46. NICO
46
NICO
A pplause roars as I finish my speech. The rich and famous of New York are assembled before me at round tables, beneath the glittering lights of chandeliers.
Ordinarily, I’d be honoured to be here, grateful for the opportunity to speak before faces that I recognise. People I might even call friends. A congressman, a former president, editors of journals and papers, and owners of the same. But there’s only one thing on my mind right now.
Kate Lansen.
She came to New York. She came to find me .
I can still hear that breathy whisper when I asked her why she was here.
For you .
There are three hundred pairs of eyes watching me, but none of them have the impact of that glance on the street outside the office earlier this evening. Seconds before I saw her, my skin tingled with the telltale sensation of being observed. My soul knew it was her, even before my eyes confirmed it.
I give the audience a bow before I descend from the stage. I weave through the crowd to get back to my table. I nod and smile exactly when I’m supposed to, shaking hands and greeting familiar faces. I’ve done this thousands of times. Not that I’d call it a pretense, but it is an act, to a certain extent.
“That was great,” Erica whispers, leaning towards me as I take my seat next to her.
I lift my wine, raise a toast and nod my head in thanks before downing the entire glass in one go. Erica arches a brow at me, but makes no comment. I’ve been a shitty date since we bumped into Kate. I’ve barely said a word. I can’t fucking concentrate.
Although ‘date’ is the wrong word; it’s a favour, really. That’s why she called the day I saw Martin Brooks. She has a huge advertising campaign coming out for an exclusive female fragrance, and apparently being seen with me fits the marketing profile. I had to pull a few strings to get her in this evening, but she’s so famous I only had to tug lightly.
The look on Kate’s face, though… I’m not sure doing the favour was worth it for the pain that marred her features. She looked less like a rabbit in the headlights and more like… road kill. She was a zombie when I helped her into the car.
An army of servers march into the room, carrying plates of prawns and mango, surrounding the tables nearest the service entry first. It’ll only be a few minutes before we’re surrounded by them, too.
I’m not staying for mediocre food and bad conversation (mine, obviously). I can’t fault Erica. She’s been remarkably forgiving, considering the situation I’ve put her in.
I drain the dregs of wine from my glass and lean towards her. “I’m so sorry—”
“Go. Get out of here.” She flicks a wrist at me. “I’ll make your excuses for you.”
Shit. Am I that transparent? “Really, I—”
“You’re worse company than the shellfish.” I worry she’s annoyed, but then her features soften. “Go do your thing, with the girl from the office.” I am that transparent, then. “If the press runs a story that you stood me up, you’ll owe me.”
“Thank you,” I say, and in a matter of minutes I’m outside, calling the car.
The hotel is a solid four star in midtown, close to Rockefeller centre. Dark green paint covers the walls and jazz music hums from invisible speakers. I’m not easily intimidated, but I can feel the unfamiliar bubbling of nerves in my stomach as I cross the lobby. Kate’s here, in this building. Somewhere. I can sense her.
Doubt creeps in at the edges of my mind. Perhaps I misheard that one whispered phrase. Maybe it wasn’t ‘ for you ’. Maybe she’s not here for me at all. Perhaps she’s legitimately taking a well-earned mini break.
And happened to stop by the Hawkston building? I know she loves her work, but does she love it that much?
I shove the thought away and approach the desk. A smartly dressed receptionist sits behind it, quietly tapping on a keyboard. The concierge, who’s murmuring into the phone, sits next to her.
The receptionist looks up and gives me a breezy smile. “How can I help?”
“I’m here to meet Kate Lansen. Could you call her room for me?”
“Can I take your name, sir?”
“Nico.” I’m not blasting my surname across the hotel lobby.
She nods and dials a room number. I can hear the dull ringing on her end of the phone. We wait a few moments.
“I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Lansen isn’t answering. Would you like to leave a message? I’ll make sure she gets it when she returns.”
“No. I’ll wait.”
I cross the lobby and take a seat.
I’ll wait all bloody night if I have to.
KATE
“Table for one please,” I say as I approach the ma?tre d'. I’m so distracted, he’s little more than a blur of features I would never be able to recognise in a line-up.
I’ve showered and changed into a light cotton dress, but I’m still feeling groggy, jet lagged and inherently unstable after that humiliating encounter with Nico and Erica Lefroy.
He was out with another woman, and I threw myself at him. The memory of that horrendous kiss-attack won’t go away. He said he wasn’t with her though, didn’t he? Or did I mishear that?
I try to remember our exact exchange, but I think I’d partially left my body by that point. I definitely wasn’t thinking straight.
“Do you have a reservation?” the ma?tre d' asks, dragging me back to the real world.
“No.”
He scans the list in front of him. “We have one by the window. Come this way.”
As I follow him through the dimly lit restaurant, I wonder if I ought to have gone out for dinner. Maybe walking the streets would have cleared my head, but I couldn't face it. The hotel restaurant felt safer. I can run and hide in my room if the sudden urge to break down in tears overwhelms me.
To think I came all the way here, only to find that Nico’s spending the evening with Erica Lefroy.
I push the thought away as hard as I can, locking it up. Otherwise I’ll be weeping at the table.
I take my seat and a moment later a server appears and clears away the place setting opposite me. Great. Now there’s not even a pretense that anyone else is coming. My aloneness is exposed for all to see.
“Would you like to see the wine menu?” asks a smartly dressed sommelier who has appeared at the side of my table as stealthily as a ghost.
“No. But I’ll take a bottle of your best Sauvignon.”
He clutches the wine menu to his chest like a shield, and the slight widening of his eyes is the only judgment he offers.
Yes, I’m alone. Yes, I mean to drink the entire bottle myself. Is it a good idea? No. Do I care? Also no .
“Wait,” I say. “How much is your best Sauvignon?”
His eyebrows rise fully now, and when he speaks, his voice is little more than a whisper. “Three hundred and forty-five dollars, Ma’am.”
I bite back the gasp. I might have a horde of cash in my bank account, but spending freely is a habit I’ll have to learn. That sounds like a big number for a bottle of wine and this trip has already cost a small fortune. Perhaps I ought not splurge on an entire bottle if all I’ll have to show for it is a hangover.
“Let’s go for something mid-range,” I say. “And maybe just a glass, for now.” I give him the most dazzling smile I can manage in my exhausted state, and he responds with a tight-lipped smile of his own, giving me a little bow before he departs.
Alone again at the table, I lament that I haven’t brought a book. I can’t sit here looking at my phone for the entire time. I ought to have ordered room service.
I scan the menu. There are typical dishes, like a high end burger with truffle sauce and parmesan potatoes, or something simpler like tagliatelle with a wild boar ragu.
“I hear the seabass is excellent.”
I still at the sound of that deep, sensuous voice. I’d know it anywhere. But here, now? I’m hallucinating. Must be.
Finally, I look up.
Definitely not hallucinating .
Nico Hawkston is standing on the other side of my table, the streetlights from the window behind casting a golden glow over his skin. His square jaw is tight, and the intensity in his dark eyes is like stepping into a blazing fire; my body is kindling beneath its glare.
He’s still wearing full black tie, and here I am in a casual summer dress. He’s devastating in a tux . The bow tie at his neck is undone and it drapes around his collar, hanging loose. The top two buttons of his shirt are open, revealing that familiar triangle of skin that begs to be touched… or kissed.
He rubs a hand over the dark scruff that covers his jaw. It suits him, making him look a little more dangerous than normal.
“You’re here,” I whisper.
A beat passes before he answers. “I didn’t want you to be alone.”
The words warm my chest like he’s placed his palms against my breasts, and the strain around my heart eases just a smidge. I fiddle with my fork, straightening it unnecessarily on the tablecloth. “You’re ambushing me again.”
Amusement dances in his eyes. “And turning up at my office an ocean away isn’t an ambush?”
“No. That was war.”
He huffs out a raw burst of laughter. “Assuming this is an ambush, is it unwelcome?”
My gaze snags on his lips as he speaks, and I’m assaulted by memories of them moving over my body; my neck, my breasts, my thighs… the innermost part of me that already knows the answer to his question.
Not unwelcome at all .
He lifts a brow, inviting my verdict. His large hand rests on the back of the empty chair opposite me, but he doesn’t pull it back or indicate that he intends to sit. For a few seconds neither of us moves, then Nico cants his head, alerting me to the presence of a server hovering nearby. Her upper body tilts forwards as she looks between us, but her feet stay firmly planted further from the table than looks comfortable. She must sense the tension, too. “Should I bring an extra place setting?”
A subtle alteration in the angle of Nico’s chin communicates that he’s deferring the decision to me.
I wait, letting him worry for a moment. Not that he looks worried at all . He’s all cool poise and confidence. Only a tiny flicker of his eyelids reveals that he’s remotely concerned about my answer.
“Sit,” I say.
A muscle in his jaw tenses and relaxes as he pulls out the chair and sits down. The server buzzes around him, laying out cutlery and glasses.
He unfolds the starched white napkin and places it on his lap, then his gaze fixes on mine. We breathe in tandem across the table; two people fused by the weight of unspoken words.
Finally, he breaks the silence. “I owe you an apology.”