Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
And holy hell, the minute I shut the door, Devon spews a mess of shit out at me that all but guarantees he’ll be needing Abel a hell of a lot more than me. I listen to him, and despite all I have seen in my years of practice, this man manages to blow my mind. He’s brilliant, with a wife and kids and a hell of a lot to lose, and yet he made stupid choices. When he’s finally done and we have a plan to connect him to Abel, I watch him exit, with my father in my mind. Greed catches up to people, and I tracked my father’s business dealings. When he wasn’t banging a new woman, he was banging a new payday, and usually at the price of others. And that shit catches up with you. For some, it lands them in jail. Others, a grave.
That’s not a hard place to go with my father, but how the hell did Meredith Winter end up dead, too?
Kurt arrives right at ten as scheduled, and I meet him in the conference room, where Rita has him waiting at the rectangular glass table. I like glass tables. There’s nowhere to hide; no hidden hand gestures or body language. As for Kurt, a former SEAL, he’s a casual guy who prefers jeans and T-shirts but wears discipline like a second skin, and today is no exception. He stands when I enter, his expression stoic, all six foot four inches of him pure steel. An intimidating guy to most, and in physical combat, I’d keep my gun pointed at him and never let go of the trigger. In a boardroom, I’m the one everyone fears, but guys like Kurt usually take a bit longer than most to figure that out.
“I’ll cut to the chase,” I say, motioning for him to sit and claiming the spot directly in front of him. “The club is your life, not mine; therefore, I’m gifting it to you. I’ll have the paperwork ready for you tonight, and your only expense will be the taxes on the value of the gift. I’ll front you that money in the form of a loan, if you need it. Or you can sell. I paid three hundred and fifty thousand for it. You can easily turn it for that or more, and I’ll broker the deal for you.”
He narrows his eyes on me. “Why wouldn’t you sell it for yourself?”
“I don’t need the money, and after years of service to that club, you deserve the reward.”
“Why wouldn’t you sell it yourself?” he repeats.
“A woman,” I say simply. “I need it gone.”
“That’s becoming a familiar theme, considering you bought it when Mark Compton met a woman.”
“Technically I bought it because of his legal issues, but she wasn’t just a woman. She’s his wife.”
“A woman is why he stayed away,” he says. “And I will never let a woman dictate my life.” Words that echo my own sentiments before I met Faith. “If the club is now mine,” he continues, “I’m not selling, and I don’t need a loan. You pay me well, and I’ve recently made a smart investment that paid off.”
“Well, then, I’ll have the paperwork to you tomorrow,” I say, standing and offering him my hand as he pushes to his feet. “But I need it signed tomorrow as well.”
“Get it to me tomorrow, and I’ll have it back to you by Monday. I need time for my attorney to look it over.”
“It’s a gift,” I bite out.
“That comes with potential liability. I’ll look for the paperwork.” He heads for the door and exits.
I smile, that hard-nosed SEAL in him predictable in his skeptical pushback. I knew he’d want to have an attorney review what seemed too good to be true, even if he didn’t act like it was too good to be true. And I knew he’d push for Monday, which is after Faith and I get back from Sonoma and a full two weeks before Macom fucks with her head again in L.A.
The phone on the conference table buzzes. “Segal is on the line,” Rita announces.
I sit down and grab the receiver. “What do you know that I don’t know?” I say, skipping the formality of a greeting. “What is it about the winery that makes the bank want it?”
“I have no idea,” he says.
“What makes that property valuable beyond the obvious?”
“Asking your question ten different ways doesn’t change my answer.”
“The note Faith’s father left for her,” I say, hitting him from another direction. “Do you know what’s inside?”
“That note is between Faith and her father.”
“She hasn’t opened it. Do you know what’s inside?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything in that letter that tells us why the bank is after the winery?”
“Absolutely nothing. It’s personal. It’s not business, and she’d know that if she just opened it.”