of faked British crown jewels underneath our shop floor. Someone found out. It would make sense it was people who know us.”
Lilah shook her head, puzzling through what they already knew. “But Mrs. Beauregard said several times she and Max’s grandfather never told anyone after they buried the cache.”
“They did pull in an appraiser before they buried the fake crown jewels and the real rubies. Maybe the guy talked.”
“But he was a friend.” Lilah stopped, knowing full well it was futile to speculate. Mrs. B. and Max Senior might have said nothing, but it didn’t change the fact they brought a third person into the mix. Even someone with an innate understanding of when to keep his mouth shut couldn’t necessarily be expected to keep a secret over fifty years in the making.
“Has Reed run down the old appraiser?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Where is he, by the way?” Lilah meant the question as an innocent one, but instantly regretted the words at her friend’s sly smile.
“He had to go to the precinct. He said he’d be back later.”
“He’s nosy.”
“He’s doing his job.”
“His nosy job.”
“Lilah. This thing isn’t over. I’m glad Reed’s taken an interest in us. He’s committed to finding out who’s responsible and making sure we stay safe in the process.”
“I know. Damn it—” Lilah broke off, her ridiculous petulance fading in the light of the truth.
“Look. I know we’re in danger. And I know there’s someone out there who’d like nothing more than to remove us as a collective obstacle to getting what they want.”
“Which is why we’re going to stay one step ahead and figure out who this mystery person might be.”
“I’m sorry I wigged out over Steven.”
“I’m not.” Cassidy laid her bowl on the counter. “You’re not a robot. And hiding in here day after day or racing around town making deliveries doesn’t mean you can run from the past.”
“I’m not hiding.” At Cassidy’s wide-eyed skepticism, Lilah pressed her point. “Come on, I’m serious. I’m not hiding. This is our business and I want to see it be successful.”
“I know you do.”
“Then why the sudden accusation that I’m working too hard? Last time I checked, you and Vi clocked as many hours as I did.”
“We still find time for outside interests.”
“One week with Tucker Buchanan does not make you an expert on outside interests.”
At the mention of Tucker’s name, Cassidy seemed to come alive. Electrified from the inside out. “No, but it does make me see hearts and flowers everywhere I go. Which is why I suggest you hit on Detective Yummy as fast as you can.”
* * *
Steven DeWinter surveyed the quiet interior of his restaurant with a satisfied nod of his head. They were closed for lunch this week to manage the city’s annual Restaurant Week festivities and he had a full house scheduled for the night.
He smiled to himself as the previous evening came to light in his mind’s eye. They’d crushed it, with a packed house from five o’clock on. His sommelier had busted his ass, as well, securing several sales of some of their most expensive bottles.
It was a subtle fact Steven had learned his first year in business—people did love to spend when they felt they were being oh, so generous to the city’s homeless. Even if his only requirement for participation was a small portion of the meal. He did his part and gave his fair share to the food bank the event benefited, but the drink revenue was all his.
He glanced down at the receipts his manager had prepared, a dark cloud spoiling the good news from the dinner crowd even a few high-priced bottles of wine couldn’t assuage. The damn dessert revenue was still down.
He’d have to fire Wilhelm after this week was done. The guy did a decent soufflé, but his pastry crusts were thick as sand and about half as tasty.
A fleeting image of Lilah drifted through his mind, a quick shot of anger following on its heels. She’d been damn good. Better than he’d wanted to believe.
She’d also been his one weakness.
Her light-as-air mousse had flown off the menu and he still, even after all these years, had patrons asking about her Bavarian cream puffs.
His staff had been threatened to within an inch of their lives not to mention those same cream puffs could be had for a quick call across town to that damn warehouse hole she and her girlfriends now called a business.
Suddenly irritated, the triumph of the previous evening vanishing as if it had never been, he stomped toward the kitchen and the jovial voices of his prep team. He zeroed in on Wilhelm, the big man’s smile as wide as Texas as he mixed up a batter for his evening’s creation.
“Wilhelm.”
The man snapped to attention at the sound of his name, the smile fading in full. It was only when he belatedly realized his mixer still beat in heavy, thwapping circles that he shut off the machine. “Yes, sir?”
“Dessert sales were off last night.”
“I beg pardon, sir? We’ve got the small trios as part of each patron’s meal. I plated them myself last night. Everyone received a dessert plate.”
“We had very few add-on desserts.”
A quick slash of fear heightened the color in the man’s cheekbones as he pondered the criticism. “But we have offered dessert as part of the special menu for Restaurant Week, sir. I’ve used the desserts as a springboard for the fall menu and will be writing up the guest commentary. They were selected carefully to gain learning for fall.”
“And I’m focused on now. Today. Fall sales don’t matter to me if August sales are crap.”
Wilhelm grew quiet, his eyes wide with fear. Steven reveled in that look, the large man so stymied by common business sense he appeared on the verge of tears. None of his comrades in the kitchen staff were all that eager to help, either.
Further proof of their loyalty.
“See that you visit the tables personally this evening. I expect to see a difference in tomorrow’s receipts.”
He moved off, the quiet kitchen coming back to life with the rustle of pots as he headed for the main dining room.
Wilhelm needed to go. He toyed with firing the man on the spot, but common sense won out. They had a full set of reservations for three seatings a night through the end of the weekend. He detested the sniveling bastard but he needed him.
And he hated needing anyone.
Another shot of irritation speared through his midsection, cut off only by the hard buzz of his phone in his pocket. Steven dragged out the slim piece and nearly barked out a hello before he caught sight of the name on the screen. Pulse galloping, his throat was already dry as bones picked clean by vultures as he lifted the phone to his ear.
“DeWinter.”
“My place. Thirty minutes.”
“Of co—”
The phone had already clicked off before he could complete his sentence and Steven was oddly grateful for that fact. Conversations with the Duke were blessedly rare, but when they came it was better to take your lumps and move on.
As he dropped into the seat of his low-slung sports car five minutes later, the heat radiating around him like an oven, Steven DeWinter was forced to acknowledge the same thought in a matter of moments.
He truly hated needing anyone.