7

Maximilian
I’m nursing my second coffee, debating whether the eggs were the best idea, when a shadow falls over my table.
When I look up, I curse Marco because I think I must have drunk a lot more than what was good for me. Because there’s no way she’s really standing at my table.
Cadence Quiler, my elevator fantasy from last night.
Gone are the black dress, mascara under the eyes and the red river of hair. She stands at the table, hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, wearing a pair of loose pants, mock turtleneck and blazer, all in the unappealing colour of cement.
Same restaurant as last night, but she looks like a different person. Less warrior, more… human. Beautiful, sexy as hell human, but human nonetheless. I stare at her a little too long to be considered polite, just trying to remember if I said anything overly offensive. Like lawsuit offensive.
“I apologize for bothering you,” she says without an ounce of apology in her voice.
“No! No, it’s no bother.” I jump to my feet, wishing I could show an ounce of my game instead of reverting to my childhood dorkdom. “Sit. Please.”
There’s no sign of a smile as she takes the seat across from me. She didn’t track me down here to check on my hangover, but I have to try. “You were tempted by the pancakes, weren’t you?” I ask with an easy smile that belies my inner thoughts. “I really sold you on them.”
“No. That’s not why I’m here.”
“You sure? The eggs are pretty good too.”
“Then why aren’t you eating them?”
Because as good as they look on the plate, it wouldn’t compare to the nastiness of them coming back up. Thankfully, the verbal diarrhea seems to have vanished with my intoxication and I keep that opinion to myself. “Not as hungry as I thought I was.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “Or your stomach is queasy from the copious amounts of whatever alcohol you tried to drown yourself in last night.”
“Hey, we were celebrating,” I protest.
“Grown men who are hungover are such a turn-on,” she says sarcastically.
“Ouch.” I clutch my chest. “You wound me.” The corner of her mouth curves. If that’s all I’m getting, I’ll take that as a win. “So, mysterious lady of the night—what can I do for you?”
That might not be the best way to address a woman with her history. Hello, lawsuit.
Cadence’s mouth tightens as she pleats the corner of the napkin. “It’s what I can do for you, Mr. Stonee.”
My face falls. She’s here, not because I insulted her last night, but because of my name. My father.
I don’t know what’s worse.
“Max,” I tell her. “Mr. Stonee is my father, and you don’t want to be dealing with him.”
“Maximilian.” The way she says my full name is sexy. I want her to say it again—preferably in better circumstances.
“I can’t imagine you willing to do anything for me after my behaviour last night,” I say ruefully.
A hint of a smile curves her lips again but doesn’t meet her eyes. Even the small change gives her face so much character, taking it from blank canvas model beauty to attractive and interesting. “You did look like you’d been enjoying yourself.”

“My buddy Marco—he’s getting married this weekend, so I took him out to celebrate.”
Any trace of the smile disappears. “There are several gentlemen’s clubs around here, so I’m sure you enjoyed yourselves.”
“Nah.” I shake my head, rousing the headache again. “The Leafs played late last night so we drank cheap Scotch at a dive bar and watched the game. And then some soccer game from 2002 while Marco told me all about his wonderful new life and love. I found my way to my room,” I add. “In case you were worried.”
“I wasn’t. But I’m surprised you didn’t have a friend to help you.”
“Yeah.” I frown. “No. I had a solo trip last night. Not that it was a solo—not that it was a trip.” I stammer. Her smile is back and the sight of it relaxes me. I can’t stop staring at the curve of her lips, slick with pink gloss. “Jeez. Trust me, I’m usually a lot better than this.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Better at what?”
“Talking to beautiful women.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
The waitress arrives to put me out of my misery and smiles expectantly at Cadence. “What would you like?” I offer. “Coffee… I know you really want the pancakes…”
She shakes her head. “I won’t be staying.”
“Oh, c’mon. You took the time to track me down. The least you can do is have a coffee with me.”
“Tea,” she says reluctantly. “Green tea, please.”
The waitress refills my cup and as she walks away, my attention is grabbed by the sight of two uniformed police officers speaking to the maitre’d. “Huh. You don’t usually see that in these parts. Wonder what that’s all about.” The way Cadence stiffens in her seat is intriguing. “Or is that the reason you’re here?”
Her lips tighten. I noticed a wariness in her eyes, as well as a weariness when she sat down, but now, for a moment, she looks unbearably sad. “Novi Tate passed away last night.”
I suck in a mouthful of coffee and it threatens to erupt when I cough with surprise. “Really? That’s—you were with him at dinner. In the restaurant.”
“And that’s where our evening ended,” she says coolly. “In the restaurant.”
“Sure, but you—ah.” Pieces were clicking into the place. I’d heard rumours of Tate’s legendary infidelity, but not for many years. And when his third wife had died a few years ago, his image of a grieving widower was so convincing that I searched for the PR firm working with him.
None. He was that sad.
But men have needs, even ones in their eighties. I had no idea Cadence…
She said nothing happened. Even through the haze of too much Scotch, I remember her saying that.
And for some reason, I believe her. “What you’re trying to say is that I didn’t see you outside his room last night,” I offer.
“I wasn’t outside his room,” she snaps, gaze flicking to the police. “I was waiting for the elevator.”
“On the same floor of his room.”
Why am I pressing her on this? The most beautiful woman took the time to come and find me and I’m giving her grief? “It’s none of my business.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“But you’re kind of making it my business, aren’t you?”

Cadence rests her hands on the table, staring at her nails for a long moment. “Novi liked the companionship,” she says softly. “That was it. Nothing else.”
“It’s none of my business,” I repeat.
“If his family knows I was with him, there will be an investigation. They don’t trust me because of… other reasons. I don’t want to deal with the fallout from this if I can avoid it.”
I lean in as well. “This might sound crass, but… was he alive when you left?”

She closes her eyes and nods. “Asleep, but very much alive.”
“And you don’t think anyone will believe that.”
Her gaze meets mine. Last night I pegged her eyes as brown, or maybe hazel, but this morning, I realize they’re a cool amber colour. “You didn’t believe it.”
The waitress returns with Cadence’s tea, which gives me a moment to think about how to respond. Of course I didn’t think she did anything that would render him not alive—even as the ghost of her past career floats between us.
And that’s factoring in her worry over the rumours and speculation.
Facts can be worse than rumours.
“It’s not that I thought that,” I begin. “Circumstances being… it looks…”
“I shouldn’t have bothered,” she huffs and moves to stand.
“Wait.” I reach for her hand, and surprisingly, she doesn’t pull away from my touch. “I can’t seem to say anything right with you.”
“I don’t think I’m the problem.”
“You are for me,” I admit. “Not that you’re a problem… see what I do when you’re around? You’re… intimidating.”
“I’ve heard that.” She sounds sad.
“Your tea should be steeped by now,” I point out.
“I like it strong.”
“Duly noted. I’m sorry that you lost your friend. You were friends, weren’t you? You seemed close during your dinner. Not that I was watching or anything,” I add quickly.
“No, I definitely didn’t see you watching.” Her lips quirk for a moment but I can’t tell if it’s humour or disgust. Maybe both? “Thank you for your condolences,” she adds. “You can save them for the family. I assume you know his children.”
“I do.” I grimace. “And I can see why you don’t want to tangle with them. Sit down and let’s figure this out. What do you need from me?”
I’ve never felt much like the knight-in-shining-armour type, yet I can’t help but feel that way at the grateful expression on Cadence’s face as she takes her seat.
And then it vanishes as—
“Mr. Stonee?” I look up to see one of the police officers standing by the table.
I glance at Cadence, at her now blank expression, eyes cool as she glances up at the officers. “Uh, hello?”
“Sorry to bother you.” He sounds about as unapologetic as Cadence did when she showed up. “If you don’t mind, we need to ask Ms. Quiler a few questions.”
“Why would I mind?” I demand rudely. “You should be asking her if she has the time or inclination for you to bother her.” I slip neatly into the voice of Maximilian Stonee, son of Dalton Stonee of Moon Resorts. It comes so easily.
I hate it. I hate that I can do it so well.
The officer, a heavyset man with a buzz cut hiding a thinning hairline, takes a step back at my tone. “Yes, well—”
“Do you mind?” I ask Cadence, who stares at me with surprise. “If they take up your time asking you questions?” I turn back to him before she can answer. “What kind of questions?”

If I keep talking, Cadence won’t have to say a word.
“Novi Tate is dead.” The second officer looks like he steps off a football field and into a uniform and clearly missed the memo about subtlety and compassion when dealing with deaths.
Cadence inhales sharply as she covers her mouth with a shaking hand. She already knew, but I don’t think she’s acting.
It’s hearing the words for the first time that gets you.

I’m also not acting as I snort with disgust. “That’s not very compassionate, considering you must know Ms. Quiler is—was—a personal friend of Mr. Tate.” I tsk under my breath. “Did you run all the way over here to tell her that he passed away? Considering Ms. Quiler’s status and what she brings to the country in taxes alone, I would think our police force could handle this with the utmost respect, not little boys running over to tattle or gossip.”
The young one swells like a balloon ready to pop, but the first officer—the more mature officer—puts a hand on his chest like he’s done this before. “You had dinner with him last night,” he prompts, trying his best to ignore me.
“Well, I didn’t eat with the man,” I bluster. “My meal was with—”
“I did,” Cadence says over my blathering. “I had dinner with Mr. Tate.”
“That’s it?” I demand. “That wasn’t even a question. More like a statement of fact.”
“Max,” Cadence murmurs, her voice a warning.
“We need to ask about her whereabouts… after dinner.” The innuendo lies heavy in the second officer’s voice, and quite frankly, pisses me off.
I glance across the table at Cadence and slide my hand over hers.
“Well, then you came to the right person after all,” I say, with all my father’s iciness and my bravado. “She was with me last night after dinner.” I smile coolly at the officers. “Not that it’s any of your business. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish breakfast with my new friend without any further interruptions.”