THE NOTE (Manhattan Nights #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

NOAH

PRESENT DAY

Manhattan, New York City

Friday evening

I found out there are worse things than being a dead man walking. And that’s being a dead man walking with no money.

I never thought I gave a s**t; I really didn’t.

But when the company you inherited was on the brink of collapse, and the life you’d known was slipping out of your hands, as a man? You only had two options to cope.

And I was already knee-deep into choice number one.

You could drink as much as you could take. Consider that choice checked.

Or you could f**k the most beautiful woman you could find.

And I thought I was close to doing that. But then the woman I’d found spoke.

Becky Callahan clearly never learned the beauty of silence, and as she sprawls in my hotel bed’s thousand-count sheets, half-naked, it is all I can do not to carry her off.

It’s still early evening, the sun barely set.

As a chilled sleet settles over the city of New York, I sit in the seat opposite the bed, my hands wrapped around a scotch, tuning out the pixie’s pleas to the sounds of Frank Sinatra on the stereo. I sigh.

“So, you’re, like, really rich, aren’t you?” The blonde sprite yabbers.

I blink. “I do alright.”

“The size of this hotel room tells me that you’re doing much more than alright. Just look at the size of that bathtub!” she exclaims, pointing a finger towards the tub. “You can fit three of me in there.”

Not with the size of that mouth.

I let Frank drown her out.

Truth is? I didn’t need Becky for the night. Just for the next few hours while I wait.

But that wait is over the second my cell phone rings, and I stroll over into the bathroom while Becky and Sinatra keep singing in the background.

I close the door behind me.

“Quinn here.”

“You sound like shit.”

I grunt. “G’day, Cynthia. Nice to hear from you, too. Please. Feel free to verbally kick my teeth. I may have some wounds that need salting, if you’re free tomorrow.”

“You sound like sexy s**t. Is that better?”

“Much.” I sit on the edge of that gigantic tub, the room swaying as the scotch works its seductive magic.

I give into it, needing it more than my next breath. Needing it more than I need a Becky b*****b or anything else.

I’ve been waiting for Cyn’s call all day, and I can’t wait any longer.

My two months is almost over, and if we don’t have a partner to invest in our latest deal, it’s a certainty: The Luxe Manhattan co-op building will go belly up and bring our company with it.

The scotch is still in my hand, settled on my knee. I sip from its dark edge, swallowing the bitter bite, still trying to calm down as I wait for my attorney to give me the news it took two months of negotiations to find.

I already know the answer is not going to be good.

I finally ask. “Have the Knudshorns called at all?”

She sighs. The sound is loud in the empty bathroom and I shift on the edge of the tub, wishing I could stick my head inside of the scotch glass. Cynthia at last responds.

“No. They’re like all the others. Disappeared. And trying to recover after Chris Jackson and Jackson Enterprises’ indictment for fraud and money laundering.” She scoffs. “As if we knew he was defrauding every damned company on the East Coast. Including us.” She pauses. “You’ve been asking about the Knudshorns a lot lately. Anything new going on with them?”

“Not particularly.”

Other than the fact that they backed out of partnering with us for the only deal I need to keep Quinn Real Estate afloat. Just before signing the contract.

Without another investor to finance the debt we took to buy The Luxe’s building, we’re on our own. We’ll have to pay the debt ourselves.

A subtle detail I don’t tell my company’s top lawyer.

And Cynthia exhales, her raspy voice tight, taking on that same schoolmarm strict tone that I know so well. I batten down the hatches for the barrage of scolding to come.

“‘Not particularly’? That’s quickly becoming your favorite two words. Seems you’re not particular about anything these days. Except for the why’s, when’s and where’s of how to get your d**k wet.”

“Come on, Cyn.” I sigh immediately, a migraine circling the edges of my head. “I’ve been having a s**t day already. Don’t even start.”

“I didn’t start with you, Noah. And that’s the problem. I didn’t start when you came off the plane two months ago half-drunk. I didn’t start when you showed up completely bombed, smelling of scotch at your brother’s engagement party. And I didn’t start yesterday when you snapped at another client. Now I could start with you today. But then I’d have to finish…with the better part of my heel up your ass.”

She bites the words off like a morsel that’s hard to chew.

I know she means it; she’s tried to break her foot off in my arse before.

But today is the last day I need to hear the tiny lawyer’s lecture. The Knudshorn news is just another nail in the coffin, just another stake in my grave, as my company teeters on the edge of total collapse.

I pick up the scotch, swallowing another mouthful as I grimace. “Who told you I was into that sort of kink? Thought that was still a secret.”

“As much of a secret as the fact that you’re being a complete jackass?”

My childhood friend was never one for flowery niceties.

A silence enters the room that thickens by the second, and I’m tempted to argue with Cynthia. But I know she’s right.

When we moved here to Manhattan from Sydney thirteen years ago with mum, Cynthia was my source of sanity as an awkward Upper East side drama queen.

An auto-industry heiress with more money than God, she’d been the only kid I knew who could put up with the Quinn family and all the s**t that came with it. The only person I knew willing to deal with my overbearing, empire-owning grandfather, screwball mother and a bunch of rumors about our family piled as high and far as the Manhattan Lasik-operated eye could see.

Not to mention three unruly Quinn boys.

And she was a saving grace now.

Why she chose to work for the Quinn Real Estate company, I would never know. But as chief attorney, she’d saved the company more times than I could count.

Saved it from lawsuits. Saved it from scandals.

Saved it from the three selfish brothers who ran it.

And the one she’s speaking to now is the worst of them all.

I shake my head, pinching the bridge of my nose, the urge to get as pissed as possible returning with renewed vengeance.

“You’re right; I’m a jackass. I hear it’s clinical. I expect the doctor to administer pills and injections as soon as he can see me.”

“Tell him to throw in extra vaccination for the prevention of ‘rabid assholery’ while he’s at it, and you’ve got a deal.” She chuckles. “Now you want to tell me what’s been on your mind?”

“Other than the normal existential dread that comes with running a multi-million dollar company?” I sip at the scotch’s edge. “Life is just peachy. Unless…you count the fact that my brother fumbled two of my last three deals. And I’m wiping up after his arse every time he makes a boo-boo on an account.”

Cyn sighs, her tone going tight. “Noah, Jase isn’t you.”

“You’re damn right he’s not me,” I snap. “If he was, he would have paid more attention and seen those deals for what they were: Total bullshit.”

“There’s a reason he always wanted you to be CEO. Even though he’s the oldest,” she presses. “You’re best at this job. You’re the best at selling real estate. He knows it; even your grandfather knew it. That’s why he left you the company.”

“Yeah, you mean he left me his mess.” I teeter-totter on the edge of the tub. “Mom’s no use to anyone. Lachlan’s a practical pup. And Jase is too busy chasing his hard-on for Mindy to keep his mind on the job.”

“Sounds like someone’s jealous…”

“Jealous? Of who? Jase?” I scoff. It couldn’t be any further from the truth.

Truth was? Quinn Real Estate is one of the top real estate firms in the world. But my brothers don’t seem to give a s**t.

I wonder if they would, if they realized the danger we were in. If they realized our lavish lifestyles could languish in the blink of an eye.

Realized that this upcoming wedding and its white doves and buttercream cake were nothing but a distraction from driving our firm to the top of Forbes…where it belonged.

And where it may never be again.

I shake my head. “Marriage is for f*****g dreamers. Because you’re dreaming if you think the damned things work.”

“I don’t know.” Cyn answers. “Look at some of those women on those 90 Day Fiancé’ shows. If you match up with someone rich, you get to throw on a dress, stuff your face with some overly-frosted cake and then wait for a shitload of money to fall in your lap all of a sudden. Sounds like my kind of dream.”

“Sounds like prostituting to me.”

“Oh, please. The only part missing from your interactions with women is the money. You dispense a couple of orgasms, blow a kiss and run away. Sounds like turning tricks to me.”

Cynthia’s screwing with me at this point. And she’s right to be.

I should have never let Jase take this deal in the first place. I should have known.

But her passive jokes still awaken new thoughts in me, and I stand from the edge of the bath, running a thumb along my jaw to work the tension that’s knotting below the skin.

Prostituting aside, the only tricks that are turning are the wheels in my head.

No one comes into a shitload of money all of a sudden. Unless they’re entitled to an inheritance.

And it was to my luck (or un-luck) that one of the richest men in Manhattan is getting ready to leave his.

Fate would have it that that rich man is my father.

Within seconds, I have a plan to pay off the Quinn company debt. My fingers clench together in a fist, and my scotch glass slides to the bathroom floor, smashing, amber liquid sloshing everywhere.

I ignore it…just as Cyn yelps on the other end of the line. “Jesus! Noah, what the hell was that?”

But I can barely hear over the sound of my heart racing, the beat too loud. Hysteria bubbles under the surface of my skin and before I can belt out the truth, I reach for the bathroom door, ready to fling the damned slab aside, the sound of glass crunching under my Christian Louboutin loafers.

I know what I need.

“Cyn, can I call you back tomorrow? I need to check on something.”

But I don’t want for her to answer before I hang up. I’ll hear an earful about that later.

I sling on my jacket, heading for the hotel room’s door.

Becky’s shouts and Sinatra’s croons cry over my shoulder, but I barely hear them, my brain centered on getting ahold of one element—and one element only.

My father’s watch. His heirloom.

And the key to saving Quinn Real Estate Enterprises.

I walk right out the door.

SOPHIA

Friday evening

There’s nothing like the smell of eviction notices in the air to ruin a nice Friday night.

It’s bad enough that I’m running late for my late shift and missing a sock. My alarm clock didn’t go off on time and I’m so wiped from last night’s shift that my late Saturday morning nap lasts a hell of a longer than it should.

I fell asleep with an imprint of my unused vibrator against my cheek.

Not that I’ve been able to use it these last few days or nights, anyway.

I’m way too tired for even simulated s*x.

My usual late-night painting session turned to a marathon around four in the morning, and fourteen hours later, fresh from my overactive nap, I’m left scrambling out of my front door, keys dangling from my thumb, hair half piled in a dark knot on top of my head, I suddenly wish I had.

I glance at the bright pink notice on my door, ripping it from the surface. It really isn’t an eviction notice. But it is the second warning my landlord’s given me, and I know the next one will be the last.

I flip my middle finger towards the door. And with my paint-stained nail still stuck in the air, I hear the sound of a door swinging open behind me.

I hear a voice next.

“Wood paneling do something to piss you off there, Soph?”

It’s the sleepy sound of my coworker Drew’s voice behind me, and normally, I’d shoot a joke right back, but eviction notices tend to make people a little ragey, and instead I stalk down the hall, hair a mess, stockings half-split, my giant purse that could double as a duffle bag slung over my shoulder.

I shoot another finger in his direction.

“Oh, eat a d**k, Drew. I’m not in the mood.”

“Then why are you even showing up to work?” He calls over my shoulder. “You look like you’re half-dead. I’ve seen question marks with better posture.”

I sigh, spinning in my ballet flats. My gaze lands on him. “As you can see, some of us don’t have roommates anymore. So some of us need every dime we can get.” I hold up the eviction warning. “Behold, ‘Exhibit A.’”

The dark-haired Adonis in the doorway frowns, his pale blue eyes turning to ice. His eyes flit to mine. “I get it, Soph. More than you know…” He trails off, the humor dimmed in his now dull eyes. “But if you walk into The Alchemist and show them that you’re being an ‘Exhibit B,’ it might make your day a living hell. You know that fucker Rick is on a power trip. My advice? Don’t give him any more mileage than he needs. Let him stall out on his own anger for once. You wouldn’t want to risk it, would you?”

I bite my bottom lip. “No, of course not.”

He nods, swinging the door almost shut. I call out after him.

“My bad, Drew, for the verbal daggers. I was a little quick to throw digs, I know.”

“Hey, it isn’t a normal day now without you telling me to eat someone’s d**k or fly off a freaking roof. For the record: I pick the latter, if given a choice.” He flashes a million dollar smile at me, prompting me to do the same. “I’ll see you at The Alchemist tonight… I’m on shift tonight at the bar.”

I start to respond to that, but the high-pitched, sexy sound of a “Drewww” from inside his apartment draws his attention, and I get the hint, heading in the other direction, latent fear tearing me up from the inside out.

I manage not to exhibit any signs of being an “Exhibit B” all the way to work via the hot and barely ventilated subway. I even make up it to the still chilled sidewalk and inside the building before the s**t hits the fan.

Nancy, the co-owner and the only person who keeps me sane, is nowhere to be found again. And our general manager Rick is out at the front of the restaurant-pub.

For the fortieth time.

The wanna-be pretty boy who, rumor has it, came from pizza-slinging roots never misses an excuse to show his cleanly-shaven face and the second I walk through the front door, the mask he normally shows to our customers is completely off.

Openly sneering at my appearance, his green eyes travel the length of my body. His blond hair almost looks sandy against his pale skin and his gaze combs over my toes, my hips, my breasts, and finally to my face at last. He crosses his impossibly thin arms.

“You’re late,” he scoffs in my direction.

“And you’re not the host of this restaurant, though you keep acting like one. So I guess we’re both off our game today.” I turn to walk away. “If you need me in the next few minutes, I’ll be in the back.”

“I want you out here in five minutes, Sophia. Not fifteen. Not ten,” he hisses at my back as I pass the hosting table. “If Nancy were here, she wouldn’t put up with this shit.”

I pivot. “If Nancy were here, you wouldn’t be parading your peacock ass all around the restaurant, dying for someone to notice your new aftershave. But Nancy isn’t here. And you are.” I step backwards, keeping my eyes on his face. “Just give me a second to get my stuff together, and I’ll be right out…” I mutter under my breath. “Dickhead.”

“Maybe if you worried a little more about your job and a little less about pretending to be the next Picasso,” Rick continues, “you might actually be able to show up on time for work.” He tilts his head. “I’ll see you in five.”

The world’s worst manager walks away, leaving me fuming.

How the fucker knew about my paints was beyond me. I was willing to bet another waitress told him.

Reason number fifty-five to get out of here.

As if I needed another.

I had a Bachelor’s Degree in Russian Literature, for Chrissake. And yet, it seemed like my life was turning into a Russian fairytale.

Which might seem great…

If Russian tales weren’t grim.

I didn’t know which fairytale I was now most: “The Princess Who Never Smiled” or “The Armless Maiden” considering how sore my biceps were from lifting trays all night.

I sigh, thinking how simple it would be if a fortune—just a shitload of money—just fell into my hands all of sudden. Or maybe even a prince.

Someone who knew his scotch and his way around a woman’s skin.

I fix the knot of hair on my head, straightening my shoulders as butterflies take hold of my stomach. I’m down to two minutes to show up on the restaurant floor before Rick really loses his s**t, and before I lose my last chance at making tips. Tips needed to keep a roof over my head.

I plaster on a smile, praying for patience…and, most of all, rent money.