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A waitperson arrives and takes our orders. When she leaves, he leans closer and wraps his arm around the back of my chair.
“Were you expecting them to look like bad people? Like straight out ofThe Sopranos?” He freaking smirks.
“No.” He must think I’m inept. “I studied organized crime for years. But…” I’ve seen reams of surveillance photos. This is my first real-life observation. “Maybe.”
Fisher’s smirk breaks into a full-out mocking grin, and I give him a playful glare.
“They seemed normal. Friendly. I mean, other than having a pack of friends following them around.”
“Nice people can do horrible things. You took all the classes. There are many serial killers out there who are by all accounts charismatic and charming.”
“Yeah.” My virgin Bloody Mary arrives, and I pick up the toothpick with an olive perched on the end. “But you realize it’s quite possible he isn’t involved in the shadier side of the family business at all.”
“In theory, he doesn’t travel with security, so it’s possible. We’re just looking to make friends should he take over for dear old dad.”
“I know that.” I’ve spent more time studying this case than he has, yet of course, he needs to mansplain.
He dips closer. The tip of his nose rubs the side of my face. Electric tendrils swirl. He smells like cedar and man. He’s closer now than he’s ever been, and between his scent and his warmth, his proximity kicks off a flurry of intense physical responses that sends one leg crossing over the other and heat climbing up my neck.
The physical sensations throw me. We role played in training, but this didn’t happen. Casually, I turn my head, stretching my neck muscles and breathing deeply to regain control. This is probably Lauren’s fault. All those years of her drooling over Fisher, as if he was an actor or a model.
“Just remember.” Fisher warns, his deep voice low and gravelly, “no matter how friendly they seem, three of his wives died untimely deaths. Many in his circle drop off the radar without explanation. Always be careful.”
CHAPTER7
FISHER
The fireplace roars and kids’ laughter blends in with the melodic beat of the world music soundtrack. The bartender expertly weaves between customers, eliciting conversation and smiles.
An older man in a baseball cap and wool sweater approaches and gestures to the leather chair opposite mine. “Is this available?”
“No, sorry. My wife will be here momentarily.” He glances to the side, at the two additional chairs set off to the side. “My friends,” I volunteer.
It’s total bullshit, but with luck, this place will fill up, and if Gemma and Rafael come down, our invisible friends will text us and bail on joining us.
I make a show of checking my watch, as if I’m annoyed to be waiting. It’s nearly five, and the lifts are closed. Skiing is done for the day, and while a good many will après-ski closer to the base, many will find their way back here. A brunette at the bar glances over her shoulder. In a different tavern, the over-the-shoulder glance might mean something. In this one, she’s checking out the remaining available seating. The diamonds lining her fourth left finger, plus the fact this is a pricey family vacation resort, say her husband is nearby.
Outside, small fires burn in circular stone pits, and kids wave sticks with marshmallows on the end into the flames. Hot chocolate loaded to the brim with whipped cream fill copper mugs.
A young woman, early twenties, blonde hair in a ponytail, of average height and build approaches. The crisp white button-down and black jeans match the bartender’s outfit.
“Sir, can I interest you in a wine tasting?”
“Maybe.” I check my watch again. Where is Sophia? She left to go shopping four hours ago. “My wife should be here soon.”
She leaves a sheet outlining my options, and I review the choices, knowing I’ll need to order the most expensive. If Gemma and Rafael arrive, wine could be a discussion entry point. Plus, I need to play the role of a jackass spending more money than he earns.
A table of rowdy men off to the side, mid-twenties to early thirties, one by one, look to their right. I follow their gaze. The largest entrance to the tavern opens into the lobby, but there’s another entrance in the back which leads to a long hall of shops and services. Immediately, I see who caught their attention.
Sophia approaches, but it’s not the Sophia from four hours ago. Eye-catching, glossy auburn tresses bounce with each step. She’s wearing a tiny, form fitting top, cut so low the smooth, creamy skin above her breasts reflects light. The miniscule top is missing the bottom half of the shirt, revealing smooth, seductive contours. Her low-rise pants hug her hips and thighs then widen down the length of her legs, draping black leather boots with sky-high shiny silver heels that could double as a weapon.
She wiggles her fingers at me as she approaches, and I notice her once short, square nails are now talons. How the hell did she do that?
She perches on the edge of the seat across from me and sets an enormous black handbag on the ground beside her feet. She reaches for me and clasps my knee. The movement lowers the neckline of her shirt, and I get a full view of her revealing lace bra. On instinct, I straighten her top, covering her, well, assets.
“Good afternoon?” My pants, the jeans Sophia set out earlier for me to wear, are uncomfortably tight, much more so since she arrived in this outfit. Her makeup is different. More present. Noticeable. She’s the picture of a fucking vixen. Those blue eyes pop like never before, but then again, her whole body fucking pops. “What’re you wearing?”
“Do you like it?” She twists and flips her glossy mane back over her shoulder. Her nails are a swirl of light pastel colors and shaped like, I’m not sure, maybe pointed tear drops. A vision of those long fingers wrapping around me flashes, and I blink it away.
