One More Night(13)

She stared at the water, trying to let it calm her, and the cool sheet of blue soon became a balm to her frustrations. The sun beat down overhead, warming her skin, and reminding her to let it go. Tad’s attitude wasn’t what mattered here. She had a golden chance to expand her role as a business partner with Farrell and she’d be downright exemplary. She wasn’t a criminal, she didn’t have a record, and she played by the rules.

She uncrossed her arms and breathed out, imagining her frustrations blowing away in the breeze.

She surveyed the other pool-goers, mostly packs of single women in barely-there bikinis and groups of bachelor-party-esque men moving in to hit on them. Off in the distance she noticed someone who didn’t fit either bill—the tall man in the suit who’d walked past her table earlier. He was parked on the other side of the pool, alone: no iPad in front of him, no phone in his hands, and dressed for the shade rather than the sun. She couldn’t tell where he was looking, but when her spine tingled like a warning, she had the distinct feeling that he was watching her. His attire reminded her of Charlie, who’d dressed in black suits. Was he part of Charlie’s crew? Maybe the Vegas arm of his operations?

Oh shit.

Her mind went racing at sixty miles per hour. Charlie had to have sent someone to check up on her. In a flash, she rose from the stool, and made her way out of the pool area, and into an indoor hall, forgetting about the waiter bringing her the drink. As nerves prickled over her skin, she picked up the pace, making a beeline for the elevators. Glancing behind her once, her eyes latched onto a flash of black fabric, then it was gone. She spun around, hunting for the man in the suit who’d been watching her. Where was he? She didn’t see him anywhere.

Maybe he’d darted down a dark hallway out of sight. Perhaps, he was lying in wait for her. Ready to pounce.

She picked up the pace.

Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe she was imagining things, but her heart was beating a frantic rhythm. As soon as she reached the room, she called Clay, locking the door, and bolting it shut as his number rang.





CHAPTER SEVEN


Friday, 2:36 p.m., Los Angeles

He hated ignoring Julia, but his client was in tears.

Tears of happiness, but still. He didn’t want to be a dick, and cut Grant off while the man was having his moment. Besides, Julia was probably calling to share good news about her Farrell meeting, and good news could keep for five more minutes.

“Grant, I couldn’t be happier for you. This is what we wanted—to get you back in the saddle,” Clay said as the cab driver dodged and darted L.A. traffic.

“My wife is crying too. She’s so damn happy,” Grant said in a blubbery voice that pulled even harder at Clay’s heartstrings.

“I’m just sorry we couldn’t get Comedy Nation to go up. Had to take a bit of a hit on some points, but Gino’s a tough one,” Clay said, deliberately softening his report on the negotiations. Gino wasn’t merely a tough one—that was a euphemism. Gino was an asshole. A grade-A, top-choice, piece of fucking work that reminded him of an angry gorilla in a suit. Come to think of it, Gino looked a bit like a gorilla too with hair everywhere. Clay chuckled to himself at that picture, and it did wonders to tamp down his anger over being shoved into a corner during that deal.

“Don’t apologize,” Grant said. “I wanted this deal no matter what, and you got it for me. That’s what matters. I would have taken half the money and still happily signed, so there. You should feel like you doubled my money.”

Clay smiled, and already Gino’s jackass ways were fading into the rearview mirror. “All right. He’s sending me the contract, and I’ll take a final look Monday morning and then send you a digital copy to sign. You go out and celebrate with your wife. Give her my best.”

“I will. And if there’s ever anything I can do for you, let me know. I owe you big time,” Grant said. “Now aren’t you supposed to be in Vegas this weekend?”

“I am. And I should be there in about an hour. Talk to you soon,” he said, hanging up just as an email landed in his inbox from Etsy. The screen flashed the message—Package en route to Allegro Hotel. Will bring to room by seven p.m.

Damn.

That wouldn’t do. He’d have to get back in touch with the buyer and have the box left at the front desk, as he’d specified when he placed the same-day delivery order. But first things first. He wanted to talk to Julia, so he clicked on her number.

When she answered, her voice sounded strained.

“Hey. What’s wrong?”

“I honestly don’t know,” she said.