The men walked to the door. Smiled, shook hands, and then Travis left. Caleb sighed and went back to his desk.
Amazing, he thought as he sank into his chair, how much better he felt for having talked about New York.
He’d blown the entire incident out of proportion. Now, thanks to Travis, his head was on straight again.
A one-night stand. Nothing more, nothing less. And it was history.
Caleb opened the manila envelope. Dumped the contents on the desk. A couple of eight-by-ten glossies tumbled out, landed face-first. No matter. He was only interested in the contents of the thin file folder.
He flipped it open. Gave the first page a quick read. It was a listing of the parties involved in what was probably going to be a nasty court case.
Thomas Stinson Caldwell. Age sixty-two. Park Avenue address. Founder and president of a real estate empire valued at … Caleb gave a soft whistle. No wonder the man thought he owned the universe. Caldwell was a widower. He was the father of David Charles Caldwell, deceased. Aged twenty-eight at the time of his death eight weeks ago.
Okay. Page two. The woman …
The woman’s name was Sage Dalton. She was twenty-four.
Caleb’s pulse skittered. Sage? Sage and David? No. It was impossible.
He reached for the glossies. Turned them over.
The blood drained from his face.
One photo was of the guy he’d laid out in Sage’s apartment.
The other—
The other was of Sage.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE ladies’ lounge of the St. Regis on the Park was a sea of gilt and marble, its mirrored walls seemingly held in place by fat, obscene-looking cherubim.
An attendant, clad in a white-and-gold uniform, hovered discreetly in the background.
“If you need anything, miss, just ask,” she’d said when Sage had entered a little while ago.
Sage had thanked her. Then she’d looked into that wall of mirrors …
And shuddered.
She looked awful. Or maybe that was too generous a word.
She was pale. Her eyes were huge and shadowed. Except for the slight rounding of her belly, which you couldn’t see under the suit jacket she was wearing—except for that, she looked painfully thin.
Until a couple of days ago, she’d been the cliché of all clichés, tossing her cookies every morning.
And she was tired—from her pregnancy and from working double shifts at the Greek diner near her apartment in Brooklyn.
“You work double,” the owner had told her bluntly, “or I get different girl.”
So she worked double shifts.
She needed the money. She’d gone back to the club to collect her things and her pay, and to tell the owner she was quitting, but she didn’t get the chance.
“I heard you made a scene last night,” he’d said, almost as soon as she came through the door. “I don’t tolerate prima donnas, Dalton. You’re fired.”
It would have been funny but nothing had seemed funny that day, or any day since.