“I Googled her.” And found nothing telling. A private Facebook page Beck couldn’t access, a few articles she’d written for a high school newspaper in suburban Provost, no pictures. Damn.
After the PI had given him the link between Divorce Diva Daily and a respectable party planning company in Provost, he’d wanted more on the would-be charlatan. He’d come up with nothing. Her initial refusal to meet surprised him. Money talked, and he’d expected the twenty grand he’d dangled as incentive to meet him would serve its purpose.
Interesting. For someone hiding behind a computer screen, his jab at revealing her links to Party Hard had been more of an enticement to meet than the money.
Why? What did the divorce diva have to hide? And did it involve screwing over her customers? Too bad for her the one thing he enjoyed as much as accumulating a fortune was solving mysteries.
And she’d just moved to the top of his to-do list.
“Come on, big fella, time to get you to bed so I can go organize this rockin’ party.”
“You’re the best,” Lou mumbled, shrugging off Beck’s attempt at help and staggering toward the elevator.
Not yet, he wasn’t, but Beck intended on being the best.
When he secured the nationwide deal, he’d prove it.
Chapter Three
Divorce Diva Daily recommends:
Playlist: “You Give Love a Bad Name” by Bon Jovi
Movie: Something’s Gotta Give
Cocktail: Fallen Angel
As the jet touched down in Vegas, Poppy wriggled in her seat, craning for a better view.
She loved this town. Loved the glitz and glamor, the razzle-dazzle, the surrealism of not sleeping if you didn’t want to. She’d visited twice, once with Ashlee after they’d graduated high school and another time with a guy she’d been seeing for a month.
The first time she’d shopped and done the shows circuit and partied her way through the three days with Ashlee. The second time, she drank her way through the weekend when the guy turned out to be a gambling fiend who had ditched her to play blackjack.
This visit promised to be very different.
As the jet taxied along the runway, she glanced at her surroundings, impressed despite her snit with its owner.
Butter-soft leather recliners the color of ripe wheat lined one side of the jet, directly opposite a mahogany bar with forest green leather bar stools edging it. The flat-screen TV above the bar was larger than her bedroom back home. Squishy ochre cushions placed strategically on the chairs highlighted their pristine lushness, while the mahogany coffee tables were so highly polished she could have used them as mirrors.
The opulent luxury made her feel like she’d stumbled into a princess’ dream. And that was before she’d been personally served a late lunch of sesame-crusted tempura shrimp served with a watercress and pear salad, rose-stewed figs and baklava, and hand-squeezed lemonade by a steward. She would’ve preferred to take him up on his offer of Moët, but she needed her faculties clear and functioning for her meeting with Beck Blackwood. For all she knew, it might be a ploy to get her tipsy so he could take advantage of her. A girl could dream, right?
As the jet’s only other occupant, the steward had been attentive yet deferent, and Poppy had almost wished Beck Blackwood had summoned her to Miami.
She could get used to this. Her parents were loaded, but they weren’t rich enough for private jets. First class had been a bonus. She despised the fakeness of the moneyed social circles she’d been raised in, but when it came to flying? Tattoo a giant “H” on her forehead for “hypocrite.”
“Traffic is backed up on the ground, Miss Collins, so you’ll be disembarking in ten minutes.”
“Thanks.” She smiled at the steward, who tipped his cap before easing behind the door at the rear of the plane. Ten minutes gave her time to do a quick blog update before prepping the pitch of her life.
She’d just fired up her tablet when the phone on the bar rang.
She ignored it, until the steward stuck his head around the back partition. “That’ll be for you, Miss Collins.”
“Who—”
But he’d already vanished and with a sinking feeling, she headed for the phone. Only one person would be calling her on a private jet. His private jet.
Great. The plane had barely touched down and Mr. Megabucks was already expecting her to jump to his tune. Billionaires and their blasted foibles.
She hit Answer on the phone. “Poppy Collins speaking.”
A long pause made the hairs on the nape of her neck snap to attention.
“Hope you’re quicker off the mark with your pitch than you are answering phones.”
Hot damn.
She knew he had the look, and now she knew he had the voice to go with it. Deep. Resonant. Commanding. With an edge of huskiness that suggested all-night sex with no regrets.