Red Hot Christmas (3 page)

      “No. Now.”

      “Right. Yes.” The man took a deep breath. “We did the due diligence on Able’s as we always do. Had the whole team check it over, top to bottom.”

      “Yeeees.” Nicolas would be a fool if he didn’t insist on making sure the bottom line didn’t add to what it was supposed to in every take over.

      “It all seemed okay. Well more than okay really. If you take into account the good faith those stores have after being around for almost a hundred years.”

      “Sure.” Nicolas cut him off. “Your point?”

      “There was something that bugged me about one of the stores. But given that we had a whole team look over everything and no one picked it up and um…” the man looked down at his scuffed loafers.

      “Please tell me you decided that everything was fine and that your hunch was just caused by something you ate for breakfast.”

      The man looked up, trepidation written large on his pale face. “Not exactly.”

      Nicolas sighed. “You know I signed yesterday. I’ve owned Able’s for less than a day. Their lawyers will rub their hands in glee if I try to get out of it now. Hell man, it’s almost Christmas.”

      “I know.”

      “Well then. Tell me what you know so we can fix it. And sit down before you fall down.” Nicolas indicated the chair in front of his desk.

      The rest came out in a rush. “One of the stores has an anomaly with its balance sheets. Every so often a deferred liability is showing up in the wrong place within the accrual budget. Money’s missing.”

      Nicolas sighed. “Which store?”

      “The New York store.” The accountant mumbled.

      “New York? Which New York store?”

      The answer was even quieter. “34
^th
Street.”

      “The flagship store? The one I signed the paperwork in yesterday? The one that every New Yorker thinks of as
the
Able’s store!”

      His assistant knocked and walked straight in without waiting for an answer. The accountant shot her a thankful glance. “Excuse me sir, but you have paperwork waiting for your signature.”

      “Don’t try and protect him.”

      “I wouldn’t do that sir. But you know you had a team of people on this. It’s just lucky that Malcolm spotted the issue now. You should be thanking him.”

      “Did you put her up to this?” Nicolas rounded on the miserable Malcolm.

      “What? No. No sir.”

      “Mr. Morganti. Sir.” His assistant’s tone was so strong, so out of the ordinary that Nicolas paused. She was right. He took a deep steadying breath. “The paperwork isn’t urgent is it?”

“Not really sir.”

“Then I’ll need another coffee.”

“Of course.”

Malcolm stood to follow Mrs. Tollero out of the office.

“Where do you think you’re going? We’re not leaving here till we work out whether this is big or small cheese and if there’s a sneaky mouse who needs his neck snapped.”

The accountant’s shoulders slumped. “I’ve been over and over it. Whoever has managed to move the money has hidden it very well. They must be exceptionally good at fraud and high enough up in the management team that they can cover their tracks.”

“Well then, at least we know what we’re looking for. Mrs. Tollero, I’ll need the staff lists for the 34
^th
Street Able’s store. Starting with the management team,” he called through the doorway.
 

It struck him like a wet fish in the face. “How long has this anomaly been showing up?”

Malcolm looked up wringing his hands. “Three years.”

Nicolas eyeballed him. “Unbelievable. She’s probably been plotting this forever. Finishing off what she started with her father.”

      “I’m sorry sir?”

      “Didn’t you just say the thief would need to be a fraud genius and high up in management?”

“That would certainly help.”

“Gabrielle Phillips.”

“Afraid I don’t follow sir.”

“She’s got the fraud part nailed and she’s been here three years. How the hell did she get a job in management?”

      The man’s bulging eyes gave his answer. “You know Ms Phillips?”

      “You could say that. You remember Jack Phillips? The fraudster?”

      “He went to prison for twenty years didn’t he? He and his secretary had some investment scam going with a bogus hedge fund?”

      Nicolas nodded. “We’ve just inherited his daughter with this take over. The daughter that doted on her dad, pushed me into signing over half a million, then miraculously disappeared.” Nicolas waved the staff list at his accountant.

“You’re sure it’s the same Phillips?”

“I just spoke with her.”

Malcom gulped.

“The prosecutors never got anything to stick to her the first time. She had a good lawyer. But she was in on it, she was the one who always lead the meetings for her darling dad. She was the one who got me to sign. Probably talked the rest of the investors into it, just like she finessed me,” he growled.
 

Malcolm was silent, his face a mask of dread. “Should we call the police?”

“We can’t prove it’s her can we?”

Malcom shook his head. “No. Like I said, we didn’t even pick it up first time round.”

“Then we wait,” said Nicolas.
 

That night he barely ate, instead pacing the vast open space of his top floor apartment. Rather than the sprawling view that usually served as a backdrop, tonight the city was blanketed with grey. Rain came in waves, thrumming against the windows and hiding the glittering lights that were a constant reminder that this city really didn’t sleep.

Gabrielle Phillips, still here in his city, stealing a new nest egg from old Mr. Able while drawing salary at the same time. And now working in one of
his
stores. What were the chances?
 

      “About half a million dollars to one,” he muttered grimly. Clearly the cash he’d lost to her father had dented his pride more than he’d realized. Or was it the loss of the woman?

The memory of the night he realized he’d become the dumpee rather than dumper washed over him like the rain outside.
 
He’d arrived at her apartment after a cocktail function, still dressed in his tux, full of things he wanted to discuss with her. Ideas about a new furniture franchise, a piece of corporate gossip he wanted to know if she’d heard. All that was waiting on his tongue along with the kiss she always elicited from him. He’d turned the key and bowled into the room, already talking, already taking off his bow tie and then, nothing.

It took longer than it should have to register that the apartment was empty. No doubt because he hadn’t believed what he was seeing. Gone were the comfortable emerald couches, the rich plum drapes. All the touches that Gabrielle had brought to the place and had made it warm and inviting were replaced by an echoing emptiness. Nicolas turned to leave. He’d obviously got the wrong apartment, but then he saw the key in his hand. The key Gabrielle had given him on a silver ribbon, a key he’d almost declined because of what it meant.
 

Then this. The empty room. The three line note. The key that had obviously meant nothing at all.

A boom of thunder sounded, jolting him out of his reverie. What was wrong with him? That evening had been more than five years ago and the memory of it still haunted him?
 

I must be tired.

Lightning flashed and the rain upped its assault on his windows. It had been the same that night. A Christmas storm.

My god, yes
.

It had been this time of year. He’d had her Christmas present with him. A flimsy scrap of lace, Christmas scarlet with holly leaves and berries embroidered across the bust.
 
Handling it before the shop assistant had boxed it up he’d imagined Gabrielle’s petite breasts underneath it and the pleasure he anticipated watching her try it on for him. Sliding the lace up her slender legs, smoothing the transparent fabric over her flat stomach, turning so he could see how it molded to her perfect butt. The warmth of her smile whenever he brought her a gift was almost as pleasurable as the warmth of her body as she wrapped it around him. Almost. Pah, that had been the first and last time he’d bothered to do any Christmas shopping himself.
 

Another crack of lightning and a boom of thunder sounded right behind. The storm was on top of him. No wonder he was feeling out of sorts.
Believe that if you want.

Christmas was hard. His parents had died in a storm just like this one, leaving him to grow up with his grandmother. Gabrielle had been the only woman who had made him look forward to Christmas, who had made him think he could relish the sentimentality retailers traded off. A woman who he’d thought he could trust, one who shared the common pain of growing up without a mother. The woman who had squirmed underneath him in bed and driven him crazy as she raked his back with her nails and linked her legs around his waist as she cried
yes, oh yes.
And who had disappeared over five years ago.

“Damn you Gabrielle Phillips,” Nicolas snarled at the storm. And now she was here. In his store. Stealing from him all over again. He shook his head to get her out of it, but it didn’t work.
 

No. It wasn’t Gabrielle in his head. It was ego. If she’d stuck round a few days longer he would have known her for what she really was: a thief and a liar. When the news of her father’s arrest broke it become clear why she’d run. The hedge fund she had signed him up to had burnt his investment cash as neatly as if Gabrielle had put a match to a towering stack of bills. No one made a fool of Nicolas Morganti and got away with it.
 

He’d tried to find her at first of course. To get his money, and to let her feel the pain of being dumped by him properly. But by the time he learnt she wasn’t going to join her father in jail, it was too late, she’d disappeared into the side streets of NYC.
 

Now he realized that ignoring her had not made her go away nearly as neatly as it should have. He caught himself staring at petite raven haired women without even realizing it. Then the woman would turn, and he’d wonder what it was about her that had made him look so intently.
Gabrielle
. Every woman he’d made love to since, he’d compared to her. There had always been something lacking. Something in the way they called out or touched him or kissed that hadn’t quite got under his skin the way it had in the past.
Gabrielle
. Conversations he should have had with her played out in his head without him realizing she was the intended recipient of his insight and speculation.
Gabrielle.
 

It might have taken five years, but now he had his chance.
 

There was a lull in the rain and the silence seemed magnified, as if it were morning; that quiet time where traffic has almost stilled and even New York City’s streets were mostly empty.
 

Nicolas picked up a picture of his grandmother and ran a finger down the side of her face. “No one plays the Morganti’s do they?” The thought blazed in his mind, the words in his grandmother’s gravelly voice. The old woman had schooled him well on living on his instincts and every day he thanked her for it.
 

Nicolas looked out again over the spires of New York City. He would have loved his grandmother to see him now. For her to gaze out over this view with him as he pointed out the various buildings he owned. To have one of his cars pick her up, have his chef whip up her favorite meal of spaghetti and meatballs. Although no doubt she would have found fault in anything the Michelin-starred chef created.
 

Kennedy once advised ‘don’t get mad, get even.’ That was something his grandmother would have agreed with. Gabrielle wasn’t going to know what hit her. No, she was going to know
exactly
what hit her, and she was going to beg him for forgiveness that he would never give. Nicolas smiled for the first time that day. He could hardly wait for tomorrow. Gabrielle Phillips was as good as ruined.

Chapter Three

Next day he decided to check out his shop floor before meeting with the staff who were in charge of it. Able’s was about more than Gabrielle Philips, and he needed to make sure he was on top of every aspect of it. It was a short walk to the flagship Able’s store from his office and Nicolas pushed through the door less than ten minutes after he’d left his desk. On his left a little boy pulled at his mother’s hand, dragging her towards a display of antique model trains. The child’s face was a picture of wonder. He gazed at the old tin engine while it chugged over a track and through a tunnel. As if transported into the child’s thoughts, Nicolas saw the smoke billowing from the train, watched the felt trees glued to the green matt sprout real tendrils, and a conductor wave his hand, hurrying passengers on board. “How does it work?” the little boy asked his mother.

      “They’re toys,” she said, harried no doubt by trying to fit shopping in around her busy schedule.

      Nicolas waited for her to say something else, to feed the wonder on the kid’s face. Nothing. Maybe it was the atmosphere in the store, maybe it was all the Christmas decorations, but instead of walking on, he bent and whispered to the kid, “There’s a secret robot in each train.”