Night Edge (6 page)

Lola crinkled her nose with an unexpected wave of tears. Either she was hormonal or homesick, because thinking of her past wasn’t the kind of thing that usually moved her.

The boy jumped into fresh snow with both feet. If Lola’d brought proper boots, she would’ve joined him. She decided when she had a kid, she’d make sure he or she got a chance to play in the snow. And she’d be right by his side.

His mother stayed in the parking lot, tapping at her cellphone. Lola’s cash-filled car was ten feet away.

Johnny’d had a mantra—no kids until they had the money. Well, Lola was sitting on hundreds of thousands of dollars now. That kind of money was a new home, a college fund, clean clothes and never missing a meal. Lola had put all that and more on the line just to spite Beau. She’d not only lost touch with the future she’d once wanted, but every day that money wasn’t in a bank, she’d also risked it. For what? To hide out in motels in hopes of making Beau suffer? Who was actually suffering?

Lola’d been avoiding thinking of where and when her trip would end, but she had to start making decisions. She’d hoped to get some answers from the road, and in that moment, one came to her—Los Angeles was her home. Before Beau, before Johnny, it’d been her first true love, and it was where she one day wanted to watch her own son or daughter run around in her backyard.

She’d been looking for the wrong thing. True freedom would never come with revenge. Lola had spent a decade angry with her mother for reasons she couldn’t even pinpoint—she didn’t need that shadow at her back looming larger. She wanted herself and those she loved to live in light.

“Oh, shoot,” she heard from behind her. “We don’t accept cash.”

Lola turned back to the front desk. The lodge was a step up from the motels she’d been crashing at, but not a huge one. “You don’t? My credit card is…” Lola hesitated as she returned to the counter. “Is there any way you can make an exception? I’ve been traveling for over a week and haven’t had a problem paying cash anywhere else.”

“My dad, he’s strict about it.” The girl shook her head. “We need to swipe a card at check-in and have it for incidentals and stuff. We had some problems before.”

Lola took the money back and nodded. Finding another place at this time of night and in these snowy mountains wouldn’t be easy, but it wasn’t impossible. She could even go back to the big man at the small bar and ask for his help.

But Lola was beginning to question the fact that she’d taken so many chances already. She took out an emergency credit card hidden in her wallet and handed it over. The girl grinned again and swiped it.

Lola decided in the morning, she’d deposit her money in a bank. Driving around with as much cash as she had in her trunk had been reckless. One day, she’d have a family, and she had put them at risk. The price for revenge suddenly seemed much too high.

Chapter Eight

Melody. Lola. Had he even fucking known her? Beau entered all his interactions with at least a small amount of cynicism and distrust. It’d served him well in affairs both business and personal. But Lola represented a time before he’d had to be that man. When she’d kicked a car outside of Hey Joe, he’d been just as attracted to her as he had seeing her on stage at Cat Shoppe. He should’ve walked away based on the fact that he hadn’t wanted to. Something in her blue eyes had kept him planted on that sidewalk, though. She’d inched closer and closer, peering at him in the dark, neon lights reflecting off her shiny black hair. Some predators stalked their prey. Others waited for their prey to come to them. In those few seconds as she’d approached him, he hadn’t been sure which one of them was predator and which was prey. Even before his money, he’d never had that feeling before. But he’d recovered quickly. He was Beau Olivier—and he was nobody’s dinner.

“Olivier.”

Beau looked up from the presentation binder in front of him. His business partner stood at the head of the conference table. Lawrence Thorne was the other half of Bolt Ventures, and one of the only people Beau trusted. But that was all their relationship’d ever been. Larry had a wife Beau knew from myriad events and two kids Beau’d only met once.

“Think you might want to wake the fuck up?” Lawrence asked. “It’s four in the afternoon.”

Their lawyer, Louis, rapped his pen on the table. “You’ve been silent the entire meeting. Since when do you have no comment on the fact that VenTech’s stock closed at a record low?”

Beau furrowed his eyebrows and turned the page to a graph labeled
Potential Holdings Research Report—VenTech
. The squiggly line had dipped far into the red. That always caught his attention, but he hadn’t noticed it in the twenty minutes they’d been sitting there. Instead, he’d been thinking about the former holding who’d taken a nosedive into disastrous territory.

“This was today?” Beau asked.

Louis nodded. “Word is, they’re done for.”

Beau looked at both of them. “Then let’s move.”

“We have people looking into it,” Larry said.

“I’m tired of waiting.” Beau’d been patient as always, and as always, it’d paid off. But he had his limits, and he was ready to pounce on VenTech, the company that’d bought his payment services website ten years ago and picked it apart until it was nothing more than a carcass. Now, Beau was in a position to save VenTech from bankruptcy. He wanted to look the founder, George Wright, in the eye, and tell him he owned him. He leaned forward on his elbows. “Draw up the offer.”

“You’re sure?” Larry asked. “Established companies aren’t really our thing.”

“VenTech is desperate. You know I’ve been tracking them for a long time. You promised me the day we partnered, Larry—you’d back me up on this.”

Larry nodded. “I did. And if this is what you need, I’m on board.”

“Good. Get the paperwork started.”

“Consider it done.” Louis reclined back in his seat, steepling his fingers. “So, you going to tell us whose call you’re expecting?”

Beau slid the binder away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Last time you were like this,” Louis said, “you were wooing a new company but wouldn’t tell us which one. You’ve been checking your phone like an addict waiting to hear about a fix. So who is it?”

Beau glanced in the direction of his office. If he moved now, he could have a drink in his hand in under sixty seconds. “It’s personal.”

Larry snorted. “Bullshit. What’s more important to you than this?”

“I don’t know,” Beau said, “maybe an ear infection?”

“You’re mad because I left in the middle of the day last week to take my kid to the ER?” Larry asked. “The fuck’s wrong with you, man?”

“I’m not mad.” Beau ran his hands through his hair. “I’m saying maybe I’ve got my own shit to deal with too, yet I’m here more than anyone else.”

“So take an afternoon off. You’re the one who wants to be here all the time.”

Louis nodded. “You don’t need anyone to tell you when you can go home for the day. You got plenty of underlings around here who live to pick up the slack.”

None of this was news to Beau. Larry had started going home at five a couple years ago, and the office had survived. Thrived, even, without one more opinion in the mix.

“I’ll be honest, Beau.” Larry shut his laptop and sat. “You look like shit. Even more than when we’re going through a rough acquisition. I think productivity might pick up if you take your gloomy ass out to a matinee or something. Treat yourself to a haircut while you’re at it.”

“Fuck you, Thorne,” Beau said, but his heart wasn’t in it.

Larry just smiled.

Beau reached in his jacket for his phone but stopped when Larry and Louis exchanged a glance. He didn’t need to check it anyway. He tested his ringer several times a day, and it was working fine. He’d ignored two calls from Brigitte that morning just out of sheer anger that it hadn’t been Detective Bragg calling.

It’d been eight goddamn days since Lola had left. If this was a game for Lola, she hadn’t left him a single clue. The leather pants and T-shirt she’d worn the night he’d met her were gone, but other than that, he didn’t know what else she’d taken with her. Nothing he’d bought her, except what she’d been wearing that night. Bragg was also frustrated. He’d had better luck tracking down criminals with actual reasons to hide. Criminals who preyed on young, beautiful women traveling alone with lots of cash.

Beau was always hot lately, but with that thought, warmth traveled to his feet and scalp. Waking up with Lola, coming home to her—it’d been a new, irregular world, but she’d centered him. Now, a week later, he didn’t even know if she was dead or alive. That seemed unfair. If anyone should get to decide her fate, it should be him. He at least wanted that choice again.

More and more, he worried she hadn’t been real, just a dream. They shared none of the same friends or daily routines. There wasn’t anywhere on his way to work where he’d stop and remember a moment they’d had. Had she been an illusion, a sleek magic trick? His last moments with her, he’d been dumb with lust, two fingers inside her sweet pussy silk.

Beau laced his hands in his hair, suddenly aware of how long it was, and that he’d forgotten to style it that morning. He stood. “I need some fresh air.”

“Yeah, fine, just don’t come back today,” Larry said dismissively. “Go home or something.”

Beau didn’t go home, and he didn’t get air. He went to his office and looked out his window with a drink in his hand.

Orange skyscrapers reflected the late afternoon. Where was she, his beautiful kitten, that sly minx? All by herself, no trail left behind? Was she wearing her skintight leather pants and asking for trouble? Was she flirting with men who could hurt her far worse than Beau had?

Beau unbuttoned his collar. He couldn’t get his breathing under control. Work was supposed to be where he found balance. He would’ve slammed his fist into the window except that he’d hit a few things over the last few days, and it never seemed to do any good. The leather pants bothered him. He couldn’t stop picturing her in them.

He’d lost track of how many times he’d listed in his head all the things he knew about Lola. The food she ate. The drinks she drank. Any mentions she’d made of places she’d wanted to see or things she’d wanted to buy. He didn’t think it’d be as easy as showing up at the world’s largest ball of twine and finding her there, but he’d called the box office anyway. They didn’t attach names to cash transactions, and why would they?

Lola had more money now than she must’ve ever dreamed. When Beau had sold his company, he’d signed on the dotted line and gone from thousands in debt to a multi-millionaire. Sex had been suddenly and oppressively on his mind. He’d wanted to fuck with all the power he’d finally had. Lola had taken that away from him—that little cat, with big blue eyes and black, furry triangle ears, had captivated him from the moment he’d walked into Cat Shoppe. It was as if she’d called his eyes right to her. He’d just been handed the key to his kingdom, and he could’ve had anything he’d wanted—and what he’d wanted stood underneath a white spotlight, dressed in nothing but a diamond bikini and cat ears. She became the one thing he needed that night and the one thing he couldn’t have. With four words—
“I’m not for sale”
—he wasn’t enough again, not even as a man with something to offer.

Lola would know that same power now—because of him. Because of him, she was out there in her leather pants—fucking, drinking, spending cash, laughing at him. Beau’d thought he was the one in charge, but just the sway of her hips had disarmed him long enough to steal his power a second time. He was halfway between wanting to worship her and wring her neck for pulling this off. His heart pounded at the thought of holding that slender column under his fingers as she begged his forgiveness.

His phone beeped, and he jumped. His hands were curled into two tight fists.

“Mr. Olivier?” came his assistant’s voice.

“What?” he snapped. “What the fuck is it?”

It was a moment before she continued. “I-I’m sorry. You said—you were very clear that I should interrupt you any time Detective Bragg called.”

Beau turned from the window. He leaned his knuckles on his desk and spoke directly into the phone, as if that would get him answers faster. “He called?”

“Just now.”

“Why didn’t he try my cell?”

“He said he did.”

Beau took out his phone to see he had a missed call. “Piece of shit,” he muttered, tossing it aside. “Get Bragg for me. Now.”

“He’s already on the line,” she said. “And he says he’s got something for you.”

Chapter Nine

Beau came home to a light on in the kitchen. His heart in his throat, he hung his coat on the hook by the door. Nobody’d been home to greet him since Lola’d left eight days ago. The housekeeper had been there that day, but she didn’t leave lights on. Beau’d explained to her how that was a waste of money. And she didn’t cook him dinner. He followed the smell of food and the clinking of dishware.

The weight that already sat on his shoulders grew heavier with each step. A few nights before Lola had left, she’d made pulled pork tacos in a “Kiss the Cook” apron she’d bought herself. She’d kept his food at the perfect temperature until he’d walked through the door, and it was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen—Lola, in a red-and-white gingham apron, making him dinner with barbeque sauce on her cheek. He’d kissed her, cleaning her face with a restrained lick of his tongue.

Beau held as breath as he entered the kitchen. Despite his conversation with Bragg an hour earlier, he half expected to find the same thing in the kitchen he had two weeks ago.

And that was exactly what he found—except that it was Brigitte wearing the apron, and she had something in the oven instead of the slow cooker.

Her face lit up as she raised a glass of red wine. “Welcome home. I thought you could use a homemade meal.”

Beau clamped his mouth shut as his stomach turned, his eyes glued to that kitschy fucking apron and the barbeque sauce stain near the hem. “Where’d you find that?”

“What?” Brigitte followed his gaze down. “The apron? Hanging in the pantry. Honestly, I was surprised you even owned—”