CHAPTER TWO
I amble to the restroom, placing one foot in front of the other while my head darts around, taking in the three drawers end table stationed at the edge of the hallway. Two closed doors hold the promise of more hiding places. Inside the tastefully decorated taupe bathroom, I futilely rip open each cabinet, cursing under my breath when stray cotton balls and extra toilet paper greets me instead of a multi-million dollar diamond and ruby brooch. I know the brooch wouldn’t ever be stashed in a downstairs guest bathroom, but I have to check. This might be my only shot at searching this place so I need to cover as many bases as I can. I have to learn his habits. It might be the only way to deduce where he might have stashed it.
I commit the layout of the downstairs to memory, noting the locks on each window and the motion sensor alarm system that guards every room and hallway. Shit. Shit. Shit. This place is a fortress I’ll never be able to crack if I have to resort to old school methods of thievery that involve breaking and entering instead of conning Colby into trusting me enough to give me free reign of this place.
When I come out of the bathroom, I find Colby perched atop a stool in front of the giant kitchen island, the black marble mirroring the reflection of his chiseled face. Several industrial grade stoves and refrigerators fit into perfectly carved spaces in the shiny counter tops.
“Everything you need is here.”
“I can see that. What happened to your last chef?”
He shrugs. “Finally getting around to hiring one. Before this it was cereal or take out for every meal.”
I throw open each dark wood cabinet even though I know the brooch won’t be here, either. Exotic spices of every variety line up in neat rows on the shelves. Plates, mugs, and glasses for all types of drinks fill the other cabinets. On the far wall, a liquor bar boasts hundreds of top shelf bottles. A tingle starts at the back of my neck. My eggs are not going to impress him, so I need to do it with the only actual talent I have. I grab one of the oranges from the bowl in front of him and slide a cutting board onto the granite.
His eyes flash with amusement. “Orange for scrambled eggs? That’s certainly a new technique.”
In lieu of answer, I give him bullshit. “I’ve been cooking since I was seven-years-old. Self taught. While most kids rode bikes, I whipped up chocolate soufflés. When I was in high school, I earned the ACF culinary youth award for my skills.” I drive a small paring knife into the orange and cut a half moon slice, releasing a citrusy aroma into the air. I drop the slice into a short crystal glass, juices running out of it to coat the bottom. “From there I studied at the French Laundry under Thomas Keller.”
Colby’s eyebrows shoot way up and I hope he doesn’t fact check any of this by checking references. These same details appear on my resume, each one plucked from key research on the web.
I thrust my hips in a va va voom way as I head to the liquor cabinet and pluck out a bottle of Pappy van Winkle bourbon, the very best kind there is…in my opinion anyway. I also swipe a small bottle of angostura bitters. “From there I worked at Daniel in New York.” I balance a sugar cube from the pantry on top a cocktail napkin over the surface of the glass. Squeezing one eye shut as if lining up a gunshot, I pour a few drops of the orange bitters onto the sugar cube with expert precision. The napkin beneath the cube soaks up the excess, leaving the perfect amount of liquid to seep into the cube.
Colby watches with his mouth parted as I toss the napkin and drop the cube into the glass with the orange.
“Ah, my weapon of choice.” I slide a long bar spoon out of the liquor cabinet. “It’s the perfect size.” I wink as I muddle the bitters, sugar cube, and just the fruit of the orange into the bottom of the glass, careful to avoid mashing the pith. The sugar crunches as I press the back of the spoon against the crystals. A few ice cubes join the mashed bitters, and I add a splash of the bourbon into the glass, just enough to get everything wet.
Colby’s eyes follow every gentle revolution of the bar spoon as I stir. I may not have any actual culinary skills but mixing drinks are my specialty. Besides for running con jobs, that is. Bartending pays my bills. Small cons pay my debts.
I add a few more ice cubes and follow with more bourbon. My spoon clinks against the sides of the glass, disappearing in the foggy orange color. “After a few years,” I continue, “I transferred to Blue Water Grill in New York City as their lead chef.”
His eyes widen. “Did you work with Taylor Spitz?”
A bolt of panic shoots through me. My spoon stops in the middle of a whirlpool of orange liquid. “No, she wasn’t there.” I debate adding “yet” or “anymore” but I don’t know which direction to go in.
“He,” Colby corrects.
Fuck. My heart begins to beat loudly, but I cover the sound with a strained laugh. “Like I said, I never met him.”
A good con artist doesn’t just spew words as fact and not have any way to back it up. Liliana Grandy, my alias for this job, has a Facebook profile, a LinkedIn resume, and a past I made up for her that fits with my story. Always my real first name, always a fake last name. Helps me avoid slipping up somehow. If he checks up on me, he’ll find the answers he’s seeking.
I slide the Old Fashioned over to him. “Drink up.”
Colby lifts the glass in cheers and brings it to his nose, his eyes fluttering back at the scent. He sips tentatively, like he doesn’t quite trust me yet. I’ll have to change that immediately. I hold my breath as he audibly swallows.
His eyes widen. “Holy shit. I think this is the best drink I’ve ever had.”
I give him a triumphant smile. “It is. You can trust me on that.”
He takes another gulp. “Well, now I can’t wait to see what you do with the eggs.”
Ugh. Me too.
I turn my attention to the stove and hope he sucks that drink down good and fast. It won’t get him drunk enough to forget all semblance of the eggs I’m about to cook, but maybe it’ll be enough to loosen him up so I can talk my way into this job I’m not at all qualified for.
Colby has an impressive selection of pots and pans, and I bite my lip, trying to decide which one is best for eggs. Sleek and silver? Non-stick with a little red emblem in the center? Large, small, fucking hell. I choose the smallest one: a gleaming silver pan that looks like it’s never ever been used. I set it on the stove and turn up the heat to the highest level. Warmth coats my face and amps the sweat pooling in the crooks of my elbows.
In the fridge, I grab three eggs and some butter. He mentioned everyone has their own method and I guess mine is slapping a pat of butter into the pan, cracking the eggs directly into the bubbling grease, and then sliding a silicon spatula around and hoping for the best. Steam and smoke rise fast and heavy, making me cough.
Colby clears his throat and a bolt of panic zips through me.
The eggs sizzle and harden before I can fully mix them. My pulse races as I twist the heat way down, but it’s too late. When I scrape the eggs onto a plate, they’re littered with burn marks. Half of them stick to the pan in a hopeless mess of goo. I don’t dare glance back at him, but I can feel his gaze weighing heavy on my back. I can’t throw these out and start over, that would just prove to him that I’m a hack. A fake. A liar. There’s only one thing to do: act like this was purposeful. So I sprinkle salt and twist some pepper onto the eggs, then grab chives from the fridge and chop a few as garnish.
I pass it to him along with a fork and put on my best smile, leaning forward on the countertop to make sure my breasts crest the edge. If he’s going to eat this crap, at least he could have a good view.
Colby looks horrified as he scoops up a bite and gooey drops of uncooked eggs drip onto the rubber hard mounds that wiggle on his plate. He sets the fork down without biting. There’s a hard set of his chin. “You didn’t work at Blue Water Grill.” He pushes the clear evidence away and breathes a sigh of relief now that he no longer has to wallow in the burnt smell. “Tell me who you are and why you’re here.”
Apprehension knots in the base of my throat. I grip the edges of the counter top with white knuckles and hunch my shoulders defensively. His gaze is so intense, so invasive, it’s almost as if he can see right through me. My cooking failed. My words are my only hope of doing damage control. “Okay.” I inhale a shaky breath. “Here’s the truth,” I lie. “I have no formal training. Well, except in cocktails.” I jut my chin toward his empty glass. “But it’s always been my dream to go to culinary school. Turns out though, culinary school is expensive.” I let out a strained, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m so broke, I can’t even afford rent. I’m living out of a motel where there’s no kitchen, no opportunity for me to improve my skills.” At least this last part is true. It’s a small offering I can give him among all the lies. “I need this job. It’s the only way I might have a shot at turning my situation around. Working as a fry cook at Applebee’s is not going to impress any culinary schools and the salary won’t cover tuition.”
He runs one hand over the short stubble of his jaw. The line of his gorgeous mouth is tight and thin. “Fuck.”
There’s a moment of silence, which I cling to, a brief respite from the inevitable rejection that will kick me swiftly out the door with little chance to get back the family heirloom that should be rightfully mine, but now resides in his possession.
“I can’t believe I’m going to say this.” He shakes his head to himself and lets out a private little laugh. “But I’m going to give you the job.”
I have to fight to keep my jaw from falling to the floor.
His blue eyes meet mine. “I came from nothing too. So I get it.”
I blink in surprise. “You—you did?” All the articles just detailed his current state: single, wealthy, and hot as fuck.
“Three years ago, I was evicted from my apartment because I couldn’t pay my bills. I worked hard to get where I am and I think everyone deserves a chance to better themselves.”
Under the table, I pinch my forearm to be one hundred percent sure this isn’t a dream and I didn’t pass out in his kitchen moments ago. It wouldn’t be the first time I stalled a con job gone wrong that way.
“You’ll cook three meals a day for me Monday through Friday using recipes I’ll select for you.”
I flinch at his words. Three meals a day for him… “So you work from home?”
He laughs. “I’m an app developer. My dev team is in India, my quality assurance team is in Romania, and my new marketing team is in New York. This is my office.” He outstretches his hand at the expanse of the house.
“How often do you go visit those places?”
“Just got back from New York last week and I have no plans to go to India or Romania any time soon.”
I stiffen. If he’s here all the time, that will certainly make finding the brooch nearly impossible. But still. It’s a chance.
A chance to rob him blind.
I hold out my hand to shake on it.