“Yes, dinner. Like people do.” People who aren’t fucking like crazy every time they’re in the same room. “I’ll even buy. It’s on me.”
Something flashed across his expression at that. I didn’t know what it was or how to read it, and suddenly I had the feeling there was something he wasn’t telling me. Not a woman, maybe, but something else. Devon Wilder’s story wasn’t as straightforward as it appeared to be. And I knew that the decision to have dinner was the right one. We needed to talk before I dragged him into bed again.
And I would drag him into bed again. That much I already knew.
“When?” he asked.
“After I’m done work tomorrow.”
“You’re working on Saturday?”
“We have a big client presentation, and tomorrow is when the client is free.” There was no such thing as non-work time in the advertising business, I was learning. The client was always king.
Devon frowned at that, but he let it go. “Meet me at seven,” he said, and he named a restaurant in North Beach that I’d heard of but never been to. It was outside my budget, and he added, “I’m paying the bill.”
“Devon.”
“I’m paying,” he said again. And then he added, “Trust me.”
What did that mean? After two years, were we going to argue about a stupid restaurant bill? Maybe when the time came I’d insist we go Dutch. “Okay, fine,” I said. “Tomorrow at seven.”
I thought he might kiss me again—maybe I just hoped it—but he only looked at me, the corner of his mouth smiling again. “Wear something easy to take off,” he said, and then he turned and left the room, and was gone.
Chapter 14
Devon
You want to know the truth? I didn’t think she’d show.
She had a good job in a nice office. Wearing a stylish blouse and skirt, a little bit of makeup. Low, pretty heels. She looked like one of the stream of office workers you see leaving the bank buildings at five o’clock every day, except she had that sexy body under her clothes and those dark curls I wanted to see spilling over the backs of my hands. She was working her way up, trying to get out of Shady Oaks. So maybe she wouldn’t show.
But she did.
She showed up right on time at seven o’clock, wearing a blue dress. Just a simple blue dress that hugged her body, that had a V neck and fell demurely to her knees. Her legs were bare and her hair was down, and she wore low-heeled sandals. Her toenails were painted dark purple.
I had to look away for a second to get a grip. I should turn around and leave her alone. But I wasn’t going to.
I’d spent my Saturday taking care of business. Billionaire business, as it turned out. I’d called the number of the banker Ben had given me—it turned out even bankers worked on Saturdays when it was for a client with as much money as me. The same sort of principle that had Olivia working Saturday at an ad agency, I supposed.
The banker, whose name was Jack Lawrence, had met with me at the bank’s offices. He was a gray-haired guy in a suit who might as well have worn a sign saying YOU CAN TRUST ME WITH MONEY. He’d brought an assistant with him, a young brunette with Veronica Lake-style hair and glossy lips. I had no idea what she was doing there, but I enjoyed the view.
“What is it you’d like to know, Mr. Wilder?” Jack Lawrence had asked me. “I’ll answer any questions you have.”
I thought about it. “I’d like to know how much actual money I can get my hands on,” I said.
“You mean liquid capital.”
“If that’s cash, then yes.”
Jack nodded. He went on to babble about bonds and index funds and dividends. I let him talk for a bit, because I realized I made him nervous. Then I said, “You’re not answering my question.”
“Mr. Wilder, I’m trying to explain that your portfolio is made up of many moving parts.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’d like my portfolio to be made up of money.”
Next to Jack, the assistant’s face twitched, but then it went back to its glossy lack of expression.
“Investments are money, Mr. Wilder,” Jack said. “They’re just money in a different form.”
I nodded. “I’d like my money in money form.”
“That is a complicated request,” Jack insisted. “It’s also inadvisable. Cash doesn’t earn interest, Mr. Wilder. In short, right now your money earns money.”
“It’s a billion dollars, Jack,” I said. “It doesn’t need to earn more money.”
I was playing stupid, but I knew the game. My money didn’t just earn me money—it earned him money. Him and his bank. Lots of it. I may have been born on the streets, but I knew when someone was making money off me. It was easy enough to figure out.
Jack tried again. “Your investments fund your retirement, Mr. Wilder. They’re also the legacy you leave your heirs.”
“No one needs a billion dollars to retire,” I said. “Anyone who thinks they do is an asshole.” The assistant’s mouth twitched again. “With the life I lead, forty is old age. And as for heirs, I just got out of prison. I don’t have any fucking heirs. I’d pity the poor kid who got me for a father, anyway.”
The assistant looked down at the papers in her lap and scratched her nose.
“Well. We can certainly discuss this further, Mr. Wilder,” Jack said. “But if you insist on this move, it won’t be immediate. Investments take time to liquidate.”
“How much liquid cash do I have right now?” I asked, emphasizing his banker language.
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
He hemmed and hawed. Why a guy whose job was money had so much trouble talking about money, I didn’t know. Finally he said, “It’s spread over several accounts, but likely in the realm of twenty million.”
Twenty million. In cash. More than I’d ever imagined having in my life, but only a small sliver of what was now mine. “Okay,” I said, trying to stay cool. I picked up my car keys and spun them around my finger, a habit I always had when I was thinking. I calculated for a minute. Then I realized the pouty assistant was staring at my No Time tattoo, hypnotized by it, so I put my keys down. “Twenty million is fine for now,” I told Jack, “and I’ll think about the other shit. But I want to sell the LA house.”
“Are you certain? The property is worth quite a bit, and your grandfather liked it.”
“I’m glad he liked it,” I said, “but he’s dead now. He doesn’t need it anymore, and neither do I.”
“It’s convenient as a base in Los Angeles.”
“I’m never going back to LA,” I said. “Not ever. I’ll be dead before I go there.”
He blinked in surprise, but he sighed, willing to give this one concession. “I know several realtors in LA,” he said. “I can make some calls. Do you want to go through the house first and take the things you want?”
“I don’t want anything of his,” I said. Jack looked shocked, so I explained, “I don’t hate the guy, but he knew who I was and he never contacted me. Not even to say hello. I don’t blame him, because in this world it’s every man for himself. But he’s dead now, and there’s nothing sentimental to me about that. He had his life, and now it’s done. I want the house packed up and sold.”