Page 68 of Unruly

The waitress was at their table seconds after, a menu in hand. Miguel ordered his breakfast, and Catherine ordered the same egg and bacon mess.

“What time did your flight get in?” she asked.

“Four.”

“Did you at least get a nap in before you came here?”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead, reginella.”

Catherine shook her head. “Don’t work yourself to death, Miguel. I need you on my side here.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

His russet eyes said he was fine, and telling the truth but Catherine still worried. There were only so many people she trusted to get work done for her when she had to delegate tasks. Actually, just one person.

Miguel.

“Where’s the principessa?”

“With her father today,” she answered, smiling. “I asked if she wanted to come, but I think Cross promised shopping or some nonsense.”

“That child never gives up the chance to have something new.”

“Nope.”

Soon, the waitress was back with a carafe of coffee. Once their mugs were full, and the girl was gone, Catherine turned back to her associate. She was ready to talk business, and then get on with her day.

“So, seriously, what’s the word, Miguel?”

His instant scowl told Catherine she was not going to like the news he was about to deliver. She braced herself for the impact.

“I’m getting nowhere on the competition front,” he told her.

Yep.

She didn’t like it.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I keep getting blocked every time I turn the fuck around.”

“Keep going.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Whatever you can tell me,” Catherine said. “Anything at all.”

“All right.”

Catherine leaned back in the chair, and gazed over the other patrons in the posh Manhattan brunch spot. It was a popular place, and usually full. Today was no exception. People watching gave her the chance to consider what Miguel was telling her.

“I’ve gone through the list of clients we noticed had been likely picked up by whoever the competition is. Problem is, these are not low profile rich people, Catherine. A lot of them are celebrities, or even politicians. One is a fucking Duke from England that moved over here five years ago.”

“So what does that mean, exactly?”

“It means whoever it was that stole the clients handpicked which ones would be best to take based on their high-profile status. People who would not be easily obtained in any other circumstances. People who have security, or a lot of red tape keeping them protected. Meaning, I can’t just sit down and have a chat with one of them. There’s too much keeping them backed away from me.”

“What about the girls? Or their handlers? Did you find out anything else from any of them?”