Wild Card (Wild At Heart Series Book 3)

by Christine Hartmann

  The man spun. She avoided hitting him by stumbling to the side. She righted herself as he hissed at her. “I set policy.”

  She lowered her gaze but maintained the smile. “Marketing took transcripts from your recent interviews and ran key points by consumers.”

  “Why didn’t you fucking say so?” The man turned on his heel and punched the elevator button with his elbow. “Got a call from my wife. Family emergency.” The doors slid open and he stalked inside. “I’ll be back this afternoon.”

  She stuck a knee inside the door at just the height of the sensor. The door reopened. “You’ve got two meetings this morning, Mr. Greenwood. What do you want me to tell them?”

  “Tell them if they want to talk with the CEO, they’ll have to come back when he’s around.”

  As the door closed behind him, the woman’s smile dropped from her face like a room darkening when the last light is extinguished. She shrugged and walked back through the atrium, typing on her iPad with one finger.

  Inside the elevator, Greenwood slumped against a mirrored wall. “Fuck.”

  Ten minutes later, stuck in San Francisco gridlock, he tore off his jacket, feeling the side and chest pockets for the tenth time. Next, one hand steered while the other groped around the center island, his fingers straining as he pushed between firm plastic and resilient leather. At red lights, he slammed the gear shift into park and bent double, reaching his arm underneath the seats.

  “Fuck.”

  At the Miser Rent-A-Car facility near the airport, curses showered the attendant who rushed from the side of a family of six to open the door of Greenwood’s Mercedes. He stuck out his hand. “Welcome back, Mr. Smith. Do something for you? Need more SUV?”

  Greenwood sprung from the driver’s seat and slapped the hand aside. “Where’s the car I had this morning?”

  The attendant shook his head and shrugged. “Don’t know. Check with guys in office?” He pointed. Greenwood pounded toward the back door.

  Inside sat two youths with high-top sneakered feet on a white plastic patio table. Joints dangled from their fingers. When Greenwood entered, they pushed back their chairs and stood.

  “Mr. Smith.” The taller of the two stepped forward, flicking his joint into an overfilled ashtray.

  “I need to see the car I rented.” Greenwood kicked an empty soda can into a corner, where it clattered against a pile of car child seats. “Left something inside.”

  The young men looked at each other. The taller thrust his chin out and pointed at his colleague. “What you do with his car?”

  “Dude, you rented it. A couple hours ago.”

  The taller man turned to Greenwood and lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “Mr. Smith, so sorry. Dumbass rented it.”

  “You rented—” The subordinate received a kick on the shin and stopped complaining. The two men looked at Greenwood, whose face froze. They took a simultaneous step back.

  Greenwood edged forward like a roller intent on flattening everything in its path. “Where’s the stuff you found when you cleaned it?” He spoke in a whisper.

  The two again exchanged glances. The tall one turned away first. He reached the room’s other door one stride ahead of his friend. “You tell him.” He threw the words over his shoulder as he stepped into the main lobby. “I deal with customers.” He slammed the rickety plywood door, making the walls rattle. The thin youth in a dirty yellow shirt swiveled slowly back to face Greenwood.

  “Where’d you put the stuff?” Greenwood advanced to the far side of the table, his question dangling in the air like a tarantula hanging from a thread.

  “We didn’t find anything.”

  Greenwood shoved the table aside. The ashtray skidded to the floor. “Don’t lie.”

  The youth held out shaking hands. “Whoa, dude.”

  Greenwood clenched fists at his side. “Give me…my cell phone.”

  The man’s features shifted from fear to relief. “We don’t have your cell phone. Never cleaned your car. We flipped it. I swear.”

  Greenwood paused. “Flipped it?”

  “No cleaning. We give a discount and save the hassle.”

  “So you’re telling me,” Greenwood ground the ashtray contents into the cement floor with the heel of a shiny black leather loafer, “somebody’s driving my car with my phone still inside?”

  “That’s it.” The young man pulled a chair in front of him and offered Greenwood a seat. “I’m sure they’ll find it and call. Or it’ll be inside when they bring it back. I can find out when the rental’s up.” He disappeared through the door to the main area.

  Greenwood followed and stepped into the narrow space behind the bank of ancient computers. The two men had their backs turned on a long line of grumbling customers and were grouped around the only modern computer, a laptop perched on a desk partially hidden behind a low cubicle wall. The tall one manipulated the mouse while the short one pointed. Neither glanced at Greenwood, who hovered over them, hands still clenched. After a few tense minutes, the taller one spoke.

  “Found your car.” He gave Greenwood a sickly smile. “Due back Sunday.”

  “Sunday’s not fucking good enough.” Greenwood peered over his shoulder. “Don’t you track them?”

  Both men shook their heads vigorously.

  Greenwood laid a hand on the sitting man’s shoulder. “Don’t fuck with me.”

  Large eyes looked into Greenwood’s. “We track. But only if car not back. Or in Mexico.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about your business practices. Track my car.”

  The standing man sucked air through his teeth. “You know how to do that, dude?”

  The man at the computer nodded. His hands quivered slightly as he typed and clicked. “Boss don’t like us doing this.”

  Greenwood’s large forefinger and thumb flapped a hundred-dollar bill between the man’s face and the screen. “Give me the location and keep me updated. I’ll give you five more when I get back.”

  The standing man made a grab but his friend at the computer wrenched it out of Greenwood’s hand. The standing man punched his colleague in the shoulder. “Dude, it’s my risk too.”

  “Split later.” He rose and strode to the printer at the agency desk. A chorus of complaints erupted. “System down,” he said before disappearing again behind the cubicle wall.

  He handed Greenwood the paper. “License number, make, and model.”

  Greenwood folded it neatly in half and then put it in his breast pocket. “Where is it now?”

  The man pointed at the computer screen. “I-5. Going south.”

  Greenwood slapped another hundred on the counter. This time the shorter youth dove across the chair and pocketed the money with a grin. Greenwood smirked. “Give me a number where I can get you. I don’t care if you have to sleep here. I want to know where the car is. In real time.” He took out a cell phone.

  “Hey.” The standing youth tapped Greenwood playfully on the arm and laughed. “You didn’t lose your phone. You’ve got it right—”

  Greenwood’s glower stopped his monologue. “My work phone’s in the car.”

  “Got it, dude.”

  Out in the lot, Greenwood closed the Mercedes door with an expensive thunk. He turned the key and sped the bulky car past the somber youths with the speed and intent of a missile.

  “Fuck you,” he mouthed out the window. They waved back as though they’d read his parting words as thank you.

  On Highway 101 south, he gunned the engine, weaving through traffic like someone obsessed.

  Chapter 6

  Driving through the desert approaching Las Vegas, Bree had difficulty keeping her eyes on the road. They felt like pieces of iron, drawn inexorably upward to the magnets of the stars. Earlier, Ryder requested they pull off the highway at a dark and deserted exit. She reluctantly complied but stayed in her car. When he suggested they take a short walk across the sandy dirt, she resisted, questioning his sanity and reminding him of her need to get
to Vegas in one piece. He assured her scorpions were active only in the daytime and rattlesnakes curled up to sleep when the stars came out. Only because her legs were cramped from hours of sitting did she comply.

  Standing in the frigid night air with Ryder’s sweatshirt wrapped around her shoulders, she shielded her eyes from the occasional car’s headlights with hands held like horse blinders and stared into the heavens. What she saw wiped every other thought from her mind. Above her, the sky was puckered with dense clusters of stars. The Milky Way flowed a thick path of light encircling the earth. The only constellations she knew, the Big Dipper and Orion, glowed down at her with many smaller points of light in their midst. Ryder pointed out fuzzy stars he insisted weren’t stars at all but rather nebulae, interstellar clouds of dust. Now and then a meteor blazed across the magnificent display.

  Bree held her breath. “I used to think I could count every star in the sky.” She put down her hands and massaged her aching neck.

  Ryder kept his gaze focused upward. “Strange goal.”

  “Probably thought it was romantic.” She looked back at their cars. “How many stars do you think we’ll see in Vegas?”

  “Vegas shows have lots of stars.”

  Bree smirked. “Seriously.”

  Ryder dropped his hands. “If you want to wish on a star, I don’t think Vegas is the place to do it.”

  Bree turned. “Just like you to have no faith.” She closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of the desert. A light breeze stirred dried tufts of plant life. A four-legged creature scuttled across the sand. An owl screeched. But mostly she listened to the silence, the long still intervals where the only sound was Ryder’s breathing and hers.

  She turned and walked slowly back toward the cars, peering at the faint glow of the big city in the distance. When she got to her SUV, she paused. “Do you really think Vegas isn’t for romance?”

  Ryder stepped toward his car, throwing his answer over his shoulder like a football toss. “They wouldn’t have all those wedding chapels if it weren’t.”

  Outside the city limits, Mal called to say he was going to bed. She recognized the shattered tone in his voice, the one that made her heart cry out to help. He sounded like a small child who had crawled into the corner of his bed and curled up in a ball. She told him when he next woke up, she’d be there beside him.

  The glow from Vegas on the horizon grew rapidly, from a faint hazy orange bubble to a pulsing dome. The stars faded, the night’s deep black replaced by a gray sheen that substituted for darkness. Traffic thickened, intermittent blips from approaching cars transforming into a steady stream of headlights and taillights that accompanied her on the final leg of the journey. She lost track of Ryder’s vehicle as impatient drivers cut between them. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened and her heart rate increased as her senses acclimated to the urban environment, from dark to light, from peace to frenzy. Twenty minutes from their destination, with the towers of Vegas clearly outlined before them, Ryder phoned.

  “Loving the traffic?”

  Bree slammed on the brakes as a car pulled in front of her with only inches to spare. “I thought San Francisco drivers were bad.”

  “Not usually drunk, though.”

  Bree shuddered. “Just want to get there in one piece.”

  “Mal will be at the door, waiting.”

  Bree’s fingers fished around the empty donut box for crumbs. “He left me a key at the front desk.”

  “Thought he’d throw confetti.”

  Bree laughed. “I’d prefer someone throwing hamburgers right now. I’m starving.”

  “Me too. First thing I’m doing is finding some place to eat.”

  She patted her growling tummy. “Tell me if you find a donut shop.” She shifted her seat one position forward, to sit more upright. Her fingers hovered over the end call button.

  “See you later, Bree.”

  “Goodbye.” She hung up, exited the highway, and pulled onto the main strip.

  ***

  With large eyes and a mouth held closed with effort, Bree stared at the blue suited attendant. “Seventy-five dollars for one night’s valet parking?” She shook her head and closed the window.

  She followed signs to the hotel’s parking garage. One incorrect turn later and she was back on the Strip, weaving among the honking cars and swearing under her breath as her stomach rumbled its discontent. By the time she found the garage, she felt faint and couldn’t believe her luck when, on the second floor near the elevator, someone backed out of a prime spot. She swerved in before an oncoming car could steal it and slumped, head on the steering wheel, wondering why she hadn’t shelled out the money at the valet entrance. Could’ve been halfway through a cheeseburger by now.

  Her bags fell to the concrete with multiple thuds. She slammed the SUV door shut with the last of her energy and threw a weary glance at the driver’s seat. I am not getting back in till I head back to San Francisco.

  Dragging her roller bag behind her, garment bag draped again over one arm, she trudged to the elevator and, after a swift ride down, followed vague signs that pointed to the lobby. On her left stretched an open area with a low ceiling and bright lights, blackjack tables, laughing groups, and shouting couples. The air smelled of smoke, perfume, and cologne. The thick maroon carpet beneath her pumps muffled noise from the multitude of pedestrians. The walls were gilt, the ceiling painted with what looked like replicas from Italian churches, and the wide hallway was adorned with enormous flower displays that meandered and twined into the heavens as though rooted in soil. It was overwhelming and beautiful, although somewhere in her mind still lingered a comparison between where she found herself now and her foray into the desert just a few hours earlier where lights of a different type had glittered. Her head turned this way and that as she walked, taking in jewelry shops and handbag stores between rows of slot machines, her face brightening as she absorbed the different retail therapy possibilities.

  Suddenly, three signless hallways branched from where she stood. She accosted a woman in uniform balancing a tray of eight martini glasses.

  “Where’s the lobby?”

  The woman pointed down the middle hallway.

  “And where’s the closest place I can grab something to eat?”

  The woman tilted her head. “Tex-Mex, Japanese, California Pacific island fusion, Chilean…”

  Bree held up her hand. “Hamburger.”

  The woman shifted her tray, a small furrow sprouting between her eyebrows. “Maybe the Tex-Mex place would have something.”

  “Point me in the right direction.”

  A few minutes later Bree stood in the restaurant’s short line, wondering whether she should have ordered room service. The purse under her arm vibrated.

  Ryder: Don’t gamble your life away.

  She frowned.

  Bree: Getting Tex-Mex.

  Ryder: Hi to Mal.

  She rolled her eyes and dropped the phone back in her bag, muttering to herself. “Why doesn’t he just leave well enough alone?”

  At the table, the meat lover’s burrito caught her eye on the menu. She turned to flag down the waitress and instead found Ryder’s unshaven face and blue eyes smiling down at her. Without waiting for her to ask, he flopped into the chair opposite her.

  “This is a table for one.” She snapped shut her menu.

  Ryder grinned. “Looks like it’s for two.”

  “For all you know, Mal’s in the bathroom. Could be back any minute.”

  Ryder glanced at her luggage, piled high next to her chair. “He would’ve taken it off your hands if he’d been here.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You act like you’re welcome anywhere.”

  He reached out his hand. She sighed and handed him the menu. He took one glance, closed it, and slapped it on the table.

  Bree opened the menu again to double check her choice. “I can never make up my mind when I’m hungry.”

  Ryder shrugged. “Bean burrito and a
beer and I’m happy.” He leaned back in his chair.

  The country music playing in the background praised a man’s wife for sticking with him though he had strayed. Ryder tapped his foot and hummed along. Bree watched and marveled, not for the first time, about his chameleon-like ability to fit in wherever he found himself. When he fixed a tire, he looked like a mechanic. Here in this restaurant, he looked like a country music star escaping Nashville. In suit and tie at the prom he looked like the prep school son of a Wall Street gangster. And on his way to a locker room in a dirt-smeared football jersey he looked like a blue-collar jock. It wasn’t, she thought, that he simply adapted to an environment; instead, what he brought to the mix blended well with whatever environment surrounded him. Except with her.

  Ryder gestured at a six-foot trickling fountain in the center of the tables, with live trees growing from hidden planters. The high ceiling had a digital display that mimicked a rosy sunset. Hidden speakers projected bird calls over the music. “My hotel doesn’t have this kind of restaurant.”

  “Don’t tell me your assistant booked you into a dive.”

  Ryder laughed. “I’ve got a penthouse suite. So she keeps her job.”

  “Magnanimous of you.”

  The approaching waitress stopped in mid-stride. At her look, Bree bit back a chuckle. She hadn’t seen a girl do that since high school—someone stopping to admire Ryder’s arresting looks. The kind of looks that made people turn around for a second glance because they couldn’t believe what they saw was true. The kind that caused store clerks to fall over each other, that brought conversations to a halt. And yet with all that handsomeness staring back at him every morning in the mirror, Ryder didn’t seem to know his face was anything but average. He brushed off compliments, seemingly spent little time on his own appearance, and was unaware of the commotion his entrance into a room could create. All the more aggravating.

  At that moment, he had a dazzling, thin brunette twenty-something flashing him an expansive smile, and he looked as though he was placing an order with a grizzled greasy spoon fry cook who had a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. The young woman tried to hide her disappointment and turned to Bree, giving her a look Bree had also often seen in high school, the look that said, “Why on earth is that gorgeous guy with you?” Bree raised her eyebrows as if to say, “It’s not as great as you think it is,” and ordered.