a connection to his father or, more significantly, to his family’s ownership of Quentin’s competitor Shetland Tech Corporation.
“You got me,” he answered.
“I’m guessing it’s not classical music you’re promoting.” Her gaze seemed to take in the party which was growing more raucous by the hour.
Brody knew it was only a matter of time until a fight broke out or someone got tossed into the pool. Breakage was a given. Quentin seemed to have a cleanup crew on perpetual standby to deal with whatever carnage was wrought at the late-night parties.
“Rock ’n roll,” he answered.
“Anyone I might recognize?”
“Confidential, I’m afraid.”
It was his pat answer whenever anyone pressed for details. Luckily, so far nobody had probed further. He had enough money to buy credibility, and he doubted anybody really cared beyond that. He suspected most of the people in Quentin’s circle lied about their background or profession in some way or another.
“Are you in LA for a concert?” she asked.
“I’m on vacation.”
“Amusement parks and surfing?”
“Something like that. What about you?”
A cloud crossed her eyes. “You may have heard my sister was killed.”
“I did.” He wondered if he might have misjudged her. In this moment, her remorse struck him as genuine. “I’m sorry.”
But then she seemed to shake off the melancholy. “We were estranged. I hadn’t seen her in seven years.”
They made it to the bar, and he placed their order—champagne for her and another Shet Select for him.
“Bad blood?” he asked, finding himself curious.
“Different goals and objectives in life.” She accepted the flute of champagne.
“How so?”
She seemed to hesitate. “Hard to put my finger on it now.” Then she grinned, the happy-go-lucky expression coming back into her eyes. “Interesting that she was with Quentin.” The new tone was searching.
“Interesting,” Brody agreed, thinking Quentin was probably right. Kate was here to trade on her sister’s relationship with an enormously wealthy man.
“Quentin said you were down from Seattle,” he continued.
“I live there.”
“That wouldn’t have been my first guess.”
Her eyebrow arched. “Why not?”
“It doesn’t seem like a very exciting town.” His rock ’n roll alter ego jumped in. “And you seem like an exciting girl.”
“Seattle might surprise you.” She flashed a secretive smile, clinked her glass to his and turned to walk from the bar.
He could have let the conversation end there. It would have been the smart move. Kate was a distraction, and he didn’t need any distractions right now. He was here to schmooze Quentin and the Beast Blue Designs team, get inside information on who was who and then pump them for details so he could prove they’d stolen intellectual property from Shetland Tech.
So far, his conversations with Scotland Yard and the LAPD had gotten him nowhere. Both police forces were focused on murders, kidnappings and drug crimes and had little time for possible corporate espionage. Not that he blamed them. They had to prioritize.
His second plan had been to hire a private investigator. But the guy they’d put undercover at Beast Blue Designs had been caught snooping, and the company was a veritable fortress of security and secrecy. He hadn’t found out a single thing.
Running out of time, Brody had taken matters into his own hands. He was trying to gain Quentin’s trust on a personal level to find a route into the company.
He told his feet to walk away from Kate. But they didn’t.
“What do you do in Seattle?” he asked instead.
“This and that,” she answered vaguely.
The answer likely meant she was unemployed, or perhaps embarrassed by her profession. Maybe she was a criminal, or a con artist, or simply a shameless opportunist.
Whatever she was, she was sexy as hell. He should be sprinting away from her and focusing on business. Instead, he eased closer, gazing into her blue eyes, touching his glass to hers a second time.
“To this and that,” he said.
The party was confirming Kate’s worst fears. It was a rambunctious crowd, fuelled by throbbing techno music and excessive drinking. She was no expert, but she thought she detected the scent of marijuana wafting up from the gardens. And she feared there could be other recreational drugs being passed around Quentin’s mansion.
She couldn’t imagine what her sister had been thinking to bring a baby into an environment like this. On second thought, she supposed she knew exactly what Francie had been thinking: nothing, at least nothing beyond enjoying the next ten minutes of her life. She’d inherited that trait from Chloe.
As recently as this morning, Kate had convinced herself Annabelle would be fine. Chloe had sworn that Annabelle was the luckiest little girl in the world. Chloe had read all about Quentin Roo and was more than impressed with his money and his success.
He was in mourning now, she had said, and not ready to introduce Annabelle to anyone from the family. Impatient to get away from her childhood memories and back home again, Kate had been willing to buy into Chloe’s optimism.
She’d made it as far as the airport, her bags checked, and arrangements made with Nadia to pick her up in Seattle. But while she waited for her flight to board she’d done an internet search and found some news items featuring Quentin. One showed him outside a downtown nightclub a few weeks back. He was clearly intoxicated, a sexy woman on his arm, confronting a police officer over the right to drive his fancy sports car.
Disturbed by the images, Kate had searched further. His social media presence painted a picture of a party animal. She also found clips of his belligerent behavior and descriptions of wild times held at his mansion. He might be rich, but he definitely wasn’t responsible.
Protective instincts had welled up inside her. She’d cancelled her flight and left the airport, determined to confront him, determined to demand access to Annabelle and the right to ensure the baby was safe. But halfway to his mansion, she’d stopped herself, realizing the confrontational approach was almost guaranteed to fail.
She knew she needed a better plan, something more subtle in order to get close to Annabelle without spooking Quentin. The best way she could think of to do that was appear amicable and nonthreatening, to fit seamlessly into his world. She’d decided the best option was to get to Quentin and pretend she was just like Francie.
One crazy makeover later, she did look like Francie. And now she was inside the party. And she’d met Quentin. Even if it was only momentarily, it was still a start.
The man named Brody kept pace with her along the pool deck. Whoops of delight echoed around them. Groups of people talked and laughed, drinks in hands, eyes alight with enthusiasm and exhilaration. The staccato of the bassline pummeled through to her bones.
She kept an eye on Quentin, waiting for the right moment to approach him again. He was engrossed in conversation with a tall blonde woman. She was model-thin, taller than Quentin, with impossibly long limbs and a gorgeous face that would do justice to any magazine cover.
“I’ve never been up north myself,” Brody stated conversationally.
His deep,