Page 19 of Bitter Rival

She laughs, props her muddy boots on the coffee table and slinks down in her seat like I’ve invited her to stay for a while. “You were bluffing, weren’t you?”

I should probably lie, but I know she heard the whole thing, or at least most of it and for some reason, I feel compelled to tell her the truth. “Yep.”

She laughs again, but I hope she takes it as a warning. Nobody steals from me and gets away with it.

“You really are such a bastard. But why do all the bastards have to get me involved in their dastardly deeds? Why didn’t you just go to her directly instead of coming up with this whole party plot?”

“That was an added bonus.” I wasn’t going to do it that way but when I saw her this morning, I just couldn’t resist, and she did exactly what I thought she would—she brought Georgia to me. “But just so you know, I did have security cameras installed.”

“I hope you didn’t put any in my bedroom or the bathrooms, you perv.”

“Nah. I have Pornhub for that.”

“Oh. You’re one of those guys.” She nods a few times, like she really believes I’d ever need to resort to watching porn. Doesn’t interest me. Never has.

She stretches her arms over her head, letting out a sigh of contentment. “We should still throw a party for the employees though.”

“There is no we in this equation.”

“Fine. You should throw a party. It would be a nice thing to do.”

“Sounds good.” Might as well blow more money. Every cent I spend will be deducted from her share of the profits. That’s if I can’t find a way to completely cut her out. “I’ll leave the planning up to you.”

She stands and heads into the house. “I hope you have deep pockets, matey, because I’m going all out.”

“Will you be serving tankards of ale, wench?”

“Aye. And bottles of the finest rum for me men,” she yells over her shoulder in what has to be the worst impression of a pirate in the history of sea lore.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Beckett

“And your keys.” I hold out my hand and Georgia slaps them on my palm. I’ve already changed the locks, so I don’t really need the keys, but she doesn’t know that.

“I’ll check it against the inventory and if anything is missing, I’ll be in touch. But I certainly hope for your sake that it’s all present and accounted for.” I nod at the cops as they climb out of their cruiser. Perfect timing.

Georgia turns, her jaw dropping as the cops close in. “But you said if I did what you asked you wouldn’t call the?—"

I said no such thing. I slam the door in her face and lock it.

None of this would have showed up on the inventory though. Sometime between my father’s last breath and his funeral, she must have taken it upon herself to take what she wanted before the insurance adjustor conducted the inventory.

My father knew he was dying, so he gave himself six months to get his affairs in order before choosing the hill he wanted to die on. Literally. Pete found him between the rows of old zinfandel vines on the steepest part of the slope. He’d smoked a Cuban cigar and drank a few bottles of wine before checking out.

“Wow,” Daisy says, running her hand over a Murano vase shaped like the horn of plenty. I’d get more pleasure out of throwing it against the stone wall and watching it shatter than actually filling it with flowers or displaying it. “Money makes people do some crazy shit.”

“And what would you do for money, Daisy?”

“I’ve done a lot of things for money,” she says, ripping open one of the boxes stacked in the entrance hall. “I worked as a dishwasher at a Michelin starred restaurant where they treated the staff like shit. But I met some good people and got some great photos out of it.”

She picks up a bronze sculpture of a lion and looks around for the right spot before setting it on the mantel above the stone fireplace in the living room. I set a painting of thoroughbreds behind it and prop it against the wall instead of hanging it. My father used to have a stable full of horses, but they’re all gone now, and the stables have been converted into a crush pad and winemaking facility.

When I turn, Daisy is eyeing the mantel, her head tilted, and I get the distinct impression that the painting will end up somewhere else by tomorrow.

She is incapable of leaving things as they are.

“Let’s see…what else have I done?” she says, distributing the goods after I take a photo of each item and save it to my phone. “I once shot a campaign for a fashion brand and then later found out that they use sweatshops to manufacture the clothes. Lesson learned. I always do my research now before accepting a job.”

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