“I was schlepping drinks before you were born,” he said. “Go on, take a break.”
He gave me a wink, then went back to pouring drinks and laughing with the customers lined up at the bar. I delivered the shots and beers, then poured myself a Coke and carried it into
the kitchen. Dad was right: my feet and back were killing me. I sat down at the little table we kept in the kitchen and kicked off my shoes and took a long drink.
There was a stack of mail that had collected over the past few days on the table. I picked it up and flipped through the envelopes, finding the usual bills and junk. Then an expensive looking envelope caught my eye. It was addressed to Miss Katrina Donovan. The return address was for a company in Manhattan called Phoenix Capitol.
I picked up a butter knife that was on the table and slid it under the flap to open the envelope. Inside was a monthly statement for an account in my name. The balance in the account was one-hundred-twenty-five-thousand dollars.
“What the hell?” I checked the envelope, but the statement was the only thing inside. I read over it again. Account holder Katrina Donovan… my address … account balance $125,000… account open date… I did the math in my head. The account was opened a week after The Virgin Auction. The day after I gave the money to Tony D’Angelo.
I folded the statement and was about to stick it back into the envelope when I noticed something odd. Under the flap, written in red ink, were the words, “I miss you. Nicky.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Katrina
The woman at the front desk gave me a warm smile as I came through the heavy glass doors and approached. I tried to smile back, but it came out as a nervous twitch.
“Hi, I’d like to see Mr. D’Angelo,” I said.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Can I have your name?”
“Katrina Donovan.”
“One moment.” She picked up the phone and pressed a button. I heard her say my name. She turned back with the smile still plastered on her face and pointed toward the hallway to her right. “You can go right in. His office is at the end of the hall.”
“Thank you.” I tried to slow my breathing as I walked down the hallway toward Nicky’s office. My hands were shaking and my palms were sweaty. Sweat is not sexy.
As I approached, the door opened and Nicky appeared, looking perfect in a dark blue suit and a starched white shirt open at the collar. He smiled when he saw me, but made no attempt to touch me. Rather than hold out his arms for a hug, he stepped aside and held out one hand to usher me in.
“It’s nice to see you,” he said formally, directing me to sit in a red leather chair in front of his huge smoked glass desk. He sat behind the desk and folded his hands together. “How have you been?”
“Fine,” I said, forcing myself to look him in the eye. “You?”
“Fine.”
“That’s good.”
“Yes, it is.” He stared into my eyes for a moment, then let his eyes go soft and offered a smile. “It’s good to see you, Katrina.”
“Is it?”
“It is.” He tapped his fingers together and pushed his eyebrows up. “This is where you say it’s good to see you, too, Nicky.”
I reached into my purse without responding to his playful words. I took out the envelope containing the account statement and slid it across the desk. He opened the envelope and took out the statement, then quickly glanced over it.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “What is that?”
He held up the paper and frowned at it. “It’s your account statement.”
“I don’t have an account here,” I said.
“You must,” he said, tucking the statement back into the envelope and sliding it back across the desk to me. “You wouldn’t have a statement if you didn’t have an account.”