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I didn’t wait to hear her reply. I strode to the entrance foyer, where one of the house staff handed me my coat. I muttered my thanks and shrugged it on, pulling on my gloves before stepping out into the cold.
There was an awning over the front steps, and I stood there for a moment, looking at the decorations along the street and listening to the faint sounds of tinny Christmas music from speakers I couldn’t see.
Dashing through the snow…
In the few seconds since I’d collected my coat, my driver, McGuire, had been alerted that I was leaving. My car rolled down the street, stopping right in front of me. I walked toward the gleaming black Audi, stopping McGuire with a wave of my hand as he started to exit the car.
“Boss?” His voice always sounded like something out of an eighties western.
“I’m walking,” I told him. “Stay and take Lilianna to her apartment when she’s ready to leave.”
He nodded. “Yes, boss.”
I raised the collar of my coat, pushing my hands into the pockets as I walked. It wasn’t snowing now, but there was a scattering of white on the edge of the sidewalk. I turned a corner and was met with the bright displays of high-end stores. A group of carolers sang beside a nativity scene and last-minute shoppers hurried past me.
I paused to admire the nativity scene, and a man walking behind me slowed too. I recognized him as one the hires from my security team. Of course, it was impossible that McGuire would let me out of his sight without an alternative arrangement.
I kept walking, amused at the effort my bodyguard was making to remain unobtrusive and yet alert. It was almost endearing.
I passed a couple kissing passionately, both bundled up in coats and scarfs. That’s one way to keep warm, I thought, a little jealous of their passion.
Just before I reached the entrance of my building, a marble residential edifice that had marked my arrival on the Manhattan real estate scene, a drunk Santa staggered close to me.
“Merry Christmas!” he roared.
“Merry Christmas,” I replied with a chuckle, edging around him. Across the street from the building, a few people were standing in the cold, armed with cameras. A couple of lazy flashes greeted my arrival, and I ignored them, heading straight for the doors, which opened from inside as I approached.
The lobby was warm and bright, with a large tree twinkling and winking in a prime position opposite the reception desk.
“How’s it going, Will?” I asked the night doorman.
He held up his hands and shrugged. “So-so. David Hurst is having a party, and I have never seen so many movie stars in the flesh all at once.”
“Good for you,” I replied, pulling off my gloves. So that was why there were paps camped outside. David Hurst was an award-winning Hollywood producer with at least three successful franchises to his name. He lived on the floor just below my apartment and liked to have parties whenever he was in the city. “The paps will be here all night,” I observed.
“I don’t like them,” Will said, “but it’s a rough way to spend Christmas Eve.”
Standing at the door all night can’t be much fun either, I thought, resolving to supplement the Christmas presents the building manager arranged for the staff with something extra for him, a generous gift card for a bookstore maybe. The doorman loved to read and collect books.
“Merry Christmas, Will,” I told him, shrugging off my coat. As I walked farther inside, my bodyguard entered the lobby, and I gestured to him.
“There’s a Starbucks at the corner,” I told him. “Get someone to order coffee for the photographers outside. Tell them it’s from an anonymous Samaritan.”
He snorted. “They’re vultures.”
I kept my eyes on him, and he stiffened, nodded, and hurried off to carry out my instructions.
People learned very quickly not to second-guess me. He would learn, or he’d be gone.
I passed a few people as I headed across the lobby, residents and guests, a few familiar faces that hinted at movie or TV appearances. Some of the women let their gazes linger. I ignored them and made for the dedicated elevator that went straight to my apartment. In seconds, it had deposited me in my foyer. I left my coat and went to the bar to pour myself a drink.
The apartment was empty. It was Christmas, after all, and most of the people who worked with me were gone for the holidays.
Armed with my scotch, I crossed the living room. It was tastefully decorated, designed by a world-renowned architect and a sought-after interior designer. Every piece of furniture was of the highest quality, every painting beautiful and perfectly suited to the space.
I walked over to a glass-walled nook that housed a gleaming Steinway and gazed at the view, then almost absently, I opened a large panel of glass. Immediately, the cold wind lashed at my face as noise from below floated up to my ears. It came from David Hurst’s apartment, reminding me of the party. There was a large patio attached to his living room. In the summer and spring, it bloomed with a wide assortment of plants; now, it was empty except for two ardent partygoers who’d decided to brave the cold for privacy and were now devouring each other in one corner of the patio.
I turned away. It was Christmas Eve, and I was alone. I felt like was missing something, but I couldn’t put my finger on it, whatever it was.
