out.
“If he knows I’m planning it, he probably won’t,” she responded, the thought brightening her mood.
Griffin never showed at her parties. It was one of the reasons she’d concluded he was dismissive of her business.
“Have you thought about your costume?” Beth asked, obviously trying to change the subject.
“At the moment,” she said dryly, “I’m thinking that appearing with Carter as Nick & Nora would be appropriate.”
Beth laughed.
She’d been only half joking, Eva thought to herself. Appearing as the Dashiell Hammett sleuths—a retired detective and his wealthy socialite wife whose family believes she married beneath herself—would definitely ring true at the moment.
“Remind me to dig out my Nick & Nora cosmetics case for you then,” Beth said. “Whoever thought to create a women’s brand out of those characters had a stroke of genius.”
“Thanks,” she deadpanned.
After she ended her call with Beth, she sat back against her couch and closed her eyes.
Despite herself, she kept replaying the awful moment when her father had come out and said he’d entertained hopes of her marrying Griffin.
Griffin as her husband?
As if.
Yes, she felt the energy whenever Griffin entered a room, but only because he knew how to press her buttons, damn it.
“I’ve got some bombshell news.”
Griffin’s hand tightened on the phone.
It had been over two weeks since his call with Ron Winslow, but now the sound of the private investigator’s voice at the other end of the line brought his mind back to Eva.
As if he hadn’t been thinking about her enough already.
“What have you got?” he said evenly, swiveling his mesh chair away from his desk and toward the panel of floor-to-ceiling windows behind him.
His office at Tremont REH sat high above the bustle of San Francisco’s Union Square.
Ron cleared his throat. “Newell is an operator all right—”
“I figured.”
“—but not in the way you’re thinking.”
He tensed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean Romeo is two-timing his Juliet.”
Griffin cursed under his breath. He hadn’t been expecting this kind of dirt to be sticking to Newell.
“You’ve always delivered the goods, Ron, but I’ve got to ask—are you sure?”
This was, after all, Marcus Tremont’s daughter they were talking about. She moved in rarified social circles. If Eva’s scummy would-be fiancé was cheating on her, they were dealing with news that would eventually make the rounds of San Francisco society.
“I’m messengering the evidence to you as we speak,” Ron responded. “There’s a video, shots taken with the telephoto lens and even—” Ron chuckled without humor “—an audio recording. What you choose to do with this hot potato is your business.”
Griffin knew without asking what Ron meant. It would be up to him to decide what evidence to share with whom.
He didn’t relish the thought of disclosing Newell’s philandering to Eva. Especially since all he could think about was rearranging Carter’s elegant face.
“How did you discover Newell is seeing another woman?” he asked.
“Fell into my lap,” Ron replied. “I was tailing him, wondering whether I’d come up with anything interesting. A few days in, I followed him to a restaurant in Berkeley. Turned out he was there to rendezvous with a Jessica Alba look-alike.”
The bastard.
Griffin wondered whether Newell had a type. Eva didn’t fit as a Jessica Alba look-alike. She was more a Rose McGowan or Katharine McPhee.
And maybe, tellingly, he realized, that was the point. Eva wasn’t Carter’s type. The guy was only attracted to her money.
“While Newell and the woman sat at the restaurant bar,” Ron went on, “I greased the palm of one of the waiters to find out which table they’d reserved. I was able to slip a microphone onto the wall next to their seats before they sat down, and I laid claim to the next table.”
The investigator added with a snort, “You won’t believe the crap I’ve got on tape.”
Oh, he could believe it all right, Griffin thought cynically, picturing smooth-as-cream Carter in his mind. The problem was going to be explaining it all to Eva.
“Afterward, I got them pulling into a dim parking lot behind a nondescript office building,” Ron continued with dark relish. “Newell’s not even shelling out for a cheap motel on a regular basis.”
“Great.”
Not great. Ron’s information made him wonder just how empty Newell’s pockets were and how desperate Carter was to marry an heiress.
“I’ve got the video and telephoto lens for the parking lot interlude.”
“Are you sure this wasn’t a one-night stand?” Griffin asked.
He wanted to go to Eva with an airtight case if he had to rip rose-colored glasses from her eyes. He didn’t want Newell to be able to argue he’d just had a lapse in judgment.
“Not to worry, I got them on other occasions,” Ron responded. “They had a tryst at a motel two days ago.”
“Damn it.”
“I’ve also got evidence our man Carter has no significant assets and is living on credit to fund his lifestyle,” Ron said offhandedly. “In fact, he may be just about all tapped out.”
Griffin at last let himself acknowledge they’d hit the mother lode with Newell. It made him want to wring the guy’s neck.
And as much as he knew that Eva needed to comprehend Carter was a two-timing snake, he didn’t want her to be hurt.
He raked his fingers through his hair, his mind working. “Ron, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to anyone, including Marcus, about what you’ve uncovered.”
“Will do.”
“I’ll look for your package,” he said grimly before ending the call.
When Ron’s box arrived an hour later—just in time to be served up with lunch for his delectation—he told his secretary to hold his calls.
Griffin set the cardboard
