Chapter 4
There’s a scratch on my car, one I’m certain I didn’t put there. I lean down and inspect it. It’s a subtle scratch, something that won’t be noticed easily. Hmm… I consider the possibility of it being tied to the incident last night. But this is clearly a hate crime. And not a very passionate one.
Three weeks in this penthouse, and Roger Tate has called me about a misplaced room-service tray, a guest who he thought might recognize me, and a question about whether I would prefer my eggs organic. The man is insufferable. He believes playing up to me will win him some sort of prize.
He also didn’t think to mention this when I spoke to him earlier. He was more than eager to assign Suzanne to me; it was almost scary. Maybe he was trying to compensate for this. He's buttering me up so I won't get suspicious when I find out what he's been hiding.
I feel along the razor-thin scratch with my fingertip. My lips press into a thin line. I have far bigger disasters than a paint nick to deal with. I get in the car.
I drive into town. The valley road is empty, except for a tractor and the early morning light. I let the silence work. Clarity has always come to me this way.
I turn on the radio. A jazz piano drifts out.
My father loved jazz. You'd think that made him a gentle, patient man.
But he was the exact opposite of that. Mean-spirited, loud, and distant are words used to describe Jonathan Barnes.
Of course, it doesn't matter who he was. My name is Cade Nightingale after all — my mother’s name.
Jonathan was just a…blip in my existence.
I shake my head and redirect my thoughts to Suzanne. Beautiful Suzanne.
The renovation team at the Pacific Heights Apartment finished the floors last week. The kitchen is two coats of paint and a stove away from being done. I should be back in San Francisco in a couple of weeks.
But I won’t be. Suzanne and I aren’t done. Far from it.
I pull into the driveway of Marisol’s office building. Her firm occupies the fifth floor of the tall glass structure. I haven’t had much reason to come here over the past few months. I should have been suspicious of the quiet.
Marisol has been my lawyer since I ventured into the art world ten years ago. We met at a business convention. She had sheer determination in her eyes when she thrust her card at me and told me I’d be needing her.
She wasn’t wrong about that.
The elevator takes me up to her office. Her assistant has not arrived yet. The coffee is already made, and when Marisol comes out to greet me, I note that every time I see her, she looks like she has been awake one hour longer than she should have.
“Mr. Nightingale.” She nods. “Can’t say I’m happy to see you here. You’ve stayed out of trouble for months. What changed?”
I shrug and follow her in. “I had no hand in this — I promise.” I take my seat just as she does. She pushes her dark hair out of her face and starts rifling through her overflowing desk.
“I apologize for the mess. I had to work through the night.” Her fingers finally land on a brown folder, and she slides it across the desk to me.
“Thank you.” I open it.
The NDA is two pages long. Her drafting is what I pay for. The language is airtight, the compensation sits in a clause I would have written myself, and the word permanent is buried in a sentence so quiet she could read it aloud at a cocktail party without anyone in the room noticing what she said.
Perfect.
I sign my copy. She slides the unsigned version into a plain manila envelope and places it in front of me.
"And the bar?" I ask. “Were you able to find anything?”
She breathes in. "Not really. Twenty-three minutes."
"Of?"
"Degraded feed. It’s a clean window. Right at the time you would have ordered the second drink. Everything before is normal. Everything after is also normal. We don’t have the woman on camera, so we’re not sure what to look out for. But we’re certain someone tampered with it."
I take this in. “Hmm…what do you think? It has to be someone with access. The hotel, perhaps. Do I know the owner of Cresswell? Have we had some sort of rift in the past?”
She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think that’s it. You have no history with the hotel — we made sure of that. It could be the company that runs the surveillance contract. I have a friend there. I’m working on it."
I nod. This is turning out to be more complicated than I thought. Seems to me like I underestimated my enemy. “And the documents that were taken? Are you on that?”
“Yes. It’s all perfectly legal. We’re already preparing supporting documents and statements just in case.” Her blue eyes find mine. “We’re ready, Cade.”
“Good.” I button my suit jacket as I rise to my feet.
“I’ll try my best to fish out whoever did this. Or maybe if we wait them out long enough, they’ll reveal themselves. What do you think they want?”
“Revenge. Money. That’s what everyone wants.” I pick up the envelope. “I’ll call you if anything else comes up. But I’m sure they’ll come to me. They want something, and soon enough, they’ll start to get desperate. Thank you, Marisol.”
She nods. Marisol walks me out of the building, and I can’t help but notice that her assistant is still not behind the desk.
“Is your assistant off?”
Marisol shakes her head and stares down at her watch. “She was actually supposed to come in early today.”
“Hmm…call my assistant. We’ll get you someone more competent.”
“Mr. Nightingale, I appreciate the gesture, but — ”
“You need it. Let this one go today as soon as she reports for work or fire her right now. I’m not asking.”
She doesn’t say anything more.
I get into my car and drive back to the hotel. The drive back is noisier and less peaceful. My phone buzzes as I pull into the garage. I pick it up to find a text from Henry.
Henry
Your mom told me what happened. I’m so sorry, Cade. Are you okay? She’s worried about you. Please give her a call when you can, son.
Henry and I have a good relationship. I don’t exactly want to ignore the text, but he’s talking about something I’m not ready to face, so I don’t respond.
As soon as I return to the suite, I call housekeeping. The envelope goes on the corner of the desk where it can be seen from the door without being pushed at her. I pour coffee and take a slow sip.
My phone rings before I get a chance to sit. I pull it out again, half expecting Henry or my mother. I’m almost relieved when I see Beau’s name.
My stepbrother has a sixth sense for me being out of position. I’m not quite sure how he does it. Sometimes I appreciate it. Sometimes I don’t and wish to be left alone. This is one of those times.
“Hey…I wanted to call last night, but I knew you’d want your space,” he begins, and I instantly regret answering this call. I should just push the world away until the funeral has passed and people stop acting like I’m grieving when I’m not.
“I’m fine, Beau.”
He pauses. “Are you sure? No one has been able to reach you since last night. Mom blames herself for telling you over the phone. Dad thinks you’re in denial.”
I scoff. “Well, I’m not. I’m fine.”
Beau doesn’t speak for a moment. “Are you coming for Sunday dinner?”
“No. I’m in Napa for another week. Possibly two.”
“Why?”
I consider telling him the truth, but one person knowing the embarrassing details of what happened to me is more than enough. I don’t need my brother laughing at me. "The deal is running long,” I say instead. “The property down here is more interesting than I thought."
"Which property?"
I frown. "It’s the one you don't have to know about."
"Cade, is something going on? I can come down there if you need me. It’s not — ”
“I’m fine. Just tell Mom and Henry that I’m okay. I’m not sad or grieving. I’m okay. They don’t need to send you to check on me. I’ll be at dinner as soon as I can.”
“Alright, then. If you say so.”
I grit my teeth. “I didn’t say so. That’s just what it is.”
“Okay, Cade.”
I end the call before I say something I’ll regret. I let out a deep breath.
I look around. Nothing. No Suzanne. Just an empty room. Meaning she’s taking her sweet time in coming up. She must be avoiding me, but she has no choice. She might dig her heels into the ground, delay, or grumble, but she’ll come.
The phone rings again immediately. It’s Tomas, my head of acquisitions.
He informs me about a sculptor in Marfa whose collectors are a generation older than her work, a painter in Mexico City who has long refused studio visits but has finally agreed to one, and a photographer in Seoul, who is scheduled for a fourth meeting in Brooklyn.
This is what my company and I have built, brick by brick, since I was twenty-one. We identify people blind to their own potential and surround them with visionaries who redefine what's possible in their lives. I'm known for it. The industry is small. The shorthand for what I do is my name.
Tomas tells me the Brooklyn meeting is shaping up well.
I consider mentioning Suzanne to him. Maybe if he meets with her, she'll be more inclined to work with us. I’ve been told I’m quite intimidating. Not that I try to be. It does give me an advantage during negotiations. I always have the upper hand.
There’s a knock on the door.
"I have to go."
"Mr. Nightingale — "
"I will call you back."
I end the call. I cross the suite. I open the door.
Suzanne is standing right there. The color in her skin is back, now brown and shiny. Her eyes, though, are averted carefully. The fire in them looks dulled now, but I know I can reignite it eventually.
Her lips don’t look happy to see me. I intend to change that.
She walks past me without looking at my face. She does not speak. I don’t even get a good morning from her. One would think I committed some heinous crime. But I didn’t…not yet at least.
She walks to the windows and pulls the curtains back. The morning light comes into the suite in a long flat panel and lands on the rug, the desk, and the unread book on the side table. She sets her cart by the wall and starts working.
I watch as she moves. It’s obvious she can’t wait to get out of here.
She breezes through surfaces, scrubbing and dusting like her life depends on it.
I wonder why she’s so determined to get away from me.
I don’t think I did or said anything to make her this uncomfortable around me.
Well, I was naked when she came in, but it can't be the first time she's seen a man with no clothes.
I follow her into the room. The duvet is straightened in three pulls. The pillows rest on the bed in seeming disarray, yet fall into an unintentional perfect arrangement.
I sit at the desk with a tablet in front of me and pretend to read it. I'm watching her hands. They are small and slender. I wonder how they’ll feel in mine. Smooth, definitely.
She starts polishing the lamp on the side table, which does not need polishing. For some reason, she takes longer on it. She appears to be distracted.
I smile to myself. She knows I'm watching her, and it’s affecting her. How spectacular.
Suzanne finally moves on from the lamp. She disappears into the bathroom, and I let her have the moment alone to brace for what’s coming. She finally returns, closes the cart, and turns toward the door.
"I'm done." She is looking at the door, not at me. "I'll be back tomorrow morning." She stops moving.
"Hmm…" I get up slowly and do a quick sweep of the room. I pretend to inspect her work, then I turn to face her. “Suzanne, I think there’s a problem.”
“What?” She still won’t look at me.
I almost laugh. The irritation in her voice is unmistakable. Her fingers tighten around her cart. Seems Suzanne is beginning to lose her patience.
"I'm not satisfied. Why don't you take a seat?” I ask.
She turns.
And there it is. The fire in those beautiful brown eyes. Her knuckles are white from gripping the cart. Her jaw is locked. Her shoulders are vibrating slowly with barely restrained fury.
I gesture to the chair across the desk. “Please, Suzanne. Take a seat.”
“I don’t want to…and stop using my name.”
I smile. “Please, sit. We have a lot to talk about.”
She eyes me for a long moment, but I stand my ground. I don’t look away. Neither does she. It seems we are at an impasse, that is, until she crosses the room.
She pulls the chair half a foot farther from the desk than I had placed it. She lowers herself into it. She grits her teeth hard enough that the muscle jumps under her ear.
"Yesterday," I say, "after you left this room, I called the front desk. I asked for Roger Tate. I had him reassign you to this suite exclusively. You are not on any other floor or room. You are mine for the duration of my stay."
Her face does not move.
"I’m telling you because I want you to know I did this deliberately, because you can end it. I know you will find it unforgivable." I let the word sit. "I'm not asking you to forgive it. If I had the same information again, I would do the same thing."
I slide the manila envelope across the desk. Slowly.
"This is the NDA — drafted and ready. The compensation is inside."
She looks at the envelope, but does not touch it.
"Every day you come up here, Suzanne, I'm going to ask. You don't have to sign. You don't have to say yes. You only have to understand that I'm not going to stop until you do."
She looks up. Her eyes meet mine across the desk.
I can’t read a thing in her face. She’s perfectly still. She doesn't reach for the document. Neither does she look away.
For a brief moment, I wonder if I pushed too far. Maybe my tactics are too extreme. Maybe I should try to be gentler, more pleading. That is not in my character.
Suzanne clears her throat. “Can I at least think about it?”
I nod. “That’s fair. You should take it with you. Have a lawyer look it over to ensure the terms are to your liking.”
She frowns. “I don’t have a lawyer. I’m not like you, remember?”
I don’t react to the jab. There’s no point when I’m this close to getting her to sign. “Thank you very much, Suzanne. You’ve been a great help.” I lean back in the chair. I gesture toward the door. "That'll do for now. You're free to go."
She stands. She gathers the cart handle. She turns toward the door without looking at me.
I speak as her hand reaches for the handle.
"I'll be seeing you very soon, Suzanne."