Page 40 of Wicked Fortune

He wants to play games? Fine. I’m taking the game to him.

FIFTEEN

Holt’s address is a well-kept secret, but it turns out that as his shiny new PA, I’ll have the privilege of schlepping things to him when he works at home. Which is why his address and the number for his landline are both right there on the Key Information sheet that Lila emailed to me earlier in the day.

Even better, for those occasions when I might have to deliver something when he’s not home, I have the code to his front door.

As far as I’m concerned, that pretty much makes my mission pre-ordained.

Now, I’m standing on the dark street, well out of the circle of light thrown by the single streetlamp. It’s a dead-end, and Holt’s house is at the very end, the front door accessed by a staircase that dips down into the canyon. I take the steps slowly, appreciating the dim illumination built into the railing. I pause at the first landing, realizing the home is built like a treehouse. It sits atop a massive concrete pole buried deep into the hills. The pole—which I assume encloses an elevator, rises up to the stunning, round home at which I’m currently gaping.

It takes me a moment to find the entrance, and by the time my finger is hovering over the doorbell, I think of Jenny and almost lose my nerve. After all, I still haven’t got a clue what really happened to her.

That’s the point. I haven’t got a clue what happened to her.

I’m here to get answers from Holt. Or at least to get closer so I can ask the right questions. And, yes, maybe I’m stepping into the hornet’s nest. And, yes, maybe I’m a fool. But whether he’s involved in something nefarious or not, I can’t make myself believe that Matthew Holt will hurt me.

Which means I’m either very perceptive or far too trusting.

Dammit.

I jam my finger on the glowing yellow button before I can talk myself out of it. Then I push it again and again and again in defense against my lingering urge to bolt.

I’m about to use the key-code when the porch light snaps on. Seconds later, the speaker crackles. “Aria.”

The heat in his voice is palpable, and once again, my nerve begins to fade.

“Since we’re very much past working hours, I hope this is a social call.”

I glance up and around until I find the security camera. Then I stare directly at it. “We need to talk.”

I expect a reply—probably something snarky about my timing—and when I don’t get one, I fear he’s gone back to sleep, probably after pushing some button that makes sure he neither sees nor hears anything more from me.

Screw that.

I pull out my phone so I can call up the key code, but before I can get to it, the locks click, the door swings open, and there’s Matthew Holt, disheveled in a way that makes him look both dangerous and wildly sexy.

I hear myself release a breathy little oh as I take in the black tee clinging to his broad, muscular chest. The faded jeans sitting low on his hips. The tousled hair and unshaved jaw.

He doesn’t look like a CEO right now. He looks like trouble. More than that, he looks like delicious, lickable sin, and when I try to speak, I find that my mouth’s desert dry. I swallow, trying to remember why the hell I’m here.

“I’m going to guess you’re not selling Girl Scout cookies.”

“I’m not selling anything,” I say with what I hope is a saucy smile. “I’m giving it away.”

His brows rise, and I wink before stepping inside a space that can only be described as breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the entire living room, and the lights from the Valley glitter like stars against the inky blackness. The house feels weightless, perched so high above the world that it seems suspended in air. It’s like the tower of a castle from which Holt looks out over his domain.

“—for free?”

I shake my head, realizing I missed most of what he’d said. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I asked about the valuable commodity you’re giving away for free.” He takes a step back and makes a show of looking me up and down. “Shall I tell you what I’m hoping for?”

“Legal advice,” I say firmly. “I’m not really a lawyer, but with your help, I could play one on TV.”

I see the way his eyes crinkle as he presses his lips together, clearly fighting a laugh. After a moment, he tilts his head in a nod. “It’s a foolish CEO who ignores free legal advice. But the law always seems to go down better with a drink. Can I offer you anything? It’s not yet last call.”

“Maybe not by the clock, but I think that bell has rung for me.” Mostly because I want to keep my wits. But I don’t tell him that part.