Minute by Minute (Games & Diversions #3) Page 9

  One car slams into another in a domino effect that reaches towards us. One-by-one, speeding vehicles slide out as rubber screeches and squeals ominously in our direction, clamoring for our car with teeth made of mangled metal and fiberglass.

  Unable to turn away, I lift my head, gazing at the sordid scene behind us, waiting for the mouth of destruction to finally reach us…

  Our vacuum of invincibility has been shattered.

  Everything seems to move in slow motion, like a carousel ride of devastation—a vehicular ring-around-the-rosies that whirls and twirls in front of our very eyes.

  I search for Lukas’s eyes on the other side of the car.

  He glances at me—and I find the security I’ve been craving all night in his eyes. I hold onto that security.

  Right up until the screeching stops.

  The wheels of the vehicles behind us finally quit turning. The wave of destruction deadens at our heels, barely scraping the metal at our tailpipe.

  Lukas skillfully shifts gears, and we speed away from the scene—with hardly a scratch on our bumper, heading towards safety as we veer right at the nearest highway exit.

  I don’t realize that I’ve been holding my breath until I exhale.

  Not even fifteen minutes later, Griff and I cruise into his winding driveway, parking silently while I try to stave off a bubbling feeling of hyperventilating.

  Lukas exits the car first.

  He circles the Audi wordlessly, heading towards my passenger door.

  He opens it, taking my shaky hand… and I can barely climb out.

  When I can finally stand straight, I look Lukas in the eye.

  “Am I crazy?” I ask him.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “That was my Uber driver Jesse’s car, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “No,” Lukas hesitates. “He wasn’t.”

  “Do me a favor?” I ask.

  He sighs.

  “I think you’re entitled to one.”

  “This is the second time that I’ve almost met my maker with you at the wheel. If I ever agree to ride in a car with you again, just shoot me. It’ll be a much quicker death, I’m sure of it.”

  Playing the Endgame

  The commonest mistake in history is underestimating your opponent…

  –General David Shoup

  Day 4—8:58AM

  Casa de Griffin

  LUKAS

  Twelve hours later, I step into my home office after spending a restless night in my bed.

  Half the night was spent dreaming of Elena.

  The other half?

  Well, that was spent suffering from nightmares—enduring visions of crashing cars, hallucinations of coming face-to-face with Elena’s grey-hooded stalker… a heavily-cloaked Gregory Sears… or whoever the hell else could be behind all of this chess game bullshit…

  But the sight of Elena in my home office seat makes me pause.

  She is tapping furiously at my office keyboard, her eyes focused intently on the computer screen. She pivots in my leather chair, a severe scowl plastered on her full lips.

  Where two seconds ago she was half-hidden by the back of my large coffee-colored armchair, she is now fully visible, the waves of her blonde, shoulder-length bob bouncing as she tilts her head mockingly at me.

  She stands over my oak desk, placing both of her hands like kickstands on its surface.

  “He’s married,” she declares.

  “What?”

  The frown deepens.

  “You heard me. Married. Or with someone, at the very least.”

  She plants a white slip of paper on the desktop, leering.

  “Nobody buys underwear for a woman they’re not seeing.”

  I cross my arms, leaning against the doorway.

  “And who said he bought underwear for a woman he was seeing?”

  “Walmart does.”

  Elena points to the paper.

  “The receipt’s from the bag in his room. I snatched it from underneath his hotel bed. Stuffed it in my cleavage before we left.”

  I drop my arms, taking a step towards her.

  “You did what? You stole something… from Greg’s hotel room?”

  Elena sighs.

  “You’re missing the point.”

  “Yeah. The point being that you’re more insane than I thought you were.”

  Elena’s blue eyes roll at me, and she drops back down into the seat, her casual indifference turning my surprise into outrage.

  “The point is…” she stresses, “that Greg bought women’s underwear, and he brought it back to his hotel room. You don’t do that unless you’re seeing someone.”

  She picks up the piece of paper, waving the receipt.

  “You wouldn’t buy clothes for a prostitute or even a woman you were just screwing. It’s too intimate.”

  She palms the receipt carefully.

  “That means he’s seeing someone here in Tampa. That means that someone…”

  “… is helping him out while he’s here,” I finish stolidly.

  Elena points a finger at me.

  “Bingo.”

  I step further into the room, watchfully analyzing Elena.

  She’s got balls, that’s for damn sure.

  It was a sneaky move, one I hadn’t even noticed. And though I’d probably never admit this to her, I’m proud of the job she did.

  She kept a cool head under pressure.

  Not many stalking victims potentially tracking their own stalkers could or would have done the same.

  To be honest… she impresses the hell out of me.

  I pry my thoughts off of her and focus them back on the Sears track.

  “Ok,” I muse. “So, if Greg’s out here buying panty packages for some woman, then who’s our mystery lady?”

  Elena shakes her head.

  “I don’t know… I haven’t exactly been keeping tabs on Greg since he stopped dating Kat. He’s a stubborn bastard… secretive as all hell.

  “As I’m sure you know, his family comes from money, and they all bow at the feet of the great Martin Sears, CEO and owner of the magazine, TravelTalk, and reportedly the biggest prick in the state of Tennessee.”

  “With his son coming in at a close second,” I add.

  Elena nods.

  I walk towards my desk, starting to pace as I try to draw the pieces together.

  “I know of Martin Sears. Henry told me the rest. Three children, all Vanderbilt grads. The oldest two were sent over to the London office after graduation. Greg, the prodigal baby boy, was kept here in the states so he could be under the careful watch of dear old Dad.”

  “Yeah,” Elena comments adamantly, “but I’d heard they were nothing but a bunch of miscreants. I’d heard Martin Sears had shipped the two eldest off so that their druggie habits wouldn’t be exposed.

  “His darling Gregory was the one he preferred to run the family business eventually… after poaching whatever insider info he could glean from Foxxhole Publishing, I’m sure.”

  I rub my hands together, warding off a chill.

  That fucking leech, Sears.

  “No,” I nearly bark. “There’s no way that Foxx’s dad, Victor, would let the bumbling Sears family take advantage of him.”

  Elena shoots me a meaningful glare from beneath her long lashes.

  “Doesn’t mean they didn’t try… especially after…”

  Elena trails off abruptly, growing silent.

  “After what?” I demand.

  She straightens up, circling my office desk and perching on the corner—a serious look on her innocent face.

  “Well, Ana was the one person who did follow your instructions last night. She used the info from you and Henry and literally single-handedly hacked into Gregory’s bank accounts, but… she didn’t find much.”

  “Much activity?”

  Elena shakes her blonde bob back and forth.

  “No…
There wasn’t much money…”

  The statement shocks me into silence.

  Spoiled little Gregory… without his family fortune?

  Elena keeps talking.

  “The activity was pretty normal—standard middle-classed spending habits. That’s the thing, though, I guess. Greg isn’t exactly middle class.”

  She raises her eyebrows exaggeratedly.

  “But he does seem to have something going on at the Post Office. Ana saw a few regular payments to the Clearwater USPS.”

  I cross my arms, thinking.

  “Well, that would explain what happened last night. Henry said that he followed him all the way to the post office and back. It’s pretty clear that Sears keeps some sort of P.O. Box. Hell, I guess this just confirmed it.”

  “Yup,” Elena nods. “Pretty interesting that a guy who’s supposed to be working at his Tennessee father’s company maintains a mailing address here in Florida.”

  She shakes her head.

  “God, Tennessee has the worst fucking scum. I got a text from Linda just this morning, saying that Teddy dropped another note off at my house.”

  I arch an eyebrow.

  “Teddy?”

  Elena sighs heavily, barely meeting my eye.

  “My bastard of an ex. He’s been sending threats to my house as Linda tries to help sell it.

  “I think he’s trying to prevent the listing agent from pulling off the sale. So, not only has he lowered the bar for bad exes, but now he’s trying to hit new lows by going after my business plans.”

  Her quip makes me smile, and I shove my hands into my pants pockets, trying to wrap my mind around what she’s just told me.

  A thought occurs to me.

  “Think he’s ambitious enough to try to ruin other things?” I ask.

  She looks up at me.

  “You mean…?”

  I nod at her implicit question.

  “No…” she answers. “No way.

  “Ted can barely afford his own pot, let alone plot against me from Tennessee and Florida. I just… I can’t see him going that far.”

  I narrow my eyes at Elena, not believing a word.

  The word naïve comes to mind.

  For a woman as sharp-witted as she is, I fear she may be surprisingly innocent of the world; she still has the luxury to put people in categories that are black-and-white—classifications characterized by basic titles such as good or evil—when, in most instances, people are actually neither.

  I learned long ago, as a child, that most people operate within shades of grey.

  “You’d be surprised,” I tell her. “It’s better to overestimate your opponent than underestimate them.”

  I take a step closer, revisiting the thought of Trina.

  “And betrayal is always one step closer than you think.”

  Elena crosses her arms, observing me closely.

  “Opponent? Are we at war?”

  I don’t hesitate.

  “Always.”

  Elena stands up from where she was leaning against my desk.

  “So what’s the next move, general?” she quips with a question.

  “The next move?”

  I draw in a deep breath, expelling it quickly.

  “Well, it’s gotta be one of my former favorite past-times.”

  I head towards the office door, daring her to follow.

  “Let’s go panty-searching, blondie.”

  ***

  Day 4—12:52PM

  Le Petite Cafe

  ELENA

  Sigh.

  What a goddamned day.

  I spent most of the morning, searching for clues about a woman alongside a man who’s seen more women’s underwear than a Victoria’s Secret clerk, and still we made no progress.

  With Henry following Sears and Ana doing some digging, we only managed to come up with one additional clue:

  An old postcard from a woman named C.C., delivered to Gregory’s P.O. Box.

  No return address. No additional information.

  Just a note—a simple card that said “Thinking of you” addressed by a woman with no real name.

  Without any identifying information, it was a dead end.

  And bribing Walmart clerks to see if they recognized a guy that looked like Greg wasn’t an option, either.

  But C.C. wasn’t the only woman of intrigue on my mind this morning.

  A call from Kathy, my business realtor, derailed my afternoon spying, and instead of looking into the mystery woman C.C., I was concerning myself with another mystery woman—C.K.

  Connie Kittredge.

  A new-ish transplant to Florida with New York ballet ties, Connie Kittredge was a woman to be reckoned with—a successful proprietor who had transferred one of her smaller dance companies to the Tampa Bay area.

  She’d been looking for a studio to work with, silently seeking a business partner to ease operational burdens.

  A downsize “reportedly” used to cushion her transition into retirement.

  Or so Kathy heard.

  And when Kathy catches wind of something, she’s on it faster than a carnivore on fresh meat.

  With Linda and Kathy in my corner, we set up a meeting with Connie that very moment.

  Two hours later, I’m sitting in the middle of a semi-crowded café waiting to meet with Connie.

  The café is half-Starbucks imitator, half-bakery… and, still, the smell of buttered frosting isn’t enough to stop my nervous stomach from quietly lurching.

  I swallow the taste of my breakfast down before it can come back up, when suddenly the door in front of me swings wide open, startling me half-to-death.

  The woman that walks through it astonishes me even further.

  Holy cow.

  This new patron is lovely, an older woman—maybe twenty years my senior.

  Sporting a heavily-coiffed brunette bob, she wears a suit that is almost more stunning than her face.

  The luscious hair curls towards the ends, and the waves of thick brown locks sit mere inches above her pearl necklace, the shiny tendrils swishing the décolletage at her peach-colored collar.

  Her eyes are a peculiar shade of brown, and they smile with uninhibited humor as she enters the building, looking about the room with an air of grace that could rival Princess Grace of Monaco.

  Good grief, this woman is stunning.

  She’s styled to perfection, and before my jaw can drop any lower to the ground, I realize that I have to pick it up immediately… because this woman is my potential client.

  Her eyes land on me.

  “Miss Lexington?” she asks, approaching me carefully.

  “Yes,” I stand—mesmerized. “Mrs. Kittredge, it is a pleasure.”

  She smiles at me, wide and innocently. “Wonderful to meet you, dear. The pleasure is all mine.”

  I motion towards a chair at my table. “Please, please have a seat.”

  “Thank you,” she responds courteously, pulling the chair out to sit across from me.

  She seats herself before me, and I linger nervously on my feet for a second longer, taking in the smell of baked goods, feeling embarrassed about our little impromptu office.

  I have no office space in which to sit Mrs. Kittredge, no building to welcome her in.

  Thanks to the prior deal gone bad for Linda and me, my current studio is still in the works, still stuck in the due diligence phase that is scheduled to end in less than one week.

  On a hopeful whim, I contacted Mrs. Kittredge to set up a spur-of-the-moment meeting, and I thank God she accepted.

  Our “office” is nothing more than a little café close to Tampa’s business district, and Mrs. Kittredge’s Swing Low Dancery is the first company with which I’ve had a face-to-face negotiation.

  To say that I am nervous would be a gross understatement.

  I stuff my face with a piece of cookie to literally keep my teeth from chattering.

  I finally take a seat. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.�
��

  “Why, of course,” she purrs melodically. “This is one of my favorite places in the city. It’s much more relaxed than any mundane board room.”

  I grin. “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Besides,” she leans in conspiratorially, “I was so impressed with your resume, dear. It sounds like your classes would be exactly what my younger dancers need…”

  That is all it takes for my butterflies to go flying right out of the window. Mrs. Kittredge and I have the sort of conversation that makes this business deal feel like a reunion of age-old friends.

  We share our love for dance and ballet with one another, engaging in the sort of “shop talk” that unifies us in a way that only dancers know.

  A beautiful, graceful woman with a warm nature and open mind, I am not surprised to hear that Mrs. Kittredge was quite the ballet dancer herself.

  Her enthusiasm speaks for itself, and five minutes into talking, I am practically salivating for her to sign her dancers with me.

  This is a woman that I’d love to work with.

  Suddenly, my thoughts shift to Lukas.

  A skirt-chasing, seemingly self-absorbed egomaniac, Lukas Griffin turned out to be a man I never saw coming, a man in whose company I found immeasurable pleasure—a man in whose presence, like Mrs. Kittredge’s, I have the opportunity to feel alive again.

  I never realized how important all of that was—not until a large piece of me felt like it was dying without Ana.

  Around him, I feel somewhat whole again, and the fragments of me that are missing, the segments of my soul that have been pitted by… well, life… are smoothed over, filled in like plaster to a cracked wall.

  He pushes my limits, dares me—challenges me.

  He’s the most unique man I know—a multifaceted hard-ass with the face of an angel and the body of a god.

  He is still on my mind when another female patron enters the café.

  She is a long-limbed brunette—rather pretty… but unlike the woman who sits adjacent to me, her hair is fabulously long and windswept.

  The cut of her dress is not prim or proper but almost juvenile-like, and the material of her garment has neither the lux nor the sophistication of Mrs. Kittredge’s lavishness.

  The woman’s outfit is clearly over-priced, but cheaply made.