Ronnie Chandler pulled into the Jones Bones BBQ parking lot right on time. Her stomach had been in a knot for the past hour. She needed to eat soon, but she was exceptionally nervous. She and her partners would be meeting with their potential investors, and she wanted it to go well.
She had dressed carefully to make a good first impression. Ronnie was one of the lucky few whose hair had turned not gray but silver, and she spent good money to have it cut every six weeks. The shiny strands grazed her collar in back and framed her oval face with two long graceful curves that ended in precise points. She always looked sleek and elegant, even in the faded jeans that were part of her signature look.
Today, she wore faded, straight-legged Levis with a cashmere turtleneck in a color that could only be called wisteria. She'd never particularly liked purples but had changed her palette to add dramatic contrast to her striking hair. Her violet eyes were courtesy of tinted contacts, and she had an entire wardrobe of those.
A navy belt circled her waist, and its simple silver buckle was mirrored by the wide silver bangle on her wrist. She wore smooth gray leather western-style boots and pulled it all together with a densely-woven Harris Tweed jacket in shades of deep purple, burgundy, navy, and pale gray. When she'd looked into her full-length mirror earlier that morning, she was pleased with what she saw, satisfied that she'd achieved what she'd intended, which was to have dressed up more than usual without appearing to have tried too hard.
She pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head, taking a moment to let her eyes adjust to the restaurant's interior after coming in from the strong noontime sun. Rickie and Andee were already seated at a table with three men. Two had their backs to her, but all three stood as she approached.
Ronnie pulled the navy leather glove off her right hand and extended it, sucking in a breath as she stood facing the handsomest man she'd ever seen. Of the group, she recognized Charles Walker Westlake immediately because he was the older of the three. She knew one of the others was his son, Chip, and quickly identified him as well by the unmistakable likeness to his father.
Shaking hands with the senior Mr. Westlake, she gave her name as Veronica Chandler but told him everyone called her Ronnie. He grinned and responded, "And everyone calls me CW." As introductions were made, she learned that the third man, the one whose extraordinary good looks almost took her breath away, was Luc Deschaines.
Charles Walker Westlake had a patrician profile, and both his appearance and his demeanor telegraphed the power he possessed in the real estate world. He had carefully mentored his son, Chip, and the in-joke in financial circles was that Chip was indeed a "chip off the old block." The Westlake Group's reputation preceded them, and the three realtors understood that investors worked with facts and analyses; in their business, it all came down to the numbers.
