Not the Marrying Kind(6)

The phone rang and Ashlee darted off to answer it, leaving Poppy to compose a polite refusal.

Dear Mr. Blackwood,

Thanks for your offer but I’m unable to accept at this time.

All the best with your party planning endeavors,

The team at Divorce Diva Daily.

Poppy fired off the email, satisfied with the perfect combination of courteous and gracious. Establishing distance with the signoff had been a stroke of genius, too. How could he get uptight against an entire “team”?

About to file away his email and give in to a hankering for a double-shot caramel latte at the café next door, her hand hovered over the mouse to shut down her inbox when a response pinged.

Surprised—she hadn’t expected to hear from him again at all, let alone so fast—she opened the email. And nearly fell off her chair.

Dear Diva,

Our meeting tonight is an order, not a request.

I assume you have good reason to maintain your anonymity, so if you value your association with Party Hard I’ll expect your arrival at 8 p.m. Sharp.

Beck Blackwood.

She read the email twice to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating.

“Son of a bitch,” she muttered, knuckling her eyes before refocusing and reading a third time.

The jerk was blackmailing her.

Worse, he knew about Party Hard.

Freaking hell.

She reined in her first urge to fire back a short, sharp retort—along the lines of “F-off”—and tried to think this through. If he hadn’t pissed her off enough with his high and mighty summons before, his arrogant response to her refusal would’ve done it.

Who the hell did he think he was, giving her an order? Someone needed to tell him the King of Vegas had died a long time ago.

And he was a smartass, too, deliberately calling her a “diva,” implying her behavior was such.

Well, she’d give him diva behavior. In person. Not because she acquiesced to blackmail, but for the simple reason she wanted to see the rich jerk’s face when she told him where he could stick his offer.

Her gaze landed on the stack of unpaid bills stuffed into a fuchsia folder and her heart sank.

Who was she kidding? She couldn’t afford to knock back twenty grand, not when Party Hard—and Sara—teetered on the brink. And now her number one reason for not meeting him face to face, to protect Sara’s anonymity and any association with Divorce Diva Daily, had just evaporated.

Typical. When it came to money, guys like him wouldn’t pay up until they knew whom they were dealing with, so it stood to reason he’d probably flung some cash around to investigate her.

The problem was, how much did he know? And could she get him to keep his big mouth shut?

Her pride may have demanded she tell Blackwood to shove it, but her loyalty to Sara insisted she had better make this the pitch of her life.

Damn him.

Once she’d sent her terse reply—See you at eight, Poppy Collins—she kicked the trashcan. Hard.

Ashlee stuck her head around the doorway. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” Poppy said, glaring at Blackwood’s pic that popped up on her screen when she closed her inbox. Bad move. She should’ve shut down Google first, as Ashlee wolf-whistled when she sauntered over to the desk.

“Better than fine, getting up close and personal with ‘The Hottie.’ ” Ashlee made puckering noises and Poppy swatted her away.

She didn’t want to explain the online altercation with Blackwood or his attempt at blackmail. Ash would worry, so Poppy decided to play the casual game. She’d handle Beck Blackwood herself.

“I’m pretty sure I won’t be getting that close to potentially our biggest—and only—client at this stage, but in case I do, I’ll let you know how his technique rates.”

“That’s my girl.” Ashlee slugged her on the arm. “You know you’ll be staying overnight in Vegas, right?”

“Hadn’t planned to.”

“Guys like that will have a hotel room ready and waiting for you.” Ashlee spoke slowly, as if Poppy had suddenly developed obtuseness. “He’s sending a private jet. What’s one little hotel room for the night?”

Now that she’d decided to go, Poppy hadn’t counted on a layover, but considering it’d be late when she finished her pitch, maybe she should pack for an overnighter just in case.

“Silk.”

“What?”

“Bet The Hottie favors silk lingerie.” Ashlee tapped her bottom lip, pondering. “Maybe lace?”

Annoyed by the thought of wearing anything remotely sexy near Beck Blackwood, Poppy waved Ashlee away. “Haven’t you got work to do?”

“Yeah, but bet it’s not half as fun as your work tonight.” Ashlee blew her a kiss as she headed for the door. “And here’s another tip. When in Vegas, always bet on black.”