The less hair he kept on his body, the better. Nothing to fall off, nothing to implicate him. Placing his cap precisely on his head, he left the bathroom determined and confident.
Until his gaze landed on the woman waiting in the customer lounge, sitting in one of the armchairs like it was a throne, elbows propped on the armrests, her long legs crossed. A smug smile curving her lips.
“Sonny, I’ve been waiting for you,” she said in that accent that made her sound like Katherine Hepburn, the one that grated on his nerves. The one that made him want to stick ice picks in his own ears. Or hers.
“What do you want?” he asked, fighting to keep his tone courteous.
“I think you know.” Gracefully she rose and quirked her finger. “We need to talk.”
Except talking was not what she wanted to do. And what she wanted to do made him physically ill. Every single time.
“I’m on shift,” he said. “I can’t.”
Her tweezed brows lifted. “That’s what you said yesterday, but I checked. You weren’t on shift. You lied to me.” She crossed the room to where he’d remained frozen as soon as he’d spied her. Her fingers petted the length of his necktie, smoothing it, smirking when he winced. “Why would you do that to me?” she purred.
Because I hate you and I wish you were dead. He wished he’d killed her years ago. But he hadn’t and now he was paying the price.
“I was upset. I told you that last night. I heard that Paul was selling the company.” He said “Paul,” but he thought “the old man.” Pretending to respect his father might assuage some of Sydney’s pouting ire.
“Well.” She walked her fingers up his tie, then tapped his chin with a manicured finger. He fantasized chopping them off, one by manicured one. “Like I told you last night, I can make sure you come out of this just fine.”
She lied. She lied as easily as she breathed. She’d get what she wanted and leave him with nothing. Less than nothing. He might keep his job, but every time he gave her what she wanted, another piece of him died inside.
“Come to my place tonight,” she whispered. “We can talk.”
No. NO. “Okay,” he heard himself say. Because I’m a coward. A fucking pussy.
“That’s my sweet boy. Have a safe day.”
And she was gone, taking all of his determination with her. He closed his eyes, his fury roiling like a tornado. All of the peace he’d achieved with last night’s basement guest was gone like mist.
And he still hadn’t even started looking for the blonde.
Just get through today. Do your job. And then go home, take a hot bath, walk the dog, and . . . you’ll figure it out. You’ll find the blonde. You’ll keep your job. You’ll keep it together. You always do.
“Hey, man, you okay?”
He turned to find Hank watching him with concern.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine.”
Hank again didn’t look convinced. “I can ask Ricardo to take your place if you need me to.”
And let that asshole get his hours? No way. “I said I’m fine.”
“Okay, okay.” Hank backed away, hands held up in surrender. “Today’s group will be arriving soon. I’ve got the cooler filled. This is a champagne-and-caviar crowd.”
“God,” he muttered. “Shoot me now.” But he hoped they drank all the wine and ate all the fancy finger food because it left the cooler empty. And in his mood, he might need to fill it with something curvy to bring home. The cooler was the perfect size for a size eight. No bigger than a size ten. All soft and pliant. They folded up easier that way.
Hank laughed. “I know, right? But they tip well, and Barb and I need a new crib.”
“Then let’s do this.” He gestured to the door. “After you, Captain Bain.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 10:00 A.M.
Daisy took off her headphones and laid them carefully on the studio console. She’d kept her temper in check for four hours, but it was bubbling over.
Because Tad Nelson Todd—a.k.a. TNT—was a Grade A asshole. He’d started in on her at the beginning of the morning show, little digs at first. The way he always behaved. Those she could ignore or at least manage to laugh off. But the digs got worse and worse as the morning progressed and Daisy was pissed.
Tad wasn’t as careful with his headphones, throwing them aside in a clear show of temper. Daisy shouldered Brutus’s bag, waiting until Tad followed her out of the studio before turning on him with a scowl.
“What was that about, Tad?”
“What?” he asked flatly, as if he were bored.
“You. In there.” She pointed at the studio door. “Calling me ‘little girl.’ Commenting on my body. Insinuating I’m a wild party girl.”
“I just asked what you were doing for spring break,” he said, smirking now.
“You asked what size bikini I wore!” And he’d guessed her measurements. Lasciviously. That had truly lit her fuse. She’d almost punched him. Luckily, he’d done the bit about her measurements—as well as his comments on her sexual preferences—during the last two minutes of the broadcast. She’d brushed his boorishness off with a laugh, but if she’d had to hold her temper much longer, she wasn’t sure what she’d have done. “You all but gave out my phone number. What the hell was that about? And don’t you dare say you were just fooling around.” Not after the night she’d had. She was punchy from lack of sleep, too much caffeine, and the feeling that someone was still following her even though she knew it was her imagination on overdrive.
His lips curled in a sneer. “If you had a sexual harassment issue with me, why didn’t you say so to my face? Why did you go tattling to the brass? They’re considering suspending me. Did you know that?”
She rocked back on her heels, her mouth falling open in shock. “What? Why?”
He took a step forward, leaning into her face. “Because you squealed to Karl that I brushed off ‘e-mails and voice mails of a sexual nature.’” He used air quotes, then clenched his hands into fists, dropping them to his sides. “It was nothing. Baby shit. Professionals don’t whine about shit like that.”
Daisy shook her head to clear it. “Let me get this straight. You were reprimanded for enabling sexually harassing behavior this morning, informed you might be suspended, so you decided to go on the air and actually sexually harass me? Because that’s what professionals do? Do I have this right?”
His eyes were a little wild. Desperate. “Why not? Might as well do the crime if I’m gonna do the time. I might have a future as a shock jock.”
She blinked at him. “You’re an idiot. You know that?”
Anger flared, his jaw going rigid. “And you’re a bitch. You know that? Hell, maybe you wanted me suspended.”
She almost laughed. “You’re joking. Why would I want that?”
“So you can have the show all to yourself.”
“What? I don’t want the show to myself.”
He did laugh, bitterly. “Liar. You waltz in here from nowhere, sidle up to Karl, and then the morning show just falls into your lap. Abracadabra. Like that’s any mystery.”
She stared at him, disgusted. It was the way he’d said “sidle up to Karl,” all sleaze and innuendo. “You can call me a bitch if you want. God knows I’ve been called worse. But don’t you dare insinuate that Karl has been anything but kind and good—to all of us. Including you. Whatever you think about me, don’t you dare spread rumors about him. He loves his wife and she loves him.” She stopped to breathe, tilting her head when she saw his fury falter. “Did they tell you why I reported the e-mails and voice mails?”
Which she hadn’t yet, actually, not technically anyway. She’d told Karl of their existence on the ride to the Sokolovs’ last night and had been relieved when he hadn’t pressed. Guess that relief was premature. Karl had obviously talked to Rafe and then the station manager. All before dawn.
“No.” Tad’s brows furrowed. “Why?”
“Because I was attacked last night.” She tugged at her turtleneck collar, drawing it low enough that he could see the marks on her throat. It was the same sweater she’d worn the night before. There’d been no time for her to go home and change before work since Rafe had needed roughly sixteen cups of coffee to wake up enough to drive her into the city. “Some guy tried to strangle me and drag me away. I . . .” The memory hit her hard and her voice broke. Ruthlessly she steadied it. “I got away.”
His gaze dropped to her throat, where the red marks had bloomed into dark black and blue bruises overnight. “Oh my God. Are you okay?”
She resettled the collar high on her throat. “Yes. Rafe Sokolov has the case. He and his partner asked if I’d been threatened, so yes, I told them about the e-mails. When Rafe asked why I hadn’t told anyone, I said you’d assured me they were part of the business. That I should be flattered. Because you did say those things and last night I was scared and shaken. But I should have reported the messages when they happened. I knew better.” She lifted her chin. “I’m responsible for my bad judgment, not yours. I’ll tell them that.”