Page 61 of The Billionaire's Wife

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TRISTAN

The ringing phone jolted me out of my drifting thoughts. “Tristan Lee.”

“Mr. Lee. This is Marcos Ortega. How was Paris?”

“Wonderful.” I probably shouldn’t be surprised that he knew where we’d gone. For all I knew, he’d had someone flown over to keep an eye on us, on the off chance we decided to run. The idea might have crossed my mind once or twice, but it wasn’t realistic. He had to know that, too. Did that also mean he knew about the FBI? If so, he hadn’t said anything. “How was your weekend?”

He chuckled. “You’re very cool.”

I didn’t quite know how to respond to that. I glanced at the time. It was almost the end of the day. Arlene would be packing up and heading out any minute. I wouldn’t be far behind her.

“Well. I spent the weekend profitably. You’re not a hard man to discover. Is that on purpose?”

My eyebrows lifted. “I don’t try to hide who I am, if that’s what you’re asking. But I also don’t tend to put it out on the front page of the paper. At the base of it all, I’m an ordinary man.”

“No. Ordinary is not the word that describes you.” Mr. Ortega sighed. “And it makes my problem slightly more challenging. If my people had investigated your wife more thoroughly in the beginning, I would never have allowed them to do business with her. The reality is, a billionaire—even one who lives his life mostly under the radar—has entirely too much governmental oversight in his life to be associated with my organization.”

“That makes sense.” Why wasn’t it something that had occurred to me when I was thinking of solutions in the first place? Actually, that was easy to answer—I didn’t tend to focus on my money. It was just there, doing its thing.

“We won’t bother you, or your wife, further. We do ask that you and your wife agree to keep what you know of our organization to yourselves. In fact, I’ve sent you a contract, via messenger, along with a small retainer. That should cover you in terms of privilege, which in turn covers us.”

The man was cunning. I didn’t love the idea of having the Ortegas as a client—even just on paper as this would surely be—but it was better than any of the other alternatives. “I’ll wait for it to arrive before heading home this evening. That way, I can look it over and get back to you tomorrow. You know I can’t—won’t—actually represent you, right?”

Mr. Ortega made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Of course. This is purely a paper agreement. Think of it more like an NDA. You can reach me at the number on the contract. Give my regards to your wife.”

The phone went dead before I could respond. I shook my head and set the phone down on my desk, then stood. I crossed to my door, opened it, and moved to the main room.

“You’re not leaving, Mr. Lee?” Arlene was already shutting down for the night.

“I just had a client call saying they’d messengered something over. I’ll wait for it so you can head out.” I tucked my hands in my pockets. “Hopefully it won’t be long.”

“You’re sure? I don’t mind staying if I can be helpful.”

I waved that off. “Go ahead. I’m going to grab it and take it home with me to look over. I’ll probably wrap everything in my office up and just wait out here.”

“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

I nodded. “That’s the plan. I should be in around nine. Maybe nine thirty. I don’t have anything on my calendar.”

“No. But you have court next week, so you’ll want to be sure you’re ready. I have a checklist set up for that on the shared drive.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” I grinned at her. “Go home. Have a nice night.”

“Thanks. You too.” She scooted out from behind her desk and strode quickly out of the office.

I turned back down the hall and went into my own office so I could do as I’d said I was going to and shut down. I’d been so preoccupied with Faith and this situation with the Ortega cartel that I’d forgotten about court next week. The case itself didn’t worry me. It was pretty straightforward, particularly since my client just wanted to formalize the verbal agreement they’d been operating under.

But sometimes people got sticky when there was a change from informal to formal. So the checklist was a necessity to make sure I had all my ducks in a row.

My usual habit would be to take work home and spend the evening reviewing it unless the guys talked me into plans. With Faith here, that didn’t appeal nearly as much as it used to. Especially after a weekend together in Paris.

We’d spent all of Saturday playing tourist, ending it all with dinner in the Michelin starred restaurant in the Eiffel Tower. Sunday, we’d strolled along the Seine with Noah and Jenna before heading back to the airport for the flight home.

She’d let me hold her hand.

There had been moments—several of them—when I’d considered kissing her. I wanted to more than I could put into words, and Paris seemed the perfect place.

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