Chapter 1 - The Stranger Who Heard Everything
Clare Bennett pressed one hand against her chest and whispered, “I need a boyfriend by tomorrow.”
The man behind her stopped turning a black signet ring around his finger.
A tiny letter M was carved beneath the stone.
Jenna saw it.
This was no ordinary stranger.
Clare Bennett had made bad decisions before.
She had once cut her own bangs at nineteen, accepted an unpaid internship because the recruiter had used the phrase “career-defining opportunity,” and dated a man for three months after discovering that his idea of emotional vulnerability was admitting he disliked cilantro.
But begging her best friend to locate a boyfriend within twenty-four hours had to rank near the top.
“I’m serious,” Clare whispered.
Across the polished walnut table, Jenna Wallace stared at her.
A sugar packet remained frozen between Jenna’s fingers.
“You need a what?”
“A boyfriend.”
“By when?”
“Tomorrow.”
Jenna slowly put down the packet.
The executive dining lounge occupied the forty-second floor of a Manhattan hotel where Clare occasionally met clients from Bennett & Rowe, the public-relations firm where she worked.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline.
White flowers sat between crystal glasses.
Everything around Clare suggested control, money, and sophistication.
Clare possessed none of those things at the moment.
She pressed her palm against her pink dress and tried to breathe normally.
“Daniel is bringing Vanessa.”
Jenna's expression changed.
There it was.
The real problem.
Daniel Mercer had been Clare's fiancé until eleven months ago.
Three weeks before their wedding, Daniel had announced that he needed “space to understand himself.”
Apparently, he had found himself very quickly.
Specifically, in Vanessa Bennett.
Clare's cousin.
Tomorrow night was Clare's grandmother Eleanor's seventieth birthday dinner at the Halston Grand ballroom.
Daniel would attend because the Mercers and Bennetts had spent two generations pretending they were one happy extended family.
Vanessa would attend because she had recently become Daniel's fiancée.
And Clare would attend because her mother had informed her that absence would “look bitter.”
“I can survive seeing Daniel,” Clare said.
Jenna gave her a skeptical look.
“I can.”
“Sure.”
“I can survive Vanessa.”
“Less convincing.”
Clare leaned forward.
“What I cannot survive is my mother seating me beside Aunt Patricia while everyone watches to see whether I cry.”
Jenna winced.
That part was believable.
Clare's mother, Diane Bennett, loved her daughter.
Unfortunately, she loved appearances almost as much.
When Daniel left Clare, Diane had not asked whether Clare was sleeping.
She had asked whether Clare planned to return the wedding gifts before people began talking.
Tomorrow would be worse.
Vanessa had spent months displaying her engagement online.
Daniel would probably arrive wearing the expression of a man who expected Clare to remain emotionally parked exactly where he had abandoned her.
“I just need someone beside me,” Clare said. “One dinner.”
“You don't need a boyfriend. You need armor.”
“Exactly.”
“And you expect me to find human armor before tomorrow?”
“Preferably tall.”
Jenna almost smiled.
Then her gaze shifted past Clare.
The smile disappeared.
Clare noticed.
“What?”
“Don't turn around.”
Naturally, Clare turned around.
At the neighboring table sat a man alone.
Mid-to-late thirties.
Dark wavy hair.
Trimmed stubble.
Navy suit.
No tie.
He wasn't looking at them now.
That somehow made him more unsettling.
Two men in dark suits stood near the private elevators twenty feet away. Neither appeared to be hotel security.
Clare turned back.
“Who is he?”
Jenna looked horrified.
“You seriously don't know?”
“Should I?”
“That is Vincent Moretti.”
The name meant something even to Clare.
Everybody in Manhattan had heard it.
Moretti Holdings owned restaurants, construction companies, shipping interests, nightclubs, and enough commercial property to make newspapers periodically publish diagrams attempting to explain the Moretti family's influence.
There were also rumors.
Plenty of them.
Clare had never known which were true.
She knew only that people lowered their voices when discussing Vincent.
His father had built an empire balanced somewhere between legitimate business and Manhattan legend.
Vincent had inherited it after his father's death.
Then he had apparently transformed it into something colder, cleaner, and considerably more powerful.
“That's him?” Clare whispered.
“Yes.”
“He looks…”
“Don't finish that sentence.”
“I was going to say normal.”
“He isn't.”
Behind Clare, a chair moved.
Jenna's face lost color.
Footsteps approached.
Slow.
Unhurried.
Clare kept her eyes on Jenna.
The footsteps stopped beside her chair.
“Your friend is right.”
Clare looked up.
Vincent Moretti stood beside her.
Up close, he was more intimidating.
Not because he looked angry.
Because he didn't.
His expression was perfectly controlled.
“About what?” Clare asked.
“You don't need a boyfriend.”
His eyes held hers.
“You need armor.”
Jenna stared at the table.
Clare's heart accelerated.
“You were listening.”
“You weren't whispering as quietly as you thought.”
Embarrassment burned across Clare's face.
“Then I apologize for interrupting your lunch.”
“You didn't.”
Vincent glanced at the empty chair beside Clare.
“May I?”
That was not what she expected.
Clare looked at Jenna.
Jenna's expression clearly said absolutely not.
“It's a free country,” Clare said.
One corner of Vincent's mouth moved.
He sat.
“Daniel Mercer,” he said.
Clare stiffened.
“You know him?”
“I know of him.”
That distinction sounded ominous.
“And Vanessa Bennett?”
“My cousin.”
“I gathered that.”
Clare folded her arms.
“Mr. Moretti, if you're enjoying my humiliation, I'm afraid you've arrived at the boring part.”
“Vincent.”
“What?”
“If we're discussing your romantic emergency, Mr. Moretti seems unnecessarily formal.”
Jenna kicked Clare beneath the table.
Clare ignored her.
“Fine. Vincent. Why do you care?”
He studied her for several seconds.
No flirting.
No smile.
Just assessment.
Then he said it.
“Take me.”
Clare blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“To your dinner.”
Jenna nearly dropped her water.
Clare stared at him.
“You're offering to pretend to be my boyfriend?”
“For one evening.”
“Why?”
“Because you need one.”
“That explains my motivation.”
This time he did smile.
Barely.
“What do you want?” Clare asked.
“Dinner.”
“You already have lunch.”
“Tomorrow's dinner.”
Clare searched his face.
Men like Vincent Moretti did not volunteer for humiliating family functions because strangers looked desperate in restaurants.
“There has to be something else.”
“There is.”
Clare waited.
He reached into his jacket and placed a business card on the table.
Only a name and telephone number appeared on it.
VINCENT MORETTI.
No company.
No title.
“I need to attend the Halston Grand tomorrow night anyway.”
Clare's stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“Business.”
“With whom?”
“That would be the part that isn't your concern.”
She pushed the card toward him.
“Then no.”
Vincent glanced at it.
“You haven't heard my rules.”
“I don't need to.”
“Three rules.”
Clare should have stood.
Instead she asked, “What rules?”
“First, if someone asks how we met, we met six weeks ago at Bellini's.”
Jenna finally spoke.
“That's your restaurant.”
Vincent looked at her.
“One of them.”
“Of course it is,” Jenna muttered.
“Second,” Vincent continued, “if we're together tomorrow, you don't apologize for bringing me.”
Clare frowned.
“Why would I?”
“You will understand when we arrive.”
“And third?”
His gaze returned to her.
“If I tell you to leave, you leave immediately.”
The humor disappeared from Clare's face.
“That sounds reassuring.”
“It is meant to keep you safe.”
“Safe from what?”
Vincent did not answer.
Clare looked at Jenna.
Jenna shook her head.
No.
Absolutely no.
Clare thought about Daniel.
Vanessa.
Her mother's disappointed expression.
The pitying relatives.
Then she looked at Vincent again.
“Why me?”
Something changed behind his eyes.
It lasted less than a second.
“I'll tell you tomorrow.”
That should have ended it.
Instead Clare picked up his card.
Vincent stood.
“Seven o'clock.”
“You don't know where I live.”
His eyes flicked toward her handbag.
“Clare Bennett. Senior account director, Bennett & Rowe. West Seventy-Fourth Street.”
Her smile vanished.
“How do you know that?”
“Your company handled publicity for one of my hotels last year.”
“Oh.”
A beat.
“That explanation was disappointingly legal.”
Vincent almost laughed.
Then he returned to his table.
Jenna waited until he was seated.
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Possibly.”
“That man is dangerous.”
“You don't know that.”
“Clare.”
“I need one evening.”
“You needed a date. Not the human equivalent of a federal investigation.”
Clare looked at the business card.
She told herself she could still refuse.
She didn't.
At 6:55 the next evening, Clare stood inside her apartment wearing a black cocktail dress she already owned.
At 6:57, the buzzer sounded.
She opened the building door remotely.
Three minutes later, someone knocked.
Clare expected Vincent.
Instead, an older man in a charcoal suit stood outside holding a long garment box.
“Ms. Bennett?”
“Yes?”
“This is for you.”
“From whom?”
“You know.”
He handed her the box and walked away.
Clare carried it inside.
She lifted the lid.
An emerald evening gown lay beneath white tissue paper.
No jewelry.
No extravagant gift.
Just the dress.
A note rested on top.
Wear whatever makes you feel strongest.
This is only an option.
—V
Clare stared at it.
That was unexpectedly considerate.
She chose the emerald dress.
At exactly seven-thirty, a black sedan stopped outside.
Vincent stepped out.
His gaze moved over Clare once.
Not possessively.
Not crudely.
He simply said, “Good choice.”
“You bought it.”
“I selected it.”
“There's a difference?”
“You chose to wear it.”
Clare looked at him.
That sentence stayed with her.
The drive downtown was quiet.
Halfway there, Vincent handed her a folded sheet of paper.
“What is this?”
“Our six-week relationship.”
Clare unfolded it.
First meeting: Bellini's.
First date: coffee.
Second: dinner.
Favorite drink: Clare—Sauvignon Blanc. Vincent—espresso.
Clare looked up.
“You researched my favorite wine?”
“You ordered it yesterday.”
“That's unsettlingly observant.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“And what occupation is that?”
Vincent looked out the window.
“Tonight? Boyfriend.”
Clare laughed despite herself.
When the car reached the Halston Grand, cameras waited outside.
Clare froze.
“What are reporters doing here?”
“Your grandmother's birthday isn't the only event.”
“What else is happening?”
Vincent didn't answer.
He stepped from the car and offered his hand.
Clare took it.
The effect was immediate.
Photographers started shouting Vincent's name.
Clare nearly pulled away.
His fingers tightened gently.
“Rule two.”
Don't apologize for bringing me.
She straightened.
Together they entered.
Inside the ballroom, Clare saw her mother first.
Diane's mouth fell open.
Then Vanessa.
Her cousin's smile vanished.
Daniel turned.
The color drained from his face.
Clare expected satisfaction.
Instead she felt something stranger.
Relief.
Vincent placed a hand lightly at her waist.
“Smile,” he murmured.
“For the cameras?”
“For yourself.”
Clare smiled.
Then she noticed Daniel wasn't looking at her.
He was staring at Vincent.
Fear replaced shock on his face.
Vanessa whispered something to him.
Daniel ignored her.
He crossed the ballroom.
“Clare.”
“Daniel.”
His eyes went to Vincent.
“What is he doing here?”
Vincent answered.
“Attending a birthday dinner.”
Daniel swallowed.
“With Clare?”
“Obviously.”
“You don't understand.”
Clare's smile faded.
“Understand what?”
Daniel grabbed her elbow.
Vincent's expression changed instantly.
“Remove your hand.”
Daniel released her.
“You need to leave, Clare.”
“Excuse me?”
“Now.”
Vincent stepped between them.
Daniel lowered his voice.
“You weren't supposed to bring him into this.”
Clare stared at him.
“Into what?”
Before Daniel could answer, a waiter approached Vincent.
“Mr. Moretti.”
He handed him a sealed envelope.
Vincent opened it.
For the first time all evening, his composure cracked.
Inside was a photograph.
Clare could see Daniel in it.
And beside Daniel stood Clare's father.
Vincent turned the photograph over.
Three words had been written on the back.
ASK CLARE'S FATHER.
Clare looked across the ballroom.
Her father was gone.
Then her phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number appeared.
DON'T TRUST YOUR DATE.
A second message arrived immediately.
ASK VINCENT WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR BROTHER.
Clare stopped breathing.
Vincent saw her face.
“What?”
She slowly raised the phone.
Before she could show him, the ballroom doors opened.
May you like
Her father stepped inside.
And he wasn't alone.
