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“You upset my niece yesterday. I hate when that happens. Instead of curling her hair or whatever it is that women do before a cocktail party, she had to chase down caterers and party planners. And have silly conversations about table linens. It was a real drag.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she huffs.
Like hell you don’t. “But you do know that computers and cell phones, all electronics, really, can be traced, right? Someone fucked with the party plans for tonight. We traced it all back to you. To your email address. It wasn’t even that hard.”
“I didn’t do that,” she cries, like a haughty bitch, looking to her husband for help. But she gets nothing from him.
“Keep your voice down, or I’ll call the police and the FBI. Your picture will be all over the media within an hour, and you haven’t had your makeup done. You don’t want your friends to see you like that.”
“All I did was make one phone call to change the color of the tablecloths.”
“What?” her husband growls.
It’s the first thing he’s said since she arrived. Most men would have said something by now to try to protect their wives.
“Hush now,” I chide. “Let Elizabeth talk. Don’t be rude. You know how much I hate rude behavior.”
I turn to her. “You changed the color of the tablecloths?”
I already know she did, but I want to hear what else she has to say. She had the cloths changed to the color of their brand. Somebody made it look like Elizabeth Bancroft was responsible for everything, but after hours of digging, Tamar and Lucas couldn’t tie her to anything but the linen. Still, I came to see for myself.
“You don’t understand. Foreigners are breaching our territory and selling their products. We can’t compete against the entire world, Mr. Huntsman.”
Fucking hypocrite. “You distribute your product all over the world. You do realize you’re a foreigner in all those countries?”
The idea seems to surprise her. “It’s not the same.”
“It’s exactly the same. It’s the free market. Capitalism. When it works in your favor, great. But when it works against you, there’s a problem.”
“You don’t understand,” she whines.
“I understand very well.” And soon you’ll understand me.
I stand and push in my chair, my hands wrapped around the top of the ladder-back. “I’m not a man to be trifled with, Mrs. Bancroft. When my business interests are put at risk, I go for the jugular—not the tablecloths. Enjoy your breakfast.”
Zé, who was standing a few feet away, catches up to me. “Anything?”
“She confirmed what we already knew. They’re not responsible for anything but the puke-yellow tablecloths. But we need to find out who is—I’d feel a hell of a lot better if we could locate the party planner.” People don’t just disappear. Even Valentina is beginning to think something happened to her.
“Keep your focus on security,” I mutter, “but when you have a minute, begin the process of ruining the Bancrofts and what’s left of their crumbling empire. Get Tamar involved and whoever else you need.”
“Define ruin.”
“Take everything. Everything. Make it hurt. Funnel the proceeds to charity. Something that feeds kids.”
I was willing to allow their business to bleed out naturally, but I’m tired of dealing with those fuckers. They’re done wasting my time.
51
LEXIE
We’ve been back for several days, and Rafael’s still on a post-launch high. The trouble in Boston aside, it went better than expected—much better. The reviews were glowing, and the press gushed all over Rafael and Valentina. Everyone loves a feel-good story, and those two, young, hip, and beautiful, teaming up to modernize the staid Port industry is the very best kind of story.
“Are you asleep?” Valentina asks, nudging my foot with hers.
It’s Sunday, Marco’s away, Rafael is at Sirena, and the two of us are lounging on opposite ends of the sofa in her apartment.
“No. Just thinking about the US trip. Have you had time to process it all?”
