Or wouldthey?
Lucas rubbed his hands. “So…excited to go back toL.A.?”
“Why is everyone so convinced I’m going to lose? And don’t you dare say it’s because I’m agirl.”
His stupid grinwidened.
“Leave her alone.” Liam shoved Lucas toward the revolving doors just as a black limo pulled into thedriveway.
My ride had arrived. I traipsed down toward it. An impressively large driver came out and drew the back door open forme.
I thanked him and gotin.
“Mr. Michaels is waiting for us at the restaurant.” His voice was as big as hewas.
I’m pretty sure Liam and Lucas, who were rooted by the entrance of the inn, had heard the driver speak. They seemed star-struck by the limo, which I guessed wasn’t a common car to see inBoulder.
Sandra had sent me a little background information about Mr. Michaels. He was a hotel promoter who owned five-star resorts in Denver, Beaver Creek, and Las Vegas. An extremely wealthy sixty-year-old who’d grown up in Boulder but dropped out of high school at seventeen and moved to Vegas, where he worked his way up to management, then gambled his way to a large bank account, before receiving a consequential amount of money from a deceasedgrandmother.
I was sort of excited about meeting him, not because of his wealth or status, but because I assumed that anyone who could ascend so far up in the world was worth meeting…worth learningfrom.
The restaurant was thirty minutes away, in a barn that had been refurbished with cowhide banquettes and lacquered black tables. Modern glass chandeliers swathed the dim interior in a tawny glow that made everyone lookhandsomer.
The romper-clad hostess led me to a table all the way in the back, toward a man sipping an ochre drink with a snowball-sized icecube.
Aidan Michaels stood when I arrived, looking me over through wire-rimmed glasses. “Your picture doesn’t do you justice,Candy.”
“Thank you, Mr.Michaels.”
“Sorry I couldn’t pick you up myself, but I had an important call with mylawyer.”
“That’sfine.”
He walked around and held out my chair. “Would you like some wine? Or maybe a glass ofchampagne?”
“Champagne would benice.”
He asked the hostess for a glass of their best champagne, and then he tucked my chair under the table before returning to his seat. “You don’t look like a Candy. What’s your realname?”
“You’re not paying me enough to get my realname.”
His gaze tightened, but then his teeth flashed, and helaughed.
“Can I askyousomething?”
He leaned back in his chair and raised his tumbler to his lips. “Goahead.”
“Why does a successful man like yourself go through an agency to find a dinnerdate?”
“Aha. The million-dollar question. I was married once, and she broke my heart. So I decided never again, and I’ve stuck to that thanks to treating dating like I treat my businesses.” He shifted forward and placed his drink down. “A tidy socialtransaction.”
His honesty had my shoulder blades un-pinching.
“My turn. Why is a pretty young thing like yourself doingthis?”
I unfolded my napkin and laid it on my lap. “I need themoney.”
He nodded his understanding. “How much is it that youneed?”
