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“I bought it from a collector in England. He… owed me a favor.”
“So, this is your restaurant?”
I follow her eye line as it sweeps around the restaurant. The scent of fresh paint still lingers in the air, but there’s nothing else new about this joint. Tiffany lamps take pride of place in the center of every booth, and art deco lamps sourced from Paris hang above them.
I don’t supply drugs toGatsby’s Brassiere,I supply fine things. I’ve filled the dining hall with the most exclusive antiques from the Roaring Twenties, and I fill the kitchen with the finest, rarest, and often most illegal ingredients in the world. Diners can come here to step back in time, all while eating delicacies like Queen Conch salads and swan steaks.
I met Ricardo while dining at his flamboyant restaurant in Buenos Aires, and over Havana cigars and 1926Macallanwhiskey, the idea ofGatsby’swas born.
I brush her off by saying, “It’s an investment,” and then turn back to Ricardo. “Let’s talk.”
He glances towards Poppy. “In front of the lady?”
I turn back to her. “The office is on the second door to the left. It’s packed floor-to-ceiling with antiques that we haven’t put out yet.” She nods, a semblance of a smile on her face, and trots off out of the dining hall.
Ricardo is quick to slide into her place. “I have heard about the troubles,” he says, with a tone so low you wouldn’t know the restaurant was closed.
I cut him off with a hand. “Forget about it. We don’t use a third party to source the ingredients, we go direct.”
A sly grin spreads across his withered face and he pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from his breast pocket. “Then, perhaps we could talk about next week’s menu?”
Twenty minutes later, I have a list of illegal ingredients burning in my back pocket and collect Poppy from the office.
We slide into the back of the armored car. “All done,” I say, scrolling through my phone contacts to find the only fisherman insane enough to bring his boat out to the Norwegian Sea in the harsh winter months. “I need to go to the office. The driver will take you back to the estate.”
When I hear nothing in response, I drag my attention from my cell. “I’m talking to you.”
She tears away from gazing out the window and faces me, brows knitted. “Can I ask you a question?”
“I suppose.”
“The restaurant gives you ten percent of its earnings at the end of every quarter.”
“And how do you know that?”
“You left me in the office and I’m nosy,” she says with a deadpan stare. “Anyway, they give you ten percent of their earnings, netting you an average of a million dollars a quarter. Four million dollars a year. However, you have a clause in the contract that says you’ll cover the costs of all ingredients, which is currently eating up half of your profit.”
“I sent you into the office to look at antiques, not to pour over accounts,” I growl.
“If you bought Ricardo out, you’d make what you do in a quarter in under a month.”
She sits back with a satisfied smile lingering on her lips.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t stunned. It’s enough of a surprise to push away my annoyance. Just like she came alive at the sight of a million-dollar Tiffany lamp, she comes alive wrapping her lips around numbers. “Not just a pretty face, Miss Murphy,” I murmur.
The pale space below the hem of her skirt is calling my name. I run my fingertips from her knee up to the inside of her thigh, pushing back the silky fabric.
She tries to stay still, holding my gaze, even though the way her stomach tenses betrays her. “I’m studying—was, studying, at Stanford Business School,Mr. Quinn,” she retorts. “So no, I’m not just a pretty face. Andplease,” she says, gritting her teeth. “I’m not Miss Murphy. My last name is Valentina.”
I ignore the words coming out of her mouth.
My fingers brush against the lace of her panties, emitting a gasp from her and a shiver from my cock. Her pale cheeks flush and she glances towards the driver. I know she wants to tell me to stop, to squeal and bat my hand away, but she’s trying to hang onto her pride. To hold her ground. I trail my fingers a little higher knowing that I’ve hit her most sensitive spot when she buckles back in the seat. The tick of her jaw, the way she scrunches her button nose. She wants it, but she hates how much she wants it.
I pull away and look out the window.
“You’ll come to the office with me and look over the numbers for the rest of my businesses.”
Her voice is still strained, “Pardon?”
