“I’m sorry. That’s our policy.”
He didn’t look sorry. He looked happy—a small man wielding his sliver of personal power over someone he regarded as more privileged than himself. She hated him.
She gave him her most withering look and strode from the lobby. Once she was on the street, she pulled out her phone.
Where are u? Call me.
She waited. Traffic flew by. She waited some more, but he was ghosting her. She hailed a cab and called Piper from the back seat. “I’m looking for Thad. Do you know where he is?”
“I don’t.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“I haven’t.”
“Would you check with your husband?”
“Hold on.” She could hear Piper turning away from the phone. “Coop, have you talked to Thad?”
Olivia heard him in the background. “Yeah, why?”
“Olivia is trying to find him,” his wife said. “Do you know where he is?”
“Nope.”
“Sorry.” Piper was back on the phone. “Maybe Clint knows.”
“Could you give me his address? I’ve lost it.” Olivia had never actually had it.
It turned out Clint lived in Chicago’s western suburbs instead of in the city like any other normal guy in his twenties.
Olivia texted him.
Can I come over?
It’s not the best time.
I’m coming anyway.
The taxi dropped her off at her apartment where she got her car and headed west to the wealthy DuPage County suburb of Burr Ridge.
Clint’s massive French chateau-style home stood ready for the reincarnation of Louis XVI. The house had steeply sloping slate roofs, five tall chimneys, numerous second-story balconies with elaborately curled wrought-iron railings, and—capping it off—a tower. The only thing missing was Marie Antoinette prancing through the topiaries. Clearly Clint had more money than he knew what to do with.
Before she got out of her car, she tried Thad once again.
Stop messing with me and call.
She waited.
A midnight-blue Alfa Romeo whipped around the side of the house and sped down the drive onto the street. She caught a glimpse of not one but two gorgeous young women.
The pervert looked rumpled when he answered the door.
She stomped past him into the marbled entryway. “Really? Two?”
He shoved a hand through his rumpled hair. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
An unwelcome thought intruded. “Is Thad here?”
“You think I’d tell you if he was?”
Which meant he wasn’t. A relief. “I need to talk to him.”
Clint yawned and stretched, revealing one hairy armpit through the sleeve of his baggy white T-shirt. “Not my problem.”
“Don’t you dare cop an attitude with me, young man!”
That cracked him up. “Come on. I need coffee.”
“And an STD test,” she muttered.
“I heard that. Things aren’t always like they seem.”
She favored him with the disapproving humph of a septuagenarian dowager.
His kitchen was as over-the-top as the rest of house. White marble, white tile, and not one but two crystal chandeliers. “Just out of curiosity. How much did this place cost you?”
“You’d have to ask T-Bo.”
“I would if I could get hold of him!” She took in a bevy of cherubs painted on the ceiling. “And why would he know how much your house cost?”
“He’s kind of my financial adviser. He negotiated the deal. He keeps tabs on some of us younger guys to make sure we don’t blow all our money.”
She studied the chandeliers, gazed more closely at the frolicking cherubs. “He failed you.”
“Not really.” He grinned. “You have no idea how big my contract is.”
“Big enough to give raises to a lot of schoolteachers, I’m sure.”
“Now you’re playing dirty.” He pulled out one of the counter stools.
“I’ll play dirtier if you don’t tell me where Thad is.”
“You think it’s my job to keep tabs on him?”
“You’ve been doing a good job of it so far, so yes, I do.”
He leaned back on the stool. “Let’s put it this way. If he wanted you to know where he was, he’d tell you.”
“You seriously intend to withhold this information from me?”
“Yeah. ’Fraid I do.”
“Fine. Then call him for me.”
“Sure. Give me your phone.”
Damn it. He was so much smarter than he looked. “Call him from your phone.”
“That’s a definite no.”
She stated the obvious. “Because he’ll pick up for you but he won’t pick up for me.”
“You want to make me some pancakes?”
“I do not.”
“Want to go out for pancakes?”
“What I want is to talk to him.” She sounded whiny and pitiful, exactly the way she felt.
Clint cocked an eyebrow at her. “The last time you did that, things didn’t go well.”
“He told you about it?”
“Let’s just say I had to pick up the pieces you left behind.”
She winced. “I need to fix this.”
“I’m afraid your idea of fixing it might be different from his.”
“I won’t know that until I talk to him. Please. Call him on your phone.”
“Exactly how self-destructive do you think I am? I need him.”
The stubborn set of his jaw told her no amount of pressure would make him agree. Who else would know where he was? Maybe his friend Ritchie Collins, the Stars’ wide receiver she’d met that night in Phoenix? “Ritchie! How do I find him?”
“Ritchie’s on a mission trip to Haiti with his church.”
“Shit. Who are his other friends on the team?”
“Most everybody, but if you think I’m handing over a roster, you’re wrong.”
“His agent, then. He has to talk to his agent, right?”
Clint gave her an oily smile. “A guy named Heath Champion. The top sports agent in the business. And a word of advice: they don’t call him ‘the Python’ for nothing.”
*
Superagent Heath Champion’s office was all intimidation with lacquered walls, luxury leather, and a set of silver-framed family photos to give it a human touch—a pretty auburn-haired woman and some children. The man himself—rugged, hard-edged, handsome in an intimidating way—regarded her with cool politeness. “That would be a violation of agent-client privilege.”
“I’m not going to kill him!” she exclaimed. “I just want to talk to him.”
He gazed at her over his desk. “So you’ve said. But Thad’s had some stalking incidents in the past.”
“Do I look like a stalker?”
“You do seem a little unhinged.”
And that was why they called him the Python.
She was getting nowhere, although she did contemplate the possibility of trading her own easygoing agent for this hard-edged browbeater. She planted her hands on his desk and leaned forward. “Throw me a bone, Mr. Champion. Who can I talk to who won’t care so much about your precious agent-client privilege?”
Six hours later, she was in Louisville, Kentucky.
*
Thad’s mother was the coldest, most hostile woman Olivia had ever met. Understandably so, Olivia reluctantly admitted, since Dawn Owens also believed Olivia was stalking her son.
She appeared to be in her fifties, but Olivia calculated she was older. She could have been a model for senior fashions with her slender body, light brown bob, good skin, and Thad’s perfect nose.
“I’m not a stalker. I swear,” Olivia said, which only made her seem more like a stalker. She tried to peer past Mrs. Owens’s tall silhouette into the front hallway of the Owenses’ colonial-style home: brass wall sconces, a grandfather clock, no Thad. She tried again. “I’m Olivia Shore. Google me. I’m completely respectable. Thad and I traveled together for a month promoting Marchand Timepieces. We’re friends. And I—” She knew she was looking crazier by the second, but she couldn’t help herself. “And I love him. With all my heart.”
Mrs. Owens pointed toward the street. “Leave before I call the police.”
Olivia gave it one more try. “I’ve driven all the way from Chicago. Is he here?”