Page 6 of Remember Me

CHAPTER 5

Finn

Inarrowly dodge the sedan. The driver curses at me while he speeds away. The windows tinted, I barely glimpse the asshole’s ruddy face. Definitely one of those arrogant Hollywood types with his overpriced designer sunglasses. Catching my breath, I’m not sure if this is my lucky day. Or my unlucky day. Friday the thirteenth can’t be trusted. Without further life-or-death drama, I reach my destination. Though I wonder if that driver really wanted to kill me. The art world is conspiratorial. Competitive... And deadly.

Fig & Olive is one of those trendy, hip restaurants catering to the whims and pockets of Hollywood movers and shakers. High-octane wheelers and dealers. It’s a place neither Skye nor I frequent, preferring to dine out at unpretentious neighborhood joints. The attractive hostess fits in with the décor—chic and elegant, in a short, sleeveless black sheath, her lustrous dark hair gathered up in a high ponytail. She smiles at me flirtatiously.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes. We have a reservation for two. It’s under Kayla Phillips.”

The hostess’s smile widens, revealing a set of perfect pearly white teeth that abound in this plastic town. “Wonderful. Ms. Phillips just called to let us know she’s running a little late. In the meantime, I’ll have someone show you to your table.”

“Great.” Relieved, I follow another attractive, put-together woman through the bustling restaurant. Everyone exudes wealth, sex, and power. Men in expensive dark jackets and open-collar dress shirts; women in designer dresses revealing perfect tans and toned limbs. All engaged in lively conversation, no one takes notice of me as I head toward a table for two in the center of the restaurant. Soon after I take a seat, a young, good-looking waiter comes by and hands me a menu.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks.

“Just some water will be fine.”

Though I’d love something alcoholic to calm my nerves, I don’t want to be drinking in front of Kayla. I have too much at stake.

“Bottled?”

“Regular water’s fine.”

The waiter gives me a dismissive look, but returns quickly with my request.

“Can I get you anything to start off with?” he asks, his voice as icy as the glass of water he sets down.

“No, I’m fine. I’m waiting for someone.”

The insolent server forces a smile and skirts off while I take in my surroundings. The place is filled with Hollywood moguls and celebrities. I immediately recognize Brandon Taylor, the Emmy-winning star of the hit TV seriesKurt Kussler. Though he’s dressed casually in a T-shirt and jeans, he’s lunching with a suit—another familiar face—Blake Burns, the head of Conquest Broadcasting where my wife works. At a table nearby, I spot her boss, Jim Hartley, who’s lunching with a voluptuous brunette. There’s electricity in the air. A buzz. The sound of success.

After several sips of my water, I catch sight of a tall, stunning blonde heading my way. I recognize her immediately. Kayla Phillips. She’s clad in a tight white pencil skirt, a cream silk blouse, and shiny black stilettos. A monstrous red designer bag grazes her arm. Her breezy gait exudes confidence, power, and sex. All eyes are on the statuesque beauty, and on her way,several diners spring to their feet to give her a chummy hug. She’s obviously a regular here.

While she stops and chats with someone, I play back in my mind what I know from googling her. Age 29. Born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Her father, Stanton Phillips, billionaire film financier. Her mother, Esme Rawlings, Hollywood royalty, the daughter of one of Hollywood’s legendary studio chiefs. Kayla... an only child. Highly educated. Fluent in five languages. Swiss boarding school, followed by Yale undergrad and the prestigious Sotheby’s Institute of Art master’s degree program in London. Quickly hired by their competitor Christie’s, where she became head of the Contemporary Art Department, bringing in record revenues. Followed by a daring solo entry into the art world where she brokered major deals and privately curated major collections. Revered by all. A regular on the A-List party scene from international art fairs to Hollywood bashes. The epitome of brains and beauty. Catching my eyes on her, she shoots me a knowing smile as she saunters my way.

“Finn?”

“Yeah.” Nodding, I rise from my chair as she extends her slender, manicured hand. I take it in mine and we shake. Just like the rest of her, her firm shake is one of confidence and power.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she says as I help her into the chair opposite mine. Her voice is breathy, laced with a slight British accent. It hints at wealth and culture.

“Not a problem. I haven’t been waiting long.”

“Thank you for meeting me here. I have a meeting afterward with one of my clients, who owns an art gallery on Melrose. Perhaps you’ve heard of him... Jaime Zander.”

“The son of the late painter PAZ?” Payton Anthony Zander.

“Yes.”

“I’m a big fan of his father’s work.”

“I am, too, and have sold several pieces to art collectors all over the world. The average price for one of his paintings has shot up from a few hundred dollars to over one hundred thousand in just a few years.”

I register the dollar amounts. Wow! They’re in the stratosphere.

“That’s amazing.”

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