Wendy Etherington - Sizzle in the City

“Well, I—”

The blonde who appeared in the doorway was the writer Trevor had met earlier. “Shelby, where’s—” She glanced at him before directing her attention to Shelby. “The guests are asking about crab cakes and lettuce wraps. You’d think these people hadn’t eaten in a week.”

“Free food brings out the animal in everybody,” Trevor commented.

“Nice,” the blonde said, pulling a tiny spiral notebook and pen from her blazer pocket. “Mind if I use that line?”

Trevor made an old-fashioned bow. “Be my guest.”

She blinked. “Hmm. Hot and polite.” She tucked the notebook away with the same efficiency in which she’d retrieved it. “More crab and wraps soon,” she said, pointing to Shelby.

“I’m bringing out the last tray now,” she said as the blonde backed from the room.

Shelby cleared her throat. “That’s my other friend, Calla—she’s a travel and lifestyle magazine writer.”

“So I heard. She attempted to interrogate me earlier.”

An uncomfortable expression crossed Shelby’s lovely face. “Interrogate? That’s an odd description.”

“But apt.”

There was certainly something unusual about this trio of beautiful women appearing in Max’s life, but he’d be damned if he could figure out what.

The title? Not likely. His father was hale and hearty and likely to hang around several more decades. And the status of dating the future Earl of Westmore didn’t hold quite the same cache in New York as it did in London. Film or sports stars got much more notice.

The ladies also didn’t seem after money. Good thing, since Max didn’t have any, and would likely have less after a few months in the hotel business.

Plenty of people were eager for any work they could get these days. Maybe these women were simply hungry. In NYC ambition was practically a sport, after all.

Yet he didn’t trust them—he didn’t trust anyone easily. Never had, even without The Max Episodes to reflect on. People had used him many times over in an effort to get access to his powerful family, so he wasn’t anxious to reveal too much to Shelby, no matter his attraction to her.

“You and your friends are quite a team,” he said as she tucked her phone away and went back to loading her tray of appetizers.

“We stick together.” She straightened with her tray resting expertly on her shoulder. “Much like you do with your friends, I bet.”

Trevor nodded. “Naturally,” he said, though he was embarrassed to acknowledge, even privately, that he didn’t have a huge group of friends. He had acquaintances, business partners and lovers, but not a whole lot in-between.

Well, other than family.

He had an avalanche of family.

“The crab-cake devotees await,” she said, heading toward the door, which he opened. She cast a glance at him. “This is the last of them, so I may need a discreet exit in a few minutes. Are you available?”

“Absolutely.”

She handed him a business card as she strode from the room. “Call me when you decide about that dinner party.”

He glanced at the card and sighed. A strawberry dripping in decadent chocolate sauce dominated the background. Shelby’s name and contact information were printed in black ink in the corner.

The idea of keeping his distance was a lost cause.

AT NEARLY MIDNIGHT, HER delivery van pulled into the hotel’s loading dock. Shelby and her friends moved her equipment and reflected on a successful, if somewhat frustrating, catering event.

The food—and service, thanks to Calla and Victoria—had been first-rate. The investigation had only led to more questions than answers.

Predictably, she’d run out of crab cakes and had to fill in with more chicken wraps and cheese-stuffed tomato skewers. She’d finished the party with luscious dark-chocolate truffles filled with raspberry creme. Max and his guests had loved every bite. She’d handed out cards by the dozens. Then, at some point, despite his promise to protect her from the crab-crazed crowd, Trevor had disappeared.

Poof, like a magician.

Or the longtime friend of a crook.

He was sneaky, no doubt about it. Somehow, while complimenting, flirting and getting all kinds of details about her, her friends and their motives, he’d avoided revealing his last name, his true relationship with Max or much of anything about his own business. “Transportation? Bah.”

For all she knew, he could be up to his gorgeous neck in trafficking—and she didn’t mean black-market seafood.

“Sister, we have bigger problems than the Beautiful Brit,” Calla pointed out. She handed over an armload of dirty serving platters. “I didn’t get a whole lot out of Max.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Victoria said drily, storing the last of the warming trays on the rack installed in the back of the van. “He’s a swindler. He’s an expert at deceit and misdirection.”

“But I’m a professional information gatherer.” Calla frowned. “He bragged a lot, which I expected, but refused to set up a time for my City Magazine interview, even though he’d agreed to do it.”

“Empty promises,” Victoria said.

“And,” Calla continued, “he never gave many details about his plans or his partners of this new venture, if there are any.”

“We did overhear the information about the investors’ meeting scheduled for next week,” Victoria reminded them.

“Investors for what, though?” Calla asked.

“Whatever his backup plan might be after he screws up this hotel thing.” Victoria dusted off her immaculate black pantsuit as she climbed out of the van. “It’s obvious he doesn’t have a clue about the business. I talked to him for three minutes and knew that much. And he had cold eyes, dismissive, arrogant.”

“I didn’t see that,” Shelby said, surprised by her friend’s assessment.

Victoria waved off her concern. “Not important. I’m just put off by the subterfuge of this whole thing. I prefer the direct route, as you know.”

Calla fisted her hand at her side. “We need to get invited to that investors meeting.” With a sigh, she sat on the tailgate of the van. “Somehow.”

Shelby heard her own frustrated reflection echoed by her buddies, but her regrets were more personal. She knew she should be focused on Max, but Trevor dominated her thoughts. She’d all but thrown herself into the man’s arms at one point. “Why did I blab to him like a starry-eyed gossip?”

Calla stared at her. “Max?”

“Trevor,” Victoria answered before Shelby could. “And you didn’t. You gave him your cover story.”

Shelby resisted the urge to sink onto the floor of the van. “And my business card, my last name and, oh, yeah, yours and Calla’s names and what you were doing at the party.”

“What we were allegedly doing,” Victoria insisted.

Shelby recalled the gleam in Trevor’s eyes—and not just the carnal one. “He knew we were up to something.”

“So?” Calla countered. “ He’s probably up to something, and Max definitely is. We’re going to find out what. Remember, to think like a shark, you have to swim with the fishes.”

Victoria planted her hands on her hips. “That metaphor is all wrong.”

“Do sharks even think?” was Shelby’s instinctive question.

“Don’t sharks eat fish?” Victoria added.

Calla waved her hand. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does if you’re the fish,” Shelby said.

“Which we are not.” Calla helped Shelby out of the van, then they closed the doors. “We are women, hear us holla. ”

“That’s roar,” Victoria countered.

Calla shook her head. “Trust me, it’s holla. I recently did a piece on urban slang.”