The Private Concierge. Suzanne Forster
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Название: The Private Concierge
Автор: Suzanne Forster
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Зарубежные любовные романы
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There was a metal letter opener lying on her desk, but he would probably get there first. “I don’t discuss my clients with anyone,” she informed him. “And if I did, I’d have to have that person killed.”
He tilted his head at her, as if she was a kid he’d caught in a lie. “Good thing your cell can’t talk. You’d have to have it killed. Priscilla Brandt needs a straitjacket and the police are asking questions about Simon Shan. And oh, yes, Jerry Blair of TopCo has a very spoiled daughter about to turn sixteen.”
He stopped, as if to say, “Do you get it, Lane? I heard everything, and I can use it against you. It would be like swatting a fly.”
Heat crept up Lane’s neck. Threats had the unfortunate effect of bringing out the street fighter in her. At the same time, she was aware that she’d put one of her favorite moody CDs in the music system. The Doobie Brothers soared into the chorus of “What a Fool Believes,” and she let the music work on her, soothe her. She’d given up any hope that this man could be easily dealt with. He seemed determined to be her worst nightmare, another action-movie cliché, except that they weren’t in a theater.
“What do you want?” she asked him. “Is it money?”
“I think that’s my line, isn’t it?”
By the disdain in his tone, he must have been talking about sex, but she had no idea why. “Listen, I have a business to run, people to take care of. Just tell me what you want.”
“People, right—all your hotshot clients?”
“No, my staff. I employ hundreds, and they depend on me.”
“Did Ned depend on you?”
Lane flinched as the intruder reached inside his leather jacket. He came straight for her, and she ducked down, ready to fight if she had to. He’d pulled out a wallet-size card, she realized.
“Maybe I’m looking for a private concierge,” he said. He handed her the card, and then returned her cell with a mock-courteous nod. “I’ll be in touch.”
Lane glanced down at what appeared to be his business card. It had a company name and a phone number. She read the name Bayless Extreme Solutions with a slow-dawning sense of recognition, but she wasn’t ready to let herself believe it. This wasn’t possible. He was the part of her past she wanted to expunge, topping the list of people she never wanted to see again. How had he turned up in her life after all these years?
She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but when she looked up, he was gone. She was wet everywhere, filmed in perspiration. His card was twisted in her fingers, and the dampness at the back of her neck was icy cold.
Never, she thought. Never assume a bad day can’t get worse.
12
Darwin didn’t fear death, dismemberment or even a mild case of herpes. He did fear spitting on Janet Bonofiglio when he kissed her. He tended to do that when he got excited, but only if he was talking, and he and Janet weren’t doing all that much talking right now. She was toying with the hair that had tumbled onto his forehead like a dark dust mop, pulling on the rubber-band curls and murmuring about how smart he was. He was trying not to suffocate from lack of oxygen.
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