Chapter One – Marshall
“Not hungry?”
The question prods me from my thoughts, and as I stare down at the large plate of gnocchi alla sorrentina—my most favorite dish at Mama Leone’s in Brighton Beach—I have to grimace. “Not really,” I reply, looking up at my PA, Miranda.
“Any reason?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow at the full dish in front of me. “It’s very unusual for you to leave your food when you come to this…” she sought the appropriate word, “…place.”
It might sound difficult to construe that as a criticism, but it was.
Brighton Beach was where I’d been born and raised. In project housing, amid tens of dozens of poverty-stricken families, I’d come to realize I wanted more than my parents had.
I was one of the ‘lucky’ ones. Both of my parents were together, which made my family a rarity. I, however, would have loved it if they’d split up. Dad had spent half his nights getting drunk and beating on Mom whenever the mood struck, and Mom hadn’t been much better with booze.
Most nights had been spent with my head under the pillow, trying to drown out the yells. Escape had come in the form of my grandmother buying me a laptop with some money she’d won in the lottery, of all things.
“Boys Marshall’s age need a computer,” she’d told my father, who’d bitched at the ‘waste’ of money.
The bitching had grown rather vitriolic when Gran had subsequently refused to pay the rent for us that month.
I’d lived in fear of my father taking the laptop from me one day, pawning it to pay for one of his many vices. He might even have done that once, because all of a sudden, I’d had to go to Gran’s to use it, and Gran had told me never to take it home.
By that point, I was hooked, and so I spent nearly all my free time there. By the time I was fourteen, I could hack with the best of them and I was practically living with her.
College had come a-calling at a younger than average age for me. At sixteen, I’d been on my way to NYIT with a scholarship funding my degree—all thanks to that one investment on my grandmother’s part. Without her, without that laptop, I wouldn’t be where I am today: choosing to return to Brighton Beach out of nostalgia, rather than having to live here out of necessity.
The thought makes me shudder. There are good people here, as there always are among the bad, but still, this is no longer my world.
Miranda reaches over and taps my hand. “Marshall? Why do you keep wandering off?”
I blink at her. “Do I?”
“That’s the third time I’ve asked you a question, you’ve started to reply, and then you’ve faded into silence.” She spears a piece of ravioli with her fork, and I get the feeling she wishes she could do the same to me. “What’s going on? You only go this quiet when there’s trouble.”
My lips twitch because, ordinarily, she’d be right. But things have been complicated since Grazia Fabiola signed the ‘mistress agreement’ I put before her a week ago. Ever since, life has been a little odder than usual.
“There’s no trouble.” When she cocks an eyebrow at me again, I shake my head. “For once.”
“Then what’s going on?”
I shrug. “Nothing. I’m just thinking. No harm in that, is there?”
“Why invite me for lunch if you were just going to stare off into the distance?”
It’s my turn to be surprised. “We always eat together.”
“Maybe I had other plans.”
“Seriously?”
She purses her lips. “No, but I might have.”
There’s a strange cast to her irritation with me. It’s almost like she’s… But no, she couldn't be. Miranda is like an ice queen. She’s so cold, I practically get chilblains being near her, and she’s never made me feel like she is attracted to me.
Miranda’s a beautiful woman. I’d be a blind fool if I thought anything else, but her icy blonde beauty does nothing for me. In the four years she’s worked for me, it never has, and I doubt it ever will.
I shake off the strange supposition, because I’d prefer to think it’s an impossibility rather than deal with it.
Miranda has been with me since I floated the company. She knows her job inside and out, and the last thing I want to do is have to replace her.
My gnocchi seems less and less appetizing, so I catch the waiter’s eye and say, “Can you pack this up for me, please?”
“Is everything all right, sir?” He eyes the untouched plate.
“I just lost my appetite, that’s all.” The waiter makes to answer but my phone buzzes, saving me from having to explain why I haven’t touched a bite of my usually delicious meal. When I look at the caller ID and see Grazia’s name, everything in me tightens with anticipation. “Excuse me a moment,” I tell Miranda, and seeing her lips tighten, I know she’s aware of who the caller is.
Let’s face it, she wouldn’t have to be a mind reader to figure it out.
Stepping out from behind the red-gingham-tablecloth-covered table, I wend my way between the narrow lanes separating the rest, and head to the entrance, where there’s a small reception area. By the time I reach it, the phone has stopped ringing, but I immediately call her back.
“You rang?”
There’s a small pause, then a snicker. “Since when did Lurch have a cell phone?”
I grin, inordinately satisfied that she recognized my impression. I was addicted to the Addams Family as a kid; hell, what brat my age wasn’t?
“Since… I don’t know when,” I tell her, chuckling. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. It is.” She huffs out a breath. “I called with the intention of raking you over the coals, and now you made me laugh. Damn your hide.”
My eyebrows rise at that admission, and I make a mental note to remember that in the future. Make the woman laugh and she forgives you your sins… interesting.
“Well, I’m relieved you liked my impression so much.”
She snorts. “You know why I’m calling, right?”
I do. How could I not? It doesn’t do much for my macho image to admit that I’ve been waiting for this call ever since the insurance company called me this morning to say they’d delivered the package at Grazia’s apartment.
“I can guess,” I hedge. “But you are a rather touchy female, Grazia. There are numerous things I could have done to piss you off.”
“You mean like calling me a rather touchy female?”
“Yeah, like that.” My lips twitch again.
A sigh gusts down the line. “What have you sent this to me for?”
“It’s a party I need you to attend with me.”
“I’d gathered as much. ‘Glitter & Gowns’,” she reads, undoubtedly from the invitation I had delivered with the necklace. “What’s it all about?”
“A charity, of course.”
She grunts. “There’s no ‘of course’ about it. One thing you learn when you’re in event management: it doesn’t take much for something to call itself a charity.”
Amused by her cynicism, I chide, “How uncharitable of you.”
“Like you don’t know exactly what I’m talking about. Laptops for kids in countries that don’t even have reliable electricity… that kind of thing, when really what they need is food and medical care... Doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
Considering I was visited by a New York operator from that particular charity just this month, I have to laugh. “Okay, I know exactly what you’re talking about.”
Satisfaction riddles her words. “I’m glad to know you’re not completely crazy.”
“I don’t think I’d be where I am today if that were the case.”
“I guess not. And anyway, don’t think I’ve forgotten that you just sent me a necklace that has to be worth a million dollars.”
“Yeah, it’s on loan. Fear not. I’m not trying to buy you.”
Silence fills the line. “Oh, well, that’s okay then.”
“I have better ways to buy a woman like you, Grazia,” I tell her, my tone as silky as can be.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You think I don’t know you’re not interested in diamonds and rubies? There’s a reason I’m a rich man, Grazia. I know how to read a person, and you are not someone who could be bought with jewelry.”
“I guess I should be grateful you know that. But I can’t be bought. Period.”
“Everyone has a price.”
“Yes, and you’re not trying to find mine, are you? That’s why we’re dating and I’m not your mistress.”
“Ah, yes, I’d forgotten about that. I’m out of the habit of dating. But anyway, you’d hardly be prepared for a ‘Glitter & Gowns’ evening with no glitter, would you? I figured you could handle the gown part yourself.”
“You figured right.” I can sense her stewing about something, but rather than draw her out, I let her percolate. Eventually, she grumbles, “This event… it’s next week. Is that the next time I’m going to see you?”
“I was planning to visit you tonight.”
“Visit?” She makes a groaning sound. “We’re dating, Marshall. I wonder if there’s a dictionary I could buy you… The Rich Man’s Guide To Not Treating All People With Ovaries Like Well-Heeled Prostitutes.”
I can’t help but chuckle at her caustic retort. “Don’t worry. I’m rusty, not completely covered in spider webs. I’ll figure it out.”
“You’d better. I’m not your mistress, Marshall. Remember that.”
Despite myself, I like the fire in her voice. Truth is, the women I’ve chosen as mistresses have been, essentially, employees. Grazia is the first one I’ve ever had to treat as an individual. That makes me sound like such a bastard, and maybe I am, but I wasn’t born that way. The coldness in my nature that stems from a desire to protect myself, my past, and my future, didn’t pop up out of nowhere. Things happened, women happened, and they changed me.
I’m a product of my environment.
Grazia might want to change that, and to a certain extent I’ll allow her some leeway, but I’ll only let her go so far…