by Payne, Lyla
“Merci,” I replied, taking the piece of paper and heaving a quiet sigh of relief. No more embarrassing conversations about declined credit cards, at least.
I shoved the message in my back pocket, then shouldered my favorite racket bag when the doors dinged and slid open. Massage tables and sophisticated French girls with strong hands were the only things on my mind as the elevator climbed to the top floor, but apparently Leo had different ideas.
There was a table in my room, along with soothing music and some kind of floral scent hanging in the air, but instead of the pretty face I’d been hoping for, Leo’s overly tanned mug waited for me in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I dropped my bag and kicked off my freebie Nikes. “What’s up?”
“How was your flight, Sam? Mine was good, thank you for asking.”
“Cut the shit, Leo. What have you found out about Neil?”
“He’s a ghost. Left the States years ago and hasn’t been back, at least according to the passport issued under his name. It hasn’t been stamped for ten years, give or take, and that was in the Caymans. But he’s a kickass sailor. Owns at least three different boats. He could be anywhere.”
“How exactly did he slip through our background check, which I’m going to go ahead and assume we do before hiring people to handle millions of my dollars? Is it just me? Are there others? Is he under investigation, or … ?”
“Yes, we do background checks, but according to the FBI, who does have a pretty extensive file, this alias was new around the time we hired him. Their file is all unproven conjecture, which is how he’s still operating. I contacted Interpol, and same thing. His clients are all high profile, not the types to share who they’re working with financially, and also unlikely to report it when they’re been had. They both want a statement but I doubt they’ll have any more luck if you give them one.” He paused, taking a swig of something girly—maybe a mimosa. The thought of drinking sweet orange juice turned my stomach. “They suspect he has at least one accomplice, but they have no idea who or how they met, or her role in the scams.”
“You came in here and interrupted my massage to tell me we still don’t know shit?”
“Pretty much. And to raid your minibar because mine was empty.”
“Fantastic. Thanks for everything, Leo, as always.”
My phone rang, distracting me from wanting to strangle my manager.
“Hello?” I glared at Leo as he rummaged through my minibar and disappeared through our connecting door with all of my vodka.
“Sammy!”
“Quinn?”
“Do you let someone else call you Sammy now? Say it isn’t so!” His voice sounded far away and a little tinny.
I grunted. “Not likely. I believe I’ve made several attempts to get you to stop.”
“If you were better at poker this wouldn’t be an issue.”
“I’m not bad at poker when a guy who’s supposed to be mentoring me my first year on the tour isn’t dumping an entire bottle of whiskey down my throat.” The mere memory of that night made me gag. I hadn’t taken a single sip of whiskey since. “What’s up?”
“Do I need a reason to call my favorite baby pro?”
I rolled my eyes even though there was something different in his voice. It popped sweat out on my palms. “Usually.”
“There was a segment on some gossip show the other night that insinuated that you’re having some financial trouble. Just calling to check.”
I sank down on the edge of the bed and pinched the bridge of my nose. “What do you mean by ‘insinuated’?”
“By that I mean shaky cell phone video of you at the front desk while multiple credit cards get turned down.”
“Fucking fantastic.”
“You know this is going to severely hamper your ability to get laid.”
“Please. I could get laid if I was homeless,” I teased back automatically.
“Probably true. What’s going on?”
Quinn was a good friend—a better guy than most people believed, truly—but this was embarrassing. I’d let someone into my life who had ripped me off, and instinct and pride begged me to keep my mouth shut.
Then again, if it was going to be picked up by TMZ before the end of the day, there didn’t seem to be much of a point.
“I honestly don’t know yet. Looks like my accountant is shady. Leo’s still trying to get in touch with him.”
“Who are you using?”
“Neil Saunders.”
“Huh. Never heard of him.” He paused, and in my mind, I saw him staring at the ceiling trying to decide what to say. “Well, if you need a friend, I’ll get on the next plane. If you need a loan or anything, I’m good for it.”
“Christ, Quinn, I’m not broke.”
“I know. I trust the prize money from Switzerland is safe—nice job by the way.”
“Thanks.” The conversation felt unimportant to me, as did the idea of playing tennis when I should be figuring out what in the fuck was going on with my financial life.
Then again, tennis was all I had. There was no other way to make that money back, and it was good that my abs were holding up.
“I’ll be okay, Q.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Keep playing. Try to figure out what happened.”
“You know, the same thing happened to Milos Haughlin a few years ago, and call me crazy, but I swear his accountant’s name was Neil.” He paused. “Anyway, I thought you’d want to know about the churning of the gossip mill, and that I’m worried about you.”
“You know me, man. I’ll be fine. How are things with your hot girlfriend? She dump you yet?”
“Amazingly not.” His voice carried the smile on his face right through the phone. “Too bad for you.”
“How’s Toby and … everyone else?”
“You mean how’s Blair?”
My cheeks felt hot, which was completely fucking ridiculous. I barely knew the girl. It had to be the fact that she’d shut me down not once but several times that kept me so curious. The denial sat on the tip of my tongue for a second before I swallowed it. Lying to Quinn had a tiny rate of success, thanks to the bastard’s freakish intuition. “Maybe.”
“Sammy, you’ve got to forget that girl. The more time I spend with her, the less I feel like I have any idea what she’s like underneath the man-eating exterior. Not to mention she pretty much thinks you’re a stalker.”
I let another protest go. I’d texted her three times after we’d met in St. Moritz and one of those times was to invite her to the match in Alabama. When she hadn’t shown, I had let it go.
“She’s fine. She was dating some pretty-boy movie star, but that seems to be over.”
“Since when are you up on the happenings of your fellow Whitman Owls? What happened to the standoffish, fuck-the-real-world Quinn Rowland who left me after Wimbledon two years ago?” I paused to heighten my followup, a shit-eating grin on my face that I so wished he could see. “Oh, right. He fell in loooove.”
“You’re a dick.”
“I learned from the best.”
“Fair enough. Listen, why don’t you come down for a visit in December? It would be good to see you, and your parents are close. Em would love to see you again.”
Like being in close proximity to my parents sweetened any deal. “I’d love to see you guys, too. I’ll give you a call in a couple of weeks.”
We hung up, and despite the depressing and invasive event that prompted the phone call, talking with Quinn had made me feel better. Normal. Sure, I’d lost almost thirty million dollars but, no. There was no “but” to that statement. It was a shit ton of money that I had earned, and I wanted it back. There was no way to know how much longer I’d be able to play. I could blow out a knee tomorrow and be done for good, and then what? I had more money than a lot of people, but not enough to last forever.
My phone beeped with an e-mail notification, something from Nike about my signing a new endorsemen
t contract, which improved my mood a tad further. Then the masseuse arrived. I stripped in the bathroom, donned a towel, and spent the next hour letting her try to rub away my troubles.
Chapter 4
Blair
“Dad, you’re not listening. He and I know each other—it’s not going to work.”
The phone crackled and popped, letting my father’s gravelly, urging voice through in spurts. “I hear what you’re saying, Pear, but it’s a simple problem. Solve it. Your already having a relationship with Sam Bradford means we can’t run it the usual way, true, but it puts you in a position to run something of your own. Something unique. Use your charms.”
“I don’t want to use any kind of charm on that guy. Trust me, it’s not a good idea.”
“Because he’s already gotten you into bed or because he wants to but you don’t?”
“How many times have I told you that you and I don’t discuss sex?”
My dad sighed. “My prickly Pear. I’m not old-fashioned. I use all of the assets at my disposal to close the deal, and I’ve never shamed you for doing the same. I want the boy’s private accounts. You can get them for me.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” His request frustrated me more than usual because it meant reneging on my decision to not have anything to do with the overconfident, devastatingly handsome, ridiculously charming number two tennis player in the world. “I don’t even like him.”
“You don’t have to like him. You have to get him to trust you.”
The edge in his voice said this discussion had ended. I’d never been clear on what would happen if I refused to hold up my end of this twisted bargain. Would he stop paying for school? Cut me off altogether? Turn me in to Interpol or the FBI?
I’d already made up my mind to leave the lifestyle behind after graduation—I wouldn’t need Dad’s money anymore and I had enough aliases and contacts around the world to hide if he tried to throw me under the bus. I didn’t think he wouldn’t do that, for two reasons. The first being that my dad didn’t get emotionally involved enough to get angry. The second being that I had just as much dirt on him, and he had no way of knowing if I’d flip to save my own hide.
He’d used me all these years because I was there and I was free, except for school and general living expenses—and maybe because I’d been cute, and then pretty—but if I disappeared he’d find someone else. Part of the reason I’d recognized Sam’s con-man charm was that I’d grown up with it. It was a pretty smoke screen, an artificial heart-patter, and it didn’t appeal to me.
Even if the connection I’d felt—the heart-patter—had been more than simple charm, a relationship like that was the last thing I needed. Sam was used to getting what he wanted, but I was not keen to be used and then ignored. That had been my entire life.
It still was my life, I reminded myself. For a few more years. “Fine, Neil. I’ll figure it out.”
There had never been any hope of convincing him otherwise, which was why I’d sent Sam a note at his hotel in Paris a few weeks ago. The fact that my attempt to break the ice had gone unanswered felt problematic, but I doubted that a guy like him would pass on the opportunity to close a deal he’d been denied. His ego was his sweet spot, for me. Weak spot for him.
“That’s my girl. Send me a message when it’s done.”
“What are we doing for the holidays? Anything?”
Sometimes he liked to play the part of the loving father—usually to work an angle—but my plans would depend on his, and Audra had invited me to Elgin for the winter holiday.
“I don’t know. It’s going to depend on a few things, probably last minute.”
“Where are you?” I asked the question knowing there wouldn’t be an answer. Whether he wanted to protect me or himself had never been 100 percent clear, but if and when I saw my father, it would be in the form of a chartered jet with a flight plan filed by one of his many shadow companies, not by me.
“On the water, baby. You know that.”
He signed off with that, leaving me with an impossible problem, a marketing exam to study for, and a report for the night’s sorority meeting that needed to be prepped.
Audra hadn’t been home all day. She was gone more often than not, and when she was here she spent most of the time glued to her phone. The meeting was mandatory, though, and I thought maybe the two of us could hang out afterward.
First things first, though. Sam had ignored the message I’d left—his number had never been added to my phone on purpose, and when I’d gotten a new one it had been lost altogether—so I needed a way to get in touch with him. Which meant biting a rather bitter bullet.
I dragged myself off the bed, out the front door, and into my car. The chill in the afternoon air nipped as badly as it ever would in south Florida, just enough to make me miss Manhattan. My brain turned the Sam Bradford problem over and over in my head until a plausible solution started to take shape.
It went against every instinct, but the answer was the truth. Approaching this con with a lie or a cover wasn’t an option, given that he knew the real me, but I still had the element of surprise. My father had been using the name Neil Saunders for the last five years, running long cons with clients like Sam and Daisy, so Sam would have no idea that he was my father.
Unless I told him.
The campus athletic complex parking lot wasn’t even half full this time of year. The fall sports were winding down and our football team was on the road. Winter sports were gearing up, but with winter break looming in a few weeks, the gym wasn’t swamped. The people inside were those few students using exercise instead of some kind of substance to fuel their studies, and the tennis team, who had conditioning from four to six every evening.
Heat and the smell of sweat smacked me in the face when I entered the indoor practice facilities. I loitered by the door, watching Quinn Rowland where he stood on the far side of a blue and white state-of-the-art tennis court and whacked ball after yellow ball at a line of sweaty students closer to me. He shouted over the sound of squeaking tennis shoes, heavy breathing, and rackets smashing into balls—some of it encouragement, some disappointed-sounding instruction—as the drill continued without a break for another ten minutes.
Some of the players collapsed when he called an end to the practice. Quinn wiped his forehead and swigged some water, his eyebrows going up when he noticed me loitering near the doors.
I gave him my most genuine smile, but judging by the suspicion brightening his impossible blue eyes, it needed some work. His thin white shirt clung to every hard dip and curve across his chest and all of the ripples down his stomach until his upper body disappeared into his shorts. Even with sweaty chunks of black hair sticking to his forehead and a salty smell hovering around him, he was dead fucking sexy. Sexier than Zach Flynn, and sexier than the boy I’d thought I loved in high school.
Or rather, I thought he’d loved me. Both turned out to be false.
“Hey,” I smiled, approaching Quinn. “Good workout?”
Quinn flicked a glance at his destroyed athletes. “They’ll be in shape by spring. Whether or not that means they’ll be able to play decent tennis remains to be seen.”
“I’m sure you can do something with them.”
“Thanks.” He grabbed a towel and wiped the back of his neck, those keen blue eyes studying me the whole time. The guy missed nothing. “What are you doing here? Thinking of playing?”
“Me? Hell no. I enjoy a good tennis match, but no way I’m willingly putting my life in your hands.” The pause that followed felt awkward, but I forced my voice to emerge at my leisure. “I lost Sam’s number and wanted to text him. Can you give it to me?”
“Why?”
I forced myself to meet his gaze. “What do you mean, why?”
“I mean, I heard he didn’t make much of a secret of his interest in Switzerland last spring, and I know for a fact he invited you to sit in his box at his first tournament back, and you blew him off both times, so … why now
?”
It occurred to me now that perhaps the drive would have been better spent figuring out how to con Quinn Rowland rather than Sam Bradford. Of the two of them, Quinn struck me as the more suspicious. Then again, since my dad had recently lifted thirty million off of Sam, I had to assume he would no longer be the trusting, happy-go-lucky guy I remembered, either.
Luckily, I was at least as smart as Quinn, and I had the advantage of knowing what game we were playing, at least at the moment. “Well, when Sam and I met, I had a thing for Flynn, and then we dated. That ship has sailed, and I can’t help but wonder if I missed out on something with your friend.”
Quinn’s eyebrows went back up. “So, it doesn’t bother you anymore that he’s a pro tennis player with girls swooning at his feet all over the world?”
“I’m not saying we’re going to get married, Rowland. Christ. Are you his mother now? I just hate the idea of always wondering what would have happened, since even though I told him I wasn’t interested, I felt something between us.”
This time I waited out the awkward pause. The best thing to bring to any negotiation was the ability to walk away, and I had other ways of getting to Sam Bradford. Perhaps not ways as convenient or simple, but ways nonetheless.
“Give me your phone.”
Victory. I handed it over and watched as he added Sam to my contacts, then took it back and returned it to my purse. “Thanks.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“Sam’s a big boy, Rowland. He can make his own decisions.”
“Fair enough.” He broke into a dazzling smile, dissolving the oddly combative moment hanging between us. “So what are you doing tonight? Are you finished for break?”
“I have a marketing exam tomorrow, then yes. What are you and Emilie doing for Thanksgiving?” I barely knew Emilie Swanson, or Quinn for that matter, but I preferred the attention and questions not be directed at me.
The flicker of distrust in his eyes said he didn’t miss my redirection. “We’re spending it with her family, since she figures I can’t mouth off too much over a one-day meal. Christmas we’re traveling Eastern Europe.”
