Chapter Thirty-Four

New York City

October 20

C lara was still in the dark as they rode in the town car back uptown. He had dragged her to a nondescript apartment in a sterile highrise and done exactly as he had said: he changed shoes. Clara’s imagination ran amok in this personality-less place; it was one step up from a hotel room. She could only think of one thing Miles did in this hideaway—fuck women. She had no right to the jealousy that clouded her vision, but it roared inside her nonetheless.

After their task was completed, Miles instructed the driver to pull over and helped Clara out of the car. “Let’s walk a few blocks. It’s a nice night.”

This part of Harlem was a far cry from the crime-infested neighborhood from decades past. Renovated brownstones with stunning architectural details lined the street. Chic cafés and designer shops added to the vibe. The busier streets, Broadway and 112th Street, were still haunted by the ghosts of older Harlem: check cashing stores, unhoused people in alleys and on church steps, urban decay, but a block away, politicians and movie stars had created an enclave. While they waited on a corner for the light, Miles removed his tie, released the top two buttons of his dress shirt, and ran a hand through his hair. He seemed to change before her eyes. It wasn’t the subtle wardrobe alteration; it was his demeanor. His posture eased, his center shifted. She couldn’t exactly pinpoint it, but she found herself caught in his gravitational pull. With his necktie still in his hand, Miles retook hers and led her across the street and halfway down the next block. They stopped in front of an unmarked building between a French bakery and a cozy bookstore.

“In here.”

As he released her hand, the tie caught on her wrist. Clara lifted her arm so Miles could untangle her, but the look that flared in his eyes had her wishing he would loop it around again. Tightly. Forcing her face to neutral, she lifted the silk over her hand and turned to face the building. Then recognition hit.

“Clef?”

“You know it?”

“My advisor Jeffrey and his husband Hassan ate here last spring.”

“And what did he think?” Miles asked.

“They sat next to Damien Lewis and Idris Elba, and Damien told him he’d been trying to get a reservation for six months. Jeffrey also said there weren’t enough Michelin stars to accurately rate the meal, and the music was even better than the food.”

“Good to know. Come on.”

“Miles, are you nuts? You can’t just walk into Clef.”

“We need someplace private and safe.”

“I agree, but we also need someplace that’s not going to ask security to escort us out.”

“Let’s just take a peek. Maybe they had a last-minute cancellation.”

Without listening to further protest, Miles tugged Clara through the inconspicuous double doors through an entry alcove and into a wide art deco-inspired hallway. The walls were bronze with a design of gold branches. Sconces shaped like half-open hand fans lined the walls at even intervals. A gorgeous woman stood at a dais at the base of a wide staircase. She was easily as tall as Miles with an elaborate knot of blonde hair pierced with two chopsticks, adding another four inches. She looked up with a pleasantly bored expression before her eyes widened. The woman transformed right in front of them. Her lids dipped, and her lips pursed. In a whisper, the guardian of the gate became a seductress. A rather obvious and cheap seductress if you asked Clara, but some men went for that.

“Good evening, Mr. Cain. I didn’t know we were expecting you.”

“Last minute thing, Giselle. I assume you’re completely booked.”

Clara had never seen a lusty nod before—how a simple tip of the head could be so sultry, Clara would never know. Giselle licked her lips, ignoring Clara, and leaned forward on the podium, spotlighting her ample cleavage. Clara told herself it was the presumptuousness of the woman that caused her blood to simmer. She glanced down at her short floral dress and gray cardigan. Compared to the goddess in the strapless silk number, Clara felt like a little girl. Nevertheless, she sidled closer to Miles and tucked her arm through the crook of his elbow. Miles cocked a brow at her action but otherwise made no comment.

“Have my guests arrived?” Miles asked.

“About ten minutes ago. Are you dining tonight?”

“Yes. Set up a table in the nook.”

“Of course.” Giselle turned and tapped the unobtrusive headset. When she had finished issuing instructions, Miles leaned across the dais, dislodging Clara’s arm, and spoke under his breath. Giselle nodded and made a note on her tablet screen.

Clara was sure her nails were leaving half-moon marks in her palms.

Miles rested his hand against the small of Clara’s back. The dominant move sent a shiver through her as they moved past Giselle and up the stairs.

Clara whispered, “Anything you’d care to share, Mr. Cain ?”

Miles simply smirked and continued on.

“What first name do you use here? I’d hate to call you Miles when the staff knows you at Brock or Lance.”

“Do you really see me as a Brock or a Lance?”

“No. But I never saw you as a Caleb or a Jake either.”

“So, what do you see me as?”

“Miles.”

His fingertips pressed into her skin as they reached the top of the stairs. “Miles is fine. Just don’t let anyone hear you.”

They rounded the banister with a brass finial in the shape of a flapper in a long gown, her pearled headdress patinated from the many hands touching it, coming and going.

Clara had abbreviated her advisor’s description of his experience at the legendary supper club. Jeffrey had gone on and on about every phase of the experience. The songs chosen specifically for the food, the tasting menu designed to crescendo and fade, each course building to the next. An atmosphere that, as he put it, “simultaneously evoked thoughts of royal courts and raunchy sex.”

As a lilting female voice singing Bruce Springsteen’s Fire floated down the hall, Clara was already anticipating the experience. She slowed, enjoying the press of Miles’s hand from the momentum shift. “Care to explain the VIP service? Do you have a deep, dark secret about the owner?”

Miles turned to Clara and cupped her face with his big hands. “Many.” Then he leaned down and raked her earlobe between his teeth before whispering, “I’m the owner.” He strode down the hall, leaving Clara standing beneath a portrait of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald with her jaw on the lavender carpet. Miles disappeared through a wide archway, and she hurried after him, feeling woefully underdressed for what she suspected would be a memorable evening.

He was waiting for her just inside, reclaiming her hand and leading her around the perimeter to an alcove shielded by a single velvet curtain held to the wall by a tasseled rope. Miles ushered Clara into the intimate space and released the knot, shielding them from the room of patrons who had shifted their gazes from the chanteuse to watch them.

Miles pulled out the heavy chair for her, then seated himself as a waiter ducked into the room. He placed a small plate and a flute of champagne in front of each of them.

Clara glanced at the tempting morsel. The colors were enticing—pink and black, green and white. It was a glimmering sculpture on the plate.

“Watermelon with Pule, lucque olives, and micro greens. The champagne is your usual, sir—the Veuve Clicquot.”

“Thank you, Wayne.”

The waiter didn’t attempt to hide his pleasure that Miles knew his name. He delivered a crisp nod before adding, “Your Montrachet is chilling,” and exiting.

Clara lifted her salad fork and ran the tines along the wedge of Pule. The Balkan cheese famously made from donkey’s milk was unique and wonderful. She opened her mouth to encourage Miles to taste it when her gaze landed on his empty plate. He was dabbing his mouth with a napkin and looking at Clara expectantly. With a shake of her head, she returned to the amuse-bouche.

“I’m not the only one here with deep, dark secrets, Clara.”

The delicious bite clogged her throat as she said, “I know.”

“Now, my little Bluebird, I’m going to feed you and ply you with alcohol. And you will tell me exactly what I want to know.”

C lara pierced the tiny quail egg with her fork and stared as the yolk fell like lava over the lardons and broad beans. The food was exquisite. Despite her apprehension about the ensuing conversation, she relished every bite.

She worked alone, solved her own problems. If anyone could relate to that, it was Miles. It was perhaps the only thing they had in common. He must have sensed this similarity because he sat patiently sipping the buttery wine and listening to a jazz quartet play Peggy Lee’s Fever . Clara couldn’t help but sink into the music and the food. While the snare drum whispered and the bass pulsed, the singer rasped the sexy lyrics about a woman who gets a fever when her man puts his arms around her.

Clara didn’t pretend not to know what Miles meant. He was too perceptive not to pick up on her unease. “You remember Paris.”

He smirked, no doubt remembering the little gift he had sent to her room at the George V.

“It got a little messy.”

Miles didn’t like the sound of that. He set down the goblet and leaned forward. “Messy, how?”

“It was a setup. The painting, a Renoir, was part of the Nazi stash. It belonged to a Jewish family and was stolen in World War II. The subject of the painting is in her nineties now and lives in California. A sketchy financier bought it illegally on the black market and sent it to the restoration house in Paris to be refurbished. All that is true.”

“But?”

“But, that sketchy financier I mentioned? He was out for revenge. I stole a painting from him the year before. He wanted to set a trap to catch me.”

“Clara,” Miles prodded. He twirled the wine glass by its stem, waiting for the full story.

“He wanted to catch me and record killing me to show all his criminal cronies he had managed to eliminate The Lynx.”

“Jesus, Clara. I was half a mile away while some lunatic was attacking you.”

Clara entwined their fingers. “I escaped.”

Miles ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “How?”

“Blew the lights and slipped out in the chaos. You know I always have a backup plan.”

The corners of his mouth tipped ever so slightly. “That’s my girl.” He cupped her face and leaned closer, and Clara couldn’t stop the surge of warmth within.

On the stage, the singer belted out, “Fevah!”

Indeed.

The moment broke, and Miles leaned back with a sigh. Clara sipped her wine as she continued, equally excited and fearful for his reaction to the rest of the story. “It wasn’t a clean getaway. Two guards found me. I stripped and pretended I was the girlfriend of one of the men. The perverts videoed it on their phones. That must be how he figured out who I am.”

“You were naked.”

It wasn’t a question, but Clara answered anyway. “Yes, Miles.”

“And they recorded you.”

“Yes, Miles.” She repeated in a traitorously breathy voice.

Her reply seemed to elicit the same response in Miles. His eyes took on that fiery intensity she remembered. His free hand pressed into the tablecloth, leaving small indentations in the fabric.

“Who is he?”

“Lucien Kite.”

The stem of the wine glass snapped in Miles’s hand.

“Lucien Kite is pure evil.”

“Seriously? Of all the vermin you deal with on a daily basis, you’re singling out a scummy Wall Street player? Gaming the system is the norm these days.”

“Clara, do you know Kite’s history? ‘Wall Street Player’ isn’t even on his resume, and he stole nearly a billion dollars!”

“I know he worked for Anton Zorba. Kite discovered Zorba was running a Ponzi scheme and went to the feds.”

Miles rolled his hands as he added, “Zorba killed himself before his trial, and Kite helped the government-appointed attorney recover the stolen funds.”

“Yes, I know all that.”

“Clara, Kite engineered the whole thing.”

“How do you know that?” she asked.

Miles replied. “You don’t want to know.”

“So, what? You’re saying Kite was complicit in the Ponzi scheme? I think everyone thinks that.”

“No. I’m saying Lucien Kite was the mastermind behind it, and Zorba was the shill.” He moved his plate aside and leaned across the table. “Kite set Zorba up, then murdered him and made it look like a suicide. Kite worked for the Zorba Fund for six years. I think he spent most of that time setting up the dominoes so when they fell, he could walk away with a fortune and a pat on the back from law enforcement.”

“How is that even possible?”

“We ran a con this summer, Bluebird. What’s the first rule I taught you?”

Clara’s eyes widened. “The key is making sure the mark can’t come for you.”

“Exactly.” Miles leaned closer. “They blame someone else.”

“Anton Zorba.”

“Who is conveniently dead.”

Clara felt the blood drain from her face.

Miles slid his chair nearer. He took Clara’s face and ran his thumbs along her jawline. Leaning close, he murmured, “I’m with you, Clara. I won’t let anyone hurt you ever . I’ll call in every favor I am owed, threaten to expose anyone. Whatever it takes.”

The intensity of his vow was so erotic Clara needed to feel his mouth on hers. He still hadn’t kissed her despite their newfound intimacy and his poetic words. She mirrored his hands and stretched for his lips just as the curtains shielding their table parted, and the woman who had greeted them at the door peeked her head past the heavy fabric and gave Miles a dispassionate nod. Before she left, the hostess hooked the curtain on the wall-mounted holder, providing them a view of both the crowded dining room and the musicians on the low stage.

“What now?” Clara blew a lock of hair from her forehead.

“Now, we have some fun. Follow my lead.”

She couldn’t help the way her body responded to Miles’s command. As she opened her mouth to ask another question, a shadow darkened their table, and a man in a suit as ugly as it was expensive stood before them, grinning.

M iles feigned concern as Chug Ugentti took in the romantic setting with one hand in his pants pocket and the other holding a toothpick. Clara was not frightened but taken aback. Miles soothed her with his palm on the back of her hand. Miles had deliberately worn the alligator loafers. He hadn’t mapped out an exact plan when it came to Chug, but he needed to make Ugentti think he still had the upper hand. So Miles had worn the shoes with the tracker. He had instructed his hostess to treat Ugentti like an honored guest and set a table for him where Miles would be in his sightline. He told Giselle to treat Chug’s arrival as a welcome surprise, and he had no doubt she had played her part. Seeing Ugentti’s smug face confirmed it.

“Well, if it isn’t my old friend Caleb Cain.”

Miles wiped his mouth and slid his chair back into its original position. “What a coincidence.”

Ugentti popped the toothpick between his teeth and spoke around it. “It is. It is. I seem to have a knack for being in the right place at the right time.”

The waiter moved deftly past the two thick bodyguards, replaced the broken wine glass with a fresh one, and filled it. Miles lifted his hand. “Bring me a single malt, neat. Make it a double.”

Ugentti revealed a line of yellow teeth. “Need something a little stiffer?” Then he leered at Clara. “Although, I don’t think stiffer is a problem with this lady at the table. And who might you be?”

Clara’s Mediterranean-blue eyes widened as she wordlessly asked Miles: yes, who might I be?

“This is Collette. She’s an associate of the two carrots you sent to my apartment after our first meeting. I’m surprised you two haven’t already met. Although, she’s a decade too old for you, Chug.”

That did the trick. Ugentti swung his attention back to Miles. “Careful.”

Miles accepted the scotch and downed half. “Don’t let me keep you from a delicious meal.”

“I’d never let you keep me from anything, Mr. Cain.” He directed the comment to Clara, then returned his gaze to Miles. “Since we’re both here, coincidentally, have you made any progress with my case?”

Ugentti sensed his guards moving aside. He turned to see what the issue was and immediately straightened. “Don Barzetti, this is a pleasant surprise.”

Miles nearly laughed at how quickly Chug flipped from king to court jester. Vincent Barzetti was a kingpin in every circumstance, the head of East Coast organized crime.

Tall and fit with a full head of silver hair, Barzetti was an imposing presence. Even Clara looked a little star-struck by the notorious crime boss.

“Chug,” Barzetti greeted Ugentti. “How’s everything in The Garden State?”

“I’m holding down the fort. And, of course, I’m headed to Washington in a few weeks.”

“I’m aware.”

Of course, Barzetti was aware. He probably knew Chug would get elected before he ran for office.

Ugentti pulled the toothpick from his mouth and pocketed it. “Yeah, excited to do a lot of good.”

Barzetti smirked. “I have no doubt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was hoping to have a drink with my friend.”

“Sure thing. I was just leaving.” Ugentti turned to Miles. “We’ll talk soon, Cain.”

“Of course. I’ll be in touch with an update tomorrow.”

Ugentti tugged his pants over his fat gut. “Excellent. Looking forward to hearing your progress.”

“Enjoy your dinner, Congressman.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t stay. I have a prior engagement. But I’ll have to give this place a try.” Ugentti eyed Clara and licked his lips. “Everything on the menu looks delicious.”

Clara batted her eyes and delivered a sultry smile. Miles nearly broke another wine glass.

Chug snapped his stubby fingers, and his guards fell in behind him as he wandered to the exit, stopping at a few tables to greet diners.

Barzetti flashed a pearly smile. “How was that?”

Miles stood and shook the crime boss’s hand. “Perfect, Vincent. Thank you.”

“A meal at Clef for coming over and saying hello? I think I’m the one who should be thanking you. Again.”

“Well, I appreciate it just the same.”

“Don’t mention it. Now, I think I’ll get back to my exceptional dinner.”

When Barzetti was once again seated at the best table in the house, Clara raised a questioning brow.

“One of his daughters got caught up in a scandal at Harvard. I smoothed things over.”

“He has college-aged kids? The guy has to be pushing eighty.”

“He’s seventy-six. Nine kids with two wives. Well, eight kids now. His oldest daughter was killed years ago.”

“And Ugentti? How did he know how to find you?”

“I arranged it.”

His manager appeared beside the curtain. “Was that all right?”

Miles nearly smiled at the way Clara stiffened. He was battling his own unfamiliar possessive streak. Nice to know he wasn’t alone. “Perfect. Thank you, Giselle.”

Clara stared daggers at Giselle’s back as she walked away as a string quartet finished playing a classical version of the Doors hit Light My Fire .

The waiter set the key lime sorbet palate cleanser before them, and Miles scooped a bite with the tiny spoon. “There’s a tracker in my shoe.”

Clara’s eyes danced as she tasted the frozen treat. “You lured him here?”

“Not lured per se, but there’s an advantage to letting Ugentti think he has the upper hand.”

“What does that creep want with you?”

A man in a black suit stood a few feet from the table and cleared his throat, interrupting them. Miles set his spoon down and finished the scotch. “Hold that thought.”

C lara sat alone at the small table, worried and confused. She had eaten her Mississippi Mud tart in one bite and then polished off the one at the empty place across from her. Where had Miles gone? No sooner had she silently asked the question than the stage lights dimmed, and Miles strode to the standing mic in the center. Behind him, in the shadows, musicians were ghosting about.

“Good evening. I’m honored you were able to join us tonight. I’m not here as often as I’d like, but I can only go so long before the craving for Chef Serena’s food is overwhelming.” Miles paused for effect. “When I am here, the gang and I have a tradition. So I hope you’ll permit this little indulgence.”

Clara saw the nods of approval and the raised glasses.

“For the final course of the night, the waiters are placing a plate of four miniature truffles before you. As you know, the theme for this evening is fire. Like this evening’s music, each chocolate gets progressively hotter. The fourth truffle has a hint of Savina Habanero. So proceed with caution.”

Clara glanced at the narrow rectangular plate the waiter had set down. The first truffle was dusted in cocoa powder, the second dotted with ruby chocolate, the third streaked with white chocolate, and the innocent-looking fourth was dipped in a shimmering glaze.

She picked up the first little ball and popped it in her mouth as the music started. The guitar and the base played as the drummer joined in. When Clara glanced up again, her heart slammed into her chest. Miles was still standing center stage. He had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, revealing muscled forearms. With both hands wrapped around the mic, Miles leaned close, eyes locked with Clara’s. Then he started to sing.

Clara knew the song—Kings of Leon, Sex on Fire . But she had never heard anything like what she was listening to. Miles rasped out the opening lyrics, a man ordering a woman to stay lying where she was and not make a sound. It was sensation overload—the chocolate on her tongue, the sexy-as-sin man in front of her. She didn’t know Miles could sing, much less sing like this. Clara was reasonably sure she would slide down her chair into a molten puddle on the floor by the time he got to the chorus.

Miles tore his gaze away from her and sang to the room. Clara’s advisor had also mentioned that, depending on the wine selection, patrons paid upwards of five thousand dollars to dine at Clef. Miles was wise to make his audience feel a part of the performance. That, and Miles was a natural showman. He may want to serenade Clara with a steamy song, but the star in him demanded he spread the magic.

M iles returned the microphone to the stand and gave a humble bow as gentle applause filled the dining room. He navigated tables as a few patrons stood to shake his hand and introduce themselves. He wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. He was in the mood for Clara.

He stood at the nook staring into the empty space in confusion. Then a hand slipped down his forearm and slid into his. He turned to find lusty blue eyes staring at him. Clara held up a small, glossy white bag.

“I got the truffles to go.”

“Did you, now?”

“I thought we could eat them back at my place and see how spicy they really are.”

Miles grabbed her ass cheek and pulled Clara to his body, his erection pressing against her side. He bent down and raked his teeth across her neck—then felt her knees buckle as he growled exactly what he planned to do with those truffles in explicit detail.

“Lead the way, Bluebird.”

M iles handed the bag containing the shoes with the tracker to the Uber driver with instructions to give it to the doorman at his decoy apartment. He was now wearing a pair of white leather sneakers he had stashed in his office at the restaurant that somehow looked even more stylish with his suit than the loafers.

They strolled casually in the crisp night, but inside, Clara was anything but calm. The heat from Miles’s proximity was melting her. She wondered if Miles had the same filthy thoughts running through his mind. Miles had his hands in his pants pockets, and Clara hooked her arm through his. He was relaxed as he chatted about this and that. It was funny how this innocent moment made her feel more like one-half of a couple than anything they had done in her bedroom.

Outside her building, Miles paused, bringing Clara to a stop beside him. In her happy haze, she hadn’t paid much attention to her surroundings. Miles was staring at an Escalade parked across the street. The windows were tinted, but Clara could see the driver through the windshield, his face illuminated by his phone screen as he texted.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s sitting lower than a regular SUV. It’s armored.” He withdrew his phone and hit a preprogrammed number.

“It’s Miles.”

He chuckled at something whoever he was talking to said, then replied. “Fuck you. Listen, can you send a squad car to this address? A friend of mine has some unwanted visitors. Black Escalade parked out front.”

He listened for a second again, then pinned his location. “Thanks, man. I owe you.”

Miles ended the call and guided Clara back to the corner, where a taxi was waiting at the light. Miles ushered her into the back.

“Who did you call?”

“The Chief of Police.”

“You think those are Kite’s men?”

“I’m sure of it.” Miles held her thigh in a firm grip. “Nothing to do about it tonight.”

The adrenaline and fear had only fueled her arousal; she was desperate for him.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“ Yes, Miles . Where to?”

His brown eyes flared at her wording. Miles delivered the address of his loft downtown as his hand plunged beneath her skirt.