Hearts in Vegas. Colleen Collins

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      CHAPTER FOUR

      TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Frances took a seat at the table, immaculately set with linen, crystal and a bottle of champagne—Taittinger, no less—chilling in an ice-filled silver bucket. The lights were moody low, the classical music softly romantic.

      Her boss, Charlie Eden, was dapper in a charcoal Ralph Lauren suit that complemented his silvering hair. He looked at her with shining, attentive eyes from across the table.

      She and Charlie had sometimes ordered cocktails during these meetings, but champagne on ice? This was a first. Made her uncomfortable. Did he think this was some kind of date?

      She flashed on several women at the Vanderbilt Insurance office who’d run over their own grandmothers to be in Frances’s shoes right now. In the company kitchen, they’d whisper breathlessly about his Porsche 911 and how its custom paint job matched its baby-blue cockpit, his Tuscan-style home on a golf course, his European vacations.

      What they liked was his money, of course, not his withering looks when displeased or his condescending tone when addressing someone he viewed as an imbecile, which seemed to be half of the earth’s population. It amazed her how some people, like Charlie’s office groupies, viewed the almighty dollar as if it were the most important attribute in a potential mate, rather than traits like kindness and devotion.

      Or maybe Frances was more attuned to what money couldn’t buy based on her mom’s stories of her privileged, but painfully lonely, upbringing.

      So here Frances sat in a luxurious restaurant, feeling awkward. Maybe she wouldn’t have thought twice about the decor and champagne on ice if her dad hadn’t been so insistent that Charlie had a thing for her.

      Did he?

      She’d never picked up on any signals from her boss, but then she’d always related to his professional role, not the man behind it.

      Something about Charlie she’d always picked up on loud and clear, though. He wasn’t a gambler. His every action had a plan and a purpose. Nothing with him was ever simple or spontaneous.

      Which meant his reasons for selecting this restaurant were more convoluted than his setting up a date. Eventually, he’d tell her what they were.

      “Hope the bubbly wasn’t too expensive, Charlie,” she said, setting her smartphone on the table, “because I won’t be drinking any. Way too early for me.”

      He flashed his Gordon Gekko smile. “It’s almost noon.”

      “It’s a few minutes after ten.”

      “Frances, as always, you are enmeshed in the minutiae. Observe, document, categorize.”

      “If everybody saw the forest instead of the trees, nobody would know how to plant a seed.”

      Charlie did a slight double take, but didn’t say anything as the waiter appeared at their table. He wore a white jacket with Chez Manny stitched in blue on the pocket and gave them a practiced smile. After setting a basket of “hand crafted” rolls and butter on the table, he gestured toward the champagne. She noticed initials inked on the inside of his ring finger, which made her wonder why people got tattoos with personal messages, as though anything in life were that permanent.

      “Now that your guest is here, shall I pour the champagne?” he asked.

      She held her hand over her glass. “No, thank you.”

      The waiter bent his head in understanding and poured the bubbly into Charlie’s crystal flute.

      Her boss had wanted to meet at this restaurant last night, too, but she’d canceled, explaining she felt drained after the odd undercover-cop escort and limo meeting.

      She was glad she’d gone straight home last night, because her dad had been worrying himself sick since their aborted phone call. He’d also thought he’d failed her because although he’d left messages for Charlie, he didn’t know if Charlie had heard them, so her dad fretted about her possibly being behind bars with no one coming to her aid.

      Wanting to ease her dad’s concerns, she’d glossed over what had happened during their dinner of Spam sandwiches and leftover Chinese food. Said the undercover cop had pulled her over for a broken taillight and let her go with a warning. That she would have called her dad after that but had been pulled into a last-minute meeting at a downtown coffee shop with a Vanderbilt client.

      After dinner, she wrote an email to Charlie filling him in on all the details, including that she’d be conducting a delivery in the morning for the Russian, after which she could meet Charlie. He wrote back later that he’d be at Chez Manny by ten.

      “Would you perhaps like a Baby Bellini, a nonalcoholic drink made with peach nectar and sparkling cider?” the waiter asked her.

      She ordered one, plus an omelet. Charlie ordered the cedar-plank-roasted salmon special.

      After the waiter left, Charlie lifted his glass of bubbly. “To my star investigator.”

      “Hardly a star. All I did was talk to the Russian.”

      He took a sip of champagne, set the glass back on the table. “But he trusted you enough to invite you into his inner sanctum, Frances, which is a coup. You’ve been an investigator long enough to understand the significance of that.”

      She caught an edge of apprehension in his tone.

      “Pass the bread?” she asked pleasantly, studying his face, wondering what was going on with him.

      He held out the basket and she helped herself to a “hand crafted” roll. She spread some of the butter—which the waiter had mentioned was “lavender laced”—on the warm roll and took a bite, savoring its herb-infused, yeasty taste.

      For several moments they said nothing, listening to a gentle violin played over other diners’ murmured conversations.

      “I have good news and bad news,” СКАЧАТЬ