“You’re suggesting that one of Dad’s oldest friends is setting us up.” Jace bolts up to his feet and begins to pace in front of the fireplace. “No. That’s just…I can’t accept that.”
“Come on, think about it.”
“If Gerald wanted to fuck with us, he could have done it years ago. But now? It doesn’t make sense. He’ll have a major interest in the acquisition. This can hurt him just as much as our firm.”
“All I’m saying is Gerald has to know something,” I tell him. “And if he does, we need to figure out why he didn’t disclose it, why he still wants in, and what’s his end game.”
“All the more reason to get him and Dad in the same room with us so we can get to the bottom of it.”
“That’s a bad idea. Come on, Jace. You know how Gerald gets when he’s confronted. Especially in front of our old man.”
“There’s no good reason why we shouldn’t walk away from this deal right now.” Jace punches the inside of one hand with the other fist. “I’ve never trusted that smug, conniving bastard.”
“I don’t either, but our father does. And if we face off with him in front of Dad, dear old Dad’s bound to side with him. And this deal will be signed, sealed and delivered in no time.”
“True,” he agrees, staring absently at a spot on the mantle. “How do you think we should approach this?”
“Ask the investigator to do some more digging. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find some of these answers ourselves…and get some insight into how Gerald’s involved.”
“All right.”
“And we’ll both keep stalling at the bargaining table,” I add, with eyebrows raised.
“Good.” He checks the clock on the far wall above my bookshelves. “Shit. Seven fifteen. I’ve got reservations at Chez Gigi’s.”
“What? Hot date with Cherry?” I tease.
“Fuck off.” Jace doesn’t acknowledge the question. He doesn’t even look my way, because he’s secretly been running around town with Dad’s assistant, who also happens to be Gerald’s youngest daughter. Under normal circumstances, their dating might not be a big deal, but Dad has always had rules about mixing business with our personal lives. Cherry’s off limits.
“Hey, maybe she knows something about this Mont Blanc shit show.”
“No way in hell. Gerald doesn’t tell her a thing about how he runs his business. You know how old school he is. Just like how Dad acts sometimes.”
“He’ll find out what you’re up to soon enough, you know?” I muse.
“Well I’m not talking, and Cherry isn’t, so he’ll only find out if you say something.”
I shake my head. “Do I look like I give two fucks that you’re banging Dad’s secretary? I’m just saying. Manhattan isn’t that big of a place. You’re the one who’s dumb enough to take her out in public to places where Dad and his buddies go. It’s only a matter of time before someone sees you and tell him, or the two of you end up seated at adjacent tables with Dad, at the same restaurant, on the same fucking night.”
“That’s not gonna happen.”
I follow him as he heads out into the main hallway and turns to get to the front door. “I hope it doesn’t, for your sake. Or for Cherry’s sake. Dad won’t hesitate to throw her out on her ass if he finds out.”
“Sounds like you’ve got too much fucking time on your hands, bro. Maybe you should keep your mind on your own shit. Like whoever you said that pet sitter girl was that showed up on your terrace.”
“She’s nobody.”
“Like hell she is,” he scoffs out. “The way she showed up is exactly like the last five or six women you dated, and I’m using the word loosely here, because you don’t date. You dabble in women. And when you’re not dabbling, you’re booty-calling.”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Dahlia is Vivian’s pet sitter. I don’t know her from a hole in the wall.”
He opens my front door and turns as he steps out into the hall. “I give it seventy-two hours.”
“Seventy-two hours for what?”
He narrows his eyes at me and gives me a coy, dismissive smile. “You know what I’m talking about. Later, bro.”
I release the door handle, and let it shut by itself.
Damn right I’ll have her before seventy-two hours are up.
6
Dahlia
I should know by now to never let Sheba, Daisy and Bailey go off-leash anywhere in Central Park.
Especially Sheba.
We’ve been out for a longer walk as it’s Saturday morning. They need the exercise and fresh air, as do I. The outer loop of the large, multi-acre area is several miles around, so even a twenty-minute mile pace would get us back home in well over an hour. I throw in a super-short stop in the off-leash park at the southeast tip of Central Park, and what happens?
Sheba happens, that’s what.
He’s the alpha of this pack, and he never lets me or Daisy forget it. Bailey, on the other hand, is laid back to the point of marshmallow. There isn’t much that gets her going anymore.
I let Sheba off of his leash for one second, and what does he do? He bolts, chasing what I have to guess is a very unlucky squirrel. I don’t even get a chance to remove Daisy’s and Bailey’s leashes before Daisy herself takes off behind Sheba, dragging me and Bailey with her.
“Sit, Daisy!” I shout, but she is more interested in catching up with Sheba, who crashes through a cluster of bushes and mud puddles, barking loudly as he follows his target.
By the time Sheba slows down, we’re all covered in leaves, icy mud, and New York debris. He comes to a stop on the sidewalk next to Columbus Circle, sits at the side of the curb, tail thumping excitedly as he barks at the vehicles in the street that are waiting for the red light to turn green. Daisy finally stops dragging Bailey and me, and takes a spot beside Sheba. Grateful for the brief opportunity to get Sheba back on his leash, I take him into my arms.
“What are you doing, boy?” I ask him, breathing heavily as he licks some mud off my face. “Why did you run off like that?”
As I clasp the leash onto his collar, I should be asking myself why Sheba stopped here. Then I get my answer. The shame hits me as I see who he and Daisy are wagging their tails for. The back window of a black town car rolls down, revealing Jackson Knight with a look of amusement on his face.
“You,” he says to me.
I wipe my face with my free hand, but realize I’m smearing more mud across what’s already there. “I have a name, Mr. Knight.”
“You walk those dogs this far away from the condo?” he asks, smiling. “Or are they walking you?”
“We’re on our way home now,” I say, aware that I’ve ignored his question, and wishing the traffic lights would change so Jackson’s limo driver can finally move off and take him wherever they’re going.
An unexpected look of concern flashes over his face for a split second. He turns to face forward, says something to his driver, then turns back to look at me. “You can’t walk all those miles looking like that,” he remarks.