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“We have yet to be acquainted,” the handsome stranger informed Fenway, tone pointed.
“Well, that won’t do. This is my good friend Miller.” Everyone was Fenway’s ‘good friend’. “She has another name, but she refuses to tell it to me. So we have to call her Miller.”
I never gave anyone my first name. I was sure my coworkers knew it, but not a single one dared to call me it to my face.
Let’s just say there are some names that did not sound badass at all. And my job tended to require badassery. So I kept it simple. Last name only.
“You’re not done, Fenway,” I reminded him when he fell silent.
“Right. I figured you might already be familiar with my friend here,” Fenway said, sounding surprised I clearly wasn’t. “This is Christopher,” he told me. “Christopher Adamos.”
Christopher Adamos?
This was Christopher Adamos?
I didn’t know him by sight.
But I damn sure knew him by reputation.
Shit.
This was not going to be good.
TWO
Miller
“So you have heard of me,” Christopher concluded, making me realize this was one of the very rare times in life when my poker face failed me.
God, I just needed some coffee. And a couple ibuprofen. My freaking memories back from the last twenty-four hours.
Then I would be back on my game.
The last kind of person you wanted to be off your game around was a man like Christopher Adamos.
“It is part of my job to know just about every major player in the criminal world, Mr. Adamos.”
“I’m a businessman.”
“Businessmen don’t deal in blackmailing.”
“Clearly,” he said, his lips doing that smile that was not a smile thing once again, “you have not been around many businessmen. There’s not a noble one to be found.”
“They also don’t make their fortunes off of the collapse of economies.”
“Of course they do,” he corrected. “Why else do your businessmen become richer during your recessions?”
Damnit he was right.
And I was just not in the right place to have a discussion about morals. Not that I even wanted to have that discussion. I was not that pain in the ass, judgmental person everyone hated to be around. I’d done plenty of sketchy things in my life. I was friends with those who had done far worse. I frequently spent my time with some of the worst men and women the world had to offer.
I had no reason to judge Christopher Adamos, despite some of the rumors I’d heard about his ruthlessness.
I was just in a mood.
And wearing pants when I didn’t want to be.
“Anyone interested in stopping for some frappes?” Fenway asked, completely oblivious to the charged air between the others present. Or, more likely than not, just ignoring it.
“I want to go home, Fenway.”
“You just have a headache,” he brushed me off, reaching into his pocket, tossing a bottle of pills at me.
“I don’t want Percocet, Fenway. I want you to call a helicopter, get me to the closest airport, and get me home.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, beautiful.”
For the record, he was not apologetic in the least.
“What are you talking about? This is your yacht. You can do whatever you want.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” he asked, shrugging as he sent a wink to one of the girls on the crew as she dropped four glasses of what looked like whiskey down on the table in front of us. “But I’m not in charge here right now. I just provided the little boat.”
His little boat cost my house times about thirty.
There was nothing little about it.
My gaze went to the glasses again as Christopher leaned forward, wrapping his giant hand around one.
Four.
Four glasses.
“Tell Bellamy to get his ass up here right now,” I demanded.
“Well, when you ask so nicely,” Bellamy’s smooth voice said from my side, moving past me to drop down across from us.
Even on a yacht off the coast of Greece, he was in an impeccable gray suit with crisp creases from pressing still visible.
He leaned forward, pouring the contents of one of the glasses into the one in front of him, holding the empty one up. “The lady prefers tequila,” he explained to the girl who rushed up to take it. He took the full glass, taking a sip, leaning back. Casual as can be.
“I don’t want a drink, Bellamy. I want to go home.”
“See how ungrateful my coworkers are?” he asked, addressing Christopher. “I fly them in my private jet, take them aboard my friend’s yacht. Bring them to Greece. And they reject my hospitality.”
“You left off the part about drugging me and dragging me against my will,” I reminded him.
“Minor details,” he said shrugging. But as he lifted his glass to take another sip, there was a devilish smirk on his lips.
“I didn’t even get a mini pig out of the deal,” I mumbled to myself, leaning back, crossing my arms over my chest, looking very much like a petulant child. And not caring.
