Overkill(47)

“Pardon?’

“That’s what it’s called.”

“Huh.” He slid in, settled into the corner, and stretched his legs along the length of the padded bench. “A bed in the kitchen. What a great idea.”

He crunched a potato chip, and his mischievous, poster-boy grin just might have been the sexiest thing she’d ever seen.

They made small talk between noshes. She said, “When you were telling me about your day leading up to your encounter with Morris, you mentioned checking the stock market. That’s twice you’ve referred to it. Is it a pastime, hobby, or something more?”

He pushed aside his empty plate, wiped his mouth with the paper napkin, sat up straight, and drew his legs beneath the table. “How good are you at keeping a secret?”

“I’m an attorney.”

“Oh, right. Well, one of the few smart things I did while playing in the NFL was not to blow my salary on cars, boats, condos in Cabo and Aspen. Like that.

“My folks were the salt-of-the-earth kind with a strong work ethic. I guess it rubbed off. Don’t get me wrong, I lived well, but I didn’t go nuts with the money I was making.” He gave a wry smile. “My most expensive extravagance was Rebecca.”

Speaking her name momentarily clouded the natural glint in his eyes.

“Anyway, I had sense enough to invest while I had the means, and I seemed to have a good eye for spotting opportunities.”

“Just how good an eye?”

The glint returned. “I’ve done okay. I was able to buy my property and build the house without dipping into my savings.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’d say you’ve done better than okay. Is that the secret? People think you’re washed up and destitute while in reality you’re a reclusive millionaire?”

“That’s part of the secret.”

“Are you willing to share the other part?”

“I have clients,” he whispered. “Yeah,” he said when he saw her surprise. “Once I was off the grid, I started watching young jocks who’d soared to stardom in their sport but were on the path to self-destruction. I homed in on one in particular. He had all the God-given talent an athlete could dream of. But he was going hog wild with his excesses. He was about to flame out. I contacted him. At first he was flattered that he was talking to Zach Bridger.

“But when I started advising that he give moderation a try, he got defensive and cocky. ‘You’re just jealous ’cause I’m here and you’re not.’ Fine, I said, and told him not to call me on his way down, which was coming soon if he didn’t get his shit together and his head on straight. I hung up.

“Two days later, he called me. I guess he figured that my advice, coming from one who’d sunk as low as one can go, was worth taking. While dishing out words to live by, I also gave him some tips on money management. He was clueless. Didn’t know his ass from an asset. I suggested he give me a trial run, turn over an amount for me to play with. If I lost it, or reduced it, I would guarantee a full refund out of my own pocket.”

She laughed. “Let me guess.”

“He was my first client, and he’s still with me. Last Christmas he sent me a set of golf clubs. And a golf cart.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. I kept the clubs but donated the cart to a college with a golf program.”

“That’s a great story. Too bad I’m sworn to secrecy. Is there more?”

“I got my brokerage license. The hobby evolved into a business. I can work out of my mountain house.”

“Be a recluse.”

“For me, privacy is the most valuable commodity. I’ve got a great setup, and I’m grateful.”

“Obviously so are your clients. You probably have to turn down many.”

He leaned forward and whispered. “I handpick them. They don’t pick me. And each has to sign a nondisclosure agreement not to tell who handles their investments. That’s the deal I make with them. That’s the secret. And now, I guess I’ll have to kill you.”

She wanted to lean across the table and kiss him. She wanted to badly. But the specter of Rebecca loomed large.

She pushed back her chair and cleared the table. He slid off the banquette and asked if he could make a cup of coffee. She showed him where everything was. She steeped a cup of tea for herself, and when they were resettled back in the living room, she said, “How did Doug Pratt contact Morris?”

“I asked. Apparently Doug subscribes to the biweekly county newspaper online.”

“His way of keeping tabs on you.”

“I guess he wanted to see if my name ever cropped up in the local news. It did. I’d signed a petition against GreenRidge’s development. When stories about the vandalism started appearing, and mentioned Deputy Morris as one of the investigators, Doug contacted him.

“Actually, according to Morris, Doug laid it on thick. How I was dead-set against anyone encroaching on what I perceived to be my mountain, how I was a tree hugger, anti this, pro that.

“Morris bought it. He admitted that when he first came snooping, he actually considered me a suspect. But then you showed up at my place, after hours, and that gave him a reason to dislike me.” He grinned. “His face is kinda messed up. I hope I didn’t ruin the good thing you two have going.”