Page 19 of Cause of Action

On my way out, I stopped by Julian’s office, where he and Parker were discussing a case.

“Hey, you two.” I tapped on the doorframe. “I’m going to get Morgan and bring her back here.”

“Before or after you fuck her?” Julian asked.

“Very funny.” I smirked. “You two behave yourselves when she gets here. Consider yourselves warned.”

“Why do we have to behave ourselves and you don’t?” Parker asked.

“I’m the one who slept with her, so I don’t have to behave myself.” I winked and headed toward the elevator.

I arrived at the Four Seasons.

“Welcome to the Four Seasons. How can I help you?” a young man with a smile asked.

“I’m checking in. The room is reserved under Hamilton Group.”

“Ah, yes. I’ll just need to see your I.D.”

I handed him my I.D.

“Name of the guest staying?” he asked.

“Morgan Ashley. I’ll need a key as well.” I glanced at my watch. “She should be arriving here in about forty-five minutes.”

“Your guest will be in room 7804. Here is your key.”

“Thank you. The suite isn’t less than 1250 square feet, right?” I asked.

“The suite is 1400 square feet, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Excellent. Don’t tell Miss Ashley I’m up in the room when she arrives. I want it to be a surprise.” I smiled.

“I won’t.”

Taking the elevator to the seventh floor, I swiped my keycard and entered the suite. Tucking my hands into my pants pockets, I walked around, taking in its beauty. I walked over to the mini bar and pulled out a bottle of scotch, pouring some into a glass. Sitting on one of the wing-backed chairs facing the door, I waited for her.

CHAPTER 7

Morgan

The flight attendant handed me my whiskey on the rocks.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. If you need anything else, please let me know.”

After taking a sip, I set the cup down and opened my laptop.

“Let’s see exactly who you are, Mr. Roman Hamilton,” I whispered.

His picture appeared on the screen, and the woman beside me commented.

“Oh my. He’s a very handsome young man. If only I were twenty years younger.”

My brows furrowed because it was more like thirty.

He was a thirty-one-year-old man who owned a home in Pacific Palisades with expansive ocean views, for which he had paid seven million dollars three years ago. His mother, Katherine Mallory, was a well-known jewelry designer; his father, Harrison Hamilton, was a retired high-powered attorney. After several more strokes of the keys, I pulled up his taxrecords, which looked clean. He was all paid up, and nothing was outstanding.

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