Ariel stared at the screen. Her la-di-da mother, who refused to socialize with anyone who wasn’t from the “right” family, was raised by a man she had never bothered to mention, in a housing project in an iffy section of the Upper West Side.

That was the woman who could paint Einstein in lime green nail polish and who owned crazy gloves made for feet.

Sixteen

A CRASH STARTLED PORTIA and she dashed out of the Kanes’ kitchen.

“Ariel?”

“Everything’s fine! No need—”

Portia came to a stop in the doorway to what looked like Gabriel’s office. The room had heavier furniture than the study one floor up. Ariel stood at a mahogany desk with a drinking glass at her feet, a spray of coconut water and ice cubes splashed across the floor.

“Ah, clumsy me.” Ariel closed the computer window, then turned off the machine. “I guess I made a mess.”

Portia eyed the computer. “What are you doing?”

“Homework.”

“That didn’t look like homework.”

“Portia, seriously, you’re showing your age. This is how we do homework now. On computers. We do research on the Internet, then write intelligent reports suffused with impressive detail.” Ariel stepped high over the water and drinking glass. “I’ll get some towels.” She walked across the hall and retrieved two hand towels from the half bath. “But don’t worry, I don’t think less of you for not knowing that.” Her smile widened, and she dropped down and mopped up the mess. Portia dropped down next to her, and they had it all cleaned up in seconds.

“Ariel, seriously,” Portia said in a perfect version of a teenage accent, if she said so herself. “Do I look like I just fell off the turnip truck?”

Ariel eyed her. “You probably don’t want me to answer that.”

Then she surprised Portia when she leaped up, tossed the towels back in the bath, and grabbed her hand. “I’m starved.”

Portia was still worried about Cordelia. After her announcement about the possible indictment, she had later explained that the authorities had started probing not just the bank, but James as well. James had not left the apartment in days.

Portia’s unease grew when she and Ariel returned to the Kanes’ kitchen and found that Miranda was back, this time with a boy.

Ariel stopped so fast that Portia bumped into her.

“Ariel,” Miranda snapped. “Shouldn’t you be upstairs or something, doing homework?” She eyed Portia. “And aren’t you, like, finished playing maid for the day?”

The boy actually laughed, though he also gave Portia a once-over like a bad imitation of a lech in a seedy bar. He looked older than Miranda, though he wore the same school uniform. His blond hair was shaggy, but somehow seemed professionally cut that way, as if he—or his mom—had paid two hundred dollars for the trim.

“This is your maid?” he asked. “My mom needs to fire whoever finds our housekeepers. Ours are always old and major ugly.”

Portia wrinkled her nose. “Do kids in New York really talk like that?”

“Huh?” the boy said.

“Ignore her,” Miranda said. “Come on, Dustin, let’s go upstairs to my room.”

Ariel’s eyes went wide. “You can’t take a boy to your bedroom! Dad will kill you!”

“Well, he won’t be home for hours, so he won’t ever know. Right?”

“I guess,” Ariel muttered.

“Right, Portia?”

“Don’t get me involved in this. I’m just the maid, remember?”

“Whatever. Come on, Dustin.”

Portia cursed under her breath. “Miranda, I don’t think it’s such a good idea to go upstairs. Stay down here, in the garden room.”

Miranda jerked around and gave her a look. “Dad hired you as a cook, I get it. But guess what? That doesn’t make you my babysitter!”

The boy laughed. “Dude,” he said with a nod.

“Your dad won’t be happy if he finds out you took a guy to your room. He might well decide that you need a babysitter.”

Portia didn’t register the sound of the front door opening until Miranda’s eyes went wide.

“What’s up?” Dustin asked.

“It’s Dad,” Ariel said. “He’s going to kill you. Dude.”

“You have to go,” Miranda added. “Shit, how do we get you out of here? What is Dad doing home so early?”

Before Portia could intervene, Miranda pushed the boy out the window and shooed him down the fire escape.

“Portia’s door is always open. I’ll take him out through there once Dad’s inside,” Ariel said as if Portia weren’t standing there.

Miranda nodded. “Great.”

“Hello, Dad!” Ariel sang frantically, blowing by him as he walked into the kitchen. “Back in a flash.”

Gabriel stood, taking in the retreating form of Ariel, and then turned to take in Miranda and Portia. “Did I miss something?”

“No,” Miranda blurted. “Not a thing. Right, Portia?”

Gabriel glanced between Miranda and her. What would she do if he asked her what was going on?

Just a few minutes later, Ariel burst back in.

Finally, he asked, “What’s for dinner?”

“It’s only five o’clock,” Portia said.

“I thought I’d come home early. See how my girls were doing.”

“Ah, yeah. Great,” Miranda stated. She tucked her hair behind her ear and strode past him.

“I’m glad you’re home, Dad,” Ariel said, as if trying to reassure him that he was loved.

Gabriel smiled. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

Then his cell phone rang, and he disappeared into his study. Portia was left alone again to finish dinner and was on the verge of leaving when Gabriel, Miranda, and Ariel reappeared.

“Dinner’s ready,” Portia said.

“Why don’t you stay?” Gabriel said.

Portia glanced around to see whom he was talking to. “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“Thanks, but I can’t.”

“Come on,” Ariel chimed in. “Stay.”

Miranda glared.

Portia shook her head. “Nope. But thanks.” No way was she getting roped into another dinner with this crew, despite the fact that she was starving.

At six, she found a can of tuna in her cabinet downstairs. At seven, she had eaten and cleaned, then started to pace. At eight, she called Olivia to get away from her thoughts. At nine, she called to check in on Cordelia, though her call went to voice mail. At ten, she went out, hoping to stop her circling thoughts. She was worried and irritable over one unavoidable fact. She was running out of money.

She walked for nearly an hour, but didn’t feel one bit better. When she returned to the apartment, Gabriel was sitting on the front steps, his forearms on his knees.

He didn’t say a word as she approached.

He always took her breath away, the mix of power and brutality, stirred together with an ache that was only visible if you looked closely.

She didn’t need to be with any man right then; she had enough complications as it was. Not to mention the fact that this man had his own set of problems, the biggest of which being that he had lost his wife—the mother of his daughters—the one who didn’t cook but was fun, at least according to Miranda. More than that—if she needed more than that—was the fact that she worked for him. To top things off, if … no, when things fell apart, they would be stuck in the same building, coming and going through the same cramped vestibule.

She hated that he made her want to forget everything and dive into him.

“I want a raise.”

He cocked a brow, leaning back, planting his elbows on the step behind him, a grin sliding across his face. “Last I heard, Hello was the accepted form of greeting in the U.S.”

She slapped her thigh. “God, you with the jokes. But I’m serious. And as you just pointed out, this is the U.S. Haven’t you heard of redistribution of wealth? You appear to have lots. I need some. Hence the raise.”

His grin hitched into a smile. “You’ve barely made half a dozen meals.”

“A half dozen of the best meals you’ve had in a long time.”

“It’s pretty hard to get breakfast wrong.”

“You’d think. But I have a nose, Mr. Kane, and the smell of burned oatmeal wafted from your kitchen the other morning.”

“Wafted?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

His dark hair looked black as night in the sun, the waves reflecting the light, his matching eyes so dark that she couldn’t tell where the pupils ended and the irises began.

“You’re a good cook. I’ll give you that.”

“And then there were the cupcakes.”

“True.”

“Then you’ll give me the raise?”

“No.”

She heaved a melodramatic sigh, somehow feeling better already. “This really isn’t funny,” she said.

“Actually, it sort of is. You look like you’re sucking on a lemon.”

She shook her head with a jerk. “Untrue!”

“Nope, true.”

“Do men your age say words like ‘nope’?”

“This from the woman who just used the word ‘wafting.’”

For a second, she thought he was going to laugh outright. Again. This man who people said was ruthless. But then the lightness dissolved, his face shifting back into hard, unyielding edges, and he stood. “Haven’t you heard how intimidating I am?”

She rolled her eyes. “Who could have missed Big Bad You on the front of The New York Times?” She patted his shirt. “Go scare those poor guys at Global Guppy, or whatever company you’re trouncing. I’m not afraid of you.”

He actually looked a little insulted.

“One article does not a ruthless magnate make, Gabriel. What’re you doing? Warming up to doing a Donald Trump ‘You’re Fired’?”