“Oh. You mean Edward Bradley.” The man’s lips curled.
“That’s what I said.” He sat in a chair and catalogued the room. Antique furniture. High quality art. Persian rug. Jon reached and lifted a business card from the desk. “
Ryan Huber, Wealth Manager
. I like the sound of that.”
Huber smiled as though he were indulging a child. “Edward said you were in need of urgent attention. How can I help?”
He needed to get the man to lie about something to figure out his tell. “Eddie says you’re the best in the field.”
Huber smiled, satisfied. “Everyone in the firm is good, but I do take special care of my clients.”
He bet. “But Eddie said you’re the most creative one here. That’s what I need, a little creativity with my investments. But I don’t want to have to keep track of them myself, because I have more important things to do, if you know what I mean.”
The man perked up. “I think I do, quite.”
One compliment and they always fell like a desperate girl’s panties. Sometimes it was like taking candy from a baby. “Eddie also said that you were trustworthy and knowledgeable.”
Huber nodded, his eyes darting away. “You couldn’t ask for someone more trustworthy.”
A lie, or the man didn’t believe it. Either way, Jon had his tell.
Undercover work was like playing poker. You disguised your hand and watched the other person, waiting to see whether they were bluffing, looking for weaknesses and signs, and then going for the jugular when you caught them.
He could already tell Huber would be an abysmal poker player. Jon sat back in his chair and set his ankle on his knee. He was going to wrap this up faster than even he’d thought.
“So what can I do for you?” Huber asked.
“I came into some money recently. A lot, actually. I’ve never had so much, and I wanted to make sure I invested it right.” He paused as though he were looking into Huber’s soul. “I need someone to take care of it so I don’t have to.”
“I think we can do that,” the man said, his eyes lighting at the prospect. “Let’s discuss how you envision your funds being invested.”
Jon put his foot on the floor and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Honestly?”
Huber nodded, waiting.
“I know nothing about money. What I know about is having fun, so I need someone else to do the grunt work, if you get me.”
“I think I do.” The man’s face flushed, as though he’d just been handed a pot of gold.
Jon sat back. “I’m really a musician at heart, not a businessman. It’s all been good, but I like not struggling and all the accoutrements, if you know what I mean.”
“Indeed. I do.”
Of course he did. Keeping in his disguise, he gave the man a candid look. “I want to keep it that way. Eddie assured me that you were the perfect person to ensure that my inheritance was well taken care of. You think you can do it? Take away this burden from me? Because I have sweet music to play and sweet love to make.”
Huber folded his hands, looking like he hit a jackpot. Jon could tell he was calculating his take already. “I think we can safeguard your wealth quite easily. I’ll have my secretary draw up the paperwork. We’ll need to set up an account for you and have you transfer some money into it.”
Jon waved his hand dismissively. “That sounds like a waste of time. I’ll just give you my account information and password and you can go in and do whatever you need. I can trust you, can’t I?”
The man’s eyes shifted away. “Of course you can.”
Candy from a baby
. Jon smiled, satisfied. He stuck his hand out and he stood. “It’s been a great pleasure.”
“It certainly has.” The man took his hand.
If he didn’t know that Huber was a crook already, his handshake would have given him away. Slimy, as though he expected to pick up a stick but wrapped his hand around a slug instead.
“I’ll give you a call when my secretary has the paperwork ready, and you can come in at your leisure.”
“I like being at leisure.” Jon winked at the man. “Looking forward to it.”
As he sauntered out of the office, he pictured his house in Koh Phangan. He’d be there by the end of the month. He’d sit overlooking the sea, alone, a beer in hand, and do nothing. He’d dress however he wanted, if he wanted, and it’d be only him.
And he’d read. He’d already shipped ten boxes of books there. He didn’t even have a landline installed. It’d be him, his books, and the birds.
Bliss.
He pressed the elevator button, the image at the forefront of his mind, when he heard the click of a woman’s heels coming down the hall toward him. His senses went on alert at the intrusion, the way they always did, ready to act. He wondered if he’d ever be able to lay down the past.
She moved past him and reached for the elevator button, pressing it with a manicured index finger that was without polish. What sort of woman went to the trouble of getting a manicure and then didn’t color her nails, even with clear polish?
He glanced at her and stilled. Ryan Huber’s fiancée, that was who.
She was in all black again, though it was a different outfit. Her hair was simple and so was her jewelry with the exception of her pendant. It was a single blue stone in a whimsical setting that looked old. He wondered if it were genuine. Likely it was as fake as her fiancé.
He looked down at her hand. No engagement ring. He frowned. What did that mean? The type of woman Huber selected would demand the rock of Gibraltar.
Her scarf bothered him most, still. He didn’t understand it. It made no sense with the rest of her outfit and comportment, and that was disconcerting. Whenever someone didn’t neatly fit into a box, it disrupted his world.
She was engrossed in her mobile, looking for something and then obviously finding it when she put it to her ear. “Gigi?”
He listened in shamelessly. Eavesdropping on phone conversations always yielded a lot of information.
“I’m wearing a green dress to the Midnight Masquerade Ball, but I don’t know what the mask looks like yet.” She nodded. “I need my hair and makeup to compliment it. Can you help? I want to make sure I look my best for Ryan.”
Jon made a mental note to have Trudy get him a ticket to this event. Trudy always came through.
Huber’s fiancée got off the phone just as the elevator arrived. It was empty, and Jon held the door open for her. “After you,” he said in his Jon Lincoln voice.
She blinked. “Thank you.”
Her blue eyes reminded him of the gulf that surrounded his island retreat. They looked just as deep and turbulent. He wondered what riptides they hid.
He followed her in. Huber may have been the scum of the earth, but he had excellent taste in women. On top of it all, she smelled sweet, like dessert.
Jon never ate dessert.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Her voice shocked him. It was rich and much more authoritative than he’d expected.
Caught off guard, and startled by that in itself because he prided himself for his control, he nodded at her. He meant to say something charming, but what came out of his mouth was, “Your scarf doesn’t match.”
“Sorry?” Her hand went to the scarf around her shoulders.
“It doesn’t match,” he repeated. It was vivid and bohemian, a splash of color on a black canvas. He wondered which was the truth and which was the lie. “I wouldn’t have expected you to wear it, considering you’re in black from your head to your feet.”
A small frown marred her forehead. “What’s wrong with black?”
He had the odd urge to smooth the lines away with his fingers. He put his hands behind his back, just in case. “Nothing’s wrong with black. Black is universal, if you don’t want to be noticed. But that scarf says
look at me
. So which is it?”
She shook her head. “Which is what?”
“Do you want to be ignored?” He shifted his weight, not moving but giving the feeling that he was closer. He lowered his voice, putting a little sex behind it. “Or do you want to be seen?”
She flushed like an innocent maiden.
For some reason, he believed her act. Jon frowned. Only no one was innocent. She wore black the same way he wore this ridiculous getup: as a disguise. The question was why, and did it have to do with Huber? She had to know what the crook was up to since she was engaged to him.
But the elevator arrived at the lobby. Shooting him a strange look, she hurried out, giving him one last look at her world-class ass.
Shaking his head, he pulled out his mobile. “Trudy, I need a ticket to a masquerade ball.”
Chapter Six
Jacqueline noticed the light on in her walk-in closet the second she entered her bedroom. Rosalind, likely. Rosalind had always loved being surrounded by dresses.
Setting her journal on the dresser, she poked her head in the closet. Her fourth oldest daughter sat cross-legged, close to the cocktail gowns hanging in the back. With her patchwork skirt and hair pulled into a loose knot at her nape, she looked like a gypsy who’d wandered in for a spell. She didn’t look that much different than she had at twelve, sitting in the same spot with her sketching materials.
Some women of their social circle would have been annoyed having a child underfoot all the time. Jacqueline couldn’t think of anything better than to share her passion for clothing with one of her daughters. Seeing Rosalind now, she realized how much she’d missed her all those years when Rosalind had been in self-imposed exile in the States.
Jacqueline cleared the nostalgia from her throat. “Hello, darling.”
“Mum.” Rosalind looked up with a radiant smile.
Jacqueline loved her future son-in-law Nick, but she loved him doubly because he made Rosalind so happy.
“I’m invading your domain,” Rosalind said, moving her things.
“No, please stay.” She kicked off her shoes and joined her on the floor. If it hadn’t been for the yoga she did religiously, she wasn’t certain she’d have been able to make it. “I like finding you here, drawing.”
Her daughter smiled. “This is my favorite spot in the house.”
It was hers, too, mostly because Rosalind loved it so much. “You’re working on a dress?”
“For you, actually.” She looked up, worry lining her features. “If you like it, I thought maybe you’d wear it to my wedding.”
Lowering her gaze, Jacqueline took the sketchpad. She had to blink a few times to make the tears dissipate before she could focus on the drawing.
It was a long sheath in an ice blue. The neckline was heart-shaped and fell in one long, body-hugging sheath. The woman in the design had blonde hair piled up and what looked like the sapphire jewels Jacqueline wore when she dressed up, the only Summerhill jewels she’d ever liked.
Instinctively, she knew it’d be flattering, but more than that it was designed with love, and that made it that much more precious.
Rosalind reached to take it back. “I know you’re particular about what you wear, so if you don’t like it—”
“It’s beautiful.” She shook her head, tracing the simple lines of the dress. “Is this ruching at the side of the hip?”
“Just a little, for shape.” Rosalind scooted closer, so their legs touched. “I made it strapless, which isn’t something I’d do for most mother-of-the-bride dresses, but you’re ageless. If you want more covering, we can add a bolero. I found an amazing silvery silk that shimmers that I’ll use for it. I think it’ll look nice.”
Nice
was a meager word for the stunning creation Rosalind had created.
For her
. Her daughter was making her something from her heart, and even if it’d have been made of garbage bags and staples, it couldn’t have been more beautiful. She’d never had a greater gift.
She lifted her hand to cup Rosalind’s face. It took her several tries to say, “This will be the loveliest dress I’ve ever worn.”
Her daughter blinked, and then her cheeks flushed. “You’ve worn amazing dresses, Mum. Givenchy himself designed a gown for you. Vivienne Westwood is your close friend.”
“You have a much better eye than Vivienne.” Jacqueline smiled. “But in the interest of friendship, you and I will keep that between us.”
Rosalind grinned impishly. “Deal.”
Jacqueline stood up, holding on to the wall as she made certain her knees would hold her. “I should probably tell you that Sebastian Tate is coming to visit.”
“The American?” Rosalind froze as she collected her colored pencils. “Does Portia know?”
Jacqueline winced. “I’m hoping someone else will tell her.”
“Tell who what?” a voice at the closet’s door said.
They both looked up to find Beatrice leaning in the doorway, an Hermès bag on the crook of her arm, her Alaía coat belted to accentuate her slim waist.
Rosalind may have been the one to inherit her love for fashion, but Bea had inherited her style. If Jacqueline had been stronger or born in an age where women embraced their power, she’d look like Beatrice instead of a sad old lady scribbling erotica in a journal.
“Tell Portia that Sebastian Tate is coming to visit,” Rosalind said cheerfully. “And I think you’ve just been volunteered.”
Bea looked like she wanted to pass the responsibility on, but she lifted her shoulders and said, “I’ll take care of it.”
“Of course you will.” Rosalind kissed Jacqueline’s cheek and then her oldest sister’s before sauntering out of the closet. “My work here is done. Thank you very much.”
Bea shook her head, watching her younger sister with affection. Then she became all business, reaching into the purse to pull out a folder. “I have the information you were looking for on Declan Maxwell.”
Jacqueline’s heart beat faster. She stared at the manila folder, so innocuous looking. But it held her past and, hopefully, her future. “That’s rather thick for contact information.”
“I know you only asked for a phone number for him, but I had my private investigator do a bit more research while he was at it. Are you going to take it?” her eldest daughter asked.
She could feel Bea’s direct gaze on her, curious and questioning while respecting her privacy. Hand shaking, Jacqueline took the folder and clutched it to her chest. “Thank you.”
“Do you know him? His novels are lovely.”