“I shouldn’t have put in that infinity pool.”
“I tried to tell you,” Aiden said.
“People are drawn to money like flies on shit,” Veronica said. “Rich flies. On solid gold shit. But still, I stand by the metaphor.”
Dorian looked at his assistant in the doorway—along with his driver Jameson, she was one of only a handful of humans in his employ. Ten years ago, she’d come to him as a blood donor—a human who consented to feeding vampires in exchange for money—but in the end, Dorian couldn’t do it. She’d begged him for the bite, desperately in need of cash.
He’d offered her a job instead.
It was the best decision he ever made. She practically ran the whole place, and unlike the other women in his life, she’d never betrayed his trust.
“Veronica,” he said, “if you and Matthew had children, would you ever send them to a preschool that cost more than a university?”
Veronica laughed. “Oh, sweetie. If we had kids, we’d send them to your house. You have an infinity pool.”
On the desk, Dorian’s cell beeped with an appointment reminder.
“That’ll be your one o’clock,” Veronica said. “I’ll call for your car. Make sure you’re back for your two-thirty with the Armitage CFO. Oh, and you got a message from the bursar’s office at NYU. Something about finalizing a tuition payment for a Jonathan Braynard?”
“Thank you, Veronica. I’ll take care of it.”
“Fine. Just don’t forget about the two-thirty.”
“You have my word.”
He’d almost forgotten about the two-thirty. The CFO wanted to meet with Dorian for another walkthrough of the acquisition, an exercise in futility that would involve a lot of corporate-speak like “help me understand the narrative” and “I’m not seeing the vision, Mr. Redthorne.”
Total fucking waste of time.
“Anything else?” Veronica asked.
Dorian was about to send her off, but Aiden cleared his throat, tapping impatiently on the folder on the desk.
There was no way around it. Not yet, anyway.
“Extend an invitation to House Duchanes for Friday’s festivities,” he said grudgingly.
If Veronica was surprised at the request, she didn’t show it. “You got it.”
“All right.” Aiden rose from the chair and collected his files. “I’m heading out.”
“Does this mean I can have my chair back? And my desk? And my bloody coffee mug?”
“Of course, your highness. I’ve got a lunch date—Layla, hot new vampire from marketing. Wish me luck.”
“Workplace romance?” Dorian shook his head. “Now there’s a right terrible idea.”
“Who said anything about romance? I’d be happy with a shag in the copy room. Or maybe in the boss’s office since he’ll be out.”
“As will you, if you make good on that threat.”
“Did you know she competed on the Italian gymnastics team in the 1936 Olympics? I might need to limber up for this one.”
“Don’t break anything.”
“No promises.” Aiden leaned across the desk, scooping up the last cookie and smacking Dorian twice on the cheek. “In the meantime, I trust you’ll behave yourself for our Hastings visitors?”
Dorian flashed a wolfish smile. “Mr. Donovan, when am I not a perfect gentleman?”
Aiden waited until he was safely out the door before he finally replied. “Would you like my response in an e-mail, a photo essay, or a spreadsheet with sortable columns?”
Chapter Sixteen
“I’ve been thinking about our arrangement.” Rudy drained his martini and set the glass down hard on the patio table, making Charley flinch. “To say I’m disappointed is an understatement.”
She shrunk down in her chair, hoping no one else in the restaurant’s small outdoor seating area was listening in.
“I know. I’m… I’m sorry.” She cringed at the meek and desperate sound of her own voice—a ridiculous combo, considering her résumé. She was Charlotte fucking D’Amico, for chrissake. She’d learned how to crack a safe by the time she was fifteen, could spot a fake Dutch Master at a hundred yards, and had amassed more knowledge of art history than most PhDs and museum curators twice her age. Her father’s crew had watched her grow from a gangly kid into the strong, capable criminal she was today, but in Rudy’s presence, Charley would always feel like a silly little girl getting underfoot while the grownups planned their next big score.
Through a cool, gentle voice that belied the anger in his eyes, Rudy said, “Your last several outings have been less than informative.”
“How is that my fault? I can’t control what people do with their belongings before we get there.”
Rudy slammed his fist on the table, making her jump again. The people at the table behind them looked over.
Great. The last thing she wanted was another scene at Beyoglu. Just a ten-block walk from home, the Turkish café used to be one of her favorite lunch spots on the Upper East Side, but ever since Rudy had declared it their “usual” place, she hadn’t been back on her own. He’d embarrassed her in front of the staff too many times for that. Now, whenever they arrived together, the hostess sat them outside.
“I’d advise you not to take that adolescent tone with me,” he said, which Charley found ironic, considering he’d never stopped treating her like a kid. Still, she knew she was on dangerous ground.
Pulling off a successful heist wasn’t like the movies, where everything came together seamlessly over a pack of cigarettes, a few cartons of Chinese takeout, and a music montage. It took weeks—even months—of careful, tedious preparation involving blueprints and public records searches, background checks on the property owners, surveillance, onsite intelligence gathering, payoffs of household employees and security technicians, identity theft, document forging, route planning, in-case-of-injury planning, contingency planning, and yes—lots and lots of Chinese takeout.
Lately, Rudy had been relegating Charley to mind-numbing fact-finding missions at private auctions and events, bringing her in later, cutting her out earlier, sharing fewer secrets. For months, her efforts had turned up jack shit; she figured that’s why he’d been giving her the crap assignments. A punishment, a warning, call it what you want.
But lately she was starting to wonder if he believed she was involved in the infamous double-cross.
If he believed betrayal was genetic, passed down from father to daughter.
Charley sipped her water, trying to cool the rage boiling up inside her.
Rudy was pissed about her bad luck streak? Fine. But Charley was pissed too. Pissed that her parents had brought her into this world with no intention of helping her become a legitimate, tax-paying adult. Pissed that no one seemed to know what had truly happened to her father. Pissed that no one had bothered to find out.
It was her father’s inside guy, Rudy had always believed. A man none of them had ever met. Her dad had vouched for him, bringing him in at the last minute on a big job in the West Village. The mark was an extensive art collector, the cache valued at $70 million on the street.