I want to know what’s behind that.

  At least I know exactly what Rogan meant when he said Sloan looks as Irish as she sounds because her hair is as red as the blood now rushing to my cock.

  Fuck.

  Down the hall, my cell phone rings. Who the hell would be calling at this hour?

  I glance at the time on my computer screen. Holy shit, how have three hours passed?

  Running to my home office, I grab my phone and glance at the display, which confirms my suspicions. “Sorry I’m late, Evan.”

  “You coming?”

  I can picture him now, standing in front of the gym, wondering where the hell I am. “Yep. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

  “You all right? You sound distracted.”

  “Yeah. Absolutely. Just doing some research.”

  “About?”

  “The enemy.”

  “Good. You can tell me all about it on the StairMaster. I’ll be off it by the time you get here.” He sounds gleeful about that.

  “You evil son of a bitch.”

  “In the gym? Always. But if you tell me good things about your progress with Reservoir, I might go easy on you.”

  “You’re lying.”

  He laughs. “You know me well.”

  I do, which is why I know he’s counting on me to do the dirty work. “I’ll come through.”

  “I know you will, buddy. Thanks.”

  March 9

  * * *

  Less than twenty-four hours go by before I have a provisional copy of Reservoir’s previous year’s financial statement in my inbox. Shane couldn’t manage to complete it since the year started more than two months ago. Sloan got it done in a day.

  The woman has crossed my mind too much lately. It’s not smart, but my respect for her ticks up another notch.

  Unfortunately, I don’t even get to thank her before all hell breaks loose at Stratus. A stomach bug makes its rounds through our offices at the same time one of Wynam’s reps reaches out to request both a product demonstration and a virtual meeting—the first major hurdle in doing business with the UK giant.

  And wouldn’t you know it, but Evan is upchucking everything except his toe nails.

  I rally the troops, gathering the necessary people. We work nearly round the clock to put together a presentation that’s exactly what Michael Astor, Wynam’s CEO, needs. Nia, bless her, throws herself into the project—half as much to make sure it gets done as to stay away from her puking husband.

  “I don’t need this virus to make me toss my cookies,” she says tartly as she strokes her slightly rounding stomach. “The baby does that for me most days anyway.”

  Things don’t get any easier when, on Thursday at nine p.m.—eight the following morning in London—Evan is finally well enough to slide into the office. He looks like shit, but he reads what we’ve prepared, jots a few notes, and sips a glass of water while I zip through his changes.

  An hour later, he nails the video presentation, answering the prospective client’s questions succinctly and patiently, while Nia and I fist-bump in the background, almost certain Evan snagged the account—or at least he’ll be invited to London for a face-to-face that will seal the deal.

  But at the end of it all, Wynam’s folks merely thank us for our time and advise us they have other possible vendors they intend to talk to. They’ll be in touch.

  They mean Reservoir.

  Evan turns to me as soon as the call is over. “Work faster, buddy.”

  To get the competition out of the way. “On it.”

  “You’d be my hero if Wynam didn’t even hear Reservoir’s pitch.”

  “They won’t. I’ll make sure of it.” Which means I need to get back to my mission.

  He claps me on the shoulder, then takes his wife’s hand as they head out the door. “Thanks. And don’t worry about anything Stratus-related tomorrow. I’m better now, so I’ve got this place. Focus on the assignment I gave you.”

  After going home, stumbling into bed, and sleeping nearly twelve hours, I tear into the office, order in food, then dig through the statement Sloan sent. Overall, the financial health of the company isn’t bad…but it’s not great. They’re seeing good growth on the consumer side, which has been their lifeblood since inception. Their small-business customer base is building slowly, but I can’t argue that it’s making strides. Yet the company is strangely cash poor. It doesn’t make sense. Granted, I don’t have the detail I’d like, but it’s glaringly clear that whoever compiled this report is skirting the truth, because two and two aren’t adding up.

  My conclusion: something’s rotten at Reservoir.

  Does Sloan know?

  She shouldn’t be my first concern. Instead, I should be figuring out how to use this information to my advantage. But I can’t deny that some stupid-ass part of me hates that people around her are potentially screwing her by fucking with the whole organization.

  When I reach that likely conclusion, it’s nearly five p.m. here in Maui. Normally, I wouldn’t think there’s any chance my counterpart five time zones to the east would answer her phone, especially on a Friday night. But Sloan is different. I don’t know her well, but I’m convinced she’ll either have some idea why this report is twenty kinds of fucked-up or she’ll dig straight in and figure it out. I’ll bend her for information. And if I catch her off guard, maybe she’ll spill details I can exploit.

  Squashing my misplaced guilt, I swipe my phone from my desk and ring her. It’s ten o’clock there, but I’m not really shocked when she answers. “McBride?”

  Though the question is sharp, her voice sounds a little slower, almost mellow. She’s relaxed. Because she’s curled up on her couch with a movie? Or because she’s curled up in bed with a man?

  “Sorry to disturb you on a Friday night.”

  “But you’re still working?”

  “I am.”

  The sound she makes isn’t quite a laugh. “I get it. I only quit an hour ago.”

  That doesn’t surprise me. “Have you looked at this annual report?”

  “That’s on my list to-do this weekend. Did you find something I need to be aware of?”

  “Do you want to know now or should I call back later?”

  With a sigh, she shifts. I hear a clink, followed by movement. “I wasn’t getting into this TV show anyway. Tell me now.”

  “You sure I’m not interrupting something?”

  “Unless you mean a quiet night with the squawk-box, I’m positive.”

  It’s stupid and perverse, but I’m pleased she’s alone. “All right. The income side of your statement has improved year over year, particularly the last two.”

  Is it a coincidence that the upward trend started when Smith promoted her out of the basement and started listening?

  “I’m really proud of that. Marketing has found creative ways to increase consumer market penetration with low-cost campaigns, while the Tech folks have really driven down data storage costs.”

  “Totally agree. But your expenses, especially last year, have skyrocketed. Fourth quarter was a bloodbath.” Every single department suddenly opened a project that’s guzzling cash—and there are no supporting details in the report. “What’s Marketing’s PPP Fund financing?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never heard of it.”

  “How about HR’s H-and-B Reserve?”

  “Sorry. No.”

  I frown. “Tech’s FY Initiative?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  And yet they’re eating millions of dollars every year. How is it possible she hasn’t heard anyone talk about them? Or seen those bottom-line balance sheets?

  There’s something going on, and it’s sketchy as shit.

  “Do you have a few minutes to give me your interpretation?” she asks. “I hate to keep you at the office on a Friday night, but I’d like to grab my laptop and talk through the report.”

  “Actually, I appreciate that, if you don’t mind me cutting into the start of your weekend.”

  “You’re not. I’ll just take my wine with me.”

  Is vino the reason for the hint of mellow in her voice?

  “Now I’m jealous. I’d love a beer.”

  Her laugh is soft and throaty. It does things to me I wish it didn’t.

  Finally, after a little more rearranging, she seemingly plants somewhere with her computer. “Give me a minute. This thing is rebooting.”

  “No problem.”

  “You say that, but I know it’s past office hours in Phoenix, too. Have you even had dinner?”

  “Nope. I fell into the rabbit hole with this annual report and…”

  “That happens to me all the time. People from every part of the organization come to my office, and they—” She stops herself with a forced laugh. “Well, they realize they’ve found a sucker who wants to figure out what makes Reservoir tick and doesn’t mind putting in the effort to fix whatever’s broken.”

  I don’t doubt that. “I was the same in my previous corporate job.”

  It’s probably true of Jeremy. He’s a go-getter, and if he didn’t have a broken heart now, he wouldn’t have given me this account.

  But if I can relate to Sloan on a personal level, I can build trust between us. She might get comfortable enough to blurt some of Reservoir’s hush-hush plans, particularly about when and how they intend to approach Wynam.

  “I can picture that. And since a leopard doesn’t change its spots, that’s probably why you’re still in the office at nine o’clock.”

  I’m actually not, but I’ve done it often enough to confess. “Guilty.”

  “Workaholic, huh?”

  “It takes one to know one.”

  She gives me that soft, husky laugh again. “Touché. So…you had the pleasure of talking to all three Rawson boys. How was that?”

  “A thrill and a half.” I don’t even try to disguise my sarcasm.

  “I’m sure it was. After all, you got a blow job vicariously through Shane.”

  “It was incredibly cringy.”

  “For me, too. I’m very careful when I call him now.”

  “He’s done that same thing to you?” I don’t know why I’m surprised. Maybe because it’s even weirder that he’d be getting off with his sister on the phone.

  “When he first started, I called to introduce myself and advise him that I’d be working on some critical projects under his purview. During our conversation, I’m pretty sure he was having sex with his previous assistant. She wasn’t quiet.”

  I grimace. “And no one calls him on that behavior?”

  “Who’s going to tell the boss’s son to clean up his act?”

  She’s got a point, but Bruce Rawson should have taken care of that long ago. Maybe he tried, and Shane just doesn’t care. Or maybe his health is failing more than Brady led me to believe.

  “Wow… It’s almost too bad Brady and Rogan aren’t involved in the organization. At least Brady has drive, and Rogan is smart.”

  “Right?” She sighs. “Did Rogan say why he thought you needed to call me?”

  Is she wondering if the guy let the cat out of the bag about the fact they’re siblings? “After I explained my fiasco with his oldest brother, he assured me you could help. He was right.”

  “I try.” She pauses, then grunts in frustration. “I think this computer is taking a freaking update. Seriously? Now?”

  “Never happens at a convenient time, does it?” I empathize with her, but I don’t mind. Our conversation is going somewhere. I want her to feel comfortable with me. No, she’s not being honest yet…but I’ll get her there.

  “I can call you another time if you want to leave the office, grab your dinner, and enjoy your evening,” she offers.

  “I’m good. I had a late lunch, and I’m not in a hurry to head home and choke down something frozen to the sounds of the nightly news. This is way more entertaining.”

  She laughs. “I like a good mystery, too.”

  Sloan is a lot more laid-back, even friendlier, than she was during our first conversation. It’s progress. I wonder how she’ll take to some light flirting. “That’s part of it. But I also like talking to you.”

  “Thanks. Same.”

  Besides hearing a smile in her voice, I also detect the merest hint of something soft and Southern that makes me hard. And it’s mighty interesting that she didn’t revert to professional mode or shut me down.

  Yeah, it’s fucking stupid, but Sloan intrigues me. I wish I could see her whole face, not just a profile in her picture.

  “My computer is almost done,” she remarks into the momentary quiet. “Sorry for the delay.”

  “No problem. Word of warning: I hate awkward silences, so I’m going to fill it with something ridiculous.”

  “Perfect. I don’t like them, either. But I’m not convinced you can be ridiculous, so lay it on me.”

  “Favorite pizza topping?”

  “Oh, we’re getting to the important stuff right away. Okay, it’s a toss-up between spicy sausage and mushrooms, so when I order pizza, I get both. You? I mean, I told you something deeply personal, so…”

  “I have to return the favor, is that it?”

  “Of course.”

  I like this Sloan as much as I liked the sharply professional one—for different reasons. The first one came across as smart, reliable, and capable of handling whatever anyone tossed her way. This one? She’s witty and unexpectedly fun.

  Smiling, I settle back in my chair to enjoy the conversation. “Spicy sausage, absolutely. I like a good mushroom, too. Onions, bell peppers, and olives. I love fresh basil, garlic, oregano…”

  “Yes! Some of the pizza in New York—”

  “With the fresh basil, right?”

  She groans. “The best. I haven’t been to the city in so long.”

  Since I used to live a mere train ride away, I probably feel its loss more keenly. But that’s not Jeremy’s past; it’s mine. I need to keep that in mind.

  “I’d like to go more.” That’s not a lie.

  “What’s the food like in Phoenix?”

  I remember an argument Jeremy used to have with a frat brother from San Antonio. “Spicy. Nothing beats Sonoran-style Mexican food. That Tex-Mex stuff is crap.”

  She laughs. “You’ll never convince me fajitas aren’t good.”

  “And you’ve never lived until you’ve had a real cheese crisp.”

  “What the devil is that?”

  Something Jeremy waxed poetic about anytime the Mexican food discussion came up. “My words can’t do it justice, and a picture is worth a thousand of them. Look it up.”

  “I would, but my computer is still doing its thing. Fourteen minutes left. You sure you don’t mind waiting?”

  “Why should I? This is the most fun I’ve had all day.” That’s actually true.

  “Sorry. I can’t say the same. Wine still beats you out. But if it makes you feel better, you’re running a close second.”

  I laugh. “I’ll take that and accept the challenge of topping your wine.”

  “You can try, but it will be tough.”

  “I’m crafty. I’ll figure it out.”

  “I’ll bet you are. What made you decide to leave your corporate job to consult?”

  “Better flexibility. Better pay.”

  “More hours. More risk.”

  “I’m okay with that. Are those the reasons you’re not self-employed?”

  She hesitates. “I needed the experience after finishing my MBA. Education is great and all, but nothing replaces real-world knowledge.”

  Not necessarily true, but I wonder who convinced her of that.

  “So why Reservoir? You must have had other offers.” Tons of them, based on what I read about her academic career.

  “Well, I wanted to stay local.”

  “Because of friends? Family?” I’m curious how she’ll answer.

  “A lot of things. My mom passed away a couple of years ago.”

  I knew that, but when I hear the catch in her voice, I feel her sense of loss. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. It was sudden and unexpected. I wasn’t at all prepared… But I grew up in Dallas. I wasn’t ready to leave.”

  “Makes sense.” Plus, she gave me a great opening to ask what I really want to know. “What about your dad?”

  “He was never in the picture when I was growing up.”

  The man is now, at least by virtue of being her boss’s boss’s boss. Are their estrangement and her mother’s death the reasons Rawson suddenly gave her a job? “Do you know where to find him? Have you talked?”

  “There’s my computer. It came back up. Finally.” She sounds relieved, probably way more about the subject change than the PC restarting properly.

  But I let it slide—for now. We’ll come back to this subject. There’s a reason neither she nor Rawson wants anyone to know they’re father and daughter. And if I can figure out why, maybe I can use that information to prevent anyone in the organization from pitching to Wynam.

  “Always a relief, right? Shall we log in and get down to it?”

  “Yep.” I hear a hollow-sounding clink. “I’m working on it now.”

  “Is your wineglass empty?”

  “It is.” She sighs. “But that’s okay. I should stop there. I’ve already had two.”

  “It’s Friday. You don’t have to get up early. You deserve one more.”

  “I shouldn’t. Really. I need a clear head.”

  “C’mon, have one for me. If we have to work, at least one of us will be unwinding properly on a Friday night.”

  “But I’ll wake up with a headache if I go for number three.”

  “Do you have water and ibuprofen there?”

  “Of course,” she answers like it’s obvious because everyone does.

  “Then you’ll be fine.”

  Sloan sighs long and loud. “Fine. Number three it is. What are you drinking?”

  “Office-tested H-two-oh, but I’ll tell you what. When I get home, I’ll have a beer in your honor.”

  “Oh, all right. I’ll be back.”

  When she sets down her phone and picks up her glass, I refill my water from the cooler in the hall, truly wishing I had a beer.