Page 9 of The Activist and Her Billionaire

“Buy her a drink, for God's sake,” Brody mutters, unable to contain himself. “Don’t give her a car.”

“Dude,” I scolded.

“Well, you called me here because I’m your counsel,” he counters. “That’s my counsel.”

I disregard him and focus on Brynne and say, “Now you have something of mine, and you can hold onto it until we come to an agreement.”

“You’re giving an environmentalist a car. I don’t value it,” she says. “You’re a millionaire with a gazillion cars. You don’t value it. Not much of a bargaining chip.”

“Environmentalist?” I ask.

“Well, of course she is,” Brody scoffs. “Oh, my goodness, I wish someone had told me we were dealing with an environmental activist. I would have worn a tie. But then, aren’t all activists also environmentalists, or is it the other way around? California sure seems to have more than its fair share of both - everyone and his cousin claims to be one or the other.

“I have a degree,” she counters. “Just like you do.”

“Oh, you’re a lawyer?” Brody fires back, wearing his arrogant face.

“No, a scientist,” she says coolly. “UC Santa Cruz. I have an undergrad and a graduate degree in Environmental Studies.”

“Again, apologies for not dressing for the occasion,” Brody mocks. “But then again, you didn’t wear anything until now. I am so sorry I missed the show.”

I step toward my attorney, who is shorter than both me and Brynne. I guestimate the nubile activist to be about 5’7” tall. Brody is maybe that with lifts. I loom over both. He’s good at what he does, but I can replace him in a second. I don’t say a word; instead, I telepathically send the message that he is about to lose his meal ticket.

“I’m going,” he announces dejectedly.

Brynne and I watch as he climbs into his Hummer.

“Now that he’s leaving, how are you going to get back to where you’re going?” she asks.

I don’t know why the question broadsides me, but it does.

“Why, Miss Casey,” I say, trying hard not to flirt, “how civilized of you. Are you showing compassion for me? Caring about whether I am stranded?”

“It’s in the Wacky Environmentalist Code,” she replies without missing a beat. “Be kind and considerate. Shall I give you a lift to your office or your house?”

I would love nothing better than to spend time at one of my homes with this little chickee. She’s beautiful – and educated, as I’ve just learned – and she is indeed kind. I didn’t know I found kindness hot until now. But I might find everything about Brynne Casey hot.

I have to watch myself. As much as we seem to be warming up to each other, I don’t want to mislead her. I’ll work something out so she’s not left empty-handed, but I will tear the Calypso down. It’s a matter of when not if.

Vivid snapshots of Brynne’s amazing body played through my mind before I ordered her to put on the clothes I gave her. I am trying hard to keep this about business, but I am only human. And sometimes, not a very good one at that.

“You do have a driver’s license, don’t you?” I ask.

We headed to my car, parked down in the beach parking lot. I had expected a demolition that didn’t happen today.

“Yes,” she replies, staring me down like I am being ridiculous.

I shake my head, grinning with exasperation.

“You just said you were an environmentalist,” I say in my defense.

“I have a license but no car,” she answers. “Uncle John had a car that I drove when I needed to take him somewhere. You might have seen his ’58 Ford pickup. Two-tone?”

“Thatwas the two of you?” I ask, floored. “I love that car.”

“So did my sibs,” she says wanly. “They had it towed to Florida, where my oldest sister lives. She sold it at auction.”

“Aw,” I say, not really knowing what to say.

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