Staying On Top(16)

The past several years, since my career really took off, I’d let other people handle the details of my life. Before that, I’d been much more involved and despite what people—probably including Blair—thought, I wasn’t a dumb jock. That I’d come off looking like an ignorant, trusting dumbass hurt almost more than losing the money. Almost.

“That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.” It did sort of explain how she found me, since her father seemed to know whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. Her smile was explanation enough as far as getting into my room, but I planned to talk to the hotel manager about it at my earliest opportunity. Hot girl or not, letting people into my space was not cool.

“I want to help you get it back.”

“Get it back . . .” I repeated slowly, not understanding where this was going. “The money? Why? And, more importantly, how?”

“You might guess that I didn’t have the most fantastic childhood. My father is a ghost, even to me, and I haven’t seen him in over two years.” Blair tucked a piece of hair that was caught in the breeze behind her ear. Her fingers trembled and she took a deep breath before continuing. “I want to find him. You want to find him. I thought we could help each other out.”

“If you haven’t talked to him, how do you know I was one of his . . . cons?” I couldn’t bring myself to say “victim.”

“I said I hadn’t seen him. The FBI is all over my ass—has been since before I could drive—to help them find and arrest my dad. I’m tired of this shit. Of being watched, of being treated like a criminal by association. I don’t want to deal with it anymore. But I have talked to him. He doesn’t keep his life or his cons a secret from me.”

“So you knew he was going to steal from me before it happened?” Just talking about the money made my mouth go dry. “How could you do that to me?”

“First of all, I barely know you, remember? Second of all, I don’t know the names of all of his marks. I know he’s been running long cons, mostly international, mostly high-profile clients, as Neil Saunders for the past four to five years. I saw the blip on TMZ’s radar about your credit card being declined and asked the next time we talked. End of story.”

Her voice softened and she reached out a hand, resting it on my forearm. Despite the surreal nature of this entire conversation, my muscles twitched in response to her silky skin against mine.

“So, you find out some guy you barely know—and didn’t want to know, by the way—just lost the bulk of the money he’s earned with fucking sweat and time and a lot of other things I can’t bitch about, and your immediate reaction is to fly halfway around the world to ask me to join you on a manhunt for your father. Do you even have a clue where he is?”

A knock at the door interrupted her reply, whatever it was going to be, and she slipped past me back into the room. It took me aback, the way she moved purposefully through my space in her bare feet, but it also felt strangely as though it had been happening my entire life. As though the wrong scenario was one in which she hadn’t ordered multiple courses of room service without asking.

Blair signed the receipt and thanked the porter, then flopped back on the couch and put her feet up on the coffee table. “Could you be a dear and pour the champagne? I’m old-fashioned about things like that.”

“About pouring your own beverage?” I asked, more curious about her than ever.

I picked up the bottle of champagne and worked on the cork, my mind racing. Blair had grown up the daughter of a con man. What that entailed I had no idea, but she appeared a bundle of contradictions. The girl who butted her way into my room and spent my money, the one who didn’t pour her own champagne, the one who claimed to be bothered by the effects of her father’s enterprise, the one who wanted to help me.

She had said that, hadn’t she? That his criminal activities bothered her?

I shook my head, trying to clear it. The situation with Neil suggested that more caution was needed in my personal life, and as pretty as Blair was, as sincere as she seemed, and as much as I would really, really like to take her clothes off of her . . . who’s to say she wasn’t a chip off the ol’ block?

She shrugged in response to my question about pouring her own drinks. The thin strap of her sundress slid down her tanned shoulder and I forgot what was happening.

It was a nice four seconds.

“I think that, while feminism has its merits, we’ve lost a few niceties along the way.” She took the flute of champagne from my fingers, smiling. “Like having someone bring us a drink and being okay with it.”