—
By the time Izzy returned to the hospital, Preston was awake again, although more confused than before. He’d become suspicious and hostile towards Nikki, and seemed relieved to have Izzy back in the room.
“Have fun with Ethan,” Izzy told her, hugging goodbye.
—
Nikki spotted Ethan across the restaurant. As she wended her way through the tables and chairs, he stood and, in a typically Ethan gesture of welcome, opened his arms wide.
He was tall and blond, with the muscular build of a Viking, and the confident energy of a drag queen. Today he was dressed in a tailored shirt and navy blazer with shining brass buttons, accented with an expensively understated silk scarf, a look he’d christened on social media as his “corporate fuck-boy” ensemble.
“Let’s look at you,” he said after their customary air-kisses.
In contradiction to his conservative upbringing, Ethan was a self-proclaimed huggy person, yet he’d always seemed intuitively respectful of Nikki’s aversion to being touched. That he remembered now was strangely moving.
“You’re looking delectable, as always,” he said. “That haircut—so chic. Suits you with those luscious ‘come hither’ eyes.”
“You’re looking well, too.”
She experienced a bittersweet wave of homesickness for that familiar face—the sparkling blue eyes, rough-hewn features, and slightly crooked nose. His hair, now decidedly turning grey, had receded into a swooping widow’s peak.
Nikki had met Ethan more than a decade ago at a bar in Camden after she’d broken up with her then-boyfriend and didn’t want to move back in with Izzy and Preston. They’d hit it off, and he’d offered to rent her the spare room in his flat. Back then, he was a party boy with the persona of a sexy vampire, and a fondness for illicit delights. The flat had been a revolving door of decadent personalities.
In spite of their vastly different tastes, Ethan supported Nikki’s discipline—her daily gym sessions, and her Krav Maga training. In fact, it was Ethan who had set her up with her first job as a bouncer, enthusiastically recommending her to an ex-boyfriend who owned a club.
Ethan, too, had his own brand of discipline. He’d taken a First in economics at Oxford, his framed degree displayed ironically in their living room while he enjoyed what he called hisdissolute life.
“Do you like my costume?” he said when they were seated. “Lestat gone undercover into sun-drenched respectability. I’d never survive if I took myself seriously.”
“Working forthe man, now,” Nikki noted with a grin. “Your father would be so proud.”
He sighed. “Alas, he is. Insufferable. I’d rebel, but the money’s so damned convenient.”
She picked up the menu. He put his hand gently over it.
“Don’t even think about it. The chef is a friend. He’s preparing something special for you.”
He knew the waiter by name, an attractive twentysomething who served them water and prosecco and, in the next hour, brought out a series of vegetarian dishes, each more artful and delicious than the last: beetroot tartare, wild mushroom consommé, saffron-infused cauliflower panna cotta, artichoke and barley risotto. Ethan seemedpleased by Nikki’s appreciation of the meal, regaled her with tales of his latest romantic escapades, and gently pried for details into her life.
Nikki, who was usually reticent discussing private matters, found herself telling Ethan about her job and family. But it was when she told him of Enzo’s betrayal with Carmela, about the marriage proposal, and the man Enzo hired to attack her—Ethan’s outrage flared. He unleashed a dazzling stream of creative insults, and suggested methods of appropriate revenge. His excess of emotion filled a hollow Nikki hadn’t realized was there, an ache eased by his indignation.
Only when the plates were cleared, when the chef came out for their compliments, and coffee was served, did Ethan lean in, lowering his voice.
“I was intrigued by your cloak-and-dagger request,” he murmured. “Nothing from Signorina Serafino for years. Then, suddenly,I’m in London, andI need research.”
“Did you do it?”
“Amateur, am I? Perish the thought. I devoted the day to lurking in the finest clubs on your behalf.”
Nikki grinned. “Don’t keep me in suspense!”
He smiled and reached into his satchel, taking out a slim laptop and setting it on the table.
“Theodore Sexton,” he started, scrolling through his findings. “Well connected, easy on the eyes, not entirely dim. Educated at Eton. Post-education, he’s been remarkably unremarkable. Two years ago, Mister Sexton started an app:Innovare MindCapsule. Leveraged his connections for a bit of press—but no investors. I managed to secure a copy of the pitch deck.”
He showed her the company formation documents for Innovare MindCapsule, which listed F. Deliso as the company’s legal representative, and K. Walker as a founding partner. Then he flipped through a set of slides Nikki recognized from the Innovare MindCapsule website.
“Essentially,” Ethan continued, “MindCapsule is a rather pedestrian attempt to capitalize on the pretentious personal-growth industry. Sexton pitched it to every VC firm in London. No one bit. And now? He’s positively drowning in debt. A dreadful investment from the outset, buthe kept pouring money in. And—surprise, surprise—he doesn’t seem particularly inclined to roll up his sleeves for honest work.”
