2 Double Dip by Gretchen Archer Read Free Book Online Page B

directly to Fantasy, “that there was no marketing portfolio.”
    “Oh, brother,” Fantasy said. “Don’t turn this into a federal offense on my part, No Hair. You’re the one who sprang all this on us. There were probably ten new players in the tournament whose portfolios weren’t complete. We’ll just call her a new player and leave it at that.”
    “The microphone guy shouldn’t have access to player information.” Could anyone even hear me?
    “That’ll work this time,” No Hair said to Fantasy, “but these little details—” after that, it was blah, blah, blah, and yada, yada, yada. I didn’t hear another word until “—so I gave him your number.”
    “You what?” I shot straight up.
    “Davis. The guy asked for your number. I told him I’d look into it and get back with him, and I had two choices: Tell him who you are or give him a contact number. I gave him a contact number.”
    “What number?”
    No Hair reached into his jacket, pulled out a burn phone and tossed it to me. “This one. And he’s called you twice. And it sounds like he does want to play doctor, or something, with you.” No Hair snickered.
    “You listened to the messages?” I was offended. “My private messages?”
    Fantasy was clapping with glee. She was, like the rest of Harrison County, including Mr. Sanders, a huge Matthew Thatcher fan.
    “What am I supposed to tell Bradley Cole?” I demanded.
    “He knows you have a job to do, Davis,” No Hair said. “No one’s asking you to sleep with the guy.”
    Just then, the burn phone rang. I tossed it through the air hot-potato style. It landed on the floor in the middle of the room. We all stared at it as it sang its ring song.
    “Answer the phone, Davis,” No Hair barked. “And find that girl.”

SIX

    There were two ways into the Sanders’ residence: the private elevator, which spilled you out at a security desk and you had to have your blood typed to take another step, or the super-duper-rocket private elevator from behind Mr. Sanders’ office that spilled you out in the middle of their home, but your surname had to be Sanders to ride it up. There was a third way, via the helicopter pad on the roof, but climbing up the side of the building, then rappelling over the edge to crash through a thick pane of hurricane-friendly glass was time consuming.
    I avoided the 30 th floor with all my might, but some days there was no getting around it. My choices were the security desk, which meant a disguise and a fairy tale, scale the side of the building (too hot for that today), or get Bianca to grant me a ride on the family elevator, which meant getting her on the phone. Most of the time she ignored my calls, but miraculously, twice in a row, yesterday and today, she answered, and agreed to beam me up. She communicated this by hanging up before I finished speaking.
    Making my way there, I listened to the message from a sleepy-sounding Matthew Thatcher. I will say this, a large part of his star power stems from his intoxicating voice. If he ever lost his emcee job, he could get a job leaving people seductive messages. “ I tried reaching you twice last night and struck out both times, so I thought I’d try you early. This is Thatch, your friendly knight in shining armor, and I want to see how you’re doing. I’ve had beautiful women swoon at the sight of me before (oh, brother), but not as beautiful as you.” He left instructions to meet him for dinner tonight in the Bellissimo’s private dining room, then gave me directions. I knew exactly where it was, because I’d served dinner there before. (Shrimp and grits, orange-avocado salad, strawberries in Chantilly cream. Wearing a little boy’s tuxedo. No kidding.) Thatch didn’t ask if I wanted to have dinner or if I were available for dinner. It was more edict than invitation.
    I didn’t swoon at the sight of him. I just swooned. For no reason whatsoever. Random swooning.
    Bianca was stretched out on a velvet sofa, her