“Thank you.” She handed his card back, her fingers grazing his unnecessarily in the process. “All clear.” The barrier lifted.
“What time do you get off?” He managed to load the wordsget offwith sexual energy.
“Four in the morning.”
“Want to come up for an early morning drink? I’m in the penthouse.”
“Won’t you be sleeping?”
“Not if you come up.”
She smiled sheepishly, her eyes darting to the corner of the small hut she was working in. “Maybe.”
Way to play it coy, Teresa.
“There’s someone behind you,” she said, gesturing with her head.
Jason looked in his rearview mirror to see Mr. Anderson raising his hands in frustration. “Hmm. We wouldn’t want Mr. Anderson to dislodge the stick from his ass.” She gave a breathy laugh. “Have a nice night.” He tipped his head in her general direction and continued to the parking lot. A short ride alone on the elevator and he arrived on the twenty-fifth floor of the Bachman Building, the best piece of real estate available in Carlton City.
A woman he’d met in New York decorated it for him during their torrid affair. She’d insisted on it, tired as she was of staring at his bare white walls. The affair didn’t last but the décor did, and it was good enough to earn her a feature inArchitectural Digest, a consolation prize, he supposed, for his failure to commit.
She’d called it minimalist but welcoming: black stone, white oak floors, gray walls. There was an oatmeal-colored sofa that cost as much as a small village. He rarely sat on it.
He crossed to the fridge, the appliance perfectly masked to appear an extension of the cabinets, and hung his head inside. There was nothing worth eating, but he fished a half-full bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the shelf and pulled out the cork. “Dinner is served.” He retrieved a wineglass from the small bar in his great room. Narrow-bowled, for white wines. He wasn’t a barbarian.
Shedding his suit jacket, he took a seat at the designer table off his kitchen and flipped open his laptop. A few hours of work would clear his head. Sure enough, one of his scouts had a start-up he thought was worthy of Jason’s attention—a tech company called Spackles with a patent for LED paint. It went on white but could change colors when connected to a power source. Jason clicked the link for background and financials.
Another e-mail popped up, this one from Ryker Vandoren, an owner whose small business Jason had funded only a few months ago. Jason hadn’t had high hopes for the project. It was a small occult shop in the vampire district, a niche market for sure and not in line with his usual investment profile. But Ryker had proved persuasive, supernaturally so, and before Jason could think too much about the opportunity, he’d already written the check.
He clicked on the e-mail.
Jason,
Per our agreement, I’ve transferred to your account 10 percent of my first month’s profits. See attached.
Ryker
Attached was a transaction confirmation in the six-figure range. Jason blinked, then logged into his account to double-check the amount. His eyebrows shot up. Perhaps Ryker’s shop was a good investment after all.
His phone vibrated on the table. Laina.
“Rehearsal is tomorrow, Friday, seven o’clock. It will take several hours, so make sure you move your, um, appointment to earlier in the day.”
“Why hello, sister. It’s good to speak with you. Of course I will attend your wedding rehearsal. I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Seriously, Jason. I’m not trying to be crass here, but I don’t want your vice getting in the way this weekend. Have a nooner or something. Just don’t miss it.”
“I can go a day without having sex, Laina. I won’t explode or anything. I did it when I was staying with Monty. Almost two weeks in a row actually.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
“Are you still there?” Jason asked.
“Yeah. I know you can do it, but maybe this weekend isn’t the time to try. I need you sharp.”
“Why? I’m not the one getting married.”
She sighed. “No, but… I need you vigilant in case something happens. Silas was going to talk to you about this.”
