Prologue
With four cups of coffee swirling in his gut, Scott Terentson rode the elevator up to the third floor of the investment bank, trying to banish the headache climbing from his neck to his skull. The elevator music was like the slow slicing of a knife across his nerves, but he kept his expression bored and his body relaxed. The residual pain of last year’s gunshot wound echoed through his chest as always. He’d been in the hospital followed by PT for more weeks than he could count, so he just ignored the pain.
The door dinged open with a triple tinkle and he stepped onto plush, light blue carpet, facing a wide mahogany reception desk. There was so much woodwork around him, he wanted to puke. Instead, he plastered a smile on his face and strode up to the twentysomething behind the counter.
“Can I help you?” she asked politely, looking serene in a light beige suit and white shell.
“Yes, I’m here to see Werner Dearth.” The guy definitely had too manyr’s in his name. “I’m Scott Terentson.”
The young woman, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun and gold-framed eyeglasses covering pretty green eyes, lifted both eyebrows. “Do you have an appointment?” she asked in the way of corporate gatekeepers everywhere.
“No, but if he has half a brain, he knows I’m coming.” More elevator music droned in the background, and he wondered how she didn’t go crazy in this somber space.
“I see.” She lifted the phone to her ear. “Hi, Gladys. There’s a Mr. Scott Terentson here to see Mr. Dearth.” She listened. “Very well. Thank you.” She hung up. “Mr. Dearth will see you now.” She pointed toward the closed doorway to the left of the reception area.
“Thank you,” he said as a buzzer echoed and the door unlocked. He pushed it open to find a dark-haired woman in a red Chanel suit waiting for him. Her hair was up in a bun, and she wore no-nonsense, gray spectacles. “Mr. Terentson?”
Who else would it be? “Yes.” He kept his tone polite.
Her gaze raked him, instantly taking in his Armani suit and green power tie. Pink tinged her cheeks and she warmed, smiling. “Very well. Mr. Dearth said to bring you on back.”
“Thanks.” Yeah, he’d worn the suit on purpose.
She ushered him through the hushed hallway with closed office doors and conference rooms on either side. The top floor of the investment banking firm had been done in a clean, modern design with a beige-and-gray color scheme to lighten all the mahogany.
He paused at an open doorway and glanced inside a mechanical room, and his body was electrified as a woman looked up. He blinked once. She blinked twice. She wore a light gray uniform with a logo for Al’s Heating and Air Conditioning on the chest. Wild silver and gold streaks threaded through her temporarily red hair, probably from celebrating New Year’s Eve a few days before. Her eyes shimmered a startling and unfathomable blue. What the hell was HDD Agent Millicent Frost doing playacting as an air conditioning repair person?
“Mr. Terentson?” Gladys asked.
He turned to her. “Oh yes. I thought it was a little chilly in here.” It was damn right freezing.
“Yes.” She threw up her hands. “There’s something going on with the air conditioning. Hopefully they’ll have it fixed soon.” She raised her voice enough to be heard in the next office.
Millie rolled her eyes, grabbed a wrench, and returned to whatever she was doing.
Fascinating. Scott followed Gladys to the corner office, where she knocked quietly.
“Enter,” a booming voice said.
Gladys smiled, interest in her eyes, as she opened the door for him. “Here you go.”
“Thank you again,” he said with as much charm as he could muster. His mind still reeled at the sight of Millie.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Dearth asked.
Scott shut the door and advanced toward the man sitting behind the desk. A sprawling view of DC stretched out behind him. “You demanded an inventory of my client’s jewelry, shoes, and, ah, what was it? Yeah. Purses.” He sneered the last, even though he knew a few of those handbags were worth more than most cars.
“I wanted Julie to bring them.” Crimson darkened Dearth’s full cheeks.
“Too bad.” Scott yanked an envelope out of his breast pocket and tossed it on the desk.
Werner Dearth looked like a wealthy banker, with his polished silver hair, sharp brown eyes, and ten-thousand-dollar suit. It was black and he didn’t wear a tie. His belly hung over his pants, but he was still a broad man who could probably wrestle a full-grown bull if he wanted. Right now, his cheeks showed a ruddy tint, and his gaze a lethal sharpness. He reached for the envelope. “If she thinks she’s keeping any of this, she’s crazy.”
“She’s retaining her personal property, and I expect full disclosure of your liquid assets in addition to any real property you haven’t divulged as of yet.” The judge wasn’t messing around with either party in this ridiculous divorce, but Scott’s private investigators hadn’t yet found the information he needed. Dearth was good at this.
Dearth shoved the envelope in the bottom drawer. “I wanted to speak with my wife and go over this list with her.”
Actually, the man wanted to torment his wife. “She isn’t going to meet with you alone ever again,” Scott said smoothly.
