“Having lunch with my brother.”
She brushed loose strands of hair off her forehead, leaving a small streak of dirt above her right eyebrow. Britt ached to brush away the smudge with his thumb and soothe the area with a long line of soft kisses. Would she gasp and smack the shit out of him? Or would she tremble and whisper more?
“Is there something I can do for you? Or were you planning to stuff me in my own cooler?”
“Nothing so hypothermic.” He shoved his hands into his jean pockets. “I understand Grady’s not here. Thought I’d give you a hand.”
“You want to help me? Why?”
“Despite our current predicament, I’ve nothing against you, Randi. I’ve been in the bar and coffee shop many times, and you’re always here, working. You’re going at it as hard as anyone else. Harder, actually.” The more he spoke the wider her eyes got. Shit. He’d said far too much. But he wasn’t done. More words were forming on his tongue. Words he hoped would set her at ease and release the tension knotting his guts. “Even the strongest need help, from time to time.”
Instead of making things right between them, he’d managed to shock her into speechlessness. Brilliant, Steele. Truly your best one-liner with a woman yet. Freaking moron.
An awkward silence filled the stockroom’s stale air. A damned flush began to creep up the back of his neck. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d made a fool of himself to the point of embarrassment. And wouldn’t you know, he’d picked Miranda Shepherd to witness his colossal comeback.
What the hell had he been thinking? It wasn’t like they’d been friends before the will debacle. He tried to put himself in her shoes, seeing a big guy like him stalking into her stockroom while she was alone. No wonder she turned wary on him. She didn’t know him, or what he was capable of.
“I can see my offer is causing more harm than good.” He turned to leave. Tail tucked between his ass cheeks and all. He would send Grif and Carlie Beth to her—exactly what he should have done to begin with, rather than running in here like a schoolboy, eager to please the prettiest girl in the class. If Grif, or his other brothers, ever figured out what he’d been about today, he’d never live it down.
“I would love some extra muscle.”
Not quite believing his ears, Britt glanced over his shoulder and caught her tentative smile before she bent—at the knees—to pick up a carton. After her initial instructions, they spent the next twenty minutes in relative silence. A companionable silence. Britt wasn’t much of a small-talker, so the lack of conversation suited him fine. The glimpses of her smooth midriff and the study of her striking profile kept him well motivated.
“All done.” Randi pulled off her gloves. “Thanks for your help. I admit I wasn’t looking forward to this project.”
“Anytime.”
Peering down at his hands, she said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t find a pair of gloves for you. Did your hands survive?”
He rotated his hands around. A few scrapes marked his knuckles, and dirt covered his palms. “I torture my hands far more than this on a daily basis. And besides, I could have grabbed a pair from my truck.”
“Let’s at least get you washed up before you leave.” She led him into a cramped utility room housing a washer, dryer, water heater, furnace, and sink. Turning on the water, she held her finger beneath the stream until she was satisfied with the temperature. She dropped the bar into his palm as if afraid to touch him. “Lather up.”
While he began a vigorous, no-nonsense lather, she remained beside him, watching. An aura of intimacy fell over the small, dimly lit room. Beyond the smell of soap and damp concrete, Britt zeroed in on Randi’s unique scent. Jasmine mixed with perspiration, the intoxicating combination wrapped around him until his heartbeat pulsed through the air, adding heat and need to an already charged atmosphere. He slowed his utilitarian scrub to a languid, thorough wash.
When her breathing turned as ragged as his, he held out the bar in his soapy palm. “Next?”
With his hand relaxed, there was no way she could take the bar from him without skin-to-soapy-skin contact. She stared at his outstretched hand for several seconds before meeting his gaze.
“What are you about, Britt Steele?”
“Damned if I know, but I’m going with it.”
She laughed, and a giant foot pressed on Britt’s chest at the joyful note. He tried to come up with another witty remark, so she wouldn’t stop. But unfortunately, one witticism per millennium was his quota. While her smiling mouth consumed his attention, she found a way to retrieve the soap without touching him. Dammit.
Spell broken, they rinsed and dried their hands and rejoined Grif in the dining room. Seeing their arrival, Carlie Beth finished up with her customer, then grabbed Britt’s plate and headed to the kitchen.
“Thanks for lending me your lunch date,” Randi said. “It would have taken much longer to organize the stockroom without him.”
Grif sent Britt one of his I-could-make-life-really-bad-for-you-now grins. “He’s starting to go soft around the middle, so a little physical exertion is good for him.”
Randi’s gaze slid down to Britt’s stomach, hopefully noting the absence of any paunch. Didn’t stop him from contracting his muscles, though.
The restaurant door opened, drawing Randi’s attention away. Her features scrambled into a mixture of confusion and excitement and maybe a bit of dread.
Britt angled around to see who’d caused such a shift in her mood. Two men in suits and ties paused just inside. Both carried an air of money about them, though the older gentleman with the receding hairline looked as though he’d walked into a warren of maggots. The younger of the two appeared more comfortable, and a grin broke across his face when he located Randi.
Without conscious thought, Britt straightened his spine and expanded his chest. His territorial radar was zinging off the scale. The guy was Superman good-looking, right down to a blinding white charm-your-granny smile and slicked-back black hair.
“Well, I’ll leave you gentlemen to your food.” Randi’s gaze skimmed over Britt. “Thanks again.”
She met the duo halfway across the room, shaking Clark Kent’s hand first, then his arrogant friend’s. After a few more words between them, Randi waved her guests over to a red leather booth tucked in the corner by where the local bands set up. Grif whistled. “Bro, you got it bad. When did that happen?”
Tearing his gaze away, Britt sat. “Don’t start. Nothing’s happened—happening.”
“Then you’re an idiot. Randi’s got her head screwed on straight and she’s a beauty to boot. What’s the obstacle?”
“I’m not one of your players, Grif. You don’t need to broker a deal on my behalf.”
“Here you go,” Carlie Beth said. “Careful, the plate’s hot. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
“Thanks, this will do.” When she turned to leave, he said, “Actually, one more thing.”
“Shoot.”
“Any idea who Randi’s meeting with?”
Carlie Beth peered at the booth before glancing in Grif’s direction. Eyes twinkling, she gave Britt a mischievous smile. “You mean the hottie?”
“I mean the dude in the suit.”
Both Grif and Carlie Beth chuckled.
“Haven’t a clue.”
Britt scowled at Carlie Beth’s retreating back.
“Didn’t you have someplace you needed to be?” Grif asked.
“Looks like I’ll be a little late.” Britt bit into his hamburger, fighting the urge to gawk at the trio huddled behind him.
“About that obstacle.”
Unable to speak without spitting food all over the table, Britt settled for sending his brother a scorching glare. This was why you never wanted Grif Steele pissing around in your pot. He never let anything go. Not even after threats of bodily harm.
“There’s an issue with Barbara Shepherd’s will, and Randi and I are on opposite sides of the field.”
“N
ot an ideal situation for a blooming romance, I’ll admit. What’s the issue?”
“Don’t you have some ledgers to balance or something?”
“Probably, but your love life is much more interesting.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Spreadsheets and financial software.”
“What?”
“Most businesses stopped using written ledgers twenty years ago.”
“I still use a ledger book.”
“Dear God.” Grif tossed his napkin on the table. “I’m coming over to your cabin next weekend to hook you up with QuickBooks.”
“Quit Books?”
“QuickBooks. Small business financial software.”
“The hell you are.”
“I bet Randi uses it.”
“Her business is a bit more complicated than mine.”
“We’ll work on getting you into the twenty-first century later. Let’s get back to your love life—or lack thereof.”
Britt grabbed three french fries and dipped them into a blob of ketchup. He stabbed the bloody potatoes into Grif’s direction. “If I tell you, you can’t go blabbing it to the family.”
“Deal.”
“Or Carlie Beth. She’s friends with Randi, and I don’t want to cause trouble there.”
Grif’s response was much slower in coming. “Carlie Beth knows Randi better than you or I. Let’s keep that door open. She won’t do anything to jeopardize her friendship.”
Between mouthfuls of hamburger, fries, and coleslaw, Britt spent the next five minutes explaining to his freaky smart brother about the will and Barbara’s promise.
By the end, Grif looked equal parts shell-shocked and intrigued. “Any idea who made the offer to Randi?”
Britt glanced over his shoulder at Randi and her guests. “She’s not even hinting at their identity.”
“You think those two guys made the offer?”
Turning back to his plate. “No telling.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m not exactly sure. But I have five days to figure something out.” Britt set his half-eaten hamburger down, no longer hungry. “If I knew why she wanted to sell the property so badly, I could tackle the problem from that angle.”
When Grif didn’t comment for a long while, Britt studied his brother’s face. Indecision rode his features. A foreign emotion for his take-charge sibling.
“What?”
“A couple weeks ago, I had lunch here with the president of one of the local banks. He let a comment slip about it ‘being a damned shame what’s going on with this place.’ Then he caught himself as if he’d said too much.” Grif rapped the tips of his fingers against the table. “I didn’t unload any questions on him, thinking Carlie Beth might have the scoop, but she had no idea what he meant.”
Double damn shit! Britt chanced another glance over his shoulder. The trio had disappeared. How the hell had they left without him hearing? Had her meeting with two guys in expensive suits been a coincidence? “If Randi’s business has suffered a financial setback, she’ll fight like a wildcat to protect it. As near as I can tell, Triple B is her life.”
“I agree.” The irritating, rhythmic rap of Grif’s fingers halted. “You could talk with Jonah.”
“No.”
“If it’s important to you, it’ll be important to him.”
“He just paid millions to bail out this town, and now he’s funding a renovation of a failed sports complex to keep Reid busy. I won’t be another one of his charity cases.”
“The training center will impact far more lives than just Reid’s.”
“That may be, but you and I both know Jonah wouldn’t have bothered if Reid was still with the Green Berets.”
“I get that protecting the Shepherd property is important to you,” Grif said. “But what I don’t understand is why it’s so important.”
“The land’s gone untouched for over a century, maybe more. Outside a few acres, the land hasn’t been impacted by farming, logging, or aggressive hunting. The diversity of plant and animal life is incredible.”
“All the more reason Jonah would want to add the acreage to Steele Conservation Area.”
“Why would he care? He’s been cooped up behind a computer for the last two decades. The kid’s so pale he could be mistaken for a vampire.”
“Have you played any of his games?”
“Not since Steele Survivor.”
“Do yourself a favor—go check them out.”
“There’s no point. I don’t have time to play games and I won’t go to him for money.”
“Then you’ll lose the Shepherd property.”
10
Richard Norwood tilted his head back and released a stream of fragrant cigar smoke into the mahogany-stained timbers above. The even, controlled action muffled the relentless chatter in his head. His mind never ceased its thinking, analyzing, searching for new ways in which he could challenge himself. Something membership in the Carolina Club demanded on a constant basis.
Made up of wealthy, competitive gentlemen, the club had been in existence for over a hundred years, providing exclusive recreational opportunities for men willing to pay a fortune for the privilege of such rare pleasures. The need to reinvent oneself, over and over and over, was as addicting as sugar or heroin. Taste, crave, repeat. Taste, crave, repeat. Taste, crave, repeat.
“What news do you have for us, Mr. Gaviston?”
The attorney settled into one of the many comfortable leather chairs strewn about the Canid Chamber—so called for the many wolf, wild dog, and fox trophies decorating the room. Gaviston nodded to each of the five men gathered.
“I presented the club’s generous offer to Miss Shepherd on Friday. Unfortunately, she was not ready to make a final decision.”
Gaviston believed the club’s interest in the Shepherd property revolved around its rich gameland. A truth, but not Richard’s sole motivation. Only a select few knew the full scope of why he wanted the property. Why they wanted the property. The Marksman League.
Several of his close colleagues and he were within a few kills of making Legend status. The last kill on the list seemed impossible to obtain until club member Neil Watters overheard a conversation between Barbara Shepherd and Britt Steele, revealing the state’s rarest mammal—Canis rufus—had settled on Shepherd property, making the land invaluable to the exclusive Marksman League.
“How can this be?” Angus Ferguson, a vascular surgeon from Asheville, snapped the newspaper shut, his ruddy Scottish complexion more pronounced than normal. “We offered the girl a fortune.”
“Indeed, sir.” Gaviston remained unruffled in the face of Ferguson’s outburst. “However, Miss Shepherd is a savvy businesswoman and she’s proceeding with caution.”
“I share Mr. Ferguson’s confusion.” Jun Ito advanced his black rook into an offensive position against a ghost player. “By accepting our offer, Miss Shepherd would become a millionaire.”
If Jun Ito’s designer clothes and polished manners weren’t enough to label him as old money, the gold family crest he always wore around his neck would clinch it. Although the real estate tycoon had grown up in the United States, he’d spent each summer in Japan, the country of his birth and the resting place of his ancestors.
“The amount offered far exceeds fair market value, and Miss Shepherd realizes that fact.”
“So?” Samuel Taylor drawled in his thick Texan accent. “Money’s money. I sure wouldn’t balk if any of my overseas shipping accounts tried to give me more, I’ll tell you that right now.”
“Miss Shepherd indicated the club’s offer might be too good to be true.” Gaviston held Richard’s gaze. “I gave her a couple days to think about the matter.”
Richard nodded, not happy with the delay, but he’d learned to trust Gaviston’s instincts.
“Thank you for the update, Mr. Gaviston. Contact us once you have Miss Shepherd’s answer.”
Gaviston rose. “Should I update the president?”
“Not necessary. I’ll be meeting with Mr. Bennett later today.”
The moment the door closed behind the lawyer, Chicago investment banker Neil Watters said in a quiet, lethal voice, “We need to devise a Plan B. The Shepherd girl is going to be a problem.”
“The girl is Plan B,” Richard reminded him, giving Ferguson a pointed look. “What we need is a foolproof plan should Miranda Shepherd not accept our offer.”
Although Watters neared Legend status, he had more trials to complete before Richard could bring him into the League’s confidence. Completing Carolina Club’s Kill List proved an effective recruitment tool for more cultivated, select tastes.
A wave of fury burned over his scalp. Their original plan had been a good, solid strategy, though the Shepherd woman had proved to be a strong adversary. One who’d refused to back down.
But the memory of her stubbornness wasn’t what put Richard in a rage. It was the damned hotheaded Scot. Angus Ferguson had a tendency toward impetuous, not thought out, or approved, actions. And more importantly, he’d anticipated Richard’s next move, something that wouldn’t happen again.
“She’d be a bloody fool not to,” Angus blustered. “It’s the only way to save her business.”
“Be careful of absolutes.” Richard released another column of smoke. “Operating in black and white always proves disappointing.”
“What do you propose?” Jun asked.
“It’s quite simple. If she will not sell us what we want, then we’ll have to take it.”
“By whatever means possible?” Sam asked.
“We didn’t allow her self-righteous mother to stand in our way. The grieving, financially ruined Miranda Shepherd will either bend or break to our will.”
“Your preference?” Jun asked.
“The latter, of course.”
11
Then you’ll lose the Shepherd property.
Grif’s words continued to haunt Britt for the next four days. Losing the property meant failing the red wolves. Something he couldn’t do.
Although he suspected it would be a long shot, Britt had contacted several national and international conservation agencies to see if they would be interested in purchasing property inhabited by red wolves. Many had been quite intrigued, but none would commit funding until their biologists could verify the wolves’ authenticity. Not one of them would accept the tests he’d collected. Once again, time wasn’t on his side.
Loving Deep: Steele Ridge Series Page 8