Chapter One
Juliet
“Do you have protection?”
That question doesn’t surprise me in the least. My older sister is always looking out for me. It’s one of the reasons she bought this luxurious two-bedroom apartment in the heart of Tribeca.
Before she moved to New York City, I lived in a cramped room at an airport hotel. It was cheap and close to public transportation, so the commute to my workplace in midtown Manhattan was long but not horrible.
Living in Tribeca has made the trek to the office much more enjoyable.
It’s even better for Margot. Since she relocated the offices of her lifestyle brand to the east coast from Los Angeles, it takes her less than five minutes to get to work.
Slipping on a faded denim jacket over my white eyelet blouse, I glance in her direction.
Margot is old-school-movie-star beautiful.
Her blonde hair is usually styled in a flawless French twist. Her blue eyes are always rimmed with just the right amount of eyeliner and mascara.
Her best friend, who works as a chemist at one of the country’s premier cosmetic companies, formulated a lipstick shade for Margot for her birthday. It’s called Crimson Plum, and when I tried a sample, I admit I looked like a clown.
I can’t pull off bright red lipstick, but on Margot, it only adds to her allure.
I stick with pale shades for my lips, black mascara to accentuate my hazel eyes, and loose waves for my long brown hair.
“I don’t need protection,” I assure her as I wrap my black and white polka dot scarf around my neck. “I’ll be fine, Margie.”
She sticks out the tip of her tongue the way she always does when I use her childhood nickname. “You have that whistle I gave you, don’t you? And you remember all those moves we learned in the self-defense class we took together?”
I strike a pose with my arms stretched in front of me and one knee bent in the air. I tilt my head and plaster on the scariest expression I can muster. “This was one of them, right?”
Margot shakes her head. “I’d run for the hills if I saw you on the street doing that.”
I straighten my knee and drop both hands to my hips. “I’m good then.”
“I’m coming with you,” she announces, dragging herself off the couch. “I can watch this episode later.”
“No,” I say loudly enough that it stops my sister in her tracks.
She’s wearing sweatpants and a concert tour T-shirt. Her hair is tangled in a mess around her shoulders.
Margot is the epitome of style. She only digs out her comfortable clothes and turns off her phone when she needs a break from the high pressure of her job.
“What?” she questions with widening eyes. “I can come with you if I want, Juliet.”
I refuse to allow her to interrupt her mini staycation to trudge to midtown Manhattan with me. By tomorrow morning, she’ll be back in the trenches, running her multi-million dollar company. Tonight, I want her to be Margie Bardin, lover of period romances. Sitting in front of the television, binge-watching her latest obsession that is chock-full of dukes and duchesses, is where she needs to be.
She approaches me with hurried steps until she’s standing right in front of me.
“Remember what dad taught us.” She holds out her hand. “Give me your keys so I can give you a refresher before you leave.”
I dig my keys out of the front pocket of my black jeans and deposit them in her palm even though I’ve never forgotten the trick our father taught us when I was fifteen and Margot was eighteen. It may have been ten years ago, but it feels like yesterday.
She gathers the keys in her fist before the blade of one of my keys peeks out from between two of her fingers like a mini jagged knife. “Do this if anyone tries to mug you, Juliet.”
I nod.
She lunges toward me with three stabbing motions. “Jab, jab, cut.”
I hold in a laugh because Margot can’t pull off the tough-as-nails, badass-fighter look.
“Show me,” she says, pushing the keys back at me.
Not wanting to keep the man I’m meeting waiting, I play along to appease her concern by mimicking her motions. “Jab, jab, slash.”
“Ohhh,” her voice trails. “I like that better.”
I pocket my keys and steal a glance around the living room in search of my purse. “I have to run, Margie.”
“I’ll turn on my phone because I need you to call me as soon as he gives you what you want.”
“Why don’t you ever say that after I go on a date?” I wink.
She scrunches her nose. “Let me believe you’re a virgin for at least the next ten years.”
“I’m not,” I say with a grin. “But, I’ll play along if it makes you feel better.”
“A quick knee to the groin is almost as good as the key trick.”
“Got it.” I take her in my arms for a hug. “I won’t be more than an hour. I’ll meet my informant, find out what he has for me, and pick us up a pint of ice cream on my way home.”
“Mint chocolate chip?” She asks with a perk of one of her perfectly arched eyebrows.
“Done.” I move to kiss her cheek. “Have fun watching the Duke get downright dirty.”
“He does not,” she scoffs. “Or he won’t in the episode I’m about to watch. It’s the third of this season.”
“I’m on the sixth,” I admit. “The third and the fourth are H.O.T., and for the record, his full-frontal nude scene is spectacular.”
She looks toward the television. “Go do what you need to do, Juliet. I have a show to watch.”
Chapter Two
Juliet
I step out of an Uber on Madison Avenue. I would have taken the subway, but my sister’s mini self-defense course ate up a bit of my time. That, along with a conversation I had with one of the doormen of our building, set me back by fifteen minutes.
Ricky, the doorman, had a host of questions for me about an online article I wrote two weeks ago. He’s always telling me he’s my number one fan. I take pride in my work, even if this job isn’t my ultimate end goal. It’s a step up the ladder toward the future I desperately want.
I spot the man I’m meeting right away.
He insists that I refer to him as my informant, but I see him as a helpful aid in my pursuit of the meat and bones of the stories I’m assigned.
“Juliet!” he yells my name while waving a hand in my direction.
For an informant, there is nothing discreet about Bradley Degati.
A waft of purple hair sits atop the middle of his head. His brown eyes are behind a pair of orange-rimmed eyeglasses, and the suits he wears are never the standard navy blue or black. Today, it’s powder blue with a red vest. His pants are always hemmed a few inches too short, so that he can show off his colorful socks.
“Hey, Brad.” I smile as I approach him.
He gives me a big bear hug. “You’re looking fantastic tonight.”
I spin in a circle on the crowded sidewalk. “Thank you. I’m liking your look too.”
“This little number,” he says, tugging on the sleeve of his jacket. “Trudy found this in a vintage store. I swear I married the greatest stylist on this continent.”