Mikalo's Flame (8 page)

It was dark when I got home.

No sign of Mikalo.

Strange.

I checked upstairs, half convinced he’d be
waiting naked and ready for me in bed.

No such luck.

Damn.

It really was odd. Not that he needed to be
here when I got home. It’s just he usually was. And if he wasn’t,
if he was downtown seeing his close friend Virginie or in a late-
meeting with his company’s American representatives, he’d usually
let me know beforehand or, at the very least, leave an apologetic
note.

To not be here with no clue as to where he
was, well, it was a bit disconcerting.

Now, what to do?

I sat on the bed, not sure if I should just
undress and do dinner here. Leftovers from the fridge or something
from the freezer. Or maybe just change into something more casual
and head out for a slice of pizza. Or ...

Damn, this was a bit pathetic. One night
without Mikalo and I suddenly can’t decide what to do with
myself.

The cell phone rang.

Deni.

“Hey,” I said, answering it.

“Okay, so you’re not dead.”

“What?”

“Are you on death’s doorstep? Trapped under
something heavy? Have two broken legs and can’t walk?”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Didn’t think so. So where are you?”

“Home. How long have you been drinking?”

“I’m not joking, Ronan.”

“Joking about what?”

“I spy with my little eye a rich skank
hanging all over your boy.”

I paused, not sure what to say.

“Daniel,” she then said, mentioning the name
of our favorite restaurant. “Get off your ass and get here.”

“Wait,” I finally said. “You’re saying Mikalo
is at Daniel with Mara Byzan?”

“No, not just with Happy Thighs Byzan. He’s
also with Abigail White and Rainier Richardson --”

“The Managing Partner?”

“-- and a bunch of other work people. And The
Byzan, she’s almost climbing all over him. And you’re nowhere to be
seen and, I’m guessing, had no clue this was even happening.”

She was right. I had no clue. And Mikalo
never told me there was a dinner planned for tonight.

Shit.

I waited, my mind racing, the phone still
clutched to my ear.

“So?” Deni asked.

“He never told me,” I finally said.

“Fuck that. Are you sitting?”

I didn’t answer.

“Are you sitting?” she repeated, louder.

“Yes.”

“Stand up.”

I did.

“Go to your closet, pick out the sexiest
dress you can find, put a bit of armor ‘round your neck, step into
a pair of serious kick-ass heels, and then get over there and kick
some ass.

“I’ll send my driver to pick you up.”

“Will you be there?” I asked.

“No,” she said quickly. “I’m with someone and
our night here is done. We have other plans.

“So, go now and get ready.”

The phone still to my ear, I walked into my
closet.

“Thank you, Deni.”

“The red YSL with the deep cleavage -- you
know, the one with the small silver belt -- and the Louboutin
pumps.”

Yes, I saw it hanging before me.

“Perfect,” I said.

“And don’t you dare leave until you’ve drawn
blood.”

Click.

I hung up the phone, the color rising in my
cheeks.

I refused to believe Mikalo was involved with
Mara Byzan. Like he said, she wasn’t his type. And I believed him.
Trusted him.

But he was there and I was here.

There was more to the story. It wasn’t that
simple. It didn’t feel that simple.

Unless he assumed I knew. Unless he got an
invitation, believed it was a client of mine wanting to have a bit
of social time and, as my Significant Other, felt it made sense to
be there.

Yes, that made more sense.

Just as Abby or Marcus lying their asses off
and assuring Mikalo I knew and would be there as well made
sense.

Oh yeah. That made sense.

Still ...

I grabbed my phone and quickly texted a brief
“Where are you?”

Seconds later, he replied.

“Where r YOU?”

My fingers barely keeping up, I typed out a
quick “At home”

His response was almost immediate.

“At dinner. Daniel. Please come. Quick.”

Now that was the Mikalo I knew and loved and
trusted.

I snatched the dress off the hanger and
reached for the familiar red-soled heels.

Damn, I couldn’t wait to kick some serious
ass.

Seriously.

Abby turned white as a sheet when I walked
in.

And Marcus, following her stare, damn near
choked on his champagne.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Angling my way through the tables dotting
this jewel box of backlit, modernist culinary perfection tucked
into New York’s Upper East Side, I approached, one eye on Mara
doing her damndest to sit way too close to Mikalo, the other on
Mikalo desperately, politely, discreetly rebuffing her.

And in the middle of the table, next to
Mara’s father, sat Rainier Richardson, the managing partner of
Macfarlane, Schaal.

Elegant as always in his dark suit and crisp
white shirt, a jaunty red pocket square peeking from the front
pocket, he, with his silver mane of lush hair, would turn heads in
any room.

Older with a masculine square jaw, an easy
smile, and beautiful grey eyes, he had made the move from the
London office over ten years ago, entirely rejuvenating the NY
office, his iron fist in a velvet glove approach coupled with his
deep voice making Macfarlane the power it was today.

Noticing me, he smiled as I drew near,
standing to greet me.

“So nice to see you, Miss Grace,” he said as
his hand wrapped around mine. “I’m happy to see you’re feeling
better.”

The wait staff as efficient as ever, one had
already appeared with a chair, easily sliding it beneath me as I
sat, a second expertly making room on the already crowded table for
a new wine glass and space for another plate.

I paused, smiling, not sure what to say.

And then I decided this was a battle I didn’t
want to fight.

“My back,” I finally said. “It’s better now.
Thank you.”

And it’d be a hell of a lot better if Abby
and Marcus would stop stabbing me in it, I wanted to add.

But I just smiled and took a sip of wine.

Mikalo watched me.

Poor boy, so eager to not make a scene, but
so desperate to get away from The Byzan who had linked her arm in
his and was all but licking his cheek.

I looked at Abby on the other side of the
crumpled, rumpled, hapless Mr. Byzan.

Dressed in a stiff Chanel suit, she sat
facing me, dark and pale, like some faux Chinese Dowager
Empress.

Her black hair painfully pulled back into a
neat bun, the pallor of her skin accented by the red of her lips
and the dark of her penciled-in brows, a rope of pearls wound
around her neck, she calmly watched me, her eyes imploring me to be
silent and not bury her in front of Richardson.

Not yet, bitch. I’ll bury you, but not
tonight.

On the other side of Richardson sat Marcus,
shoulders slumped, his elbows resting on the table, his tie loose
and messy, the sweat staining his upper lip betraying his
nervousness, his fear.

I watched him, holding his gaze, feeding on
his weakness, his inexperience, before he caught himself, sitting
up, straightening his shoulders, determined to show me his
strength, his power.

Fool.

I winked, knowing it’d throw him.

It did.

His glass stopped half-way to his mouth, his
tiny mind not sure what to make of this unexpected flirtation.

To his side sat Mara.

Drunk.

Of course.

Messy blonde hair (though no tiara), a silk
and linen designer shift falling from her shoulder, a tired fur
sagging down her back and around her elbows, her skinny legs shrink
wrapped in even skinnier jeans. Her claw-like fingers clutching one
glass of wine, the second filled to the rim and waiting on the
table before her.

And her arm still linked desperately to
Mikalo’s.

She turned and blinked, as if seeing me for
the first time.

“Hey ...” she began before trailing off into
a small hiccup.

“Hello, Mara.”

She stared, her mouth slack.

“We met before,” I patiently offered, my
words slow. “At Macfarlane --?”

Swallowing a belch, she turned back to
Mikalo, ignoring me, a goofy smile on her lips as, inches from his
face, she watched him.

“It’s nice to see you, too,” I said.

I caught the eye of her father who, with a
small nod, apologized.

A smile from me in return followed by a nod,
my heart touched by this sudden show of sincerity and class.

Him I could like, I decided. To have a
daughter like that and still have the strength to live? It was
impressive.

“Hello, Mikalo,” I then said to the handsome
hunk sitting on the other side of The Byzan.

He smiled weakly, relief all but pouring out
of his eyes as they caught mine.

“I am so glad you are here, my Grace,” he
then said.

Abby’s mouth twitched.

Marcus took another drink.

Mr. Byzan and Richardson barely noticed.

And Mara, staring into her wine glass, not so
discreetly belched.

“Me, too,” I said with a small smile.

“Not to discuss business too much,”
Richardson began.

“Boring,” Mara said loudly.

“But I do have some questions,” he continued,
ignoring her. “About some tax-planning advice you’ve given the
Byzans regarding the US holdings of their estate.”

I hadn’t given them any advice. I glanced
toward Marcus and Abby.

Marcus looked at the table, avoiding my
gaze.

Coward.

Abby watched me cool, calm, and
collected.

Bitch.

“And what advice would that be?” I asked.

Richardson responded, describing an overly
complicated restructuring that only the most amateur and insanely
ambitious lawyer would even think of suggesting. A plan that
Richardson knew wouldn’t work. Something Mr. Byzan knew wouldn’t
work. And something they’re pretty darn sure I knew simply wouldn’t
work.

The trap was being laid.

God, I loved Richardson.

“Forgive me,” I said when he had finished. “I
don’t remember suggesting that.

“When was this?” I then asked.

Richardson looked to Marcus.

“When was this again, Marcus?” Richardson
asked him.

“It was yesterday, Rainier,” he replied,
awkwardly over-pronouncing his name as Rain-YAY.

“Yes, yesterday, Rainier,” Abby calmly
interrupted, gently correcting Marcus by pronouncing Richardson’s
first name correctly, the last syllable smooth and gentle.

“Ah,” Richardson said, his eyes on me.

“I assume this took place at a meeting you
were invited to Miss Grace?” he then said.

I almost laughed.

Thank god he knew what was up and thank god I
had him on my side. And I love that he was using my last name
instead of calling me by my first like he was with Marcus. One
showed respect, the other a disdain bordering on anger, a
distinction lost on the sweating cretin with his elbows on the
table.

I glanced at Abby, the white of her skin
turning even whiter beneath her Geishas’R’Us make-up.

“No, Mr. Richardson,” I said, not quite on a
first name basis with him yet. “I don’t believe it was. I’m not
sure what Marcus is remembering, but you and I both know that
course of action, with regards to the Byzan’s estate, would lead to
more problems and confusion.

“Briefly, this is what I’d recommend,” I then
began before briefly encapsulating the challenges the Byzan’s
multinational estate faced, the tax loopholes still legally
available to them, and what was best to do now, first, and what
could wait.

In all honesty, I was showing off. Flashing
my brilliance. Not just to bury Abby and Marcus or remind
Richardson why I was absolutely necessary to the Firm. Or even to
show the Byzans that I was the one to trust, the one to listen to.
I was also stretching my muscles a bit for Mikalo. Showing him what
I did and how well I did it.

It was exciting and delicious and
exhilarating .

I could feel him watching me, protective and
proud. Perhaps seeing me in a new light.

I finished.

Richardson smiled. Papa Byzan nodded in
agreement. Abby took a long swallow of her wine. And poor Marcus
sat confused, not able to keep up, not quite aware he had been
effectively neutered in the eyes of the Managing Partner.

Mara turned to me, blinking, her eyes
struggling to focus.

She had been quiet while I spoke, staring
straight ahead or deep into her drink, obviously lost in her own
world, oblivious to the reality around her.

Now she watched me as if seeing me for the
first time.

“Hey ...” she said again, the word thick,
mumbled, the puff of alcohol-laced breath stinging my eyes.

“Hello Mara,” I said.

Her arm still linked with Mikalo’s, she
pulled him close, snuggling into him.

She smiled weakly before swallowing another
small hiccup.

And then she spoke.

“You’ve met my husband?”

I breathed calmly, feeling my cheeks blush,
watching Mikalo for some reaction. For some something, for some
anything, to indicate Mara was just drunk and crazy and, you know,
wrong.

“You know Mikalo?” she continued, pronouncing
his name like Michelob, the beer.

Not surprising.

“I’m sorry?” I finally stammered.

“My husband,” she continued, gripping his arm
tighter. “We decided many, many, many years ago that we’d be
perfect for each other. And our fathers, they agreed. Everyone
agreed it was a fucking brilliant idea. Brilliant. And so someday
he is to be my husband. It’s been decided. It’s destiny.