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I look her up and down again. “Which was his fuck up. Either way, he’s gone and this conversation between you and me is over. Townsend doesn’t now, nor will it ever, need your services.”
I leave Riley Martin where she stands. Even as I walk away, I have to force my head not to turn and search the space where I left her. It’s a damn shame she isn’t interested in being in my bed for the night. That might’ve gotten her more of my attention.
As it stands, however, I don’t have a need or want for her business services.
CHAPTER5
Riley
I steel myself as I step onto the dock and look at the massive Townsend yacht.
“Do they do anything small?” I murmur as I watch the stream of people heading in the same direction as me. It’s the second day of Art Basel, and after making my way through various art venues and showings, it’s time for the dinner party hosted by Townsend Industries.
I don’t doubt that while at least fifty top business executives, Townsend board members, and some celebrity guests will be in attendance, this event will center around impressing Sam Waterson. Kyle Townsend will be at the heart of it all. If our previous encounters haven’t left an impression, this is my opportunity to do so. The third time’s a charm. Or so they say.
“Ms. Martin?”
I turn and come face to face with Adam Bachleda. He’s one of the more vocal members of Townsend’s Board of Directors. It was rumored that his son briefly worked for the company but not for long. I spent about ten minutes talking with him last night about a few art pieces at the gallery.
“Mr. Bachleda, what did I tell you about calling me Ms. Martin?” I say at the same time I wrap my arm around his.
He takes my arm happily as the wrinkles around his eyes increase from his smile.
“Riley,” he corrects. “Please, call me Adam. I had no idea you were attending this dinner party.”
We start for the yacht.
Laughter and music spill from the boat. The thing feels like it looms over us the closer we get. From my vantage point, I can see that the yacht has three levels. It’s easy to differentiate business people from celebrities or socialites by their attire.
I’m dressed somewhere in between with my pair of wide leg red pants and a black silk top. I thought it was best not to wear a ball gown for the event, and I’m glad I went with my gut.
“I don’t recall seeing your name on the list,” Adam continues, bringing me back to focus on him.
“Yes,” I say with a nod. “It was a last minute thing. I have a friend who’s here for work. She’s DJing one of the after parties and gave me her invitation when she opted not to come tonight.”
I glance over to gauge how much of my story he believes.
“She’s not feeling well and thought resting before her set tonight would be better.”
A deep V appears between his brows. “What’s her name?”
“Sharonda Williams.” It’s not a lie. Shonda—for short—is a friend of mine who’s in Miami to work a few corporate parties. She also gave me her Townsend dinner invite because she dislikes Richie Rich types almost as much as I do.
“That’s a shame. Hopefully, she feels better soon.”
I step onto the yacht, and we’re both greeted by a hulking security guard dressed in all black.
“Invitations,” he demands, his face and voice unyielding.
“Here we are.” Adam hands his over, as do I.
The guard looks over the invites and then at us.
“Pass.” He steps aside.
“You’d think they would know one of the most prominent members of the Townsend Board of Directors,” I say to Adam as he escorts me inside of the lower deck.
He chuckles. “I don’t take it personally. They’re particular about security. I would venture to say, Kyle even more so than his father.” He leans in conspiratorially. “And that’s saying a lot.”
