After This - Liora Blake Page 0,1

her ear, murmuring the occasional affirmative sound to whoever is on the other end of the line. She’s dressed in a simple red sheath dress paired with stilettos that add a good four inches to her height. Her only accessories are her wedding ring and a pair of princess-cut diamond solitaire earrings. Her jet-black hair is styled into a sharp chin-length bob that matches the rest of her refined, minimalist style.

“What I want, Mr. Sterling,” she says in a measured tone, “is your assurance that this deal is going to be worth my time. I don’t take kindly to being sent on a fool’s errand, especially when it involves a significant investment of up-front capital. My capital.”

I set the macchiato in the center of her desk, then smooth the front of my dress shirt and straighten the lapels on my suit before settling into one of the leather chairs opposite her. Mom glances at the cup, then moves her calculating gaze up to mine. I give her my best charming grin, to which she responds by raising one eyebrow suspiciously.

Shit. So much for gaining favor by way of a macchiato. Evidently my thoughtful, caffeinated gesture won’t get me out of whatever I’m here for.

She allows Mr. Sterling the courtesy of the last word before politely saying goodbye and then hanging up. I don’t know what deal she’s working on with Sterling, but I do know there’s little chance she allowed him the last word as some act of deference. In the end, Alessandra Rossi-Mason always has the final say.

She drops her cell phone on the desk, slips gracefully into her chair, and eyes the macchiato before taking a deep breath. I keep my mouth shut and do nothing but sit up straighter, waiting as she takes a sip of the coffee. She lets out a measured exhale and sets the small porcelain cup down on its saucer before fixing her attention on me.

“I need you to go to Colorado.”

It takes a moment for me to process her statement, but when I do, I say the first idiotic thing that comes to mind.

“Me?” I actually point at myself, as if she might need a reminder of whom she’s talking to. She answers by way of another raised eyebrow. My second reply sounds almost as dim-witted as the first. “Why?”

She takes another sip of her coffee. “While I’d like to respond by saying ‘Because I said so, topolino,’ I won’t do that to you. You’re a grown man, after all.”

I give in to a little eye roll. That claim would hold more water if she hadn’t just used an endearment from my childhood. Topolino means little mouse. The name suited me as a toddler, given my penchant for burrowing into small spaces—under beds, behind furniture, and inside storage cubbies—whenever I wanted to eat the cookies I’d absconded with.

After setting her cup aside again, she leafs through a stack of files on her desk, finally pulling one out and sliding it toward me.

“But the real answer to your question is: Tate Marshall.” She sighs. “He’s made a mess out of an acquisition there. I need you to go clean it up and close this deal.”

Ah, Tate Marshall. That explains a few things. He’s our resident slimeball. But for about ten percent of the high profile clients we deal with, Tate has just the right amount of smarmy bravado and greasy charm to become their best friend, even after he’s purchased their property for twenty percent under market value, wrecked their boat, and fucked their wife. For the rest of the more lucid people we do business with, he makes them queasy and/or homicidal.

I happen to think that Tate and his macho bullshit are a waste of good business cards. Unfortunately, he also has thirty years’ worth of very wealthy allies in the real estate industry, which means it’s better to have him working for us than against us.

That doesn’t explain why I’m now involved in his latest fuckup though. I reach for the file folder, although it’s strictly out of reflex. Mom put it there, so now I’m picking it up because that’s what she expects. I do my best to scan the pages inside as if I’m actually digesting what’s on them, but all I’m really doing is wondering if this is some sort of joke. If it isn’t, then I’m really confused.

My job at Mason Enterprises is simple: I’m the good-times guy. My business card says “Alec Mason, Vice President, Public