Crazy for Loving You A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy - Pippa Grant Page 0,109
if Tiana hasn’t been fielding calls from the board all week, which is good. She’s badass too. Probably negotiating you a higher salary.”
“I don’t need more fucking money, I need my family back.”
“Oh, that.” Cam grins.
Emily grins bigger.
Luna squeezes me tight. “That’s my girl! But if you do get a higher salary, we have a few ideas of some things you can do with the extra money.”
“School supplies across America,” Cam says. “Teachers post their wishlists online. You could fulfill every one of their wishes.”
Emily nods. “Facials for the elderly. They deserve pampering too.”
“I mean, so do dogs,” Luna adds. “But since you already have dogs covered, I propose adding ice cream and frozen yogurt to your free-food-for-a-day rotation.”
I splash them all. “You guys know about that?”
“We know lots of things.” Luna squeezes me tighter. “And you’re going to be okay, Daisy. You’ll get through this.”
“I fucked up so bad.”
“We all do sometimes.”
“You ready to fix it?” Cam asks.
Am I? Can I?
“Signing over guardianship to West was the right thing to do,” I say slowly. “He’s so—so dependable. And solid. But fun. With so much love to give. I know he’ll treat Remy right. The way—”
The way he treated me.
Like I matter.
My hands are starting to shake. “I promised him I’d take care of him. And I thought I was taking care of him by stepping back. But now…I don’t know.”
“You need a cheeseburger,” Luna says sagely.
“And a solid round of kickboxing,” Emily adds.
Cam nods. “While jamming out to eighties music.”
A party with my best friends.
That does sound better than wallowing in my lady cave for the next three years.
“But you have to shower first,” Luna tells me. “And then we’ll help you find your footing again. Promise.”
Forty-Three
West
I miss being on missions, but right now, creeping through the sand, approaching a beach hut just after sunset entirely too close to Miami, getting ready to serve justice to an asshole of the nth degree, my heart isn’t in it.
My heart’s back in Miami. My entire heart.
I make eye contact with Jude.
He nods, and we split up. Him to the back. Me to the front. We’re both unarmed, but we’re plenty dangerous without traditional weapons.
I crouch in position between the door and the open window, waiting.
Takes me all of a half-second to have Anthony Roderick’s face shoved in the sand while I wrap his wrists. He’s gasping and spitting when I lift him and shove a gag in his mouth.
Jude joins me as I’m tossing the fucker over my shoulder. Doesn’t ask if this is him. Doesn’t have to. We’ve both been staring at his picture nonstop for days, and much as I swore I’d forget the one day I met him in person, back when I was doing Remy’s first nursery, I didn’t.
“Remember me?” I growl low. “You paid to have someone kidnap my son. And now you’re going to pay.”
He screams in terror, but it’s muffled behind the gag.
And I don’t feel a lick of remorse.
Thinks his money can buy his way out of trouble. That he’s above the law. Sitting here on a fucking beach, in a country that doesn’t give two shits that he’s here and wouldn’t extradite him even if they knew, probably cooking up another scheme to kidnap my boy and whisk him away here.
Am I breaking some kind of law?
Probably.
Do I care?
Not. One. Fucking. Bit.
Daisy won’t rest until this asshole is completely neutralized. I won’t fucking rest until this asshole is completely neutralized.
So we’re neutralizing him.
And yes.
My son.
In all the ways that count.
Our helicopter is at a makeshift landing zone three hundred yards away in a small clearing in the jungle. Jude leaps into the cockpit and starts the rotors.
I dump Anthony Roderick into the man-sized trunk behind the two seats.
And we lift off, heading over the Straights back to Florida, in a helicopter courtesy of Miami’s best vagillionaires, our flight very courteously being ignored by local air traffic controllers.
Guess it’s true.
Money can buy anything.
Even justice, occasionally.
The ride isn’t long, or high, and I climb in back to give Roderick some fresh air after we’ve sufficiently scared the fuck out of him.
He’s pale as a ghost.
Goes paler when I strap headphones onto his ears and let him know much dirt Derek’s company dug up on him and sent over to the FBI.
Funny, the things Derek Price can find. Usually he