Over the Edge (Bridge #3)(3)
Blood rose to my cheeks as he walked toward me. Those slow confident strides were becoming more and more distracting. He paused when he was only a foot from me. His energy and dominance nearly set me back a step, but I held my ground.
“Maybe I should just talk to Cameron about this,” I said, but the veiled threat came out shakier than I had wanted it to.
“Let me know how that goes,” he said flatly.
I lifted my chin, weighing his last sentence. One carefully worded call to Cameron, and Will could make sure I wouldn’t step foot in here again until the ribbon-cutting. I was protective over the design, but I knew Cameron wouldn’t do anything to compromise the timeline. And if getting my way cost me a night otherwise spent with reruns, fine. Obviously the current route wasn’t getting me far.
“And the wall?” I crossed my arms as frustration and intrigue fought for control over my emotions.
Amusement glittered in his eyes. Maybe from my persistence. Maybe because he knew I was about to agree to his invitation.
“I’ll tell Tom to stop construction on it for now. Stand me up, and I’ll have drywall on it by morning.”
I ground my teeth, biting down on all the expletives I wanted to hurl at him. “Fine.”
He smiled, revealing a perfect set of straight white teeth. “I’ll have a car pick you up at eight.”
WILL
I had a weakness for rich girls. Maybe because I’d spent roughly half my life figuring out new and creative ways to get them to fall on their backs for me. But more than that, I enjoyed their layers. Or lack thereof, depending on the girl. I played a game with myself, trying to peg what their fathers did, what borough they lived in, what schools they went to. Out loud I pretended to care about any of it as a means to getting them to betray their careful upbringing and let me f*ck them filthy.
Over time I’d discovered that under every rich girl I met, there was a dirty girl waiting for the right guy to invite them out to play. That was me. I was that guy.
I’d intended to pick Olivia Bridge up from her Brooklyn brownstone and eye-f*ck her all the way to dinner. A prelude of the filthy things I planned to do to her—with her permission, of course. But my father had called me again, so she was riding alone, and I was stuck in my condo pacing through a conversation I didn’t want to have. I’d dodged my father’s calls all week, but I couldn’t avoid him forever.
“How have you been? I haven’t heard from you in a while.” Forced affection strained his words.
I rolled my eyes and held back an audible sigh. Bill Donovan rarely wasted time with formalities, which told me that he was getting desperate for my ear.
“Cut to the chase, Dad. What do you want?”
He was silent a moment. “I want to talk to you about contingencies if this investigation escalates.”
I shook my head, angry all over again for the mess he’d gotten himself into. A mess that was quickly bleeding into my own affairs, despite the years I’d spent ensuring our businesses intersected as rarely as possible.
“Do you think it will?”
His voice was quiet and low. “I can’t say. We have the best legal money can buy, but if there’s an indictment, we’re finished.”
The investigation into his and his business partners’ shady dealings funneling millions through a local charity had been going on for months. There had been whispers, but so far no charges had come down on them. If they did and he was found guilty, he’d be looking at restitution and the possibility of doing time at one of those resorts in upstate New York they called “jail” for white-collar folks like him and his cohorts.
Worse, the damage to his reputation in the financial world would be irreparable.
“It was an arts charity for underprivileged youth, for Christ’s sake. You couldn’t have picked someone else to scam out of their money?”
He made an unintelligible sound on the other end of the phone. “I didn’t call to talk about that, Will. If any of us are charged, the business will suffer. All the investors will walk. I need you back in the ring until the situation stabilizes.”
He’d been trying to pull me into the hedge fund he ran with David Reilly since its inception earlier in the year. I’d entertained a few cocktails and lunches with investors, but I wasn’t interested in that world. I had my own projects to nurse.
“Don’t you pay people to run your businesses? You don’t need me.”
“You’re the only one I trust. Especially under the current circumstances. Beyond that, it’s your money too.”
“I don’t care about the money.”
“You think you don’t care because you’ve never had to live a day of your life without it. I made damn sure of that.” His words whipped through the phone, sharp with truth and weighted with years of tireless effort that went into building a lifetime of wealth.
Our relationship had always been matter of fact. The facts about the tried-and-true path to success. The facts about money and business. The facts about women, which in reality were his slanted personal opinions about the finer sex and their usefulness when it came to satisfying one’s personal sexual appetites. He was all fact and no feeling, and that’s how I’d been raised.
According to his law, I should drop him like a bad f*cking habit and move on with my life. I searched for empathy, but I could only muster mild concern and a massive dose of irritation that he’d been irresponsible enough to possibly get caught. Now I was at risk of being ensnared in his affairs when I was firmly committed to my own. The last thing I wanted to do was inherit his problems, or his hedge fund.