Taste of Vengeance Page 4

  “You came?”

  He seemed so surprised. As if he were flattered.

  Don’t fall for it, Gia.

  He stood, came around the side of his desk, and stuck out his hand.

  “We haven’t officially met. I’m Damien Thornwell.”

  “Gia Santella.”

  His handshake was firm. His eyes warm. He pointed at a chair in front of the desk.

  “Please have a seat.”

  I gestured at the paperwork strewn over his desk. “Is this a bad time?”

  He laughed, and his face lit up. His eyes crinkled as he did. “No, no, I was just killing time until our appointment.”

  For a split second, there was an uncomfortable silence. He looked like a nervous teenage boy. He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. Then his boyish awkwardness was gone, and he became the confident, imposing presence I’d seen at his house. But this time there was a competence and intelligence that had me intently leaning forward to listen.

  “I’ve studied your new developments quite intensively over the past two months,” he began. “The Miami project was impressive. The residents there have done a one eighty. One fellow I spoke to, Chad Nolan, told me how he’d been saving opioids up and was going to kill himself the night your staff members—you call them scouts?” He paused and looked at me.

  “Yes, scouts.”

  He continued. “The night your scouts approached him, he’d made plans to end it all. At first, he brushed them off. But he said they treated him with such regard that he stopped and listened. When they told him they had handpicked him for a spot in the new development and were really hoping he could contribute his cooking skills, he thought he was dreaming.”

  “It must have been Liz and Doug.”

  Damien snapped his fingers. “Yes! Those were the names he mentioned. He said they were respectful, compassionate. Made him feel like a regular person.”

  “Good.” I nodded. I didn’t let just anyone become a scout. I usually interviewed and approved the candidates myself. I only hired the best of the best. They were the face of my company and they needed to be firm, empathetic, and savvy.

  Ethel’s Place was about treating everyone with respect no matter what their circumstances.

  “When I met this guy, I would’ve never guessed he’d spent the last decade on the streets,” Damien said. “He was full of life and enthusiasm, and man, oh man, could he cook. He whipped up a salmon mousse that melted in my mouth.”

  I smiled. I’d read about Nolan in the reports my Miami staff. That wasn’t news. What was news was that a man as successful and busy as Damien Thornwell had taken the time to fly to Miami to see my project in action. I hated to admit it, but I was impressed.

  Damien wanted to invest in Ethel’s Place. A lot of money. An astonishing amount of money. I kept waiting to hear the catch.

  Throughout the conversation, he was polite and professional—the perfect gentleman. He was gracious enough not to mention that I’d fled his party, and I again wondered what the hell had gotten into me that night.

  “Do you think you might want to work with us?” He seemed nervous. I didn’t get it.

  “What do you get out of it?” I asked. “It’s not like you need to make any more money.”

  He chuckled. “I’ve heard you were blunt. I see that was an understatement.”

  I looked away.

  “Hey,” he said. “It’s refreshing. Trust me. I like it.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  He nodded, his smile disappearing. “Here’s the thing. I have a reason that I want to be involved in this. It’s personal, but if you need to know in order to move forward, I can explain.”

  A personal reason?

  I bit my lip watching him. His body language screamed sincere. His posture was open and expansive. His eye contact was steady. His palms faced up and out on the desk. I raised an eyebrow.

  “My father left us. He was an addict. He ended up dying homeless on the streets when I was ten.”

  When he finished, I waited a second before standing.

  “Let’s do this.” I said.

  He sprang to his feet. “Brilliant! Let me call in my partner, Richard Zimmer.”

  He grabbed the phone and spoke in a low voice. “Rich? Can you drop by my office? I want you to meet Ms. Santella. Thanks.”

  A few seconds later, the door opened. It was the jack ass who had gripped my arm the other night. My eyes narrowed. But he acted like he’d never seen me before.

  He was wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt. Prick thinks he’s Zuckerberg or something.

  “Richard Zimmer. The pleasure is mine. I’m sure Damien has told you, we’re both very excited to move forward and partner with you. I’ll be handling the financial details. Damien is the creative. I’m the numbers guy. We can chat more later.”

  Like Damien, he oozed a winning combination of charisma and professionalism. Even in jeans. At least Damien wore a black button down dress shirt with his jeans and shoes shined to a high gloss.

  I’d expected a couple of cocky assholes, but both men were deferential and charming as fuck—if, of course, you overlooked Rich Zimmer asking me if I liked it rough. For now, I’d give him a pass and chalk that up to him confusing me with the women who’d arrived after me. In the light of day, he was solicitous and professional.

  The buzzer on Damien’s desk startled me.

  “Damien? Is Rich there with you?” A female voice.

  “Yes, Sandy. We were just finishing up with Ms. Santella.” He raised an eyebrow at me as he said it.

  “Tell Rich his two o-clock is here. And by the way, your flight leaves the airport in fifteen minutes.” She sounded irritated.

  “I’m on my way.”

  There was no way he was making it to the airport in time. I felt the thumping vibration of a helicopter before I heard the actual sound.

  He reached for my hand. “Deal?”

  I nodded, and we shook. “We’ll talk.”

  He grabbed a blazer and hit a switch. A panel opened revealing a staircase that probably led to the roof and the helipad. “Rich will walk you to the elevators.”

  Then he disappeared, the door closing behind him.

  I followed Zimmer to the bank of elevators. He pressed the button and turned to me. His polite façade had vanished.

  “We’ll be in touch.” As he said it, I caught something in his eyes—something that told me he remembered exactly who I was and that it had been my knee that clocked him in the junk at the party.

  I stepped onto the elevator, and he watched me until the doors slid closed.

  10

  Special Delivery

  Sydney gripped the leather steering wheel, easily navigating the tight winding road from the Bay up into Oakland Hills. The sleek Porsche hugged the curves and accelerated powerfully with the slightest pressure from the ball of her foot. The top was down and her hair whipped around her. The morning air smelled like salt water and pine trees.

  The G-Wagon in front of her was going even faster than she was and she fully expected to round a corner and find it had gone off the steep side of a cliff, and rolled into trees and houses below.

  But Zimmer apparently knew this road well. Even though the larger, top-heavy vehicle drove faster, he handled the drive like a race car driver.

  Sydney made sure to stay far enough back so they wouldn’t recognize her in the rearview mirror, but figured she was safe since she’d used a car service last night to get to the party. As far as they knew, she was carless during her visit to the city.

  She’d rented a Porsche so she’d fit in with the crowd she was running with.

  At nearly the top of the hill, at a stop light, Zimmer’s vehicle made a left. She followed as it turned off the main road into a heavily forested area.

  Her Porsche was a little more obvious now. She slowed down, but still kept close enough to see the G Wagon’s tail lights taking the corners in front of her. If they pulled over for s
ome reason, she’d have some explaining to do.

  When it was too late, she saw that the G Wagon had pulled into a wide circle driveway set back from the road. Keeping her head facing forward, she drove past. She pulled into a driveway a few houses up and turned around. There was a wide shoulder at that part of the road, so she parked and made her way on foot back to the circle drive.

  Hearing voices as she got close to the driveway, she hid behind a tree.

  After a few seconds, she found a gap between some trees and bushes where she could see the men perfectly. They knocked on the door of a long rambler set back from the street.

  She dialed Dan. “Hey. Can you search an address?” She reeled off the number on the sign near her.”

  “Stand by.”

  A bush blocked her view of the person who opened the door. She could hear voices but couldn’t make out what was being said. Both Zimmer and Thornwell returned and opened the trunk of the G Wagon.

  What the fuck was going on?

  The entire back was filled with boxes of diapers. Sydney frowned. Would they be delivering contraband pills or drugs in diaper boxes? Maybe. She’d heard of stranger methods than that.

  But as she thought this, a nun in full habit stepped into view. Two other nuns followed. The men handed each woman a box of diapers and grabbed two each themselves. The group headed back toward the house. Sydney could see several faces peeking out of windows watching the whole thing.

  “Dan?”

  “It took a while to find out what it really is,” he said. “It’s registered to a shell company that is owned by Sky Enterprises.”

  Sydney waited.

  “It’s a safe house where abused women and their children can live indefinitely. A group of Catholic nuns run it.”

  “Fuck me.”

  “What? Are the nuns up to no good?” There was the hint of laughter in his voice.

  “Just wasting my time, that’s all,” she said. “There’s a missing woman and I’m watching two good Samaritans deliver fucking diapers.”

  “Good Samaritans named Damien Thornwell and Richard Zimmer?”

  “Yes.” She hung up.

  Thornwell slammed the lid of the trunk just as Zimmer started the engine.

  Sydney raced back to her Porsche. But by the time she was back in her car and headed down the road, the G Wagon was gone.

  11

  That Girl

  January 2002

  His pathetic mother hovered in the doorway like the waste she was. He could smell the alcohol on her breath from across the room.

  “That girl …” she trailed off.

  His irritation grew. “What about her?”

  “The neighbor girl?”

  “She’s lived next door my entire life. Her name is Lila.”

  His mom looked a little confused and then smiled. “Oh, yes, Lila.”

  “I’m busy, spit it out.”

  He was on edge, every fiber of his being waiting. What would his mother say next? Dead. Or alive.

  “She was found in that shack, you know the one up there.” Her eyes rose as if he could see through the garage wall to the woods behind the house.

  The shack that Lila and he had played in once when they were little. They’d played doctor. He’d unzipped his pants and she’d run away. Maybe that was when it had all gone wrong. But this time when he’d unzipped his pants, she hadn’t been able to run. She’d been bound and gagged. He’d watched as her eyes grew wide with terror.

  He was disgusted by her fear so he punched her in the face until she passed out. Then he took off his stocking cap mask and had his way with her. When he left, she hadn’t been moving. It had been an entire day. Her parents had come over last night asking if his mother had seen her. He’d stayed in the dark doorway of his room, listening. After, his mother had come and knocked on his door. He’d stood on the other side, holding his breath. She tried the door, but the new lock held strong.

  “They were asking about that girl? Lila. She never came home last night.”

  He remained silent.

  “I didn’t tell them she came here asking for you.”

  He closed his eyes and mouthed the word, “Fuck.”

  “I didn’t tell them you did a load of laundry in the middle of the night. That had blood on it. I didn’t tell them any of that.”

  After Lila had knocked on the door and his mother had turned her away, as she’d been told to do, he’d snuck out his window, donned a mask and knocked her out with a board on her way back to her house. He’d bound and gagged her and carried her over his shoulder up to the shack that was in the woods above their two homes.

  Now, he waited to hear what the verdict would be. Dead. Or alive.

  “Well, anyways,” his mother said, “I wanted you to know that they found her. She’s at the hospital right now. That poor girl.”

  He heard her softly crying as she walked away.

  12

  Midnight Spin

  I downshifted and revved the engine of my Ferrari, but the beige sedan in front of me didn’t get the hint. The driver drove right by the wide gravel shoulder instead of pulling over and letting me pass. I wasn’t in a particularly big hurry—I didn’t have to be at Damien’s place until two—but come on, this baby was built for speed. Throttling her back to fifty-five on a beautiful sunny Northern California day was a damn shame.

  Inching my hood across the line, I saw a semi-truck heading my way. Resigned, I eased up on the gas pedal and looked over at Django, sitting ridiculously upright in my passenger seat, his long pink tongue hanging out, panting.

  “What? Don’t judge me. I’m nervous, okay?” I said. “What if you and his dog don’t get along? Then what? You better be on your best behavior. No barking. No drooling. No humping.”

  Damien had texted me at three in the morning asking if Django and I could come to his house for lunch today. I waited until morning and said yes.

  Finally, the sedan turned off.

  When I stepped on the gas to pass another Sunday driver, Django whined. I didn’t know about other dogs, but I knew mine sensed tension and could pick up my moods. When I was sad, which, let’s face it, had been a majority of last year, he curled up beside me as close as he could get. When I was excited, he zipped around the loft, tail tucked between his legs, doing donuts and skidding into corners.

  “It’s okay, boy.” After I safely pulled back into my own lane, I reached over and scratched his chin. “I won’t do anything stupid. Not with you in the car, at least.”

  Besides, my car was only a year old and I planned on keeping it around for a while. I’d special ordered it after I smashed up my last Ferrari. I’d come back from Italy, blind with grief over the murder of my boyfriend, Bobby. I’d taken her for a midnight spin down the cliff-hugging curves of Highway One in Big Sur. The tree had come out of nowhere and I will swear on my mother’s grave that I hadn’t realized I had a death wish until the moment my airbag went off. It was only then that an overwhelming sense of relief enveloped me as my world faded into a soft, pillowy whiteness.

  When I woke, the doctor told me I was lucky to be alive. The other side of the road was a sheer three-hundred-foot drop into the ocean.

  I wasn’t so sure about being “lucky,” but I knew that I was so relieved to be alive I cried big fat sloppy tears. Guess I didn’t really want to die.

  When I made arrangements for a new car, I decided not to do red this time. Red wasn’t turning out to be a lucky color for me. My last two red Ferrari’s had ended up totaled. First one was demolished when my doorman went joyriding and the brakes went out and sent him and the car plunging over a cliff in the Marin headlands.

  This time I went low-profile. I’d gone for the matte black Ferrari 812 Superfast. I’d also had them paint the wheels the same gunmetal black matte and remove all chrome. Anything shiny? Gone. I was low-profile as fuck in this 800-horsepower wet dream.

  Well, as low profile as you could be in a 3,300-pound sports car that can hit a t
op speed of 211 miles per hour.

  Despite the car’s power, Django was not impressed. He curled up on the black leather passenger seat and put his chin on his paws, his eyelids fighting to stay open as he watched me. He was a bit neurotic.

  For the past few weeks, he’d barely taken his eyes off me, following me around from room to room. It was my fault. I’d left him at home too often lately, running off to Mexico and then the Mediterranean.

  I’d read that rescue dogs had abandonment issues, even if you weren’t leaving them home while you traveled around the world like I’d been doing. But Django, a pit bull-lab mix was not your traditional rescue dog. I hadn’t picked him up at a rescue organization, but I’d sure as hell rescued him. From some Tenderloin junkie who was kicking him in the head.

  “Don’t worry, Django. I’m not going anywhere again without you.”

  I hoped I was telling the truth.

  “At least not soon.”

  I didn’t want to lie. Even to the dog.

  For the first time in a long while, I was filled with hope. And excitement.

  I hadn’t seen Damien since he’d stepped out of his office and onboard a helicopter a week earlier. I had to admit I’d been thinking about him ever since. At first I tried not to. But after speaking with him in his office, I’d been impressed. He was charismatic. Smart. And had a great smile and sense of humor.

  But I wasn’t quite ready to call today a date.

  I now knew Silicon Valley techies did business deals during seemingly pleasurable activities. Like the sex party.

  I leaned over and cranked up the volume on my speakers. Led Zeppelin was blaring and I was singing along at the top of my lungs. I smiled at Django and patted him on the head.

  He just gave me a doleful look and settled back down to nap.

  13

  Thunder & Lightning

  Sydney headed back to the beach house to feed Blue.