Hot Property

by Susan Johnson

  “I don’t see why that matters to you or him.”

  Nick raised the MAC-10 barrel slightly so George’s head was in his sights. “That’s close enough,” he said. Turning to Zoe, he gave her a lifted brows look. “Do you want to do this deal?”

  “No. I never did.”

  “Look, guys,” Nick said with a silky smile, “much as we’d like to visit with you and get the lowdown on your employer and his young wife, Miss Chandler is of the opinion that she can write a book and have it published without your boss’s interference.” His smile widened. “Land of the free, right? So why don’t you two get in your car, drive out of town, and catch the next plane back to wherever you came from.”

  “And tell Willerby everyone isn’t for sale,” Zoe added.

  “The girl,” Trevor whispered, having conquered his fear when it appeared as though Miss Chandler and her backwoods boyfriend weren’t going to shoot first and talk later. “Tell her about the girl,” he prompted. Willerby would fire them if they failed; this wasn’t the time to hold back.

  “Shut up,” George shot back, sotto voce.

  Nick frowned. “What girl?”

  Christ, how had he heard? “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. It’s nothing.”

  “Maybe if I shoot up one of your knees that might kick-start your memory,” Nick said. “What girl are you talking about?” He was getting a bad vibe about that word, girl.

  “It’s a misunderstanding,” George said in his most professional, soothing attorney-client voice. “Trevor didn’t talk to Willerby, I did, and no one said anything about a girl.”

  Nick squeezed off a round that hit the ground an inch from George’s polished wing tip and sent grass flying. “I heard what your partner said so don’t fuck with me. The next one’s for your knee and the nearest emergency room that could competently handle a mess like that is an hour away.”

  “Willerby wanted us to tell you Joe Strickland’s daughter is at risk if Miss Chandler doesn’t comply,” Trevor quickly interposed, recognizing he’d been wrong about the talking/shooting time frame, mainly concerned now with keeping his head and knees intact.

  “You were right!” Zoe exclaimed.

  “Sit down you two. Right there on the ground.” A cold, brusque command only a lunatic would disregard.

  They sat. Even George, who normally wouldn’t have considered getting his creme linen slacks smudged.

  Pulling a cell phone from his pocket, Nick spoke two syllables into the mouthpiece. A second later when his call was answered, he said, “Hey, Tony. I’ve got a couple of trespassers here on the Skubic property. If you could come out and pick them up, I’ll press charges. Some big-city boys looking for trouble. Maybe you could lock them up for the night. Sure, take your time. They’re not goin’ anywhere.” Flipping the phone shut, he smiled at Zoe. “My cousin Tony is sheriff here. He’s on his way.”

  When Tony and his partner arrived, George Harmon vehemently protested that they were being wrongfully imprisoned. He knew his rights! This was a preposterous injustice! He should be allowed to make a phone call to his lawyer! He insisted on it!

  “Not a problem,” Tony said, cool as a cucumber, holding George’s head as he shoved him—still shouting—into the backseat of the patrol car. Trevor, pale and silent, was being helped into the other side of the backseat by Tony’s partner, Keith. “First thing tomorrow morning, dude, you can call anyone you want.” Tony winked at Nick over George’s head.

  “Tomorrow morning! That’s a gross infringement of my rights! I’ll have you sued! I’ll have your badge! I’ll have you thrown in jail!”

  Tony slammed the back door shut. “The guy has some lungs. I’ll have to put him down in the basement. So—is tomorrow good enough for you, Nick?”

  “Yeah. Thanks. They were harassing the lady. Zoe Chandler, my cousin Tony Mirovic.”

  Zoe smiled. “Thank you so much. They were really unwelcome and threatening.”

  “Looks like they’re used to having their own way.”

  Nick’s brows flickered. “New York lawyers.”

  “No shit. Well, we’ll have to see that they get a feel for a North Country jail tonight. Do you want them to have Betty’s meals or did they piss you off?”

  “Nah—they might as well eat a good meal. I owe you, now.”

  “Like hell.” Nick had pulled Tony out of a burning car years ago and saved his life at no small risk to his own. He had literally bent the steering wheel back from the column to free Tony from the car crash. “Have yourself a nice day, you two.” And with a thumbs-up sign, Tony pulled open the driver’s door and slid behind the wheel.

  As the police car disappeared down the drive, Zoe gave Nick a searching look. “Your cousin could get into trouble over this. Willerby’s men will sue.”

  “Not a problem. Our uncle is the local judge, another cousin is the district judge. I’m guessing they’ll get tired of pursuing their case by the time they lose in those two courts.”

  She smiled. “You know they’ll lose?”

  “Let’s just say as a betting man I wouldn’t put a dime on them winning.”

  “If they weren’t such asses, I might think that they were being denied their rights.”

  Nick grinned. “Yeah, if only. Come on now. I have to make a few calls. Joe’s daughter better have some security, just in case.”

  “You’re being really sweet,” Zoe said, walking beside him as he strode down the road to his place. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me.” She grinned. “You and your entire family.”

  “Forget it. Willerby overstepped. Things like that piss me off.” Although, they hadn’t for a long time. Not that he was knocking the fact that he was back in the real world—fucked up as it was.

  It was better than being half-dead like he’d been.

  And you couldn’t fault the company, he thought, shooting a sideways glance at Zoe. Even if he wasn’t a hundred percent sure about her. Still, he didn’t have to say sayonara to her until morning.

  Possibilities existed.

  He might even take advantage of them.

  It wouldn’t hurt to have some pleasant memories for his coming hermitage in the bush. It would give him something to think about besides the approach of Harry’s liquidation squad.

  Fifteen

  Chris’s car was outside the workshop when they returned.

  “A local kid works with me sometimes,” Nick said, setting down his assault weapon outside the door. “Come on in. I’ll introduce you and tell Chris I’ll be out later.”

  “I saw you on the road a couple days ago,” Chris said, after Nick had introduced them. “Nice car.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll bet it has a pretty cool top end.”

  Zoe smiled. “It’s not bad. You’re helping out, Nick says. The canoes are beautiful,” she added, surveying the large interior. It was half museum, half full-scale production center. Several old canoes were hanging on the walls, along with other wilderness paraphernalia—trapping gear, fishing poles, snow-shoes,skis, several boat motors. Some objects were obviously vintage, while others were state-of-the-art.

  “Someday I’ll know what I’m doing.”

  “He’s learning fast,” Nick interposed.

  “I could use a little help boiling these cedar ribs if you’ve got a minute,” Chris said.

  “How many do you have in the vat?” Nick asked, moving to a large rectangular cauldron on legs with bubbling liquid inside.

  Fifteen minutes later, he looked up and offered Zoe a rueful smile. “Sorry. This must be like watching grass grow for you. Let me take you inside. We’re gonna be here awhile.”

  “I can let myself in. Keep working.” She’d lived in the art world a long time and wrestling with a canoe’s structural framework was a lot like working on a large sculptural piece. Time often became irrelevant.

  “Obviously, you didn’t tell her about the alarm,” Chris drawled.

  “Chris politely refers to me as
the human security screen. And she saw some of it already, Chris, so lay off.” Nick nodded toward the door and smiled. “He’s right though. I’d better lead you back to the house. And you can get me Mandy’s number, too. Alan can find her with that and a name.”

  Zoe followed him on a path to the house that looked perfectly normal. No obvious boobytraps, although she hadn’t seen the one earlier in the day either, so what did she expect? Whatever Nick’s issues were, apparently they required these measures. And why she wasn’t more freaked out would no doubt require some time with a therapist.

  “There you go,” Nick said, opening the front door and stepping aside so Zoe could enter. “I need Joe’s daughter’s phone number.”

  He waited while Zoe went to get her purse and when she returned, he punched the number into his cell phone. “I’ll take care of this. She’ll be fine with Alan on the case. Don’t look at me like that. Better safe than sorry.” He smiled. “You’re shocked to find the world isn’t all sunshine and roses?”

  She made a face. He was way the hell too cheerful when the world she thought she knew was crumbling around her feet.

  “Sorry,” he said. And if you’re for real, I really am. No one likes to be terrorized. “Look, I won’t be gone long. Why don’t you give Joe a heads-up and if you need me, pick up the phone in the kitchen and hit the intercom button. There’s a line to the workshop. Otherwise, I should be back in less than an hour.”

  After the door shut on Nick, Zoe called Joe and explained about Willerby’s threat, that Mandy had excellent security thanks to Nick—some CIA types, she understood. “Mandy should be fine,” she finished.

  “Easy for you to say,” Joe grumbled. “I’m halfway around the world from my daughter and not so damned sure everything’s fine. I should probably come home.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Christ, I was going to go to the site tomorrow with my informant.”

  Zoe knew that Joe’s parenting had been pretty much long-distance since the divorce. It wasn’t that he and Mandy didn’t spend vacations together and the occasional holiday, but Joe’s ex was the primary caregiver. “Would you like Nick to call you and explain the security in place?” Zoe asked, politely giving Joe a way out.

  “Why don’t I talk to Mandy. See how she’s doing. Fucking Willerby, threatening my daughter,” he muttered. “We’re gonna take the son of a bitch down.”

  “I’m really sorry, Joe. If I hadn’t started this . . .” Zoe’s voice trailed off.

  “It’s not your fault Willerby’s a douche bag.”

  “Still, I’m sorry.”

  “Nah, don’t be. I’ll call you later.”

  The phone went dead. Joe wasn’t Mr. Diplomacy.

  Zoe found herself standing in a front hall lined with deer antlers, feeling as though she should be doing something other than hanging out.

  And waiting.

  For what, she wasn’t sure.

  She wondered if she would be better off returning home, hiring bodyguards there, and having Joe come back to the States to help protect his daughter.

  She blew out a breath. Damn—everything was so unsettled. If only Willerby wasn’t such an unknown. Or rather, if her experience with men like Willerby wasn’t so limited. Actually, nonexistent.

  Where was that good fairy with the magic wand when you needed her?

  Uncooperative fairies aside though, she really should work on her book. The sooner she finished it, the sooner Willerby would be checkmated. But after all the commotion today with those visits from Willerby’s men and the increasing uncertainty of should she stay or should she go—and where exactly she should go if she did—her stress level was pretty high. Which seriously curtailed any motivation to write.

  Chris looked up and grinned as Nick reentered the workshop. “Nice houseguest. You must have changed your mind.”

  “About what?”

  “You gave me the impression you were going to pass on the lady next door.”

  “Stuff came up.”

  “Good for you.”

  “It’s not that.” Nick smiled. “Sorry to disappoint you.” Chris’s concern for his love life was well-intentioned but unnecessary. “Zoe’s writing some book that a tycoon in New York doesn’t want her to write. He sent out his goon squad to lean on her, she asked me for help.” Nick shrugged. “I’m thinking about it.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “To push back for her, I guess.”

  “How hard?”

  “Dunno yet. I might head up to one of my outpost camps instead.”

  “With her?”

  “Good question.”

  Chris flashed another grin. “Why are you even debating it?

  A babe like that? If I didn’t have a thing for Dee Dee, believe me, I wouldn’t hesitate a second.”

  “But then you’re eighteen and I’m not. And—”

  “There’s some problem,” Chris presciently finished.

  “Maybe there’s a problem. She could have been sent here by a guy who doesn’t exactly like me.”

  “Do you want me and my cousins to go with you out in the bush?”

  Now there was a good kid. And not to be discounted was the wilderness expertise of the Smith family. Like him, they could survive in the boundary waters with a knife and a fish-hook. “I think I can disappear more easily if I’m alone. Which is part of my dilemma concerning the lady.”

  Chris had been hanging out with Nick since he’d come back to care for his granddad, and with the exception of Lucy Chenko’s brief visits, no houseguests had ever been invited in. The fact that Nick was even considering taking his neighbor lady north was a monumental shift in policy. “You don’t seriously think a good-looking babe like that could be dangerous, do you?”

  Ah, tender youth. “Hard to tell,” Nick murmured. “I’ve run into some bad asses who don’t live life like the rest of us. They look like you or me. They just don’t act like us. But— whatever,” he added with a shrug. “I can take care of myself.”

  Chris had seen the pantry. He figured Nick could probably take care of a whole lot of things. But friends helped friends. “If you change your mind the offer’s open.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it. Now let’s finish boiling these ribs and get them in the clamps.”

  No way was he letting Chris and his cousins get in Harry’s line of fire.

  Rather than stand in the entry hall, Zoe drifted into the living room. Looking around for a place to sit, she surveyed another room from the 1950s. White walls, beige couch, two beige chairs—all three with cushions only slightly worn considering their age. But the living room probably hadn’t had much use—a common enough case. The chartreuse rug didn’t show wear either, while the needlepoint cushions scattered on the furniture were all pristine variations on a theme. Each exhibited a profusion of flowers and a verse from a nature poem. Nick’s grandmother was the embroiderer, she guessed.

  Over in one corner a small spinet piano holding an array of framed photos caught her eye. Crossing the room, Zoe sat down on the piano bench and studied the interesting profusion of Mirovics.

  She picked out Nick’s pictures first. There he was as a youngster—perhaps six or seven—a fishing pole in one hand, holding up a large fish with the other, his gap-toothed smile radiant with pride. He wore jeans, sneakers, a Spider-Man T-shirt, and the same workshop where he was at the moment served as backdrop to the picture. He must have been an only grandchild. There were photos of him as a child—with a trike, a bike, then a motorcycle—always smiling into the camera.

  The latest was a college graduation picture showing a handsome young man with his arm around a petite, pretty, dark-haired woman also in cap and gown. The ex-wife or just a friend? Picking up the photo, Zoe studied the woman’s face as if the image might give up its secrets. But no, just a smiling face, rosy-cheeked and young.

  Replacing the framed picture, she scanned the rest. There were photographs of Nick’s grandmother and grandfather, their wedd
ing portrait, them with a baby, their son, Nick’s father, she decided from the date of the clothing. In the very back, leaning against the wall, was a large picture of Nick with his parents, his mother holding his hand, his father standing behind them, his features almost identical to Nick’s. The family was posed on a lakeshore, framed by pine trees, a canoe pulled up beside them, the sky still a vivid blue in the old photo.

  She found herself slightly envious of the small photo gallery. Her family had traveled extensively, rarely staying in one place for any length of time. She didn’t have a family home with photos on display, or even a grandparents’ home where memories were stored like this. Both sets of grandparents had retired early, sold their homes, and moved to condos in Florida. And if not for satellite phones, she wouldn’t have much contact with her parents. Even then, there were times they were in areas where phone service was uncertain.

  Jeez—enough with the melancholy. Willerby was to blame for that, too. As of this morning, she’d been happy as a clam in her rented cabin with her manuscript going along swimmingly.

  She had been fine. Joe had been fine. Mandy had been fine.

  Crap.

  She blew out a breath, swung around on the piano bench, and gazed at a large paint-by-the-numbers lake scene hanging over the couch. Now that had been some project for whomever had painted it. Coming to her feet, she walked over to it and read the name painted on the bottom right: Peg M. ’58.

  Nick’s grandmother probably.

  Then out of nowhere—prompted no doubt by her retro walk down memory lane—her mouth began watering for chocolate chip cookies, or maybe brownies. The kind with lots of frosting.

  Or perhaps it was just her usual reaction to stress—reach for carbs and chocolate.

  Would Nick mind, she wondered, if she made some brownies? Did he even have the ingredients? On a sudden mission from God, she swiftly walked to the kitchen and began opening and shutting cupboard doors. She was kind of hoping she could find the ingredients without having to look in the pantry. It wasn’t that she was a coward, but the idea of that much firepower in an ordinary house was just slightly disturbing.