Hardass (Bad Bitch)(30)

How does a guy who works here end up with a reprobate for a brother?

“Hi. I have an appointment with Mr. Graves at one.” Wash had beaten me to the meeting. He stood at the reception desk, and the receptionist gave him the same goo-goo eyes that I probably did when I first saw him. I couldn’t exactly blame her. In his dark suit and tie, he looked like a corporate office wet dream.

He turned as I approached. “And this is my associate, Ms. Montreat.”

“I’ll buzz Mr. Graves. Please have a seat, and he’ll be out shortly.” The blonde gave a beauty queen smile to Wash and completely ignored me.

I chose a plush leather chair and sat. He took the seat opposite me. It was hard for me to avoid his gaze, and I suspected that was his intent. I opened my briefcase and pulled out my legal pad. Doodling would keep me occupied for at least a little while.

When I began to draw squiggles and stars, he pulled my information sheet from his briefcase and seemed to study it. It must not have been very enthralling, because every time I glanced up, he was looking at me. I couldn’t stop the heat rising in my cheeks, the warmth radiating from my core. I wanted it to stop. Or did I?

When he looked at me that way, like a hungry wolf, my thoughts stopped flowing and just stuck together. Useless.

“Mr. Granade?” the receptionist chirped. “He’s ready to see you now.”

We rose and followed her down the hall. Wash put his hand on my lower back. His touch was at first tentative and then steady. I should have swatted him away, but I didn’t want to make a scene. Yes, that’s the reason.

She led us to an office twice the size of Wash’s with a spectacular view of the river. The steamboat was in the middle of the channel, white with red trim and looking straight out of a movie. Well, except for the tourists packed on its decks taking pictures. Still, this was one of the best vistas in town. The rent alone on this place must have been outrageous.

“Mr. Graves, this is Mr. Granade and Ms. Montreat from Palmer & Granade.” The receptionist motioned us inside and left, closing the wide glass door behind her.

A man in his late forties, trim for his age, rose from behind a massive mahogany desk and met us. He was dressed in an impeccable suit, clearly tailored just to him. His hair was salt and pepper, and he smiled widely as he welcomed us. His blue eyes were far lighter than Wash’s, giving an almost transparent effect.

He had a tasteful number of family photos along the interior wall, a trim, smiling wife and children in each one. It gave the otherwise high-style office a somewhat homey feel.

We all shook hands. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Graves.”

“Please, call me Luke.” His grip was firm, and he looked me in the eye. He was respectful, confident. I liked him.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. Had some last-minute things come up. Can I offer you something to drink? We have just about anything you might care for.”

“No, I think we’re all right.” Mr. Granade smiled.

Luke motioned us to some white leather chairs around a small table. Everything in his office was ultramodern, smooth lines, nothing fancy, except for his desk. It was made of some dark wood, clearly antique, with ornate carvings of what looked like gryphons along each leg.

“That’s a family heirloom.” He followed my gaze. “Been handed down for three generations. I come from a long line of woodworkers. That piece is heavy as a car but far less easy to move.”

“It’s very nice.” I sat and tried to get comfortable to take notes, but the chair was all stiff and angled oddly. I did my best.

Mr. Granade sat far more gracefully than I did. “Do you mind if we record this interview?”

“Not a bit. Go ahead.” Luke draped an ankle over his knee, his fleur-de-lis socks peeking through above his loafer.

I dug my recorder out and clicked it on, then settled back to take notes. I hastily flipped my doodled sheet over to a fresh one. When I looked up, Luke was smiling at me as if he’d seen my “art.” So professional, Caroline.

“I assume this is about my brother. Your associate was a bit evasive on the phone.” He shot me a smile. “Well done.”

“She’s sharp.” Wash nodded. “Couldn’t agree more. And, yes, this is about Tyler. I just have some questions. And I hope they don’t bother you, as I’m sure you love your brother—”

Wash had turned on that easy charm. His mannerisms, his tone of voice—all of it designed to put Luke at ease. It worked, and not just on Luke. But I wouldn’t fall under his spell. Not again.

Luke waved his hand. “No, it’s fine. This isn’t the first time someone’s come around asking questions about Tyler. But they usually have badges and guns, and”—he shot a glance to me—“aren’t as pleasant.”