Seduced by Sunday (22 page)

Sam shook her head, leaned against the counter, and focused on Gabi. “You must be Miss Masini.”

Gabi moved forward and shook Sam’s hand. “Gabi, please.”

Meg made the introductions while she made a pot of coffee.

“I hope you don’t mind me invading,” Sam told them.

“It’s your house,” Meg reminded her boss. Not that Sam ever took advantage of the fact that Meg lived there for nearly nothing.

Sam moved from the kitchen into the office off the living room. “I was searching the mainframe for a program I know I used at one point.”

Sam sat behind the massive computer that held the data files and contacts of their many clients through the years. The security software included voice recognition and retina mapping.

Meg thought it was overkill until she gripped the magnitude of the information inside the guts of Sam’s files.

Standing behind her boss, and aware that Gabi stood close by, she asked, “What program are you trying to find? Maybe I can help.”

Sam cleared her throat and kept clicking around. “Income-to-debt program. It helped me crunch numbers for businesses I know very little about.”

“I’m pretty good with numbers,” Gabi said from the doorway.

Sam kept clicking. “I’m talking gross income from reported profit, to manufacturing cost and client expenditure. Complicated stuff that I’d rather not have my husband’s accountant look into.”

“Yeah, numbers. My brother called me a mathematical savant growing up. It took me some time to realize he was putting me down. Then he realized it wasn’t a bad thing when he went into business.”

Sam slowly turned in her chair at the same time Meg realized she was staring at Gabi.

Sam folded one leg over the other and sat back. “OK. Let’s say I have an eight million six hundred and fifty thousand dollar loan on a house at an interest rate of four and a half percent . . . what are my monthly payments?”

Gabi tapped her fingers in the air as if it held a calculator. “Fifteen-or thirty-year loan?”

“Fifteen,” Meg said.

“Thirty,” Sam managed at the same time.

Gabi rolled her eyes. “Sixty-six thousand one hundred seventy two, rounded up for the fifteen and . . .” she paused. “Forty-three eight hundred and twenty-eight per month for thirty years.” She pushed away from the wall. “But the national average right now is what? Two and three-quarter percent . . . a little higher, actually. Let’s say two point seven nine. That would be about thirty-five thousand five hundred a month. Rounded up.”

Meg didn’t stop staring. “Is she right?”

Instead of answering, Sam twisted in her chair and started typing numbers into the calculator sitting on the desk. “Holy crap.”

A peep from the kitchen diverted Gabi’s attention. “How do you like your coffee, Samantha?”

“With cream.”

Gabi turned from the room and slid away.

“She was right, wasn’t she?”

“Wow.”

“I guess she can help you crunch numbers,” Meg said.

“On
her
man?”

Meg hadn’t considered that. “Keep it generic. Might be best for her to discover what this guy is on her own anyway.”

Sam swiveled toward the computer. “I don’t like what I’m seeing. I would have passed up his application long before now if he were looking at us to hook him up.”

“Anything concrete?”

“That’s what I’m working on.”

Meg patted Sam on the back. “Thanks. She needs us looking out for her.”

Gabi walked in the room with two cups of coffee in her hand and sat beside the desk. “Here you go.”

Gabi tipped the cup back and sipped.

“What?” Meg managed. “None for me?”

Gabi laughed. “You said you avoided coffee to sleep at night.”

Meg shook her head. “I said I
tried
to avoid it.”

The women laughed, and when Meg returned the conversation was already over her head. Sam read off a notepad and scribbled numbers in her margins. “So if the profit potential for the warehouse is twenty thousand per, let’s say one thousand square feet of operating space. And the cost to produce the product is four grand, that’s labor, supplies, the basics, there’s a substantial profit.”

“Depending on the space, but yeah. Are you considering mortgage, insurance, taxes?”

Sam shook her head. “That’s what I needed the program for. Seems to me this prospective client is spending a lot more than he can possibly make, and I can’t find an additional source of income.”

“Family money?”

“Can’t find it. But maybe I have something wrong. At first glance the income is several million a year, but I feel I’m missing something.”

While Sam and Gabi pushed their heads together, Meg did something she rarely did. She left the office and called a boy.

Chapter Eighteen

A charge of excitement fueled Val’s energy level when he saw Meg’s number light up his cell phone. “Hi,” he answered with a smile splashed over his face. He felt like a kid again, even with all the stress in his day.

“Hey, Moneybags.”

“Hello, Margaret.”

She laughed. “One of these days I’ll have to give you permission to use Meg.”

Val moved away from the video monitors he was watching and leaned against one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Perhaps you will,
cara
, but I might not use it.” Her laughter was contagious. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m coughing at night, but other than that, perfect.”

“Have you seen your specialist?”

“I don’t have one.”

Val lost his grin. “The doctor told you to find one.”

“I will . . .”

“When?” He wasn’t going to let this go. The image of her gasping for air would haunt him for some time.

“Since when did you become my mother hen?”

He sighed, could see the hair rising on the back of her neck if he squinted hard enough. “Please, Margaret. Next time you might not be so lucky.”

“I’ve made a couple of calls, Val. There are channels one has to go through so the insurance company pays the bill.”

The thought of her waiting for care because of an insurance company angered him. “Have the specialist bill you.”

“Not all of us own an island, Moneybags.”

“I’ll pay.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I can pay my own medical bills.”

Correction: she could pay her copayments so long as the insurance company approved of the doctor. He knew the drill. He also knew that waiting for specialists sometimes resulted in delayed care that left people sicker than they should be. His head scrambled for a way to take care of her without pissing her off.

Tightrope, that.

“You’ll be happy to know your sister skipped the six-figure dress.” Margaret changed the subject with skill.

“Was it really that much?”

“Stupid, huh?”

“Gabi is a practical girl. I doubt she would have said yes.”

“A lot you know, women tend to get emotional about the outfit they’re getting married in.”

“Had I known you were going to introduce her to designers offering hundred-thousand-dollar gowns . . .”

She paused. “Yeah? You would have done what?”

He had to admit, Margaret calling his bluff made him smile. “I would have told her to enjoy and be sensible.”

“Then I should tell her to go with her first choice?”

This was a test . . . the kind a woman placed on a man that determined their noble words versus their actions. Somehow, making
both work in unison with Margaret was something he needed to do. Though he wouldn’t want his sister spending that kind of money on a dress, he wouldn’t deny her, either. “My sister deserves the best. She’s only going to marry once.”

“Well . . .” Margaret released a sigh into the phone as if in disagreement. “Lucky for you, she liked the less expensive gown. You’re off the hook, Moneybags. I’ll be sure and help her pick out expensive accessories to make up for the dress.”

“I’m sure you will.”

He heard Margaret cough away from the phone a couple of times, bringing her health into question before she deflected again. “Anything new from the mystery photographer?”

Without any new leads, or any new random photographs making their way into his in-box, frustration sat on the edges of Val’s nerves. “What do you know about spam e-mail?”

“It’s annoying.”

“There’s that . . . but do you have any idea how spammers find you, send you e-mail with your name and personal information?”

“The piano is my instrument of choice, not a keyboard.”

Val shook his head. “Me either. Rick and his friends have traced the e-mails as far as the Netherlands. Well, one of the e-mails that far, the other diverted to Japan.”

“So we know nothing.”

“Nothing. And nothing new is showing up on this end.” He rubbed the space between his eyes, hoping to ease his tension.

“I know this isn’t going to come out right, but that’s not what I wanted to hear.”

“I hear you,
cara
. If everything is silent . . . how do we know our photographer will keep quiet? What information does he have? How or when will he use it?”

“Blackmail.”

Exactly his thoughts. “I hope we’re wrong.”

“I know Rick and his colleagues, even if the trail is cold, there’s still a trail. It might take time, but he’ll find the person behind it . . . eventually.”

After two days with Rick Evans, Val knew the man was a bloodhound. Rick had nothing to gain by saving Val’s ass, but was deeply invested in his wife’s family. “Something will break.”

“I hate that the person who took the pictures is in control.”

Precisely.
“If money is the drive, we would have heard something already . . . if in fact the photographer had something.”

“What else could a blackmailer want other than money? None of us have a criminal record to uncover and extort.”

“Even if one of us did, the end result would be the same.”

“Blackmail.”

“Yes.”

“Which puts us right back at the beginning and the photographer has the control.” The conversation was frustrating, even to his ears. “What are you wearing?” The art of distraction took a lot with Margaret. And he didn’t want to discuss what neither of them could control any longer.

“W-what? Wearing?”

“Yes,
bella
, the clothes on your back. What are you wearing?” He couldn’t imagine her shopping for wedding dresses in her pinup dresses and red lipstick. He knew much of that was for show.

“Jeans and a cotton shirt,” she said with a chuckle. “What about you?”

He opened his mouth only to have her cut him off.

“Wait, let me guess. Suit . . . your jacket might be off, depending on where you are on the island.”

“You know me well already.”

“Do you even own a pair of jeans?”

He hesitated.

“Seriously, Masini? No blue jeans? Everyone has a pair.”

Margaret gave him lip about his lacking wardrobe, made a quip or two about his ties, and simply took his mind off his problems for fifteen minutes.

“How is it I miss you already?” he asked when their conversation started to draw to a close.

“I’m a missable kind of girl.”

“Humble, too.”

“Bite your tongue, Masini. You of all people know it doesn’t pay to hide or pretend to be something you’re not.”

He rolled his eyes to the empty room. “Like the girlfriend of a famous movie star?”

“Ahh, ouch. Points for you. To be fair, that didn’t really pay off. Not in this case.”

“True. Without your ruse, however, I might not have ever met you.”

She sighed into the phone. “Coming from anyone else, that would sound like a line.”

He loosened his tie. “But coming from me?”

“You’re too controlled to deliver bullshit.”

“You’d call me on it if I did.”

“You know it.”

He liked their easy banter and lack of
bullshit
, as she so eloquently labeled it. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he told her. “Sooner if need be.”

“Good plan.”

“Good night,
cara
.” He didn’t want to hang up, felt like a teenager with a crush.

“Good night, Val.”

He moved the phone away from his ear.

“Val?”

He jumped to put the phone back.

“Yeah?”

“I miss you, too.” Then she hung up.

He couldn’t stop smiling.