Page 57 of My Secret Santa Dallas

“Did he think he could get away with this?” I asked as we drove into the winding driveway. “And why do you have dinner on Christmas Eve and not on the day itself?”

“We are usually out on Christmas Day, visiting hospitals, donating toys, and making a public donation to the cancer and women’s wards,” Blair said. “Those donations are an accumulated mass of donations, though, not ours.”

“Of course,” I snorted.

It was about four in the afternoon, and I knew the pre-dinner drinks and appetizers were already circling the large dining room. I knew we had no intention of staying and eating, though.

After handing the car off to a valet, Blair led the way inside the most luxurious building I had ever been in; I guess the upper one percent did have vastly different lives.

An honest-to-God butler, clad in all black, bow tie, cummerbund and all, bowed to Blair and said, “Welcome home, Miss Blair.”

“Thank you, Stevens,” she said. “This is Dallas. He will be with me tonight.”

“Welcome, sir,” he added with a nod. “Please, follow me to the dining room.”

As we entered the vast dining room, a faceted chandelier hung above elegantly clad women and men sporting a fortune in jewelry at their throats and ears, meandering around, chatting, and drinking champagne.

A few of them eyed Blair as she meandered through the crowd, her silver gown hugging all the right places, but I knew she was not there to mingle. She headed to a man standing in the alcoves of the room, sipping a glass of scotch, and a woman came to his side; by the half-and-half resemblances, I figured they were her parents.

“Dad, Mom,” she said. “Do you have a minute? We’re not here to stay long.”

Her father frowned, his eyes flickering between me and his daughter. “I would say yes, but things are about to proceed, dear. Do you mind introducing me to your friend?”

“His name is Dallas Donovan, and I am working with him on a business deal,” she said. “Believe me, this discussion will not take long. I need you to get Wentworth and Mister Randall Crumley to join us. I’ll explain when we get to your study.”

Her mother frowned, “Must you do this now, dear? Can it wait?”

“With all due respect, ma’am, no, it cannot wait,” I said respectfully. “Believe me, we would not be here at this pivotal moment if it weren't critical.”

Her father’s shoulders sagged an inch. “I suppose we must. The guests won’t mind a few more minutes to linger and drink Sauvignon Blanc. Why do you need the banker?”

“You’ll see when we get to your study,” Blair replied.

After the man of the house instructed the butler to find his son and the banker and send them to his office, we crossed the room to a discreetly hidden elevator and rode up two or three stories to a corridor as elegant as the rest of the house was.

We headed down to a room that screamed hand-crafted European furniture, and I pulled out a chair for Blair; her mother smiled in approval.

Thankfully, we didn’t have to wait too long before the two men entered the room; I spotted this Wentworth in seconds; he had the same coloring as Blair but wore it with a smug superiority that chafed against my skin.

He jerked in his step at seeing me but slapped a broad smile on his face. “Blair, welcome back. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“We came to ask you about the threat you issued to Dallas' brother’s ranch,” she said, “That someone was going to lose either way.”

“What are you talking about?” Wentworth asked nonchalantly.

“The threat about either Blair leaving our relationship or you’ll ask your banker friend here to hike up the interest on a non-existent loan or repossess the ranch,” I said again. “Surely you haven’t forgotten about it? It was a day ago.”

“I’ve done no such thing,” he bluffed.

I had to give this guy his cojones; he could bluff his ass off like a professional poker player. Blair took out my cell and accessed the recording while she pulled a file from her purse and slid a document over to her dad. It was a paper from the bank showing that the loan Warrick took years ago had been paid off.

Meanwhile, with the recording playing, Mrs. Cullen got paler and paler to the point where I got off my spot against the wall, ready to catch her. Wentworth, however, still had the poker face on, but his pulse was pounding like a drum.

When the recording ended, her father said, “Wentworth, care to explain that?”

“It’s a fake,” he said calmly. “AI or some deep fake or something.”

Blair cocked her head. “So, I’d clone my voice to make you look bad? Stop with the bullshit, Wentworth, you are a thin-skinned slimeball. Mister Randall Crumley, would you have heeded his request?”

---