Chapter 30
30
Max
The woman in the lobby was the kind of human being who made thirteen-year-olds cry themselves to sleep and drove sensible, professional, thirty-year-old women to take a mallet to their mirrors. She looked like a cross between Gigi Hadid and Zendaya, which was utterly unjust, and there was something familiar about her, Max thought, though maybe it was just the acidic green feeling of jealousy. She had something snuggled across her arms, but Max couldn’t see properly from Bessy’s window, so she got out and stood behind the fountain, squinting through the hotel’s polished windows.
It was an olive-green coat, far too big for her. Masculine. A similar style to Grey’s shoes – practical but with an edge of fancy. Something deep inside Max growled. Before she knew what she was doing – before she could drown herself in the gargling fountain instead – she was pushing through the turning door of the Seashell Hotel lobby.
They didn’t notice her at first.
Realisation struck her like a bat. This was the type of woman Greyson Hawke lost sleep over. This was his type . Tall, with long limbs like a prized racehorse, unblemished, untattooed. Her caramel hair was the only un-perfect thing about her – slightly damp from the hotel pool and pulled back in an elegant bun that probably had taken her three seconds but would take Max three hours to pull off. She wasn’t wearing any make-up, but she didn’t need it. Max picked a piece of mascara from the corner of her eye. Of course. Was this the reason he’d pushed her away back in Perth?
‘Max?’ Grey and Western Australia’s Next Top Model stared at her. The force of their gazes was enough to turn her to dust.
She cleared her throat; everything was spinning.
‘I told you to wait in the car.’
‘I told you Like hell I will .’
She should have waited in the fucking car. She needed her head straight, she needed to focus on stopping this murder, she did not need the image of Grey kissing this woman’s neck stamped in the back of her mind.
‘I’m Carmel,’ the supermodel said, extracting a long, perfect hand from beneath the coat.
‘Max,’ she managed.
‘As I was saying ...’ Grey’s voice had an edge to it Max didn’t like or understand. Had he assumed he’d be able to keep Carmel a secret? Why though? ‘Are you sure no one was watching you in the bar?’
Oh, okay. He was worried about her. It was kind of sweet. Or it would have been if she could gouge out this hissing monster inside her that wanted to set Carmel’s hair on fire with the glittery blue candles lining the hotel reception desk.
Carmel cocked her hip and Grey’s eyes cast down. What. The. Fuck. How obvious could he be? Not that – and Max hated herself passionately for this thought – there was a whole heap to look at. The one thing she had over Carmel was her curves.
She needed to Stop. Thinking. About. His. Hands.
‘Of course people were watching.’ Carmel tucked a wet strand of hair behind her ears. ‘I was with Luca Barbarani.’
Grey let out a frustrated breath.
‘Luca?’ Max asked. She couldn’t help it.
‘Mmhmm.’ Carmel drew herself up proudly. ‘I didn’t expect him to contact me – I mean, there were so many other girls that night ...’
Grey shot Carmel a look. A look Max was pretty sure Carmel had never been on the receiving end of. She shot it back.
‘Fine,’ Carmel said. ‘I contacted him , but he said yes! It’s not the eighteenth century anymore.’ She teetered slightly, and it was that movement that made Max realise where she’d seen her before.
The drunk girl from the bachelor auction. Talk about bad first impressions.
Oh. The monster inside Max purred and curled back up into a warm ball.
‘I mean’—Grey clenched his teeth; it was kind of funny noticing how he tried to keep it together and it drove her a little wild knowing she could pull at his threads to undo him—‘anyone else. Anyone who looked out of place? Someone trying to look like they were in disguise. Anyone sitting on their own? Maybe with a backpack?’
Carmel rolled her eyes. ‘No. I’ve got a good sense for stalkers, and I didn’t feel like anything was off. Except ...’
‘Yes?’ Grey was practically vibrating.
‘Well ...’ Carmel looked out at the turquoise water of the hotel pool. Even though it was winter, people still sat under the blue umbrellas in colourful bikinis. ‘Luca kept looking over at someone. But when I asked him about it, he told me it was nothing. At first I was jealous, you know? I thought he was looking at this blonde girl, but then when we left, the guy who’d been sitting with her got up and said something to Luca. Luca looked pissed off but the blonde girl held him back. I just figured that kind of stuff came with the territory when you date Luca Barbarani.’
‘Did the guy look like this?’ As Grey handed Carmel his phone, Max unapologetically peered over the screen. Urgh. Carmel smelled like coconut and chlorine. Even Max was turned on. The picture was of the waiter from the La Marca winery, Forrest Valentine, smirking up at them through Grey’s screen. The screen had a crack down the centre that reminded Max of Jett’s scar, chopping Forrest and the pretty, curvy blonde girl he was with in half.
Ariana La Marca – Luca Barbarani’s unrequited, star-crossed love.
Would Luca be so desperate to have Ariana that he’d sabotage his family’s reputation, poisoning their wine to take them out of competition with the La Marcas?
Max had seen people kill for less.
‘Yeah,’ Carmel said, ‘that’s him.’
So Forrest had been in Bindi Bindi Cove two nights ago. And he was definitely at the winery yesterday. That certainly added another dynamic or potential suspect to the mix.
‘Is he coming to the gala tonight?’ Max asked Grey.
‘All the La Marcas are invited – Gio always extends an invitation to them. If Ariana goes, Forrest will be there. He wouldn’t let her go to Luca’s home without him.’
Carmel looked miserable, but that was probably because she hadn’t scored an invite to the gala. Grey was still looking down at her. ‘Did you need something else?’ she asked, sighing deeply.
‘Do you think I could, ah ... It’s just— Um ...’ Awkward Grey was Max’s new favourite pastime. ‘My jacket.’ Grey jabbed his finger at the green thing wrapped over Carmel’s arm.
Oh. Right. Maybe that’s what he’d been staring at so hungrily ...
Max needed to get it together. She decided that the twenty-minute drive from the Seashell Hotel back to the Barbarani property would be her chance. She’d never meditated before, but she was going to close her eyes and become fucking King of all Zen before she got her game face on for this gala. She had to keep everyone safe. Solve a murder before it happened.
Stop thinking about the feeling of Greyson Hawke’s lips on hers.
Her plan to stop thinking about Grey was bulletproof. Until Nella marched Max up to her walk-in wardrobe (see also: small department store) to get her dressed for the gala.
‘Grey insisted.’ Nella sipped from a champagne flute and kicked off her leopard print slippers. She was wearing a real silk kimono that was untied at the top, revealing a lime-green lacy bra and perfect curves. Frankie sat cross-legged on a grey stool that Max was trying to work out a use for in a personal wardrobe, still in her oversized black shirt (likely organically grown) and hemp pants. She was glaring at Nella’s rows of shoes like they were personally responsible for each degree of the ocean’s temperature.
‘Insisted I be dressed like a five-year-old on their first day of school?’ Max rolled her eyes.
‘How dare you.’ Nella contorted her face into mock outrage. ‘I would never impose clothing restrictions on a child.’
‘Why does Grey want Max in a dress?’ Frankie asked, eyes flickering between the two women. Max was trying very hard not to remind her brain that she was standing in the middle of Antonella Barbarani ’s wardrobe, talking to the two sisters as though they were old friends. Not forty-eight hours ago she’d been pissing on a grass tree, trying not to get bitten by a dugite while the bus stopped so someone could vomit.
‘He wants her to blend in with the guests,’ Nella answered, holding up a midnight blue cocktail number that looked like a tutu with horns.
‘She’s too pretty to blend in,’ Frankie said, ‘and those tattoos won’t help. No offence.’ She nodded at Max, who’d been getting quite used to the two of them speaking like she wasn’t in the room. She’d been using it to her advantage.
Frankie blanched at the tutu. ‘Where are you meant to keep your gun? You will be carrying a gun won’t you?’
Max froze. She hadn’t gone over those details with Grey yet. They’d covered literally everything else – the entrance points for the guests, the way the two of them would weave through the room, ensuring their main suspects were always in sight, Skinner’s tell-tale signs and his common disguises, what they’d do in the event of an attack, their code words. The promise that if they were separated they’d keep the objective – protect the Barbaranis – even if that meant leaving the other behind.
But they hadn’t discussed weapons.
Max hadn’t held a gun since she’d handed hers over after the shooting. The thought of having one against her body, touching her, made her physically sick. She didn’t even want to comprehend the thought of actually resting her finger against the trigger.
‘I ...’ Max looked at the dress Nella was holding up now – floor length, deep, blood red with a long slit up one side. ‘I don’t think I’ll have a gun.’
Frankie frowned. Obviously the pacifist vegan had been expecting better protection.
‘I’ll be armed,’ Max assured her. ‘If I wear that’—she pointed at the dress—‘I can hide weapons in all sorts of places.’
‘Just make sure you get rid of them before the cops show up,’ Nella said, but she was looking at Frankie, not Max.
‘Can you stop ?’ Frankie glared. ‘I had to protect myself!’
Max pretended to examine the heel of one of Nella’s riding boots, but she couldn’t help herself. This was almost starting to feel like a tipsy night with Jackie and their other friends from uni. ‘What happened?’
Frankie looked furious. Nella turned back to her wardrobe, almost definitely to hide her smirk.
‘Frankie’s a felon.’
‘Am not!’
‘Don’t worry,’ Max told her, ‘so am I.’
Frankie looked sheepish. ‘Yeah, I know. Sorry – I googled you.’
‘You and the rest of the country. Don’t worry, you’re taking it way better than Grey did.’
Nella made a strange noise that sounded like a bird hitting a window. Max figured she had a sixth sense about these types of things and had probably only invited her up here so she could grill her about her overnight stay with the Fixer. But at least Frankie was regarding Max with slightly less suspicion now.
‘I’ve been arrested a few times,’ she said, quite proudly. ‘One time, yeah, I had a weapon.’
‘Did Grey make that go away?’
‘Ha!’ Nella squawked. ‘Even Captain Blackmail doesn’t have that much power. Her darling sister’s law firm does though.’
‘She made me pay back every last penny,’ Frankie grumbled.
Well, it’s not like you couldn’t afford it. Max bit her tongue. ‘What were you protesting?’ she asked carefully. She pictured Grey’s face and the very real possibility that either of these women could turn on her in a minute and commit double murder with the heel of Nella’s lethal shoes.
‘They tried to burn down a slaughterhouse,’ Nella said, her lips tight. She threw Max the red dress and the coathanger hit her painfully on the collarbone. ‘Put it on then.’
‘Threatened,’ Frankie amended. ‘No one was hurt.’
‘Except my pride,’ Nella said, ‘taking on your pathetic arse.’
‘They targeted me because of Dad,’ Frankie said. ‘They wanted to make an example. They just didn’t like that I don’t fit the bill of rich, spoiled brat heiress – that I’m actually trying to make a difference.’
‘Get off your high horse, Frank.’ Nella smirked. ‘They wanted to punish you because you’re a Barbarani and you were putting blue-collar workers’ lives at risk. The people who work at the slaughterhouse are just trying to put food on their table – they don’t have the luxury of being able to chain yourself to a building to stand up for what you believe in. They can’t afford to choose to be vegan.’
‘Well, I’m sure they’ll be very happy they still have a job once our planet burns to the ground and we can’t even breathe in the air.’
Nella shook her head. ‘On the topic of burning to the ground, you forgot to mention the other abattoir ETR targeted, where three people died a few days later from complications from smoke inhalation.’
‘I wasn’t there!’ Frankie said, but Max could see tears burning in the corners of her eyes.
‘Yeah, only ’cause you were already locked up from the first one!’
‘They never would have given the go-ahead if they knew there were people still inside! And you can drop the high and mighty act – your firm single handedly made sure that children’s hospital didn’t get built.’
‘Yes, how selfish of me, not wanting a children’s hospital built on potentially hazardous land from an abandoned air force base.’
‘Your rich-ass developer client didn’t seem to mind when it got him the green light for his apartments!’
Something brushed against Max’s ankle as the sisters continued to snap at each other. ‘Glad you didn’t die,’ she whispered to Arnold Schwarzenegger as she slipped into a corner of the dressing room to try on the dress. She thought both sisters had a point. As she breathed in the scent of Nella’s woollen coats and leather jackets, she listened to their bickering – now Nella was yelling something about Quinton and Frankie was howling back. To Max’s horror, her eyes stung with tears at the simplicity of it. It had been so long since she’d felt so comfortable with someone she could just say whatever she thought, fall into that easy banter that gave her a spark of life even when everything around her was dreary and dull.
Well, it had been a long time. Until yesterday.
Max didn’t go back to the cottage after Nella was done with her. She’d missed make-up and having her hair done and looking like an actual human being. Frankie had left after a shouting match because of an eyeliner brand Nella owned that used to test on animals. Sisterly love.
Max figured she looked all right. Nella had seemed satisfied at least, and proclaimed that Max was her best project since decorating Grey’s cottage. The dress was tight but not constrictive, and Max had been right – a sharp kitchen knife fit snugly against her thigh. Nella had contemplated putting Max’s hair up but after several failed attempts she’d conceded and said it looked ‘acceptable’ down.
As they made their way through the halls of the mansion, Max caught glimpses of herself in the reflective surfaces of the Barbarani house and she was shocked to see that Nella’s make-up abilities were far less controversial than her clothing choices. She looked pretty good.
Nella led her to the ballroom. They passed one of Grey’s security guards, who glared down at them in a way that made Max relax. Frankie, Tomaso and Vittoria were already there, along with a group of seven men and women in suits and dresses, lots of piercings and multi-coloured hair – including Quinton. Max recognised some of the others from Frankie’s videos. Tomaso was glaring at the group like they were treading dog poo through the regal ballroom. Max thought they seemed friendly – even Vittoria was laughing with one of the purple-haired ones.
Grey had said this was classic Frankie – if Gio was going to forbid her to leave the gala to run back to her ‘hippie commune’, she’d bring the commune here. But Tomaso had also clearly deemed some non-Barbarani humans eligible for an invitation. The group surrounding him were almost all wearing an elegantly draped scarf and had seemingly coordinated their outfits to fit the same ‘librarian-detective’ vibe. Tom and his friends were turned away from the rest of the group, surveying a floor-to-ceiling wine cabinet that spanned the entire western wall. Max had a feeling it wasn’t built for browsing – it was a display of dominance: a deer head on a wall, an armoury.
As she took in the Barbarani children and their friends, Max’s mind went back to Vittoria’s odd phrasing yesterday: Giovanni’s children.
She watched Vittoria sip from her wineglass, wishing she could find some loophole to lock up the woman under suspected terrorist charges and use any means necessary to get her to talk. But something told Max that Vittoria Barbarani was not the kind of woman who would give in to torture.
Also, she wasn’t a cop anymore.
For now.
She took a breath as she took in the room. Enormous wasn’t the right word. Gargantuan, perhaps. The ceiling appeared to be made of glittering gold and silver jewels from diamond chandeliers and white columns ran from ceiling to floor like stalagmites, giving the impression they were in a large, underground cave. Portraits of all the Barbaranis adorned the gold walls. In the centre, above the staircase already lined with black-suited security and below an ironed Italian flag, was an almost identical portrait to the one in the underground cellar: a short, dark-haired man with a stern face and cold eyes. Emilio Barbarani, creator of the ‘blood wine’. Bits of Giovanni were there, as well as Tomaso, but there was something else that Max couldn’t put her finger on.
‘“Security”, hey?’ Jett sidled up beside her. He looked impeccable in a fitted black suit and tie, his scar stark against his clean-shaven face. Max was again trying to resist the urge to ask where he’d gotten it when another thought occurred to her.
Jett was the only security personnel Grey trusted to be with the Barbaranis when his own back was turned; he was the only one left out of the vetting process. What did it take to become someone the ever-suspicious, eternally sceptical Greyson Hawke trusted so completely?
She smiled at him. ‘Grey wanted me to blend in. In case someone decides to take out the security first. We agreed I’m best on the ground, in disguise.’
‘Uh huh.’ Jett looked her up and down. ‘That’s why.’
‘What are you ...’ she started but clamped her jaw when Grey walked in, Giovanni and Luca either side of him. The Barbaranis looked like they were in a James Bond movie – each in a tailored black Armani suit and slick, gelled hair. Grey looked like ...
He looked like ...
Max’s mind had melted. She was so far gone, down a well, nothing but a shadow and an echo of who she used to be. Jesus, she was actually losing it. How was she going to stop a killer when her mind was playing out a very intricate scene of Grey pushing her up against that pillar by Giovanni’s left elbow and ...
‘Cat caught your tongue, Conrad?’ Jett smirked.
‘I’m just—’
‘Drooling?’
Fuck it. She probably was. Grey was an arsehole, an absolute arsehole who took what he wanted all for the ‘greater good’ of the Barbarani name, and he’d left her completely unsatisfied in that bed in Perth and made her feel like a desperate husk of a thing that he kept around because she was more trouble out of his sight than in it, like a dog he didn’t have the heart to put down. But she couldn’t deny what he did to her and probably every human person within a fifty-mile radius in that suit. It was tailored just as sharply as the Barbaranis’ and as black as her hair. He’d showered – as he came closer, she could see the edges at the nape of his neck were slightly damp and he’d ...
‘What did you do?’
Too late – she’d said it out loud. Thankfully, only he heard – the others were being briefed by Jett.
‘What do you mean?’ That Christmas wrapping smell was stronger – enhanced by a cherry, musky cologne she wanted to overdose on.
‘You ...’ She couldn’t help the illicit hand she reached up. Gently as she dared, in the split second she had while all the Barbaranis and their friends were distracted by Jett, she brushed the smooth surface of his jaw where that rough, erotic stubble had been just hours before. ‘Shaved,’ she finished pathetically, dropping her arm.
‘You don’t like it?’ His voice was unsheathed. Vulnerable.
‘I ...’ Her fingers twitched, wanting to touch him again. You pathetic fool . ‘I like the stubble. This suits you too though.’ Her voice was meek, a watered-down version of itself.
Something shifted in Grey’s eyes – storm clouds over a sun, tide over rocks. What she’d give to turn on the subtitles to his thoughts.
‘Doesn’t she look gorgeous?’ Nella’s voice shattered the moment. Max wanted to stab her with the shards. But the Barbarani woman looped her arm through Grey’s and grinned at Max like they were both in on a secret.
Grey turned his full attention to Nella, but when she prompted him again, pointing at Max, he glanced back quickly and shrugged one shoulder.
Max raised an eyebrow but Jett barged through Nella and Grey’s looped arms to offer everyone a glass of sangue. Max took one so she had something for her hands to do. Grey quickly accepted as well but Jett, she noticed, hadn’t poured one for himself.
‘A toast.’ Jett grinned. ‘To—’
‘What are you playing at?’ The roar from Giovanni made Max almost drop her glass. But Giovanni’s murderous eyes were only for Greyson.
‘Signore?’ Grey looked more confused than when they’d first met.
Giovanni snatched the glass from his hand. ‘Drinking on the job, are we, Hawke?’ Giovanni was at least two feet shorter than the Fixer but, dear god, Max swore Grey shrank about that much in the face of Giovanni’s wrath.
‘It was just a toast, G-man,’ Jett started. Why was Jett allowed to get away with talking to Giovanni like that? Why wasn’t Giovanni yelling at Jett?
‘Shut the fuck up,’ Giovanni said, dismissing him as easily as swatting a fly, his gaze never leaving Greyson. ‘You think this is all a joke? This bomb? Think you can just kick back and sip a nice glass of red?’
‘Gio, I—’
‘Do not call me Giovanni!’ His nostrils were flaring like a bull. ‘It’s Signore Barbarani. Always has been, Greyson. Do not let me down.’
‘I won’t, signore.’ Grey’s face returned to its usual mask, rigid and emotion-repellent. Every time Max saw it crack, every time she’d made it crack, either with anger or laughter or ... lust, she’d always felt like she’d unscrewed a sealed jar lid that no one else could. Now all she wanted to do was tear the person who’d turned it back to stone limb from limb.
Unfortunately, protecting that person from an untimely death was the only reason her sorry arse was here in the first place.
Grey walked away from the group, turning his head slightly to the side – she almost missed it. ‘Conrad – a moment?’