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“Oh, good God!” Brody snaps. “You’re kidding me? In all the years I’ve known you,” he begins in a lower but still shaken voice. “I have never seen you once put anything before business. I mean, aren’t you putting up with the stalker investor just for her money?”
“I know,” I say, secretly replaying the images of Brynne naked while I am listening to this lecture.
“But you halted a big deal for a bimbo that is young enough to be your daughter,” he says. “Come on, Jack. She’s not in your league. Take her to bed and blow out her back. I don’t care. But let’s not sacrifice business for her.”
Every cell in my body is lit with rage. My eyelids can barely lift. I feel positively predatory as I stare Brody down.
“Hey,” he says, pumping his hand towards me like he’s putting on imaginary brakes. “I am only doing what is good for you. What is good for Red Hawk.”
“What is good for Brody Dillman,” I amend.
“I get a cut of the deal,” he reminds me. “And if there is no business, there’s no cut. I am not ashamed to point that out. I am just saying let your big head do the thinking. Priorities, Jack. Priorities.”
“Better than letting a dickhead do the thinking,” I growl.
I slam my palms on the desk that Brody uses in my office, and I stare him down. “Don’t you ever get your nose out of joint again about how I conduct myself on the job,” I say coldly.
“And never refer to Brynne as a bimbo again, or you can find yourself another client.”
Chapter 4
Brynne
Though it goes against all that I stand for – fossil fuels and materialism – I have to admit that driving around in the Cabriolet with the top down is fun. It is sweet, childlike fun that I don’t experience all that often. Except that it makes me a hypocrite. I feel so cheap and easy. It took no convincing at all for me to ditch my green ideals. I find myself making up reasons to hop in the car.
Jack sent me a text on my way back to the inn. Since he had left my phone there, I didn’t get it until I reached the Calypso.
How the heck did he get my cellphone number?
“You may not sleep on the beach,” he wrote. “Sleep in the inn if you must. But just for the next few days. After that, Red Hawk Realty will put you up at the Surfrider Hotel in Malibu.”
It’s not a bad return for chaining myself naked. I got the Red Hawk corporate monster to spare my beloved home and scored a car and a staycation in Malibu – although The Surfrider is not all that enticing to me because I live what they sell every day.
“My information is not for circulation,” I reply.
“What does that even mean?” he asks.
“I don’t know how you got my number, but I didn’t give it to you.”
“You have a website,” he texts back. “I googled you.”
Hmmm. Can’t argue that. Truth is, I checked Jack out as well. Did a deep dive to see what I could learn. Still, I feel like my privacy has been somewhat invaded.
He’s filthy rich to start with. Not married. No children. No flashy girlfriend that I could find. Apparently enjoys skiing and surfing. Plays golf, too. Vacations all over the world but mostly seems like a workaholic. And he donates lots of money to charities.
“We’re changing the locks, so be prepared,” he writes a little later.
Go right ahead, I think, but I don’t reply. I know the Calypso inside and out, literally. I can get inside of it if I want, locks or not. I told him I had secret access but didn’t tell himhow.
I get yet another text. Jack texts me sporadically throughout the day - like we’re friends or something. But even my friends don’t contact me this much. I have no choice but to razz him.
“Didn’t you call out some woman for being a phone pest?” I tease.
I meant it as a joke. I must have triggered him. He’s calling.
“What?” he demands. “I was just going to tell you we’re arranging to put your stuff in storage.”
Now, I wish I hadn’t joked with him. As much as I find his voice even dreamier over the phone than in person – as sort of a bygone era Hollywood leading man smooth – now I am upset.
