Free Tall Cool One by Zoey Dean Page B

wanted to be, if only for a day. But the doorbell still hadn’t rung. Which meant that Lloyd Millar, her father’s associate, was already twenty-five minutes late.
    When Anna called her dad on Sunday evening to tell him that she decided to go to the resort, his response had been greatly enthusiastic. Ten minutes later, Lloyd had telephoned to make plans to leave on Tuesday. When he considered how long it would take to get to LAX, go through security, fly to Mexico, and get a shuttle van to the resort, he decreed that they should drive down in his BMW E90 3 series roadster. By the time Lloyd showed up, Anna was already waiting for him in front of the house. He was a tall, slim guy, mid-twenties, she guessed, with short dark hair and a faux hipster goatee. He wore mirrored wraparound Ray-Bans, a 1950s black-and-white sports shirt with dice running down the center, and classic water buffalo sandals.
    “Hi, I’m Anna.” She extended her hand politely as he approached her. She saw that he had hairy arms. And hairy toes. Anna had a thing about hairy toes. They made her gag. She mentally chided herself for being so superficial and slapped a pleasant grin on her face.
    “Lloyd Millar. Hey, sorry I’m late. The 405 was bumper to bumper.”
    “No problem.”
    Lloyd lifted his sunglasses and did an exaggerated eyebrow wriggle that Anna assumed was meant to convey approval. “You’re even more beautiful than the photo in your dad’s office.” Then he licked his lips.
    Ick. Why had she unbuttoned those two top buttons? She managed a thank you, then draped her summer Madeline Weinrib leather-trimmed tote over her arm.
    Lloyd reached for her compact classic Hartmann suitcase. “A beautiful woman should never carry her own bag,” he announced.
    “Hey, Miss Anna.”
    Django. He’d come out of his guesthouse and was heading for the main house, looking as hot as only Django could look. Anna wished she were going to Mexico with him instead. She waved.
    “So you decided to take your dad up on the Mexico thing, huh?”
    Anna nodded, only mildly surprised that Django knew about her decision. She started to introduce the two men to each other and then stopped, realizing that they must already be acquainted.
    “Hey, Lloyd,” Django drawled, confirming Anna’s realization.
    “Django,” Lloyd responded stiffly. There was ice in his voice.
    Django opened the BMW door for Anna, and she impetuously kissed his cheek. “Thanks. See you in a few days.”
    “If school calls, do I tell ’em you’re in bed with consumption?”
    “They won’t. Seniors at Beverly Hills High take off all the time and claim college tour. No one keeps track.”
    “Will do. I’ll keep the home fires burnin’,” Django drawled, and tipped an imaginary cowboy hat.
    With that, Lloyd peeled out of the driveway like an aggressive sixteen-year-old who’d just gotten his license. “I don’t trust him.”
    Anna jumped to Django’s defense. “I do. We’re friends.”
    “All that ‘gee shucks’ crap is a load of horseshit. You know that, don’t you?” Lloyd glanced at Anna, then back at the road. “I’d tell your father to watch him if I were you. I already did. I think he’s a spy for Warren Buffett.”
    “Well, you’re not me,” Anna replied pleasantly, hoping this would end that particular line of conversation. Django had been nothing but terrific to her. All she knew about Lloyd was that he worked for her father. And that he already grated on her. And that he had hairy toes.
    It would be a three-hour drive to the Mexican border and then another three and a half to Las Casitas. Anna wasn’t sure she’d last. Lloyd was smart—it was immediately obvious why Jonathan Percy had hired him—but it was the kind of intelligence that made Anna wish he’d develop an instant case of meningitis. He fancied himself an expert on everything and felt an undying need to share his encyclopedic abundance of knowledge with her. The stock market. Politics.