Just then one of the production assistants, Vicky, said, “We got the shot,” shaking him out of his thoughts. “Anything else?”
Right. Bobby wasn’t in New York. He was filming his show for FreeFall TV in South Dakota. And Stella Caine had made it clear that she didn’t want anything from him beyond their one-night stand. He needed to stop thinking about her and focus on the job at hand.
And what a job it was.
“I think that’s it for today,” Bobby told Vicky as he looked around the narrow trailer that was his office and, most days, his home.
It was four on Friday afternoon in the middle of November, the setting sun already cloaking everything in winter gray. The construction workers had packed up for the day. Vicky and her film crew, Villainy Productions, had stayed later to get a couple shots of Bobby sitting at his desk, looking overwhelmed.
He had not done a lot of acting today.
What the hell was his problem? This was everything he’d ever wanted. His reality show had debuted on FreeFall with impressive numbers. The production contract he’d signed with FreeFall had underwritten half the financing he needed to begin building Crazy Horse Resort, which was being filmed for the show.
Ten miles outside of Sturgis, South Dakota, the Crazy Horse Resort was going to be the upscale destination for weekend bikers—the doctors, stockbrokers and lawyers who made money hand over fist during the week and liked to cut loose in motorcycle leathers on the weekend. It’d be a five-star destination resort, complete with spa, shopping, three restaurants, a nightclub and a Crazy Horse boutique and garage so guests could upgrade their ride or buy a new one. It was the perfect synergy of business form and function and would turn Crazy Horse into a total lifestyle brand.
The reality show, featuring not only the construction of the resort but his family and their business, was also feeding a huge sales boom for his brother Billy’s custom-made choppers. Crazy Horse Choppers was now an international brand with a loyal following among both celebrities and hard-core bikers, and Bobby was still the marketing director.
He had worked for years to get to this point. He was rich, famous and powerful. All of his dreams had come true. By all objective standards, he was a success.
So why the hell did he feel so...unsure?
Hours after everyone else had gone home, he sat at his desk, which was wedged against one wall of the construction trailer. The sales numbers for Crazy Horse were up on his computer screen, but he wasn’t looking at them. Maybe I’m just tired, he thought, trying to get his eyes to focus. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been home.
Instead of sleeping on his California king bed with Egyptian cotton sheets, he’d been spending nights on the trailer’s couch. Instead of cooking in his condo’s gourmet kitchen, the one with marble countertops, he’d been using a hot plate, coffeepot and microwave. And instead of enjoying his Whirlpool-jet tub, he’d been making do with the trailer’s closet-size bathroom. His days had become a blur of coffee, construction, cameras. Hell, he hadn’t even made a business trip since he’d been to New York—two months ago.
Suck it up.
As his older brothers, Ben and Billy, constantly reminded him, he’d brought this on himself. They weren’t about to step in and offer a helping hand. His brothers thought his ideas were ridiculous and expected him to fail, so Bobby would do whatever it took to prove them wrong.
Including living in a construction trailer and reviewing sales figures on a perfectly good Friday night.
Soon he would have his penthouse apartment on the top floor of the resort. He’d have a private elevator, expansive views of the Black Hills and—most important—he wouldn’t be living in anyone’s shadow. Not his father, Bruce, and his hopelessly out-of-touch way of running things. Not Billy and his insistence on building the bikes he wanted, not the bikes customers wanted. And not Ben and his slavish devotion to the bottom line.
He knew his brothers thought he was a screwup, but he’d show them. Nobody was going to mess up this deal.
For the first time in his life, Bobby would have something that was his and his alone. His own personal kingdom. He’d have complete control—hiring the chefs he liked, the designers he wanted. It was a big dream, but dreaming big was what he did best.
A car door slamming shut snapped him back to the present.
They’d had a few problems with copper thieves. Copper wasn’t cheap and its resale value had recently gone through the roof. He had hired a security guard, but it took Larry about twenty minutes to drive around the entire site.
Then he heard it. Whistling. A jaunty tune, by the sound of it.
Not just thieves, but confident thieves. Bobby slid open the bottom drawer of his desk and grabbed his Glock. He’d gotten the gun a while back. He’d heard tales of contractors taking huge losses when their raw materials walked off. Insurance usually covered it—but then insurance rates went up. He refused to pay for the same materials twice.
They’d learn soon enough that no one stole from the Boltons.
He’d no sooner gotten the lock off the gun than someone knocked on the door. He jumped. Copper thieves didn’t knock.
“Coming,” Bobby said for lack of a better plan.
He shoved the gun into the back of his waistband. This could be Cass, the receptionist at Crazy Horse Choppers. She checked on him from time to time. Maybe she was stopping by to nag him about something.
Bobby opened the door. The light spilled out into the night, illuminating a...leprechaun? He blinked, but the image stayed the same. Short guy wearing a green vest over a plaid shirt underneath an overcoat, reddish hair sticking out from under one of those caps old men wore.
“Ah, there ye are,” the leprechaun said in a distinctly Irish voice, giving Bobby a cocky grin. “Yer a tough feller to track down, laddie.”
“Excuse me?” Bobby peered around the little man and saw a black sedan, the kind with windows tinted so dark they weren’t legal in most states.
Suddenly, Bobby realized he’d seen that car—a Jaguar—around all week long, coasting past the construction site at odd times, the sleekness of the vehicle sticking out like a sore thumb.
He reached around his back, trying to be inconspicuous, trying to get a handle on the Glock.
The next thing he knew, he was looking down the barrel of a snub-nosed pistol. “Don’t think that’s the best idea, lad.” The leprechaun held out his other hand. “Nice and slow.”
“Who are you?” If Bobby was going to hand over his gun, the leprechaun owed him a name.
“The name’s Mickey.” Once he had Bobby’s Glock in hand, he added, “That’s a good lad. She said you were smart. I do hate to prove ʼer wrong.”
“What? She who?”
That got him another cocky grin. “Anyone else in here?” Mickey leaned in.
“No.” Even though Bobby knew he should be keeping his eye on this Mickey, Bobby found himself staring at the black sedan, thinking she?
“Keep yer cool and we’ll all be just fine.” Mickey winked at him. “Sit tight and remember—” he brandished the pistol in Bobby’s face again “—try anything funny and I’ll ʼave to break my promise to ʼer.”
“What promise was that?”
“Not to hurt ye—at least, until she said so.”
At this cryptic statement, Mickey pocketed both guns and turned back to the sedan. Still whistling, he opened the back door and held out a hand to the passenger.
A long feminine leg exited the vehicle, followed by a second equally impressive leg. Bobby’s pulse began to pound. Maybe he wasn’t about to be robbed. Maybe he was about to get lucky. Why else would