Page 14 of Crash Course
"We’ll talk," she said.
They sure would.
Cilla wanted answers.
About the report, about whether her dad knew property he intended to buy was contaminated, and about who had left confidential information on the plane. At the very least, it was careless.
She waited for Mr. Delicioso to clear out, watching as he moved toward the airport office in all his long-legged, broad-shouldered confidence. Something about the way he moved drew her in. A sort of command presence she’d witnessed thousands of times in cops when they approached the witness stand. Sometimes, with cops, particularly those trying to intimidate her, she wasn’t a fan. It screamed of condescension and arrogance and all Cilla wanted was to strip them of it.
With Cruz?
Big fan.
His don’t-fuck-with-me-or-my-people attitude made her want to curl right into him and find shelter. And when the hell had that ever been the case for Ms. Independent?
She’d have to ponder that.
Right now, she had business with Dad. She shifted back to her father, who jerked his chin at Cruz. "Everything all right with him?"
"Absolutely. He's a rockstar. Total pro."
Dad’s eyebrows lifted. "High praise coming from you."
Indeed it was. "It’s deserved."
Not wanting to explore her feelings about one Cruz Blackwell, Cilla slid the folder with the toxicology report from her briefcase. "I found this on the plane. It’s a toxicology report. Have you seen it?"
He held his hand up, shielding his eyes from the sun and squinting at her. "Sweetheart, I see hundreds of reports."
"This one is about a Morgan farm you’re interested in purchasing."
Dad dropped his hand, letting the sun glare on him as he took the folder. He flipped it open and perused the first page. "This was on the plane?"
"Someone left it in the seatback."
"Paul used the plane last. I’ll talk to him. He’s on his way now. We have a dinner meeting tonight with the Charleston mayor."
"Why are you buying a farm?"
He closed the folder. "Paul is spearheading it. We need acreage to expand the landfill."
"For waste?"
"That’s what you put in landfills, sweetheart." He checked his watch. "I have to go. Calls to return before we leave. I’ll talk to Paul about being more careful."
He gave her arm a squeeze—the "you’re dismissed" squeeze—and started walking.
Uh, not so fast. She loved her father enough to have studied his behavior. As a result, she recognized when he avoided situations and the whole walking away from her was a total giveaway.
"Dad, you can’t buy that farm. It’s contaminated."
His back to her, he halted, paused for a brief second and cocked his head before slowly shifting back to her. His dark eyes lasered into her and she steeled herself. Stiffened her limbs until pain shot from her heels while she waited for the blast of temper she’d witnessed hundreds—maybe thousands—of times.
Just not at her.
"Last I checked," he said, his voice low and rumbling. "I run my company. Not you."
Somehow, the quiet, controlled anger was worse than his normal yelling. Still, she breathed through her crackling nerves and pounding temples. Yes, she was pushing him. Risking his wrath, but it had to be done.
