“Purchase agreements for the South Shore Development,” she says curtly.
“Is that all you’re doing?”
She sets down her pen, looking up at me with annoyance. “Why?” she says.
“Well,” I reply patiently, “somebody tried to kill you last night. I assume they had a reason. Seems like it might have something to do with one of your current projects . . . ”
“It’s possible,” Riona says. “This is a two-billion-dollar development. That’s enough money to kill somebody over. But it doesn’t make much sense that they’d try to kill me. Drown me in the pool, and my family will just hire someone else to do the paperwork.”
She says it calmly, without emotion. But I think I hear an edge of bitterness in her voice. Like she really thinks the Griffins would just carry on with their project, barely missing her at all.
“I don’t think you get an office like this just by filling out paperwork,” I say.
“I think you know as much about lawyers as I do about chopping wood.” Riona sniffs.
“Fair enough.” I smile at her.
Riona goes back to her work.
I sit back in my chair and think.
The Griffins have a hundred enemies. Rival Irish families. Rival Italian families. Bratva. Polish Mafia . . .
Why try to kill Riona Griffin, though? And why try to make the drowning look accidental?
Most times when a mafia boss orders a killing, he wants to send a message. If the intent were to threaten the Griffins, or to revenge a past wrong, the hitman would have just shot Riona in the street. Or something much worse . . .
When you kill someone secretly, that’s personal.
The hit was directed at Riona, and Riona alone.
Because of something she did. Or something she knows . . .
Riona works all day long without taking a break for lunch. My stomach is growling, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of begging for food.
Around six p.m., she finally starts packing up the papers on her desk.
“Chow time?” I say.
Riona checks her watch. “I’m meeting Dean for dinner,” she says.
“Who’s Dean?” I ask her.
“My boyfriend,” she says primly.
“Can’t wait to meet him.”
She frowns. “You’re not coming.”
“Sorry, darlin.’ I’m your bodyguard. That means anywhere you go, I go too.”
She narrows her eyes at me, and I can tell she’s trying to decide whether this is worth arguing. On the one hand, I think Riona hates not getting her way. On the other, I’m fixing her with a look that makes it plain that I’m planning to stick to her like honey on a bear paw. She’s not getting rid of me till this job is done.
“Fine,” she snaps at last. “But I don’t think Dean is going to like this.”
“He might.” I shrug. “I’m a pretty likable guy.”
I grab my jacket and follow her over to the elevator.
“You got a car?” I ask her.
“No,” she says. “I don’t need one. I only live a few blocks from the office. And it’s easy to get a cab or an Uber if I want to go anywhere else.”
“Easy for someone to pretend to be a cab driver, too,” I tell her, eyebrow raised.
“Well that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” she says. “In case of murderous, phony cab drivers.”
I can tell she’s already chafing under the inconvenience of having her plans and routines challenged. And this is only day one. We’ve barely gotten started.
Riona strides out to the curb, holding up her hand to hail the nearest cab. As it pulls up, I reach out to open her door for her.
“I can do it,” she snaps. She pulls the handle herself and slides into the backseat. I follow after her, sitting directly behind the driver.
“Where to?” he asks us.
“Amuse Bouche,” Riona says.
“Great seafood at that place,” the cabbie says cheerfully.
Riona ignores him, and me as well, looking out the window as we cross over the river.
“So tell me about Dean,” I say to Riona.
“Why?”
“Because I need to know about everyone in your life. Everyone you’ve been interacting with.”
“Dean doesn’t have anything to do with . . . ” she glances up at the cab driver, who’s listening to a country song, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “Anything to do with what happened,” she finishes.
“We don’t know that. Because we don’t know what happened, or why.”
“That’s ridiculous. Dean’s a surgeon. He’s not—”
“What kind of surgeon?” I say.
Riona takes a slow breath, clearly annoyed with me. “He’s a thoracic surgeon,” she says.
“And how long have you two been dating?”
“Three months.”
“How did you meet?”
“Is this really—”
“Just answer the questions. It’s easier than arguing.”
Riona tosses her head, throwing her long, flame-colored ponytail back over her shoulder. Her hair is the most vivid I’ve ever seen—not orange or strawberry-blonde. A true bright red. Her eyebrows and lashes are much darker, like the black points on a fox’s ears and nose.
There’s nothing delicate or girlish about Riona. She’s a woman through and through. She has a long, straight nose, wide mouth, strong cheekbones, and poker-straight posture. Tall, and not afraid to wear heels to make herself taller.
“Do you think I do anything because it’s easier?” she says.
“Sure you do,” I say. “Smart people don’t do things the hard way.”
“Know a few smart people, do you?” she says mockingly.
“Why you tryin’ so hard to fight with me? We’re not enemies.”
“We’re not friends either.” She sniffs.
I just chuckle and shake my head at her, which annoys her more than if I’d gotten angry.
Riona may look like a fox, but she’s got the temperament of a thoroughbred—haughty and high-strung. I don’t think she’s bad-tempered. She just doesn’t trust easily.
I know how to handle thoroughbreds. I grew up on a horse ranch, after all.
“Come on,” I say gently. “Tell me where you met this Dean guy. Was it on Tinder? You can tell me if it was Tinder.”
“No,” Riona says, refusing to smile. “It wasn’t Tinder.”
“Where, then?”
“It was a friend’s birthday party. I was opening a bottle of wine. The stopper slipped. I cut my finger. He helped bandage it.”
“And he didn’t send you a bill after, so you knew it was true love.”
“No. He just asked to take me out for coffee the next day.”
“Who was your mutual friend?”
“Her name’s Amanda. We went to law school together.”
“How did Dean know her?”
“He plays racquetball with her fiancé Greg.”
We’re pulling up in front of the restaurant now. Riona says, “Satisfied? You’re not going to interrogate him, too, I hope.”
“Nah, of course not.” I grin. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse. You’ll barely even know I’m there.”