The Mogul and the Muscle - Claire Kingsley Page 0,60

living in Spain after leaving her third husband and taking half his fortune. Some women marry well, Ruby divorces well.”

“That helps explain Bobby.”

She sipped her coffee. “Yeah. Milton is actually a decent guy, but he was almost fifty when Bobby was born, and I don’t think he was a very involved father. Ruby was much younger, but I doubt she ever wanted children. Bobby was raised by a string of nannies who never stayed on very long because he was such a spoiled shit. I’d feel sorry for him, but he’s thirty-six years old. At some point, everyone has to stop blaming their problems on their crappy childhood and either be a good person or not.”

“True. And you said Milton was friends with your grandparents?”

“Yeah.” She slid off the stool and picked up her plate. “I’ll clean up.”

I eyed her for a second. Was that an intentional evasion of my question? Or was she just ready to move on from breakfast conversation and get home?

“I can take care of it.”

She took my empty plate and set it on top of hers. “You cooked, I can do the dishes. It’s not like I forgot how. Plus, don’t you have some packing to do?”

“That’s right, I talked you into shacking up with me.”

“To be fair, you’re shacking up with me.”

“What’s Bluewater going to think of that?”

She smiled. “You’ll get to find out tonight. It’s Eighties Night at the Bluewater Disco. Everyone will be there.”

“Eighties night? Why is this the first I’m hearing about it?”

“It’s in Bluewater, so I didn’t think I’d need to make you work on a Saturday just to watch me dance with a bunch of our weirdo residents wearing bad interpretations of eighties outfits.”

“People are going in costume?”

“We dress to the theme. It’s my favorite event of the year.”

A community event tonight was perfect. It would give me a chance to casually find out if there was anyone else who might be responsible for the break-in. “Then I guess we should get moving. I have a lot of work to do before tonight.”

Her smile faded. “Oh crap, I can’t forget it’s my day to feed Steve.”

“Steve? Do I even want to know?”

“He’s our three-legged alligator.”

I blinked at her. “You have a three-legged alligator? Where?”

“He lives in the canal. He lost a leg and even with the prosthetic leg one of our tech-genius residents made him, he can’t survive in the wild, so we let him stay. But don’t worry, he’s harmless as long as we keep him fed.”

“What do you feed him?”

“Rotisserie chickens,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact, as if feeding cooked chickens to a three-legged alligator was the most normal thing in the world.

“Let me get this straight. Bluewater has a free-range Saint Bernard, and a three-legged alligator?”

She smiled again. “Mm hmm. And Frank.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Frank’s a parrot with a talent for mimicking human speech. And his previous owner was kind of a dick, so he mostly spews profanity.”

I had a feeling I was about to get a crash course in the quirkiness that was the Bluewater enclave.

22

Cameron

I sat in a chair in my spacious master bathroom, turned away from the mirror, while Valentina attacked my face. She was dressed in a fabulous floral romper, her dark hair in a braided updo, her fingernails painted a deep red that matched her lipstick. One of Miami’s best stylists, hairdressers, and makeup artists, Valentina—she went by her first name only—had just inked a deal to star in her own makeover show.

“Not many girls can pull off peach, green, and gold the way you can,” she said in her light Puerto Rican accent. “Look down.”

I lowered my eyes while she smoothed on eyeliner. “Are we sure that’s eighties enough? I was thinking hot pink and bright blue.”

“Too cliché,” she said. “And with your skin, you’d look like a cheap whore.”

I smiled. Valentina’s blunt honesty was one of the reasons I loved her. That, and the fact that she could style me for a black-tie gala or a silly themed party with equal perfection.

Last I’d seen, Jude was downstairs, going over the security footage for the fifth or sixth time. One thing we knew now with absolute certainty, whoever had broken into my house had used the door code. The video showed a person walking right up to the door, like he or she belonged here, and typing in the code with a gloved hand. The problem was, we couldn’t tell who it was.

They’d worn nondescript dark clothing. No logos or