Jim took a deep breath and looked toward the window that had a gauze curtain pulled across it. Dark out. Perfect for nightmares. But as much as he wanted to go with the whole it's-only-a-dream thing, the shit was so vivid, so fresh…and men might get hairy palms if they were pumping themselves off, but grassy?
Besides it wasn't like he'd been master of his domain with any great frequency. Especially not the night before, thanks to that brunette. Hello.
Trouble was, if this was the new reality, if he'd been to a parallel universe where everyone was a cross between Simon Cowell and Tim Gunn, if he'd accepted some kind of mission…how the hell did he proceed—
“You're awake.”
Jim glanced over. Stepping up to the foot of the bed was none other than Vin diPietro, the general contractor from Hell…who was evidently the boyfriend of the woman Jim had…yeah. “How you feeling?”
The guy was still wearing the black suit that he'd had on when he and the woman had shown up, and also the same bloodred tie. With his dark hair combed back and just a dusting of beard across his hard face, he presented himself to be exactly who he was: rich and in charge.
Surely it wasn't possible that Vin diPietro was the first assignment.
“Hello?” DiPietro waved. “You in there?”
Nah, Jim thought. Can't be. That would be above and beyond any call of duty. Over the guy's shoulder, the commercial that was on the TV suddenly showed a price of $49.99— no, $29.99, with a little red arrow that… considering where Vin was standing, pointed right at his head.
“Shit, no,” Jim muttered. This was the guy?
On the TV screen, some woman in a pink bathrobe smiled up at the camera and mouthed,
DiPietro frowned and leaned over the bed. “You need a nurse?”
No, he needed a beer. Or six. “I'm cool.” Jim rubbed his eyes again, smelled fresh grass, and wanted to curse until he ran out of breath.
“Listen,” diPietro said, “I'm assuming you don't have health insurance, so I'll cover all your bills. And if you need to take a couple of days off, I won't dock your wages. Sound good?”
Jim let his hands flop down on the bed and was grateful to see that the grass stains had magically disappeared. DiPietro, on the other hand, was evidently going nowhere. At least not until he had a sense of what Jim might sue him for. It was so frickin' obvious that the guy was not bedside offering up his no doubt limitless credit card because he gave two shits about how Jim was feeling. He didn't want a workers -comp action against his corporation.
Whatever. The accident was not even on Jim's radar; all he could think of was what had happened the night before in his truck. DiPietro was exactly the kind of man who'd have a Blue Dress on his arm, but the coldness in that stare meant he was also the type who could find imperfection in a perfectly beautiful woman. God knew the SOB saw faults in everything that happened at the site, from the way the cement settled in the basement foundation to the tree clearing to the grading of the acres to the position of the nail heads on the framing boards.
No wonder she'd sought out someone else.
And if Jim had to handicap which of the seven sins diPietro was guilty of, there wasn't much of a contest: Avarice was stamped all over not only the guy's designer wardrobe but his car, his woman, and his taste in real estate. He liked his money, this one.
“Listen, I'm going to get a nurse—”
“No.” Jim pushed himself up on the pillows. “I don't like nurses.”
Or doctors. Or dogs. Or angels…saints…whatever those four lads were.
“Well, then,” diPietro said smoothly, “what can I do for you?”
“Nothing.” Thanks to the way destiny had reached up and nailed Jim in the balls, the question was what he could do for his “boss.”
What was it going to take to turn this guy's life around? Did Jim just berate him into a massive donation to a soup kitchen? Would that be enough? Or, shit, was he going to have to get this silk-suited, M6-driving, misogynistic motherfucker to renounce everything material and turn his ass into a monk?
Wait…crossroads. DiPietro was supposed to be at some kind of crossroads. But how the hell was Jim supposed to know what that was?
He winced and massaged his temples.
“You sure you don't want a nurse?”
Just as frustration put him on the verge of an aneurysm, the images on the TV switched and two chefs appeared on screen. And what do you know. The one who had dark hair looked like Colin and the blond guy next to him sported the exact same bossy expression Nigel had. The pair were leaning into the camera with a covered silver tray, and when the lid was popped off, a dinner plate with some kind of itty-bitty fancy food on it was revealed.
Goddamn it, Jim thought as he glared at the TV. Don't make me do that. By all that's holy—
DiPietro put his face in Jim's field of vision. “What can I do for you?”
As if on cue, the chefs on TV grinned, all
“I think I., want to have dinner with you.”
“Dinner?” DiPietro's eyebrows rose. “As in…dinner.”
Jim resisted the urge to flip off the chefs. “Yeah…but not like
“That's it.”
“Yeah.” Jim shifted his legs around so they hung off the edge of the bed. “That's it.”
Reaching over to the IV in his arm, he peeled the tape off the insertion and popped the needle free of his vein. As saline or whatever was in the bag by the bed started to leak onto the floor, he went under the sheets and grunted as he pulled the catheter out of his cock. The electrical pads on his chest were next, and then he leaned to the side and quieted the monitoring equipment.
“Dinner,” he said gruffly. “That's all I want.”
Well, that and a clue about what he should be doing with the guy. But hopefully a side order of here's-an-idea would come with the meal.
As he stood up, the world spun and he had to use the wall for balance. After a couple of deep breaths, he lurched for the bathroom—and knew when the hospital johnny broke open because diPietro said
Clearly the guy was getting a look-see of what was all over Jim's back.
Pausing at the door, Jim looked over his shoulder. “Is 'fuuuuuuck' the way rich people say yes?”
As their eyes met, diPietro's suspicious stare narrowed even further. “Why the hell do you want to have dinner with me?”
“Because we have to start somewhere. Tonight's good for me. Eight o'clock.”
When all that came back at him was tense silence, Jim smiled a little. “Just to help you along, it's either dinner or I file a workers'-comp action against you that will make your checkbook bleed. Your choice and I'm good with either outcome.”
Vin diPietro had dealt with a lot of SOBs in his lifetime, but this Jim Heron guy was high on the list. It wasn't the outright threat, necessarily. Or the two hundred pounds on that big frame. Or even all that attitude.
The real trouble was the guy's eyes: Anytime a stranger looked at you like he knew you better than family, you had to wonder what the angle was. Had he done his research? Did he know where your bodies were buried?
What kind of threat was he to you?
And dinner? The bastard could have squeezed him for cash, but all he wanted was meat and two veg?
Unless the real ask was going to come outside of the hospital. “Dinner at eight,” Vin said.
“And because I'm a fair guy, I'll let you pick the place.”
Well, hell, that was easy. If there was going to be trouble, a public peanut gallery was not the kind of
