Chapter Six Keep Your Enemies Close
Chapter Six
Keep Your Enemies Close
Hayes
After completing my MBA, I dove right in, and now I oversee a team that does portfolio management, estate planning, philanthropy, and tax strategy. I get very little time off—which, I’ll be the first to admit, is by choice—and this is how I’m choosing to spend it? I need to get my head checked.
I darted off for Big Sky, needing to check on my uncle—to oversee this ill-fated trip—to make sure that Francesca wasn’t going to fleece the old man for everything he had. I had no way of knowing if she was a gold digger or a con artist or what. Something was off about her, that was for sure.
Plus my uncle Charles is one of the good guys.
He’s kind and thoughtful and doesn’t have a vindictive bone in his body, unlike most members of my family.
I can’t help it if I feel protective over him.
Plus, I don’t know Francesca at all. Other than the googling I did.
Someone needs to look out for my uncle. He’s a literal billionaire at the final stage of his life.
I’m not ignorant as to what could happen.
There are news specials on this kind of thing.
I round the corner and find them in the dining room just as the sun is setting.
Take-out containers are spread out before them, and Francesca is smiling.
Her mouth is too big—she has one of those smiles that just refuses to fade—and she seems to always be smiling.
It irritates me. What is there to be so happy about?
“Okay, so I ordered takeout from a German restaurant,” she says to Charles. “Liverwurst and onions.”
My uncle’s eyes light up with excitement. Weird, but whatever. Not here to judge.
“Sorry, I didn’t know you’d be eating with us,” she says to me. I can tell she’s lying. She was hoping I wouldn’t be eating with them. And by not ordering me any food, she was ensuring I wouldn’t be.
“It’s fine. I made plans with a friend in town.” I press one hand to my uncle’s shoulder. “I’ll be home late.”
Charles nods once. “No problem. We were going to watch a chick flick tonight.”
The hell? I do a double take, my eyes widening.
“A rom-com. Right, Charlie?” Francesca says with a wink.
I pause with the water glass halfway to my lips. My uncle Charles has never been Charlie. Not ever. He is Charles or maybe Chuck to those who are closest to him. He’s known Francesca, what? All of a week.
“Can I have a word with you, Francesca?” I grit out through a clenched jaw.
“Sure,” she says begrudgingly.
I head off toward the kitchen with her trailing a few paces behind.
I steady one hand on the island and face her. “I have no idea what it is you’re up to, but my uncle is a very sweet and trusting old man.”
Her pretty face scrunches up. “What are you implying?”
Tension coils in my shoulders, and I release a slow, uneasy exhale. “I’m not implying anything, I’m just saying that . . .” Shit, what am I trying to say?
Francesca, seeming to summon every ounce of civility she can find, tosses me an olive branch. “Just to be clear . . . I really like your uncle, and I wasn’t sure about this job at first, but I really think it could be exactly what I need. So can you do one thing and not mess this up for me?”
I hold up both hands. “I’m not going to mess anything up for you. But I do intend to check in on him from time to time.”
She takes this information in and nods once.
“Fine. I know you don’t think very highly of me, but you never know, I might just surprise you.
” Turning, she glances back at me once before continuing back to the dining room.
“If we’re done here, my liverwurst is getting cold, and I highly doubt that’s going to make it any more palatable. ”
I chuckle and follow her back to the dining room, mostly because I want to see how exactly this is going to play out.
Plating the grayish sausage, Francesca looks uneasy. “This is your uncle’s favorite guilty pleasure,” she says, like this is common knowledge.
“It is?” I eye the pungent and slightly metallic-smelling meat.
Charles nods. “I haven’t had it in ages, though.”
My body revolts at the smell. “It’s even worse than I imagined. How can something so disgusting even exist?”
“Will you be nice and shut the Smurf up,” Francesca says.
“Pardon?” I blink, dumbfounded.
She lets out a frustrated sigh. “I’m trying not to curse.”
That’s curious . . . I wonder if Charles told her it was unbecoming for a lady.
“And you thought replacing a random word in place of a swear was the way to do it?”
“Yes, I did. You have a problem with that?”
I shrug. “Suppose I did.” I don’t, for the record—I just . . . want to see what she’ll do.
“Then I’d tell you to Frappuccino off.”
I cough into my fist to hide the strange urge to laugh. Do not encourage her, I repeat silently to myself.
Charles ignores our bickering and cuts into his sausage, placing a bite into his mouth. I’m sure this is not part of a heart-healthy diet, but I avoid pointing that out, because he really does seem to be enjoying this.
I’m already running late, but there’s no way I’m going to miss Francesca tasting the sausage on her plate.
She hesitates, staring down at the grayish-brown mass. She pokes at it with her fork, frowning.
I cross my arms and grin, watching her squirm in discomfort.
With a deep breath, she picks up her fork, mentally preparing herself for the first bite. She stabs a large piece with her fork and brings it to her lips with an expression that can only be described as “trepidation.” I can already tell she’s not sure what she’s getting herself into.
“Are you sure you want to try that?” I ask, trying (and failing) to hide my amusement.
She shrugs. “How bad can it be?”
“It’s delicious,” Uncle Charles answers.
Just when I think she’s going to chicken out, she places the whole thing in her mouth.
Bold move.
I wait for her face to contort as if she’s just bitten into a rotten apple. And in some weird way, my respect level for her increases as I watch her chew. She’s done all this for my uncle—who’s clearly enjoying his dinner.
I wait for her to grab her water and chug it down, trying to rid her mouth of the horror she just experienced. I brace myself for the usual reaction—grimacing, gagging, a look of pure betrayal as she realizes just how awful liverwurst is.
But . . . she doesn’t.
She just chews slowly, then . . . she smiles.
I blink.
She’s still chewing, but her face softens, almost . . . content. “This is . . . really good,” she says, surprising the hell out of me. “Like, I could eat this every day.”
My mouth hangs open in disbelief. “Wait. What?”
She looks as stunned as I feel. “Yeah.” She forks a second piece with enthusiasm. “It’s like a savory mystery wrapped in deliciousness. I could definitely get used to this.”
I shake my head. “You’re messing with me. No one actually likes liverwurst. It’s a rite of passage to hate it.”
But she just shrugs and takes another bite, clearly enjoying it way too much.
Staring at her, I’m not sure if I’m impressed or horrified. “You’re serious.”
She grins, and I can’t help my surprised expression. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”
Damn. She’s even more of a psychopath than I ever imagined. I’ll have to keep a close eye on her. The lengths she’s willing to go to to infiltrate my uncle’s inner circle of trust know no bounds. Clearly. It’s terrifying, really.
“Don’t keep him up too late,” I say to Francesca on my way out, certain that whatever rules I put in place will immediately be broken just to spite me.