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He shook his head. “Best decision I’ve made in a long time. The millions will still be there tomorrow.”
And now, because of him, she would still be around, too. “Thank you, Wyatt. Really. I’m so—”
He held up a hand. “If you apologize one more time for something that is absolutely not your fault, you’re going to see my mean side.”
The threat shouldn’t have sent a hot shiver through her, but it did. The image of the quietly intense executive losing some of that nothing-phases-me exterior called to her in a way she couldn’t even define. The feeling was foreign, frightening. The fact that he’d shut down the possibility of them sleeping together was probably a very, very good thing, even if her hormones hadn’t quite jumped on board with that plan yet. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
“I’ll be here.” Wyatt sat down on her loveseat, pulled out his cell phone, and started scanning through emails as if he’d wait forever if that was how long she needed.
She stood there watching him for a few moments longer than necessary, knowing that this would probably be the last time she’d have him this close. Sure, she’d be able to hide out for a few weeks, but this wasn’t going to go away anytime soon. She’d thought she’d escaped undetected the last time, but clearly they’d discovered the role she’d played in Raymond Miller’s downfall. And if D-Town was determined to hurt her, she wasn’t going to be safe anywhere near their territory.
She let out a long breath and turned her back, heading toward her bedroom. Wyatt didn’t know it, but their fictional love affair was about to come to a quick and quiet end.
Because she was going to have to leave her life here in Dallas.
And leave him.
CHAPTER THREE
Wyatt leaned back in his desk chair, scanning the report on his computer screen and only half-listening to his father prattle on. Wyatt didn’t have the patience for a Bill Austin lecture on a good day, much less this morning. After showing up at the Sugarcane Cafe for the second week in a row to find no Kelsey, Wyatt had left with heartburn and a bloodstream full of frustration.
Her co-worker, Nathan, had been like a fucking Navy SEAL with his ability to withstand interrogation. Wyatt had prodded the guy up one way and down the other trying to get information about Kelsey, even offering to pay Nathan for the information. But all the cook would reveal was that she was safe and that he didn’t know where she was, which was bullshit of course. That kid knew exactly where she was.
He admired the guy for being protective of his friend, but the not knowing was like a thorn burrowing into Wyatt’s brain. The whole situation was out of his control and that was completely unacceptable. He hadn’t been able to concentrate for shit since he’d last seen her. He’d even driven by her sister’s house like some lame stalker to see if her car was there. It wasn’t. And when he’d knocked on the door to the house, no one had been home.
Then this morning he’d come in to find a message from the cop who’d handled the alley incident, letting Wyatt know that the asshole had made bail. Kelsey’s attacker was out there, roaming the streets like nothing had fucking happened. Our brilliant legal system at its best.
“Wyatt, you were supposed to handle this,” his father barked. “You can’t just say no to big-time clients because you feel like it.”
He huffed his annoyance. “I was busy this weekend. And I don’t eat deer, so why would I waste time shooting one?”
His father made that frustrated noise of his, like the hiss of trapped steam leaking out of a pipe. “Wyatt, you—it isn’t about the deer. You know that.”
Wyatt minimized the screen and turned toward his father, bored with this conversation already. He had bigger things to worry about than some self-important client getting his pride hurt over a declined invitation. “I bet the deer would beg to differ.”
His dad’s palm landed on top of the desk, a soft smack but pointed nonetheless. “This isn’t a joke.”
Wyatt closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “Didn’t say it was.”
His father tugged at his necktie and tightened it again, obviously trying to regain his trademark Bill Austin composure. “Dirk Billings wants to trust the guy handling his fortune. He wants to feel connected to him. Like buddies.”
“And sitting for hours in a wooden box with guns and cheap beer to shoot something I don’t even eat is going to accomplish this?” Wyatt shook his head and straightened the papers on his desk. “If he wants trust, he needs to look at my record and talk to my other clients. If he wants to feel connected, I’m more than happy to schedule regular phone calls or meetings to go over his portfolio. I spent last weekend analyzing the numbers from last quarter. We have some quirks in there that don’t make sense. That’s what I needed to spend my time on. Not hanging out in the woods doing tick checks with a windbag.”
The thought of being caught in a deer stand, making chitchat with a guy who thought the South should’ve won, was Wyatt’s personal version of hell. He’d end up turning the gun on his client instead of the wildlife. That wouldn’t be good for the company image.
His father’s skin went ruddy, his hold on his anger obviously dwindling. “Ignoring this part of the business is not going to work anymore, son. Merrill and Mead are giving that level of personal service to their clients. They’re stealing them away from us with good ol’ boy wining and dining. Or golfing and hunting as the case may be. Those imbeciles don’t have anything on you when it comes to the financials, but if you don’t learn how to play the nicey-nice game, we’re going to keep losing big fish. You want that jerk you graduated with to woo away all of our clients?”
Wyatt’s jaw clenched at that thought. Tony Merrill had been an arrogant prick in graduate school, and time had only seemed to enhance those attributes. Wyatt had received a jovial email a few months earlier from Tony thanking him for sending over one of his best clients. Jerkoff. “When their net worth starts going down because Tony doesn’t know his ass from an alligator, they’ll return.”
“They’re not coming back, Wyatt,” his father said quietly. Too quietly. Wyatt had feared that lethal tone when he was a kid. It usually meant fire and brimstone were coming.
“Don’t panic, Dad.” Wyatt turned back to his computer to click open the next page in the report. “You’ve got the Carmichael retreat at the end of the month. And you always come back with new clients from that. You handle the ass kissing and spouse charming, and I’ll keep their business here with the results I can get them.”
His father shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “I’m not going to be able to attend the retreat this year.”
Wyatt’s hand stilled against his mouse, and he spun his chair back toward his father. That retreat was a must. Business leaders killed to get invitations to the exclusive trip put on each year by real estate tycoon Edward Carmichael. On the surface, it was billed as a relax and unwind trip for executives and their spouses. But that casual, guards-down atmosphere was where deals were made and partnerships were formed. “What are you talking about? That retreat was responsible for three of our biggest new clients last year.”
“Your mother has threatened divorce. So we’re going to a thing,” he said, giving a near imperceptible shrug.
