“I own Blush.” Mia dusted off her hands. “Highest bid. Done deal. I got the paperwork an hour ago.”
Cocking his head, he narrowed his eyes and said tentatively, “Congratulations?”
“Yes. We’ll celebrate later. Let’s finish this thread before we start tugging at the next. I have a private security firm, and the police, checking into who was part of the black pool. We all agree that the hirer of the hit men will be found swimming in that murk.”
“Makes sense— Wait—hit men? Plural?”
“Four that I know of.” She left Cruz out of it.
“Holy crap, Amelia!” Todd paced her office. “Four of them? I’m going to wrap you in cotton batting and keep you under my bed until we figure this out.”
“Too hot, and difficult to make phone calls,” Mia said briskly, sliding off her desk and grabbing her notebook. She tore off the top sheet. “And definitely not my style. Take a look at this list. Tell me what you think.”
Todd took the sheet of paper and retreated to one of the red leather easy chairs in the elegant seating area across the room. He glanced at her as he sat down. “Shouldn’t we call Basson in for this meeting?”
She got up to join him, perching on the arm of another chair, foot swinging as she crossed her legs. May in San Francisco was downright chilly, and she was dressed in a beautifully tailored black Armani skirt suit with a narrow pencil skirl, a man-style white shirt, and red Jimmy Choos with six-inch heels. A far cry from cheap cotton shorts, a Walmart T-shirt, and bare feet.
She felt more in control here. She was back where she belonged, but even after three days it was as though this life didn’t quite fit. Her life. But not.
“Miles was behind this. The police are interrogating him in my private conference room right now,” she told him, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I believe he’s been working in conjunction with someone in-house to get rid of me in a depressingly permanent way.”
Todd nibbled at his bottom lip. “Shit. You know, I’ve never particularly liked him. But he was trusted by your father—and mine, for that matter. You’d better be damn sure. He’s worked for Blush for thirty-five years. A wrongful-termination suit would be costly, to say the least. What does Legal say?”
“To be very, very sure before I press charges. I, the Black Raven people, and the police are sure. As is Interpol.”
“Fair enough.” He glanced at the sheet in his hand. “Only five names are uncrossed.” He glanced across at her. “Pretty much none of these would be on my list of suspects, to be honest.”
“They weren’t on mine at the start either,” she admitted. “But by process of elimination . . . As Arthur Conan Doyle said, ‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’ One or more of those people is working with Miles.”
“Improbably so, you must admit.”
“Yes. But possible, you must admit.”
Todd stretched his arm over the back of the chair. “I’ll trust your judgment on this.” He paused. “I don’t see my name anywhere on this. I thought you were checking and double-checking anyone and everyone. I shouldn’t be an exception just because I’m your favorite cousin and you love me madly.”
“You’re my only cousin, and I do love you madly. I also trust you like no one else. But even so, I had you just as thoroughly investigated as everyone else. So the answer to that question is, your name was on the long list, and I did put you through exactly the same scrutiny as everyone else.”
“Good,” he said briskly, unoffended. “I always knew you were a smart woman.” He rattled the sheet of paper. “You have people dealing with these five and Miles?”
Mia nodded.
Todd settled back comfortably. “Good, then you have time to tell me every small detail about this delicious, hot affair of yours.”
Chapter Twenty
The cab pulled up on Market Street across from the impressive glass-and-steel high-rise that was Blush headquarters. Cruz handed the driver the fare and exited the yellow cab. The Financial District of downtown San Francisco was busy at midmorning with well-dressed pedestrians clogging the sidewalks. Cars, buses, and trolley cars moving up and down the steep hill added to the commotion.
A soft, ethereal, drifting fog had pedestrians huddling into scarves thrown over overly optimistic summer clothing in early June. Wearing jeans and a white dress shirt, Cruz’s body temperature soared in anticipation of being with Mia. Thirteen days without seeing her, breathing her fragrance, or hearing her voice.