Devine didn’t hear her because he was looking at the name of the gent who had pinged her with the proposal.
Yep, old Christian F. Chilton. That is no coincidence. He clearly knows who I am and that Jill is my roommate.
He pulled his gaze away. “Look, don’t do anything with these guys right now, okay? Just executive-lag it for a bit.”
She said doubtfully, “Okay, but twenty-five million is twenty-five million, Travis.”
“Just play it cool and that might become fifty mil or even more.”
“Wait a minute, I don’t want to sell the company. I want to build it. It’s my baby.”
“I’m not asking you to sell anything. Just trust me, Jill. And go get some dinner.”
He left her there and rode out into the night on his motorcycle for his appointment with Brad Cowl.
CHAPTER
31
DEVINE PULLED TO A STOP across the street from Cowl’s palace, locked his bike and his helmet up, and jogged across the street. This was the address on the note Paulson had handed him. The place was lit up like a Christmas tree, and there were exotic cars parked in front, including an old but perfectly restored cherry-red Duesenberg Phaeton. There seemed to be a party going on. Devine had envisioned a private confrontation on Cowl’s home turf. The investment magnate had scored the first surprise of the night.
There was a call button at the gate and a video camera. He waved to it and told them who he was. The gates parted and in he walked.
At the front door were beefy guys Devine’s size or bigger who gave him a methodical pat-down, made him lift his shirt, and then wanded his torso and arms and legs for good measure.
“The ladies must love that almost as much as you guys do,” he said to one of them. That didn’t even score him a grin in return.
Inside, the place was as modern-looking and fantastic as the outside. Soaring ceilings, lots of oddly shaped windows, expensive woods and shiny metals in interesting configurations. Textured tiles on the floor interspersed with bursts of colorful rugs. Minimalist furnishings, one-of-a-kind lighting fixtures, some small and intimate, others the size of small satellites, with customized features in wood, metal, and even fabric. The paintings on the walls were more Picasso and Pollock than da Vinci or Degas.
Devine counted about twenty people, at least in this area. It was a nice night and he figured there would certainly be people out by the pool. He looked around for the bikini lady but didn’t see her. He wasn’t really sure what to do. Did he ask for Cowl? Would the man find him? Was he to stand here like a schoolboy awaiting his punishment from the principal?
Instead, he decided to go in search of a drink.
Devine found it in the next room, where there was a full bar set up. A few people were in line ahead of him. They turned and stared at him for a few moments. Devine figured he didn’t look important enough or wasn’t stylishly dressed enough, because they turned back around without speaking.
He took his glass of beer and started wandering from room to room. There were a few people scattered here and there, but they seemed dwarfed by the space. Devine figured you could cloister an entire Army battalion in here, no problem.
Everyone looked tanned and relaxed and outfitted casually in clothes that he was pretty sure had cost a small fortune. He walked into another room and stiffened as the bikini lady appeared out of nowhere and walked up to him. A man should have a little warning before she glided in from stage right, he thought.
She had on an ultra-tight lime-green strappy Lycra minidress that accentuated her figure and tan to a stunning degree. Remarkable blue eyes, flashing white teeth, blond hair dancing around her elegantly chiseled features. Gold sandals completed the picture, and he caught himself gazing at her turquoise-painted toes.
All Devine could think of was Christie Brinkley in the red Ferrari driving that sucker Chevy Chase to the gates of horny Hell. While that movie had been made before he was even born, it was a classic and still brought a shit-eating grin to Devine’s face.
“I’m Michelle Montgomery.”
“Travis Devine.”
They shook hands.
“Mr. Devine, nice to meet you.”
“It’s Travis, please.”
In the back of his head was the image of her and a bandaged Christian F. Chilton chatting by the pool.
Maybe about me?
And next he wondered if Chilton was here tonight. If so, the gig would be up. He hadn’t seen the BMW Eight in the courtyard, but a guy like Chilton would have multiple cars. And maybe someone who drove him places when he so desired. Maybe the punk owned the Duesenberg.