Fighting for Love Page 3

  “Graham.” Steve raised his voice. “Did you hear me?”

  He hadn’t. He’d been staring out the window of the BMW, a smile playing at the corner of his lips while he replayed his stairwell escapades. “Any word on E.R. Jones?”

  Steve shook his head. “It’s only been a few hours.” He’d sent out a request to the firm they used to vet new employees last night. They’d uncover her current residence, contact information, background check, next of kin.

  “What do you know about the fights Kyle Harper holds?” Graham ran a thumb over his phone. He’d searched online for E.R. and any reference to fights at the Harper Complex and found nothing. “Are they permitted? Do they really help keep his occupancy rates up?” The complex was a combination of commercial and residential tenants. Which occupancy rates had Kyle been referring to?

  “Working on it,” Steve said, toggling through his phone.

  “Run a background check on the tenants.” Graham didn’t want anyone operating illegal businesses occupying a building he wanted to buy. He glanced out the window at the southern California traffic and then at the rare blue sky, but he saw another blue, one tinged with anger. “And the fighters. Not just E.R.”

  “On it.” Steve busied himself with his phone. “Standard operating procedure for hiring a local detective?”

  “Yes.” Graham didn’t hire anyone without taking their measure in person first.

  “It’ll probably take a couple of days,” Steve warned. “In the meantime, we have meetings with Harper’s people. Is this going to slow the deal?”

  “No. By the time we have answers, we’ll be drafting the final contract.” Graham wanted the building to right the wrong his father had done to the family.

  And what he wanted, he got.

  ~*~

  Amanda Williams had once been Hollywood royalty.

  Now she was just a royal pain in Esme’s ass.

  Amanda was trying on casual wear at Aloysha’s designer boutique. It was the third store they’d been to this morning. As requested, Esme stood guard at Amanda’s dressing room door. She was guarding her against Kim Kardashian’s stylist and a Hollywood housewife – the only other customers in the store.

  “Esme, do these pants make my butt look big?” At sixty-six, Amanda had the stick figure of a sixteen year-old, thanks to the best plastic surgeons in L.A. Her short, blond bob had expensive honey highlights, much like the surfer girl she’d played in several slasher flicks when she was a teenager.

  Esme tucked her hair behind her ears, refusing to turn from her position at the dressing room door. “Do you want me to stand next to you so you feel thinner?”

  “And make you feel big-boned and fat?” Amanda tsked. “I wouldn’t do that to you.” Her heels clicked on the marble floor. Esme could imagine her turning back and forth in front of the mirror. “Oh, get your tush in here and look.”

  Esme unlatched the door and came into the dressing room, which was larger than her bedroom at home. She stood next to Amanda, two sizes bigger, six inches taller, reddish-brown hair a wild tangle of curls that tumbled over her shoulder-blades.

  Amanda checked her out as carefully as the pair of sandals she’d purchased at their last stop. “You aren’t pregnant, are you?”

  “God, no.”

  “You’ve gained weight these past few months and you’re hiding behind those clothes.” Amanda turned back to the mirror. “When are you going to go on the 21 Day Fix? I bought you the system last month.”

  Esme crossed her arms over her chest. She couldn’t very well tell her client she was carrying the extra pounds of muscle to pack more power into her attack in the octagon. “You’re right. Those pants make your butt look big.”

  Amanda laughed. “You are such a liar.” That said, she pivoted and took in the reflection of her backside beneath cream colored trousers. “I’m not being a bitch. I care about your health and your appearance.”

  “Only because you think it’s a reflection on you.” Who wanted a chunky bodyguard in the Barbie world?

  “Well, the name is Hot Security, isn’t it?” Amanda’s Botox smile didn’t wrinkle an inch of her face. “Humor me and turn around. I’ll pay for a month with my trainer. He has a juicing program that is just fabulous.”

  "Juicing gives me the runs, and then who would guard you?" Besides, she'd never be as thin as Amanda or Daisy. She’d never be as normal as them either. She carried the horror of sixth grade camp too close to the surface to let anyone get close. Esme turned and walked out. “I’m taking a fifteen minute break. Hopefully, an Amanda Williams stalker will show up while I’m gone.” She could only get so lucky.

  “I did have a stalker once,” Amanda called softly after her.

  “If you married the man, you can’t call him a stalker.” Esme walked out of the boutique and into the spring sunshine, clenching her fists and breathing free air. She felt no trace of guilt for indulging in a fantasy where Amanda was put in the cage with Nettie. Now there was a sure bet.

  Thankfully, her phone rang before the fantasy turned ugly. “Tell me Daisy needs an assist taking down a drunken, belligerent photographer at the airport.” Wishful thinking on her part. If that were the case, her twin would be calling, not Pop.

  “I figured you’d need a break.” Pop’s words struck just the right note of sympathy and tease. “Thought I’d share the latest news. We’ve been asked to meet with a potential client today.”

  “What’s the job? Protecting a spoiled poodle?” Sometimes the assignments in Hollywood tried Esme’s patience.

  “No. It’s right up our alley. Somebody wants to identify and run background checks on fighters in an underground fight club.”

  Esme’s lungs refused to fill because the air outside no longer felt free. “Who’s the client?” she managed to choke out.

  “Graham Richmond, CEO of Richmond Industries.”

  Oh, no. Oh, no-no-no-no-no.

  The man with the clever tongue was that Graham Richmond? The billionaire? Why did Graham want to finger Kyle’s fighters?

  Poor choice of words. Her lady parts awakened.

  Pop yammered happily on, answering Esme’s unspoken questions. “He wants to buy the Harper Complex, but this fight club apparently operates out of one of the buildings. Richmond is concerned about his corporate reputation if he buys the place.”

  Esme didn’t believe that for a minute. Graham was concerned with his –

  “Richmond wants to know everything about these fighters – any hint of gambling, injuries on and off the property, arrest records. I’ll handle that end if you can do the legwork.”

  “If we get the job.” Esme prayed they wouldn’t.

  “We’ll get the job. What other P.I. in Los Angeles knows the fight world like we do?” So much enthusiasm. How would that change when he discovered E.R. Jones was on the fight roster? “Anyway, he wants a face-to-face meeting today. Can you drive me? Daisy will be tied up with the Larkens for another few hours and you’re off the clock with Amanda in thirty minutes.”

  Did she dare show her face to Graham? Esme glanced at her reflection in the boutique’s window. Her shapeless outfit hid her bruises and her curves. Her hair wasn’t bright blue or braided tightly against her scalp. She wasn’t wearing the blue contacts she used when fighting. But her face…

  Her long hair was parted on the left. She unhooked her hair from behind her right ear, letting the wavy tresses cover half her face. She was sure he’d paid more attention to Lady Land than the shape of her nose and chin.

  “Esme?”

  “Sure. I’ll drive.” She liked being in the driver's seat.

  Chapter 4

  Graham was working on the veranda of his hotel room when the security firms began arriving for their appointments that afternoon. He’d taken a luxury suite. The marble floors, leather furniture, Oriental carpets, and modern art were meant to impress.

  Steve had requested three meetings. The first was with a legal firm that specialized in governm
ent paperwork and discretion. They’d be looking into the legality of the fights. If Kyle was breaking the law, Graham would use that as leverage on the price of the complex. The second company did standard background checks. They’d be looking into the background of the tenants, both residents and businesses. The third firm was run by a former cop and MMA coach, a logical choice to run profiles on the fighters.

  The first two meetings went smoothly. Graham was called in after Steve vetted them. Graham asked a couple of questions, and formed his opinion of their character and skills, before sealing the deal. When the representatives from the third firm showed up, Graham was still on a conference call with managers of his oil rig business. A rig in the gulf coast had been written up for safety violations. Rig management wanted to do the minimal requirement to bring the site up to code. Graham insisted upon spending whatever it took to keep his men safe. Long term, the cost of maintaining his facility safely was cheaper than the cost of injury, death, or oil spill. He was pissed that some of his team didn’t get that. He ended the call by firing the site manager.

  Still fuming, Graham came in from the sunny patio to the main suite. His vision tunneled from the abrupt change in lighting and took in the familiar outline of Steve sitting on the couch, the silhouette of a man in a wheelchair nearby, and a shapeless figure standing at attention by the suite’s door. And then everything came into focus, sharp images that made Graham question Steve’s choice for the job.

  “This is Hank Hoyt.” Like Graham, Steve wore a long sleeve white dress shirt and tie. He also wore a sly smile that said he doubted this was the agency they should hire for the job. “And his daughter, Esme.”

  The woman by the door was immediately dismissible. Esme wore loose, wrinkled linen trousers, the Southern California requisite high heels, and a purple lace blouse with bell sleeves that swallowed her hands. Her hair was a wild mane of mahogany curls, parted far to one side so that her hair nearly hid one eye. She kept her gaze trained passively on the floor.

  Unbidden, an image of E.R. Jones came to mind. The two women were exact opposites. If Esme had come alone looking for work, Graham would have sent her packing.

  None of the features or bearing of the man in the wheelchair had gone to his daughter. Hank had lines of experience on his face and gray streaks in his brown hair. His blue plaid button down and khakis were crisply pressed. His legs shook, but his short sleeves revealed toned arms. He may have been chair-bound, but he still had his pride and strength. Whatever qualms Graham might have had about hiring a disabled man for a job involving people who used their bodies for a living disappeared when he looked into the man’s intelligent eyes. His gray gaze took in Graham as if filling in a notebook with details he’d need later.

  Graham’s anger over his last meeting cooled. He pulled up a chair near Hank. “Steve says you come highly recommended.” He shook the P.I.’s strong hand, accepted his business card, and slipped it into his dress shirt pocket.

  Hank’s assessing smile said Graham wasn’t the only one taking measure here. “I used to train MMA fighters, although the ones I trained were only involved in sanctioned fights.” The sanctimony in Hank’s tone let Graham know he didn’t approve of Kyle’s spectacle.

  Good. “I’m not sure I understand the difference between sanctioned and unsanctioned fights.”

  “Fighting isn’t a safe profession.” Hank stated the obvious in a way that didn’t belittle Graham. “What we call backyard fights, like the one you attended last night, don’t require fighters to go through blood screening beforehand, and there aren’t usually medical staff attending to handle injuries, certainly not a trauma doctor.”

  Kyle Harper was an idiot, opening himself, his family’s business, and the complex to lawsuits. Steve met Graham’s glance across the coffee table, no doubt also making a mental note to exclude responsibility for past injuries that had occurred on site in the sale contract.

  “When I purchase the property,” Graham said evenly. “I’m going to stop the fights. In fact, with your help, I’m going to stop them before I buy Harper out.”

  Esme shifted her stance by the door, leaning her hip against the bar.

  “I’m happy to protect fighters. But as I told your associate…” Hank fixed Graham with a hard stare. “It’s easy enough to find the fighters, but technically they’ve done nothing wrong. What are your intentions toward them?”

  Thirsty, Graham stood and moved toward the bar. “I have no interest in them as individuals unless they present a danger to my future tenants.” That was a lie. He wanted to know more about E.R. Jones.

  Esme stepped out of his way with surprising grace and speed.

  “If you’re worried some of these fighters are gang members or thugs, you shouldn’t be.” Hank went on about the dedication and hours needed to train, but Graham was distracted by Hank’s associate.

  The more he looked at Esme, the stronger the feeling of familiarity. It was like seeing a stranger in an airport who vaguely resembled a friend. She stared past him out the window. Was that her training? Or was it avoidance because they’d met before? It bothered him that he couldn’t place her.

  Graham removed the business card Hank had given him from his pocket: Hot Security & Investigations. Discrete inquiries. Bodyguards who blend into the Hollywood Red Carpet.

  He glanced again at the woman. She wouldn’t get a second look from him if not for that nagging sense of déjà vu.

  “Graham.” Steve held up his phone. “We’ve got another meeting in a few minutes.”

  Graham set aside his curiosity for Esme and came back to stand by Hank. “Do you have a contract?”

  “Right here.” Hank pulled a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket.

  Graham scanned the contract, finding it satisfactory. “What other services does your firm offer?”

  “We do a lot of red carpet and celebrity security,” Hank said with just the right note of eagerness for new business. “The girls blend in.”

  “Girls?” Steve scoffed, looking Esme’s way. He’d been waiting for an opportunity to cut Hank’s credibility.

  Graham frowned, torn between a similar feeling and the impression that Hank was a man whose word he could trust.

  “All the women we hire are former MMA fighters.” There was pride in Hank’s voice and a bit of prickly warning.

  Which Steve ignored. “Women can’t stop a man.”

  Esme had been a fighter? Graham studied her openly. If there was muscle underneath that material, he couldn’t see it. She didn’t so much as twitch under his scrutiny or Steve’s dig at her capabilities. In that at least, she had the cool detachment of E.R. Jones.

  "They can stop anyone," Hank said evenly.

  "Prove it." Steve's boardroom bluster embarrassed Graham. If Hank could prove it, Steve deserved to be put in his place.

  "Not a problem." Hank didn't raise a hackle at Steve's chauvinistic attitude, but his voice hardened. “For five hundred dollars. In cash.”

  Steve's bark of laughter was meant to undercut Esme’s confidence. It only cut farther into Graham’s confidence in Steve. “I would've paid a thousand.” He dug in his wallet.

  “Steve, we don’t have time for this.” Graham felt a tug of protectiveness toward Esme. She didn’t look like she could take Mrs. Claus in a fight, much less a man.

  Steve slapped five bills on the coffee table.

  “It’s fine, Mr. Richmond.” Hank’s smile alone should have told Steve he was in trouble. “We’ll need you for the demonstration….But we can’t begin without making you aware of certain stipulations.” Despite Hank’s hesitation, his next words were smoothly delivered, almost as if he said them often. “I’ll need a verbal response for each of the following questions. This demonstration was requested by you, Mr. Carson. Yes or no?”

  “Yes.” Steve rubbed his hands together and moved to the open space in the marble foyer, smiling at Esme, who was filming him with her phone.

  Such calm. Again, that sense of f
amiliarity tapped at Graham’s memory.

  “And you release Hot Security, its representatives and employees from all responsibility and liability should any injury occur to you. Yes or no, Mr. Carson?”

  “Yes.” Steve loosened his tie.

  “And you, Mr. Richmond?” Hank glanced up at Graham with an expression of barely contained glee. “I’m afraid we can’t have you in the room due to safety concerns unless you indicate you release us as well.”

  A twinge of apprehension pinched Graham’s shoulder blades. “I’m not participating.”

  Hank smiled. “Everyone wants to be a voyeur. But without consent, you'll have to leave.”

  His words rang with the same odd familiarity as Esme’s appearance. “Yes, fine. I release you, the company, and all employees.”

  “Wonderful, Mr. Richmond, because you’re going to play the role of client. Please stand next to Esme. And hold that contract, which I’m sure you’ll sign when we’re through.”

  “As if,” Steve muttered, fisting his hands.

  Asshole. He was going to hit a woman? Graham wondered why Steve’s parents hadn’t beaten some manners into him, like his father had done to him.

  Esme pulled her hair into a ponytail on one side, but the tresses remained over one eye. Otherwise, she made no concessions to the impending circus. She didn’t even kick off her ludicrously high heels.

  Graham could see this playing out. He’d have to step in and protect her from Steve. And then he couldn’t sign the contract. It’d take another day to find an acceptable investigation firm. Another day E.R. Jones wouldn’t be in his bed.

  He stood in front of Esme, ready to kick everyone out of his hotel suite, including Steve.

  “Mr. Carson, I need you to charge your boss with…” Hank pivoted his wheelchair in place, glancing around. “That flower vase on the table. Minus the flowers and water. Try to hit your boss with it.”

  “Hey,” Graham protested. Increasingly, this was feeling like one big mistake. Not only was Esme going to get hurt, so was Steve if he came at Graham with a vase.