Page 75 of Sexy

“What if he’s on his way to—”

“I don’t care where he’s going, we’re following him, understand? I’ve got a credit card, so you don’t need to worry about it. Just keep going.”

He shoots me the bitch look after that masterpiece of high-class manners. But I don’t care. We keep driving. We wind past the curve of Zephyr Cove, past Lake Tahoe State Park, and almost an hour later make our way into Incline Village at the northern tip of the lake.

He’s from here, I remember from our conversations. Hmmm.

I know very little about Fletcher Novak other than the few conversations we’ve had and the Wikipedia entry that may or may not be true. But I’m about to find out more.

We take a left onto Country Club Drive and then a right on Lakeshore Boulevard. The cabbie pulls over on a side street and we watch Fletcher’s car enter a gated community called Windshore Estates.

“Unless you got a house here, lady, this is the end of the line. That’s Billionaire’s Row, and it’s got security. What do you want me to do? Because I’m not going to jail for trying to get in.”

I take a deep breath and make a decision. “Wait here,” I say. “And leave the meter running. I’ll be back in a little bit.”

I don’t give him a chance to argue, simply slip out of the back seat and slam the door behind me. I’m looking both ways for traffic as I cross the road and then I walk up to the gate. I have an in, I realize. My father’s old friend lives in Incline Village, I know him well. My father even mentioned him a few times after the merger. Told me to look him up while I was up here. I just hadn’t gotten around to it. The guard is out of the gatehouse before I even get within ten feet.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks, his hand on his belted radio.

“Hi, I’m Tiffy Preston and I was down the street at a friend’s house when I remembered that Montey Silverman lives in this community. My father is an old friend of his and asked me to look him up, so I decided to take a walk and—” I giggle and put a hand over my heart. “Oh, he’s probably not home, but can you call him up and tell him I’m here and see if he’d like a visit?”

The guard eyes me. I’m sure walk-ups to this private neighborhood are pretty rare. But if what I say is true, then he’ll be in a lot more trouble for refusing my request than he would if he discovers I’m an interloper.

“Wait right here,” he says, going back into the guardhouse, leaving the door open so I can catch the conversation. “Yes, this is the guardhouse. I’ve got a guest here for Mr. Silverman. Says her name is—” He looks at me for help.

“Tiffy,” I say. “Tiffy Preston.” I smile as he repeats my name and then begins to nod at whatever the person on the other end of the line is telling him. A few seconds later he looks at me. “They’d like to know if you need a ride up to the house? You can walk it, if you’re after the exercise, but they’ll send a golf cart.”

“I’d rather walk.”

He relays that back and then hangs up. “Just head left—” He begins to give me directions.

“I remember where it is,” I say quickly. “I’ve been here before when I was younger.”

“OK, Miss Preston. Come through the gate.” He motions to a walkway a few feet to the left of the guardhouse, and when I reach it, a buzzer sounds, letting me in.

I smile over my shoulder and set off at a brisk walk that turns into a run as soon as the pine trees block the guard’s view. God only knows where Fletcher is in this neighborhood. All I have to go on is his red car, and I’ll never find him if he’s got it in a garage.

I peek down all the driveways as I run. These lots are not too big. The lakefront real estate is premium. But I don’t see his car anywhere. There is a long hedge, easily six feet tall in height, that runs the length of several average-sized lots, and I peek down that driveway in the name of being thorough, not expecting to find what I’m looking for.

But my breath catches in my chest when the red paint flashes through a gap in the trees lining the driveway.

There is a gate at this house, but it’s open. Like a car just drove through. I slip past the invitation and creep up the pavement, looking over my shoulder.

What the fuck is going on? Who lives here that Fletcher knows?

I stop in my tracks when I hear the squeal of a little girl. Fletcher’s gruff voice echoes back, also laughing. I duck behind a tree when they come into sight.

“Hey, baby,” Fletcher says. He’s talking to a little girl, about eight years old, clinging to him like she never wants to let go. And then… and then…

And then he leans into a tall, pretty woman who looks so much like the child, there is no mistaking who she is. And he kisses her on the cheek as he pulls her into a hug.

I turn away.

Holy fuck.

Of all the things I expected to see here, a woman with a child was never even in the running.

I look back and he’s got the little girl in his arms, twirling her around as her blonde hair fans out from the spin. She laughs and giggles, and I see that smile. That same smile that I’ve seen on Fletcher the few times he’s flashed it in front of me.