“I’m too big to be picky.” He sat back, bracketing the back of the bench with his long arms. “You work in a lot of kitchens before this?”
“I kept house for a couple of ladies, worked in a bakery. Took care of . . . an older guy.” She frowned as she realized she hadn’t thought of Matthias in days. “How’d you end up a mechanic?”
“I flunked the rocket scientist test.”
“Yeah, that one sucked.” She felt his hand against the back of her neck, not grabbing or stroking, just resting there. “You do a good business?”
“I do okay.”
She shouldn’t ask this, but she couldn’t resist. “You seeing anyone?”
“I’ve been spending my quality time with your bike.” He tugged at one of her curls. “You asking because you’re interested, or because I kissed you?”
“Now you’re doing the girl thing.” She turned her head and caught him watching her. “What?”
He stroked his thumb across her cheek. “Right now, with the sun on your face, you look about fifteen.”
“I’m over twenty-one.” Probably. She’d never know for sure. “Want to card me?”
His mouth hitched. “I’m thirty-two.”
That surprised her. “I figured you were late twenties, tops. What else are you hiding from me?”
“No wife, no girlfriend, no kids, no transmittable medical problems.” He ran his thumb along the outside of her bottom lip. “I hit Clancy’s maybe once or twice a month, and yeah, when I can afford it, I like French food just fine. But I’m more a pizza and beer guy.”
“Want to be my baby daddy?” When he slid closer, she went still. “Uh, kidding.”
He smiled a little, pressing his thumb down to part her lips. “We could get together sometime, Cupcake. Practice making one.”
Rowan barely felt the cold now. “You’re moving pretty fast. I think I’m getting friction burns on my face.”
Whatever she said, it acted like a pail of icy water. Meriden jerked away from her, and abruptly got to his feet.
“Sean?”
“I have to get back to the shop.” He turned and looked over her head. “You know where you are, how to get to your place from here?” When she nodded, he shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “All right. See you around.”
“What did I say?” Confused, Rowan watched him stride off. “What the hell did I say?”
“Good evening, Mr. Taske.” The manager of the club stopped by his table for his customary fawning session. The faint flush on his cheeks betrayed his nerves. “It’s very good to see you back.”
What he meant was that he hadn’t been able to charge anything to Taske’s account at the club since August. Since Taske was their wealthiest member, this was a cause for alarm.
“I was out of town for a few weeks.” In reality he had spent the last two months roaming the American Midwest, trying to locate more Takyn breeding centers, but he saw no reason to share that information. “Business.”
The manager’s head bobbed. “May I do anything to make your evening more enjoyable?”
“I thought it odd that I received no messages from the club while I was away,” Taske said. “My lockbox is also empty.”
One of the privileges of belonging to the outrageously expensive private club was having access to the private offices and receptionist services. It afforded Taske an extra measure of privacy, a way for his Takyn friends to contact him at once without compromising his identity, and a reasonably effective buffer between him and the men who would not hesitate to kill him, cut him to pieces, and sell him like spare parts out of a chop shop.
The manager seemed dismayed not to have an explanation for him. “I’m not aware that any messages came in for you, sir, but I’ll check on that at once.” He hurried off.
Taske’s waiter, a well-educated Brit who had relocated to the States to make his fortune, arrived with his dinner.
“Onglet aux échalottes et aux frites,” he said, his accent as perfect as the drape of the snowy napkin folded over the sleeve of his uniform jacket.
“Only you can make steak and french fries sound elegant, Morehouse,” Taske said.
“We must endeavor to earn our four-star rating, sir,” the waiter returned smoothly. He straightened, and then stepped back a discreet distance as a young woman in a black mink coat sauntered up to Taske’s table.
“Samuel, I thought that was you.” She brought her face down to kiss the air beside his right cheek. “Where have you been? Harrison has been beside himself with worry.”
Taske glanced past her to the Urnharts’ table, where the Honorable Harrison Urnhart the Third was dozing over a half-finished bowl of soup. “So I see.”
“You should have mentioned you were leaving the country.” Mimi shifted slightly to block his view of her octogenarian spouse, and to allow the front of her mink to reveal a little more of her sequin-encrusted gown, and the generous amount of flesh trying to escape it. “We might have tagged along with you. So where did you go? Paris? Geneva?”
“Here and there.” He tried to imagine her tramping alongside him through the backstreets of St. Paul and Detroit, or spending the night curled up on an air mattress in the back of his cargo van. At least the mink would have kept her warm. “Do give your husband my best wishes.”
Mimi understood she was being dismissed, but she hadn’t married the seventeenth richest man in the United States by being easily discouraged. “Why don’t you join us? I know Harrison would love to hear all about your trip.”
“Perhaps another time. Morehouse.” The waiter appeared at his side. “Would you arrange a bottle of wine from the private stock for Mrs. Urnhart and her husband?”
“Of course, Mr. Taske.” Morehouse regarded Mimi. “Madam, may I show you and your husband the reserve list?”
“Oh, very well.” She pouted one last time before she led the waiter back to her table. When they arrived, her elderly husband woke with a start, listened to her and Morehouse for a moment, and then spoke sharply to Mimi. She flounced down in her chair and began sullenly stabbing her salad with her fork.
Several of the other men dining alone in the vicinity of Taske’s table silently raised their glasses to him. In the club, that was the equivalent of a standing ovation.
Morehouse soon returned. “Mr. Urnhart sends his sincere appreciation for the wine and your patience, sir. May I refresh your orange juice?”
“No, thank you.” Taske knew his food and beverage choices often bewildered waiters, who were accustomed to far more sophisticated orders from the champagne and caviar set. He also doubted any other club member wore leather gloves to eat, or brought their own drinking glasses and utensils. But Morehouse, who had served British gentry since leaving school, never blinked an eyelash, no matter how bizarre Taske’s requests seemed. “An evening paper would be—” He stopped as the waiter gently set a brand-new copy of the Times at his elbow. “I see you’ve anticipated me again. I’m becoming dreadfully predictable, aren’t I?”
“Not in the least, sir,” Morehouse assured him. “I believe the last time you visited, you asked for USA Today.”
Along with his exquisite manners, the waiter had a subtle sense of humor that was lost on most of the club’s members. “Morehouse, you do know that eventually I’m going to try to lure you away from this place,” Taske warned him.
The waiter cast a discreet eye around them before he replied. “You have but to say the word, Mr. Taske, and I will type up my notice immediately.”
“Consider the word said.” Samuel grinned at Morehouse’s delighted expression and turned his attention to his meal. Mimi remained sulking at her husband’s side, but halfway through his onglet, the manager reappeared. Now he was visibly perspiring, which was never a good sign.
“I do beg your pardon, Mr. Taske.” The manager drew out a handkerchief, mopped his forehead, and tried to smile. “It seems several of your messages were accidentally placed in another club member’s lockbox. The mistake was only just now discovered by myself and the administrative office manager—”
Taske no longer had the time or patience to listen to his babbling. “How many is several?”
“Fourteen, sir.” He drew a long envelope out of his jacket and placed it on the table as if it were leaking nitro. “On behalf of the management and the entire staff, I deeply apologize for the delay in delivering them to you. I will personally assure that this never, ever happens—”
“Be quiet.” Taske opened the envelope and quickly sorted through the slips inside. They were all from the same contact. “I’ll need an office, a computer with Internet access, and a secured landline.” He rose, using his cane as a brace. “Now.”
As the manager led him across the club’s dining room and through a maze of halls to the row of business offices, Taske checked the dates of the messages. Vulcan had been trying to contact him every day for the last two weeks. Then he noticed the fine notes at the bottom of three slips that indicated the number of repeated calls with the same message and the times. Over the last three days Vulcan had phoned to leave the same message every four hours.
The manager ushered him into a large office with an impressive-looking computer array and a neatly appointed desk. He hurried around to switch on the computer before dodging out of Taske’s way.
“Is there anything else I can do, sir?”
He glanced up. “Go.”
“Yes, sir.” The man actually bowed a little. “Thank you, sir.”
Taske removed his gloves—wearing leather while typing on a keyboard made him clumsy—and sat down. The computer appeared to be new, but from the minute traces of dust and matter lodged between the keys he knew it had been used. He focused, composing his thoughts before he placed his hands on the keyboard.
