Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“Is there another name on the card?” I ask, because I’m also a fearless smart-ass every chance I get.
He stares at me for several beats, seeming to calculate his words, before asking, “How many Mr. Rogers sweater jokes do you get?”
I arch a brow at the misguided joke that only serves to poke the Tiger. Suit Number Two, who I age closer to my thirty-six years, pales visibly, then snatches the card from the other man’s hand, giving it a quick inspection before his gaze then jerks to mine. “The Nick Rogers?”
“I don’t remember my mother putting the word ‘the’ in front of my name,” I reply drily, but then again, I think, she didn’t ask my father to change my last name, either. She just hated him that much.
“Tiger,” he says, and it’s not a question, but rather a statement of “oh shit” fact.
“That’s right,” I say, enjoying the fruits of my labor that created the nickname, not one given to me by my friends.
“Who, or what, the fuck is Tiger all about?” Suit Number One asks.
“Shut up,” Suit Number Two grunts, refocusing on me to ask, “You’re representing Ms. Winter?”
“What I am,” I say, “is standing right here by her side, telling you that it’s in your best interests to leave.”
“Since when do you handle small-time foreclosures?” he demands, exposing the crux of Ms. Winter’s situation.
“I handle whatever the fuck I want to handle,” I say, my tone even, my lips curving as I add, “including the process of having you both escorted off the property by security.”
“That,” Suit Number One dares to retort, “would garner Ms. Winter unwanted attention in the middle of a busy event. Not that Ms. Winter even has security to call.”
“Fortunately, I have a phone that dials 911 and the ability to call it without asking her.”
“If she’s your client,” Suit Number One says, clearly inferring that she’s not, “you’re obligated to operate with her best interests in mind.”
“My decisions,” I reply, without missing a beat and without claiming Ms. Winter as a client, “are always about winning. And I assure you that I can think of many ways to spin your story to the press that ensure I win, while also benefiting Ms. Winter.”
“This isn’t my story,” Suit Number One indicates.
“It will be when I’m finished with the press,” I assure him, amused at how easily I’ve led him down the path I want him to travel.
“This is a small community with little to talk about but her,” he says. “She doesn’t want her foreclosure to become the front-page story.”
My lips quirk. “If you don’t know how easily I can get the wrong attention for you here, and the right attention for Ms. Winter, you’ll find out.”
“We’ll leave,” Suit Number Two interjects quickly, and just when I think that he’s smart enough to see the way trouble has turned from Ms. Winter to them, he looks at her and says, “We’ll be in touch,” with a not-so-subtle threat in his tone, before he elbows Suit Number One. “Let’s go.”
Suit Number One doesn’t move, visibly fuming, his face red, a white ring thickening around his lips. I arch a brow at Suit Number Two, who adds, “Now, Jordan.” Jordan, formerly known as Suit Number One, clenches his teeth and turns away, while Suit Number Two follows.
Ms. Winter faces me, and holy fuck, when her pale green eyes meet mine, any questions I have about this woman—and the many I suspect she now has of me—are muted by an unexpected, potentially problematic, palpable electric charge between us. “Thank you,” she says, her voice soft, feminine, a rasp in its depths that hints at emotion not effortlessly contained. “Please enjoy anything you like tonight on the house,” she adds, the rasp gone now, her control returned. Until I take it, I think, but no sooner than I’ve had the thought, she is turning and walking away, the absence of further interaction coloring me both stunned and intrigued, two things that, for me, are ranked with about as much frequency as snow in Sonoma, which would be next to never.
Ms. Winter maneuvers into the crowd, out of my line of sight, and while I am not certain I’d label her a mouse at this point—or ever, for that matter, considering what I know of her—I am most definitely on the prowl. I stride purposely forward, weaving through the crowd, seeking that next provocative moment, scanning for her left, right, in the clusters of mingling guests, until I clear the crowd.
Now standing in front of a wide, wooden stairwell, I direct my gaze upward to a second level, but I still find no sign of Ms. Winter. A cool breeze whips through the air, and I turn to find the source is a high arched doorway, the recently opened glass doors to what I know to be the “Winter Gardens,” a focal point of the property and a tourist draw for decades, settling back into place. Certain this represents her escape, I walk that direction and press open the doors, stepping onto a patio that has a stone floor and concrete benches framed by rose bushes. No fewer than four winding paths greet me as destination choices, the hunt for this woman now a provocation of its own.