And I keep my would-be inspectors closer, especially when they look like Vivian. Which, by the way, they never do.
“Not every relationship can be exploited, Nate,” Will explains. I’d be insulted, except he’s not wrong. I’ve used my reach and money to woo people over to my way of thinking. When you’re a hustler, you hustle. In lieu of business brains, I lean on my street smarts.
That electrical permit stood between me and a C.O., better known as a Certificate of Occupation. If I don’t have my permits in order, I can kiss retail and residential contracts adios. A little money in Gary’s palm sped up the process and a little more in Daniel’s persuaded him to sign in a timely manner. I think he still hates me, but the feeling is mutual. Vivian in the middle was a kink I hadn’t seen coming. She’s hellbent on following the rules for some reason.
She fascinates the hell out of me.
“The big picture is what’s important,” I tell Will. “These live-works are going to employ and house a lot of people. People who will have date nights and attend book signings and celebrate grandma’s eightieth birthday. They need what I’m building. If I have to smooth rough roads along the way, so be it.”
Will puts his cigar in his mouth, answering with silence. For good reason. He inquires about my arm of Owen Construction on occasion, but he lets me run it. He understands the value of mistakes. I’ve made plenty. The more mistakes I made, the more I learned. And the more cautious I am not to make them in the future.
I think of Vivian and wonder if her caution is born of her desire to stick to the straight and narrow or make up for her past mistakes. Maybe both. I admire the stars and blow smoke rings over my head.
Guess I’ll find out if she shows up for dinner tomorrow night.
Chapter Seven
Vivian
Villa Moneta reminds me of an Italian place I used to frequent in Chicago. It’s dark and moody, the tables set with fine, white, crease-free linens. A single flickering candle in a glass votive holder sits at the center of each table. The restaurant’s palette is classic black, white, and gold. Luxury.
Clear Ridge proper doesn’t have restaurants quite this fancy, so coming here required some traveling. It was worth the forty-minute commute to satisfy my curiosity.
“Ms. Vandemark,” the host greets. I eye him with suspicion. How the hell does he know who I am? “Mr. Owen left word you’d be arriving soon.”
Did he, now. I wonder how Mr. Owen described me. Dark hair, sort of tall, resembles infamous thief Walter Steele… I hope he hasn’t figured that part out. I’ve had people sniffing around my past enough to last two lifetimes.
I dug into the back of my closet for my nicest little black dress. It’s one of the few items of clothing I kept from my former life. Thank goodness it still fits. Slipping into Dolce & Gabbana followed by a sleek pair of Louboutins for my date was a lot like slipping into my old identity. I remember dressing up with my mom before she made a habit of day and night drinking. We would stand shoulder to shoulder in front of her big bathroom mirror and share makeup.
That thought makes me miss her again. An ache carves into my chest and I shake it off and confirm to the host that, yes, I’m Ms. Vandemark.
I checked Villa Moneta’s website before I drove here tonight. Proper upbringing kept me from wearing a thrift store dress. And…fine, I’ll admit it. Part of me wants to wow Nathaniel Owen. He might think he has my number, but he has no idea what he’s up against. I am skilled at pretending I have no idea anything is amiss.
I haven’t had this much excitement in a long, long time. Six years ago I decided I was done with excitement. I sought, and attained, an ordinary, plain, blend-in-with-the-woodwork life. Entanglements with men were rare, and I kept things light. I haven’t been on a date since I moved here, so that could explain my sudden curiosity for the scenic route.
I have to be careful. If he’s figured out I’m the daughter of Walter Steele, he could threaten to share that information with Daniel. If he strips my identity to the studs, and forces me to start over with a new job and a new name in a new town…well, he’d better be prepared to offer up some secrets of his own. I won’t go down without a fight.
My date stands to his full height as I approach. The host pulls my chair out and I sit, setting my clutch on the edge of the table. Our table is tucked into a corner and the vibe is almost romantic. Nate smooths his tie and nods his head to the host in a secret signal before retaking his seat. Candlelight dances on the imperfect lines and angles of his handsome face.
When I dated in my former life I stuck to country club guys. Bankers. Lawyers and, once, a software developer. Pretty boys, all of them. Nate isn’t pretty. He’s… I don’t know the word. I react to him on a carnal level, though. Way down deep. Almost dangerously deep. I can’t be deep with anyone. Especially a billionaire.
“You wore the shoes,” he says. Arrogantly.
I cluck my tongue as I unfurl my napkin. “You had a chance to compliment me, but instead complimented yourself. Poor form.”
He watches me, not taking his eyes from mine as a sommelier pours wine into our glasses. Nate waves off the offer for a taste test.
“It’s perfect,” he says. “Trust me.”
“I’m not sure I do.” I raise my glass and await his toast.
“Touché.” He touches his glass to mine. After holding the red wine in my mouth a moment, I determine he’s right. The wine is perfect.
“Have you been to Villa Moneta?” He tries to come off as innocent, but fails. He should know better. A man like him could never pass for innocent.
“No. I haven’t lived in the area long.”
“Where are you from?” he asks casually, like he’s not sniffing around for answers.
“The city,” I answer cryptically. “What about you?”
“Chicago.”
I stare at him. That’s where I’m from.
“You have that air about you,” I say to cover for the staring.
“Now who’s noticing details? Was it the accent? I’ve tried to tone it down.”
“Chicago is rough and relatable. Like you. And yes, I noticed a hint of an accent.” I lift my wineglass to my lips again. I’ll have to take it easy since I’m driving. I could easily settle into this seat and sip on a fine red while taking in a candlelit Nate for a good, long while. I remind myself to keep my guard up. “Why’d you invite me here?”
“I wanted you to put those shoes to good use. They’re wasted in a government building.” He dips his chin. “As are you.”
“I’m good at my job.” Sort of. “I’ve only been there a handful of months.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Other than the site visit I made to Grand Marin, yes.” We smile at each other. The waiter returns and Nate orders in Italian.
“Did you just order for me?” I ask.
“The chef’s menu is eight courses. It was either that or the basic tasting menu. You don’t strike me as basic, Ms. Vandemark.”
“Why did you invite me out tonight, Mr. Owen?” I sort of repeat.
“Nate.”