Provocative

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “Otherwise, I’m not sorry I told him. You did inspire me to paint, Nick.”

  “By being an arrogant asshole you aren’t sure you can trust?”

  He’s right. That is what happened, but somehow that feeling I’d had about him no longer weighs on me as it had. “I don’t trust easily.”

  “Those who do, get burned,” he says, and there’s something in his eyes, in his voice, that I cannot name, but wish I could and I never get the chance. He circles back to where this started. “The show, Faith.”

  “The show,” I repeat, my mind tracking back to those years in L.A. “Being picked for it has always been a dream for me. For years, my work was presented to them. For years, I was declined.”

  “And this time they came to you,” he observes.

  That hope and dream inside me rises up with painful insistence and I shove it back down. “An inquiry means nothing.”

  “Have they inquired before?”

  “No, but they may rule me out.”

  “But if they want you, you’re not going to decline.”

  It’s not a question. It’s a command, and while I don’t take commands well, this one is well-intended, but also ineffective for reasons out of his control. “They aren’t going to accept me. It’s a month away.”

  “Don’t do that, Faith.” His tone is absolute.

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Downplay how big this is for you. Don’t find a way to make it not matter.”

  I stare at him, trying to understand how this man I barely know can be this supportive. Is it real? Is it just a part of his temporary obsession with me? He arches a brow at my silent scrutiny, but I am saved a real answer when more food appears. But it’s not a true escape. The moment we’re alone, Nick returns to the topic. “What does the show do for you?”

  “If you’re spotlighted, you’ve made it. Those are the artists people want to have in their stores and on their walls.” Unbidden, my mind goes back to the day I’d told my father I had a full scholarship to UCLA. There had been hugs. Excitement. Smiles. Then he’d said, “I can see it now. Our wine will be in every gallery in the country because you know the wine that pairs with the art.” And I’d been devastated. My art was never going to be more than a hobby to him.

  Nick’s knees capture mine under the table and my eyes jerk to his. “What just happened, sweetheart?” he asks, that tender warmth back in his eyes, and a knot forms in my throat.

  “If I can get into the show, I can sell my work, and save the winery.”

  Nick’s eyes narrow on mine, and I swear in that moment, it feels like he’s diving deep into my soul and seeing too much again. “When you get into the show, it’s about you, not the winery.”

  “But the money-”

  “Let’s talk about the winery and money with my attorney hat on.”

  I shove my plate aside and Nick does the same. “Okay. I don’t like how that sounds.”

  “Money isn’t your issue,” he says. “If that were the case, I’d take advantage of a good investment, write you a check, get a return, and we’d be done with this.”

  “I’m not foolish enough to miss the way you framed that in a way you think I’d find acceptable, but you giving me money that I wouldn’t take no matter how you presented it, isn’t your point.”

  “No. It’s not. Obviously, Frank has you focused on money being your salvation when it’s not.”

  “You yourself wanted to know the financial status of the winery,” I point out.

  “Because if it’s a sinking ship, there’s no reason to save it. That isn’t the case, so we move on to your primary problem: the absence of a will is the issue.”

  “I have my father’s will that said my mother inherits on the stipulation that I inherit next.”

  “But we have no idea what documents came after that will that might say otherwise. There may be none. The bank may just hope they can pressure you into walking away. They may even have an investor who wants the property and wants you to sell cheap.”

  “Can they be a part of that? Can they do that?”

  “There are a lot of things that shouldn’t be done that get done. And I’m having someone on my research team look into the money trail and the mystery of your mother’s barren bank accounts.”

  Guilt assails me again and it is not a feeling I enjoy. It heavy and sharp, and mean. “Please don’t spend money on my behalf.”

  “I have people I’m already paying,” he says. “I promise you, the bank will know what we don’t. And we won’t, nor will I allow us to have, that disadvantage.” He slides my plate in front of me. “I got this. Stop worrying.”

  “Faith.”

  At the sound of my name, I look up to find the restaurant manager, Sheila, standing beside us, and the distressed look on her face has my spine straightening. “What is it, Sheila?”

  “There’s a man at the door asking to see you who looks like…he looks like…”

  My blood runs cold. “My father,” I supply, without ever looking toward the door. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

  She nods and leaves and Nick glances at the man by the door that I know to be tall, fit, and with white hair that was once red. “Bill Winter,” he says. “Your uncle, your father’s twin, and the CEO of Pier 111, a social media platform that’s giving Facebook a run for its money. He was also estranged from your father for eight years before his death.”

  “Reminding me that you studied me like you were picking a refrigerator out isn’t a good thing right now, Nick.”

  “As I’ve said, I studied you like a woman who intrigued me,” he reminds me. “And I’m not going to pretend naiveté I don’t have and I know you well enough to know that’s not what you want.”

  “No,” I concede. “I wouldn’t. I need to go deal with him. And it won’t take long.”

  He considers me for several moments before releasing my knees, he’s still holding. “I’m here if you need me.”

  Has anyone I wanted to say those words ever said them to me? “Thank you.”

  I stand and turn toward the door, and sure enough, there stands Bill Winter, and I swear seeing him, with his likeness to my father, turns my knees to rubber. But it also angers me and my spine straightens. I start walking, crossing the small space to meet him at the archway that is the entrance to the restaurant. “What are you doing here, Bill?” I ask, my voice sharp despite my low tone.

  Towering over me by a good foot, he stares down at me, his blue eyes so like my father’s it hurts to look at him. “How are you, Faith?”

  “What are you doing here, Bill?” I repeat.

  “I’m your only living family. I’m checking on my niece.”

  “You’re my blood, but not my family. My father would not want you here.”

  “Your father and I made peace before he died.”

  “No you didn’t,” I say, rejecting what would add another irrational personal decision to my father’s track record.

  “We did, but regardless,” he says. “I owe him. And that means protecting you. The bank called me. I understand there are financial issues. Let me help.”

  I am appalled and shocked that the bank went to Bill. “I don’t want or need your help and if I did, my father would roll over in his grave if I took it.”

  “I told you. We came to terms before he died.”

  “I don’t believe you, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t care.”

  Nick steps to my side, his hand settling possessively at my back, his presence drawing Bill’s immediate attention. “Bill Winter.” My uncle introduces himself. “And you are?”

  “Faith’s loyal servant,” Nick assures him. “And everyone else’s nightmare. The name is Nick Rogers.” He doesn’t extend his hand, nor does Bill extend his own.

  Bill’s eyes narrow at the name. “I’ve heard you’re a real bastard.”

  “And here I thought I got rid of my nice guy reputation. I understand you’re leaving. We’ll walk you out.”

  B
ill gives a smirk that almost borders on amused, and then looks at me. “I’m staying at the cottage. I’ll be close if you need me.” He turns and walks away.

  Nick flags Sheila. “Make sure he leaves and if he doesn’t, call Faith.”

  I nod my approval to Sheila and Nick turns to me. “Where can we talk?”

  “This way,” I say, motioning us into the hallway that leads nowhere but an exit door and the minute we’re there, Nick’s hands are on my hips.

  “What cottage?”

  “He owns a property up the road, but he’s rarely here, and when he is, I don’t see him. He says the bank called him about the default. Can they do that?”

  “Context is everything and he holds the family name. Does he want the winery?”

  “He’s a billionaire, Nick. He doesn’t want or need this place.”

  “Then why was he here?”

  “To help, he said. Basically, to repent for his sins.”

  Nick’s energy sharpens. “What sins, Faith?”

  “He’s the reason I stayed in L.A. after my graduation. He’s also one of the reasons I don’t believe in happily ever after and therefore make such a good fuck buddy. He slept with my mother. She got mad at him and to get back at him, told my father, who predictably forgave her, but not his brother. And that was it for me. I was out of here.”

  I blink and Nick’s hands are on my face, his big body pinning me against the wall. “Don’t do that,” he says for the second time since we arrived. “Don’t decide what we are or are not based on that man or anyone else. We decide otherwise, or they win and we’re weak. We are not weak.”

  Emotions I swore I wanted to feel, but don’t, well in my chest. “Nick, you—”

  “I am not my father and you are not your mother. We decide who we are, Faith. Not them. Say it.”

  “We decide,” I whisper.

  “We decide,” he repeats, stroking my cheek a moment before his lips brush mine. “I fucking hate that I have to leave you right now. Come with me.”

  “You know I can’t. You have to see that.”

  He looks skyward, seeming to struggle not to push me, before he says, “Let’s make sure uncle dearest has left before I leave.”

  A full hour later, I finally convince Nick he has to leave. My uncle is gone. His number is in my phone. He has a deposition he has to prep for. I walk him to his car, and despite the many people most likely watching, he pulls me to him and kisses me soundly on the lips. “I’m going to miss the hell out of you and I don’t even know what to do with that.” A moment later, he’s in his car, as if he fears he won’t leave. Another few moments, and I’m standing on the steps of the mansion, watching him drive away, a storm brewing inside me, while I replay his words: I am not my father and you are not your mother.

  The problem is, I have a whole lot more of my mother in me than Nick Rogers knows.

  WHAT THE HELL IS THIS woman doing to me?

  That’s one of many thoughts I have as I leave behind Reid Winter Winery, and Faith with it. Leaving her kills me, and I have never in all the many fucks I’ve shared with a woman, given two fucks about the morning after, or the second morning after as it may be, and what do I do? I choose Faith, a woman I went looking for to destroy. She’s not the killer I thought she was, but she might be when she finds out who my father is, and why I sought her out. And she’ll have to know there’s no way around it. Really, this is poetic justice. I told Faith I’m not like my father, but running through women, and not giving two fucks, is something he did well, and I do better. How profound that the one I give a shit about is going to hate me like she’s never hated before.

  I pull onto the main highway and tail lights greet me. “Fuck,” I growl, forced to halt behind a line of cars, while debating the pros and cons of turning around, throwing Faith over my shoulder, and taking her home with me. Something feels off with her uncle. Something feels wrong in general and it’s not her.

  Looking for answers and action, I fish my phone from my pocket and use Siri to find the shop that has Faith’s car, making arrangements to pay for it and have it delivered to her over the weekend when I plan to be with her. By the time I end the call, the traffic still hasn’t moved, and I dial Beck. “Nicholas,” he greets.

  “The uncle,” I say.

  “Filthy rich snake of a bastard,” he says, clearly aware of who I’m talking about.

  “He fucked Faith’s mom.”

  “Who didn’t?” He laughs. “That woman saw more action than ten Taco Bells on Friday night at two am.”

  “The uncle,” I repeat.

  “He had random contact with Meredith Winter over the years, but nothing notable after the obvious falling out between him and her husband. And I’m sure you know that he’s married to one of the billionaire Warren Hotel heiresses now.”

  “I knew,” I say, having done plenty of my own research. “That’s how he got the money for his start-up. Any contact between him and Faith?”

  “Aside from him attending both her mother’s and father’s funerals, none.”

  “Find out if he, or anyone for that matter, has an interest in the property the winery is sitting on,” I say, before moving on. “Josh—”

  “The agent,” he says. “What about him?”

  “Could Macom have used him to connect to Faith’s mother or my father?”

  “Interesting premise when I thought of it as well,” Beck says, “but I cross referenced phone numbers and emails. There’s nothing.”

  Grimacing, and with plenty of tail lights and time in my future, I lead the conversation to the bank, and draw Beck into a debate over their motives, before my mind takes me to a place I don’t want to go. Not with Faith in Sonoma and me in San Francisco. “What if Faith isn’t a killer, but now she’s the one in the way of whoever is?”

  “Any time a million dollars plus is missing and two people are dead of the exact same cause two months apart, the possibility of someone else ending up dead exists. But unlike you apparently, I won’t conclude a murder or murders were committed until you get me your father’s, and Meredith Winter’s autopsy reports. And for the record, I’m far from thinking Faith Winter is innocent. She and her mother could easily have been a scam team. Always remember that in the absence of evidence, there is someone making sure there’s an absence of evidence. I’ll warn you again. Watch your back. You have my excessively large bill to pay.”

  He hangs up on the warning I’d feel obligated to give me, too, but I’m not a fool. I read people with a lot less of a look into their lives than I have into Faith’s. I dial Abel Baldwin, my closest friend, and one of the best damn criminal attorneys on the planet. “I was starting to think you might be dead, too,” he says, when he picks up. “What happened with Faith Winter?”

  I glance at the clock on my dash. “Can you meet me at my place at four?”

  “Now I’m really curious. I’ll be there.”

  I asked him to help me destroy her. Now I need to pull back the reins and have him help me save her. And I return to: What the hell is this woman doing to me?

  Just after four, Abel and I sit in the living room of my house, him on the sectional that occupies most of the room, me on a chair across from him. One of his many Irish whiskey picks he brings by my place weekly is in our glasses, and while the sectional he occupies is a pale gray, my mood is decidedly darker. “Good stuff, right?” Abel asks, refilling his glass.

  “One of your better picks,” I say, but when he lifts the bottle in my direction I wave him off. “I need to stay sharp. I have work to do.”

  “I’ll hang out and get boozed, and ask stupid questions to piss you off because what are friends for?”

  “You’re a hell of a friend, Abel. One hell of a friend.”

  He downs his whiskey. “I love watching North geek out and start reciting facts.”

  “The kid’s an encyclopedia,” I say, motioning to his severely buzzed blond hair. “You thinking about going back to the army or what?”


  “Starting a trial next week,” he says. “The judge is an ex-SEAL.”

  “And you plan on reminding him that you are, too.”

  His lips quirk. “Gotta work what you got.” He narrows his eyes at me. “And you got me, Nick. Put me to work here. What’s the elephant in the room you want to talk about but haven’t?”

  “What’s it going to cost me to get those autopsy results sooner than three weeks from now?”

  “We just filed the order,” he says. “You can’t buy your way past a medical procedure. This isn’t a crime TV show and you know it. Toxicology, which is what we’re looking at, will take weeks and even months.”

  “Understood,” I say, “but we both know we can move certain aspects of this to sooner, rather than later. Whatever it costs, make it happen.”

  He narrows his eyes on me, and after a decade of friendship, I’m not surprised at what comes next. “You fucked her.”

  “I’ve fucked a lot of women.”

  “This one got to you. Nick, damn it. You got me involved in this because of one word: Murder. Let’s recap. You find a million dollars in checks written by your father to this women’s mother, who is now dead, by the same means as your father, thus making Faith Winter, the biggest suspect, and you choose to fuck her.”

  “I’m crystal clear on the details. And murder is still on the table. I just don’t think she did it.”

  The doorbell rings and I curse. “Leave it to North to be early.” I scrub my jaw and I’m about to get up when Abel says, “Nick. Man. Many a good man fell over a woman and I’m pretty fucking sure the same can be said in reverse. Watch where you stick your cock.”

  “Says the guy who can’t stop banging his ex,” I remind him, standing and heading for the door, my booted feet heavy on the pale wood of the living room floor, only to have him shout out, “She has magnificent breasts.”

  I laugh, and she must, because that’s not the first time I’ve heard that. But his warning about fucking Faith has hit a nerve and my own warning replays in my mind, when I swore I wouldn’t let it again. You never find guilt when you’re looking for innocence.