Page 15 of Crash Course
"Dad, you’re always bouncing things off of me. This time, you don’t need to. I read that report. PFOA levels are way above EPA limits. It’s dangerous."
"I’ll take it under advisement. Thank you."
That was his answer? Cilla stifled a huff. "I don’t understand why you’re so casual. According to this report, that farm is a toxic wasteland."
"How about because I haven’t read the report?"
"I told you what it says."
He put his hand up. "Cilla, don’t aggravate me. I’m done. Go home, get some rest. You said you had a long week. You must be tired."
With that he walked away. Just left her standing on the tarmac without a goodbye. Excellent.
And, hello? Tired? He had no idea how fucking tired she was. Before this impromptu trip he’d dumped on her, she’d spent half the week prepping for a murder trial and the other half in continuing negotiations on a plea deal for a banker who’d embezzled money from trust accounts at his family-owned bank. With the amount of evidence the prosecution had collected, she wouldn’t find a jury within five states that would give her a not guilty. No. Her guy? He’d more than likely face conviction for various financial fraud charges and could spend a maximum of thirty years in prison. Which she wouldn’t let happen. If it killed her, she’d get her client a bang-up deal of less than five years, restitution for the victims, and, assuming the judge agreed, call it a win.
To date, she’d never had a judge reject a deal. Never.
It helped that her father was, well, her father. His contacts ran far and wide. Congress members, media moguls, corporate CEOs. He had all sorts of friends in high places. She understood, all too well, that she benefited from the fear Dad inflicted on people.
In her mind, theirs was a partnership. All the legal advice she’d given him proved it. And now he walked away after she’d warned him about a potentially toxic site?
She watched him for a second. Waited for him to board his insanely expensive jet and knew that, for whatever reason, he’d just lied to her.
4
In the parking lot,Cilla spotted Cruz leaning against the cab of a giant black Dodge Ram pickup while talking on his cell. The sight somehow propelled her in his direction.
Magnet to steel.
Oh. Boy.
She approached, pausing just out of earshot in case it was a private conversation, but then he waved her forward. She kept moving until she stood in front of him, looking into his mesmerizing not-quite-blue-not-quite-gray eyes.
Cruz Blackwell.
Super stud.
"Gotta go," he said into the phone. "I’ll be home in a while."
He clicked off and held the phone up. "My brother, Zeke. I told him your father appeared happy."
With BARS, yes. "He has his property back. That makes him happy."
"I guess he loves that painting."
Debatable. Dad loved winning. The painting itself may not have mattered.
"Art is an investment and he’s protective of his investments. And my father willneverlet someone take what’s his."
"What about you?"
Her? Hmmm . . . "What about me?"
"You don’t seem happy. Something rattled you on the way home."
Something rattled her all right. A farm in Morgan, North Carolina. The one contaminated with a now-banned forever chemical her Dad had told her they’d phased out years ago.
Dad, as much as he enjoyed healthy profits, refused to risk lives.
