he star treatment began the moment Hayden’s little Mercedes pulled up to the limestone fortress known as the Four Seasons Hotel in Manhattan’s Midtown. Uniformed bellmen and parking valets descended as Hayden swung her long legs out of the driver’s seat and accepted the proffered hand of an attractive doorman.
I’d dressed for shopping in fitted black jeans, a cropped pullover, and red Chuck Taylors. Hayden had tossed comfort out the window in plastered-on skinny jeans, tan Givenchy pumps, and a khaki varsity jacket. She looked ready for a photo shoot.
“Good to see you again, Miss Frasier,” the doorman murmured deferentially.
Throwing her shoulders back, she accepted the greeting as her due. “Thank you, David. The bags are in the trunk.” She strutted into the foyer, ignoring a couple of tourists who pulled up short at her entrance. Perhaps they didn’t recognize her, but they knew she was Somebody.
The girl who strode through the hotel’s elegant lobby bore only a passing resemblance to the girl who walked the halls of Harrington. This version of Hayden had the confidence of a runway model, aware of turning heads but accustomed to the attention. She was in her element, slipping into an atmosphere of money and privilege with the same comfort I felt in my oldest pair of trainers.
“Miss Frasier.” The obsequious man at the front desk practically bowed. “It’s always a pleasure to welcome a member of your illustrious family. Why, your mother stayed with us for the Tony’s just a few months back. I’m terribly sorry she didn’t win this time.”
Hayden shrugged it off as of no importance. There was always next year.
The clerk waved over an eager bellman. “Please see the Frasier party to their suite.”
In moments we were on an express elevator shooting up fifty floors, our ears popping as we soared into the clouds. If the moonfaced bellman accompanying us was tempted to make small talk, the impulse was stifled by Hayden’s supreme air of boredom when he opened his mouth. I felt sorry for the guy, but we were in her world now and would play by her rules. I schooled myself to appear unimpressed by our opulent surroundings.
Breaking my vow immediately, I gasped when our escort swung open the door of the Frasier suite. I am not ignorant of the world, or the extravagant habitats of the rich and famous. I have visited royal palaces and presidential estates, but this place was something special.
“I know,” the bellman winked conspiratorially. “This place gets me every time.”
It was a crisp fall day in New York. Muted sunshine illuminated the city skyline sprawled at our feet. Giant windows and glass balconies offered spectacular views from one end of Manhattan to the other. The interiors were equally stunning. Crystal chandeliers, hand-lacquered walls, exquisite artwork, and designer fabrics blended artfully into a rich tableau, clearly conveying no expense had been spared or detail overlooked.
“Would you like me to show you around?” The bellman, whose nameplate identified him as Gordon, was delighted to prolong his visit.
“Thank you, that will be all,” Hayden sniffed.
Our bags arrived moments later. I’d brought along the Prada tote filled with gadgets, so it along with an overnight bag were stowed in a cavernous bedroom that could probably sleep six. The adjacent bathroom was done in wall-to-wall marble and was large enough to host a handball match.
“C’mon,” Hayden urged. “You can unpack later. There’s a new boutique in Soho everyone’s talking about. Maybe we can find something new for tonight.”
On the drive in, she’d called some exclusive midtown restaurant on the car’s speakerphone and been immediately connected to the owner.
“Darling! It’s Hayden,” she’d gushed. Apparently there was only one Hayden in all of Manhattan that mattered.
“Angel! I’ve missed you dreadfully!” His Italian accent was so thick, I only caught every other word.
After professing their undying love for one another, she informed him we’d be coming in for dinner that evening. From his outsized response, the news was more exciting than if life had been found on other planets. For all I knew, we were on another planet. When she finally hung up, she seemed amused by my faintly nauseated expression.
“Welcome to my world,” she’d said knowingly.
With a fresh coat of lipstick and a toss of my curls, I met Hayden back at the elevator. She dug an oversized pair of dark sunglasses out of her bag as we zoomed back down to the lobby. It was a pleasant day outside, but hardly glaring beach weather.
“Seriously?” I asked.
She slipped on the sunglasses and allowed just the faintest of smiles. “You’ll see.”
As soon as we stepped out onto the pavement, I did see. Word had gone out among the city’s paparazzi that Hayden Frasier was in town. Two or three guys who all looked like they’d slept in their clothes and had gone days without shaving loitered on the sidewalk. With multiple cameras slung around their necks, they called to Hayden and began flashing away.
“Hey, gorgeous,” one of them called to me. “Are you famous?”
“Not even if you paid me,” I muttered, stepping into a cab that had immediately pulled over. Nothing like the flash of celebrity to open doors and stop jaded taxi drivers.
The shopping trip went pretty much the same way. Photographers followed us, adolescent girls asked for selfies with Hayden and even me, and sales clerks fell over themselves to be of service. We spent about fifteen minutes trying on sunglasses to add to Hayden’s collection, and the paparazzi ate it up. From a security standpoint it was a nightmare, but at least if she was kidnapped it would be photographed from about a hundred different angles.
We staggered back into the suite just as the sun started to set, and ribbons of orange-colored clouds streaked across the sky. Loaded down with beautiful shopping bags almost as gorgeous as the clothes they contained, I admired one made of fabric with silken handles and another of creamy, textured paper with flowers pressed into the weave. This never happened with online shopping.
“Be ready at eight,” Hayden called out, as she and her multiple bags disappeared into a separate wing.
“No problem. That’ll give me plenty of time to swim laps in the bath.” I’d seen backyard Jacuzzis smaller than the tub in my bathroom.
The time flew by as I enjoyed every amenity the room offered. The array of bath soaps arranged on an onyx tray filled the air with scents of green tea and lavender, and a thick loofa polished my skin until it glowed. On a silver hook a snowy white robe waited to wrap me in luxury. I could get used to this.
The two women who later stepped into a town car were worlds away from the high school girls we’d been just hours before. I’d shimmied into a midnight blue silk cocktail dress with a matching coat and a sky-high pair of Jimmy Choos. A dramatic sweep of eyeliner and a lush red lipstick aged me a few years, and Hayden nodded in approval. She’d gone the polar opposite in head to toe white, pulling off the image of icy blonde to perfection.
“Whatever happens tonight, just go with it,” she said. “If you don’t know what to say, say nothing. Got it?”
“I have been off the farm once or twice in my life,” I said dryly, having attended state dinners since the age of ten.
“Not like this,” she promised.
The driver’s friendly dark eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “Good evening, ladies. My name is Steve. Where may I drive you this evening?”
His accent told me his name was probably Tariq or Malik, but it certainly wasn’t Steve. Hayden gave him the name of the restaurant, and we were on our way.
Dimitri, the Italian restaurateur, swooped in as soon as Hayden made her entrance. We were whisked to a large table in the center of the room where we were put on display like cattle on an auction block. No I.D. was required for the vodka tonics she sipped in a steady stream, though I stuck to club soda.
Dinner, such as it was, involved tiny bits of food artfully arranged on huge plates the size of hubcaps. I didn’t know whether to eat it or hang it on a wall. Dimitri checked back so often, it was like a threesome. His personality was bigger than the portions.
The rest of dinner passed in a blur of smiling faces, air kisses, camera flashes, and ready laughter. Our party swelled with the addition of four or five of Hayden’s society friends who latched on somewhere between the restaurant and our arrival at a trendy nightclub. Their collective attitude straddled the line between excess and boredom, dressed up in the most expensive designer clothing with apparently nowhere of interest to go.
As we crammed into the town car, a guy wearing a shiny suit and way too much hair product gave me such a thorough once-over, I wanted to punch him.
“Who are you, sweetmeat?” he asked.
Hayden shot me look that caused me to bite back the nasty retort waiting to fly. “Er, Riley Collins, and you are…?” Not that I cared.
“Ty Overstreet.” Despite his weary expression, he keenly observed whether I recognized the name of one of New York’s oldest and richest families. It was a curious test, making me wonder which reaction would get him to back off. I feigned ignorance, glancing out the window as Steve drove us south to the trendy Meatpacking District.
It was the wrong choice. Ty grabbed my hand as we jumped from the car. I shot a desperate glance at Hayden, but photographers were already surrounding her. Dozens of people watched sulkily as we immediately bypassed the long line waiting behind a velvet rope. A leggy hostess in black leather shorts led us past the dance floor where sweaty bodies writhed and strobe lights flashed in time to the pumping music. Once we’d all jammed into a tiny booth, Ty flicked a credit card at the hostess and barked an order for champagne.
The blaring music limited conversation to screaming into each other’s ears, so I retreated into the role of observer. The more my companions drank, the more desperate they seemed in their quest for fun. Ty draped his arm around my shoulders. I stiffened, but since we were all packed together there was no way to gracefully extract myself.
This wasn’t what I expected and, frankly, it was boring. I had been Hayden’s plus one only until she hooked up with the group of rich kids she called friends. It was a rude reminder I had a job to do.
From our vantage point on an elevated platform we had a panoramic view of the entire crowd, so like a good secret agent I checked out the little dramas happening all around. The girls on the dance floor losing themselves in the music, and the high-fiving boys anticipating an easy score; the steady stream of people to and from the DJ’s booth—a sure sign the guy was dealing in more than music—and the two stiff, unsmiling men who were obviously club security. They lurked at the end of the bar like they were on a stakeout. One, wearing a cheap navy suit, had a broom-like mustache that concealed his entire upper lip; the other sported horn-rimmed glasses and khaki pants more fitting for a computer store salesman.
Benson often lamented the biggest hindrance to his team assimilating into native populations was the rigid posture instilled into all military personnel. These guys had bigger problems than that, but hopefully their mark, most likely the DJ, wouldn’t be as observant.
Ty decided that would be a good moment to stick his hand up my skirt. Years of being trained to instantly act upon a threat kicked in without thought.
“What the hell?” If the table hadn’t been bolted to the floor, it would have overturned when he hurdled out of the booth, clutching his nearly dislocated thumb. The music drowned out the rest of his rant against my virtue and parentage, but the meaning was clear as he hopped about in pain, though I knew it wasn’t that bad. The same thing happened to me when I was learning how to use a crossbow. With a bit of ice and some Tylenol, he’d be perfectly fine in a day or two.
I turned back to my tablemates to find Hayden calmly studying me. She was more clear-eyed than I would have expected after all those vodka tonics, making me wonder if she’d switched them out for plain soda water long ago. I glanced at her in query, and she responded with a head jerk to indicate we should bail.
I tried to brush past Ty, but his mouth twisted into an angry sneer as he roughly grabbed my arm. The boy was obviously a slow learner, but this time I took a moment to consider that inflicting visible damage on the scion of an important family would probably come back to bite me. The fist that should have hammered his nose sunk into his fleshy middle instead, and all color drained from his face as he sank to his knees.
This time it was Hayden grabbing my arm as she tugged me through the steamy crowd and into the brisk night air. Steve had illegally parked the car across the street and leapt into action when he saw us coming. He yanked open the back door and peeled out as soon as we dove inside.
Hayden burst into peals of laughter. “Did you see the look on Ty’s face?” She cracked up again. “He didn’t see that one coming.”
I impatiently brushed the hair out of my eyes. “You don’t mind that I handed your friend his ass on a platter?”
“Oh, puleeze,” she drawled. “We’re not friends. He just wants to make the tabloids, and I’m his best shot at getting anyone to notice. Ty The Upskirter’s had it coming for a long time.”
The driver butted in. “Where to ladies?”
Much to my relief, Hayden said, “Four Seasons.”
I slumped back on the seat. “God, I’m starving.”
Hayden perked up. “Me too.” She hit a few digits on her phone. “This is Hayden Frasier. I’d like to order room service.”
Steve’s eyes darted to the rear view mirror, but he wasn’t checking us out. He did it again, and then again, his brow furrowing deeper each time.
I leaned forward. “What is it?” I asked quietly in Arabic so as not to alert Hayden.
His eyes widened. “I’ve made three turns in the last eight blocks, and a black SUV has stayed with us,” he said, answering me in the same language. “Maybe it’s just paparazzi, but they were parked outside the club, too.”
Every tabloid editor in town knew where we were staying, so it probably didn’t matter, but my training insisted otherwise.
“Can you lose them?”
His eyes crinkled in amusement. “Buckle up.”
I did as instructed and gestured for Hayden to do the same, mouthing “paparazzi” at her. She nodded absently as she continued her phone call and reached for her seatbelt.
I’d downloaded a traffic app before we’d left Harrington and pulled it up now. “7th Avenue is jammed at 34th,” I informed Steve, nervous about being boxed in even if it was just by overzealous photographers.
He took a screeching left through a yellow light and found a parallel route, but two minutes later the SUV was back. Steve muttered a word I’d only heard once during an argument over a parking spot in Karachi, and though I didn’t know the translation, its meaning was clear.
“Sorry,” he apologized, catching my eye.
“No problem.” I consulted my phone again. “Turn right! Turn right!” The street directly ahead was stalled with bumper-to-bumper traffic. He hit the gas and veered into the right lane, cutting off a taxi as we made the turn. The yellow cab laid on the horn and slammed on its brakes, forcing the SUV behind it to do the same.
“Great driving!” I exclaimed, feeling sure we’d be safely delivered to the hotel long before they could catch up.
“What language is that?” Hayden had finished her phone call and regarded me with bemusement.
“The holy language of Islam,” Steve cheerfully volunteered from the front seat. “Your friend speaks it quite well.”
Hayden stared at me another moment. “Aren’t you full of surprises?”
Twenty minutes later we were back in the suite, sitting barefoot around a giant tablecloth spread on the carpet in front of a picture window. I probably should have alerted Karen and Major Taylor about the suspicious SUV, but a very accommodating waiter had laid out what appeared to be everything on the hotel menu, and now Hayden and I were happily passing plates back and forth. This was my idea of dinner.
“You handled yourself really well tonight. My friends can be a total pain in the ass,” Hayden said, grabbing a toasted wedge of grilled gruyere cheese with bacon and tomatoes before passing it over. “You’ve got to have one of these.”
I took the plate, confused by her compliment. “I don’t get it. Why did we hang out with people like that douchebag Overstreet if you don’t like them?” There was something about sitting cross-legged on the floor and picking at food with your fingers that invited honesty.
“You wouldn’t understand.” It was the same evasive answer she gave when I’d asked why she allowed Quinn to use her as a stepladder.
“Maybe if you talk slowly and use short words, I can keep up.”
She took another bite of her sandwich and eyed me like I was one of those sleeping vipers you find in the more exotic marketplaces of Pakistan. Mostly they were sluggish and slow to attack, but that didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous.
“You remind me a lot of Rose,” she said. “That’s a compliment, by the way.”
“I’m sorry I’ll never get the chance to meet her.” I suddenly realized that with all the other drama going on, the phone stashed under my mattress had completely fallen through the cracks. I resolved to dig it out as soon as we returned.
Hayden reached for the fries. “Rose was the first person I’d met in a long time who didn’t treat friendship like a transaction.”
“That’s kind of gross,” I blurted.
She scowled. “I told you, you wouldn’t understand.”
“Actually, I think I do.” My dad had dated several eligible women in the years since my mother’s death, but like Benson, he always ended it before it got too serious. He joked the romances didn’t last because he could never find a girl as special as me, but as I grew up it was more likely he was afraid to open himself up again. Benson once told me my father was a different man after the death of my mom.
“I get why people want to be your friend,” I said, swiping the fries before she could eat them all. “I also understand why you’d keep your distance from people like that. What I don’t get is why you’d hang out with people like Overstreet to begin with.”
“You mean why don’t I stay home and read a book or watch a movie?” She described my usual Saturday night with derision.
“Well, yeah.” I took a bite of lobster ravioli and practically swooned. “Oh, my God, you have to try this.”
We’d polished off the pasta when she said, “There are certain expectations that come with being the daughter of people like my parents.”
Starting to fill up, I dropped my fork and reached for the covered tray we’d been saving for last. I lifted the lid to reveal a tasting assortment of artfully arranged desserts.
“You’re right,” I said with mock severity. “From now on, I will expect you to always order enough desserts to put us both into diabetic comas.”
She snorted with laughter. “I’m serious. If I’m not seen in the right places with the right people, I’ll become Tory Palmer’s loser daughter or Stephen Frasier’s socially inept child. That stuff can follow you around for life.”
“Okay, so you want to polish your public image, I get that.” I dragged a spoon through the most amazing brownie sundae known to mankind. “But why Quinn?”
Hayden attacked a caramel cheesecake with single-minded determination, and I wondered if I’d pushed too far. After a few bites she said, “After Rose… it was easier not to fight it, you know?” She glanced up, and I could read the sadness on her face.
I didn’t know, but there were a lot of things in Hayden’s life I hoped I’d never have to experience.
I gazed out the window at the carpet of lights Manhattan became when viewed from fifty stories up. It was seductive, as was the wealth and power making our every wish a reality from the moment we’d arrived, but I wouldn’t want to trade places with her. All the money in the world could never make up for parents who left their kids to navigate such a treacherous world all on their own.
“Maybe you should give yourself time to figure out what you want, not what other people want or need you to be. You might actually like staying in and watching a movie on a Friday night.” I shrugged with a self-deprecating smile. “I do.”
She groaned. “Wouldn’t you know I get the only roommate at Harrington whose idea of a hot date is a remote control.” She followed her words with a warm smile. I had a feeling I might have more company on the sofa next Friday.
I scooped up a bite of pumpkin crème brulee topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. “Oh, my God….” I moaned in ecstasy.
She grinned. “I know, right?” She started in on the other end. “My dad and I order this every time we’re here.”
“It can’t be that often,” I said, pointedly gazing at her perfect figure.
“It’ll be a lot more soon, at least for my dad. His assistant said we couldn’t use the suite for the next few weeks because he’ll be in town. Apparently his new software program has been fast-tracked.”
The spoon froze halfway to my mouth. Had the announced deadline been a ruse to throw off competitors, or had the delivery date truly been moved up? What, if anything, did Karen know about this? My mind raced at the implications.
“C’mon,” she urged, oblivious to my sudden shift in mood. “Don’t make me eat this all by myself.”
I’d instantly lost interest in dessert but took another bite to be social. “Has your dad told you what he’s working on?” Hopefully he’d shared some of his project details with her.
“Yeah,” she said, growing thoughtful. “It’s supposed to be the ultimate code-breaking software, but I don’t know if that’s a good idea. He’s says if everyone knows each other’s secrets, it’ll end wars before they can even start. The thing is, though, I think it might be dangerous.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Our house in Silicon Valley is guarded like a prison these days with, like, triple the usual number of security. I wish he’d either stop the project or give it away to everyone.” She was smart and observant. Surely she’d seen the possibility of being used as a pawn in the high-stakes game her father waged.
“Have you ever thought you might be in danger, too?” I asked.
She tossed her head, glossing over any fears. “It’s not like I have anything to do with it.”
Now I knew she hadn’t been drinking vodka all night as she’d appeared. My dad called alcohol the great truth serum, and if ever there was an occasion to admit there might be trouble ahead, it was now.