She Was Never Just the Billionaire’s Wife (Natasha and Chase) novel Chapter 63

Chapter 63 The Thursday Cocktail

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I call her on a Thursday because Thursday is the best day to catch people off guard. Monday they’re defensive. Friday they’re already halfway out the door.

Thursday, they’re tired enough to say yes to things they’d normally think twice about.

She picks up on the third ring.

“This is Julian Morton,” I tell her. “Don’t hang up.”

A pause. “How did you get this number?”

“I’m resourceful. Are you free this evening?”

“No.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Julian-”

“There’s a bar on Sixth that makes an exceptional Negroni and I have information about your husband’s business partner that I think you’ll find interesting.”

A small lie, but a useful one.

“One drink. Thirty minutes. Fifteen if you’re determined. You can hate me afterwards if you want.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“One drink,” she says.

I do love it when people think they’re making a reluctant decision.

She arrives eight minutes late, which tells me she almost didn’t come.

She’s in a dark coat, her blonde hair loose, and she walks into the bar with the posture of a woman who has spent years making sure she takes up exactly the right amount of space in a room.

Not too much. Not too little.

I stand and pull out her chair because my step-mother, whatever her considerable flaws, raised me with good

manners.

My own mother had the bad grace to die giving birth to me.

“You look suspicious,” I tell her pleasantly.

“I am suspicious,” she says, settling into the chair.

“You said you had information about Nathanial.”

“I said I had information that might interest you. I didn’t give any names.”

I signal the bartender.

“What are you drinking?”

Chapter The Thunay Cocktul

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She looks at me for a moment, then seems to decide that leaving would require more energy than staying.

Whatever you’re having.”

Two negronis. Good choice.

I am not, by nature, a subtle man.

I enjoy chaos the way some people enjoy chess. If the pieces were human lives.

I like the strategy, the sacrifice, the particular satisfaction of watching them move exactly where you intended them to go.

But even I know that Natasha Kelly is not a woman you should trifle with.

So I start with Julian Morton’s greatest hits.

Family gossip, lightly edited for maximum entertainment value.

Piper’s legendary boardroom meltdown in Singapore three years ago.

The time my father flew to New York to personally fire someone and got the wrong building, nearly causing a minor disaster.

Sonia’s brief, disastrous attempt at an interior design company at twenty-two. The details of which I’ve been saving for the right audience.

Natasha laughs at the interior design story.

Good. Sympathy has not dulled her animosity toward my wayward step-sister.

“Your family is extraordinary,” she says.

“We’re a catastrophe,” I agree cheerfully. “But we’re never boring.”

I lean back. “What about yours? The Kellys seem like a considerably more functional unit.”

“They are,” she says, with a warmth that’s completely unguarded.

“My dad is an amateur chef. My brother Liam just directed a Christmas Eve puppet show he wrote himself and my mom cried at the finale.”

“What was the finale?”

“Honestly, I’m not entirely sure. But it involved a paper crown and a very dramatic speech.”

I smile. And then, very casually, like a man simply making conversation, “And before the Kellys? You grew up in California, didn’t you?”

Something shifts, just slightly. She picks up her drink.

“For a while,” she says.

I leave space for her to say more, but unlike most people, she doesn’t rush to fill the silence.

“Brothers? Sisters?”

“No”

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Chapter V The Thursday Cocktail

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I look at her face.

She could play poker for a living. Her expression gives absolutely nothing away.

But I’d stake my very best Gucci loafers on it that she has no idea that somewhere across this city, her brother has been drinking himself sideways over a death certificate with her name on it.

No idea that the woman currently occupying her guest room arranged for that certificate to exist.

I take a long sip of my negroni.

“Being an only child sounds rather lovely,” I say pleasantly.

She tilts her head. “Where’s the information you promised me?”

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