Flawless (49 page)

Ironically, he’d been in a great mood earlier today, looking forward to surprising Scarlett with an early homecoming and releasing the pent-up sexual energy he’d accumulated during the past week in the Hamptons. Unfortunately Danny was right about his clients. Jake had turned up the charm to code red, but no one was biting. They’d all been courted by Brogan’s pet dealers, suddenly able to offer them O’Donnell-sourced stones at ludicrously knockdown prices. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed himself trying to get the leggy investment bankers’ wives to change their minds.

“Whatever happened to loyalty?” he’d pleaded with Kathy Miller only last night, his right hand idly caressing the back of her neck as he passed her a Singapore sling with his left. They were seated in the darkest, most discreet corner of Giorgio’s Restaurant, one of Danny’s all-time favorite haunts in his pre-Diana days and a notorious rendezvous for illicit, adulterous
liaisons. “You’ve been buying from my brother exclusively for years.”

Kathy shrugged. At thirty-four she was older than most of the East Hampton Hotties, but with her mocha-tanned skin and full, pouty lips she could outsmolder her younger rivals in a heartbeat. Her husband, Edmund Miller, ran Citigroup. Known as the Silver Fox among the other Wall Street wives, Ed was unique among the handful of big hitters who ran US banking in being genuinely good-looking. Kathy had landed the most desirable shark in the Wall Street ocean, but she wasn’t above casting her nets about for any smaller, tasty fry that might swim her way.

“Danny brought me the best diamonds for years,” she said, without rancor. “But this new guy has the same quality stones at half the price. Business is business, Jake. What can I tell you?”

Taking a solitary ice cube from her drink, she dragged it lasciviously along her full lower lip, before reaching forward and slipping it into his mouth. Christ, she was fuckable, and as up for it as a bitch in heat. Scarlett would never know…

“Don’t get me wrong. I adore your brother,” she drawled, her fingers now snaking their way up the inside of Jake’s corduroy Ralph Lauren trousers and getting dangerously close to his rapidly hardening groin. “But he’d have done the same to me if he’d found a more valuable buyer.”

Jake, who couldn’t deny this, swallowed hard and laid his hand over hers to stop it creeping up any higher.

“Of course, if he ever wanted to see me…socially”—Kathy played with the word, toying with it like the ice cube—“he’d be more than welcome.”

“I’ll pass that on,” said Jake, about ready to weep with frustration.

“And what about you?” Kathy picked up his ringless left hand. “You’re single, aren’t you? Or do you only sleep with women you know are gonna buy from you?”

In a black Ballantyne polo neck and Donna Karan slacks, she didn’t have an ounce of flesh on display. Yet somehow she was far more desirable, more wanton, than any of the LA bimbettes he was used to seducing in the line of duty.

“Mrs. Miller, on my mother’s life,” he said, raising her hand to his lips, “I can think of nothing I’d rather do than take you to bed, with or without a sale. But I’m afraid I’m spoken for at the moment. At least, I hope I am,” he added, thinking nervously of Scarlett alone in LA without him.

Kathy sat back, taking another long sip of her drink.

“Faithful, and not even married.” She smiled. “Whoever she is, I hope she appreciates it.”

“Me too,” said Jake, who couldn’t help thinking that the last time he’d spoken to Scarlett she’d seemed less than 100 percent appreciative of his devotion. “Me too.”

It was partly this encounter with Kathy Miller that had prompted him to fly home early. Clearly he wasn’t going to get Danny his clients back, and there didn’t seem much point hanging around, hurling himself headlong into the path of temptation for nothing. He’d been so horny when he boarded the plane this morning it was all he could do not to drag one of the Jet Blue stewardesses into the john for a quick blow job. But no, once again he’d saved himself for Scarlett. And for what? To be blown off, brushed aside like some irritating fly, so she could spend the night yukking it up with a bunch of fat suits from E! fucking Entertainment? What the hell was he doing?

The bourbon was ambrosial, but it wasn’t working. Opening his eyes, he reached across the side table for the answering machine and began playing his messages.

As it turned out there were only four, and three of those were from utility companies, cold calling to try and get him to switch providers. The fourth, however, was a surprise.

“This is a message for Scarlett Drummond Murray.” An elderly, clipped, aristocratic woman’s voice rang out through the
apartment. It was the sort of voice that made you sit up and listen. Jake did. “Scarlett, it’s Aunt Agnes. I’ve tried all your other numbers and can’t seem to get hold of you. Anyway, darling, I’m in Los Angeles. I’ve been touring the Redwood Forests with my friend Beattie, and we’re flying home tomorrow, but I’m around tonight on the off chance that you are. Not to worry if not. I’m sure you’re
frightfully
busy.” She pronounced it “freight-flee,” which made Jake chuckle. “But do call at the Peninsula if you get this before supper time.”

She left a room number in the same clearly enunciated tones and hung up.

Aunt Agnes, eh? How funny. Scarlett had spoken to him many times about her eccentric aunt from South Africa, her stories always steeped in a sort of whimsical nostalgia that fascinated him, perhaps because there was no one in his own childhood who remotely related to the character Scarlett described. On a whim, he picked up the phone and rang the hotel.

“Agnes Headington, please. Room two twenty.”

Within seconds he was put through.

“Hello?”

For a second, Jake was tongue-tied. What on earth had he called to say?

“Hi. Is this Aunt Agnes…er, I mean, Miss Headington?” he stammered.

“Yeeees.” Her tone was a combination of amusement and suspicion, as if she feared she might be being punked. “Who is this?”

“My name’s Jake, Jake Meyer. I’m your niece’s boyf—”

“I know very well who you are,” the old woman interrupted regally. “How do you do?”

“I’m very well. Thank you,” said Jake, feeling about ten. “Listen, I’m sorry to disturb you. I just got your message and I thought I ought to let you know that unfortunately Scarlett has a business dinner tonight.”

“Ah.” Aunt Agnes sounded disappointed. “Well, it’s kind of you to call and tell me.”

“I know she would have wanted to see you,” said Jake. “You could try her mobile again if you want to reach her. She normally keeps it switched on at work.”

“No, no, I won’t disturb her if she’s working,” said Aunt Agnes briskly. “But what about you, Jake? Do you have dinner plans?”

Well, this was a curveball. Tired after his journey and still pissed at Scarlett, the last thing he felt like doing was spending the evening babysitting her octogenarian aunt.

“I…well…not exactly,” he said lamely, unable to conjure up a suitable excuse on the spot.

“Marvelous,” said Aunt Agnes. “You can pick me up in an hour.” Click.

“What? Hang on,” grumbled Jake, but he was already speaking to a dial tone. “I don’t believe it,” he mumbled to himself, hanging up. He’d now been dissed by two Drummond Murray women in the space of an hour. Aunt Agnes was clearly mad as a box of frogs, but age had evidently not withered her feistiness, nor her bulldozer-like determination to get her own way. No wonder she and Scarlett were so close. Standing up, he looked grumpily at his watch. At least it was only five thirty. With any luck he could eat, drop the old girl home, and be back in bed himself by nine.

Still, what a pain in the ass. That’d teach him to play the Good Samaritan. Next time Scarlett could return her own stupid calls.

Strolling into the Peninsula an hour later in a dark suit and tie, he felt a profound and mildly depressing sense of déjà vu. He’d lost count of how many deals he’d closed here over afternoon tea in
the lobby while the hotel’s famous harpist serenaded his unsuspecting clients, lulling them into a false sense of security over a silver tray of crustless cucumber sandwiches. Though it was arguably the most luxurious hotel in the city, he’d always found the faux-British touches faintly absurd—“tea” at four, served by English waiters, all doing their very best impression of Jeeves; Wedgwood china, “English muffins” for breakfast—the Yanks lapped it all up. For Jake, though, the Peninsula’s charm lay in its lush, landscaped gardens and the light-flooded villa rooms with their huge, white California kings, the most comfortable beds in the world. Casting his mind back, he wondered how many of the rooms he’d had sex in but lost count at four, distracted by a posse of six teenage hotties loitering outside the bar in their designer miniskirts and heels, checking him out while they waited for someone more famous to hit on them. Judging by the gaggles of security men milling around in the lobby, there must be a lot of Oscar nominees renting suites here for the week. No doubt the girls were hoping for a celebrity notch on their bedposts.

“I’m meeting a guest.” He smiled at the receptionist, a pretty girl in her early thirties with a long, shiny ponytail. “A Miss Headington, room two twenty. You wouldn’t call up for me, would you, sweetheart?”

“You must be Mr. Meyer.” The girl smiled back. “Miss Headington is waiting for you in our restaurant. Would you like me to direct you there?”

“No thanks,” said Jake, his heart sinking. He knew the Belvedere Restaurant well and also knew its prices. Somehow he doubted Aunt Agnes was a feminist believer in picking up her own tab.

Walking back to the heated, covered patio at the rear of the hotel, through the signature yellow-and-white tables, Jake could feel the thickness of the air, heavy from the heat of the day and the mingled perfumes of wealthy women diners, crammed into the small space like diamond-encrusted sardines.

Aunt Agnes wasn’t hard to spot. Sitting alone and bolt upright at a center table, reading glasses perched precariously on the bridge of her long, slightly hooked nose as she perused the menu, she was the oldest person in the restaurant by at least two decades. In a tweed jacket and high-necked white shirt, with her long gray hair piled up into a bun, she could have been a Victorian schoolmarm were it not for the whopping diamond-and-pearl ring on the middle finger of her right hand and the distinctly mischievous twinkle in her watery blue eyes when she rose to greet Jake.

“You’re on time.” She smiled, shaking him by the hand with that extra-tight old-person’s grip, the kind that could whip off a jam jar lid in 0.2 nanoseconds. “Scarlett told me you were always late for everything.”

Despite himself, Jake laughed as he sat down. “Did she now? I’ll have to have words with her about that later.”

“Sparkling or still?”

Jeeves appeared, bearing a silver tray and two bottles, one of Evian and one of Perrier.

“Not for me, thank you, I’ll stick with Scotch,” said Aunt Agnes, raising a glass tumbler of amber liquid, much to Jake’s delight. Perhaps tonight wouldn’t be a total washout after all. “But if you’d like some…?”

“Still, please. Something tells me I’d better pace myself. No offense, Miss Headington, but I’ve got a feeling you could drink me under the table in a heartbeat.”

Dinner, to Jake’s surprise and delight, was the most fun he’d had in ages. Aunt Agnes turned out to be a riot, with more chutzpah at eighty than most people mustered in a lifetime and a sense of comic timing that was second to none. He found himself roaring with laughter, clutching his stomach at her farcical tales of life in apartheid South Africa, like the time she had to convince police that her maid was an undercover British agent so she’d be allowed into an all-white compound, or the time she
hid an entire family of nine in her chimpanzee sanctuary and used the squawking apes to scare the security services off the scent. Reading between the lines, it was clear she’d witnessed plenty of tragedy too. But she had the sort of black humor that Jake knew well, common to long-term expats in Africa where life is so fragile and brutal yet at the same time so uniquely beautiful and blessed. He could see in an instant why she’d left such a deep and lasting impression on Scarlett.

“I’ve not yet met Scarlett’s family,” he told her, as they both tucked in to plates of melt-in-your-mouth Beef Wellington, “other than the brother, for about three seconds.”

“Three seconds too long, I should think,” said Aunt Agnes, quick as a flash. “Appalling little creep.”

“I was going to say that none of them sound much like you, from Scar’s descriptions,” said Jake.

“They aren’t,” said Aunt Agnes. “Thank God. I’m the black sheep, you see. Ran off to Africa with my first husband, Johnny, at eighteen and never looked back.”

“What happened to Johnny?”

“No idea,” she said cheerfully. “Last I heard of him he was in Rhodesia, on the run from some rather unpleasant chaps over a gambling debt. He was a bit of a bad hat, old Johnny. Terribly good-looking, but the morals of an alley cat. Luckily in those days you could get marriages annulled for a few pounds. I married again when I was twenty-two, to a lovely man who died the day after my fortieth birthday. Then I was on my own for fifteen years, which is when I started the sanctuary. Scarlett was born at the end of that time. Then came Headington.” She gave a little shudder. “He’s dead now too.”