Chapter 6
“Mr. Nightingale. A pleasure to hear from you. How can I help you today?”
“I want the hotel, Tomas.”
There’s a long pause. “You want the hotel? What hotel, if I may ask?”
“The Cresswell in Napa. I’m staying there. I want it.”
There’s a longer pause this time. I imagine him scratching his beard in confusion. “Mr. Nightingale, we’re not currently in the hotel business. This is quite a shift of interest. Can I ask what brought this on?”
Suzanne’s face flashes before my eyes. She brought this on. I want to make sure this hotel is something I can have, just in case I have to prove a point to that lizard.
“The hotel is privately owned,” I say. “The family is in Sausalito. They’ve been holding it for seventy years. Find out who in the third generation has gambling debts and use it against them.”
“You’re joking.”
“When have I ever?”
“This is out of our… I’m not even sure where to… Mr. Nightingale, I have to advise that you think this through.”
“Tomas, just get this done. I’ll be at the office today.”
I end the call. I roll my neck repeatedly. There's a knot somewhere in my body ever since I kissed Suzanne. I am restless and uncomfortable. I barely slept last night, and it was all because I couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of her body against mine.
I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything or anyone this badly. My entire body is burning with want for her. But it’s more than that. I actually care about her. When I leave the suite, I find myself looking down the hallway for her. When I’m inside, I wait for her to show up.
It’s crazy, and yet, I’m not making any moves to stop it.
My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s an email from my assistant. He wants me to know that the renovations are done, the car is back and ready in the city, and my driver is on standby for my call.
I should leave today. I don’t have a reason to remain here. Suzanne has signed the NDA. There’s nothing keeping us together.
Except, there is an invisible string holding us together now. Besides, my theory was right. When I kissed her, her lips turned red. I intend to test that theory again.
The key card sounds at the suite door. I hear the door open. I hear the cart wheel onto the carpet. I don’t leave the room yet. I don’t want to seem too eager. Yes, I’ve been waiting for her, but she doesn’t have to know that.
I busy myself with mindless work. At some point, I rise to my feet and begin heading toward the living room. I change my mind at the very last second. I need to let her come to me.
Finally, and fortunately, the bedroom door opens. We make eye contact immediately, and I’m transported to that moment in this very room. She’s thinking about it too. Her cheeks turn a low shade of red.
I match her gaze, daring her to look away. She does. She also doesn’t say hello. I didn’t expect her to. It’s been our dance for the past few days now.
I pick a random document from my desk and read. It’s a contract for a new artist I should have signed days ago. My eyes fly over the words, but my brain doesn’t pick up anything.
Before I can stop myself, I’m watching her move again. I wish she would look at me. I’m well aware that I need to be careful, especially after what happened yesterday. I can’t push too much, or else I’ll risk driving her away entirely.
Suzanne finally makes her way to the desk. I don’t move as she cleans. Her knuckles are white, fingers tightening around the cloth more than I know is necessary.
She finally tilts her head up, and her eyes find mine. “Can you move?”
I resist the urge to grin. “I can, but only if you say please.”
Hot, white rage fills her eyes. Her fingers move up to my arm. She pushes me aside so she can wipe down that area and moves on to the coffee table.
“Suzanne, I’m not satisfied.”
She ignores me. The tips of her ears are red now. I want to kiss her. I have to stop myself, though. Otherwise, she’ll probably bite my lip off if I try. I decide to remain silent and just let her do her job.
But I don't stop watching her. The contract is forgotten in my hands. Soon enough, she rises to her feet, tucks the cloth into her cart, and walks out without a word.
Well, that was awfully cold. But not to worry, I’ll definitely fix that.
As if on cue, my phone starts ringing against the desk. It’s Marisol. Hopefully she has some good news for me.
“Hello, Mr. Nightingale.”
I nod to the room. “Talk to me.”
“It was hard, but we pulled some footage from the parking lot. One of the cars had a working dashcam. We were able to find the owner and get the footage. I’ll email it to you.”
My phone remains against my ear as I open my laptop. The footage loads, and there is the woman from that night. It captures her coming out of a car, and then she’s gone almost immediately.
“Did you find her?”
“Yes. But it wasn’t easy. We were looking for a redhead. Our girl is a brunette.” She sends me another picture of an innocent-looking brown-haired woman, not the vixen who accosted me that night.
“Who sent her?”
“Maddox.”
“Henrik? Isn’t he dead? Did he come back to life to haunt me?”
“No. The son, Adrian Maddox of Maddox Corporations.”
I laugh loudly. I should have known. Well, I wouldn’t have guessed that scrawny little kid has the balls to attempt something against me. He’s tried in the past. Both times through trade-press anonymous comments. And both times he failed.
I’ll give it to him — he caught me at a convenient time. But that will never happen again. I’ll make sure of it.
I am right about one thing though. I know it can't be Neil.
“Are you sure? Adrian? Where did he even get the resources?”
“Not entirely sure. His father might’ve had some offshore accounts we weren’t aware of. Probably what he used to start up his business.”
I place a hand under my chin. “Hmm…”
“What do we do? Do you want me to take this to the police?”
I shake my head. “No. He’s harmless. He’s barely twenty-five. I’ll handle him myself. Thank you for doing this.”
“You don’t think you’re being too relaxed about this? He drugged you. He robbed you. We have a case here. You just want me to do nothing?”
“Yes. I’ll handle him. I’m not going to treat him like a threat. I’m going to treat him like an inconvenience. Leave it to me.”
I end the call.
The Nightingale building is on Pine Street with twenty-two floors and my name in granite at the entrance. The receptionist stands when I come through the lobby. Tomas is waiting in my office with a stack of contracts and a list of meetings.
“Mr. Nightingale. I made calls regarding the Cresswell, and I’m expecting to hear back soon.”
I sit down. “Good. Let me know if I need to step in. Some of these families can be…difficult.” Then I hand him the signed contract for the artists. “Let’s proceed with Collins as earlier discussed.”
Tomas nods and leaves. I try not to think about Suzanne as I review the pieces from promising artists, but it is more impossible now because I know this is something her hands can do — maybe even better.
Suzanne is committed to resisting me in every way possible. The only question is what I can do to remedy that.
“Cade.”
I look up from my desk to see Neil Sutton standing in my doorway. He has a folder in his hand. He’s frowning deeply. The sight of me must have ruined his day. How tragic.
“Neil.”
Neil Sutton is a pompous, round man. He’s a board member, but he believes we’re equal. I’m not sure what gave him that idea, but I do enjoy putting him in his place.
And he always deserves it.
“You’re in the office.”
I glance around the space for effect. “It appears so.”
He clears his throat. “I’m surprised. I thought you abandoned the executive floor.”
“You know I’d never make it that easy for you, Neil.”
I hear him grind his teeth. He shifts the folder from one arm to another. Then he starts muttering under his breath. “This is what I always say. When you don’t work hard for your business, you don’t treasure it. Mommy’s money will always be there to — ”
I look up. “What did you say, Neil?”
He adjusts his collar with shaky fingers. His eyes dart left and right. “Nothing, Mr. Nightingale.”
“Hmm…” I fix my gaze on him. "I thought I heard a fly buzzing. I hope I was wrong, Neil."
"You were."
"Excellent. Close the door on your way out."
He glares at me, but turns around and shuts the door behind him, while I get back to work.
Three calls. Two contracts signed. A corporate buyer who has been with us for six years has a list of pieces she wants to see. I give her the date and time for the showing.
My 1:00 p.m. appointment is a young painter named Hana Vargas.
Tomas found her through a community college instructor's Instagram, which is one of the small humiliations of the present industry — that a thirty-something instructor with a phone has become the gatekeeper between a girl in Stockton and the institutions that will represent her.
I'm not above this. I'm not above anything that finds a person who would otherwise go unnoticed.
She comes in wearing a dark coat and jeans. Her portfolio is on my desk. I have spent an hour with it this morning and another hour with it last night.
I spend thirty-five minutes with her.
I commit the company at the end of the meeting.
“Oh my god, really?”
I nod.
Her face lights up. She’s smiling, clapping. I have a feeling that if she was alone, she’d be jumping around the room. “I can’t believe this. Thank you, thank you so much.”
“You’ve earned it. Your work speaks for itself.”
She sucks in a quick breath. Her hand tightens on the strap of her bag. “Thank you so much. I’m so excited. What do we do next?”
I nod at Tomas. He rises to his feet and gestures toward the door. “Tomas will guide you through the next steps. We’ll draft a contract and talk about your first showing.”
“Oh my god. Thank you so much.” She offers me one last smile before following Tomas out of my office.