Crash & Carnage by Emma Slate
Chapter 1
The hostess looked up from her computer screen, glossy blond hair styled in a trendy side bun I never could’ve pulled off. The svelte woman looked me over in that quick way that told me she was judging everything about me, but her smile was polite.
I knew she wouldn’t find fault in my appearance. My auburn hair fell in lush waves down past my shoulders, and I’d even worn contact lenses instead of my usual tortoiseshell glasses. My black pumps were three inches high, and though my onyx-colored dress was simple, it hugged my form in all the right places.
“May I help you?” she asked with just a hint of snootiness, which was inherently part of the Upper East Side.
“Has Andrew Schaefer checked in yet?” I asked.
“Yes, he checked in fifteen minutes ago. He’s already at the table.”
I trailed after her, maneuvering through the dimly lit French restaurant, noticing the pristine white tablecloths ironed to perfection, topped with delicate china and flanked by elegant silverware. The quiet hum of conversations was steady, but trailed off as we arrived to a more secluded area in the back of the restaurant. She pointed to my brother who sat at a table in the corner and then left.
Andrew stood as soon as he saw me, face devoid of emotion. I’d learned long ago not to expect any compliments from him.
My brother could be considered handsome; he was average height with a decent build, brown hair, and dark brown eyes. His overall personality left a lot to be desired. It apparently worked for him since he was a trader on Wall Street.
“You’re late,” he said, not bothering to pull out my chair for me.
“Department meeting ran long.”
“I guess I should be glad you managed to change before dinner instead of coming here in work attire.”
I let his acerbic, critical tone brush past me. We rarely saw one another despite the fact that we lived in the same city. We had separate lives, and I preferred it that way. So did he.
Usually.
He reached for his cocktail and took a healthy swallow, and before he even finished his drink, he snapped his fingers to gain the waiter’s attention. When the server arrived, I shot him an apologetic look, but he was clearly used to attending to all sorts of people because he didn’t even appear annoyed.
“I’ll have another,” Andrew said rudely, lifting his near-empty rocks glass.
“Absolutely,” the veteran waiter replied. He glanced at me. “And for you, ma’am?”
“Water’s fine, thanks.”
“Get a drink,” Andrew commanded.
Andrew was in a mood, so I asked for a glass of house red. Alcohol might grease the tension between us. It couldn’t hurt.
After the server disappeared, I turned to my brother. “Should we just get on with it? You clearly don’t want to be here, and I don’t want to be here. Pull out the papers and I’ll sign them.”
“That’s not why I wanted to have dinner.”
I frowned. “But the only reason we ever see each other is because of—”
“I know that,” Andrew snapped. “But if I told you the real reason why I wanted you here, you wouldn’t have come.”
He was correct—preservation of my self-esteem was important, so I went out of my way to avoid Andrew. I hated that he’d manipulated me. “So why am I here?”
“Business dinner with a potential client.”
“Oh, let me guess; a fat, old Southern gentleman who likes young, pretty things. Which is why you were glad I changed before I came.”
“Not Southern. Scottish. Flynn Campbell.”
“Great, so now you want me to charm some gruff old Scotsman. I’ve had a long day, Andrew. I don’t have the energy to be charming. So, if you’ll excuse me—”
“You can’t leave,” Andrew said, standing. “Campbell’s here.”
I held in an annoyed sigh as I rose and turned my attention to the man striding toward us.
He wasn’t old. Not in the least. Mid-thirties, if I had to guess. And unlike anyone I’d ever seen.
Flynn Campbell wasn’t just tall—he was massive. He made the grown men he was walking past look small. He strode with purpose and confidence. The three-piece charcoal gray bespoke suit molded perfectly to his large form—it was nothing more than a polished veneer, like he deigned to wear it to appease society. His face wasn’t classically handsome, but rugged, like the wild beauty of the craggy Highlands. Blue eyes a unique shade of cobalt sat above a sharp nose. His dark hair, almost a bit too long, was styled with product and swept off his face.
I’d never seen a man like him before. He was out of place and time. He would’ve fit in with the stars from the Golden Age of Hollywood. Flynn Campbell could’ve held his own against a young Sean Connery or Clint Eastwood.
Campbell’s gaze found and dismissed Andrew all in the span of a moment. When Campbell looked at me, my breath caught in my throat and my vision narrowed, shutting out everything except him and his beguiling blue eyes. Andrew introduced me, but it sounded like he was speaking from very far away. Flynn Campbell took my hand in his. He didn’t bring it to his mouth, nor did he shake it while continuing to survey me. He just held it in his strong, warm grip.
“Ms. Schaefer.” The man’s voice rumbled. He had a low, intoxicating brogue, which I found pleasing to the ear.
“Please, call me Barrett, Mr. Campbell.”
“Flynn,” he corrected.
“Flynn,” I said, trying out his name. I liked the feel of it on my tongue, like heady scotch.
The return of the waiter with our drinks forced me to break my gaze from Flynn’s. I suddenly needed to inhale a deep breath, take a minute, and regain my wits. Flynn helped me with my chair and then took the seat next to me, so I was barricaded on both sides.
“Sir, may I get you a drink?” the waiter asked Flynn.
Without taking his eyes off me, Flynn answered, “Balvenie DoubleWood 17 year. Neat. Thank you.”
I smiled without thought.
Flynn’s cobalt-blue eyes gleamed. “My drink order amuses you?”
“No. I’m wishing I ordered that instead.” My own glass of red wine sat untouched, and I didn’t want it anymore. I wanted potent.
“You can share mine,” Flynn said, his voice deep and sensual.
The waiter returned almost immediately and set down Flynn’s glass of scotch in front of him. Flynn lifted the glass in his large hand, bringing it to his mouth. He savored it a moment before holding the glass out to me. Our fingers brushed as I took it from him. Smooth, elegant flavors lingered on my tongue. I swallowed.
Andrew cleared his throat as if to remind us he was there. It was necessary. I hadn’t been able to focus on anything since Flynn Campbell had approached the table. I never believed in instant chemical attraction.
Until now.
My skin felt warm all over, like I was baking from the inside out.
“Your brother told me you’re a Scottish historian,” Flynn said.
I nodded. “Sixteenth century. Mary Queen of Scots specifically.”
“My sister can tell you anything you want to know about Mary’s ladies-in-waiting,” Andrew interjected.
Flynn shot Andrew a look, and my brother nearly quivered. I frowned.
Was my brother afraid of Flynn?
Giving the Scotsman back his glass, I pushed away from the table. In a show of old-world gentlemanly manners, Flynn stood when I did.
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment. I need to find the ladies’ room.”
I didn’t have to use the restroom, but I wanted a moment to get myself together. Thankfully, the bathroom was empty, and I was grateful for the privacy. Setting my clutch down on the counter, I forced myself to look in the mirror. My cheeks were flushed, and my heart was thundering in my chest like a herd of wild horses. I washed my clammy hands and dried them before leaving the safety of the bathroom.
As I made my way back to the table, I heard Flynn and Andrew speaking in low voices. Something about their conversation made me pause, so I hid behind a massive potted plant, shamelessly eavesdropping.
“She can help you track your ancestry,” Andrew volunteered.
“I already know my ancestry.”
“You can find a use for her.”
There was a pause. “You didn’t mention she was beautiful,” Flynn said.
“Does that mean you’re willing to—”
“She has no idea why she’s here, does she?”
“No, she doesn’t. Does that change anything?”
“No. It doesn’t,” Flynn replied.
“So, do we have a deal?” Andrew asked impatiently.
“Aye. We have a deal.”