Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) (21 page)

Dan blocks his departure and wrests the package from under the messenger’s arm. “If this form is worth signing, she’ll do it—after she’s had proper legal counsel.” Dan puts out his hand. “Give me your card.”

The messenger hands Dan an expensive-looking business card that bears the name Cartwright Collier Finch.

“Tell that fuckwad that this is
not
an apology,” I hiss. “And tell him my price just went up. I’ll take a grovel with that apology.”

“Good girl,” Dan grins as the messenger retreats. “Now let’s take this thing”—he pinches the form between his thumb and forefinger as if it’s tainted—“to Keystone’s attorney. But only after we get a cup of coffee and you tell me what happened.”

I cringe but follow Dan back to my desk, where I put my unopened package in an empty filing cabinet drawer. When Dan turns on his no-nonsense tone, I can’t imagine even our richest clients arguing with him.

“Can we go downstairs?” I ask, referring to Print & Press, the café and newsstand in the lobby of our building.

“Uh-oh. This is latte-serious?” Dan’s eyes are worried but kind.

“It’s
breve
-serious,” I say. “I’m going to need all the sugar, fat and caffeine you can pack into one cup.”

“Then it’s my treat.”

***

It wasn’t at bad as I expected.

It was a lot worse.

Dan brought all the anger, indignation, and outright fury I would have expected from my own dad if he’d been listening to my story instead of his best friend.

It was horrible, but it was still kind of comforting.

Dan cursed and threatened and seethed as I told him about how Peter came at me Saturday night, how I fought him off and fled, and how my conversations with Peter and his stepfather went down.

He told me to sit tight while he read the entire legal document the messenger wanted me to sign. It promised that I’d stay silent about what happened with Peter—in fact, I’d deny ever meeting him—in exchange for twenty thousand dollars.

My mouth dropped open with that figure but Dan was grim. “We’ll figure this out, Berry,” he promised. “And when we do, you’re going to get your apology.”

I open the package from the messenger and it’s all there—my clutch, wallet, keys, shoes, and phone. I open a long envelope, pull out a cashier’s check and stare. Twenty thousand dollars.

It’s real.

Dan is perched on the corner of my desk, watching over my shoulder. He gives a low whistle when he sees the check. “They really want this gone. Like it never happened.”

“I know,” I say miserably. “But now what do I do?”

“It’s up to you. You can sign the document, cash the check and put it all behind you. Or you can hold out for more.”

“More money?” My eyes are wide. I’ve never had anything like this in my life. My checking account stands at less than five hundred bucks, barely enough to keep me going until my next paycheck.

“I’d consider this a first offer,” Dan says. His dark eyes are calculating. “I think you should make a counteroffer. We’ll revise the contract from the messenger and you can take it back to Peter.”

I feel the
breve
in my stomach sour. I
so
do not want to face him again.

“Beryl, you can do this. You want an apology, and you can get one. If this is the way he wants to play the game, you play it too—only bigger and smarter. I know you can.”

Peter thinks that money will keep me quiet, but money speaks louder in his world than mine. Suddenly, I have an idea.

“I think Peter has deeper pockets.”

Dan raises his eyebrows.

“Don’t you think he needs to make a donation? To a worthy cause?” I wink and a slow smile signals Dan’s understanding. I turn to my computer and Google charities that would be most appropriate.

The Manhattan Rape Crisis Line?

The New York Women’s Hope Shelter?

I remember one of the boards Peter’s mother is on and point to it on my screen. “How about the Safe Haven Network? They advocate for rape and abuse victims.”

“Perfect,” Dan says. I follow him to Keystone’s attorney’s office where we explain the details we want in the new contract. In less than an hour I have a fresh document in hand and I slide it into a large manila envelope.

“Good luck, Beryl.” Dan waves as I head out of the office.

***

The receptionist at Cartwright Collier Finch recognizes me and before I ask for Peter she tells me he’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed.

“That’s OK, I’ll wait,” I say serenely, and park myself on a cream leather couch in the lobby. I hear the receptionist whispering into her headset and it doesn’t take more than a few minutes for Peter to push through the etched-glass door to the lobby.

“I thought I made it clear that we were done,” Peter says, his eyes narrowed. He tilts his head, indicating I should follow him to a conference room, but I stand my ground.

I don’t care who hears our conversation, but he does.

“I found a few issues with your contract. I wanted to come over here and iron them out so we can get this finished today,” I say with plenty of volume for the receptionist to hear every word.

Peter makes a move to take the envelope from me and I move it out of his reach. I raise my eyebrows. “Say ‘please.’”

“Please,” he growls, and snatches it when I offer it slowly.

He tears open the envelope and scans the contract language, his expression darkening, green eyes almost black.

“This is blackmail,” his whisper is hoarse.

“Not at all. I just thought you had some more apologizing to do.”

“This is a ridiculous amount of money.”

“Well then, there’s no need for us to discuss it further.” I make a move to leave, calling his bluff. As my hand touches the doors to the elevator lobby, he calls me back with a grunt.

“Wait.”

“I’m a busy girl, Peter. I think you’ve have plenty of time to become appropriately apologetic.”

He scowls and I feel more powerful than I’ve ever been. It’s that power over him that gives me the freedom to let all of the anger and fear from that night go. I’m done, and I don’t care if he signs the stupid contract or not.

“Wait here. Please.” I can tell the last word is forced but I like that he has to say it.

Peter turns and disappears into his office. The receptionist looks shocked and I grin at her.

“What did you do to him?” she asks in awe.

“Just a little payback,” I say. “He owes me an apology and I’m here to get it.”

“I’ve never seen him apologize for anything.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Do you know him well?”

“I’ve only worked here for a few months.” Her eyes jump back to the logo-etched doors as if he might appear at any moment.

“Let me give you a tip—don’t go out with him. He’s a pretty rotten date.”

“Good to know,” she says. “Thanks.”

Peter returns in a few minutes with the contract and a checkbook in his hand. “Who do I make it out to?”

“The Safe Haven Network,” I say lightly and I see his face twist with fury. “And don’t forget to write ‘I’m sorry’ on the memo line.”

“Fuck you,” he snarls, scratching the words into his check violently.

“Like I told you before, Peter, no thanks. You’re just not my idea of a good time.”

He rips the check from his checkbook and hands it to me as if he’s holding a dead rat by its tail. I crease it once and tuck it into my handbag.

“The contract?” I prompt him. “I signed it already.”

He signs his name at the bottom where I’ve helpfully attached neon “sign here” stickers, then he gives me the duplicate copy.

“There’s a charity gala for The Safe Haven Network next month,” I tell him. “I trust I
won’t
be seeing you there?”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead there.”

“That’s the idea, Peter. Goodbye.”

I stumble out of the Wall Street office building into bright sunlight and oppressive humidity feeling alive and ready to tackle anything. I didn’t get the heartfelt apology I wanted, but I got the upper hand, and that makes me feel even better.

I don’t have long to celebrate. Back at the office, I have more errands to do. Greta Carr is back from Los Angeles so I take her mail, neatly filed, to her apartment with a bouquet of flowers to thank her for her business.

“These are lovely. Thank you.” Greta’s voice is soft and high and she cradles the paper-wrapped peonies in the crook of her arm like a new baby. The flowers are a pale shade of pink that matches her pink-on-pink décor and Greta’s even wearing a pink sundress.

I’m just about to push her mail at her and leave when Greta says, “Come in for a minute while I put them in water.”

I close the front door behind me and trail Greta to her kitchen where she opens and closes several cabinet doors.

“They’re in the upper cabinet, to the right of the refrigerator,” I say. Greta finds the vase I neatly organized along with the rest of her kitchen and meager pantry while she was away. I place the mail file on her dining room table.

“Everything’s so
organized,”
she says, filling a vase with water. “You should be a personal organizer. It was great coming home to this, especially all the food in my fridge.”

“You like it? I was trying to pick stuff you’d enjoy but there wasn’t much to go on.” I bite my lip, hoping I haven’t offended her. When I found out she was coming home yesterday, I spent part the morning at a gourmet market choosing fresh berries, Greek yogurt, salad greens and several healthy entrees from the deli section.

“It was so great to just have stuff here so I didn’t have to order delivery. I don’t cook much.”

I nod. Understatement of the year.

Greta scrunches her mouth in concentration as she trims the peony stems and arranges them in the vase, but her brow doesn’t wrinkle—is it paralyzed by Botox? She can’t be more than thirty but it looks like she’s already on the plastic surgery train.

Not that I should be surprised after seeing her marked-up magazines. I want to tell her that she doesn’t need all that intervention, but there’s no way I can bring it up without admitting to snooping.

I hear the yapping before I see it—a fluffy white purse-dog comes charging at me. Greta barks a stern command at the dog and instead of biting my ankles, it halts, flips on its back and wriggles with all its might. I laugh and bend to scratch its belly.

“That’s Peekaboo. She thinks she’s a two hundred-pound pit bull and I don’t have the heart to tell her otherwise.”

“I watch a dog that’s not much bigger than her. Supposedly, Jasper’s ancestors were bred to hunt lions. I guess dogs don’t think size matters.”

“Oh, but women do.” Greta’s finely plucked brows arch and she giggles. “Unfortunately, it’s not the
only
thing that matters, or else my last boyfriend would have been perfect.”

“My last boyfriend was far from perfect,” I say, enjoying this girl-talk moment with Greta. I shake my head as if to say “men,” but wonder why she is being so nice to me.

Most of the women at the charity ball treated me like I was diseased when they found out I’m not rich. Maya the model-slash-booty-call-girl treated me like the hired help. But something’s different about Greta.

Thinking of the last charity ball reminds me of something else, and an idea blooms in my mind.

“Greta, I was wondering, do you have a favorite charity?”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, honey, I go to plenty of events. They get so
boring
after a while. They need young people like us to liven them up.”

“I didn’t mean the galas, I meant the causes, the good they do. Are you on a board or a committee for any of them?”

“No. I’ve been asked, but they just want my dad’s money. They don’t care about my ideas, and that’s how I really want to help. I’ve always wanted to be an event planner, but I can’t get a business like that going without some experience.”

Greta frowns and I see that beneath her spoiled rich-girl trappings she’s dying for someone to take her seriously.

“Well, why don’t we do it together? I like organizing and it will help me meet more clients.”

Greta puts a hand on my arm. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Beryl, but they probably wouldn’t let you. It’s strictly pay to play. And, no offense, but you’re a house sitter.”

“You mean I have to make a big donation to get on the committee?”

“Yes.”

“Like, how big? Ten thousand dollars?”

“Twenty. Twenty would get their attention and probably get you on a committee, but not as committee chair.” Greta nods sagely. She knows the prices for things that don’t have a price.

“How about fifty?”

Greta laughs. “You’d be in for sure!”

I grab Peter’s check from my purse and push it across the kitchen counter to her. “Then we’re both in. We’ll make this a joint donation and then we can get on the committee together.”

Greta’s eyes go wide. “Wait. You’re independently wealthy and you make a living as a house sitter?”

I shake my head. “It’s not my money. It’s from—” I search for the right words “—a contract that required a donation. But I earned it.”

She sees the name Peter Todd on the corner of the check. “I’ll say. This guy is bad news. He seems charming, but he hurt a friend of mine.” She studies me with narrowed eyes. “Did he hurt you?”

I take a quick breath. “Not exactly. But what he did deserved more than an apology. And so I thought I could put a hundred thousand of his little apologies to good use.”

“Damn, girl. You’ve got guts.”

Greta pulls out her rhinestone-studded phone and dials a number while I scratch Peekaboo’s tummy. I hear a gushing greeting and then Greta gets down to business.

“So, I called because I’m wondering if you’re doing the Safe Haven Network ball next month. Are you still on the events committee?”

My ears perk up. Of
course
Greta has other socialites on speed-dial.

“Well, congratulations! That makes my question even easier, since I’m sure a chair has the authority to add committee members. What do you think about adding two members right away?”