Sex and the Billionaire Crime Boss

Ch. 2: We Meet Again

We're on a freeway now, and my first thought is how very different Miami is from Philadelphia. How tall the palm trees are, how bright the sun in a sky that is so much more a vivid blue than you would ever see in Philly. I lived here for awhile as a child, but I don't really remember it. Pretty much the only part of it I do remember is leaving. It's all jumbled up in my mind; the frantic packing, the combination of desperation and fear, mixed in with hope.

"Hadley?"

I realize Martina has been speaking to me. "Sorry, I got caught up in the view."

"No problem. I was just asking, how was your flight?"

"A bit decadent, to tell the truth." In more ways than one. "I'm not used to flying first class."

Martina blasts the horn and cuts across a line of traffic onto an exit ramp. I make a conscious effort not to grab onto the seat.

"So tell me more about this decadent flight," she says. "Were you referring to champagne and chocolates, or was it something else?"

"Definitely the champagne and chocolates didn't hurt, but I also had an interesting conversation with a guy in the next seat who looked like he stepped right off the cover of GQ Magazine. And I'm wondering if all the guys in Miami look like that."

"Oh, yummy. And I can give you a definite no. Single?"

"We didn't get that far. Me, yes. Him? I think so. No wedding ring, and his flirt was definitely on." I think about Max, the intensity of his eyes, and that brain-numbing kiss.

The word flirt is a serious understatement.

"Well, well. This sounds promising. Did he ask for your number?"

"No, but I told him the name of the law firm. He actually said he might bring some business our way."

"Aren't you the little rainmaker - and you haven't even set foot in the office yet."

"I'll probably never hear from him again," I say, but I don't believe it. And I don't mention the fact that he gave me his card. For some reason I can't explain, I'm reluctant to tell Martina his name.

"Any stops you need to make before we get to the condo?"

"No. Just to the condo is fine."

"I think you're smart not to stay with your grandparents," Martina says, assuming I had a choice in the matter. The fact is, I wasn't invited to stay with them. Instead, the firm is putting me up in a condo that's usually reserved for out-of-town clients.

My grandparents, I've learned, live in an ultra-exclusive community on a private barrier island located just off the coast of Miami. You can only get there by ferry or helicopter, or by yacht if you happen to own one. It is populated by celebrities and the super rich, only a fraction of whom make it their permanent residence.

"I mean," she continues, "I think it would be hard to work with your grandfather all day and then also be living in the same house."

"I like my independence," I tell her. And it's true. Still, I find it odd that he didn't even mention me staying at the house, since part of the impetus for him to reach out to me after all these years was supposedly my grandmother's rapidly declining health.

Martina uses her phone to scan us into the parking garage, and tells me she'll text me the link for the app.

We manage to get all the luggage in with one trip. Once we're inside, she offers to help me unpack.

"Are you getting paid by the hour?" I ask her, and she laughs.

"Well, it is Friday, so technically I'm on the clock. But as long as I hang out with you until 5:00 I don't have to go back to the office."