Chapter Three - Victoria
Weston Conrad. Such an amateur.
I have to smile as I track his car through downtown Miami. What does he take me for? And how stupid can he be? That tip yesterday might be the reason I’m here right now, but my intuition and tenacity are what will get me across the finish line first.
He weaves his way through traffic and crosses the Port Miami Causeway. What is he doing? Where is he going? I have a hunch he knows exactly where to find Wallace Arlington. He had that cocky scowl on his face up in the office. I am very familiar with that look. He used it on me often back when we were dating and we were fighting for control.
“Tori,” he’d say. Or if he was really pissed he’d call me Victoria. “Victoria,” he’d say. “Don’t play me, honey. I know all your tricks and more.”
But he never counted on me taking notes of all his tricks.
I did. I know them all. Hell, I helped come up with most of them. And I know that look he gave me was confidence.
He pulls into a parking garage next to a cruise ship terminal and I follow. If he’s checking the rearview mirror, I didn’t notice. So he hasn’t made me yet. Probably too wrapped up in his own ego to even consider me a threat.
I’m a threat, baby. Just watch out.
We wind our way up the garage levels until there are plenty of open parking spots, and then he goes left and I continue up one more level and park in the first space I find.
I jump out and take off at a jog, even though my heels are high enough to break an ankle. He’s just disappearing into the connecting building when I catch sight of him again.
It’s an entrance to a Cuban cafe.
I stop at the door, catch my breath, and shake my hair.
Can you feel me, West? Because here I come.
I pull the door open and walk into a hazy restaurant filled with men in suits.
This must be the good ol’ boys club. I should’ve figured. Weston has good ol’ boy written all over him. Old money with even older attitudes about women. He was always trying to protect me. Tell me to do things for my own good. It was patronizing and borderline sexist. I hated it.
But when every head near the front bar turns to look at me, I let it go. I’m used to the attention of men. It’s not my fault I was born looking this way. I tried my best to be a tomboy all growing up. I just don’t have the body for it. So when I hit puberty and my aunt told me to play up my best assets instead of hiding them behind big shorts and loose pants, I took her advice.
Maybe it’s cheating, maybe it’s not. But here I am, fifteen years later, still in the game, still scoring points, and still letting everyone think I’m a stupid bimbo.
A beautiful woman couldn’t possibly be ruthless.
That’s what I like them to think.
But I am ruthless. In every way that counts. And I know Weston Conrad is in this restaurant somewhere with the answer to every problem I have.
All I need to do to get those answers is show up.
I smile at a table of gentlemen wearing casual suits as they stop their business and stare, but keep my eye on the prize.
Which is missing at the moment.
Where did he go?
Ah. There’s the bastard now.
West slips behind a scarlet curtain on the side of the restaurant that faces the water and I follow.
A few other people go through as well and they are all greeted by name.
Hmmm. What is going on behind that curtain?
“Excuse me?” I say to the host standing guard. He’s wearing a different kind of uniform from the rest of the servers. They are all in black pants and white shirts. But this man wears a suit with a red tie and matching red pocket square. “May I go through and look for my husband?”
I realize too late that I have no wedding band on my finger to shore up the lie, and even as I’m thinking about being turned away, my heart has a little ache in it.
“Are you on the guest list?” he asks, smiling, even though he knows perfectly well I am not or I wouldn’t be asking for permission.
“No, but my husband is.” I have my left hand behind my back so he can’t notice I have no ring.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the host says. “It’s invitation only. What’s his name? I’ll see if I can find him.”
My eyes dart to another part of the restaurant and I say, “Oh, there he is! Never mind, thank you.” And I slip away, hoping I didn’t draw too much attention to myself.
Shit. I know West is in there getting info. Hell, Wallace might even be there. If he is, I’ve lost.
Think, Victoria. Think.
I go outside onto the patio where people are eating and drinking underneath large canvas umbrellas, and walk along until I reach the end. There’s a kitchen door propped open, so I look over my shoulder to see if anyone is watching, then open it up and go inside.
There’s commotion and bustle as cooks and servers do their thing, but I raise up my head and walk through like I own the place. Everyone glances twice, but that’s because I’m a beautiful woman. Not because they feel like stopping me.
Where was that back room? I bet they have an entrance from the kitchen.
I spy a server with the same red pocket square as the host, and follow them down a hallway and through a swinging door. On one side of the hallway are restrooms, the open kind that have a curvy wall made out of stone and not the kind with a door. On the other side is another door.
“Please don’t let this lead to the front,” I mutter, ducking into the women’s restroom when the door starts to swing open again. I turn around as soon as I get around the corner of the marble wall and head right back into the hallway, smiling at the server carrying a tray as I let him pass towards the kitchen. I push open the door he came through and smile.
OK. I’m in. Everyone in here has that same uniform on. So this is the private area where Weston is surely meeting some contact.
I scan the room, which is partitioned off with hand-painted folding screens depicting scenes of Cuba, but come up with no Weston Conrad.
Dammit. Where is he?
I’m just about to give up when I hear his familiar laugh.
He’s on the other side of a screen. And even though there are at least fifty diners in here, now that I know he’s here, I can’t miss him. That arrogant voice carries through the screen and across the room. I find myself leaning in to try to hear what he’s saying. And in another moment, my feet are traveling that direction.
His voice grows louder as I approach, unseen because of the screen, and I take a seat at a table that has been recently vacated.
I look around for a server, but they are all busy.
I look down at the table setting and realize this is some kind of event. A party or some luncheon for a club. So I relax and concentrate on Weston’s words.