Homecoming (Dartmoor Book 8)

by Lauren Gilley

  He felt Tenny’s lips part beneath his, a startled gasp, and he didn’t understand that. Maybe Tenny liked to initiate? Maybe he wasn’t doing it right?

  Then Tenny’s hand fisted in his hair, and he kissed him back.

  It wasn’t as harsh and punishing as before. Softer. Tentative, almost. And after a moment, Tenny turned his face away, chest heaving beneath Reese’s, breathing hard like they’d been doing much more than kissing.

  “Shit,” Tenny said again, a faint whisper.

  Reese drew back. “Why ‘shit’?”

  Tenny closed his eyes a moment, his expression pained. Then he sat up, forcing Reese to sit up, too. He blinked down at his lap a moment, and when he lifted his head, he wore an entirely pretend smile. “You did well tonight. Next time, we’ll have to get two girls.”

  He pressed a fast, smacking kiss to Reese’s forehead, then slipped out of bed, and left the room, without looking back.

  Reese raked his hair back off his face, and felt something like loss.

  Twelve

  “Finally,” Maggie said the next morning, when Leah broke down and called to ask for her help in finding a job. “Hang tight. I’ll get back to you.”

  Five minutes later, her phone rang again. “I know it’s short notice, but can you make a noon interview?”

  Leah bolted up from her chair – her new, gorgeous, Albie Cross-made kitchen chair – and slapped a hand to her rumpled ponytail. “Absolutely,” she said, and headed toward the bathroom.

  “Great. I’ll text you the address.”

  Noon saw her standing on the sidewalk in front of a sleek, glass-front building in the heart of downtown. People in smart suits and dresses moved in and out of the revolving door; through the cool, green-blue tint of the glass, she spotted a lobby with marble floors, a marble-fronted desk, and a fountain laced with lots of potted palms and ferns.

  She double-checked that the address Maggie had sent matched the gold numbers above the door, straightened her skirt, took a deep breath, and went in.

  A young man with very shiny hair and a very fitted suit glanced up at the sound of her approach, and offered a mild, professional smile. “Good afternoon, ma’am, how can I be of service today?” He had one of those pleasant, unaccented voices made for the service industry, and it caught her a bit off guard. She’d been expecting a local firm of some sort; professional, but still undoubtedly Southern at heart. She felt a bit like she’d stepped through a portal back to Chicago. Or maybe New York.

  “Hi, I’m here for an interview.” With a flash of panic, she realized Maggie hadn’t given her the name of her interviewer. “I’m Leah Cook.” She lifted the folder that contained her notebook and resume, and flashed a hopeful smile.

  “One moment.” He checked his computer monitor. “Ah, yes. Miss Cook. If you’ll follow Candace” – he motioned toward a woman who stood over by the elevator bank – “she’ll take you up to see Mr. Shaman.”

  That was a weird name.

  Candace of the white teeth and the sleek gray dress greeted her with muted, but perfect politeness and took her up in the elevator to the fifth floor. The doors slid open onto a serene space full of low couches, chairs, more potted plants, and widely separated cubicles occupied by more elegant, well-dressed people talking softly into phones. At the far end of the vast space, a frosted glass wall set with a door proved to be their destination. When they reached it, Candace knocked once, then cracked it open and said, “Your noon appointment is here, Mr. Shaman.”

  “Thank you, Candace, send her in,” a very crisp, posh British voice intoned.

  Candace ushered her in with a soft good luck, then closed the door behind her.

  Leah wasn’t embarrassed to admit that she was a little bit stunned.

  The back wall of the room was floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the street below and the buildings across the way. Inside, the office was all minimalist chic, lots of gray and white and black, down to the faux white fur rug beneath the glass-topped desk. The man who sat behind it, in an expensive, ergonomic chair, didn’t look like the sort of man with which Maggie would have inroads.

  Even sitting, she could tell that he was tall. Long arms, and long, slender fingers steepled casually together. The glass desk offered a view of long, crossed legs, and tremendously expensive shoes. He wore a gray suit, and a lavender shirt, open at the throat. Long, straight auburn hair framed an angular face composed all of sharp angles and striking, big blue eyes.

  “Miss Cook?”

  She nodded.

  “Please sit.”

  She did. And belatedly remembered her manners. “Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me – Mr. Shaman.” She stumbled over the name, and wondered, briefly, why Maggie hadn’t shared it with her.

  One corner of the man’s mouth twitched – a quick flicker that didn’t turn into a smile. “I owe the Teague family more than a few favors. You’ve brought your resume?”

  “Oh, yes.” She pulled it from her folder and handed it over, realizing as she did that she had no idea what sort of position was on offer.

  He reached to pluck it off his blotter, a flat, platinum band winking on the ring finger of his left hand. He read the whole of it, eyes tracking back and forth across the lines of tight text. Then he nodded, set it aside, and folded his hands over his flat stomach, leaning back in his chair. “Tell me about yourself, Ms. Cook.”

  His regard – direct and carefully composed – left her wanting to shrink down into her chair. He was very good-looking, pretty even, but lacked all the touchable humanity of guys like Carter or Aidan. He looked regal, carved from marble. Like an expensive statue that should be kept on a high shelf, out of reach of children.

  She found that she had to take a deep breath before she spoke, silently berating herself for her nerves. She wasn’t the sort who got stumbly and uncertain in front of people.

  “I got my bachelor’s in Accounting at UT,” she said, nodding toward the resume, “and I started with a private CPA firm here in Knoxville right after I graduated, Lott & Sons. I took a job in Chicago…” She trailed off when he waved for silence.

  “No, no. Your resume is perfect. I mean, tell me about yourself.” He made a little go on gesture. “Tell me why Maggie Teague called me before breakfast and asked if I could offer you a job.”

  It hit her like a shove, the knowledge that Maggie had asked outright like that. She’d known what she was getting herself into, calling in a favor like that. But this felt so much like charity.

  Still, she didn’t guess this Shaman, whoever he was, was the sort to be strong-armed into doing anything he didn’t want to.

  “I grew up with Ava,” she said, starting over. Her voice sounded more normal, at least. “We were best friends all through school, like this.” She lifted two crossed fingers, and the corner of his mouth twitched again. “I grew up around the club, even if I wasn’t officially one of their kids. I went to parties. I heard stuff.” Better not to say too much. She shrugged. “When I moved back to town, Maggie started offering to help me find a job. I’ve been filling out apps online – not successfully, so I finally decided to take her up on it. She called this morning and told me to be at this address – though, to be honest, I have no idea who you are, or what you do, or what position I’m even applying for.”

  Oops. Too much.

  But his twitch became a smile, small and tight, but unmistakable. “Honesty. I like it.”

  “Sorry.” She felt her face heat. “I’m kind of a blabber-mouth.”

  “No, it’s refreshing.” He tipped his head. “To a degree.” His chin ducked a fraction, and his look said that refreshing could get old really quick. The office – his outfit, his overall look – suggested he didn’t suffer fools.

  She nodded.

  “I suppose you could say I’m a – friend of the club as well.” His gaze flicked over toward the bookcase, brow crimping, and for a moment, he looked almost surprised. Then his gaze returned, expression smoothing. “I�
��ve known Kev – Tango, since we were both boys. I’ve been in business with the Lean Dogs for several years now.”

  “Oh.”

  “This is my second office. I have another on the other side of town. I’m something of an investor – fingers in lots of pies, and all of that. I’ve begun investing in real estate, lately. If you join the team, you’ll be working here, out of this office, as part of what is currently a three-person accounting team. They’re all about your age. Very charming. You should like them.”

  “I…”

  “You may of course have a few days to think it over, but, to be truthful, Maggie’s phone call came at the right time. I’m in need of another accountant, and you’re perfectly qualified, and part of the family, so to speak. The job is yours if you want it. You can start right away.”

  She blinked at him.

  His brows lifted. “Do you have any questions?”

  She had a whole print-out of them, questions she carried with her to every interview. She’d memorized them long ago, but struggled now to recall a single one.

  He gave her another smile, amused.

  “Um. What sort of salary would I be looking at?” She winced after, knowing she could have phrased it more eloquently.

  He plucked a sticky note from a neat stack on his desk, scribbled a figure on it, and leaned forward to set it before her.

  Holy shit.

  She should ask other things. She should take the time he’d allowed her, those few days for thinking things over.

  But what the hell: no one else had offered to take her on, and she didn’t figure, even if they did, they’d be offering that kind of money.

  She laid a hand over the note, the sum he’d written, to keep from staring at it like an idiot. She met his expectant gaze, and said, with what elegance she could gather, “Thank you. I gladly accept.”

  His grin widened, showing a flash of teeth, and the expression put her in mind of a predator hiding in the long grass. “Excellent.” He offered one manicured hand for her to shake. “Welcome aboard, Ms. Cook.”

  ~*~

  “Oh my God, Mom, you didn’t!” Ava whirled on her mother, her expression scandalized, and, really, Leah had pictured this going differently.

  They were at Maggie’s kitchen table, having something of a late, celebratory lunch, complete with champagne. Maggie shrugged as she set chips and salsa down in the center of the table. “I did. She needed a job, and I knew where she could find one that actually pays a living wage.” She settled into her chair with the imperious air of a queen: which was to say, the air with which she did everything. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”

  Ava heaved a sigh. “With Ian? Really?”

  “Ian?” Leah asked, looking back and forth between mother and daughter.

  “Ian’s basically family at this point,” Maggie said, opening the chip bag with a loud pop that had the ring of finality to it.

  “Ian?” Leah asked again.

  Ava turned to her. “Your new boss. Mr. Shaman.” She rolled her eyes. “His name’s actually Ian, and he’s–” She pressed her lips together, and Leah had the sense she was biting back club secrets. Which were none of her business, she told herself, though it stung a little, being out of the loop.

  “Shit,” she said, pulse giving a jump. “He’s not some kind of creep is he? He was wearing a wedding ring. Is he some kinda sexual harasser?”

  “No,” Maggie said at once, with a firm shake of her head.

  “No,” Ava echoed. “He’s gay, actually. And married.”

  “And he’s club family, apparently,” Leah said. “And he’s gonna pay well. I’m not seeing the problem here.” She gave Ava’s foot a nudge under the table with her own.

  Maggie sent her daughter a very maternal look.

  Ava threw up her hands. “Okay, okay. There’s not a problem. But Ian is…let’s just say not all of his business is…above board.”

  Maggie snorted.

  Leah smiled. “I forgot you were married to a minister.”

  “You know what I mean,” Ava said, sourly.

  “No, I absolutely have no idea what you mean.”

  Ava looked at her – and then the look softened. “Ian is…well, if you knew him, I think you’d understand. Plenty of civilians work for him, and I think most of them have no idea about his – other business. He does do legit stuff, same as the club. But working for him won’t be the same as working for H&R Block.”

  Leah shrugged – but she did give the idea a moment’s consideration. She’d hesitated to accept Maggie’s help – but out of a sense of pride. Not wanting to be a burden; not wanting to feel like she’d needed help.

  Had she been hesitant about being tied more officially – financially – to the club? She didn’t think so. But it was a big step down a road she’d never traveled before. She’d been friends with Ava, been friendly with the club, but had always stayed on the fringes. There was no paperwork or money to tie her to it.

  She waited for a tickle of fear that didn’t come. Her life – such as it was – lay in Knoxville now, for better or worse. She’d never been popular; why shy away from closer affiliation with the Dogs now?

  She smiled at her friend. “I’ll take my chances.”

  Thirteen

  Ghost slowed and turned his bike in at Flash Customs, whose lot was currently full of cars. With summer approaching, and the local economy booming, there were plenty of Knoxville residents looking to revamp, trick out, and customize their boats for the coming river season. Ghost found a parking spot near the back, along the guardrail that offered an up-close view of the water, and Walsh, Fox, and Mercy snugged their bikes in close behind.

  He took off his helmet, and surveyed the lot as he gave his hair a few absent fluffs. A father and son came out of the building, the son swinging a plastic shopping bag and talking excitedly, pointing off toward the water, and the boats tied up at the dock.

  “The crowd can work to our advantage,” Fox said. “They won’t want to talk in front of customers.”

  “I want you to come back with me,” he said, turning to Walsh. “You two poke around front where you can.”

  Fox’s mouth twitched – doubtless he’d wanted to be a part of any interrogation – but Ghost would rather have his trusted VP at his side. They were familiar, used to working together in these situations. Walsh made for an excellent, impassive good cop of the two of them. And he wanted Fox scoping for cameras or other little clues the rest of them might miss.

  “I’m hurt, boss,” Mercy said, with a fake pout. “You never want me to go in the back.”

  “I need them talkative – not pissing themselves. Come on.”

  Inside, the office was crowded with shelves and clothing racks near the front, offering t-shirts, keychains, travel mugs, and, the closer you got to the counter, more practical items: microfiber towels, boat wash, wax, decals, seat covers. A long counter dominated the back of the space, behind which were displayed posters and pricing charts, ads for fancy motors and paint brands. A middle-aged man and a teenager stood behind the registers, wearing Flash Customs polos. Ghost recognized the man: he was the co-owner, Dave Connors.

  Customers milled about the aisles: a husband and wife, the wife holding a t-shirt on a hanger up to her chest and doing a twirl for her husband, laughing. A set of parents with a whole gaggle of children demanding keychains. Lots of noise, voices tumbling over one another.

  Fox and Mercy melted off to the sides – or, well, Fox melted. Mercy stood out like a sore thumb, too tall, and long-haired. Ghost noticed several people give him startled glances, their gazes lingering on his cut.

  Ghost and Walsh bellied up to the counter, and the teenager glanced up first.

  “Hi, welcome to Flash Customs,” he said in a bored voice. “How can I…” He trailed off when his gaze fastened on Ghost, and his eyes widened. His Adam’s apple jumped in his skinny throat as he swallowed. “Dad,” he said, and there was nothing bored about his voice now.


  Gotcha, Ghost thought. There was no way this wasn’t one of the two kids Tenny and Reese had spooked last night.

  “What?” Dave said, bored, harried. He cursed at his computer screen, clicked the mouse a few times.

  “Dad.”

  “What?” He looked, finally, and Ghost wished he had a camera; his face went white and then red. Belatedly, he snapped his mouth closed, and then crowded his son out of the way. “Kenny,” he greeted, aiming for normal, casual. He did an admirable job of smoothing his features.

  But it was too late. Ghost had seen that first, unguarded moment of panic.

  “Hey, Dave,” he said, trying to hold back a smirk. “Could we have a word?”

  “Uh…” He glanced around his shop, a little wildly. Behind him, the son ducked into a door marked Employees Only. “Sure. You guys have a boat, right?” He gestured toward the thick, spiral-bound catalogues chained to the counter. “We’ve got lots of new…”

  “This isn’t about boats,” Ghost said, quietly. “And you know it.”

  “…mods.” He pressed his lips tight together, and regarded Ghost a long moment. Flicked a glance toward Walsh, whose impassive expression revealed nothing, and offered no respite.

  Dave drew himself upright, hands braced on the counter. He spoke quietly, too, in the hopes his customers wouldn’t overhear. “Look, whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying. I’ve got no beef with the Dogs, but I’m not interested in – joining the team, or whatever. If you’re buying up the city, you’ll have to do it without my shop.”

  Ghost grinned. “Good to know. But that’s not the word I was talking about. Your boy there.” He nodded to the door the son had slipped through. “He and a buddy were trying to vandalize my bar last night.”

  Blended panic and indignation flared in his gaze a moment. “My son–”

  “Almost got his head caved in by someone a lot meaner than him. One of my boys stepped in and intervened, and kept things from escalating. You should be thanking the Dogs right now, and not condemning us.