Billionaire's Tragedy (Standalone Book) (Billionaire Bad Boy Romance) (6 page)

CHAPTER
EIGHT

Olivia

Once
Redding had turned his back and headed to his car, I quickly slipped into the
florists and poked around. I sidled over to a group of arrangements on the
counter and pretend to smell the lilies as I scanned the names on the cards.
The woman behind the register kept a close eye on me since I was the only
customer in the store.

"These are
gorgeous!" I exclaimed.

"Yeah, they're
nice," she replied. She was a college girl who looked like she would
rather be just about anywhere but here in this store on this afternoon. She
looked toward the back and then added, "They're a holiday favorite."

"I imagine a lot of
people send stuff like this during the holiday," I said trying to figure
out a way to ask her who was sending these particular arrangements. "They
must be really expensive."

"Yeah, they're
pretty pricy, but we use only the very best imported flowers in every arrangement,
so a lot of people are more than happy to pay top dollar for them," she
said, sounding a little more enthusiastic.

"You must have a lot
of big-wigs coming and buying them, then," I remarked as I turned and
looked at a few other displays, trying to pretend like I wasn't that interested
in anything in particular. My years as a reporter had taught me that one sure
way to get people to talk was to throw out a few leading statements and then
pretend like you had no real interest in the answers. That usually got people
very interested in showing you what they knew and trying to impress you with
the knowledge. I pointed to a totally different bouquet and asked, “How much is
this?"

"Those are sixty to
a hundred depending on how big you want it," she said, then turned to the
group on the counter and noted, "But I would recommend this one if you're
really looking to impress someone."

"Oh, is that the one
that screams '
Be
impressed?’” I asked in a bored tone.

"It is indeed,"
she laughed as she rearranged a few stems and then straightened up the cards on
each one. She looked toward the back again, and then told me, "These are
some seriously impressive arrangements."

"Huh, that's
interesting," I said, feeling my senses begin to tingle as I waited for
her to spill the details that I knew she wanted to share. I pointed to a
holiday arrangement containing holly and pine branches, "What about
this?"

"God, that's the
cheapest one we have, don't send that one," she said as she rolled her
eyes. Her eyes flickered back toward the back of the store as if expecting
someone to come rushing through the door any minute, then she looked at me and
waved me over. She dropped her voice and said, "You want to know who sends
these kinds of arrangements?"

"Yeah, sure. Will I
be in good company if I choose one?" I shrugged and spoke in a tone that
suggested I didn't really care whether she did or didn't share the information
with me.

"Lincoln Redding
ordered all of these for the families of the senators who got shot today,"
she gleefully confided. "He's incredibly sexy and so thoughtful."

"Huh, isn't he the do-gooder
gun guy?" I asked in an off-handed manner. "Seems kind of weird that
he'd be ordering flowers."

"Oh no! Not at all!
He's in here ordering flowers all the time!" she exclaimed before looking
over her shoulder and lowering her voice again. "He always calls ahead and
orders the arrangements, then comes in and handwrites notes to whomever he's
sending them to."

"Is that so?" I
said as I sniffed the flowers in front of me. "Nice guy."

"Have you seen
him?" she asked. "God, he's the very definition of tall, blond, and
handsome! And those eyes!"

"Pretty dreamy,
eh?" I asked as I swallowed a bubble of laughter that welled up in my
throat.

"I would totally go
out with him," she nodded. "But he doesn't seem to have any interest
in the women around here."

"Maybe he's
gay?" I suggested.

"No way! That guy is
totally het!" she squealed. "He's been in the papers with some of the
most gorgeous women in the world! And, I heard he was engaged to a Saudi princess
at one point, but that she broke it off because her family didn't want her
living in the States full time and Redding wouldn't agree to move to
Dubai."

"How do you know all
of this?" I asked, knowing full well how she knew it. After all, I was
part of the pack of reporters who dug up this kind of stuff and splashed it
across the pages of the newspaper.

"Don't you read the
tabloids?" she asked incredulously. "It's all over those things! And
besides, Washington is a small world. A lot of what goes on is talked about on
the streets, even if it never makes it to the papers."

"And again, how do
you know all of this?" I asked.

"Oh, my dad is a
security guard over at the Capitol and he hears all kinds of stuff," she
said as she waved her hand at me. "You have no idea how crazy things are
over there."

"I'll bet," I
nodded. "Why is Redding sending these arrangements to senators’ families?
Does he know them? I mean, it seems kind of weird and random to send flowers to
complete strangers, doesn't it?"

"Nah, not
really," she said. "He's sent them all stuff before, like on the
holidays and things. My dad says it's because they're all in support of his
technology and his company, so he does things to show his appreciation without
crossing any lines."

"Crossing
lines?"

"Yeah, like giving
them money and stuff," she said as she tried to school me in the ways of
the Washington power brokers. "You can't pay senators to do things, but
you can show your appreciation for their support. I guess flowers are a good
way to do that, you know?"

"Sure, I mean, if I
supported a guy's business, I can't think of anything I'd rather have than a
huge arrangement of lilies and ferns," I said sarcastically. "He must
have a lot of free time if he's hanging out here all day sending flowers to
people."

 
"Nah, he usually comes in really late at
night, not in the morning," she said as she twirled a strand of ivy
between her fingers. "I don't usually get to wait on him. It was weird to
see him here during the day, but he's so hot that I don't complain when he
comes in!"

"No, I imagine that
men as good looking as Lincoln Redding are a pleasure to see at any time of the
day," I muttered then turned toward her. "So, you're saying you wouldn't
kick him out of bed?"

She burst out laughing
just as a customer walked through the door. "Gotta go help them." She
swallowed a bubble of laughter and walked over, saying, "What can I help
with today, sir?"

I nodded and took one
last look at the cards on the arrangements before I stepped back and walked out
of the shop. I didn't want to push my luck and have her figure out I was a
reporter digging for information. The girl waved at me as I exited and I waved
back, wondering if I could have gotten more information out of her if I'd
stayed and waited. I made a note to go back and follow up later in the week.

Meanwhile, I pulled out
my notebook and jotted down a few notes before shoving the pad back in my bag and
heading away from the Hill.

#

I
quickly walked a few blocks south to my best friend Bix's house over on the
corner of Ivy and New Jersey. I replayed the collision and resulting
conversation over and over in my brain, trying to figure out what had happened.
Linc Redding was undeniably handsome and I was undeniably attracted to him. His
body, his arms, the curve of his lip when he smiled, and those eyes – oh my
God, those beautiful, blue eyes. For a moment, I felt myself getting a little
lightheaded as I imagined what it would be like to be laying naked in bed with
him, looking into those eyes as he bent down to kiss me. I was grateful when I
found myself at Bix's front door and had a reason to stop thinking about Linc.

 
Bix Northrup had been my best friend since the
first day of fourth grade when we had been assigned to sit together. It was my
fifth school in as many years since my father was a diplomat whose job moved us
around the world on a regular basis, and I was somewhat weary of having to adjust
to another new group of people. Because of all the moving, I was a little more
cosmopolitan than some of my classmates and as a result, I'd wait to decide how
smart I thought they were before I made friends with any of them. It was a
defensive strategy that had served me well.

The morning I joined
Bix's fourth grade class, the teacher had assigned us a desk on the side of the
room closest to the windows, and I'd been staring out them wishing I could
transform into a cardinal and spend the day hunting for seeds and bugs when a
girl sat down next to me.

"Hello," I said,
staring at her. She was a small girl with hair so blonde that it looked white.
She was wearing a sky blue dress, knee high socks with tennis shoes, and a pair
of enormous round glasses. I'd never seen glasses that big on any adult, let
alone a girl as small as she was, and with her hair pulled into two tight
French braids on either side of her head, the glasses looked even bigger. I
couldn't stop staring as she held out her hand.

"Hello, I'm
Elizabeth Margaret Wentworth-Trent," she said solemnly. "But you can
call me Bix."

"Why?" I asked
taking her hand and giving it a good shake. Her hand felt fragile in mine and I
quickly pulled back, afraid I'd hurt her.

"My parents are big
jazz lovers," she said as if that explained everything. She pushed her
glasses back up on her nose and stared at me waiting for a response.

"So? What does that
have to do with anything?"

"Oh, you don't know
jazz, do you?" she said with a sympathetic smile. "Bix Beiderbecke
was a famous 1920s jazz musician and composer who played with the Wolverine
Orchestra."

I stared at her blankly,
not sure how to respond.

"He died in
1931," she said and then added, "They say it was pneumonia, but most
people think it was alcoholism."

"Why would your
parents nickname you after a dead alcoholic?" I asked bluntly.

"I think they wanted
a boy," she confided as she pushed her glasses back up on her nose. She
looked at me with her owl eyes and then said, "You didn't introduce
yourself."

"I'm Olivia
Moore," I said. "I don't have any nicknames, and I don't know if my
parents wanted me or a boy, but I do know that they probably shouldn't have had
children."

"Why do you say that?"
she asked seriously.

"Because they like
to move around a lot and it's a royal pain in my ass." Bix gasped and
covered her mouth with her hand.

"You just said a bad
word," she whispered from behind her hand as she looked at me. "You
shouldn't say that."

"Why not?" I
sat up a little straighter, feeling accomplished for having shocked my seatmate
on the first day of class. "Grown-ups say it all the time; why shouldn't
I?"

"My parents would
spank me for saying that," she whispered.

"I don't think my
parents notice anything I say," I admitted. Bix nodded as the teacher
moved to the front of the classroom and told us all to be quiet because the
lesson was about to begin. From that day on, Bix and I were best friends. We
had an unspoken agreement that we would share everything, and for over twenty
years, we had. That is, until Bix fell in love and got married.

We'd both applied to the
Ivies and gotten in to all of them, but we'd ultimately decided we'd rather
live in New York City, so we chose NYU where I majored in journalism and she in
corporate law. She'd aced her classes because she had a photographic memory, a
deep need for organization of information, and had managed to avoid the college
drama surrounding boyfriends and heartbreak by not dating.

I, on the other hand, had
stumbled through my classes and managed to graduate with a B-average and a
string of failed love affairs. Bix had pulled me up each time and pushed me
back into my life with each failed romance, so much so that it came to be a
running joke in the apartment we shared with three other undergraduate girls
who also had their fair share of boyfriend dramas.

And, Bix was the one who
nursed me through the loss of my parents when their plane had crashed on a Chilean
mountainside during the winter of our senior year. When, grief-stricken, I'd
drunk myself into a stupor and threatened to jump out of our third-story
window, Bix quietly coaxed me to seek counseling and then accompanied me to the
first few appointments. Through it all, Bix kept a level head and full
refrigerator.

She'd finally gotten her
turn when she met Doug Northrup while interning at the law firm where he was a
contract lawyer. They'd become friends, but it she hadn't considered it a
romance until he'd been offered a job in Washington with a major firm that
lobbied for the farming industry. The day he'd taken the job, he'd proposed to
Bix and she'd said yes.