Or he could go with option two.
Stay and do whatever it took to convince a certain stubborn, sassy assistant U.S. attorney that this was more than a hot, casual fling.
Undoubtedly, that was a risky proposition. He wasn’t even one hundred percent certain that he was ready for a commitment, and more important, he had no clue how—or if—he fit into Rylann’s world. She loved her job; anyone could see that. Even when the phone rang at ten p.m. on a Friday night and interrupted a mighty fine make-out session, she’d had a gleam in her eye that said some thug out there was about to be served up a steaming-hot plate of Prosecutrix Pierce whoop-ass.
He heard her cell phone ring again, then a short moment later she came out of the bedroom.
“Sorry,” she said with an apologetic smile. She set the pager on the coffee table, then picked up her wineglass and curled up on the couch. “I left a message for the emergency judge and had to wait for the clerk to call me back.”
“Did you get your search warrant?”
“We did.”
“What kind of case?”
She took a sip of her wine. “Terrorism. The FBI got a last-minute tip about a guy being deported tomorrow at six a.m. who they believe is connected to a radical fundamentalist group operating in Chechnya. They want to search his apartment and personal effects, but he’s refusing consent.”
Of course that’s what it was. Because everyone took calls from the FBI and helped take down radical terrorists at ten p.m. on a Friday while wearing yoga pants and casually sipping a glass of wine.
“You amaze me, Rylann,” he said, in all sincerity.
And that’s when he made up his mind.
She could set all the rules she wanted—but this was one matchup against a federal prosecutor he intended to win.
Twenty-eight
WHEN THE WEEKEND was over, duty called once again.
On Sunday evening, after a four-and-a-half-hour flight, Kyle handed his overnight bag to the valet and walked up to the front desk of the Ritz-Carlton San Francisco.
“I’ll be in your former neck of the woods,” he’d told Rylann on Saturday morning as they’d stood in her doorway saying good-bye.
“You’re going to San Francisco?” she’d asked. “What for?”
“You’ll know soon enough.”
She’d looked him over with a curious expression. “What are you up to now?”
Despite all her valiant efforts, Kyle had refused to give anything up under cross-examination. He had a lot riding on this trip, since the next twenty-four hours would drastically impact the launch of Rhodes Network Consulting. Either his actions would go down as one of the cleverest ideas in marketing history, or he was about to make a complete ass out of himself.
Only time would tell.
The front desk clerk smiled as Kyle approached. “Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton. How can I help you?”
“I have a reservation, under Kyle Rhodes.”
The clerk glanced up from the keyboard, her sudden recognition evident, then went back to typing. “I see we have you booked in one of our Club Level suites, staying with us for one night.”
“Could you arrange for me to have a late checkout tomorrow?” he asked. “I have a morning meeting that might run long.” Or maybe not. At this point, he gave it 80/20 odds he didn’t even make it past the front door.
“Certainly, Mr. Rhodes.”
Just then, Kyle’s cell phone vibrated. He checked and saw he had a new text message from Rylann.
KNOCK ‘EM DEAD, DIMPLES. WHATEVER THE HECK IT IS YOU’RE UP TO.
“Is there anything else I can do for you this evening?” the front desk clerk asked.
With a smile, Kyle tucked his phone back into his jacket. “Nope. I think I’ve got everything I need.”
SHORTLY BEFORE TEN the following morning, Kyle climbed into a taxi outside the hotel.
“Seven ninety-five Folsom Street,” he told the driver. When the taxi pulled to a stop a few minutes later, Kyle peered through the window and checked out the modern, six-story office building before him. After paying the driver, he stepped out of the car and adjusted his tie.
Time to face the music.
Portfolio in hand, he pushed through the double doors and took the elevator up to the sixth floor. He watched as the floor indicator counted upward at what seemed to be an excruciatingly slow pace, finally springing open to reveal a simple, minimalist-style reception area.
A receptionist sat behind a white and gray marble desk, her eyes going wide as saucers as soon as Kyle stepped out of the elevator. The wall behind her was devoid of any artwork, bearing only the company’s all-too-familiar name in lowercase letters:
“You actually showed up,” she said incredulously. “We’ve been betting for a week whether you would keep the appointment. A lot of people thought this was some kind of joke.”
Kyle had spent hours on the phone with the company’s lawyers just to get the appointment—no way would he have backed out after going through that torture. “I take it I don’t need to introduce myself?” he asked.
“That would be a definite no. You’re quite recognizable around this place.” The receptionist picked up the phone and pushed a button. “Kyle Rhodes is here to see you.” She listened for a moment, and then looked up at Kyle, still speaking into the phone. “You and me both.” She hung up and gestured to a waiting area. “Mr. Donello will be with you shortly. You can have a seat if you like.”