“Before Sonya’s death from an aneurysm, he met a young model working in Blush’s advertising division. She became his”—she made quote marks in the air— “personal assistant.” Candice Jensen was two years younger than I was. He married her and made her his number three—so she’s now Candice Wentworth—two days after my mother died. Eighteen months later he inconveniently died of a massive stroke, leaving his new wife a place on the board and a nice block of Blush stock. Damn rude!” Mia said mildly. “Rude and mildly frustrating. Candice can’t/won’t make a decision without the other board members lighting a fire under her Jimmy Choos. Which in a week won’t make any difference, because I’m negotiating a leveraged buyout of all the shareholders so I have complete control of the company back in my own Blush Super Satin hands.”
“Why do you want that kind of control?” So that no one asks questions about the factory and everything going on a world away, in China?
Mia went back to running her hand up and down her calf. “I don’t want to go through hoops every time I want to put money into my foundations. The stockholders want accounting, the board has opinions. I have plenty of money. I want to put it where it’ll do some good. With no shareholders, I can do whatever the hell I want with my money. As long as I pay my employees fairly, it’ll be nobody’s business but my own. Everyone involved—board, shareholders, investors—will get an enormous payday when I do the buyout.”
He wanted to shake her. “Surely you’re not that naive. Not everyone is satisfied with great wealth. Some people want the power and prestige that goes with owning a chunk of a multinational, incredibly successful company. Someone is willing to kill you to stop the buyout.”
“But nobody— Hell. Not true. Todd told me a few days ago that he thinks bits and pieces of information have already been leaked. . . .”
“He has telephone contact with you?”
“It’s a burner phone.”
“Even a burner phone’s location can be traced with the right equipment bought from a goddamned chain electronics store. Who’s your biggest shareholder?”
“Me. By far. On my father’s death, his shares went to me, Todd, and his first and third wives. But even before that, I’ve always been the majority shareholder. My mother, grandfather on my maternal side, and my paternal grandfather all left me their shares.”
“Enemies?”
“Business competitors? Sure. Personally? I hate to think so, but obviously someone hates me enough to want to get rid of me.”
“Permanently.”
“Yeah,” she said dryly. “I already got that part.”
“When are you signing the papers?”
“Friday.”
His deadline. All of it made sense now. Todd was the number one suspect. And frankly, knowing it was her cousin who wanted to bump her off so he could have all the toys to himself pissed Cruz off. Put together with the double, it didn’t take much to figure out he was being played. He hated being played.
“Three days from now?”
“Right.”
“Then I’d better make sure you’re safe.”
“God, Cruz. I don’t want to put you in any danger.”
Oh, the irony. “No one knows where you are, right?” But if he knew, someone else would eventually track her down. She’d disappeared, but anyone with enough brains, resources, and incentive—several million dollars’ worth of incentive—would find her.
Cruz almost laughed. Who said fucking didn’t addle a man’s brains?
He’d just gone from hit man to bodyguard.
• • •
Cruz seemed to be taking her revelations in his stride. Mia wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. She tried to gauge his thoughts, but as usual his expression was shuttered and still.
The doorbell rang, making her jump. “That’s the first time anyone’s rung the bell.” She gave him an inquiring look. “Are you expecting anyone?”
“No. And certainly not at nine at night. Don’t worry, I doubt a hit man would ring the doorbell. I’ll go see who it is.”
Mia uncurled her legs and got to her feet. “I’ll go with you. Hang on.” She dropped to her knees beside the bed, brought out the Beretta and a box of cartridges, then got to her feet. “James Bond’s gun.” She placed one bullet at a time into the top opening of the magazine, pushing and simultaneously sliding the bullet back against the magazine wall until all fifteen rounds were loaded in the magazine. “I figured, why not?”