Coached to Death Page 8

  Maks smiled sweetly at me. “It’s called Pure White by Creed. I purchased it in Toronto. I wear it only on the most special occasions.”

  “It’s very nice,” I said, feeling a teensy bit flushed.

  “Speaking of nice, you, Catherine, are breathtaking.”

  A full blush bloomed across my face. I did a small curtsy, and Maks chuckled.

  “So, where y’all goin’?” Gilley asked, letting the full scope of his southern accent out to play.

  “Pierre’s,” Maks said. “I’ve reserved the upstairs just for us. It’s quite cozy.”

  My eyes widened, and I knew that Gilley was also surprised. Pierre’s was basically the place to see and be seen in the Hamptons. And I’d been to the lounge upstairs before. It was indeed lovely, but it was also almost always jam-packed. I wondered how Maks had ever convinced Pierre to let him reserve it exclusively for us. “That sounds perfect,” I said, taking Maks’s arm when he offered it. Looking over my shoulder as we left the house, I said, “Bye, Gil. Don’t wait up.”

  “Bye, Cat. I won’t. You two have a good time.”

  Stepping out onto the drive, I noticed a large, burly-looking character standing next to a gorgeous silver Rolls-Royce. Internally, I was very impressed. Outwardly, I tried to keep calm and act like this sort of seriously hot date happened to me every weekend. “Hello,” I said to the man, who bowed formally to me before reaching to open the door to the back seat. “Ma’am,” he said, with another bow.

  “This is Frederick,” Maks explained. “My driver.”

  “Lovely to meet you, Frederick.”

  I got into the car, and Maks came around to the other side. Immediately after getting in, he said, “May I offer you some champagne?”

  It was then that I noticed the ice bucket set neatly near Maks’s feet and the bottle of Dom chilling in the bucket.

  “Yes, please,” I said. I’m not a big drinker, but I do love a good glass of champagne.

  Maks poured me a glass and handed it over. I took a small sip and shivered with delight. It was divine. “Sipping champagne always makes me feel like I should be celebrating something.”

  “Aren’t we?” Maks said, clinking his glass to mine.

  “Celebrating?” I asked. “What?”

  “Well, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I’ve recently acquired the perfect space for my local office here in the Hamptons. And the landlord is gorgeous.”

  I felt a little breathless and took another sip to cover for it. My God, this man was charming. And sexy. And he smelled amazing.

  It all made me feel a little less wicked about shaving above the knee.

  “Speaking of office space, I received your e-mail with the scanned application, and everything looks in order. I should have the lease agreement ready for you to sign on Monday morning.”

  “Excellent,” Maks said, his rich voice reverberating through my senses like a warm breeze on a cool day. “I’d tell you to e-mail it to me, but I’d rather come by your office and sign it in person.”

  “I’ll be there by nine.” And then I thought better of that. “No, wait, I have a client at nine. Best make it any time after ten.”

  “Done,” Maks said with a clink to my glass. “I hope your other client isn’t anyone interested in renting my office space.”

  “Oh, no. It’s not a potential tenant. It’s a client from my other business.”

  “What other business?” he asked, and I could see that he was genuinely curious.

  “I’m a life coach, and she’s a client.”

  Maks seemed surprised. “A life coach, really? That’s fascinating. How did that become your profession?”

  “Well,” I said, “it’s been a pretty circuitous route. I founded a marketing and brand-management company when I was in my early twenties that ultimately grew into a very successful business. It was headquartered in Boston, but I also had branch offices in D. C., L.A., and Austin, and about five hundred employees nationwide. But when the right offer came along, I decided to sell the firm and take up the next chapter in my life.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t start another company,” Maks said.

  “I thought about it. And I also thought about consulting, but I really wanted a break from the corporate world. I wanted to dig into life, you know? And since I’ve always been good at giving advice to people—something that runs in my family, actually—I decided to focus on the personal touch by offering my wisdom to real people struggling with real-life issues.”

  Maks nodded, and in his expression I thought I detected a hint of approval. “You must have a packed schedule,” he said. “I would think everyone would want advice from you.”

  I felt that blush touch my cheeks again, and for the first time, I looked away from Maks and fidgeted with my skirt. “Not really. At least, my schedule isn’t exactly packed yet, but I’m very new at this. Still, I have a feeling that it’ll happen. It’ll just take some time.”

  “I have no doubt you’ll be very successful, Catherine,” Maks said sweetly.

  I looked back up at him, grateful for that. “Thank you.”

  “Sir,” said Frederick. “Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to make you aware that we have a situation on our hands.”

  I studied the back of Frederick’s head. Situation? I thought. What could that be about?

  Maks leaned forward and said, “What is it, Frederick?”

  “The car behind us, sir. It’s been following us turn for turn since we left the house.”

  Maks and I both turned to look out the back window. All we could see was a pair of headlights about three car lengths behind.

  “Do you know who’s back there?” Maks asked his driver.

  “No sir. It’s a black sedan. That’s all I’ve been able to see.”

  “Well, that’s odd,” I said.

  “Are you quite positive they’re following us? And perhaps not merely going in the same direction, Frederick?”

  “Quite positive, sir. I’ve already made two turns away from Pierre’s just to see if they would continue on, and they’ve stuck to us like glue.”

  I turned to Maks. “Should we be concerned? I mean, what if they’re drug dealers or something, and they want to take your car?”

  The corner of Maks’s mouth quirked. “I don’t think we have to worry about drug dealers, stealing this car, Catherine, but we should take care until we reach the restaurant. Frederick, how much farther?”

  “Just a mile, sir. Straight down this road, and there’s enough traffic that I don’t think we’re in danger.”

  “Should we call the police?” I asked.

  “We could, but what would we tell them?” Maks said. “No, I think it’s best to continue on to Pierre’s and keep to an area with a lot of people. Besides, it may simply be a case of curiosity. This car is a rarity, even for the Hamptons.”

  I sat back in my seat and tried to breathe a little easier. It probably was exactly that. Just some curious car enthusiast who wanted a better look at the Rolls.

  In short order, we arrived at Pierre’s, and I was relieved to see it crowded. Frederick pulled forward just past the valet, parked, and exited the car quickly, his hand noticeably reaching inside his blazer to his waistband.

  It was a move that reminded me of some of the crime shows I’ve seen, where the cop takes up a defensive posture and places his hand on his weapon.

  And that thought made me very nervous indeed.

  “Should we get out?” I whispered.

  Maks pasted a calm smile on his lips, but there was a hint of concern in his eyes. “Sit tight just for a moment,” he said. “Frederick will make sure we’re secure.”

  I watched through the windows as the driver moved to the trunk and looked toward the road. He seemed to be following the progress of a car as it passed the restaurant, and he waited a few extra beats before opening up Maks’s door for him. “They’ve driven past,” he said.

  “Excellent,” Maks said, reaching for my hand
to help me out of the car.

  I had to scoot over a bit, but I managed, and the second I exited, I realized how close Frederick was standing to us. It was a distinctly protective move, as if he was using his great bulk to shield us.

  “Shall we move along inside?” Maks asked me casually.

  “Yes, please.” I wanted that very much.

  We headed inside, and almost immediately upon entering, I had a delightful moment when I nearly ran into Kendra Tillerman—one of the women from Heather’s party who had given me the cold shoulder on numerous occasions. She seemed quite taken aback by my appearance, but that was nothing compared to the look on her face when she spotted the man holding my hand. And she held that look even as her head swiveled from her husband—who closely resembled Severus Snape in both facial features and hairstyle—and then back to the gorgeous Mr. Grinkov.

  I wanted to take a picture of her face, frame it, and mount it on my wall, but instead I sighed happily, tilted my nose in the air, and walked right on past her.

  As we approached the stairs leading up to our private area, Maks leaned in and said, “Did you know that woman?”

  I smiled wickedly. “The one with the big, round, ogling eyes and the greasy-looking husband?”

  Maks smiled too. “Yes. That’s her.”

  “Nope. No idea who she was.”

  Maks turned to look over his shoulder. “She seems to know you.”

  “Why? What is she saying?”

  “I don’t know, but she’s pointing at us and talking to the people around her.”

  I sighed happily and stopped at the foot of a man, wearing a white coat, black vest, and matching tie who appeared to be guarding the stairs. “Maybe she’s jealous,” I said to Maks. “I mean, look who I’m with and look who she’s with.”

  “Hello,” said the waiter. “I’m sorry, folks, but the upstairs is reserved for a private party tonight.”

  “We’re the party,” Maks said, extending his credit card to the young gentleman.

  The waiter read the name on the card, nodded courteously, then stepped to the side and waved us upstairs. “After you, Mr. Grinkov. Ma’am.”

  Maks once again offered me the crook of his arm, which I was grateful for, because of the rather tall heel on my pumps, and we headed up. The stairs were lit with small votive candles on either side of a deep burgundy runner, and I marveled at the extra touch of romance at our expense.

  When we crested the landing, I was delighted to see it lit mostly with candles and decorated with overstuffed white couches, off-yellow side chairs, oriental rugs, and dark walnut side tables. On almost every available surface there was a small vase with three perfect white roses. A table for two had been set in the center of the space. It was covered in an embroidered tablecloth, gold-rimmed crèpe-colored china, and what appeared to be sterling-silver flatware. The centerpiece was a gorgeous flower arrangement of more white roses and greenery.

  I turned to Maks and shook my head. “You realize you’ve set the bar ridiculously high, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, this is the date to which I’ll compare every other date I ever have. You’ve ruined it for any future man who may want to take me out to dinner.”

  Maks’s eyes flashed with something unexpected—I couldn’t say exactly what, but in a moment that flash was replaced with something playful and perhaps . . . smoldering. He reached for my waist and pulled me to him, and at first, I thought he meant to kiss me, but then I realized he had grabbed my left hand and was holding it high. “Catherine,” he said as his hips (and, in turn, mine) started to sway in rhythm to the smooth jazz filling the room. “I haven’t even begun to ruin you.”

  I let out a breath and chuckled. “Do you even get how sexy you are?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “I have my moments.”

  We danced in a small circle in front of the large picture window for a few moments, saying nothing but simply looking at each other. And I really liked looking at Maks—his square, masculine features, the obvious care he took with his appearance, the firm muscles of his bent arm causing his blazer to ripple, and, of course, that glorious aftershave. It was all a little intoxicating.

  “Would you like a cocktail?” he finally asked.

  “I would,” I said, but it came out a bit strained. I cleared my throat. “Sorry. Yes. A cocktail would be perfect.”

  Maks danced me expertly over to the bar, where the same waiter who’d greeted us at the stairs stood sentinel.

  “What’s your name?” Maks asked the waiter.

  “Jacob, sir. What may I prepare for you this evening?”

  “Jacob, the lady will have . . . ,” Maks paused to give me a questioning look.

  “I’d love one of your lavender martinis,” I said, remembering the drink I’d had here a few weeks before.

  Maks considered me curiously. “That’s an interesting choice.”

  “If you’re nice to me, I’ll let you try a sip,” I said coyly.

  He pulled me a little tighter to him, his eyes casting that same smoldering glow. “I’ll be nothing but nice to you, Catherine.” To Jacob he said, “Vodka. Neat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jacob moved behind the bar, and Maks and I continued to dance cheek to cheek around the room. It was silly, and fun, and romantic, and I thought that if the rest of the evening was anything like this, then I’d never ever want it to end.

  Maks’s blazer made a small vibration against my abdomen, and I said, “I think your phone is buzzing.”

  “Let it buzz,” he said. “I’m presently occupied.”

  I sighed happily and closed my eyes as we continued our sashay around the room.

  “Catherine Cooper?” someone said loudly from the stairwell.

  Startled, I pulled back from Maks and peered over toward the stairs. Seeing who’d called my name caused me to abruptly stiffen, and then I felt all the blood drain from my face.

  Detective Shepherd stood at the landing, accompanied by two uniformed officers.

  “Oh, no . . . ,” I whispered.

  Maks was looking too, and I saw him turn toward the police approaching us, then look sharply toward the window. Reflexively, he tightened his hold on my waist and my hand, and my gaze pivoted to the window as well.

  Below, I could see Frederick, leaning up against the Rolls-Royce, his hands clearly cuffed behind him, while yet another uniformed officer was making his way through the driver’s pockets.

  On the hood of the Rolls was a gun, and I had two immediate thoughts. One: what the hell was Maks into that his driver needed to carry a gun, and two: if the police wanted Maks, and/or his driver, then why had they called my name?

  My answer came almost immediately when Shepherd reached our side and took me by the arm. “Come with me please,” he said.

  Maks moved as if to block Shepherd, but an officer stepped right up to Maks and physically pushed him back. For an incredibly tense moment, it looked like things were going to escalate, and in a panic, I said, “Maks! Don’t. Please.”

  Maks’s gaze swiveled to me, his expression cold and unreadable, but I could still feel the tension wafting off of him.

  Meanwhile, Shepherd had me spinning around and was pulling my arms behind my back. “What’s happening?” I said desperately.

  “Catherine Cooper, you are under arrest for the murder of Heather Holland. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney . . .”

  Shepherd’s voice droned on with the Miranda rights ringing in my ears. I closed my eyes when I felt the cold steel of handcuffs click shut tightly against my wrists. I was then marched forward, with Shepherd still speaking loudly, and we made our way down the stairs.

  Somehow, I managed not to trip, but that might have been because I was staring so hard at the ground as the shame and humiliation of the moment rose up to meet me head on.

  I felt like I might f
aint again, so I simply focused on taking each step carefully and inhaling and exhaling deeply.

  At last we reached the ground floor, and Shepherd finished the last words of the Miranda speech. When he stopped speaking, I realized the entire restaurant was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

  I happened to glance up only once and was immediately horrified to realize that every single person in attendance was staring at us with mouths agape and wide eyes.

  Well, all except for one woman. Kendra sat at a table nearby, and she was smirking for all she was worth. And then, to add to the humiliation, Kendra began to clap. It was one of those slow, deliberate claps, but other than my heels on the floor, it was the only other sound in the restaurant.

  I hung my head to hide the tears that had formed and begun to leak down my cheeks, while Shepherd marched me out the door.

  Chapter 5

  I was processed through the East Hampton police station, which is housed in a larger building than you would expect.

  For the record, there is no way to prepare for a mug shot. If you’re ever unlucky enough to pose for one, you’ll want to fix your hair and wipe the mascara smudged on your cheeks, but there’s no mirror and no sympathy from the officer behind the camera. As he told me gruffly, “It’s not a glamour photo, lady.”

  I was then given a gray cotton top and matching bottoms—they reminded me of scrubs—and my personal belongings were taken and cataloged, then shoved into a large, clear plastic bag. I asked them to be careful with my new dress, but truly, I knew that even if they hung it inside a garment bag, I’d likely never wear it again. It would always be the dress I was wearing at my most humiliating moment.

  After I changed, I was placed in a room and handcuffed to a table. That was uncomfortable for several reasons, but the worst was that I had to keep bending my torso forward to wipe away my tears, which brought me far too close to the stained and dirty tabletop. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to stop crying.