Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (44 page)

Crap, he would kill me. I jabbed a bobby pin into my scalp. “You’re asking me to use Hector as a bargaining chip?”

“It’s your way or my way.”

Jaime’s way probably involved dog collars and leashes. Well, Hector was always on the hunt for new thrills. Jaime Guzman wouldn’t disappoint.

“It’s as good as done. Happy digging.”

My smugness vanished when I looked in the vanity mirror and saw Samuel leaning against the door frame, astute eyes boring into mine, more alert than he’d been in days. He was already dressed in a sharp black suit, elegant down to his cuff links and pocket square. The way he looked at me…his disapproval pelted me like dime-sized hail. Well, what did he expect when he brought me on board?

“Trading in extreme sports for other adrenaline rushes?”

I glared at him. After Samuel and Jerome overheard my previous conversations, I should have learned my phone voice carried like a klaxon.

“Don’t play their games, Trilby. Not you. Especially with people you care about.”

I bent to buckle the straps on my heels, giving him a generous view of what little cleavage I had. “You yanked me off the bench and put me in your starting lineup, Cabral.”

“Hector is your friend.” He held my gaze for a long while. “You’re sidelining me, you know. Cutting me out of whatever you’ve got brewing. Why?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

His gaze grew flinty. “I may have bipolar disorder, but my brain still works—very well, actually. I have to wonder if this is a delayed attempt at retribution for cutting you out all those years ago.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand. “Please. Just think it over.” He gave me a small nod and left.

“I’m doing this for
you,
Samuel,” I called after him.

Because I
was
doing this for him. I wasn’t trying to prove a thing, or shut him out, oh no. If he’d only consider publishing his book, I wouldn’t have to play these games.

But you
are
cutting him out, Kaye. Are you doing it to protect him, or pay him back?

I jerked open my makeup bag so hard, I tore off the zipper. Fan-flippin’-tastic. Eye shadow…liner…mascara, like Danita taught me my first day of high school. I uncapped a tube of lipstick and dabbed it over my lips, painting them a killer red. I never wore dark red lipstick. I gazed at the woman before me, all smoky eyes and sleek hair in the glow of vanity lights. Powerful and classy, legs pale and long against a dramatic black. This woman could rival the biggest PR players in New York City. She was heart-attack beautiful. She was scarlet and steel. She was arrogant.

She wasn’t me.

Just as Caroline painted sailboats, my heart painted hiking boots, and rivers, and snow-capped mountains.

A funky
boom-shaka-laka-laka
pounding down the hallway warned of what awaited in the Boom Boom Room, moments before we stepped past an anorexic-looking doorwoman and into its seventies decadence.

Oh sweet superfly.

White leather sofas. Wood paneling and starburst chandeliers. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows, the city glittering below. In the adjoining room was a span of glossy black tiling, broken by a sunken triangle-shaped hot tub, of all things. I’d have to watch my footing so I wouldn’t take a classic Kaye tumble into its bubbly depths. Celebs and authors, designers and debutantes mingled with martini glasses in one hand and shooters in the other. Tall models circulated with hors d’oeuvres and wine trays. Along one of the glass walls was an elaborate table highlighting local artists’ work for silent auction. And at the center of the space? A two-story, cone-shaped bar, golden and glowing.

It was Mick Jagger’s living room.

I gripped Samuel’s elbow and wandered through the A-list hideaway. It was like some trippy dream sequence, where everything’s a blur of dim lights and swirling people, and occasionally, you recognize a face, but you aren’t sure if you’ve actually met that face or saw it on a magazine rack in a check-out line.

“Cabral, good to see you.” A man in a leather jacket fired a finger gun at us. “Loved the new book. Cute girl.”

“Hey, Samuel, welcome home,” crooned a pretty little thing who couldn’t have been more than nineteen.

“Sam, can I buy you a drink? Ha!” Another man with freaky sunglasses and a trophy wife on his arm slapped Samuel’s shoulder. I felt him stiffen.

“I was just on my way to the bar, excuse me,” he mumbled, sidestepping the pair with a hand pressed to the small of my back. Sunglasses man stared after us, mouth gaping.

“I think you offended that guy.”

He snorted. “He’s a rat. Still bitter I’ve knocked three of his books off the number one slot on
The New York Times’
bestseller list.” He snatched two wine glasses from a tray and handed one to me. “Drink half of this, please. If I want to be ‘socially acceptable,’ I’ll need a glass in my hand.”

I did as he asked, coughed, then swapped drinks. “Clever. Where did you pick up that trick?”

“Endless parties like this. Buitre likes to be up to their elbows in
Lafite Rothschild
. If you ever need to get on Jerome’s good side, ask his opinion of their cellars. It won’t matter if you don’t know what the hell he’s talking about; he’ll appreciate the chance to brag.”

I took a sip of wine and wrinkled my nose—too dry for my taste. I wiped red lipstick off the rim with my thumb. Oh, forget it. I snatched a cocktail napkin and rubbed the gunk from my lips, too. A man laughed heartily just behind us.

“What do you think of Buitre’s snazzy Grand-Cru, Ms. Trilby?” Patrick O’Malley greeted us, and I could have kissed his friendly face. His blinding white teeth glowed beneath the mood lighting.

“I think if they served the cheap stuff, no one would know the difference.”

“Agreed. You’d be surprised how many focus groups—wine experts included—prefer the cheaper bottle when labels are stripped away. Wine expertise is the biggest swindle in our society, along with academia and golf. It’s too easy to become snobbish about the labels.”

“Or snobbish about non-conformity,” Samuel came back.

Patrick raised his glass. “Very true.”

“Kaye’s accused me of being the snobbiest anti-snob in Manhattan.” He gave my hip a tender squeeze.

I rolled my eyes. “It’s our Colorado upbringing. They fed us granola instead of Cheerios. You don’t ascribe to labels, Patrick?”

“I do not.”

“Odd philosophy, coming from someone who creates images for a living.”

“Ah, Ms. Trilby. I don’t
create
them, per se. I simply highlight qualities which already exist in my clients. Fewer fraud perpetuations that way.” He clapped Samuel on the back. “You’ve got an enchanting one here, Cabral. Don’t let her slip away again.”

“I don’t intend to.” The warmth of his words burned through my limbs like the wine I drank. Then he nodded to someone behind me. Indigo Kingsley waved us over to her entourage. Among them were Nat and a gorgeous, tan hunk who could only be Marco Caldo.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Samuel said quietly, then turned in the opposite direction.

I tightened my grip on his elbow. “Where are you going?”

“To the little boys’ room. You’ll have to release my arm, Kaye.”

“Oh. You won’t like the restrooms. Rumor has it the floors are clear glass.” My fingers relinquished him for the first time tonight. He kissed my head and sauntered through the room, drawing every eye to his graceful frame.

Patrick shook his head. “He doesn’t even realize how much they watch him, does he? Amazing.”

My eyes stayed on Samuel until he disappeared. “He does. He’s just not comfortable being watched.” I took another sip of wine to bolster my courage. “Patrick, do you remember, on our flight to LA, you said I could call you if my client ever needed a consult? Well, I’d like to call you.”

He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Negotiating a change of guard in the old guards’ barracks? Now I truly adore you. Let’s talk in private.” He glanced around the room, then hustled me away from the crowds to a quiet table. I slid onto the stool and was about to swipe my napkin across the sugar-covered table when Patrick grabbed my wrist. He held it still, shaking his head.

“Best not to touch that.”

“The sugar?”

He chuckled. “I don’t think it’s sugar.”

My face reddened. “Crud, I’m so naïve sometimes.”

“It’s refreshing. Now, Ms. Trilby, won’t you tell me about Mr. Cabral’s career plans?”

Between my chat with Patrick and Indigo’s dragging me around like a show dog, the night went faster than I expected. Relatively uneventful, save for a disheartening confrontation with a very bitter Robin.

“Are you Kaye Trilby?” he sneered. I immediately recognized the effete voice from our ambiguous phone conversations. “You nearly cost me my job.” His knuckles tightened around the stem of his wine glass, and I was sure he’d snap it in two. An untamable cowlick made him appear even more boyish, poor kid, like someone’s little brother. He probably was. Mother cliff-hucker, I was a harpy.

I jumped into an apology before he had a chance to chew my lying behind. “Robin, I’m so sorry—”

“Save it,” he clipped, and stomped across the room to a circle of young New Yorkers burning holes in my back. It left me feeling like I was back in high school and a box of tampons fell out of my locker, or something equally embarrassing. I slammed back the rest of my drink, willing away humiliation as sangria thrummed through my veins.

Samuel came up behind me just as the kid stormed off. He rubbed my neck. I closed my eyes and leaned into his hand.

“I take it Lexi let him have it over
BrownStoners
?”

I grimaced. “At least he’s still employed.”

He gave my neck an affectionate squeeze. “Don’t dwell on it. Come with me—I want to show you off.”

I kept one eye on my wristwatch and the other on Samuel as we circulated. Eleven forty. We’d been at Boom Boom much longer than the promised hour, to Jerome’s delight. But now it was time to turn in. Samuel wasn’t well, though he wasn’t poor. He just…was. He hovered politely in conversations, offered terse replies when needed, coasted on autopilot. He kept the same half-f glass of wine in his hand the entire night, fooling them all.

I sidled up to the flamboyant bar for a watered-down night cap, ogling Samuel from across the room as he shook hands and said good nights.

“Samuel Cabral is as beautiful as ever, isn’t he?”

I turned at the dulcet voice by my side. My eyes widened. My mouth went dry. Spank me and call me a slut.
Her.
Fluffed brunette hair, lethal dress, curling lips, it was as if she’d hopped from my nightmare and landed in the waking world. I’d know her anywhere. I’d never felt such a fanatical urge to gouge out someone’s eyes. It was the brunette of my brownstone nightmares.

“You,” I spat.

She blinked. “You remember me. I thought you wouldn’t.”

“How could I forget? Your little affidavit for Lyle Togsender sure hasn’t helped to block you from my brain.”

Her critical, eyelash-feathered gaze swept over me. “I don’t know if I would’ve recognized you, if not for Page Six. Your lack of hoodie and backpack threw me off. That, and a noticeable absence of drama.”

My stomach roiled in disgust, and I had to clutch my glass between both hands to keep from tossing red wine in her face. I wanted to yank that mane of hair from her scalp and hang it above my mantle. Like a
Maury Povich
episode, I wanted to scream that she was a skanky crack-whore and to keep her powder-covered claws away from my husband. But I managed to restrain myself. I’d learned my lesson with Caroline at Danita’s wedding, and I wasn’t going to embarrass Samuel in that fashion. I studied her again, the brittle face and bony shoulders, and decided she truly was human and not the insuperable vixen my nightmares made her out to be.

But my oh my, she was trying. “Damn, he was sexy when he was high.” Her eyes followed Samuel, drifting down his body. “He certainly was an intense, confused young man, like he was tied to the bumpers of two cars driving in opposite directions. I thought maybe he…you know. Had a wide stance.”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
“He’s not—”

“Kaye!”

And Saint Patrick. You’ve got to be KIDDING me.
I watched with disbelieving eyes as Mr. Avant Garde himself purposefully strode my way, arms spread for a hug. He was gaunter, and he’d grown out his hair. It was slicked back into a stubby tail and honestly, it made him look skeevy. A striped silk scarf was flung around his neck and he sported an intentionally rumpled blazer over an equally rumpled T-shirt with a print of Toulouse-Lautrec. I had a hard time recalling why I’d found him attractive. Could this night possibly resemble a French film more?

“I see you’ve met my date.”

The brunette.
Oui.

When I didn’t accept his hug, he shrugged and wrapped an overly friendly arm around her shoulder. “Our magazine is publishing a selection of her coffee house poetry next month.”