Page 23 of Hard Limits

“What do you think I should do about the job?”

“Honestly? I think it has more pros than cons right now. And if you quit another job so soon, it’ll start to look as if you’re the problem, not your sucky employers. What if you ended up with another Lance?”

“That would be worse.”

“And it’s not as if Mr. Vale— He seriously makes you call him that?”

“Yes.”

“What a snob. Anyhow, it’s not as if Mr. Vale’s asking you to go in the basement, is it?”

“He said I’d never have to do that.”

“Although maybe you should? You’re way overdue for some action with a hot man.”

“I’m going to hang up now. Enjoy your digging.”

“Hope the job works out.”

“Fingers crossed.”

“But not your legs.”

“Oh, go fall in a hole.”

Meera was laughing as I hung up, but I definitely wouldn’t be taking her last piece of advice.

CHAPTER 9

BRAX

Carissa Dunn might have considered the Finlay Foundation benefit beneath her, but no such luck with the Alford Gala. Held in Maryland at the Alford family’s private art museum and just a hop, skip, and jump from the seat of power, the event attracted a host of politicians as well as entrepreneurs keen to hobnob with the influential, celebrities looking to shed the “nouveau riche” tag, and a handful of representatives from old-money families. A number of attendees were already members of Nyx, and Brax would bet his recently purchased Ulysse Nardin timepiece that other guests would become clients in the future. That was the reason for his presence—it was never too early to start the vetting process. As for Carissa, she just wanted to be seen among the great and the good. And the politicians.

“Gregorio,” she cooed beside him. “I loved your last movie.”

Had she even watched it? Brax hadn’t, but he’d asked Meera to do so as part of her research into tonight’s attendees, and she’d noted that the 2.2 rating it achieved on Rotten Tomatoes had been overly generous. Which figured—Gregorio Phillippé was a poseur with a brain the size of a walnut. That he’d remembered his lines was a miracle.

Phillippé kissed Carissa on both cheeks, his lips lingering longer than was polite but not long enough for Brax’s liking. He just needed her to sleep with one dumb asshole, that was all. The problem? Carissa was too smart. Brax had hired investigators, even sent in a number of eligible men with the sole intention of fucking her. She’d turned down every one of them. The stalemate continued. At this rate, they’d spend half of the contested money on private investigators—Brax had a team of three following her at all times, and he knew damn well she returned the favour. Occasionally, he spotted one of the watchers—a car in the wrong place, a dawdling passer-by, or a restaurant patron who paid a little too much attention. And those were the obvious ones. The double agents worried Brax more. Those who pretended to be friends and then reported snippets of information back to Carissa. There weren’t many, but Brax had no doubt there were a few.

“Sometimes, one has to take risks and step outside the comfort zone,” Phillippé said. “The script for Sink or Swim was written by a true visionary, a genius, and the director brought his masterpiece to life. The first day I walked on set, I knew that movie would change my life.”

For goodness’ sake. Sink or Swim was a romcom set in a hot-tub showroom, not a contender for this year’s Golden Globes. Carissa could talk to this jackass if she wanted to—they deserved each other—but Brax was done with the conversation. He checked his watch—not his new Ulysse Nardin, of course. If Carissa realised he’d bought it, she’d try to take that too. Eight thirty. He’d stay for another hour or two. Senator Jansen was rumoured to be making an appearance at some point, and a member had nominated him as a possible future addition to the client list. Carissa didn’t know that, thankfully. After the first year, she’d stepped back from the business, preferring to spend her time squandering the fruits of Brax’s labours instead of assisting in any way.

“Well, if it isn’t Braxton Dupré.”

A hand clapped Brax on the back, and although he hadn’t heard the voice in years, not in person anyway, he recognised the speaker immediately. His former friend and roommate, Greyson Meyer.

“You’re right; it isn’t Braxton Dupré.”

“Braxton Vale. I do apologise; old habits die hard.”

That part was true—Grey never missed an opportunity to remind people that he knew where the bodies were buried. His apology was as sincere as his smile to Brax’s hopefully soon-to-be ex-wife.

“Ah, and the lovely Carissa. You look radiant tonight. New dress?”

“Naturally.”

“The colour suits you.” Red, just like the blood she was out for. Grey winked at her. “I bet it cost Brax a fortune.”

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