Treasured by Thursday
Page 17
“Only with a massive raise,” Travis joked.
“Let’s start with a bonus if you find out who’s behind the skim off the charity funds.” If there was one thing Hunter had learned long ago, it was to offer money and people stepped up.
Travis leaned back, changed the subject. “How’s the Adams oil acquisition going?”
“Merger . . . and the LA division is on it.”
Travis nodded. “You really think pipelines are the way to go?”
Hunter moved to the window behind his desk and looked over the Manhattan landscape. The view really was spectacular. “I know pipelines are the future. Oil is useless sitting in one state, and with the conditions of the Middle East . . . we are ripe for a new oil rush in this country.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
He did.
“I’m out.” Travis stood abruptly, moved to the door. “You know where I am if you need me.”
Hunter lifted a hand. “I’m serious about the charity issue.”
Travis lifted his chin. “I’m on it.”
When he was alone, Hunter glanced at his watch. He’d been a married man for twenty-four hours. Married. The decision, like many in his life, had been impulsive. A quick fix to a problem bubbling in the near future. And like every impulsive decision he’d ever made, an expensive one.
He’d agreed to a million dollars per every extramarital affair. What the hell was he thinking? The desire to be celibate for eighteen months was right up there with cutting off his dick. What had Gabi said . . . “I don’t like being made a fool.”
What did that mean? And what about all the other stipulations she’d added to the contract. It was obvious that someone had hurt his wife. The question was who . . . and how bad?
He removed his cell phone from his pocket and decided a call to Remington was in order.
It rang three times before the man picked up. “Hey, Boss.”
“Where are you?” From the sound in the background, a party, including a live band, was in full swing. Not what Hunter was paying for.
“Miami. This town is hopping.”
He cringed. “I’m not paying you to party.”
“Yeah, you are.”
Hunter wanted to yell, but kept his cool. “What do you have?”
Remington muffled his next words, obviously speaking to someone else. “Who knew nurses liked to party?”
“Excuse me?”
The sound on the phone muffled and then quieted. “Looks like your little sex kitten was admitted to the hospital the same time her husband bit the dust.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know. She didn’t die, and the HIPPA laws have the files shut. Crazy how when you die, those files are open wide. Not so much when you’re alive.”
“So you’re partying with the nurses.”
Remington started to laugh. “My job sucks, Blackwell. Might need a raise.”
“Bloodsucking bastard.”
Remington laughed. “I’ll be in touch.”
The real estate agent drove her to the sixth multimillion-dollar home in Bel Air.
Gabi had added the stipulation in the contract as a delay tactic; the house hunt, however, was actually really fun. She limited the budget to under ten million, which was a challenge in light of the fact that she wanted a half an acre of property.
Each property had a redeeming quality, and something that wasn’t desirable. A view was nice . . . a swimming pool? Yeah, she missed her brother’s island resort. She missed the ocean, but the image of it would sometimes make her break out in an unwelcome sweat. Alonzo took that from her . . . the love of the ocean. He took a hell of a lot more, but she refused to think about those things.
The outside space of one home was too narrow, the next, close to nothing.
The kitchens were large, but not something she saw herself cooking in. It was like those who lived in the houses didn’t cook . . . or if they did, it was a microwave experience.
Her cell phone rang as she was walking around the back of one of the houses on a side of a steep hill. She didn’t recognize the number but answered it anyway.
“Hello?”
“Gabi.” His voice was actually soothing on the phone.
“Blackwell.”
He laughed. “Asking you to call me Hunter is too much of a chore?”
“I haven’t decided.” She paused, then said, “I take it your plane didn’t go down.”
“No such luck,” he laughed. “My pilot is one of the best.”
“Your very own pilot? I should have guessed.”
“Yes, you should have,” he said.
“Why are you calling?” She moved away from the real estate agent, who hovered close by.
“I’d like to have dinner with you. I’ll be back in town tomorrow afternoon.”
She closed her eyes and pushed away the desire to tell him no. She’d not agreed to a simple date since Alonzo. There had been plenty of opportunities since moving to LA, but the desire to be alone with a man never manifested.
Truth was, she didn’t want to now, but Hunter was her husband.
For a little while, at least.
“Fine,” she mumbled. “We do have a lot to discuss.”
“We do,” he agreed.
“I’m looking at houses,” she offered when he went silent.
“Find anything?”
She sighed. “Not really. I asked to see property that could be turned quickly. There’s not as much out there as I’d hoped.”
“Who is the agent?”
She told him and continued, “Beverly Hills is too congested. Hollywood is too . . .”
“Let’s start with a bonus if you find out who’s behind the skim off the charity funds.” If there was one thing Hunter had learned long ago, it was to offer money and people stepped up.
Travis leaned back, changed the subject. “How’s the Adams oil acquisition going?”
“Merger . . . and the LA division is on it.”
Travis nodded. “You really think pipelines are the way to go?”
Hunter moved to the window behind his desk and looked over the Manhattan landscape. The view really was spectacular. “I know pipelines are the future. Oil is useless sitting in one state, and with the conditions of the Middle East . . . we are ripe for a new oil rush in this country.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
He did.
“I’m out.” Travis stood abruptly, moved to the door. “You know where I am if you need me.”
Hunter lifted a hand. “I’m serious about the charity issue.”
Travis lifted his chin. “I’m on it.”
When he was alone, Hunter glanced at his watch. He’d been a married man for twenty-four hours. Married. The decision, like many in his life, had been impulsive. A quick fix to a problem bubbling in the near future. And like every impulsive decision he’d ever made, an expensive one.
He’d agreed to a million dollars per every extramarital affair. What the hell was he thinking? The desire to be celibate for eighteen months was right up there with cutting off his dick. What had Gabi said . . . “I don’t like being made a fool.”
What did that mean? And what about all the other stipulations she’d added to the contract. It was obvious that someone had hurt his wife. The question was who . . . and how bad?
He removed his cell phone from his pocket and decided a call to Remington was in order.
It rang three times before the man picked up. “Hey, Boss.”
“Where are you?” From the sound in the background, a party, including a live band, was in full swing. Not what Hunter was paying for.
“Miami. This town is hopping.”
He cringed. “I’m not paying you to party.”
“Yeah, you are.”
Hunter wanted to yell, but kept his cool. “What do you have?”
Remington muffled his next words, obviously speaking to someone else. “Who knew nurses liked to party?”
“Excuse me?”
The sound on the phone muffled and then quieted. “Looks like your little sex kitten was admitted to the hospital the same time her husband bit the dust.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know. She didn’t die, and the HIPPA laws have the files shut. Crazy how when you die, those files are open wide. Not so much when you’re alive.”
“So you’re partying with the nurses.”
Remington started to laugh. “My job sucks, Blackwell. Might need a raise.”
“Bloodsucking bastard.”
Remington laughed. “I’ll be in touch.”
The real estate agent drove her to the sixth multimillion-dollar home in Bel Air.
Gabi had added the stipulation in the contract as a delay tactic; the house hunt, however, was actually really fun. She limited the budget to under ten million, which was a challenge in light of the fact that she wanted a half an acre of property.
Each property had a redeeming quality, and something that wasn’t desirable. A view was nice . . . a swimming pool? Yeah, she missed her brother’s island resort. She missed the ocean, but the image of it would sometimes make her break out in an unwelcome sweat. Alonzo took that from her . . . the love of the ocean. He took a hell of a lot more, but she refused to think about those things.
The outside space of one home was too narrow, the next, close to nothing.
The kitchens were large, but not something she saw herself cooking in. It was like those who lived in the houses didn’t cook . . . or if they did, it was a microwave experience.
Her cell phone rang as she was walking around the back of one of the houses on a side of a steep hill. She didn’t recognize the number but answered it anyway.
“Hello?”
“Gabi.” His voice was actually soothing on the phone.
“Blackwell.”
He laughed. “Asking you to call me Hunter is too much of a chore?”
“I haven’t decided.” She paused, then said, “I take it your plane didn’t go down.”
“No such luck,” he laughed. “My pilot is one of the best.”
“Your very own pilot? I should have guessed.”
“Yes, you should have,” he said.
“Why are you calling?” She moved away from the real estate agent, who hovered close by.
“I’d like to have dinner with you. I’ll be back in town tomorrow afternoon.”
She closed her eyes and pushed away the desire to tell him no. She’d not agreed to a simple date since Alonzo. There had been plenty of opportunities since moving to LA, but the desire to be alone with a man never manifested.
Truth was, she didn’t want to now, but Hunter was her husband.
For a little while, at least.
“Fine,” she mumbled. “We do have a lot to discuss.”
“We do,” he agreed.
“I’m looking at houses,” she offered when he went silent.
“Find anything?”
She sighed. “Not really. I asked to see property that could be turned quickly. There’s not as much out there as I’d hoped.”
“Who is the agent?”
She told him and continued, “Beverly Hills is too congested. Hollywood is too . . .”
