I shrugged and sat across from him at the table, fluffing my napkin. Truth be told, my body was so satisfied that I would have to drum up energy to care that he wasn’t happy. “Seriously, eat your breakfast.” I poured syrup on my pancakes, my mouth watering. “It’s not like I could’ve called you about the graffiti heart or the phone call.”
He looked up, his sapphire-colored eyes glittering. “That’s exactly what you should’ve done.”
“Before or after you were busy ducking from bullets?” I took a bite and hummed at the sweet taste. My freezer was full of huckleberries, and I had enough to last until next picking season. Hopefully.
He paused in eating and watched me, the sight unnerving and a little intimidating.
Not that it stopped me from taking another bite of pancakes. I’d need to work out hard that afternoon, but I was due for a jog anyway.
“I thought we settled everything last night,” he said mildly.
Now, most men, when they were mild and calm, were reassuring. Not Aiden. I’d learned quickly that the quieter he became, the calmer he appeared, the more feral he was feeling. I’d like to say that irritated me, but in truth, he intrigued the heck out of me. Even when he had an edge most people would heed.
“We did,” I agreed, reaching for my coffee and trying to act natural.
“Then when there’s a threat against you, if you don’t need to call the police immediately, your first call is to me.” He also reached for his coffee, his gaze not leaving mine. When Aiden wanted to make a point, he, well, made a point.
Sometimes I think he was more mired in our past, when he’d rescued me from Jareth Davey, than was I. “I’m a big girl, Aiden. Why would I call you when you’re on a job?” The coffee was too strong, so I set the cup down and poured more creamer, turning the liquid more of a sugary milky color. Perfect.
“Because you’re mine.” He took another drink.
The words hit me, and I performed a head and shoulder roll in the oh no, you didn’t motion that would’ve made my sister Tessa proud. “Yours? I’m not a possession, Devlin. I’m not your freakin’ gun,” I snapped.
He sat back, his gaze turning thoughtful. “My gun? Why not?”
My mouth gaped open. “Excuse me?”
He partially lifted one powerful shoulder. “Well, you’re a lot like my gun. Sleek, smooth, and just right for my hand.”
Oh, for goodness’ sake. That should not have warmed my thighs. Before I could answer, he continued, “And you’re dangerous, deadly, and a straight shooter. Yep. Just like my gun.”
It was possible to feel two things at the same time. I both wanted to grin and toss my coffee at his head. “You’re going to have to get over this Neanderthal thing you have going on.”
“No.” He turned back to his pancakes.
My head full on jerked this time. “What?” It was a bit of a screech but not too bad.
His sigh was long suffering. “I get it. You’re smart, independent, and full of life. But you need to get it, too.” He chewed thoughtfully.
I paused, forgetting my sweetened coffee for a minute. This was unreal. “Get what?”
“Me.” His eyes this morning were a gunmetal blue with more than a hint of shadow. “While there’s plenty of evidence to the contrary, we’re not living in a rom-com, Angel. This is real life with bullets, explosions, and a possible stalker. I’m trained and you’re not. I’m a better shot and fighter than you are, although you have an impressive spirit and frightening intelligence. But I’m meaner and have no problem getting my hands bloody.” For Aiden, that was a freaking speech.
I couldn’t find an answer. What was the answer?
He tossed his napkin on his plate and stood. “I suggest you get rid of the idea that you have to handle danger by yourself in order to be a strong woman. You’re strong just sitting there. Don’t mess with me on this.” He stalked around my counter to the sink.
Mess with him? Mess with him? Since the day he’d rescued me when I was ten years old, I’d wanted to be the center of Aiden Devlin’s universe. Now finding myself there created warring factions inside me that were anything but comfortable. I liked that he wanted to protect me, but I didn’t like being told what to do. In fact, I felt a need to stand up for all of womankind against his attitude, even if it did kind of turn me on. I’d never claimed to be logical. “I don’t like your attitude.”
“Tough.” He finished washing off his plate and set it in the dishwasher.
I threw my napkin on the table, still off balance. “I think we’re about to have a fight.”
He turned and crossed his muscled arms, looking as formidable as the natural rock outcroppings on McInherney Hill, a hiking area around Lilac Lake. “Go for it.”
Sometimes I really did want to punch him in his junk. It was immature and would probably end badly for me, but the temper from my Irish and Italian blood often took over. Now was almost one of those times.
His eyes crinkled. “You want to kick me in the balls, don’t you?”
“Yes.” I stood and handed my dishes to him across the counter.
“You’ll regret that move, Annabella Fiona Albertini,” he drawled, accepting them and rinsing them off. It was rare that he used my full name, which was a nod to both sides of my heritage. “But you do what you gotta do.”
I straightened my pink sweater over black slacks above new traction bottomed but stylish boots. “I would, but the reading of the will is in an hour, and I have to get going.”
“I’m driving you,” he said, shutting the dishwasher.
“The hell you are,” I snapped, turning and moving for my laptop bag by the door.
His deep chuckle followed me.
Chapter 9
“We’re not finished with this fight,” I said, sliding from Aiden’s truck to the icy ground in front of the stately brick Timber City Gazette building.
“Okay,” he said agreeably, dark glasses shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare off sparkling snow.
I pressed my lips together and slung my bag over my shoulder. We’d argued, kind of, and then Aiden had assisted me to his truck in a way that I hadn’t touched the ground. Normally I didn’t mind if he carried me around, but this was getting out of hand. “You’re just going to wait out here?”
“No. I have some errands to run and will pick you up when you’re finished.” His dry tone held a hint of exasperation as if he’d possibly had enough of me for the morning.
“Really? Can I wait outside here for you, or should I duck and cover behind those snowy holly bushes over there?” I looked around. “There are a couple of good trees past the parking lot. I could climb one and toss snowballs to the ground to reveal my location.”
He shoved the glasses up his head. “I don’t think you were spanked enough as a kid.”
My insides went squishy, and my temper heated. “My parents didn’t believe in corporal punishment,” I grit out.
“There’s the problem,” he said easily. “Go inside, Angel. Now.” Yeah, he’d reached the end of his rather impressive patience.
So had I. “Do you have a cross necklace?” I snapped. Might as well find out.
His eyebrows rose. “Yeah. It’s white gold and was my Grams’ brother’s cross. Why?”
“No reason.” I slammed his truck door. Maybe I’d give the cross necklace to one of the Albertini boys and the wallet to Oliver. Yeah. Good plan. With that thought, I stepped carefully across the walkway to the front glass double door, which opened with a good shove. Florence waited inside a wide entryway with a plastic rain bonnet covering her gray hair and tied beneath her chin. Her galoshes were brown, her dress floral, and her makeup powdery.
She craned her neck to see outside. “That’s one handsome man driving that big truck.”
“He’s being bossy,” I said, shaking snow off my wool coat.
“He could boss me around any time.” She tucked her black pocketbook against her hip. “Is he bossy mean or bossy protective?”
&
nbsp; I wiped my boots off on the rough rubber mat. “Bossy protective.”
She patted my arm. “Then I’d let it go, unless he sucks in bed. Then I’d ditch him, even though he looks like that. Is he good in bed?”
I made a strangled cat sound and searched wildly for the elevator bank. Well, elevator duo. I guess two elevators didn’t make a bank. “We should get going.”
She slid her free arm through mine and trod carefully across the tiled floor, her galoshes squeaking and leaving a couple chunks of slush behind. “It’s okay not to talk about it, but I can tell he’s good in bed.” She reached out and poked the button for the third floor.
The whisker burn on my thighs silently agreed with her statement. I ignored both and tried to concentrate.
The stately Timber City Gazette building housed the paper on the east side of the three-story building, while offices took residence on the west side. The offices for O’Malley & Jones, Esq., were located on the third floor. We rode the elevator and exited into a reception area decorated for the holidays in muted red and green, which looked lovely against the white leather furniture in the waiting room.
Considering it was Saturday, the two chairs behind the reception desk were vacant.
A gray head poked out of a room down the elegant hallway. “Mrs. McLintock?” A body in a nice gray suit followed the head, and the man paused at seeing me. “Anna.” Chuck O’Malley ushered his bulk down the way, holding out a hand to first shake Florence’s hand and then mine. “It’s nice to see you,” he said.
I smiled. “Thanks. You too.”
Chuck O’Malley was an old fishing buddy of my dad’s, a nice guy, and a shark as a lawyer. “Excellent. Can I take your coats?”
We both unbuttoned and hung our heavy coats on the metal branch coat rack that actually looked like a real tree in winter. Florence removed her plastic hat to shove in her coat pocket. When we’d finished, he smiled. “Please follow me, and again, I’m sorry we had to do this on a Saturday. I’m leaving town tomorrow to visit family for the holidays, and it was the only time I had since I represent the estate.”
Florence followed him, her shoulders straight and her gaze on his butt. “Will your wife be accompanying you?” she murmured.
“I’m a widower,” he said, stopping at a doorway to an elegant conference room and gesturing us inside.
“My, but that’s a pity,” Florence said, brushing closely by him as she swept inside.
I barely kept from rolling my eyes. “Thank you.” I walked inside to find a thirty-something man already seated at the far end of the gleaming conference table, a half-full cup of coffee steaming the air next to him. He wore a black flannel shirt, dark jeans, and steel-rimmed glasses.
Florence pulled out a chair, and I followed suit, putting myself between her and the guy at the end of the table.
Chuck paused next to a credenza holding a coffee pot and water. “Can I get you ladies anything to drink?”
We both refused, so Chuck took the head of the table, where a dark blue case file was closed on the polished oak. “Florence McLintock and Anna Albertini, this is Hoyt Forrest.”
“We’ve met,” Hoyt said, nodding at Florence, his lips turning down. “But not you, Anna. Who are you?”
“I’m here as a friend,” I said.
Chuck started. “A friend? You’re not representing Florence?”
“Not exactly,” I admitted. “I’m representing Bernie McLintock, and Florence invited me to the will reading.” It wasn’t a conflict for me to represent Florence if she asked. Well, probably. Unless she became a suspect in the murder, and then she and Bernie couldn’t have the same attorney.
Hoyt’s brow wrinkled beneath his dark brown hair, and he turned to face Florence more fully before eyeing me. “Wait a minute. You’re representing the guy who killed my dad, possibly as an accomplice to this woman? You can’t be here.”
Florence looked around and dropped her bag to the floor. Then she clasped her gnarled hands on the table and lifted her chin. “Anna, I’d like to hire you as my attorney as long as you can be mine. I understand if there’s a conflict, you’ll have to withdraw.”
I settled. Florence could seriously read a room, and she apparently understood the law fairly well. “You’ve got it,” I said.
Chuck opened his file folder. “In that case, Miss Albertini has every right to attend this reading.”
Florence cut me a look of triumph.
I grimaced, not wanting any of this to get more uncomfortable than it already had become. “Mr. Forrest, I’m very sorry for your loss.” Somebody had to say it. “I know that Florence is grieving as well, and it’s unfortunate we had to meet under these very sad circumstances.” I couldn’t imagine losing my father, and my heart hurt for the guy.
His lips tightened. “I think your client helped kill him, and I’ve made a report with the police to that fact.”
Florence paled beneath her powdery pink blush. “That’s not nice, Hoyt. I didn’t kill Lawrence, and neither did Bernie.”
“Bernie, your former husband?” Hoyt shot back.
“Enough.” I leaned forward to partially block his view of my new client. Anger was an element of grief, so I kept my voice gentle. “Let’s hear the will, and then we can go on from there.” I still had doubts whether or not Florence should give the money from the ring to Hoyt.
Chuck cleared his throat and drew out a Last Will and Testament on the good thick paper used for wills. “As you know, we represented Lawrence Forrest and now represent his estate.” He scanned the heavy stock paper. “The document sets aside funds for a funeral and directs us to pay any and all debts before distributing the rest of the estate.” He read some more. “After that, Lawrence made several specific bequests.”
I reached for a legal pad from a stack in the middle of the table and then took a pen from a holder next to the paper.
Chuck kept reading. “Lawrence left his various shotguns, all listed here, to the Kringle Club, directing them to disperse the guns as they see fit.” He looked up as I made notes. “He left the fully owned Forrest Bait and Tackle Shop, including the land, building, improvements, inventory, and two bank accounts to his son, Hoyt Forrest.”
Hoyt sat back, his body visibly relaxing for the first time.
Chuck flipped a page. “The residence at Twenty-Two Spruce Lane, along with the accompanying twenty acres of forest land, is bequeathed to Florence McLintock.”
Hoyt sucked in a breath.
Florence slowly slid her hands off the table. “I, well, this is unexpected.”
“No shit,” Hoyt snarled.
I exhaled and looked at Chuck. “Does that take care of the specific bequests?”
“No.” Chuck flipped the page again. “All vehicles go to Hoyt, the lake cabin goes to Florence, and the investment accounts, now equaling approximately two million dollars, are bequeathed to Florence.”
Florence gasped.
Hoyt slammed his fist on the table.
Florence jumped in her seat and turned toward him. “Hoyt, I didn’t know. This is, well, we can come to some sort of….”
I put my hand on her arm. “Let’s all take a day or so to think about this before you make decisions.” I had a duty to represent my client and make sure she understood all of her options. If she wanted to refuse the bequests from the deceased, she had every right to do so—but I couldn’t let her be hasty.
Hoyt’s face turned a motley red, and he stood, looking taller than I’d surmised. Probably around six feet or so. He glared down at us. “If I can prove she murdered my father, then she gets nothing, right?”
I also stood. “That’s enough.”
Anger darkened his brown eyes behind the glasses, and his nostrils flared. “Is that it for the will?”
Chuck pushed his reading glasses farther up his nose. “Ah, no. One more bestowal.” He cleared his throat. “A third stock portfolio, approximate value of one hundred thousand dollars, to a Ms. Sharon Smith.”
&nbs
p; Florence stiffened. “Who is Sharon Smith?”
Hoyt ducked his head. “I agree. Who the hell is she?”
Chuck closed the case file. “I’m sorry, but that’s all I can tell you—except that I don’t even have an address for her. Supposedly, she’s going to contact us upon learning of Lawrence’s death, and she has not done so to date. Other than that, the residual property, meaning anything that’s left after the specific bequests, goes to Florence.”
“Fucking great,” Hoyt snapped. “I can’t believe this. He’s been my dad for nearly forty years and your fiancé for what…less than a week? When did he redo this will, anyway? I saw the old one, which had been in place for two decades. I find this very suspicious.”
Chuck slid two envelopes across the table, both clearly labeled as one for Florence and the other for Hoyt. “These are for you.”
Florence’s hand shook as she pulled the envelope toward her to place in her purse. “I want to know who this Sharon is and right now.”
“Me too,” Hoyt growled.
Chuck placed his hands on the folder. “We’re under instructions from the testator to keep that information confidential. There might be an explanation in the letters I’ve handed to you, but I have not read them, so I do not know.”
Hoyt smacked the envelope against his hand. “I’m an heir under the will and demand to know who she is.”
“Sorry,” Chuck said.
Hoyt glared. “I’ll get a lawyer and sue you for that information.”
Chuck nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Let’s go.” I assisted Florence to stand, wanting to get out of the building before Hoyt and figuring he’d want to stay and argue with Chuck for some time.
Florence stood unsteadily and then gathered herself, turning for the doorway. She looked old and frail in front of me, and a swell of protectiveness hurried my steps. She had to be about five feet tall, even in the galoshes, and she’d been hit with a surprise. The bounty might be a nice surprise, but I figured she’d much rather have Lawrence than the money. We silently donned our coats and rode the elevator down to the first floor.
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