by L. E. Harner
Triple Threat, Book One
By L.E. Harner
Copyright
Triple Threat is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Laura Harner
Cover photograph by DWS Photography
Cover Art by Laura E. Harner
Edited by Jae Ashley
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-937252-36-6
Published by Hot Corner Press
Warning: All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any many without written permission, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this book.
Contact the publisher for further information: [email protected]
Dedication
A very special thank you to my friends and co-conspirators Havan Fellows, Lee Brazil, and Tom Webb. Thank you for not laughing too long and too loud.
Acknowledgement of Trademarks:
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademarked owners of the following trademarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Worcestershire: H. J. Heinz Company
Coke: Coca-Cola Company
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgement of Trademarks
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
About the Author
Chapter One
“Margaret Blackwell,” I murmured as I led the impeccably clad young woman into the bright morning light of the glass ceilinged solarium. A small gasp escaped her lips as the tall, powerfully built man stood from the table where we’d been sharing a leisurely breakfast minutes before. He unfolded himself into his full height, and she sighed. I understood her sentiment completely.
Unlike my own average mug, Archer was classically handsome in a way that would interest professional photographers. He always had been. Chiseled cheekbones, straight nose, dimpled chin hinting at a Celt background. The faint lines that now bracketed his mouth and fanned away from his eyes only served to make his face more interesting. From a distance, the monochromatic gray suit and shirt might have hinted at professionally boring, but up close, Archer’s tie was a vibrant swirl of blues and greens that matched the changeable color of his eyes. An enigmatic smile curved his sculpted lips, a visible reminder that this man was much more than he might seem.
“Miss Blackwell, may I present Archer Wilde.”
They met in the middle of the solarium, and Archer politely shook the limply proffered hand.
“Please, have a seat. Can Zachary bring you anything? Coffee? Hot tea?”
“No, thank you.” Margaret sat at the edge of the chair, her back ramrod straight and ankles demurely crossed. My, my. Someone attended cotillion as a teen.
“Zachary? Won’t you sit and join us?” Archer’s eyes sparkled with mischief and I couldn’t resist smiling back.
“No, thank you Archer, I think I’ll stand this morning.” We shared a look, then he turned his attention to his guest.
“How may I help you, Miss Blackwell?”
“I want you to find my husband, Mr. Wilde.”
“I see. I’m afraid there’s been some misunderstanding. I…we…”—he inclined his head to include me—“don’t take on missing persons cases. Those are best handled by the proper authorities.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. Nona Wilkerson says you are exactly what I need.”
“Ahh…the delightful Miss Wilkerson. You intrigue me. Is your husband in some sort of trouble?”
“My husband is dead, Mr. Wilde.”
Huh. That was a new one.
“I’m sorry for your loss, however, I still don’t see…” Archer trailed off and waited. The bastard was damn good at waiting.
“This is rather embarrassing.” She stopped, her gaze flicked to me, then back to Archer again. Apparently, she had a conversational dance card that didn’t include me. When Archer refused to follow her lead and take the next step, she sighed for a second time and finally began her story.
“My husband is…was…Franklin Hartfield. I returned to my maiden name shortly after Franklin’s death.”
“Ahh…yes.” Archer’s tone was soft, encouraging, and I knew she’d just become our next case…even if she hadn’t realized it yet.
“I believe you knew him? I mean, I know you— He once— Not that we were—”
“Yes, we were acquainted.” Acquainted. That was one way to put it.
“I don’t know if you remember the story, but Franklin was killed in a boating accident last year off the coast of a small island in the Grenadines.”
“And if I recall correctly, you collected a sizeable insurance payment upon his demise?”
“Fifteen million, yes. Look, I’m not comfortable continuing until I have some sort of assurance this won’t go any further. And perhaps we could discuss my particulars in private?” Once again her gaze cut briefly in my direction.
Ouch. Not.
“Mrs. Hartfield,” Archer intoned, using her married name like a slap. “Please remember that you came to us. I have given you the courtesy of an interview, however, my available time and patience are nearly at an end.” Archer paused and took a sip of his coffee and studied our visitor over the rim of his cup.
Margaret practically vibrated with the need to speak, but her genteel southern manners held and she waited. He set his cup on the table then folded his hands in his lap before he continued.
“Let me be clear. If you have lost something of tangible value and you are unable to follow the traditional channels to recover your losses, you may find I can be of help. If your story interests me.”
Margaret shifted to sit even straighter, as if sensing Archer’s disappointment and seeking to correct her error. Her schoolgirl fantasy flashed over her face, and she moistened her lips, tossed her hair, and somehow managed to reveal a pale slice of lace-covered breast. I bit back my laugh and waited.
Ignoring the less than subtle offer, Archer continued. “I am selective. I cover all expenses, and if I am successful, I keep half of what I recover. Do you have something of value that requires reclaiming? Because I can assure you I am not remotely interested in having Franklin.”
No, we’d both been there and done that.
"Oh…I…” She twisted her hands, then blurted out the crux of her problem. “Franklin isn’t actually dead and the bastard stole my share of the insurance money.”
The smile teased Archer’s mouth once more. “All right, you have my interest. Tell me more.”
Margaret’s fingertips kept up a nearly constant motion against her palms, and she moistened her lips once more. “Franklin was…is a homos—gay. His father didn’t approve. When the senior Mr. Hartfield passed a few years ago, he left the family money in trust until Franklin married and stayed married for two years. To a woman, I mean.”
“Which is where you came in. I take it you were aware of the circumstances before the marriage?”
“Yes. Franklin was very generous. We— He—”
“He was gay. We don’t need to know about that part of your marriage, ri
ght now. Were you married long enough to meet the terms of the trust?”
“Yes. Actually, the arrangement worked out surprisingly well.”
“Tell me about the life insurance. Why did Franklin plan the fraud if the terms of the trust were met?”
“Well, I’ll tell you.” Margaret leaned forward, suddenly far more interested in gossip than the role of Southern gentlewoman and looking much more attractive as the twenty-something she really was.
“The trust was so much smoke and mirrors. The only item of any real value the family attorney revealed when he finally disclosed the full terms of the will was a term policy—to be paid on Franklin’s own life—not his daddy’s. Which was stupid if you ask me, because it wasn’t like that would do Franklin any good at all, now would it?” She giggled prettily, and I saw the corner of Archer’s mouth twitch against the smile I knew was hovering.
“Franklin was livid, of course. It was obvious his daddy knew Franklin would marry in order to get the money. We couldn’t even sell the mansion since the property reverts to the state of Georgia once Franklin’s family is no longer able to occupy the estate. So you can see, all we had was the trust money. Which would come to me as his widow when he died. Believe me, neither of us was interested in waiting until he was old and gray.”
“All right, so you hatched a plot to make it appear he died and Franklin prepared to assume a new identity?” I asked. Plots were Archer’s forte, but I was closer to the criminal underbelly of Atlanta.
“Yes. Although, he kept the details to himself. He took several trips around that time. At least two were to the Caribbean. I wasn’t to know when or how it would happen, so my shock would be genuine.”
I took a moment to admire the ease with which she was able to summon the crocodile tears that sparkled in her pale blue eyes before I asked my next question.
“How is it the insurance company paid out the claim? Didn’t they suspect fraud?”
Wide eyes blinked rapidly as she brushed at a fat tear hanging from her lashes and I knew she’d played the part of the sweet young widow with considerable skill.
“Oh, my. That was another surprise. It turns out that the insurance was actually just another part of the trust. The senior Mr. Hartfield arranged to have the money paid to Franklin’s legitimate heirs, if he actually married.” She paused, and for the first time I saw a crack in her perfect grieving widow act, as her lips pressed tightly together and her face paled. Was there genuine grief? Then I saw the tick of her jaw and her right hand balled into a fist. The lady was pissed.
“The amount of trust money would have doubled if I’d been with child.” Margaret seemed to recognize the bitterness of her words, because she cleared her throat and blinked at more tears. “Of course, I don’t really understand these things.”
“And was there an investigation?” I wasn’t about to get distracted by the damsel in distress act.
“Yes. Mr. Clive Ferrell of First Fidelity Life and Trust was most suspicious and I believe he took it personally when he couldn’t prove anything. Bless his heart. He even visited the site of the explosion.”
“Did he now?” Archer asked. His tone was mild, encouraging confidences.
“Yes, but there wasn’t anything to see. Franklin was an excellent planner and although the island where the accident happened is small, the witness to the accident was quite unimpeachable. The local—’’ She frowned prettily while she searched for the word. “Constable, I think…any way, the local version of a police chief left the boat only moments before the explosion. He was still on the dock, and received minor injuries. It’s all in the reports. I have Mr. Ferrell’s contact information, if that would help.”
“It would.” Archer stroked a long finger over his mouth and looked toward the window. From his pensive expression I knew he was three steps ahead of the interview and thinking about a plan. Abruptly he stood. “Do you understand the terms of our agreement?”
Startled by his apparent dismissal, Margaret looked up and placed her small hand on his arm. “Oh. Yes, but don’t you want to know what—”
“Yes, yes,” he said with a careless wave of his hand, shaking her off. “Allow me…”
I fought to hide my smile at the way her mouth snapped closed when Archer cut her off mid-sentence.
“After an intense investigation, you collected fifteen million in insurance money. You deposited the funds into several bank accounts, as agreed. Franklin transferred the money several more times, including your half of the spoils. You discovered the money was gone and have been quietly looking for a solution to your predicament. A solution that will not land you in prison for fraud. Give the rest of the information to Zachary. Good day.” Archer walked to the windows that opened onto the balcony and stepped through. I would find him there, soon enough.
*
I returned from escorting Margaret to the front door after I extracted all the pertinent information. Archer was once again seated in the wing-backed chair, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand. I immediately headed toward my laptop to enter her contact information into our database, when Archer stopped me with a command.
“Come here, Zachary,” he said. His voice was a low growl, nothing like the cultured tones he’d used with our guest. My dick responded, despite the vigorous workout from earlier this morning.
I moved to stand between his spread knees, prepared to kneel if that’s what he wanted, but he seemed content to wrap his arms around my waist and rest his cheek against my stomach. A very uncharacteristic and almost needy gesture that tweaked at my consciousness and reminded me that something about Archer had been slightly off lately. Then he rubbed his fingers over my heated ass, his firm stroke drawing my attention back to the present.
“Do you still feel me, here?” Archer’s words shivered through me.
“I think I might still be feeling you through next Tuesday, but I could take more.”
Archer threw his head back and laughed. “Such an eager boy. Are you sure you’re a switch?” His tone was teasing, but his hard hand squeezed my ass, and I moaned in pleasure. He laughed again and the sound eased my slight concern at his earlier shift in attitude.
“We have a lot to do in a short amount of time.”
“You have a plan?”
“I do.” Archer reached for his e-tablet and I opened a new document on the laptop. Archer was a genius, and there was no telling how fast his ideas would pour out once he got going.
“Check the calendar,“ Archer said, his own fingers turning electronic pages.
“What am I looking for?”
“Hold on…” He shook his head. “Opera…no…damn, there’s a premiere…what about…” he looked up, his eyes shining. “Check next Thursday, a week from tomorrow night.”
I checked. “There’s nothing on your schedule, shall I save it?”
“Yes. We’re throwing a party. Scour our old client list. I particularly want Peter and Cartier to attend. Ah, and don’t forget to add Wick. What do you think, Zachary? Will we draw Franklin in?”
I laughed—it was a beautiful plan—but damn there was a lot to do in a short amount of time. “Master Archer is coming out of retirement for one evening to host a private reprise of Wilde Sides in his beautiful home, and bringing in three other Masters he personally trained? How could a pain slut like Franklin resist?”
Chapter Two
I stood on the balcony outside the solarium and watched as the head gardener directed a larger than normal crew. With only a week until party time, they worked on trimming branches, replenishing the beds, and stringing white fairy lights from the trees in our park-like ten acres.
The twenty-four hours since our meeting with the client had passed in a whirlwind of meetings with caterers, florists, and a local security company to arrange valet parking with a little extra kick. Archer’s excitement was palpable, which intrigued me. It had been a long time since he’d been so involved in the BDSM club scene and even longer since he’d thrown a party. He was sp
aring no expense and if I didn’t know better, he could almost be setting up opening night at a new club.
I smiled at the memory. It was hard to believe it had been nearly fifteen years since—
“Penny for your thoughts,” Archer said. His arms wrapped around me from behind, and he rested his chin on my head. I wasn’t a small man, but when Archer wrapped me up and surrounded me with his tall, lithe body, I felt…home.
“I was remembering how excited you were when you opened your first club.”
“I think my excitement stemmed from the swarthy, sexy Dom I hired to be the club manager.”
I laughed. “Yeah, some Dom I turned out to be. One look from you and I was ready to roll over and beg for it.”
Archer turned me around to face him. Cupping my face in his hands, his long, slender fingers stroked my jaw, the blue-green eyes turned stormy under heavy lids. “It took me three years to convince you and it’s only for me, Zachary. Only for me.”
My knees nearly gave way at the possessive hunger on his face. “Yes, Sir.” God, how this man turned me inside out.
His mouth claimed mine in a quick hard kiss, before he released me and stepped back. “You need to go, love.”
Damn. “Yes, I’m off to see Carmine. Someone had to make Hartfield a new identity, and C’s the best paper man in Atlanta. After that, I’m going to see a man about a dog.”
“Zachary?”
“Sorry…I’m pretty sure I have a line on the plastic surgeon who worked on old Frankie—both before and after the accident. It seems he’s a favorite among those who can afford the best but don’t want anyone to know. Unfortunately the dragon lady who works his front desk was not susceptible to my charms and refused to give me a peek at the patient records.”
“Imagine that,” Archer said dryly.
“Yes, well…she might be immune, but the very cute and very subby anesthetist Andrew likes me well enough to want to take me home. He’s got the inside scoop on their specials, as he calls them. I don’t know if he’ll actually be able to get me the records, but he does have a very strong urge to please.”