"A biker." Tristan's lips twisted in distaste.
"And an MBA student who is clearly trying to get out of the family business. As for his association with Olivia, it is purely professional. They share a lawyer."
"Which brings me to issue number two. How well do you know Mr. Walsh?"
"His reputation--"
"We deal in fact, Mr. Morgan. Not gossip." Tristan opened his briefcase and handed James two folders. "That is the information we have collected on both Mr. Walsh and Mr. Gallagher. Neither is someone we wish to see associating with our candidate's future wife."
"I--"
"Our concern extends beyond their reputations for criminal and unsavory activities." The young man's voice dropped to a soothing murmur. "We fear for Ms. Jones's safety, as we believe you should."
"What?"
"We can see how she would find these two men appealing. They are both attractive and single, both powerful and successful in their own way, much like you. There is also the added appeal of . . ." Tristan seemed to search for a word. "Edge, perhaps. Excitement. Danger. These men have it in spades. While you . . ."
James heard the words hanging between them. While you do not.
You are James Morgan. You've made every most eligible bachelor list in the city for three years running. Women flirt with you everyplace you go. They buy you drinks. They give you their numbers. They pass you hotel room keys. And who is Olivia Taylor-Jones? The daughter of convicted serial killers. Yet she dumps you for a biker. A twenty-two-year-old biker.
He heard the words as if someone whispered them in his ear, and he felt the outrage of them.
If you want her, she should be yours.
He looked up sharply. He could have sworn he actually did hear those words, but Tristan only stood there, waiting and watching him.
She should be yours. You deserve her. They do not.
"I'll leave those files with you, Mr. Morgan," Tristan said. "And I'll leave you with two thoughts. One, we would be very pleased if you reunited with your fiancee. Two, if you do not, and there is no one there to protect her . . ." His eyes bored into James's. "She is dealing with dangerous men who will hurt her. You need to understand that."
James nodded.
"Tell me you understand that."
James felt his lips moving, as if someone was pulling them for him. "Yes, I understand that. I'll look after her. I'll fix this."
Tristan smiled. "Excellent. We'll be in touch soon."
He walked past James, heading for the exit. James glanced down at his hands--at the files and the business card. On the card he saw only a name. No contact information.
He turned. "Do you have . . . ?"
He was alone in the parking garage.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Gabriel had to stop by the office. He left the car idling as he ran in. While he was gone, my cell phone rang. It was James.
"We need to talk," he said when I answered.
"This isn't a good time," I said. "I'm--"
"Cote d'Azur."
"What?"
"Cote d'Azur. The French Riviera. Next weekend. The two of us. To get this damned mess sorted out."