“I’ll expect a decision by this afternoon. Margrit,” he added, as she stood and stalked toward the door. She turned back, lips compressed. “Your name is already in the news right now. If Cara Delaney or anyone at her building mentions talking to you about this, you may find yourself on Eliseo Daisani’s radar. He’s a powerful man, and information has a way of making its way to the ears of the powerful. Think carefully, but think quickly. If there’s a compelling enough reason behind him wanting this building to come down, you may find yourself with a dangerous enemy.”
“Thank you, sir.” Margrit left his office with her fists clenched, and snatched up her coat on the way out of the building. There was no thinking about her destination; thought might send her in the other direction. She hailed a cab rather than give in to the desire to run her anger out. A dockworker might reasonably show up to an impromptu meeting sweaty and disheveled. A lawyer for Legal Aid couldn’t afford that as a first impression.
Particularly not with the target she had in mind.
Daisani’s personal assistant made heroin chic look like a healthy lifestyle choice. Everything about the woman was thin: her hair, scraped back against her skull into a bun so tight it looked like it must give her a headache; her eyes, behind rectangle-framed tortoiseshell glasses; her nose, which was pinched enough that Margrit thought she must have a hard time breathing. She was excruciatingly well dressed, but the linen and silk of her suit somehow managed to play up the sharpness of her shoulders and the vicious angles of her collarbones. Margrit, in an ivory suit she’d rescued from the dry cleaners, felt unexpectedly lush in comparison.
“Do you have an appointment?”
Margrit startled, trying not to stare. She’d expected a voice as thin and nasal as the woman, a piercing soprano. Instead she spoke in a warm contralto with bright notes to it, like rich liqueur poured over ice. The tone was professional enough to border on unfriendly, but it couldn’t hide the depth of music in her voice. Margrit’s planned arguments to win an appointment with Daisani were abandoned in favor of a heartfelt, “You have a beautiful voice.”
The thin woman went still for a moment, then flickered a smile that did nothing to relax her features. “Thank you. Do you have an appointment?”
Impatience, Margrit told herself, would get her nowhere. They both knew she didn’t have an appointment, but form had to be met. She proffered a wry smile and shook her head. “I’m afraid not. I was hoping-”
“Mr. Daisani,” the narrow woman said, “is a very busy man.”
“I understand.” Margrit kept the rueful smile, and gestured to one of the lobby chairs. “I’d be glad to wait. I only need a few minutes of his time.”
The woman opened an appointment book of rich, embossed brown leather that complemented the pale wood of the enormous curved desk Eliseo Daisani’s personal assistant was barricaded behind. There was nothing in the office that wasn’t sumptuous. The lobby chairs were antiques, some covered in pale leather, others in rich red velvet that looked so soft Margrit had forced herself not to stop and brush her fingers across it as she entered. The hardwood floors gleamed as if they were polished every night, scuffs removed with prejudice. The walls were paneled wood, as polished as the floors, all of it harkening back to an era decades before Margrit’s own.
Paintings on the walls dated from the twenties, art deco at its finest, with the exception of one discreet portrait of a slim, dusky man behind the assistant’s desk. A woman bearing a striking resemblance to the assistant herself was also in the portrait, her hair cut in a sharp bob that did much more for her thin features than the tense bun this woman wore. Margrit dared a nod at the portrait, asking, “Your grandmother?”
As if she might be surprised by what lay there, the assistant turned to look at the painting. “Vanessa Gray,” she said. “And Dominic Daisani, Mr. Daisani’s father.” The second showing of interest in her, rather than Eliseo Daisani, seemed to thaw a very slender thread within the woman. A note of pride entered her rich voice as she turned back to Margrit. “I was named for her. My family has worked with Mr. Daisani’s family for a long time.” With the slight relaxation, she looked like the before picture of a makeover: there was beauty in her, tightly restrained. Margrit wondered what had made her decide to go the sourpuss route instead of playing up the glamour within.
“She was lovely. You look like her.” The compliments were honest, and Margrit offered another smile along with them, stepping back from the desk. “I really don’t mind waiting. Just a few minutes of his time, maybe?”
Vanessa Gray the younger pursed her thin lips and nodded very subtly toward a chair. Margrit took the victory, smiled again and retreated to await her chance.
“Miss Knight. What a pleasure to meet you.” Eliseo Daisani came around a marble desk that would fill Margrit’s bedroom, and offered her a hand, clasping hers in both of his when she took it. He was barely taller than she was, wiry in build, and his hands were disconcertingly hot.
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Daisani.” Margrit spoke with a degree of reservation. “I appreciate you sharing a few minutes of your time.”
“When the rising star of the city’s Legal Aid Society comes knocking on my door, I am of course predisposed to discover her mission.” Daisani winked, making fun of himself. He was too thin for good looks, but his grin was disarming and he clearly knew it. Despite herself, Margrit smiled.
“I think you probably know why I’m here, Mr. Daisani.”
“Of course I do. It’s the price of being me. Someone has to be aware of all these details, and I was the best man for the job. Please, won’t you sit down?” He ushered her to a love seat coupled with a couch in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. “Isn’t the view tremendous?” he asked, sounding as if he’d called it up especially for her. “Some days I don’t get any work done at all, just looking down at the city. Well, between that and the books.” He gestured easily at the far end of the office, which was walled to the ceiling with pale wooden shelves filled with hundreds of books, interspersed with decorative objects. “May I get you some water?”
“Yes, please. Do you mind?” She gestured toward the bookshelves in turn, taking a step or two in their direction. Daisani made a generous, expansive hand wave, inviting her to look as he went to a wet bar at the other end of the enormous office. “I don’t have that problem,” Margrit added as she approached the shelves. “My office is a cubicle in the middle of a building. Is that a Rodin?”
“It is.” Daisani sounded pleased as he joined her, offering a glass that gave a low, subtle ring of sound as Margrit took it. Crystal, she thought, trying not to look as startled as she felt. Of course it would be crystal. Nothing in Daisani’s office was of a halfway measure. “You have an excellent eye, Miss Knight.”
“I’ve never even seen photos of this before. It looks like an early sculpture of The Secret.” Margrit reached out to touch the marble hands, clasped together in silent eternity. “I didn’t know he’d done more than one version. I should be so lucky as to have knickknacks like yours, Mr. Daisani.” She turned her head, studying a pair of soft-looking furs pinned to the wall at the end of the shelves. One was much smaller than the other, and a thread of cool wariness slipped through Margrit. Daisani was a hunter, and apparently didn’t care if his prey was a mother with child. She turned her gaze back to him, keeping her expression neutral.
Daisani beamed at her. “An excellent eye,” he repeated. “I’ll be certain to arrange for a much better view.” Margrit blinked at him and his eyebrows-dark, inquisitive-rose. “In your new office.”