Sizzle in the City

Know thy enemy as thyself, right?

Calla was going to offer to interview him for a piece in City Magazine, one of her regular clients. The fact that she’d already secured their quarry’s cooperation made Shelby all the more grateful for her friends’ support.

“You’re the best,” she said to Calla as she added sprigs of lettuce and lemon wedges to decorate the platter.

“Remember this was all my idea,” her friend said saucily as she flipped her wheat-colored ponytail over her shoulder and turned to leave.

Moving to follow, Shelby caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the wall. She’d made an effort to tame her wavy, shoulder-length auburn hair into artful curls. Only to have the thick mess turn frizzy beneath the heat of the ovens and the sweaty job of hauling all her equipment from her delivery van to the penthouse suite.

Oh, well. She had Calla and Victoria to dazzle Banfield. As long as she kept him and his guests fed, she’d done her job for the night.

Balancing the serving tray in one hand, she managed to open the door and ease her way into the main room without dropping anything.

At least until she hit what felt like a solid wall. With a grunt of frustration, she watched two precious crab cakes tumble toward the floor.

She was going to go broke saving her parents from financial ruin.

“Pardon me,” said a silky, English-accented voice.

“No, problem,” Shelby said, quickly glancing up, “I’ll—”

She nearly dropped the entire tray as she got a look at the man attached to the exquisite voice.

Wavy black hair, blue eyes like the depths of the deepest sea and a trim physique encased in a meticulously tailored charcoal-colored suit.

Damn. Why doesn’t my hair look better? was the only thought she could manage.

“I’ll keep this one if you don’t mind,” he said.

Which one? Me? She was nodding before she’d even completed the thought.

As he straightened, she noticed the crab cake he was raising toward his mouth.

Wow, he has a great mouth, too.

Raising her gaze to his eyes, a jolt of sheer pleasure shot through her. She got the sense that he understood the effect he had on her. Or else he really liked crab cakes.

After chewing and swallowing, he sipped his cocktail—a martini with two olives—then smiled.

Though his eyes were steady as a rock, there was something fun and alluring about his smile. As if the rest of his perfection was hard-won. As if rebellion was natural and refinement a birthright he’d reluctantly accepted.

“You’re the chef?” he asked.

“Yes,” she managed to answer without stuttering.

“More crab than fluff,” he commented. “Rare at these gatherings.”

“I grew up in Savannah. It’s a Southern-pride thing.”

“Well deserved.” He angled his head. “And the accent fits. I got the sense you weren’t from here.”

“You, either.”

He nodded. “I was raised in London.”

“That fits.” Given the nature of her undercover plan, she wondered at the quirk of fate that had presented her with a flesh and blood James Bond in the middle of her investigative adventure. “Shelby Dixon,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Trevor,” the man said as he enveloped her small hand in his elegant, long-fingered one.

Their gazes held as they shook.

Shelby would have been happy to let their closeness linger for the next decade or two, but she was supposed to be working, both as a caterer and a spy.

A quick scan of the room noted several new guests. Max had assured her there would be no more than fifteen, but they were pushing twenty-five. Good thing she’d made extra hors d’oeuvres.

Drooling over the luscious Trevor No-Last-Name-Given would have to wait.

And why hadn’t he given a last name anyway? Wasn’t that odd? He was probably Max’s bookie or possibly something even more nefarious. But by the time she’d considered this and turned to question him, he was walking away … directly toward Max.

The hotel owner-swindler welcomed Trevor with a hug and a broad grin.

“Well, damn,” Shelby grumbled.

She should have expected this turn, as no man could be that perfect and have moral standards, too. If he was Max’s investment recruiter, it was easy to see how the lousy crook had gotten his hands on thirty-million bucks. There was probably a line outside his office door to get in on the next deal.

Guests were starting to come to her to get a crab cake, so she reluctantly tore her gaze from Max and Trevor and roamed the room with her tray. After a while, she retreated to the bedroom to load up again, adding prosciutto-wrapped grilled-chicken bites, as well.

She passed Calla chatting up the hotel manager and hoped her friend was getting insightful info to use in their quest to bring Max and his schemes down. Full bellies and a cocktail or two were secret weapons in getting people to talk incessantly. Maybe she should share that tidbit with law enforcement.

She found Victoria next to the windows of the twenty-ninth-floor suite and offered her appetizer selections to her fellow conspirator, whose eyes were uncharacteristically dazed.

“I love New York,” Victoria said, staring in Trevor’s direction.

“He has an English accent, too.”

Victoria’s eyelashes fluttered as her face glowed with pleasure. “Oh, my.”

“However …” Shelby said sharply, striving to bring Victoria back to her senses, “he seems pretty friendly with Max, so no matter how beautiful he is, he’s now moved to second on the list of suspicious characters in this room.”

“He’s number one in my book,” Victoria said, licking her lips.

“Helloo?” Shelby waved her hand in front of her friend’s face. “Revenge? Vigilante justice? Any of these concepts sound familiar? Max is Project Robin Hood’s Enemy Number One. He’s our Sheriff Nottingham, our Al Capone. And anybody who cozies up to him is an accessory simply on principle.”

“You’re right,” Victoria said slowly. She took a step in Trevor’s direction. “I’ll do some up-close and personal investigation.”

Shelby caught her friend’s arm. “Not so fast, Eliot Ness. I think observation is the best plan for now. Besides, I’ve already made contact.”

“So?”