can’t quite remember the name,” Max said faintly. “It might have been a color.”
“What color?”
“Hmm … red, maybe yellow.”
“Where were you?”
“The Theatre District?”
“You’re not sure?”
“I was half-pissed. We had drinks before at the top-floor lounge.”
The Theatre District was clogged full of hotels. But a hotel with a restaurant whose name was a color—red, maybe yellow—and had a bar on its roof?
“Golden.”
Max coughed.
It was mostly a tourist place, but the hotel had endured for more than fifty years and the lounge had its moments being hip and interesting, depending on the nostalgic whims of the NYC elite.
“Oh, damn. That’s my other line. Gotta go.” Max hung up abruptly but not unexpectedly.
Having flown into New York that afternoon from San Francisco, Trevor had grabbed newspapers at the airport, but other than glancing at the headlines in the cab, and answering a few pending emails on his phone, he hadn’t delved further.
Max, at least in this country, was not front-page news.
An internet search on Max yielded thousands of hits on an article titled “Financial Finagling” in the New York Tattletale. The author’s name was Peeps Galloway.
Talk about cheeky.
“Financial guru?” he muttered aloud as he read. “Since when?”
He had to shut his eyes when he reached the part about The Crown Jewel. Bloody hell, Max owned a hotel.
Clearly, their mother’s most recent husband was gullible as well as rich, as their father had indeed cut off his oldest son financially.
At least publicly.
Trevor forced himself to read the rest, wincing when he read his father’s title. He’d probably be getting a call from his secretary by tomorrow. Maybe even the old man himself. The heir apparent had indeed slithered away from several sticky situations, and yet again, it would no doubt be Trevor’s responsibility to shove the mess under the rug.
He’d officially become his family’s janitor.
Being the second son of the Earl of Westmore—who was related, by some convoluted and ancient way, to George III of England—Trevor had always known he’d have to make his way in the world. Nothing was going to be handed to him.
His brother would one day be the earl, and Trevor was largely superfluous. Like an insurance policy.
Frankly, Trevor had been relieved by his sibling’s departure for boarding school and had blossomed under Florence’s watchful, caring eye, even as Max fell in with a group of arrogant, troublesome boys who thought their future titles made them invulnerable.
The divorce hit him harder than you was a good excuse he got for his brother’s behavior. He worshipped your mother and doesn’t know how to cope without her. Or, Max has the pressure of the title on his shoulders.
During those days Trevor had resented being metaphorically shoved in a drawer and forgotten about, so he’d dreamed of becoming a teacher, then a poet, then a rock star. Thanks to Florence, he eventually learned to play to his advantages—athletic skill, a fair amount of charm, a strong dose of good sense and a trust fund to get virtually any venture started.
So, as his father mourned the loss of his marriage and Max had taken advantage of his distraction, Trevor had decided he’d run his own business. He’d be in control. He’d escape family obligations.
Not so fast, my boy.
Even after he’d left for America in his early twenties, he’d been dragged into Max’s troubles. He made excuses. He’d reasoned with his brother. Apparently, no one else could. When his business became financially successful, he’d bailed out Max of several money crises.
Trevor had always understood his actions reflected on the rest of his family, on the ancestry to which he was forever linked by blood. Max loved parties, women and being important.
There were whispers that Trevor was the better successor to the title. That Max would never grow up. Yet, unless the line of succession was somehow eradicated, they were stuck.
Max was more like their mother—flighty and unpredictable. But while she was kind and generous, Max was inherently selfish. He expected others to pick him up when he fell down. Even at an early age, he managed to blame the crayons on the wall or the snags in the tapestries on his “energetic” little brother.
Yet Trevor and Max were bonded by a single truth—neither of them wanted to become their father. The stoic earl. Distant, but devastated by his divorce.
So Trevor had learned discretion and discipline at the stable hand of Florence. Nobody had to explain his partying the night away with hot women, too many cocktails and getting his picture printed in some trashy rag as a result.
Thirty odd years after their home life had imploded, Max had never learned that lesson.
Maybe they all should have realized that the crayons on the wall would lead to lousy financial and business management, gambling debts and embarrassing questions by peers and friends.
Trevor used to be proud that his father looked to him to help his brother, to coach him out of whatever ridiculous mess he’d landed in. There was no real harm in him—other than to his own family. But wasn’t there a time to push the baby bird from the nest?
The intercom buzzed, and Florence’s voice floated out. “Your father’s on the phone.”
“Brilliant,” Trevor said sarcastically.
Project Robin Hood, Day Four
The Crown Jewel Hotel
A HOTEL SUITE’S BEDROOM wasn’t the strangest place Shelby had used as a temporary kitchen and prep area, but it was damn close.
With a metaphorical shrug for the oddities of her job and praying the health inspector didn’t make a surprise visit, she removed another tray of mini crab cakes from her warming ovens as the door swung open.
“I’m in with Banfield,” Calla said, poking her head around the door.
Shelby set the hot tray on a trivet. “That was fast. You’ve barely been here fifteen minutes.”
Calla grinned. “I’m pretty impressed myself.” She pursed her lips. “‘Course it helps that he’s a dense and raving egomaniac.”
“It sure can’t hurt. Is Victoria here yet?”
“Just walked in.”
“Make sure she stows her sharklike tendencies. She might
