The Private Concierge. Suzanne Forster
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about the drug charges? About his guilt or innocence? About the disastrous impact on his future?
He wanted to talk about who had framed him—and how they could possibly have known where he was going to be that day, and when he was going to be there. But that would put him in the position of doing what all criminals did: swearing that they were innocent, crying that they’d been set up.
One reporter had done enough research on his past to ask probing questions about Shan’s drug use when he was a teenager. He’d admitted to some experimentation and to getting caught, but he’d seethed inwardly at the insinuations that it had been more. He’d been educated in London, but most of his family still lived in Taiwan. They were people of honor, and this latest incident had brought them deep shame. Worse, his father seemed to believe the charges. The proud old man had stopped taking Shan’s calls.
He slit open one envelope after another, skimming the contents, which were exactly what he expected. He was being uninvited from his own life, shunned. He had stopped reading the return addresses. He just wanted to get through all of it. Right now a clean counter would feel like a small victory.
He picked up another letter-size envelope, slit the top, turned it upside down and shook it. Money floated out like confetti, hundred-dollar bills. He didn’t count them. It was several thousand dollars—and he knew immediately who’d sent it.
His father had returned the money Simon had sent him. He’d been sending checks since he graduated from Oxford and got a job as a waiter to help pay his way through Cordon Bleu, the famous French cooking school. Now he was able to send a great deal more in the monthly envelopes, but this was his father’s way of saying that his help wasn’t welcome anymore. They would starve first.
Misery fizzed up into Simon’s throat. It tasted brackish, and he fought the urge to be sick. He had to be strong. There was only one way to restore his family’s name and their dignity. He either had to prove his innocence—or take his own life. There was no other way to stop the nightmare he’d brought down on them. When he was gone they could hold their heads up again. He knew his way of thinking would be alien to anyone not raised as he was. It was part of his culture.
Strong. Proud. Brave. He was a warrior.
“Simon…voice mail.”
Simon looked around, confused. It sounded as if someone had whispered his name. A woman. Lane Chandler? A tiny flashing blue light caught his eye, and he realized he’d left his Darwin cell phone here in the kitchen. In his rush to shut off the phone, he must have hit the volume control rather than the End button.
“Simon, you have voice mail.”
It was his cell, and whether or not the programmed voice was Lane’s he didn’t know, but it had always reminded him of her. Soft and soothing, slightly haunting. The kind of voice a man who liked women automatically responded to, vibrating up and down his spine. And Simon did like women, despite the media’s speculation.
He set down the dagger next to the cell, contemplating both. One was ancient, the other ultramodern. Both had many uses, both were designed as protection, but in today’s modern age, either could destroy a life in an instant. He drew in a breath, knowing the call was going to be ugly. Still, as long as he was cleaning up the mess, he might as well listen to his voice-mail messages, too.
His mailbox was full. He would have to call TPC to get the overflow, but he quickly screened all the calls he had by listening to the caller’s name and the date stamp. There were several from his attorneys, his publicist, his TPC concierge and Lane herself, but right now, the only message that interested him was from Goldstar’s chairman. It had come in two days ago.
“Simon, I apologize for the voice mail, but you haven’t been answering your phone. Listen, my friend, that statement of confidence we discussed about believing in your innocence and standing by you…well, our lawyers and public relations people are advising against it. They’re suggesting we keep a low profile, and that you do the same. The board has voted to put the launch of your products on hold until the outcome of your trial. That way you and your lawyers can concentrate on clearing your name, and we can all put this unfortunate incident behind us. Good luck, Simon. You have friends at Goldstar.”
Simon pressed the End button. He picked up the dagger and touched the blade again. No pain. No pain at all. A second later, he whipped the dagger over his head and with a crack of his wrist, launched it like a missile at the kitchen’s other doorway, the one off the hallway to the front door.
The tip of the blade stuck in the door frame, the handle quivering like the crossbar of an arrow. A strangled gasp came from the shadows of the hallway. Simon flipped on the overhead lights and strode toward the door. He was shaking. “Don’t ever come up on me unannounced.”
The tall, lithe creature he’d caught eyed him with a mix of fear and defiance. The material of her blouse sleeve was pinned by the knife blade, tethering her to the door frame. Simon didn’t free her. He didn’t trust her, either.
“I picked up the things you wanted,” she said, pointing to the magazines that had fallen to the floor. “I thought I could leave them without disturbing you.”
He unstuck the knife, ripping a chunk of lacquered wood from the door frame. His voice was frozen with rage at the world that had turned on him. “Give me another reason to think you’ve betrayed me, and you’ll die by this blade.”
9
“It’s a go, Ashley. Sign the lease.” A squeal on the other end of the line forced Lane to lower the volume of her earpiece. But she couldn’t suppress a grin as she walked briskly down the Avenue of the Stars, toward the Santa Monica Mountains in the distance. She’d just green-lighted the plans to open the TPC branch in Dallas. She’d been putting it off for weeks, and she was as excited as Ashley, who’d been stranded in Dallas, scouting locations. Probably as nervous, too.
“Make sure it’s the entire tenth floor,” Lane said, “and we’re good to go. Next step is getting the place staffed. You’re going to be running the show, so put together your short list of contenders for the key positions and set up the interviews. I can be there this Thursday. That gives you four days.”
“Will do! I’ll have everything ready when you get here, and thank you so much for this opportunity. This is it for me, the ultimate, really. My dream.”
“And your chance to make it come true,” Lane said, congratulating her warmly, even though Ashley was really Val’s choice. But that felt good, too. It was time to let go of the reins and give Val his head. He’d been pushing for the expansion, and he knew the staff better than she did, in terms of their leadership abilities. Besides, Lane was not the maverick that some people thought. She believed in teamwork. She’d played some beach volleyball when she was in college, and she’d admired the way the really good teams worked. One set up the shot, and the other one took it. That’s what she and Val had just done, although he still didn’t know it.
Lane excused herself, gently cutting the conversation short with Ashley. Lane’s next call was to their receptionist, letting Mary know the Dallas move was official and to order champagne. Lane had decided the office needed something to celebrate, given their latest client fiasco—the frightening business that very morning with Priscilla Brandt. But Mary reminded her that Val was holding staff meetings all afternoon, so Lane’s bright idea would have to be postponed.
She dropped her cell in her suit pocket and kept walking, oblivious to the fashion incongruity of white Nike Turbo Plus jogging shoes and a black spandex designer suit with a pencil skirt. She probably should have been a New Yorker. Walking was a requirement for her sanity. And today, she’d had no choice. She’d been stuck for too long, mired in doubt and indecision about the expansion. Walking helped clear her head and give her the perspective she needed to make decisions. It felt like she was moving forward in all ways, not just physically. She was charging, going somewhere.
But Jerry had told her never to venture out at night, so here she was, on her lunch hour, despite the obvious drawbacks of walking in L.A. at noon. Car exhaust, for one. It