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“Max,” I tell her. “Mr. Steele is my father, and you don’t want to be dealing with him.”
“Maximus.” The way she says my full name is sexy. I want her to say it again—preferably in better circumstances.
“I can’t imagine you willing to do anything for me after my behaviour last night,” I say ruefully.
A hint of a smile curves her lips again but doesn’t meet her eyes. Even the small change gives her face so much character, taking it from blank canvas model beauty to attractive and interesting. “You did look like you’d been enjoying yourself.”
“My buddy Marcus—he’s getting married this weekend, so I took him out to celebrate.”
Any trace of the smile disappears. “There are several gentlemen’s clubs around here, so I’m sure you enjoyed yourselves.”
“Nah.” I shake my head, rousing the headache again. “The Leafs played late last night so we drank cheap Scotch at a dive bar and watched the game. And then some soccer game from 2002 while Marcus told me all about his wonderful new life and love. I found my way to my room,” I add. “In case you were worried.”
“I wasn’t. But I’m surprised you didn’t have a friend to help you.”
“Yeah.” I frown. “No. I had a solo trip last night. Not that it was a solo—not that it was a trip.” I stammer. Her smile is back and the sight of it relaxes me. I can’t stop staring at the curve of her lips, slick with pink gloss. “Jeez. Trust me, I’m usually a lot better than this.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Better at what?”
“Talking to beautiful women.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
The waitress arrives to put me out of my misery and smiles expectantly at Cady. “What would you like?” I offer. “Coffee… I know you really want the pancakes…”
She shakes her head. “I won’t be staying.”
“Oh, c’mon. You took the time to track me down. The least you can do is have a coffee with me.”
“Tea,” she says reluctantly. “Green tea, please.”
The waitress refills my cup and as she walks away, my attention is grabbed by the sight of two uniformed police officers speaking to the maitre’d. “Huh. You don’t usually see that in these parts. Wonder what that’s all about.” The way Cady stiffens in her seat is intriguing. “Or is that the reason you’re here?”
Her lips tighten. I noticed a wariness in her eyes, as well as a weariness when she sat down, but now, for a moment, she looks unbearably sad. “Noam Tate passed away last night.”
I suck in a mouthful of coffee and it threatens to erupt when I cough with surprise. “Really? That’s—you were with him at dinner. In the restaurant.”
“And that’s where our evening ended,” she says coolly. “In the restaurant.”
“Sure, but you—ah.” Pieces were clicking into the place. I’d heard rumours of Tate’s legendary infidelity, but not for many years. And when his third wife had died a few years ago, his image of a grieving widower was so convincing that I searched for the PR firm working with him.
None. He was that sad.
But men have needs, even ones in their eighties. I had no idea Cady…
She said nothing happened. Even through the haze of too much Scotch, I remember her saying that.
And for some reason, I believe her. “What you’re trying to say is that I didn’t see you outside his room last night,” I offer.
“I wasn’t outside his room,” she snaps, gaze flicking to the police. “I was waiting for the elevator.”
“On the same floor of his room.”
Why am I pressing her on this? The most beautiful woman took the time to come and find me and I’m giving her grief? “It’s none of my business.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“But you’re kind of making it my business, aren’t you?”
