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“I do know of her,” I replied honestly. “However, you’ll have to explain to me why I need to contact her.” For a moment, I wondered if he might be playing matchmaker, but the idea was so ridiculous that I didn’t give it a second thought.
“It’s McKenna’s decision whether to sell this house, but I wasn’t about to give out her contact information to just anyone.” His eyes twinkled again, and he smiled. “For some reason, I like you, Mr. Bardot.”
This whole thing struck me as a little odd, but I didn’t care if it got me the house.
Corbin leaned forward and grabbed a pen from the holder on his desk, then ripped a piece of paper off a pad and wrote something on it.
He held it out to me, and I took it, seeing McKenna’s name and phone number on it. I thanked him and left. Once I was settled in the black leather seat of my bright yellow Ferrari 488 Pista Spider, I called the number Corbin had given me.
The sweetest voice I’d ever heard answered, and to my utter shock, my body roared to life.What the fuck?
“Is this McKenna Sage?” I asked, my voice a little gruffer than I’d intended because I was trying to fight off the lust coursing through my body.
“Yes,” she replied hesitantly.
“My name is Jeremy Bardot. Your grandfather gave me your number, and I was hoping we could sit down and talk for a few minutes. In person,” I added. I preferred not to wheel and deal over the phone when I couldn’t read the people I was negotiating with. And that was all this girl—woman—was.
“Grandpa gave you my information?” Her tone held suspicion.
I understood her wariness but didn’t want to discuss this over the phone, so I avoided the real reason I wanted to meet with her.
“If he told you I was single and is trying to set us up on a blind date, I’m going to kill him,” she growled adorably.
An unexpected laugh burst from my chest. “You know, for a moment, I had the same thought. But I assure you, that’s not what this is about.”
“Then what is it about?”
“I’d rather discuss it in person. We can even meet at your grandfather’s house if that would make you more comfortable.”
McKenna was silent for a moment before responding. “I appreciate that, but if Grandpa trusted you enough to give you my number, then I’m not worried that you’re some kind of serial killer.”
I chuckled again and shook my head, astonished by my physical and mental reactions to her.
She suggested a coffee shop in Thousand Oaks, and we agreed to meet tomorrow at ten in the morning.
After I hung up, I called my friend Jonah Carrington—the owner of the security company that handled all of my offices and properties—and had him run a thorough background check on McKenna. I always liked to know everything I could about anyone I did business with. It usually gave me a leg up in negotiations.
An hour later, Jonah sent me a text informing me that he was sending the file via encrypted email. I was back at my office, buried in work, so I didn’t look at it until late that night. I’d come home to my Malibu beach house—where I lived when I was working in LA—and worked for a few more hours. It was nearing eleven when I finally printed out the file from Jonah and stuck the papers in a folder. Then I went into the kitchen to grab a beer before wandering into my living room. I slid open one of the three sets of glass doors that looked out over my white-washed deck with steps leading right down to a private beach.
There were several seating areas with comfy chairs and couches, as well as a firepit and hot tub. I took a seat on one of the couches and stretched out my legs, propping them on an ottoman and resting the file on my lap.
The crashing waves were my favorite background noise, and I took a deep breath of the salty sea air as I popped the cap on my bottle. I tipped it to my lips and took a few swallows before setting it on the little table beside me and opening the file.
I wasn’t surprised to learn that she didn’t live off her grandfather’s money. The way Corbin had talked about her mother and the respect in his voice when he mentioned McKenna made it obvious she was nothing like her parents.
She was twenty-one, had a degree in art history, and made her living as an artist. She was successful enough to have her own studio and gallery, which she lived above on Thousand Oaks Boulevard, the main street running through the downtown area. She also taught art classes to inner city kids once a week. The more I read about her, the more intrigued I became.
Then I picked up a stack of photos, and all the air rushed out of my lungs.
Holy fucking shit.
The first picture was her driver’s license photo, and no one looked good in those. Except this woman was clearly an exception to the rule. She was a complete knockout with dark-blond hair, big brown eyes surrounded by thick, dark lashes, and a mouth that would make any living breathing male picture it wrapped around their cock.
I shifted in my seat, needing to find a more comfortable position now that my dick was hard as fuck.
My eyes fell to her plush lips again, and there was only a slight curve, but I could see the beginnings of dimples in her cheeks. I wanted to see her full smile and was more than curious about the rest of her, so I uncovered the next photo.
I owed Jonah big fucking time for being this thorough. I knew he would only dive this deep for certain clients…considering a lot of this information had probably been obtained illegally.
