“I’m not second-guessing you,” Adam assured him. “I’m just getting a feel for what’s happening. You’ve done a helluva job.”
Tyler rewarded him with one of his trademark smiles, but Adam couldn’t help wondering what his friend was thinking. Adam knew he’d changed a lot in the last two and a half years. Apparently, Tyler was different as well. Were they going to be close friends again? Would they be able to work together?
Hell, he hoped so. During his time overseas, Tyler had been like a lifeline. He’d e-mailed Adam at least once a week. True, most of his messages had been about the company-very little personal stuff-but they’d meant a lot to Adam. Without many relatives and not having many close friends, Adam had counted on Tyler’s moral support.
“Look…” Tyler shuffled over to the window, looked out at the view for a moment, then continued, “About Holly. We didn’t mean…for anything to happen. It just did.”
“No problem,” Adam replied, and he meant it. Okay, maybe some small part of him had wanted Holly to wait and give their relationship a chance. But almost three years was a long time, especially since he’d given her the big kiss-off just before he’d left. Hell, most of the married guys in Iraq had problems making their marriages work long-distance. He’d been right to end the relationship when he had.
“You’ll hook up with someone new,” Tyler assured him. “You always were the one the women went after.”
Adam couldn’t help thinking about Whitney. He knew damn well she wouldn’t agree with Tyler. He’d frightened the wits out of her. Worse, she had an ex who was still in the picture.
Aw, hell. No one had ever accused him of being sensible. Something about Whitney sent his brain into a tailspin. He found her really sexy. And he’d spent so much time without a woman that he needed sex in the worst way-yet something inside him was desperate for so much more than a quickie.
What did he want? Seeing death so often-so close-made him value life. He wanted a family, and that meant kids…and a wife. He needed a woman, someone special to share things with, someone to discuss important things with-someone special. He kept thinking about Whitney. She might not be that person, but it wouldn’t hurt to investigate.
He smiled inwardly. Hell, he was good at investigating.
CHAPTER SIX
RYAN FORDHAM STARED out at the bay just beyond Peohe’s restaurant. A Coast Guard cutter slogged its way out to sea while yachts whizzed by, their sails amber in the light of the setting sun. Beside him, Ashley chatted about the house she longed to possess. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he’d already contacted the broker and had withdrawn their bid. What choice did he have? Until Whitney signed the documents and he had full control of their property, he was precariously low on funds.
Almost totally broke, he grudgingly admitted to himself.
What money he had managed to raise must go into his new practice and toward paying off Domenic Coriz. Just the thought of the big Native American sent a bead of sweat crawling like a centipede down the back of his neck.
Why can’t you stop gambling? he asked himself for the hundredth time.
You can, responded the logical part of his brain, the way it had countless times during the last three years. Over and over, he’d told himself he would never step into a casino again. Each time he broke his promise.
Gambling was an addiction, he reminded himself, and it was just as powerful as being hooked on cocaine or alcohol. Maybe more so. Winning gave him a high that he couldn’t achieve even with the hottest, kinkiest sex. Losing was a total downer, but the high’s promise was enough to lure him back to the tables again and again.
“What?” he asked, realizing Ashley had said something. “My mind wandered.”
Ashley studied him for a moment, then repeated, “I said I picked up papers to file for my resale license. I need to put down the name of my business. I can’t decide between Ashley’s Interiors or Ashley’s Designs.”
“‘Designs,’” he said emphatically. “‘Interiors’ limits you to decorating. With ‘designs’ you can branch off into other things, like art or clothing. With your talent, you can do almost anything.”
Ashley rewarded him with her winning smile. It was accompanied by an adorable mischievous glint that fired her blue eyes. That captivating expression had instantly won his heart the minute he’d introduced himself to her on his first visit to the cosmetic surgery group he’d later joined. Until he’d met Ashley, Ryan hadn’t believed in love at first sight. Now he was convinced.
Ryan had thought he’d loved Whitney, but he’d been mistaken. What he’d felt for his ex-wife had been a certain fondness magnified by sexual attraction. But it was so much…less than the heartfelt emotion Ashley evoked.
“You’re right,” Ashley told him. “Ashley’s Designs it is. I’m going to start with a small office in the house.”
“Good.” He didn’t mention that he didn’t have the capital to bankroll even the most modest business. Damn Whitney. The bitch had already agreed to the settlement. Why did she have to pick now-of all times-to become uncharacteristically stubborn?
“Dr. Fordham?” Their waiter interrupted his thoughts. “A man in the bar needs to see you.”
“Have him join us,” Ashley responded.
“Don’t bother.” Ryan stood, a little unnerved. Who knew they were here? It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision to enjoy the sunset over the bay. “We don’t want our romantic dinner interrupted. Do we?”
Without waiting for an answer, Ryan followed the waiter, his apprehensive feeling intensifying. Had someone been following him? Was that how he knew they were here?
What now? His new partners were pressing him to line up financing for his portion of the long-term lease on the state-of-the-art cosmetic surgery facility. He was several payments behind on his first and second mortgage and on the home equity line of credit he’d taken out when real estate skyrocketed last year. Home sales had since flattened, yet bills kept marching across his desk with frightening regularity. But nothing could beat the pressure he was getting from Coriz.
The waiter led him into the bar area. It was jammed with twenty-something Gen-Xers trying to hook up. Ryan spotted a lone man in the far corner. He looked like a guy from the wrestling channel attempting to pass for normal in street clothes.
One of Coriz’s men. Christ! They had been following him. The goon stepped forward as Ryan shouldered his way toward him, and the waiter melded into the crowd.
“Fordham.”
The single word was low, gruff and wouldn’t be noticed by the people standing around like cigars jammed into a box. Still, the menacing tone cut right through Ryan like one of the lasers he used on his patients.
He forced himself to employ his most arrogant voice. “Do I know you?”
“Naw.” The creep shrugged and emphasized powerful shoulders beneath his Tommy Bahama shirt. “I’m one of Dom’s guys.”
Dom. Only Domenic Coriz’s closest associates called him “Dom.”
“Dom wants a progress report. Did your ex sign the papers?”
“Not yet, but she will,” Ryan assured him, though he had his doubts about how soon he could expect to see signed documents.
“Dom don’t want no fuckin’ lawyers involved.”
For a second Ryan’s knees wobbled. How could they know Whitney planned to consult Broderick Babcock? They must be eavesdropping on him with some sophisticated device as well as following him. Those cocksuckers!
Ryan drew himself up to take full advantage of his height. Dom’s man might be muscle-bound but Ryan had a good six inches on him at least. “You tell Dom that I’ll take care of my ex.”
The goon studied Ryan with dark eyes as if he were inspecting some alien species, then his lips curled into a smirk. “Remember this is time…s-sensitive.”