“I think it’s exciting.” Her old eyes crinkle with her smile. “Do you think he actually has the vase in his house?”
Would he be that stupid? “I have no idea. That’s what we’re hoping to find out. But I don’t know if I can do this.”
A very grandmotherly chuckle escapes her. “If you can handle all those powerful tycoons trying to weasel your money from you, you can handle one handsome fool.”
“Who may have had something to do with Celine’s death, remember.”
“Celine was a very sweet girl. Sometimes too sweet, I think.” She smiles sadly at the cup within her gnarly fingers. “Just don’t drink anything that you haven’t seen him pour or eat anything you haven’t seen him plate.”
Her warning catches me off-guard, though it’s surprisingly shrewd. “Is that the crime novelist’s official advice?”
“Just basic survival skills, my dear. Oh! Just a moment.” She’s off, heading toward her apartment.
I take that time to ransack Celine’s closet, looking for a suitable dress to wear. Something in between professional and seductive.
“Oh, that’s a smart choice,” Ruby says on her return, eying the simple black sheath with a deep V top. “Sexy but not overt. Here.” She holds out her hand. “Ambien. I use them to help me sleep. They work well for some people, and not for others, but it’s worth a shot, in case he gets too frisky and you need to tire him out. It should buy you some time to search for the vase, too. Just crush two into his wine.”
A lump forms in my throat as the cylinder of pills rolls within my grasp, my gaze veering to the bed.
“Oh, dear.” Ruby’s face falls. “I’m so sorry. I forgot. How could I forget? I didn’t mean . . . What a terrible thing for me to suggest.” She’s suddenly flustered, putting her hand against the wall to gain some support.
“It’s okay, really.” I offer her a soft smile, before I study the bottle now resting in the palm of my hand.
If Jace had something to do with Celine’s death, then he had something to do with all the drugs that were found in her body.
This isn’t nearly as terrible as that. And I don’t have to use it.
————
“The sommelier promised me that this was a good one.” I press the bottle of Bordeaux into Jace’s hands, not wanting him to see the shake in mine as I stand at his threshold, pill bottle in pocket and ulterior motives firmly in place.
“You braved the elevator.” He smiles and steps back to let me into his palatial apartment in the heart of TriBeCa. Doug already gave me the rundown of the building—nineteenth-century, converted and fully restored. Originally purchased by Jace’s parents for investment purposes and given to him as a college graduation gift. Though, based on the kind of money I can guess he makes at his job, he could probably have afforded it anyway.
“Yeah, well . . . this one hasn’t failed me yet.” And at seventeen floors up, I didn’t have much choice. I’m already feeling faint from the rash of nerves flooding me. Am I actually going to do this?
“Dinner will be ready in an hour.” He gestures around him. “Do you want a tour?”
“Yes. I do.” It comes out like an announcement and way too serious, so I add quickly, “It’ll be nice to see what making money off of my money can afford you.”
“You know what I like about you, Maggie?” He slips Celine’s winter coat—hell, my coat, now that I’ve basically appropriated her wardrobe—off my shoulders, his fingers sliding down the length of my arms. “No bullshit.”
I follow behind him, noting that he’s exchanged his typical suit for a cashmere sweater and dress pants that hug his form. Filthy pig who pays for sex or not, he dresses well. I just don’t understand why he’d pay for it, when he has an assistant like Natasha, on her knees and waiting. “Really? I would have thought you liked the prim and proper debutante.”
“I’ve had my share of those. At this point in my life, I like a woman with a bit of fire in her.” He flashes that bright-white smile at me, dropping his gaze to my outfit for just a moment. Given the need for pockets, I rehung the sheath dress and opted for a pair of dress pants and a fitted blouse.
He leads me through a spacious living room that overlooks Manhattan’s Financial District and pushes through a frosted white door on the far side. The sound of a pot lid clattering beyond tells me that it’s the kitchen.
A lady in her mid-fifties with the same short chestnut hair and plump figure as Rosa stands at the island, peeling parsnips.
“Everything okay, Carla?” Jace asks with a chuckle.
“Sí, Mr. Everett. You scared me.”
“I’m so sorry. I’m just giving my client a quick tour. This is Maggie Sparkes,” Jace says to introduce me, settling a hand on the small of my back.
I take a deep breath and then force myself to relax into it.
Carla’s coffee-colored eyes flash to me and she nods, smiling politely.
To me, Jace says, “And this is the kitchen, which Carla uses more than I do.”
“It’s a nice kitchen,” she says and laughs, her thick accent stirring a pang in my chest for Rosa.
I float through the rest of the apartment—a substantial place with four bedrooms tastefully decorated in white linens and vibrant, oversized oil and watercolor paintings. I don’t know enough about fine art to appraise their value, but if that magazine article is true, then I’m guessing they’re worth a lot.
Jace’s bedroom is at the very back. I immediately recognize it from the picture, sans naked man wrapped in the sheets. The overall décor is modern minimalist—white walls with chrome and glass details.
And not a single piece of porcelain art in sight.
He guides me into his home office next, a traditional man cave of custom wood cabinetry and dark chocolate leather chairs, and more oil-on-canvas artwork. I immediately spot a cardboard box sitting on the shelf behind him, and my heart starts racing. Is that the same one he brought to the Bone Lady today?
I struggle not to dive for it.
“Have a seat.” He seems to be taking every opportunity he can to touch me, his hand now on my shoulder.
“What’s all this?” I force my attention away from the box and survey his desk, noticing that it’s covered in opened folders.