How difficult could this be? She was sure things hadn’t changed that much since the last time she had a date, but that had been almost five years ago. She could remember it vividly. How could she forget it? The man she’d dated that night had become her husband.
Becky met Ian Tasker through the bank. A charming six-foot-one, curly blond-haired playboy who had just inherited a considerable amount of money after the death of his property millionaire father. An only child, and with his mother having passed away when he was only five years old, he’d become the sole beneficiary of his father’s estate.
Ian had never been very good with money, and if it was up to him, he would’ve probably lost it all in Las Vegas or Atlantic City to the blackjack and roulette tables, but for some reason he’d decided to take his best friend’s advice and invest part of the money.
Ian was completely clueless about finances. He’d never saved a penny, never mind invested it, but his best friend came to his rescue once again and suggested he had a look at The union Bank of California’s ‘wealth planning service'.
Given the amount of money he intended to invest, the bank was more than happy to assign Rebecca Morris as Ian’s personal financial adviser.
Their relationship had begun in a strictly professional way, but Ian’s financial naivety and charming light-blue eyes had struck a weak spot with Becky. The initial, somewhat subdued attraction was mutual. Ian found the sweet, five-foot-six brunette fascinating. She was funny, attractive, lively, very intelligent and her sense of humor was laser sharp. After only one week, Ian’s main interest had flipped from Becky’s financial expertise to Becky herself. He’d be on the phone to her daily, asking for market tips, financial suggestions, anything really, just for the pleasure of hearing her voice.
Despite Ian Tasker being an undeniable playboy and a self-proclaimed ladies’ man, his arrogance and self-confidence would disappear when Becky was around. She was different from all the other blood-sucking women he’d met. Her interest in his money seemed to be purely professional. It had taken him almost two weeks to gather enough courage to ask her out on their first date.
Becky had been asked out by bank clients many times before, most of them married men, and politely she’d rejected all their invitations. Even though Ian’s playboy ways were far from what she’d envisaged as dating material, she decided to break her own rule – ‘never date a client’.
That night had been as close to perfect as anyone could’ve dreamed of. Ian had chosen a small restaurant by the sea in Venice Beach, and, at first, Becky was unsure what to make of the fact that he’d hired out the entire place for the night. Was that just a trick to impress her or was it a sincere attempt at romanticism? As the night progressed she found herself sucked in, first by his boyish and lively personality, then by the surprising pleasure of his company. There was no doubt Ian loved himself, but he was also very witty, kind and entertaining.
Their first romantic night consequently ignited a string of new ones, and their relationship flourished with every new date. His irreverent manner swept her off her feet and when Ian popped the question live on national television during the interval of a Lakers game, Becky became the happiest woman in Los Angeles.
Against his will, she’d insisted on a prenuptial agreement saying she was in love with him, not his money.
Their marriage picked up from where their dating left off. Everything seemed perfect. Ian was a very attentive and caring husband and to Becky it all felt like a fairy-tale story. For two years Becky did live a dream. The dream of being happy, the dream of being with someone who cares, the dream of being loved. But things were about to take a drastic turn.
Just over two and a half years ago, by sheer bad luck, Ian had found himself in the proverbial wrong place at the wrong time. On his way home from his usual Friday afternoon golf game, Becky had called and asked him to drop by a liquor store to pick up a bottle of red wine.
As he looked through the unimpressive selection he failed to notice the two new customers that had just come in wearing ice-hockey masks. The store he was in had been burgled several times – twice in the last month alone. Its owner had had enough of what he called ‘police incompetence’ and if the police couldn’t protect his store, then he would.
Ian had finally chosen a bottle of Australian Shiraz when he heard loud shouts coming from the front of the store. At first he discarded it as a complaining customer having an argument with the store owner, but the argument heated up faster than usual. Sneakily he peeked around the aisle. The scene he saw was comically tragic. Both masked men were standing in front of the counter, guns drawn and aimed at the store owner who in turn had his double-barreled shotgun in hand and his aim moving back and forth from one masked man to another.