“It was in the bottom of the permit file,” John said, not turning around from the stove. “Probably from one of the old coastal cabins Robert Vance wanted to demolish.”
Vanna picked up the key, its metal cold against her palm. “We have built something quiet here, John, and I want to keep it that way.”
John turned down the flame under the sauce, finally looking at her. “It is just a project, Vanna. It has nothing to do with us.”
Vanna stared at the brass key on the marble counter, knowing it unlocked a door she had never seen.
The next afternoon, the brass key was tucked into the zippered pocket of Vanna’s handbag while she sat in the corner booth of the Beverly Hills restaurant. Across the white tablecloth, Robert Vance sliced his ribeye steak, the silver knife scraping against the porcelain plate with a short, sharp screech. He adjusted his gold cufflinks before pointing the knife toward her.
“John is a talented builder, Vanna, but talent does not pay the lumber yard,” Robert said, his voice carrying a rapid, high-pressure charm. “The word around the Santa Monica permit office is that his payroll is getting tight.”
