She worked her eyebrows suggestively, which made him laugh. He studied the photos and read the blurbs. “Paso Robles, huh? That’s driving distance for me. How far is it from here?”
“Hop, skip and a jump,” she said, visualizing the drive she’d made several times with Bruce. “It’s not far from Hearst Castle. What do you think? Wanna go?”
The last time she’d asked a man out was at least fifteen years ago. She held her breath, waiting. Hoping.
“Absolutely. I’ll have my secretary make reservations.”
He started to put the flier in his pocket, but she snatched it back. “I beg your pardon. This is my date. I’ll make the reservations.”
Ever gracious, he bowed slightly. “Let me know the exact time, and I’ll meet you there.”
WILLIAM WAS STILL GRINNING when his phone rang ten minutes later. He hoped it was Daria calling to confirm their reservation. He honestly wasn’t sure he could wait. A date with Daria. Lord, it was about time. He’d thought about it often enough.
He wriggled his Bluetooth into place and hit the receive button. “William Hughes here.”
“This is Bruce Fontina. We need to talk.”
William stepped on the brake without thinking. “No. I don’t believe we do.” The car behind him honked.
“I have a friend at the airport. He called to let me know you’re in town. If you don’t want to develop a little mid-air problem, you’ll meet me at the Piccadilly Hotel across from the airport in ten minutes.”
William’s first impulse was turn around and warn Daria. They’d shared a kiss in the street—if Bruce had someone watching her, there was no way to pretend it didn’t happen. “Very well. But it’ll have to be quick. I have a meeting in L.A. this afternoon, and I will make note of this threat.”
“What threat? I meant that the weather might give you a little problem. What a pussy.”
He hung up.
“What an ass.”
He quickly called his secretary. “I’ll be a little late. Ran into a complication on this end. And FYI, if my plane goes down in a fiery crash, call my uncle and tell him the man he just investigated is to blame. He’ll know what to do.”
“What?” Moira cried. “A crash? William…”
He shook his head. “Sorry, I was venting. Don’t worry. The guy doesn’t have the balls to commit murder. I’ll call you as soon as I’m taxiing. Gotta go make nice with the biggest jerk on the planet.”
He pulled into the parking lot of the older two-story hotel. He picked one of the many available spaces close to the building and hurried inside. The bar was easy to find—right across from registration. Bruce was equally easy to spot—he was the only person occupying a booth in the mostly empty bar.
William eased into the tufted leather seat, glad for the wide table between them. “Well?”
Bruce blew out a scornful huff. “So much for British class.”
“As you’d know if you tried to follow through on your threat to get me deported, I’m only half English.”
“Yeah. I found that out. And you’re a hotshot agent. Isn’t that a person who makes a living off other people’s success?”
William shrugged. “Most of my clients would be the first to tell you that they wouldn’t have attained their current level of success if not for my efforts on their behalf, but feel free to believe whatever you wish. Was there a reason you wanted to speak with me?”
Bruce motioned the waiter over. “Drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Hit me again,” Bruce said, motioning toward his highball glass. “Jack and soda, easy on the soda.”
He said the last with a jovial laugh that probably helped him fit right in with the bar crowd. William could see a hint of the common man charisma that had probably gotten him elected. On the surface, at least. Until you looked a little closer. Tiny red blood vessels spiderwebbed around his nose and eyes. He drank too much.
“Again. There was something you wanted to say to me.”
“Leave my wife alone. I don’t know how many times I gotta say it. She’s the only reason you’d be in this lousy town, so don’t try to tell me you were here on business. If I hadn’t just gotten here myself I woulda caught you at my house, wouldn’t I? Did you two do it in my bed?”
“I did meet with your ex-wife,” he said, emphasizing the ex. “And Miranda. The girls left some things in my plane and I wanted to see for myself that Daria was okay.” A partial truth was always better than a lame lie.
“You never heard of UPS?”
William sat forward and rested his hands on the table. “I don’t owe you any explanation. I only came here to tell you to back off, or you’ll be the one who is sorry.”
Bruce’s lips pulled back in a sneer. “I’m not afraid of you. Daria is having a moment, but she’ll come to her senses. She can’t make it without me. And I don’t give a damn what her lawyer says about community property laws in California. That house she’s living in was bought and paid for by my family’s trust. The car is leased, and those children attend a private school that even you couldn’t afford. Once she does the math, she’ll come groveling back. Wait ’n’ see.”
William hated bullies. He’d heard the story a thousand times about how his father had beaten up the class bully who was picking on Notty, and suddenly, he felt a connection to his father he’d never felt before. He leaned across the table to look Bruce straight in the eyes.
“I’d think twice about trying to screw Daria out of her fair share of your property settlement, Bruce. I wonder what the media would do if they found about Kathy Scranton.”
“Who?”
“You remember. The college coed who took out a restraining order against you. Some might call that stalking.”
Bruce let out a scornful snort, but William read fear behind his eyes. “Ancient history. She said, he said. My lawyers would make mincemeat out of her.”
“Maybe. But voters don’t much like rapists, do they? You’re up for reelection when?”
Bruce’s shoulders bunched and he started to slide out of the booth, but William leaned closer, his voice dropping even lower. “This is no idle threat, Bruce, it’s a promise. Daria is fully capable of making a fabulous life for herself and your daughters. I wouldn’t dream of interfering in that—and neither should you. If I find out you threatened her or abused her in any way during this legal process, you will be sorry. And so will your brothers.”
“My brothers? What do they have to do with anything?”
“A lot. How’s the saying go? Oh, yes, follow the money. I believe that saying started with the IRS.”
Bruce’s eyes widened and he inched back slightly. “We’re done here.”
“I agree.”
William left the bar feeling pretty cocky and proud of himself. The feeling lasted after takeoff and continued until the brownish-gray haze enveloping the L.A. skyline came into view. That was the moment he remembered what he’d told his uncle. “This is Daria’s business. What she does with this information is her call.”
He’d meant that at the time, but when it came right down to it, he wasn’t able to stop himself from playing the hero. He knew without thinking too hard that she wasn’t going to be happy about this if she ever found out.
Hopefully, Bruce was smart enough to take William’s advice and never say a word about this to his ex-wife. Hopefully.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“DUNKE FROM Sonic Profile on line two, William. You might want to take this—JoE’s contract is up in ninety days.”
William heard the unspoken word remember in his secretary’s voice. I don’t pay her enough. Moira had worked her size-one butt off the past three days since William had returned from Fresno. Not only had he needed to clear his schedule for a trip to England, he’d also decided to bail on one of the most high-profile events of the year.
For a date with Daria. He got turned on just thinking about it.
“Put him through.”
“Right awa
y, but…”
Her hesitation made him ask, “What?”
“You do know that JoE is in rehab, right?”
William cursed softly. “When?”
“Friday. I texted you as soon as I found out. He’ll be in virtual lockdown for six weeks.”
William sighed. A complication, but not insurmountable, unless the record company decided the rapper was too much bother to keep on their label. William hated negotiating from a weak platform, but it was the nature of the business that some clients self-sabotaged to the point where he was lucky to even get them another chance. “Thanks for trying to keep me in the loop. Put him through. Here’s when the buffalo crap really hits the fan.”
Moira snickered softly. “Which is why you’re worth the big bucks. Good luck.” She was fifty, looked thirty and had a social life he usually envied from afar.
He pulled up his client list on the computer screen and opened the document he’d created regarding the young rapper’s income projections and future album sales. The kid was gifted, with a real connection to the street, but how much of that gift was tainted by the drugs he procured on said street? The answer to that question would be the main point of negotiation, he guessed.
After a quick exchange of pleasantries, Dunke got to the point. “Can you guarantee your client isn’t going to snort every penny of this up his nose?”
“Yes,” William lied. Was it really a lie if that’s what you believed? Because, deep down, that’s what he wanted to believe.
“Well, bull-f’n good for you. I can’t.”
“Dunke, what my client does with the money you pay him to put his talent on your label really isn’t any of your concern. The real question is how much do you love rap, and how much will JoE’s next record earn.”
“Don’t give me that shit, Hughes. How many times does this asshole client of yours need to go to rehab? That’s eight to ten weeks he isn’t writing, recording, performing, promoting. You ever heard about Twitter? Fans love that shit, and where’s JoE gonna tweet from—rehab?”
“I’m sure he would if he could. I’ll look into it. In the meantime, do you want to open these negotiations or not?”
The question languished in the air for eight to ten seconds. Dunke let out a profanity-laced diatribe, but when he finished, the word William was waiting for emerged. “Yes.”
They agreed to bargain over e-mail. William knew he’d be lucky to keep the same numbers from his client’s previous contract, with no new perks. When JoE emerged from rehab, William would spell out very clearly that this was his last chance. Whether or not that made a difference would be anybody’s guess.
“William,” Moira said the moment he hung up the phone. “I’ve got Daria on hold….”
“Put her through.” William’s heart rate spiked. He jabbed the flashing light so hard the phone slid sideways.
“Daria. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Better than fine. Bruce signed the divorce papers this morning. No big fight or last-minute standoff. He agreed to all my terms. I’m finally a free woman.” She laughed. “Well, not debt-free, but even that will be remedied when I sell this house. He agreed to split it fifty-fifty,” she added in a hushed tone of awe, as if she couldn’t quite believe her good fortune.
So much for his family’s corporation owning it. “That’s great. Congratulations. Did you have to use any of that information I gave you?”
Her tone went serious. “No. I gave my lawyer a copy but told her not to even read it unless Bruce started pulling some of his usual stunts. But he pretty much rubber-stamped every demand I put out there.”
He wondered how much of that cooperation stemmed from the talk he’d had with Bruce. Very little, he hoped. “How are the girls handling the news?”
“They seem fine. I’ve tried not to appear too joyful in front of them, but they know I’m happy. And they’re very excited about our date. They like you. A lot.”
The feeling was mutual—especially where their mother was concerned. “So, you made the reservation?”
“Yep. I’m e-mailing you the link.” His other line rang. Moira would pick that up, but Daria must have heard it because she told him, “I’m sure you’re busy, especially getting ready for two trips. How’s your father?”
“Surprisingly well. The chemo finally seems to be helping.” Although Notty insisted it was William’s planned arrival that boosted Father’s spirits and made the treatment kick in. That, of course, added to William’s guilt, which ticked him off and tempted him to cancel. What do I have to feel guilty about? he wanted to shout. But he didn’t do either—shout or change his plans.
“That’s great. I’m so glad.”
Daria hesitated. She’d asked about his father as a stalling measure. She was glad to hear the man was doing better, but mostly she was unsure how to bring up the matter of sleeping arrangements. She felt foolishly out of date as far as dating went, but she wanted—needed—to know that she and William were on the same page, as they say.
“Um…in the interest of full disclosure and transparency—” She smacked the heel of her hand against her forehead. Dumb. “Sorry. Apparently I haven’t completely purged the political lingo from my system. But I do want to make it perfectly clear that my intentions this weekend are…mostly dishonorable.”
William made a choking sound, as if he’d been in the process of swallowing something. “You should warn a person before you say something that frank, Daria. I may need to buy a new monitor.”
“Sorry,” she said, reassured by his teasing. His tone gave her the courage to say what she wanted to say. “My girlfriend, Julie, and I had a long talk about whether or not I was ready—emotionally—for this sort of date. She thinks I need a great deal more me time before opening the door to another round of we time. But she is in favor of great sex.”
He made that coughing sound again.
“And…and so am I,” she rushed to add. “Does that work for you?”
William drew in a loud breath and let it out. “Of course. I’m a man. Great sex is never a bad idea.”
Whew. “Good. Because I only booked one room.”
She glanced at the calendar above her desk. Two red hearts—courtesy of Hailey—adorned the upcoming weekend. She wished she had a time machine to push the next two days out of the way. She couldn’t wait to see him. See being the least of the things she’d dreamed about doing with him.
“Two rooms would have been a waste of money,” he told her. “And your daughters aren’t the only ones happy about this. Moira, my secretary, brought in a huge picnic basket this morning. Filled with everything necessary for a romantic getaway. She said it was about time I got a life.”
“How sweet! Tell her I said thank you.” Julie had given Daria a special gift, too. Sexy—some might say over-the-top—lingerie. Daria had blushed when she’d held up the black lace, but Julie had made Daria promise to wear it.
She waved her hand in front of her face to cool her cheeks. “I’d better go, William. It’s almost time to pick up the girls, and I need to call my mother-in-law—I mean, Hester—I have to stop calling her that.” She gave a little squeal of glee. “I get to stop calling her that. She’s keeping the girls for me this weekend.”
“Does she know where you’re going and who you will be with?”
Daria frowned. She’d almost forgotten that William and Hester had met. And that the circumstances had been anything but pleasant. “I’ll admit that she’s not crazy about me seeing you, but I blame Bruce for that. He hates you, William. But Hester is a realist. She’s accepted the divorce and is doing her best to be nice to me so she can maintain a relationship with Miranda and Hailey.”
“I can live with your ex’s antipathy so long as it doesn’t spill over on you and your daughters,” he said.
“Time will help,” she said. Everyone said so. Julie wasn’t the only one urging Daria not to rush into another relationship. Even her father, who was certainly one to talk, had counseled her to take h
er time before jumping into the dating pool again. In fact, the only person in favor of her upcoming date—aside from her daughters—was Cal.
“Stop blaming yourself for marrying Bruce,” he’d said. “So you fell for his line. You’re no different from all those people who voted for him. The man is a con artist. He could sell God to the devil. You’re a smart woman who deserves happiness. If William makes you happy, then I say, ‘Go for it, girlfriend.’”
She’d giggled hearing the contemporary saying come from her grandfather’s lips, but she’d taken his advice to heart. She wasn’t looking for love—only a man who could make her feel loved. And she knew without a doubt that person was William.
AT 4:00 P.M. on Friday, William’s grin—the one he’d been sporting since he’d left L.A.—widened as he pulled to a stop in the parking lot of the B and B Daria had selected for their weekend getaway. He parked beneath a gigantic oak tree—one of a dozen adding to the spectacular landscaping surrounding the winery. In every direction were rolling hills covered with grape vines proudly flaunting shiny new leaves. The main building had an antebellum look—white clapboard siding and black shutters. A large, graceful U-shape that welcomed its guests with warm, yet classy, appeal.
He got out, pausing to pop the trunk.
“William,” a voice hailed from some distance.
“Daria.” He waved to the figure on the second-floor balcony. Two white Adirondack chairs occupied part of the space, along with baskets of brilliant red geraniums. “You beat me. I thought you were coming later.”
She held out a wineglass. “Change of plans. Chilled wine in every room. How cool is that?”
He yanked his suitcase out of the trunk, along with the picnic tote Moira had donated to the cause.
“Finally,” she’d complained. “It’s about time. You do know the only reason I took this job was because I thought a handsome, young Hollywood agent like you had to be living a dashing, romantic life. You have no idea how disappointed I’ve been.”
The Good Provider Page 17