Sizzle in the City. Wendy Etherington
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grew up in Savannah. It’s a Southern-pride thing.”
“Well deserved.” He angled his head. “And the accent fits. I got the sense you weren’t from here.”
“You, either.”
He nodded. “I was raised in London.”
“That fits.” Given the nature of her undercover plan, she wondered at the quirk of fate that had presented her with a flesh and blood James Bond in the middle of her investigative adventure. “Shelby Dixon,” she said, holding out her hand.
“Trevor,” the man said as he enveloped her small hand in his elegant, long-fingered one.
Their gazes held as they shook.
Shelby would have been happy to let their closeness linger for the next decade or two, but she was supposed to be working, both as a caterer and a spy.
A quick scan of the room noted several new guests. Max had assured her there would be no more than fifteen, but they were pushing twenty-five. Good thing she’d made extra hors d’oeuvres.
Drooling over the luscious Trevor No-Last-Name-Given would have to wait.
And why hadn’t he given a last name anyway? Wasn’t that odd? He was probably Max’s bookie or possibly something even more nefarious. But by the time she’d considered this and turned to question him, he was walking away … directly toward Max.
The hotel owner-swindler welcomed Trevor with a hug and a broad grin.
“Well, damn,” Shelby grumbled.
She should have expected this turn, as no man could be that perfect and have moral standards, too. If he was Max’s investment recruiter, it was easy to see how the lousy crook had gotten his hands on thirty-million bucks. There was probably a line outside his office door to get in on the next deal.
Guests were starting to come to her to get a crab cake, so she reluctantly tore her gaze from Max and Trevor and roamed the room with her tray. After a while, she retreated to the bedroom to load up again, adding prosciutto-wrapped grilled-chicken bites, as well.
She passed Calla chatting up the hotel manager and hoped her friend was getting insightful info to use in their quest to bring Max and his schemes down. Full bellies and a cocktail or two were secret weapons in getting people to talk incessantly. Maybe she should share that tidbit with law enforcement.
She found Victoria next to the windows of the twenty-ninth-floor suite and offered her appetizer selections to her fellow conspirator, whose eyes were uncharacteristically dazed.
“I love New York,” Victoria said, staring in Trevor’s direction.
“He has an English accent, too.”
Victoria’s eyelashes fluttered as her face glowed with pleasure. “Oh, my.”
“However …” Shelby said sharply, striving to bring Victoria back to her senses, “he seems pretty friendly with Max, so no matter how beautiful he is, he’s now moved to second on the list of suspicious characters in this room.”
“He’s number one in my book,” Victoria said, licking her lips.
“Helloo?” Shelby waved her hand in front of her friend’s face. “Revenge? Vigilante justice? Any of these concepts sound familiar? Max is Project Robin Hood’s Enemy Number One. He’s our Sheriff Nottingham, our Al Capone. And anybody who cozies up to him is an accessory simply on principle.”
“You’re right,” Victoria said slowly. She took a step in Trevor’s direction. “I’ll do some up-close and personal investigation.”
Shelby caught her friend’s arm. “Not so fast, Eliot Ness. I think observation is the best plan for now. Besides, I’ve already made contact.”
“So?”
“I saw him first.”
Victoria crossed her arms over her chest. “Really?”
“His name is Trevor.”
“Trevor what?”
Blushing, Shelby shrugged.
“You can’t be that committed to him. A conversation that didn’t last long enough to get his full name? Get a hold of yourself. I thought he was Enemy Number Two.”
Even more embarrassed, Shelby recalled her conversation that morning with her mom, who’d sounded so tired and defeated. The doctors had increased her anti-anxiety meds, and she was having a hard time adjusting. Not daring to glance at the object of her and Victoria’s conversation, she rolled her shoulders. “He is,” she said firmly.
And he was.
Except he was also the most beautiful man she’d ever laid eyes on.
No one could tell her fate wasn’t enjoying a hilarious and cruel joke at her expense.
“Go chat him up,” Shelby said to Victoria. “Maybe you can get his last name.”
“Oh, no. This one’s all yours.” With a knowing smile, Victoria took Shelby’s tray and glided away.
Well, she’d asked for it. She ought to be woman enough to take it.
After sending a glare toward Victoria’s retreating back, Shelby started across the room toward Max and Trevor. Along the way, several guests stopped her to compliment the culinary offerings and ask if there were more. She assured everyone there was and indicated Victoria, who, despite her smart-ass tendencies, was one of her best and most loyal friends.
A definite BFF, since she’d gracefully conceded the path to Trevor and was currently doing Shelby’s job, as well.
Trevor is a bad, bad man, her conscience reminded her.
Actually, she didn’t know that for sure. Probable, but not certain.
She could only help her parents through this hardship if she knew the facts. This investigation was her duty as a daughter. This was business, not romance.
On the way toward her prey, she noted an unbalanced collection of the female population surrounding Trevor and Max. This phenomenon could be easily explained. Because, while Max had Trevor’s dark coloring, his eyes were a muddy brown, he was shorter and more rotund than the sophisticated Englishman she’d met earlier, and there was a distinct shiftiness in his eyes.
Wow. She really needed to focus on what she was supposed to be doing here.
Yet another guest stopped her. “I’m dying for one of those delicious crab cakes,” the clearly desperate woman pleaded.
Shelby cast a glance at her gorgeous goal. Like she’d get his attention in her wilted white chef’s apron and limp hair anyway. However, he’d seemed to enjoy the crab cakes … “Okay, sure,” she said to the desperate guest.
Retreating to the prep room, she assembled another tray of crab, but halfway through her task, she was startled by hot and mysterious Trevor walking in, then closing the door behind him.
“How do you know Max?” he asked without delay.
“I’m his caterer.” His curiosity only furthered her suspicions of him. He was protective of Max. Meeting that alluring, blue-eyed gaze boldly, she added, “How do you know Max? You two seem like old friends.”
“We know each other well,” he returned vaguely as he moved toward her. “What about the writer and the icy brunette? You’re friends with them.”
“How do you know that?” she accused, wincing, as she realized she’d inadvertently confirmed his assumptions.
Some secret agent she was.
He smiled, confident and tempting. “I saw you talking to them earlier, just as you obviously saw me with Max. The brunette even refilled your food tray.”
“You’re observant.”