When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9) - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,114
Fiennes. “He isn’t in, Ms. Shore.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
The concierge regarded her from behind the curve of his reception desk. “He didn’t.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“I don’t.”
“When did he leave?”
He glanced at his watch as if he were late for an appointment. “We’re not permitted to give out information about our residents.”
“I understand. But Mr. Owens and I are dear friends. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
“I’m sorry. That’s our policy.”
He didn’t look sorry. He looked happy—a small man wielding his sliver of personal power over someone he regarded as more privileged than himself. She hated him.
She gave him her most withering look and strode from the lobby. Once she was on the street, she pulled out her phone.
Where are u? Call me.
She waited. Traffic flew by. She waited some more, but he was ghosting her. She hailed a cab and called Piper from the back seat. “I’m looking for Thad. Do you know where he is?”
“I don’t.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“I haven’t.”
“Would you check with your husband?”
“Hold on.” She could hear Piper turning away from the phone. “Coop, have you talked to Thad?”
Olivia heard him in the background. “Yeah, why?”
“Olivia is trying to find him,” his wife said. “Do you know where he is?”
“Nope.”
“Sorry.” Piper was back on the phone. “Maybe Clint knows.”
“Could you give me his address? I’ve lost it.” Olivia had never actually had it.
It turned out Clint lived in Chicago’s western suburbs instead of in the city like any other normal guy in his twenties.
Olivia texted him.
Can I come over?
It’s not the best time.
I’m coming anyway.
The taxi dropped her off at her apartment where she got her car and headed west to the wealthy DuPage County suburb of Burr Ridge.
Clint’s massive French chateau-style home stood ready for the reincarnation of Louis XVI. The house had steeply sloping slate roofs, five tall chimneys, numerous second-story balconies with elaborately curled wrought-iron railings, and—capping it off—a tower. The only thing missing was Marie Antoinette prancing through the topiaries. Clearly Clint had more money than he knew what to do with.
Before she got out of her car, she tried Thad once again.
Stop messing with me and call.
She waited.
A midnight-blue Alfa Romeo whipped around the side of the house and sped down the drive onto the street. She caught a glimpse of not one but two gorgeous young women.
The pervert looked rumpled when he answered the door.
She stomped past him into the marbled entryway. “Really? Two?”
He shoved a hand through his rumpled hair. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
An unwelcome thought intruded. “Is Thad here?”
“You think I’d tell you if he was?”
Which meant he wasn’t. A relief. “I need to talk to him.”
Clint yawned and stretched, revealing one hairy armpit through the sleeve of his baggy white T-shirt. “Not my problem.”
“Don’t you dare cop an attitude with me, young man!”
That cracked him up. “Come on. I need coffee.”
“And an STD test,” she muttered.
“I heard that. Things aren’t always like they seem.”
She favored him with the disapproving humph of a septuagenarian dowager.
His kitchen was as over-the-top as the rest of house. White marble, white tile, and not one but two crystal chandeliers. “Just out of curiosity. How much did this place cost you?”
“You’d have to ask T-Bo.”
“I would if I could get hold of him!” She took in a bevy of cherubs painted on the ceiling. “And why would he know how much your house cost?”
“He’s kind of my financial adviser. He negotiated the deal. He keeps tabs on some of us younger guys to make sure we don’t blow all our money.”
She studied the chandeliers, gazed more closely at the frolicking cherubs. “He failed you.”
“Not really.” He grinned. “You have no idea how big my contract is.”
“Big enough to give raises to a lot of schoolteachers, I’m sure.”
“Now you’re playing dirty.” He pulled out one of the counter stools.
“I’ll play dirtier if you don’t tell me where Thad is.”
“You think it’s my job to keep tabs on him?”
“You’ve been doing a good job of it so far, so yes, I do.”
He leaned back on the stool. “Let’s put it this way. If he wanted you to know where he was, he’d tell you.”
“You seriously intend to withhold this information from me?”
“Yeah. ’Fraid I do.”
“Fine. Then call him for me.”
“Sure. Give me your phone.”
Damn it. He was so much smarter than he looked. “Call him from your phone.”
“That’s a definite no.”
She stated the obvious. “Because he’ll pick up for you but he won’t pick up for me.”