The Deal Read online

  “Alternate for two.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Erik scowls deeply. Karen was his pick.

  9

  Stella

  My left fourth toe is bleeding. I can feel the pinky nail digging in deeper with every step. Fucking, fucking, fucking Louboutins! Why’d I ever covet these? Portable torture devices is what they are! I retreat to the staging area as gracefully as I can. I need to find a cotton ball, a wad of toilet paper—something to stuff between my toes.

  Someone taps me between the shoulder blades. I jump, but it’s just Mary. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you! This is Alicia!”

  I nod at a plump redhead, decked out in the now-familiar uniform. “Stella.”

  “Karen dropped out. She’s the alternate.”

  Alternate...?

  Alicia takes a tray, holding it gingerly in both hands. “You guys have done this before? Catering, I mean?”

  I nod. “Here and there.” Mary grabs an empty tray and spins it. Guess she has, too.

  “So this really is a cater-waiter gig?” Alicia tries to balance her tray in one hand. It tilts dangerously, and she steadies it with her hip. “I kind of thought...I mean, all those questions at the interview, and the whole gag order deal....”

  Mary shrugs. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Personally, I think it’s a test.”

  “A test?”

  “How we do under pressure.” She exchanges her empty tray for a loaded one. “Maybe this is the CIA. Gonna make us all Mata Haris.”

  Questions? An interview? The CIA? So...the others don’t know? I corner Alicia before she can leave. “What did they tell you? When you, uh....” I grasp for the right question. “When you applied?”

  “I mean, not much. She said I could have everything she had. Y’know, if I got the job.” A napkin falls off Alicia’s tray. She bends to grab it, and loses everything. Bruschetta splatters the floor and the tablecloth. “Fuck! I need this gig!” She kicks at the mess, spreading it around. “Think anyone saw?”

  “No.” I shove a fresh tray into her hands. “Go ahead. I’ll deal with this.”

  So...someone pushed the others to apply? Must’ve been one of the girls on her way out: Klara, Shazia, or Anne.

  Guess that’s how they keep the secret: hints passed from friend to friend. Information on a need-to-know basis. A competition so intense, so intriguing, the winners won’t think of turning down the prize. And me... I’m the one who knows too much. The enemy being kept close. Even this chance to bond seems contrived. They’re showing me who’ll go down hardest, if I squeal.

  I look up. Cameras, three of them: one by the kitchen, one by the chandelier, and a third at the exit. Shit. This is bad. This is really—

  “Not going to warn them?”

  Katrina’s lounging in the doorframe, one leg kicked up behind her. She pushes off with her heel and saunters my way. “Those poor, innocent waifs, being seduced by... What did you call us?” She claps her hands together, loud enough that I startle and step back. “That’s right: human traffickers.”

  “Think they’d believe me?”

  “You didn’t even try.” She smirks. “Remember that. You’re one of us now. In it to your eyeballs.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I could still—”

  “Oh, no, you couldn’t.” As if on cue, the lights dim. “Looks like you’re all out of time.”

  In the ballroom, the music swells and dies. A ripple of excitement sweeps the crowd, muted oohs and aahs. Heels click and skitter behind me: Mary and Alicia are back.

  “All right! So, this is the final hurdle!” Katrina wheels one of the tables aside to reveal a small, whitewashed door. “You have exactly nine minutes to make yourselves ready to join the party as guests.” She herds us into what turns out to be a pantry, converted to a makeshift dressing room. “Naturally, any one of you identified as...the help...will be shown the door. So pay attention to detail! Dresses are along that wall; cosmetics in the red boxes. Don’t keep me waiting.”

  “Guess this one’s mine.” Alicia lifts a sweeping emerald gown from its hanger. “I’m supposed to slip under the radar in this?”

  I reach for mine: a floating, clinging white thing, adorned with glittering crystals. “Nope. You’re supposed to stand out.”

  “Huh? But she said—”

  “When’s the last time you ate out?” I shake my hair out, raking my nails through it to loosen the kinks.

  Alicia pauses mid-wriggle, skirt already halfway down her thighs. “I don’t know—last week?”

  “What did the waiter look like?”

  “I don’t know. Tall, maybe? Sort of skinny? I wasn’t really—oh. Oh.”

  Mary’s already dressed and pinning up her hair. “Yeah. As long as you didn’t do anything weird out there, you’ll be fine. You didn’t, did you?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Five minutes left. I repaint my lips frosty peach and brush some bronzer under my cheekbones. There’s not much I can do about my nails, so I grab a beaded white purse off the shelf. Guess I can...curl them under. I doubt they’d let me go, even if I did get caught, but it’d be just plain embarrassing to get busted here, after three years sneaking by as the Countess.

  10

  Jack

  Eighteen fifty-seven. Stella’s in back, looking at Katrina like she wants to rip off her heel and ram it down her throat. Mary’s bored, looking for somewhere to ditch her tray. Alicia’s hovering on the edge of the crowd.

  “Almost time.”

  Magnus nods. Starkey cuts the overhead lights, and the spots blaze to life.

  “Think they’ll all make the cut?” Erik’s fingers are twitching. Nicotine withdrawal. Quit those things, my ass.

  “Stella’s in, no matter what. And Mary’s pretty solid.” Alicia, I don’t know. She’s hot and bouncy, and stayed calm through her interviews. But she’s also Anne’s friend, which makes her either an airhead or an opportunist.

  Erik doesn’t seem to agree. “Alicia has my vote. Can’t wait to get my hands on that...uh.” He cups his hands and thrusts his hips, giving me an instant mental image of him plowing her against the wall, those great gorilla mitts overflowing with ass.

  I toss him a glare. Beyond the curtain, a delighted murmur ripples forth. I glance at the monitor one more time: almost two hundred faces tilted up to watch flurries of cherry blossoms float and tumble through the lights. That’s our cue.

  11

  Stella

  So this is what it comes to? A kind of...sexual fantasy football draft? Me and Mary and Alicia, waiting to be picked off one by one?

  It can’t happen that way. It’s not even a matter of wounded vanity: I’ve made my choice. It has to be Jack. He’s the one in charge. The one who sent for me, the day I almost spilled the beans. If he doesn’t pick me tonight, it could be a year, even two, till my next crack at his secrets. And, no. Just...no. I’m not doing three years of this. Three months ought to do it, if I play my cards right.

  I survey the room. Alicia’s doing it wrong, pouring her heart into charming a knot of senior citizens. Mary’s halfway up the stairs, leaning on the banister like a Roman statue, letting the admirers come to her. Magnus is on his way already. Erik’s nodding along with some guy who’s either a senator or a news anchor—can’t quite place which—with his eyes trained firmly on Alicia’s ass. And Jack... I don’t see Jack anywhere.

  Shit.

  I can’t just stand here. If I do a lap, I’m bound to spot him eventually. He’s way too tall to hide in a crowd.

  “Stella? Stella Rossi?”

  “Huh?” That voice—

  “I thought that was you!” Francesca Lombardi—what’s she doing here? I cross my arms over my chest, but she envelops me in a jasmine-scented hug anyway. “Sweetheart! How’s your mother? I dropped by her office, and her assistant said she was gone. On indefinite leave.” She pulls back, nails still digging into my arms. “Oh, dear—I hope nothing’s happened. Is everything all right?�
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  “She’s in Rome.” Heaven help me... How do I get out of this one? “Nonna’s selling the house. No big deal.”

  “And how about you? What are you doing here? You’re not an investor, surely?” Francesca looks me up and down. “I mean, I heard your writing was going well, but this is the big time!”

  “No. No, I’m—”

  “Oh! You’re a plus one! Look at me, keeping you from your date! Mwah!” She lays a big, noisy smacker on my cheek. “Pass that on to Maria, when you see her!” And just like that, she’s gliding off, already zeroed in on her next target.

  “Wait!”

  She pauses, one brow raised.

  “Jack Brightman: have you seen him?”

  “Jack, hm?—so that’s how it is!”

  I open my mouth to protest, but she blows right through.

  “Conservatory.” She points at a set of soaring double doors. “Through there, down the hall, third door to the left. Can’t miss it.” She tips me an oily wink. “Good luck, sweetheart—though, in that dress, you’ll hardly need it!”

  Well...at least now I know where I’m going. I take a deep breath, tweak my hair one last time, and head for the conservatory.

  12

  Jack

  Nineteen thirty-six. I tuck my watch away. It’s so quiet in here, I can hear it ticking through two layers of fabric. I can feel it too, a subtle, rhythmic thrum, just above my heart.

  I’m restless. Time’s marching on. And I don’t need to be here. Stella knows the score. No need to dazzle her.

  I find the arbor, overgrown with wisteria, and stretch out on the bench. I’ll go out there in a while, show my face to the investors. Once the candidates are gone.

  I don’t feel awkward. It’s not that. Stella’s just tough. Hard to read. I need to seize the upper hand. Disabuse her of any notion she’s walking away with a story. Once she gets that, really gets it, the games can begin. She’ll be pissed, but unlike Magnus, I like a bitch. If I don’t wake up with a few bites and scratches, I’ve wasted my time.

  The door creaks. Someone’s here. I hold my breath. I’m not in the mood for company.

  Heels click on the floor, coming to a stop by the pond. I push the vines aside, just enough to reveal the intruder.

  It’s her. Stella. Someone must’ve ratted me out. Fucking Magnus: I’d stake my fortune on it. Asshole’s had it out for me since I nixed his first choice.

  This wasn’t how I’d planned it, but stepping out of the shadows and scaring her might not be a bad first move. I lay my hand over my breast pocket to muffle my watch, and wait for her to walk into my trap.

  13

  Stella

  Just my luck! The conservatory’s gorgeous—three stories of gleaming glass and wrought metal, housing a tropical jungle—but it’s also deserted. Well, apart from the birds. And the fish. This place isn’t just pretty: it’s incredible. A winding stream widens into a glassy pond. Heavy moss hangs from the branches of ancient trees—how’d they get those in here? Did they build the place around them, or uproot them from somewhere else? A flagstone path wends its way through the vegetation, lit by mellow stone lanterns.

  I should get back to the party. Jack’s clearly not here, and I’m running out of time.

  Then again, there’s a bench nestled just beyond the reflecting pool. I could take a second, get off my feet. I haven’t sat down since I got here, and that toenail’s driving me insane.

  Five minutes, then.

  There’s a faint rustle as I step onto the bridge. I look up just in time to see a section of wisteria settle back into place. So he is here. Hiding in the bushes like a little boy, waiting to...what? Jump out and say ‘boo’? Trip me as I walk by? Or maybe he’s hoping I’ll go away.

  Fat chance of that.

  I keep walking. He waits till the last possible moment to step into my path, timing it so I nearly collide with him. All the breath goes out of me at once. I was expecting him to pop out, but I didn’t anticipate his sheer physical presence. He’s...he’s—

  “You’re taller than I thought.”

  Jack steps into my space, steadying me with one massive hand. He’s got to be nearly seven feet tall, beyond imposing. Even in heels, I have to tilt my head to look him in the eye. And he’s huge all over: a solid wall of muscle and sinew. Massive shoulders. Hands like shovels. A chest so broad I could curl up on it.

  “And you....” His grin turns into a smirk. He cups my chin in one palm, smears his thumb over my cheek. “You have lipstick on your face.”

  “I—” That...wasn’t what I thought he’d say. I fumble for a rejoinder. “My mom’s friend’s out there. She’s a smoocher. That’s what I’m doing here: hiding.” And babbling, apparently.

  “Oh, yeah? Who’s your mom’s friend?” He hasn’t taken his hand away. He’s sort of stroking my face, tracing the shape of my cheekbone. It’s distracting—intimate, or maybe threatening. I shouldn’t be letting him this close, giving him the idea he can touch me whenever he wants, take whatever he—

  He’s looking at me expectantly.

  Oh. Right. He asked me a question. “My mom’s friend...uh, Francesca Lombardi.”

  Jack whistles. “Seriously? How’d that happen?”

  “We were neighbors, way back when. Her house was three doors from ours. She’s like my aunt.”

  Jack shifts closer, drawing himself up. He’s playing with my hair, now, not quite gently, twisting my ringlets around his finger. “So you grew up having milk and cookies with the Harpy of Wall Street.”

  Weak coffee and cannoli, actually, but.... “She’s not that bad.”

  He thrusts his hand into my hair. It pulls and stings, where it’s twined with his finger. “You’re mine, you know.” He makes a loose fist. My entire scalp tingles, and a chill races down my spine. “My pick, I mean. I get the first year with you.”

  Well...that was easy. Maybe. Sort of. I’m trembling all over, hot under my skin. I can smell him, this close: strong soap and Creed Pure White cologne—underneath that, red wine and sweat. He smells almost...edible. I swallow the irrational urge to bite him.

  Too close. This is...too close. Too soon. I conjure up a brittle laugh. “What would people think?”

  “Do you care?”

  No. Yes. My head’s swimming: I feel drunk. I grope for him, meaning to push him away, but he’s so tall—instead of his waist, I find myself manhandling his cock. His very thick, very hard cock. The blood rushes to my face. I let go and turn to flee, but he’s still got my hair.

  “Ow!—Damn!”

  Jack loosens his grip and I back away, mortified. At least he’s not laughing.

  “Well, that was.... Sorry.” Should’ve gone ahead and bitten his shoulder. It’d have come off less desperate.

  “Aw. Let me just....” He brushes my hand away where I’m massaging the sting out of my scalp. I cringe, afraid he’s going to humiliate me somehow, but he only kisses the top of my head. “Better?”

  “Everything but my ego.”

  “I hear that grows back.” Jack pushes the hair off my face, almost fondly. He’s smiling, humor twinkling in his eyes. I don’t resist when he puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me around. “Time for you to rejoin the party.”

  The party.... “Right. Yeah. Nice to meet you.”

  When I don’t move, he gives me a push. It’s not rough—more of a suggestion than a shove—but I can feel his strength, coiled and waiting.

  “We meet at Coney Island, a week from Saturday,” he tells me as I drift back across the bridge. “That’s the story. For when people ask.”

  I nod, not looking back. I’m warm all over. A little dizzy. Maybe I should’ve gone for one of the others—Erik, with his boring blond flattop. Or Magnus, with his permanent frown. Jack’s going to be one hell of a distraction. If he’d fixed me with those bottomless brown eyes and told me to hop on his pole, well....

  I slam the door behind me and press my back to it, breathing hard. I can indulge myself la
ter, back in my own...wait. Am I even going home after this? Or did I just pass the point of no return? Is this the part where I get plucked from my cozy little life? Transplanted to a world of magically restocking fridges and impossibly shredded bedmates?

  Should’ve asked about that prior to signing. Should’ve asked about a lot of things.

  I peel myself off the door and head for the ballroom, suddenly exhausted.

  14

  Jack

  Stupid dark thirty. Wake up. Jerk off. Shower. Move-in day today. Starkey’ll be all over that shit, after the fiasco with Anne and her million boxes of crap. I’m still policing her odds and ends.

  Zero six hundred hours. Work out. Work out. Work out some more. Ten minutes in, I hit the zone. My world narrows to sweat down my neck, burning in my arms, the rattle and clank of weights. I fly somewhere above it all, not thinking.

  Zero eight forty. Hate this scratchy towel, harshing my post-workout mellow. I drop it on the floor and rub the itch off my neck.

  Zero nine twenty. Conference call.

  Ten...thirty....

  I’m not here.

  I squinch my eyes shut. Bad idea. The smell of burning plastic and sulfur fills the air. Ash and concrete dust billows over me. I cough, but the air’s thick with it. There’s a second explosion—a deep, bellowing roar from inside the inferno. The blast wave hits and I stagger, sweat drying on my back.

  It’s a dream. A waking dream.

  I feel for the console. I know it’s there. It’s all there. My desk, my chair, my fucking coffee—I can smell—

  Smoke, black and acrid.

  I cough again. My lungs burn. I can see them, two figures running from the blast. Coming right at me. I duck into an empty doorframe. Shoulder my weapon.

  “Charlie team, this is—“