“Morals? I’m a good girl,” she said, reverting back to jokes. But inside, she started spinning. Why on earth would he be concerned about her morals?
“I’m sure you’re pristine, but the reason I bring this up is we are a spirits company, and while that may seem on the surface that we’re loose and fast, we actually have to be quite buttoned-up about the law, and the rules.”
“I assure you, Tad. I am over twenty-one,” she said, flashing him a playful smile, because what the hell was he hinting at?
He returned her smile, not showing any teeth. “I am referring to who you associate with. The people you consort with. As I understand, you were involved with Dillon Whittaker, and he is now in prison for tax evasion,” he said. Her shoulders tightened and she gritted her teeth just from hearing the name of her ex. The f**ker was finally behind bars where he belonged and she so did not need him messing with her future.
“Dillon is not a part of my life at all,” she said crisply.
Tad nodded. “That is good to hear. Our spokespeople need to be above reproach. We would still like you to sign this morals clause to ensure that you uphold a proper reputation, including but not limited to no public intoxication, and no involvement with any sort of criminal element.”
She held her breath, waiting for him to breathe Charlie’s name, the mobster she’d previously owed money to. But perhaps only the Dillon connection had been flagged? Would Farrell have any way of knowing that she’d pretty much been in the mob’s back pocket when she lived in San Francisco? She’d had no choice, of course. She wasn’t a mob wife—she was a woman who’d been screwed over by an ex and had clawed her way out of that trouble. She resented the implication that she was a cause for concern for Farrell, so she strapped on her best tough-chick smile, and said, “I am squeaky clean, Mr. Herman. You don’t have to worry about me.”
She took the papers and said farewell to him as he gathered his bag and phone. As soon as he was out of sight, she ordered a big, fat drink. She crossed her arms over her chest, still huffing at Tad’s not-so-subtle finger-jabbing.
She stared at the water, trying to let it calm her, and the cool sheet of blue soon became a balm to her frustrations. The sun beat down overhead, warming her skin, and reminding her to let it go. Tad’s attitude wasn’t what mattered here. She had a golden chance to expand her role as a business partner with Farrell and she’d be downright exemplary. She wasn’t a criminal, she didn’t have a record, and she played by the rules.
She uncrossed her arms and breathed out, imagining her frustrations blowing away in the breeze.
She surveyed the other pool-goers, mostly packs of single women in barely-there bikinis and groups of bachelor-party-esque men moving in to hit on them. Off in the distance she noticed someone who didn’t fit either bill—the tall man in the suit who’d walked past her table earlier. He was parked on the other side of the pool, alone: no iPad in front of him, no phone in his hands, and dressed for the shade rather than the sun. She couldn’t tell where he was looking, but when her spine tingled like a warning, she had the distinct feeling that he was watching her. His attire reminded her of Charlie, who’d dressed in black suits. Was he part of Charlie’s crew? Maybe the Vegas arm of his operations?
Oh shit.
Her mind went racing at sixty miles per hour. Charlie had to have sent someone to check up on her. In a flash, she rose from the stool, and made her way out of the pool area, and into an indoor hall, forgetting about the waiter bringing her the drink. As nerves prickled over her skin, she picked up the pace, making a beeline for the elevators. Glancing behind her once, her eyes latched onto a flash of black fabric, then it was gone. She spun around, hunting for the man in the suit who’d been watching her. Where was he? She didn’t see him anywhere.
Maybe he’d darted down a dark hallway out of sight. Perhaps, he was lying in wait for her. Ready to pounce.
She picked up the pace.
Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe she was imagining things, but her heart was beating a frantic rhythm. As soon as she reached the room, she called Clay, locking the door, and bolting it shut as his number rang.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Friday, 2:36 p.m., Los Angeles
He hated ignoring Julia, but his client was in tears.
Tears of happiness, but still. He didn’t want to be a dick, and cut Grant off while the man was having his moment. Besides, Julia was probably calling to share good news about her Farrell meeting, and good news could keep for five more minutes.
“Grant, I couldn’t be happier for you. This is what we wanted—to get you back in the saddle,” Clay said as the cab driver dodged and darted L.A. traffic.
“My wife is crying too. She’s so damn happy,” Grant said in a blubbery voice that pulled even harder at Clay’s heartstrings.
“I’m just sorry we couldn’t get Comedy Nation to go up. Had to take a bit of a hit on some points, but Gino’s a tough one,” Clay said, deliberately softening his report on the negotiations. Gino wasn’t merely a tough one—that was a euphemism. Gino was an ass**le. A grade-A, top-choice, piece of f**king work that reminded him of an angry gorilla in a suit. Come to think of it, Gino looked a bit like a gorilla too with hair everywhere. Clay chuckled to himself at that picture, and it did wonders to tamp down his anger over being shoved into a corner during that deal.
“Don’t apologize,” Grant said. “I wanted this deal no matter what, and you got it for me. That’s what matters. I would have taken half the money and still happily signed, so there. You should feel like you doubled my money.”