“I think the only reason Damien is willing to let Glau back on the project after he quit is because the man has a worldwide reputation. Dean doesn’t have that going for him.”

Aiden has completely lost me. “But Dean didn’t quit,” I say stupidly. I mean, I should know. I was the one who brought Damien the final check to sign once the house was complete.

“The bungalow,” Aiden says, and I shake my head, still clueless. “Apparently Damien wants to build a small bungalow on the property, but closer to the beach. A few months ago, last February, he and Dean talked about it, and Dean put together some rough sketches that Damien loved, but a few months later when Damien said they should go to contract and get started, Dean pulled out. Said he couldn’t do the project, after all.”

“Why the hell didn’t I know about this?”

“No need to hook the assistant in until there’s a contract. I only know about it because I had a lunch meeting with Damien the day Dean pulled the plug, so I got the full story. Let’s just say that Damien wasn’t pleased. He doesn’t like having his time wasted.”

“No, he doesn’t.” I lean back in my chair again. “So it was Damien who told you? Not Dean?”

Aiden’s brow creases a bit. “Actually, Dean hasn’t mentioned it at all. Maybe he figures it’s a sore point around the office.”

“I guess it’s not too bad between them. I didn’t notice any tension when we had cocktails at his house the other day.”

“Who knows? Damien is more than capable of keeping his personal feelings to himself. Besides, I believe Nikki pulled together the guest list. And since the bungalow was going to be a surprise, it’s quite likely that she’s not even aware that Dean shot himself in the ass.”

I have to laugh at the somewhat vulgar expression pronounced by someone with such a hoity-toity accent. “Trent must not have known, either,” I say, referring to Trent Leiter. He’s under Aiden in the overall company hierarchy, and is directly in charge of all the projects in the Southern California area. All, that is, with the exception of The Resort at Cortez. I’d brought that idea to Damien personally, and he’d put me on as project manager, reporting directly to Aiden.

“Trent? What does he have to do with it?”

“He’s the one who suggested Dean as a replacement for Jackson.” At the time, I’d thought he was just being helpful. But if he did know about the bungalow, I can’t help but wonder if maybe his suggestion was a passive-aggressive way to make me suggest someone to Damien that would piss off the boss.

I hope not. Trent’s not on my favorite person list, but I don’t actively dislike him. I do know that he was irritated when I got Cortez, but I can’t imagine that he’d go out of his way to screw with me. And the idea of interoffice backstabbing just really turns my stomach.

Aiden promises to think some more about possible replacement architects, then heads off to an afternoon meeting with one of the construction managers for a Stark Real Estate project. I decide that it’s time for another caffeine boost, and head down to the lobby and Java B’s. Since it’s a typically gorgeous Los Angeles day, I take a minute outside, and am sitting by the small reflecting pond sipping my latte when my phone pings, signaling a text from Cass.

Sorry about the shitstorm

Call if you need me

{{{{{{{{HUGS}}}}}}}

I stare at the text, completely baffled, but with a very bad feeling growing in the pit of my stomach. And then, since I do need her to tell me what the hell she’s talking about, I hit the button to speed dial her cell phone.

It rings once, then rolls to voice mail. “Dammit, Cass. What the hell? You said to call. Call me.”

I end the call, then scowl at the phone, my mind whirling. Did Jackson go to the press with news of his firing? Did he tell them the real reason why?

Because Damien Stark with a secret half-brother definitely qualifies as TMZ material.

I stand up and toss my half-finished latte in the trash, then hurry back toward the building, dialing Damien’s office as I do.

Rachel answers on the first ring. “Mr. Stark’s office.”

“It’s me,” I say as I enter the lobby. I wave at the security desk as I head for the elevator. “Is he there?”

“In a meeting,” she says. “Do you need him?”

The elevator doors open and I step on, then hit the button for thirty-five and the reception area for Stark International. “I just wanted to check on something,” I say, but of course she hears none of that because the elevator is already moving and I lose the signal.