My hand froze over my keyboard as my brain fought to grasp the meaning of his words. He had that much money in his back account? And he could part with it just like that, in the blink of an eye? I knew he was rich, but I never realized to what extent.
I shook my head in disbelief at how easily he could throw money out the window. It was his money, and he had a right to do with it as he pleased, but still. There was no guarantee he’d make a profit. There wasn’t even a fifty-fifty chance he’d earn his investment back. He was more likely to make a loss than if he tried his hand at gambling.
“But why?” I tried to control my voice as I tried to rack my brain for the best reason. “You’re acquiring a potential murderer’s estate.”
“My father wants it. Thinks he can make a fortune in Europe. I have no choice.”
“Does he know you’re spending this much money?” I don’t know what made me ask that question. Probably my desperate subconscious clinging to any possible argument that could change his mind. The longer we talked this over, the more he might be inclined to change his decision. Regardless of whether our relationship lasted, I cared about him enough to try to stop him from making stupid mistakes. And buying this place was a mistake, whether he wanted to acknowledge it, or not.
“Does he know, Jett?” I asked again.
He still continued to hesitate, and in that instant I had my answer.
“Oh. My. God,” I said, burying my head in my hands. “You haven’t told him.”
“My father wants this estate and I’m getting it for him. Apart from you and my lawyers, no one knows how much I’m paying and I’d like to keep the actual price undisclosed,” Jett said. “Look, I wish I could explain but can we do this another time? I’ll take you to dinner tomorrow and then we can talk some more.”
“But—”
He cut me off again. “No, Brooke. I’m in a meeting and the clients are waiting. I’ll call you later.”
“Okay,” I whispered, but the line was already dead. I closed the file and locked it away in my cabinet, my mind circling around the grave edge in Jett’s tone.
The strain in his voice didn’t go unnoticed. Maybe he was stressed, or maybe worried. Either way, he was being stubborn about the whole situation. For the first time I wondered whether there was more to that estate that Jett didn’t tell me.
***
I arrived at the café with ten minutes to spare and parked near the entrance where I could both keep an eye on my car and make a fast exit if need be. It didn’t surprise me that the place was empty. Most people were either still at work or stuck in rush hour traffic. Signaling the barista to take my order in a few minutes, I slumped into my usual spot at a four-seat table and fished out my cell to place it on the table so I wouldn’t miss an important call or text message.
Heart Strings Café opened in my first year of college. I discovered it when Sylvie tried to hook me up with a blind date and the guy invited me to meet him here. The place hadn’t changed one bit: it was small but flamboyant, carrying the colored furniture and checkerboard tile floor trademark of the retro sixties. I loved this place, not just the food but the whole Night Fever atmosphere, and tried to come here often. Taking in the vintage records on the vintage harvest gold colored wall, I realized this might not be the right place to meet a lawyer from London.
Too late for that.
I spent the next few minutes in edgy silence, alternating between watching my car through the window, and watching the door. At six sharp, a tall guy carrying a briefcase walked in and stopped in the doorway to scan the café. Given the fact that there was no one in here but me and an elderly couple, my chances of being overlooked were pretty slim, and yet for some reason I found myself standing and waving him over.
Jake Clarkson was a tall man in his forties with sandy hair, a strong jaw, and sharp, gray-blue eyes. His tailored suit fit him to perfection as he stretched out a manicured hand to greet me.
“Miss Stewart. It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Brooke,” I offered, returning his confident smile, and pointed at the seat opposite from mine. “Please.”
“Thank you. Please call me Jake.” He lowered himself into the plush chair and undid the first button of his suit jacket, as though he wanted to infuse a sense of ease into this meeting but not too much. My gaze followed him as he pulled a few sheets out of his leather briefcase and placed them neatly in front of him, resting an expensive-looking pen on top of them.
“Good,” he said by means of starting the actual conversation.
The air was charged with foreboding, which I attributed to the fact that lawyers scared the crap out of me. I knew my fear was unfounded, and yet I couldn’t help the slight tremble of my hands.