8
Melody. Lola. Had he even fucking known her? Beau entered all his interactions with at least a small amount of cynicism and distrust. It’d served him well in affairs both business and personal. But Lola represented a time before he’d had to be that man. When she’d kicked a car outside of Hey Joe, he’d been just as attracted to her as he had seeing her on stage at Cat Shoppe. He should’ve walked away based on the fact that he hadn’t wanted to. Something in her blue eyes had kept him planted on that sidewalk, though. She’d inched closer and closer, peering at him in the dark, neon lights reflecting off her shiny black hair. Some predators stalked their prey. Others waited for their prey to come to them. In those few seconds as she’d approached him, he hadn’t been sure which one of them was predator and which was prey. Even before his money, he’d never had that feeling before. But he’d recovered quickly. He was Beau Olivier—and he was nobody’s dinner.
“Olivier.”
Beau looked up from the presentation binder in front of him. His business partner stood at the head of the conference table. Lawrence Thorne was the other half of Bolt Ventures, and one of the only people Beau trusted. But that was all their relationship’d ever been. Larry had a wife Beau knew from myriad events and two kids Beau’d only met once.
“Think you might want to wake the fuck up?” Lawrence asked. “It’s four in the afternoon.”
Their lawyer, Louis, rapped his pen on the table. “You’ve been silent the entire meeting. Since when do you have no comment on the fact that VenTech’s stock closed at a record low?”
Beau furrowed his eyebrows and turned the page to a graph labeled Potential Holdings Research Report—VenTech. The squiggly line had dipped far into the red. That always caught his attention, but he hadn’t noticed it in the twenty minutes they’d been sitting there. Instead, he’d been thinking about the former holding who’d taken a nosedive into disastrous territory.
“This was today?” Beau asked.
Louis nodded. “Word is, they’re done for.”
Beau looked at both of them. “Then let’s move.”
“We have people looking into it,” Larry said.
“I’m tired of waiting.” Beau’d been patient as always, and as always, it’d paid off. But he had his limits, and he was ready to pounce on VenTech, the company that’d bought his payment services website ten years ago and picked it apart until it was nothing more than a carcass. Now, Beau was in a position to save VenTech from bankruptcy. He wanted to look the founder, George Wright, in the eye, and tell him he owned him. He leaned forward on his elbows. “Draw up the offer.”
“You’re sure?” Larry asked. “Established companies aren’t really our thing.”
“VenTech is desperate. You know I’ve been tracking them for a long time. You promised me the day we partnered, Larry—you’d back me up on this.”
Larry nodded. “I did. And if this is what you need, I’m on board.”
“Good. Get the paperwork started.”
“Consider it done.” Louis reclined back in his seat, steepling his fingers. “So, you going to tell us whose call you’re expecting?”
Beau slid the binder away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Last time you were like this,” Louis said, “you were wooing a new company but wouldn’t tell us which one. You’ve been checking your phone like an addict waiting to hear about a fix. So who is it?”
Beau glanced in the direction of his office. If he moved now, he could have a drink in his hand in under sixty seconds. “It’s personal.”
Larry snorted. “Bullshit. What’s more important to you than this?”
“I don’t know,” Beau said, “maybe an ear infection?”
“You’re mad because I left in the middle of the day last week to take my kid to the ER?” Larry asked. “The fuck’s wrong with you, man?”
“I’m not mad.” Beau ran his hands through his hair. “I’m saying maybe I’ve got my own shit to deal with too, yet I’m here more than anyone else.”
“So take an afternoon off. You’re the one who wants to be here all the time.”
Louis nodded. “You don’t need anyone to tell you when you can go home for the day. You got plenty of underlings around here who live to pick up the slack.”
None of this was news to Beau. Larry had started going home at five a couple years ago, and the office had survived. Thrived, even, without one more opinion in the mix.
“I’ll be honest, Beau.” Larry shut his laptop and sat. “You look like shit. Even more than when we’re going through a rough acquisition. I think productivity might pick up if you take your gloomy ass out to a matinee or something. Treat yourself to a haircut while you’re at it.”
“Fuck you, Thorne,” Beau said, but his heart wasn’t in it.
Larry just smiled.
Beau reached in his jacket for his phone but stopped when Larry and Louis exchanged a glance. He didn’t need to check it anyway. He tested his ringer several times a day, and it was working fine. He’d ignored two calls from Brigitte that morning just out of sheer anger that it hadn’t been Detective Bragg calling.
It’d been eight goddamn days since Lola had left. If this was a game for Lola, she hadn’t left him a single clue. The leather pants and T-shirt she’d worn the night he’d met her were gone, but other than that, he didn’t know what else she’d taken with her. Nothing he’d bought her, except what she’d been wearing that night. Bragg was also frustrated. He’d had better luck tracking down criminals with actual reasons to hide. Criminals who preyed on young, beautiful women traveling alone with lots of cash.
Beau was always hot lately, but with that thought, warmth traveled to his feet and scalp. Waking up with Lola, coming home to her—it’d been a new, irregular world, but she’d centered him. Now, a week later, he didn’t even know if she was dead or alive. That seemed unfair. If anyone should get to decide her fate, it should be him. He at least wanted that choice again.
More and more, he worried she hadn’t been real, just a dream. They shared none of the same friends or daily routines. There wasn’t anywhere on his way to work where he’d stop and remember a moment they’d had. Had she been an illusion, a sleek magic trick? His last moments with her, he’d been dumb with lust, two fingers inside her sweet pussy silk.
Beau laced his hands in his hair, suddenly aware of how long it was, and that he’d forgotten to style it that morning. He stood. “I need some fresh air.”
“Yeah, fine, just don’t come back today,” Larry said dismissively. “Go home or something.”
Beau didn’t go home, and he didn’t get air. He went to his office and looked out his window with a drink in his hand.
Orange skyscrapers reflected the late afternoon. Where was she, his beautiful kitten, that sly minx? All by herself, no trail left behind? Was she wearing her skintight leather pants and asking for trouble? Was she flirting with men who could hurt her far worse than Beau had?
Beau unbuttoned his collar. He couldn’t get his breathing under control. Work was supposed to be where he found balance. He would’ve slammed his fist into the window except that he’d hit a few things over the last few days, and it never seemed to do any good. The leather pants bothered him. He couldn’t stop picturing her in them.
He’d lost track of how many times he’d listed in his head all the things he knew about Lola. The food she ate. The drinks she drank. Any mentions she’d made of places she’d wanted to see or things she’d wanted to buy. He didn’t think it’d be as easy as showing up at the world’s largest ball of twine and finding her there, but he’d called the box office anyway. They didn’t attach names to cash transactions, and why would they?
Lola had more money now than she must’ve ever dreamed. When Beau had sold his company, he’d signed on the dotted line and gone from thousands in debt to a multi-millionaire. Sex had been suddenly and oppressively on his mind. He’d wanted to fuck with all the power he’d finally had. Lola had taken that
away from him—that little cat, with big blue eyes and black, furry triangle ears, had captivated him from the moment he’d walked into Cat Shoppe. It was as if she’d called his eyes right to her. He’d just been handed the key to his kingdom, and he could’ve had anything he’d wanted—and what he’d wanted stood underneath a white spotlight, dressed in nothing but a diamond bikini and cat ears. She became the one thing he needed that night and the one thing he couldn’t have. With four words—“I’m not for sale”—he wasn’t enough again, not even as a man with something to offer.
Lola would know that same power now—because of him. Because of him, she was out there in her leather pants—fucking, drinking, spending cash, laughing at him. Beau’d thought he was the one in charge, but just the sway of her hips had disarmed him long enough to steal his power a second time. He was halfway between wanting to worship her and wring her neck for pulling this off. His heart pounded at the thought of holding that slender column under his fingers as she begged his forgiveness.
His phone beeped, and he jumped. His hands were curled into two tight fists.
“Mr. Olivier?” came his assistant’s voice.
“What?” he snapped. “What the fuck is it?”
It was a moment before she continued. “I-I’m sorry. You said—you were very clear that I should interrupt you any time Detective Bragg called.”
Beau turned from the window. He leaned his knuckles on his desk and spoke directly into the phone, as if that would get him answers faster. “He called?”
“Just now.”
“Why didn’t he try my cell?”
“He said he did.”
Beau took out his phone to see he had a missed call. “Piece of shit,” he muttered, tossing it aside. “Get Bragg for me. Now.”
“He’s already on the line,” she said. “And he says he’s got something for you.”
9
Beau came home to a light on in the kitchen. His heart in his throat, he hung his coat on the hook by the door. Nobody’d been home to greet him since Lola’d left eight days ago. The housekeeper had been there that day, but she didn’t leave lights on. Beau’d explained to her how that was a waste of money. And she didn’t cook him dinner. He followed the smell of food and the clinking of dishware.
The weight that already sat on his shoulders grew heavier with each step. A few nights before Lola had left, she’d made pulled pork tacos in a “Kiss the Cook” apron she’d bought herself. She’d kept his food at the perfect temperature until he’d walked through the door, and it was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen—Lola, in a red-and-white gingham apron, making him dinner with barbeque sauce on her cheek. He’d kissed her, cleaning her face with a restrained lick of his tongue.
Beau held as breath as he entered the kitchen. Despite his conversation with Bragg an hour earlier, he half expected to find the same thing in the kitchen he had two weeks ago.
And that was exactly what he found—except that it was Brigitte wearing the apron, and she had something in the oven instead of the slow cooker.
Her face lit up as she raised a glass of red wine. “Welcome home. I thought you could use a homemade meal.”
Beau clamped his mouth shut as his stomach turned, his eyes glued to that kitschy fucking apron and the barbeque sauce stain near the hem. “Where’d you find that?”
“What?” Brigitte followed his gaze down. “The apron? Hanging in the pantry. Honestly, I was surprised you even owned—”
“It was Lola’s.” Sweat formed on his hairline. Of course he wasn’t going to find Lola in his kitchen. If she had any sense, she’d be terrified to ever face him again. He unknotted his tie and slid it off. “I told you to get rid of her shit.”
Brigitte shrugged and grinned blue, her mouth tinted from the wine. “It’s just an apron. Don’t erupt, Mt. Olivier.” She walked over and gave him her glass. “Drink this. It’ll calm you.”
Beau took the wine and set it on the counter. “I don’t need to calm down. Your car isn’t in the driveway.”
“Warner brought me. He’s the only person who ever checks on me.” She blew out a heavy sigh, heaving her chest and shoulders. “I hadn’t seen a soul in two whole days, and I couldn’t get you on the phone. What, did you smash it again? Anyway, I absolutely couldn’t take another minute. I had to come over.”
“You’ll have to learn to deal with being alone, Brigitte. I don’t want company right now.”
She plumped her lower lip. “I’ll try not to take that personally. What’s the matter?”
Beau removed everything from his pockets into a dish on the counter. He didn’t need Brigitte in his business, adding her two cents at every juncture. “Long day. That’s all.”
“You’ve been so distant since you kicked me out. You know I don’t do well on my own, Beau.”
He picked up the clean pile of mail his housekeeper had organized and sorted. “I’ve had a lot on my plate. And I didn’t kick you out. There just wasn’t enough room here for both you and her.”
“Does that mean I can come back?”
Beau glanced up. Her eyebrows were raised. So that was why she was there—to scope things out and see if he might be distracted enough to let her back in. He didn’t have the energy to argue, and it made no difference to him if she was there. His house had turned from sanctuary to hell now that he’d glimpsed a life he couldn’t have. And Brigitte there, cooking for him, was a thorny reminder. “I don’t care. Just take off that fucking apron.”
Beau’s phone rang. He checked the screen, saw it was Bragg, and cleared it. He’d call him as soon as he went upstairs to change. If he rushed off to his study, Brigitte would pick at him until he spilled everything to her.
“Who was that?”
“Nobody.” Beau opened a bill and tossed it aside, having already paid it online. He made a note to switch it over to e-mail and picked up another envelope, avoiding Brigitte’s penetrating stare, her loud silence. Finally, he sighed and looked up. “What?”
“It’s about her, isn’t it?”
“Who?”
“Come on, Beau. You know who. There’s something going on with Lola.”
“I hardly think of her.”
“You must think I’m blind. Tell me.”
Beau slid his mail away and set his elbows on the counter, rubbing his face. He wasn’t as annoyed with Brigitte as he tried to be. Bragg had been his only confidante in over a week, and all the detective cared about was facts. Those sporadic, nonsensical facts were insignificant compared to how Lola’s void actually made him feel.
“I found her,” he said.
Brigitte’s back straightened. “I didn’t even know you were looking for her.”
“I wasn’t. Detective Bragg was. I hired him when she left.” He shut his eyes and shook his head. “Says she’s in Missouri.”
“Missouri?” Brigitte asked. “What the hell is she doing there?”
“I have no idea. Other than one hotel charge, there’s no other activity on her credit card.”
Slowly, Brigitte’s eyes widened as she inclined her head toward him. “You tracked her credit card?”
Beau nodded. That was minor in comparison to interrogating Lola’s closest friends and family, but he decided to keep that to himself—Brigitte’s eyebrows were already halfway up her forehead. “Yes, but there were no charges over the last eight days. Now there’s one pending.”
“Oh.” She crossed her arms, curling her nails into her biceps. “So you’re going to go find her?”
“No,” Beau said immediately. “I sent Bragg.”
Brigitte tilted her head fractionally. “How come?”
Beau didn’t know how to answer that. He knew he should just leave her alone, for both their sakes. He didn’t want to, though. He was hurt. He still loved her. But above all, he was angry with her. He couldn’t walk away, and he couldn’t go after her himself. That would tell her she was worth something to him. She was, but Beau wanted to smother that feeling, not nurture it.
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Money gave Beau the gift to waste someone else’s time instead of his. Bragg would handle everything. He’d bring Lola back kicking and screaming if Beau asked him to. Throw her at his feet. And Beau would get his answers.
“I have to stay close to the office,” he said. “I don’t have time to chase her down. I just want to know where she is before I decide…”
Their eyes met. Brigitte turned her back to him and put on her oven mitts, but she didn’t move beyond that. “What’ll you do if you find her?”
“I don’t know. But I can’t let her get away with this.”
Brigitte looked over her shoulder at him. “Then why not go yourself?”
“I told you—I have a company to run. That’s why I have people like Bragg.”
She faced him again, her mitted hands at her sides. “Why waste Bragg’s time if Lola isn’t worth enough for you to go yourself? Time is your most valuable resource, but your money and energy are equally precious. She’s bleeding you out, Beau. Jesus. Warner says he’s never seen you this distracted. Just let this thing go.”
Lola had been a strain on him one way or another since he’d found her again—yet knowing her had been rewarding in ways he hadn’t anticipated. After his proposition to her to spend the night with him, he’d returned home to Brigitte, who hadn’t thought it was a waste of anything then.
“You were always on board with my plan,” he said. “You even said a million was a small price to pay for what I wanted in return.”
“Because it was a game, and you needed that win. Her rejection had been a weak spot for you all those years, and you’re the strongest person I know. It was never about getting laid.” She shook her head. “This isn’t a game anymore, Beau. Part of your success has come from your ability to cut deadweight loose the way most people can’t. The moment hesitation or indecision creeps in, you’re letting emotion get in the way of your sense. She’s offered you an exit, and you need to take it.”
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