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Why couldn’t Rod have found a place in North Scottsdale instead of going for Monty’s lame rustic ranch idea? From everything she’d read, Scottsdale was much more civilized than Prescott. But she’d only get to spend the one night here, and then off to the Arizona wilds—or so she imagined.
Celine leaned back in her seat and sighed. To top it off, the location had ended up being selected on a bet, and she’d heard the cowboy who owned the ranch was none too happy to have them. Well, she certainly wasn’t happy about the situation, either.
She pictured the owner. What was his name? Something like Jack? Jerry? No, it was Jayson. Likely the man was an old, weatherworn cowboy with skin as tough as leather and wrinkles like sand dunes. Probably walked bow-legged on top of that.
At least Trevor, her photographer, loved the ranch. He had visited the original location and said this one was superb—far better with more opportunities for a great photoshoot and commercial.
The models had complained about the smell of cow manure until Trevor had threatened to take shots with the models shoveling shit. Celine smiled to herself. Apparently that had shut them up.
Damn, but she loved Trevor. He was a complete pain in the ass, but he was sharp, knowledgeable, artistic, and just flat out the best in the business. He was worth every damned penny she paid him. And yes, he had assured her, he did shit gold bricks with perfect edges.
She braced her elbow on the cab windowsill, put her head in her hand, and stared out without seeing.
Celine wasn’t sure how she was going to do on the ranch. It had been a long time since she’d been close to horses. Her belly took a dive and the wine and cheese she’d had in first class curdled. It would soon come back up.
It had happened so long ago. How could the pain still be so deep? She should be over it now.
She should have forgiven herself, but she never had.
Do I deserve to be free of that guilt?
She didn’t think she ever could be. Or if she even wanted to be free.
* * *
Celine reclined on her hotel bed and idly stared into a glass of Chardonnay that reflected the bedside light. The stack of papers from Monty lay scattered on the comforter beside her. She’d been putting off looking at them.
No doubt, more money out than in.
She needed another drink.
Celine idly played with the soft material of her burnt sienna dress. She loved silk, and she loved the soft flowy outfit she had designed. One benefit of her career—she could create whatever she wanted to wear.
Her phone rang and she picked it up from the nightstand. Monty lit up the screen.
She sighed. Lately hearing from Monty meant more bad news than good. She wanted to answer with “What now?” but settled for, “Hi, Monty.”
“Bad news.” He sounded dead serious.
Then she did say, “What now?”
“I don’t suppose you’ve listened to the news today?” he said.
She frowned. “No time. Why?”
He sounded genuinely agitated. “Big ransom malware attack all over the damned globe.”
Her brow furrowed. “Speak English.”
“A hacker syndicate sends out a ‘bug’ that takes over a company’s computer systems and encrypts all their data. They demand money to give you back control of your own computers. That’s why they call it ransomware.”
Her heart nearly stopped beating. “And you’re telling me this because…”
“You got hit with it, Celine,” he said. “Twenty thousand.”
She almost didn’t dare to ask. “Twenty thousand what?”
“Dollars,” Monty said. “They’ve ransomed every bit of computer access to your financial records as well as all of your designs. If we don’t pay them, they’ll delete everything.”
