Staying On Top(8)

I’d spent my life embracing cynicism regarding long-term relationships. I thought that feelings couldn’t change, that there were families who wanted what was best for one another always, no matter what. It was what felt true to me. It was what I knew.

For a girl like Blair, for a feeling like that . . . for a moment I thought about trying.

The wheels touched down in Paris, bouncing a little and forcing me to brace my hands on my armrests. I went through the motions in customs, which never got easier no matter how many stamps were in my passport. It would be impossible for me to answer a question about the last time I’d been in the States for anything other than business, but that didn’t stop customs officials giving me a hard time.

When the front desk clerk pulled me aside at the Parisian hotel’s elevator bank, I thought, No way is this happening again. Leo and the rest of my team had arrived earlier today and he’d texted to say everything was ready and waiting—including a suite with a massage table all set up.

“Perdon, Monsieur Bradford?”

“Oui?” I felt so tired. My six-week break couldn’t come soon enough. If we weren’t poised to win the David Cup, I’d be more than a little tempted to end my season after this tournament.

“I have a message for you.” He held out a piece of folded cardstock.

“Merci,” I replied, taking the piece of paper and heaving a quiet sigh of relief. No more embarrassing conversations about declined credit cards, at least.

I shoved the message in my back pocket, then shouldered my favorite racket bag when the doors dinged and slid open. Massage tables and sophisticated French girls with strong hands were the only things on my mind as the elevator climbed to the top floor, but apparently Leo had different ideas.

There was a table in my room, along with soothing music and some kind of floral scent hanging in the air, but instead of the pretty face I’d been hoping for, Leo’s overly tanned mug waited for me in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I dropped my bag and kicked off my freebie Nikes. “What’s up?”

“How was your flight, Sam? Mine was good, thank you for asking.”

“Cut the shit, Leo. What have you found out about Neil?”

“He’s a ghost. Left the States years ago and hasn’t been back, at least according to the passport issued under his name. It hasn’t been stamped for ten years, give or take, and that was in the Caymans. But he’s a kickass sailor. Owns at least three different boats. He could be anywhere.”

“How exactly did he slip through our background check, which I’m going to go ahead and assume we do before hiring people to handle millions of my dollars? Is it just me? Are there others? Is he under investigation, or . . . ?”

“Yes, we do background checks, but according to the FBI, who does have a pretty extensive file, this alias was new around the time we hired him. Their file is all unproven conjecture, which is how he’s still operating. I contacted Interpol, and same thing. His clients are all high profile, not the types to share who they’re working with financially, and also unlikely to report it when they’re been had. They both want a statement but I doubt they’ll have any more luck if you give them one.” He paused, taking a swig of something girly—maybe a mimosa. The thought of drinking sweet orange juice turned my stomach. “They suspect he has at least one accomplice, but they have no idea who or how they met, or her role in the scams.”

“You came in here and interrupted my massage to tell me we still don’t know shit?”

“Pretty much. And to raid your minibar because mine was empty.”

“Fantastic. Thanks for everything, Leo, as always.”

My phone rang, distracting me from wanting to strangle my manager.

“Hello?” I glared at Leo as he rummaged through my minibar and disappeared through our connecting door with all of my vodka.

“Sammy!”

“Quinn?”

“Do you let someone else call you Sammy now? Say it isn’t so!” His voice sounded far away and a little tinny.

I grunted. “Not likely. I believe I’ve made several attempts to get you to stop.”

“If you were better at poker this wouldn’t be an issue.”

“I’m not bad at poker when a guy who’s supposed to be mentoring me my first year on the tour isn’t dumping an entire bottle of whiskey down my throat.” The mere memory of that night made me gag. I hadn’t taken a single sip of whiskey since. “What’s up?”

“Do I need a reason to call my favorite baby pro?”

I rolled my eyes even though there was something different in his voice. It popped sweat out on my palms. “Usually.”