out at ten o’clock on a Thursday night?” Victoria opened the passenger’s side door. “Come on. I’d rather not explain to some muscled gym rat just how innocent we are.”

Using the security key card Calla had procured that morning by flirting with a lawyer who also rented in the building, the women slipped inside via the back door.

With no security cameras to worry about, Shelby tried to convince her racing heart they weren’t in danger. In response, it ignored her reassurance and kept right on pounding.

“According to Calla’s lawyer friend, Max’s office is on the third floor,” Victoria said as she moved down the hall. “Let’s find the stairs.”

“Why?” Shelby asked.

Victoria pushed open the stairwell entrance, took a quick peek inside, then held open the door for the others. “Less chance of somebody seeing us.”

“That’s good planning,” Shelby said.

“I went out with an FBI agent once.” Victoria started up the stairs. “You learn things.”

Calla fell into step beside Shelby. “Speaking of guys and learning, do you really think Detective Antonio was coming on to me?”

Victoria nodded. “With that
you bet your cute Texas ass
line? Definitely.”

Shelby glanced at Calla. “You want to talk about your crush on the cop now? While we’re in the middle of a B&E?”

“We talked about your sex life in the van,” Calla returned. “And I don’t have a crush on him.”

“You haven’t stopped talking about him for the last week,” Victoria said.

Calla smiled. “Did I mention how sexy he was?”

“Several times,” Shelby and Victoria said together.

“Still, he’s awfully angry…” Reaching the landing, Calla started to tug open the third-floor door.

Victoria laid her hand over Calla’s. “And a cop.”

With a wince, Shelby joined them. “Considering what we’re doing here, don’t you think you should keep your distance from him, Calla?”

“That’s some kind of advice, coming from you,” Calla retorted, planting her hands on her hips. “You’re practically in bed with our target’s brother.”

“Yeah.” Shelby considered the benefits of being in bed with Trevor and quickly decided the risk was worth the experience—should she ever be offered the opportunity. “A valid point there.”

Victoria cracked open the door. “Later, girls. Save the relationship chat for after our successful mission.”

“Mission?” Calla angled her head. “Just how long did you date the FBI guy?”

Victoria didn’t answer. She craned her neck around the door, presumably to check to see if the coast was clear. Which it must have been, since she waved Shelby and Calla into the hall behind her. “When we get into the office, Shelby will search Max’s desk, Calla will—”

“How are we getting into the office?” Calla asked.

“How else?” Victoria answered. “My credit card.”

“That only works in the movies,” Calla said.

Victoria pulled her black Am Ex from her jacket pocket. “Nobody turns this baby down.”

Bringing up the rear of the group, Shelby glanced behind her, certain she’d heard footsteps. The hallway was empty. Clearly, she wasn’t cut out for criminal life. She increased her pace to stride beside Victoria. “I don’t care how we get in, let’s just get in.”

They reached the office with Max’s name on the door, and Victoria, her hand steady as a surgeon’s, slid her credit card between the frame and the locking bolt. Like magic, the door popped open.

While Calla appeared astounded, Shelby poked her friends in their lower backs to get them moving inside. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it.

The office consisted of a small reception area, some fake potted ficus trees and a modest oak desk for an assistant. The open doorway across the room led to a spacious office holding a black marble desk, black leather chairs and bookcases. Shelby could also see the edge of a leopard-print couch.

Predictably tacky, but plush.

But was Max really a master criminal? Maybe he’d gotten in over his head with a business deal, panicked and used the retirement project money—belonging to her parents and others—to cover his losses. Was she overreacting? Had she drawn her friends, as well as her potential lover, into a desperate mix-up?

Of course, he’d also evaded the police, lied, skipped town and denied any wrongdoing. He hadn’t stood up for his mistakes. He’d run from them.

She fisted her hands at her sides. “Victoria, you search Max’s office. Calla, look around the secretary’s desk. I’ll stand guard.”

“Why am I searching?” Victoria asked.

“I’m…nervous.” Shelby’s hand twitched as evidence. She clenched her fist tighter. “Can we please do this?” She swore she heard the elevator jolting into movement. “You know, quickly?”

Her friends, bless them, said nothing and headed off to their assigned duties. Shelby pressed her ear to the door.
Silence.

Great. They were going to get through this.

Everything was going to be fine. She was going to get Max on some kind of illegal activity. She was going to get her parents’ retirement money back. She was going to get her lover’s—well,
potential
lover’s—brother arrested.

How—

The doorknob beside her hip rattled, then the door flew open, propelling her forward. She caught herself on the corner of the secretary’s desk.

Whirling, she came face-to-face with the reason.

A black-haired, green-eyed, broad-shouldered man filled the doorway. Armed man, she corrected silently when her gaze zoned in on the pistol strapped to his side.

Well, hell. Detective Antonio.

His gaze cut past Shelby to Calla. “What the hell are you doing, Ms. Tucker?”

Victoria slid into the door opening opposite the cop. “Well, Calla,” she said in a breathy tone, “for once you weren’t exaggerating.”

The detective was sexy all right. But he was dangerous. And not just because he undoubtedly had handcuffs and a badge in the pocket of his leather jacket. Furious heat rolled off him in waves, yet when those vivid eyes focused on Calla’s face, the anger turned to hunger.

And not the kind Shelby satisfied with seafood au gratin.

He took two forceful steps inside the office, flicking the door closed behind him with the toe of his shoe. “Have you lost your hearing
and
your mind?” he asked, clearly directing his attention to Calla.

Though he wasn’t anything like the guys Calla usually went for, Shelby distinctly heard her friend let out a needy sigh. “I’m great,” she said, her face flushed an aroused pink.

The detective’s response was to cross his arms over his chest while he continued to stare at Calla with both fascination and expectation.

Shelby glanced at Victoria, who shrugged.

Then, like a switch had been flicked on, Calla blinked. She glowered at the detective. “What I’m doing here is none of your business. What are
you
doing here?”

“Keeping you—” his gaze swept over Victoria and Shelby “—and your gang from committing a felony.”

“We’re not a gang,” Shelby said, echoing Calla’s earlier assertion.

“And we’re not committing a felony.” Cool as ever, Victoria leaned against the doorframe. “We’re not here to steal—”

“Detective,” Shelby said, bravely inserting her body between Victoria and the cop, “we’re here to pick up some papers for…a friend.”

Even to her own ears, the excuse sounded lame, but Victoria’s confidence—as well as her comfort in having her father’s powerful law firm on speed dial—wasn’t going to fly with this guy. He looked fully capable of breaking rules, bones and laws to get what he wanted.

Those piercing eyes shifted their attention to Shelby. “Uh-huh. When did you get to be such good buddies with Max Banfield?”

“Well…” Shelby swallowed. “I catered a party for him recently, and we started talking, and…”

Victoria, her stride lithe and self-assured, moved toward them. “Are you arresting us for something?”

“How ’bout I start with trespassing?” he returned. “Maybe add in a little burglary?”

Victoria smiled as she pulled out her cell phone, and Shelby’s stomach bottomed out. Surely this was a bluff. She absolutely did not want to end this night with an encounter involving her friend’s austere father.

“Do you always wear gloves to retrieve papers for a friend?” the detective asked.

“It’s the latest high-fashion fad,” Victoria said, flipping her covered hand so calmly Shelby nearly believed her.

Antonio bowed his head, then shook it, obviously frustrated with the alternating lobs of lame and aggressive answers.

Calla rounded the desk, stopping mere inches from the cop. He lifted his head, as if he sensed her closeness. “Have you been following me?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “And with good reason. Do you realize how much trouble you’d be in if anybody else had found you here?”

Calla jerked up her chin. “We had to do something about this case. You’re not.”

“I am. Though I’m obviously not doing it fast enough to suit you. I knew you’d do something desperate.”

“But you’re not going to arrest us.”

“I ought to,” the detective said, though he was clearly torn. “A night in lockup would do you a world of good.”

Calla brushed her lips across his cheek. “Thanks.”

The detective’s gaze met Calla’s for one humming moment before she stepped back.

“So glad that’s settled,” Victoria said, her tone amused. She dropped her phone back into her jacket pocket. “How about we all go down to Cooper’s Pub for drinks?”

Looking grateful for breaking the tension, Calla smiled. “Sounds fun. Detective, I don’t think I’ve formally introduced you to my friends.”

Antonio pointed at Victoria. “Victoria Holmes, vice president, Coleman PR. Daughter of Stuart and Joanne, NYC VIPs, attorney and surgeon respectively.” Nodding at Shelby, he continued, “Shelby Dixon of Savannah, Georgia, transplant to the city. Owner Big Apple Catering, daughter of recently fleeced victims John and Nancy.” He lifted his lips in what might have been a smile. “Leader of the gang.”

“We’re not a gang,” Calla insisted.

Antonio looked skeptical. “Organized effort at B&E in the middle of the night, complete with lookout. Preplanned gear and manner to evade law enforcement—dark clothing, fleeting and guilty glances down the hall, subversive attitudes, you get the idea. Sounds like a gang to me.”

Victoria scowled. “I’m not getting a tattoo.”

“Of course you’re not,” Shelby said, squeezing her hand.

She’d started this. She’d led her friends down this road. She was the reason their backgrounds were being investigated.

The detective was right about everything. “We’re trying to save my parents’ future,” she said to him. “I appreciate your concern and your thoroughness.” She exchanged a glance with Calla, whose eyes were pleading. “As well as your understanding at finding us in this…unusual situation. But we’re done waiting. Max is, even now, preparing to swindle again. We need to find out what, when and where.”