Criminal Confections Read Free

adjoining rooms were being generously comped by Christian Lemaître, I’d covered the airfare for Danny’s end of this impromptu trip myself. It hadn’t been a big deal. I could afford airfare from L.A. to San Francisco—even at the exorbitant last-minute rates airlines charged. But I didn’t want Danny to think I expected anything in return—at least not anything beyond his looking fantastic in a suit. That was de rigueur.
    For Danny—a private “security expert”—it was easy, too.
    What wasn’t easy was managing the guilt and complicated feelings that came along with flying your best friend upstate on a whim. It was extravagant. He knew it. I knew it. Those feelings hit me hard sometimes. Not that I intended to kvetch to Danny about it. I’d inherited a lot of money when my (admittedly eccentric) uncle had died, and although I had to jump through some hoops to get it, I knew I was lucky.
    Reminded of that luck, I looked at my phone again. There was one person I could call guilt free. And I’d enjoy it. A lot.
    Ten seconds later, my call connected with the office of my appointed financial advisor (and trustee of my uncle’s will), Travis Turner. Travis’s deep, raspy “hello” traveled over the line. He sounded like a supersmart Barry White—like a man who could (and did) make derivatives and stock sales sound hot.
    That’s why I called Travis so often, of course. It wasn’t because I was fascinated with the intricacies of economics. Travis didn’t know it, but I liked his voice. I liked its masculine pitch, its timbre, its shiver-inducing huskiness. I’d never met him in person. At this point, Travis could never measure up to his voice, anyway. But for him, I made an exception to my texts-are-efficient rule and actually dialed the phone.
    â€œSo, Travis . . . what are you wearing right now?”
    â€œHayden. Aren’t you supposed to be at the Lemaître retreat?” He sounded as though he might be consulting an up-to-the-nanosecond atomic clock. “It starts in five minutes.”
    Damn his perspicacity. It was really inconvenient.
    As much as I yearned for Travis to help me kill time with a little sexy-sounding banter, he clearly wasn’t up for it.
    â€œI wanted to talk to you first. You know, to check in.”
    â€œRight.” In my imagination, he started a timer labeled BILLABLE HOURS, then picked up a pen. “Go ahead. I’m ready.”
    â€œDon’t you want to tell me what you’re wearing?”
    â€œYou go first.” There it was— a hint of playfulness.
    I lived for that. It made me feel I was winning every time I coaxed Travis into teasing me. “I’m wearing my fancy shoes.”
    â€œAnd? What else?”
    I was tempted to say, Nothing else. Just shoes.
    But Travis didn’t sound in the mood for innuendo. Just for an instant, I wondered if something was troubling him. But then I remembered that was just him. Travis was responsible. Settled. Excellent with numbers and domesticity. He was also—at twenty-seven—younger than me and simultaneously more authoritative.
    That realization nudged me into getting serious for a second.
    â€œWhat else?” I echoed, musingly glancing down at myself. “A respectable dress. I might not mind being fashionably late to the retreat, but I want to make a good impression. I have absorbed one or two cultural mores in my life, you know.”
    â€œI know.” Travis paused, polite and efficient. “So . . . you’ve checked in to Maison Lemaître, then? Let’s have the details.”
    Dutifully, I gave him Jimmy’s taxicab medallion number and driver ID (in case of lost items or a misplaced receipt), then reported my hotel room number and expected length of stay, along with a rough itinerary. It was our regular routine. As a solo female traveler, I liked knowing someone else knew where I