The phone rang again, and he straightened to answer it.
Vic laughed in his ear. “Dickhead.”
Peter grunted. Vic bullied his way around every damn thing. They’d worked together for three years now, since Peter joined Taylor Security after leaving the navy. The Chicago-based company handled residential and corporate security, and Vic’s team did government contract work. When the government needed plausible deniability, they called Taylor Security. Everything from protection details for overseas diplomats to badass counter terrorism assignments—leveling chemical plants, destroying enemy caves, snatching a bad guy—that Peter thrived on. His last two assignments were the reason for this extended vacation.
Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t need this. “Can I call you back when I don’t want to tear your head off and shove it up your ass?”
“I need a favor.”
A favor? The guy had stones the size of Texas.
“You’re kidding, right? Three days ago you called me into your office and told me to hand over my weapon and enjoy my family for a few extra weeks after my brother’s wedding. It’s gonna take me longer than three days to work that off. Call me back in a week. Maybe then I’ll do your favor.”
“I saved your life last summer,” Vic shot back.
Dammit. Peter threw his head back and closed his eyes. “You only get to play that card once. Make it good.”
“A friend of mine called. She lives in Monmouth Beach and needs a security system ASAP. I can’t do it. Gina has an ultrasound tomorrow, and she wants me there. I want to be there. Have I mentioned we’re having twins?”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know, your boys can swim.”
“You are crabby, my friend. Not getting any?”
“Getting plenty.” Not true, but Vic didn’t need to know that.
“Seriously, can you meet with Isabelle tomorrow? She usually gets to work early, so you’ll have to meet her at her office. She’ll take you to the house from there. All you have to do is tell me what she needs, and I’ll fly some guys out there to do the install.”
The potted plant drew Peter’s attention again, and he nudged it with his boot. “Why can’t the North Jersey boys do this? That is why we have an East Coast office, correct?”
Vic huffed. “Her father is a good friend of mine. I don’t trust anyone from North Jersey for this.”
“Oh, but you trust me? The guy you made hand over his weapon?”
“Are you done yet, Mary? My wife never whines like this.”
“Speaking of Gina,” Peter said, “I’ll do this for her. Because she deserves to have you at that appointment. I still can’t figure out why I didn’t move on her first.”
“My man, I owe you one. You just ensured I will continue to get laid. And I’ll forget that comment about hitting on my wife.”
Peter laughed. He couldn’t help it. Vic was one fucked-up son of a bitch, but he was aces in a war zone. They’d become closer since Tiny—Vic’s cousin and Peter’s closest friend—died during an op last summer. They were both grieving a loss they’d probably never get over, and in that, found common ground. Peter supposed that was the reason he was so royally pissed at Vic for putting him on R&R.
“Is that it?”
“Yeah. I’ll email you Isabelle’s info. Be at her office at nine. Uh, and wear business clothes.”
“What?”
Vic hung up.
Shit.
Peter hated business clothes. His basic wardrobe consisted of cargo shorts, jeans and T-shirts. Usually, his beat-up combat boots and a do-rag finished off the ensemble. Lucky for him, he kept a stash of dress clothes in an upstairs closet of his parents’ home.
Peter marched up the stone steps, opened the oversized door and yelled for Marguerite, their long-time housekeeper.
“Have I ever responded to screaming?” she called from the kitchen.
He snorted. Good old Marg. The aroma of fresh-baked cookies attacked him, and he hauled ass to the kitchen to find Marg pulling a batch from the oven.
“Hi. Where’s Mom?”
“She went to lunch at the club and had errands.”
Peter grinned. “I guess I’ll sample some cookies while I wait.”
“There’s plenty of milk. I figured you’d be by, so I stocked up.”
He smacked a kiss on her cheek. “Ah, Marg. You’re the best.”
Her pixie-cut gray hair spiked up today and looked a little radical, but it suited her in an off kind of way. She’d gained a few pounds since he’d seen her last and, on her small frame, it showed.
After snagging a few cookies and a monster glass of milk, Peter planted himself at the island in his mother’s fancy kitchen to commence dunking. Nothing he loved more than dipping chocolate chip cookies in an ice-cold glass of milk.
When a few white drops hit the granite counter top, Marguerite laughed and handed him a paper towel.
“Some things never change.”
“Take comfort in it, Marg.” He swiped at the drops and crumpled the paper towel.
“I remember the first time you ate my chocolate chip cookies,” she said.
“Yep. I was seven, and you’d been our housekeeper less than a day. I got busted for climbing Mr. G’s trellis and my mother locked me in my room for the rest of the night. I still haven’t figured out how you snuck those cookies in without her knowing.”
She laughed and moved a cookie to the cooling rack. “A lady never shares her secrets. Hard to believe that was twenty-five years ago.”
From the moment Marg first smuggled him cookies and milk, Peter loved her. Their partnership had been sealed that day. Marguerite had always been his supporter when the “Oh, Peter” moments became too much.
“Yeah,” he said. “And how about that time the principal wanted to expel me for trying to rappel off the school roof?”
Marg shivered. “There weren’t enough cookies in the world for that transgression.”
The utility room door off the kitchen opened. His mother. She had her country club look going. All spit-and-polish in a blue pants suit and diamond earrings. Her ash blond, shoulder-length hair combed to perfection and tucked behind her ears. At fifty-eight, his mother could easily pass for ten years younger. And no doctor had ever touched her face. An impressive feat in her social circle.
His mother slipped off her jacket, hung it up and glanced at him. “Hello, stranger.” She entered the room shaking her head. “Oh, Peter, as usual, you have that silly napkin on your head.”
She clamped her hand on his head, slid the do-rag off and dropped it in his lap. He didn’t bother with a suffering sigh. Not his style. After all, the do-rags had been driving his mother batshit since his navy days. The always put together Lorraine Jessup couldn’t have one of her sons walking around with “that thing” on his head. So instead of arguing with her yet again, he put the do-rag on and ignored her suffering sigh. He’d grown used to not being what she needed him to be. And escaping her derision.
“Mom, don’t tax yourself. You’ve oh-Petered me and ripped on my attire, and you’ve only been here a minute and a half.”
Marguerite stifled a laugh. “You just missed it. Peter was reminding me of the time he jumped off the school roof.”
“I didn’t jump!”
“I don’t want to think about that,” his mother said.
Probably because it had been one of the few times she’d defended his restlessness. “You were aces that day, Mom. You marched in there wanting to know how I got on the roof in the first place and threatened to sue them for endangering my life.”
“It was a valid point. I seem to recall punishing you for a month after that fiasco. You never could sit still, Peter.”
Marg sighed. “I made a lot of cookies that month.”
His mother turned to him, her eyes sharp. “You’ve been back two days and we’ve barely seen you. You’re staying for dinner, I hope.”
No request there. That was a classic guilt-inf
used order.
He stood. “I was here last night. I can’t tonight. I just stopped to get my board and some clothes for tomorrow.”
The response he received was the stricken look. The one where she puffed out her lower lip and stared at him. “Your father will be home soon. I’ll call Stephen, and we can all eat together like we used to. I know Stephen will come.”
He always does.
That wasn’t fair. If anything, Peter appreciated his younger brother. Stephen, the golden boy, always managed to take the heat off him. Peter was able to live his life the way he chose, while his brother fulfilled the family obligations. Peter owed Stephen for that.
“Not tonight, Mom. I’ll come for dinner another night. Leave me a message at the cottage when you guys are eating at home, and I’ll make sure to be here.”
He made a beeline for the staircase. Time to get his stuff and run.
“And that’s another thing,” his mother said, scooting up behind him. “Why do you have to stay in the guest cottage? We have ten bedrooms here. Surely, if you don’t want to sleep in your old room, you can find another suitable one.”
Before reaching the stairs, he stopped and she plowed into the back of him. His mind screamed to keep going and head right out the front door.
He grabbed the oak railing and zipped around. Her big blue eyes gazed up at him. She was tall for a woman—five-nine—but he still had a few inches on her. Why did it always have to be this way between them? The constant pushing. Probably his own fault, but at some point he had learned to duck and cover. He didn’t fit in his parents’ world, and rather than embarrass them or cause himself grief, it was easier to steer clear.
“I like the cottage, it’s quiet. And I’ve been living alone a long time. I like the privacy.”
“We wouldn’t bother you here.”
He stifled a laugh. Yeah, and Santa will drop a flock of nymphomaniacs at my door tonight.
“Fine.” She backed up a step. “I’ll have Marguerite make a plate for you. We’ll leave it at the cottage.”
Now she was pissed. Again. Shit.
“Mom?”
She waved, but kept walking. “It’s all right, Peter. I should know by now not to pressure you.”
He should say something. He knew it. But he also knew anything he came up with would be gas on fire, and he’d spent years letting the fire burn out on its own. It was better that way.
At least he thought so.
No. He’d go on his way now, handle this thing with Vic’s friend and then deal with his mother. He was stuck here for a few weeks on this forced R&R because, apparently, he couldn’t function at work. He might as well make himself useful and try to understand what his mother needed from him. At least he’d get something accomplished, and fixing something—anything—was all he needed now.
Chapter Three
At eight forty-five the next morning, Peter pushed the elevator button in the Edmonds, Baker and Associates law firm building and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. These big corporate centers with their marble floors and cavernous lobbies gave him a rash. And him without his Benadryl.
Not to mention the dress shirt and slacks. He pulled the stiff collar off his neck. Marguerite, as usual, had saved his ass and gotten everything cleaned and pressed. Even with the lightest possible starch, the shirt irked him.
The stainless steel elevator doors slid open. Peter and an overweight, middle-aged guy stepped on. And hellooooo to the smoking hot brunette showing just enough cleavage to make a man want more. She stood toward the back of the elevator and must have come up from the lower level parking entrance.
A stone-cold fox.
Dark, chin-length hair, green, laser-sharp eyes and cheekbones belonging on a magazine cover. Stunning. Typically, women like her didn’t notice Peter until they saw his bank account.
The schmo that entered the elevator with Peter pushed the button for two and, out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw the brunette roll her eyes. He couldn’t take the stairs one flight?
The number eight was already lit up. He and the hot brunette were going to the same floor. Must be fate.
He shifted right to surreptitiously admire her. Why not? He had to wait for the jackass to get off at two anyway and couldn’t resist watching how the overhead light made her hair shine. The rest of her was a definite bonus.
She carried her briefcase over one shoulder and her sleeveless blouse showcased one hell of a coiled biceps. She spent serious time in the gym. He could appreciate that because maintaining his ten percent body fat had become a priority. She gave him a sideways look.
Yep, she’d caught him, but he couldn’t help admiring a physically fit woman. Hell, he’d been known to get a hard-on at the gym when he saw a toned woman sweating like a linebacker in the fourth quarter.
The elevator door dinged and the jackass got off. When the doors closed, the brunette swung to her left and faced Peter.
He smiled.
She pursed her lips.
Oh baby, what he’d like to do with those lips. Good, pouty lips that he could imagine doing all sorts of things in all sorts of places. This could work out just fine.
She gave him a long, slow once-over and his belly seized at the thorough inspection. He might have even started to sweat. Forget about her zeroing in on his crotch and smirking. This woman was clearly uninformed.
A nice tactic to cause a man an instant soft-on though. A more insecure man would have pissed himself, but Peter stood there, absorbing the little lesson she’d given him.
He laughed before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a white handkerchief. He waved it in the air. “I surrender. Point taken. I apologize for staring.”
The unsmiling woman nodded and turned front.
Peter took a deep breath and jumped in headfirst. “In my own defense, I’d like to say it wasn’t a sexual thing.”
She angled her head, obviously not believing it anymore than he did.
“Well, not totally a sexual thing,” he corrected. “I happen to appreciate people taking care of themselves and you clearly do.”
“Apology accepted.” She didn’t bother to look at him again. Her voice though, with a smoky, purring edge only added to the fantasy he had going. She’d make a great sex line operator.
The elevator doors opened, and Peter waved her forward. She nodded and stepped into the office’s swanky reception area with its plush carpeting, shiny oak trim and leather seating. Peter knew big money and plenty of it had been thrown around this office. He headed for the efficient-looking redhead sitting at an oversized reception desk just a few feet in front of them. The brunette turned right toward a long hallway lined with offices.
“Good morning, Ms. DeRosa.”
Oh, shit. Did his balls just disintegrate?
“Good morning, Jeanette,” Ms. DeRosa said.
Please don’t let her first name be Isabelle.
“I have an appointment with someone from Taylor Security. Just send him back when he gets here.”
Double shit.
“Will do, Ms. DeRosa.”
Peter closed his eyes. Laughing right now probably would not be his best course of action, but this was hilarious. Vic would fry him.
“Good morning, sir,” the receptionist said after Isabelle had turned and started down the corridor.
Peter stepped up and gave her his best hundred watter. “Good morning. I’m Peter Jessup from Taylor Security.”
And, yep. Ms. Isabelle DeRosa skidded to a stop, waited a full ten seconds and spun back around. “Just shoot me,” she said.
The receptionist glanced at her, saw her giving Peter the evil eye and turned back to him.
He grinned. “We’ve already met.”
Isabelle remained still, her face devoid of any emotion. Awkward.
Then she burst out laughing and rocked his world. His mind went straight to the gutter, dreaming about hearing that throaty laugh while he screwed her brains out.
Oh, hell, cou
ld he stop thinking about sex for five seconds? He needed to get laid. In a bad way.
She jerked her head toward the offices behind her. “Come on, Peter Jessup from Taylor Security. Let’s try this again.”
“You got it, Ms. DeRosa.”
Isabelle kept her head high as she marched down the hallway, hoping the floor would open up and swallow her. Just suck her whole body up. Tension pooled at her shoulders and she silently willed it away.
Men had been ogling her for years and she’d used that staring trick a hundred times to back them off. They tended to freak out when strange women scrutinized their parts. Maybe it was the Fatal Attraction vibe, but it always worked.
Until today.
Now she wanted to die of embarrassment because, not only did it not back Peter Jessup off, it pushed him to explain why he was staring at her. The man had a spine, for sure. Not to mention an all-around killer body—albeit a typical big-chested, slim-hipped gorilla build—but he could fill out a shirt. His dark, wavy hair fell in a frenzy around his face, leaving her with the urge to rifle her hands through the curls.
“So—” Peter walked beside her and jolted her out of her mortified state, “—what do you say we forget about that elevator thing? My boss won’t be too happy about it.”
She halted and waited for him to do the same. What an interesting face. Movie star handsome he would never be, but something drew her in. He reminded her of someone who had lived on both the good and bad side of life. She spotted the L-shaped scar on his right cheek, but the blue eyes were the kicker. A deep, haunting blue that left her yearning to see more of them. Totally unacceptable for a girl who liked to separate the physical and emotional aspects of her feelings toward men.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I think Vic is twisted enough to see the humor in it. Plus, he’s always been a ladies’ man. He’d probably be proud of us.”
A lightning-quick smile took over Peter’s face, and suddenly this man became more than average in the looks department. That smile could brighten an alley on a rainy night.
A Just Deception Page 2