the carved desk, and the gruff man behind it, Dena wiped her clammy hands discreetly down her suit skirt. “There is no mistake. Not really. I’m a crisis communications expert.”
Zeke ignored her—almost to the point of dismissal—while he arranged papers she suspected needed no re-arrangement.
“One moment,” he said. “I’ve asked someone to join us.”
“No problem.” She turned to the window and her breath caught. A glint of sun on steel in the distance made her heart pound. Could that be the girders of the hotel? Oh geez, she couldn’t have a panic attack here. She closed her eyes, slowed her breathing.
Images of her sister’s body being unearthed by the construction crew replayed in her mind. Carli! A tiny shudder jerked her shoulder and she took a quick look around, worried she’d whimpered her sister’s name aloud. It wasn’t right to die like that, not for either woman. Dena pressed her lips tight, glad to see that Zeke remained preoccupied.
This was not the time or place for emotion.
She straightened her shoulders and concentrated on Zeke. How could he be so rude? In her business a guest would have been offered water or coffee. He perused another sheet of paper. His photo had accompanied many of the articles in the Los Angeles Times three months ago. Then he’d had a smooth, almost aristocratic bearing. His features were craggy now, and there were shadows beneath his eyes. His dark blond hair looked in need of a trim, and—
He raised his head, and her face warmed at being caught.
He looked at her for a moment, and then beyond her, toward the office door.
“Ms. Roman, this is Rocky, my foreman. He knows the running of Three C’s better than I do. Rocky, we have a problem.”
Rocky bobbed his head in her direction. Gripping his cowboy hat, he gave Zeke a wide-eyed stare, and then sat on the edge of the chair next to hers. He didn’t make further eye contact.
“It’s nice to meet you.” Dena offered her hand but he didn’t seem to notice. She sat back. She’d have to play her cards right to get Zeke to sign a contract. Maybe Rocky was her ace, since he ran the place. “Rocky. That’s an interesting name.”
He eased back a little in the chair, but still gripped his hat. “Me and Zeke, we’re second generation Argentine. Rock is my last name, been called Rocky since grade school, right Zeke?”
Zeke gave a brief nod. Good, Rocky is a talker. I have a chance with a talker. Dena observed both men, and felt in control for the first time since she’d entered the office. The men were a set of salt and pepper shakers, one tall and cool with light eyes, the other square, muscular and dark. She figured she had the two of them pegged, as far as personalities went.
“You can see the problem,” Zeke said, looking at Rocky. “We had requested a male rep, and—” Police sirens wailed nearby.
Dena’s stomach clenched. “Are the police coming here?”
Zeke stared at her for a moment. “I don’t think so.”
“Okay,” she said, but her stomach felt queasy. Had they found another woman’s body, a third victim? How many could there be?
Zeke turned toward the window, tilted his head and listened. Rocky fiddled with his hat.
Zeke had been proven innocent in Carli’s case. There had been no DNA match. Besides, who in their right mind would murder women, bury them on their land, and then sell that land? But that didn’t mean someone working on the estate couldn’t be the murderer. She looked away from him and focused on the large legal-type tomes in the bookshelves. She’d forgotten he was a lawyer. The clock on the wall ticked loudly. The sirens softened. Zeke turned to face her.
“We’ll discuss the contract first,” Dena said, sensing her time had come to a fast end and not wanting to lose even a second.
“Ms. Roman, I can’t—”
“Dena.” She flashed a smile, and slid the contract across the desk. She thought she heard him sigh in resignation.
Zeke lowered his head and began reading.
That’s a surprise. That’s good. He perused the papers, and one long tapered finger underscored each line. She waited impatiently. She’d tell him the truth on Monday. Of course she would.
He raised his head and slapped a hand on the contract. “I’m sorry. I can’t have you represent me.”
“But…why not?”
“I don’t want to work with a woman. No offense.”
She was being turned away because of her gender? She began to sweat again and her