"I said who knows what puts ideas in a woman's head."
"She'll have lost her capital within six months—if Margo doesn't abscond with it before that. You should have tried to talk her out of the whole insane notion."
"Oh, who listens to me?" He thought about letting Peter win the second set, then decided he was bored and wanted it over. He played it out for a while and, just to make it interesting, allowed Peter to break his serve.
"Bad luck." The pleasure of beating his brother-in-law at his own game pumped through Peter's blood like fine wine. "You'll have to work on your backhand."
"Mmm." Josh jogged to the sideline, mopped his face, glugged down Evian. As he recapped the bottle, he flashed a smile toward the women in the next court. He was darkly pleased at the idea of an audience for the show he had in mind. "Oh, before I forget, I've been doing some spot-checking at the hotel. There's been an unusual number of staff turnovers in the last eighteen months."
Peter arched a brow. "It isn't necessary for you to involve yourself with Templeton Monterey, or the resort. That's my territory."
"Oh, don't mean to trespass, but I was here, and you weren't." He tossed his towel aside, plunked the plastic bottle onto it, then went back behind the net. "It's odd, though. Templeton has a tradition of long-term employee loyalty."
Interfering bastard, pampered fool, Peter thought, carefully controlling his temper as he walked in the opposite direction. "As you can see if you read the reports, lower management made several errors of judgment in hiring. Weeding out was necessary to continue our standard of service and appearance."
"I'm sure you're right."
"I'll be back at the helm tomorrow, so there's no need to concern yourself."
"Not concerned at all. Just curious. Your serve, isn't it?" Josh's smile was as lazy as a nap in a hammock.
They resumed play. Peter faulted his first serve, then bore down on his irritation and slammed the next cleanly. Biding his time, Josh entertained himself by bouncing Peter back and forth across the court, forcing him to dig and pump. Barely winded himself, he kept up a steady flow of conversation as he took the next game, forty-love.
"I noticed a few other things while I was fiddling around. Your expense account, for instance. Seventy-five thousand in the last five months for client entertainment."
Sweat dripped into Peter's eyes, infuriating him. "My expense account records have never been questioned in the fifteen years I've worked for Templeton."
"Of course not." All easy smiles, Josh gathered balls in preparation for the next game. "You've been married to my sister for two-thirds of that time. Oh, and there was that bonus to your secretary." Idly, he bounced a ball on the heart of his racket. "The one you were fucking. Ten thousand's very gen erous. She must make a hell of a cup of coffee."
Stopping, bending with his hands on his knees to catch his breath, Peter squinted over the net. "Bonuses and financial incentives are Templeton policy. And I don't appreciate your innuendos."
"That wasn't an innuendo, Peter. Listen up. It was a statement."
"And a pathetically hypocritical one coming from you. Everyone knows how you spend your time, and the family money. Cars and women and gambling."
"You're right about that." With a friendly smile, Josh stepped behind the serving line, bounced the ball lightly. "And you could say it was hypocritical of me even to mention it." He tossed the ball up as if to serve, then caught it, scratched his head. "Except for one little detail. No, no, it would be two really minor details. One, it's my money, and two, I'm not married."
He tossed the ball up, swung and served an ace. Straight into Peter's nose. As Peter dropped to his knees, blood gushing out from between his fingers, Josh strolled over, twirling his racket.
"And three, it's my sister you're fucking with."
"You son of a bitch." Peter's voice was muffled and thick and breathless with pain. "You crazy bastard, you've broken my nose."
"Be grateful I didn't aim for your balls." Crouching down, Josh jerked Peter up by the collar of his blood-splattered Polo. "Now listen to me," he murmured while the women on the next court squealed and shouted for the tennis pro. "And listen carefully because I'm only going to say this once."
There were stars wheeling in front of Peter's eyes, nausea welling in his stomach. "Get your damn hands off of me."
"You're not listening," Josh said quietly. "And you really want to pay close attention here. Don't you even speak my sister's name in public. If I decide you've so much as had a thought about her I don't like, you'll pay with more than your nose. And if you ever talk about Margo again the way you've talked about her to me, I'll twist off your nuts and feed them to you."
"I'll sue you, you bastard." Pain radiated through his face like sunbursts; humiliation darted after it. "I'll sue you for assault."
"Oh, please do. Meanwhile, I suggest you take another trip. Go back to Aruba, or try St. Bart's, or go to hell. But I don't want to see you anywhere near me or mine." He let Peter go in disgust and as an afterthought wiped his blood-smeared hand on the front of Peter's shirt. "Oh, and by the way, you're fired. That's game, set, and fucking match."
Well satisfied with the morning's work, he decided to treat himself to a steam.
Chapter Eleven
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