Page 359 of The Romance Adventure

Magnus’s gaze sharpens as if he doesn’t like that idea.

CJ says, “I’m not so sure we should storm the castle, especially after Glandman’s comments to Harley.”

“And the bones and note,” she adds.

“We don’t know that was from him. Could’ve been Higbee,” Ryan says.

“Jolie and I will go,” CJ offers.

“We will?” Somehow, when he talks to me, the rest of the world fades, which is rare for me because my head is constantly on a swivel.

“I think he’ll like you.”

“Is that a good thing?”

Later that afternoon, CJ and I roll up to Platinum Shores in his dusty, sand-streaked Jeep. He tosses the keys to the valet and says, “Don’t have too much fun.”

Outside our Malaga bubble, I’m seeing so many other sides to this man. He can be sweet, salty, silly. But there’s more, much more, to him than a lazy surf bum like his brothers like to tease.

Had I known this place was a luxury resort, I’d have freshened up to look the part. I’m wearing linen pants and a tank top. My hair is windblown. CJ looks like he caught a wave, washed up here, and air-dried.

Not that I mind. I rather like his beachy, sun-kissed look. And his bum.

He talks to the person at the reception desk, who merely does her job and denies him a meeting with the owner and president of the resort.

He leans in and says, “Tell him a McGregor is here and he’ll drop whatever he’s doing.”

Sure enough, in less than three minutes, we’re riding the glass elevator facing the sparkling ocean up to the penthouse office suite.

“What should I expect?” I ask, feeling unusually nervous, maybe because I’m used to working solo and having a clear mission objective.

“A cantankerous old man.”

“Should I let you do the talking?”

“No, by all means, speak freely.” There’s an edge to CJ I’m not familiar with. When I met his sisters-in-law, they said he keeps his cards close to his vest and what happens in his life stays in his life. Royal mentioned him knowing unsavory characters. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s more I don’t know aside from his propensity for languages.

The office consists of nearly wall-to-wall windows overlooking the ocean on about three sides, with room for the elevator. On the other hand, is a floor-to-ceiling mural in pastel shades. It’s a map of the area, including popular Caribbean islands. I recall someone mentioning a kerfuffle when Glandman commissioned Isla to paint it.

Less remarkable is the pasty, bloated man wearing a pale gray suit sitting behind a massive metal desk. Platinum shores has a glass and metal motif. You know what they say about people who throw stones from glass houses. Glandman was probably the person that expression originally referenced. His scowl is instant and all-encompassing.

“McGregor the younger, to what do I owe the displeasure?” Glandman says without looking up from a leather ledger.

“My wife is a real estate agent. An international real estate agent. She has her finger on the pulse of the industry.”

Penning something carefully in black ink, he says, “Why should that matter to me?”

“You’ve done well for yourself. However, you could do better. I have something you want.”

Glandman looks up, and his gaze roves over me. “I do want.” The guy practically froths at the mouth as he looks me over.

CJ stiffens. I envision him throwing Glandman through the window. Quickly regaining his composure, he says, “Meet my wife, Jolie. Should you need the reminder, she’s a person. Not a something.”

“Right. Of course. Then what is it? The crown Chip was after?” Glandman blusters.

“Information.”

“You said your wife is a real estate agent. If it’s not prime property, I’m not interested.”