The Portuguese deal, though, was one afternoon. There was some petroleum deal that sounded far worse than dull but the negotiations would take place on a yacht off an exclusive resort in Costa Rica (that one at least showed merit). One Hollywood production house needed her help to lure the latest young hunk from the French cinema (she’d seen his movies they were both terribly important and terrible). Two banks had her on standby for talks involving euro-zone debt (boring). She thought about the other offers currently on the table. He offered three times her daily commission for two hours of work, provided she could come today. The Portuguese importer, João Patricio, had left a message on Daria’s smartphone in musical English. It was a relatively uncommon combination of languages for Los Angeles. A fledgling Portuguese import firm needed a translator who spoke Arabic and German.
If I were you, I wouldn’t reschedule that meeting. Field Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Ray had been digging into the investor’s background from his headquarters, the L.A. “I thought we were meeting after your appointment with that Portuguese importer.”ĭaria took a sip of Ray’s wine and held it on her tongue before swallowing.
She poured herself into the opposite chair. She either had been working out or had joined the Justice League of America Ray couldn’t tell at a glance. Her togs were two-piece, skintight, abdomen-baring, and black with red piping.
She used her fingertips to brush still-damp black hair behind her ears. It wasn’t the part of Los Angeles that many people tried to carry off the I’m-just-back-from-kickboxing look.
Ray Calabrese looked up from his BlackBerry to see Daria Gibron stride into the Rodeo Drive wine bar in Lycra exercise togs and sneakers, her hair slicked back, sans makeup.
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