Shrew & Company Books 1-3

by Holley Trent

  Still, his doctor had said he was too stressed and that his blood pressure was too damned high for a thirty-two-year-old man, so last month, he’d spent a long weekend at the cabin to engage in some prescribed rest and relaxation.

  Big fucking mistake.

  He set his glass on the counter and reached for the bag of bread atop the microwave. Mentally, he debated whether the night’s sandwich would be turkey—again—or roast beef.

  Maybe I’ll nuke something. Hot sounds good.

  The bread bag was halfway back to its nook when the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside made him pause his hand.

  He stood frozen, hyper alert to the sound like any good cat.

  Could it be a guest?

  He didn’t know anyone in the mountains, but perhaps a neighbor from down the mountain saw his SUV parked beside the house and traveled up to see who he was.

  No, the hairs prickling on his neck said it wasn’t that.

  The person, whoever it was, walked with too tentative a step for someone making a social visit. A light step…a woman’s, or an older child’s, maybe.

  He stood very still, waiting for the knock.

  The knock didn’t come, just a creak of the old porch boards as the person shifted in front of the screen door.

  “Mr. O’Dwyer, could you come to your door, please?”

  He grinned triumphantly. He’d gotten it right. It was a woman, and that woman had one of those slight Southern drawls he’d become so familiar with in the past five years.

  He didn’t recognize the voice, though. Sultry with a bit of an edge. Its owner definitely wasn’t one of his employees, and none of the neighbors would have known his name. He hadn’t been there enough to get around to putting it on his mailbox.

  He set the down the bread and walked to the doorway between the kitchen and front room, stopping to gape at the sight through the screen.

  A petite, shapely woman stood in a no-nonsense stance with hands on hips and lovely face a blank mask.

  He whistled low.

  Nice.

  She may have tried to be tough with that voice and that posture, but with those curves and all that black hair hanging over her shoulders, she was soft, even if she didn’t want to be. He let his gaze trail down from her neck to the café au lait mounds of her breasts barely visible at her maroon sweater’s V-neck, and imagined nuzzling his face between them, memorizing her scent. Marking her.

  He growled and pulled his head back into the kitchen.

  Get a hold of yourself.

  He didn’t ogle women. In his profession, gorgeous women were par for the course. They were in his pub day in and day out. He’d even paid attention to a few, but mostly he’d trained himself not to become involved. The women always got jealous. Were suspicious when he came home late and when they saw him chatting up girls at the bar. That was his job, and he knew how to keep his hands to himself. Now, he just didn’t bother connecting to anyone because it never panned out, and the effort was never worth all the grief. They’d all been so damned needy, and he didn’t want needy. He already had Uncle Simon for that.

  “Mr. O’Dwyer?” she repeated, annoyance tingeing her alto voice.

  He loved the way she said his name. Oh-Dwy-uh. Maybe if they had the chance, he’d teach her to say it in two syllables like his disreputable family had always done.

  “One moment, please.”

  He nudged the faucet handle and put his mouth beneath the flowing water in a lame attempt to rinse the whiskey taint from his breath. He gargled, spit, and grabbed a dishtowel from the hook to wipe his mouth.

  Best he could do.

  As he approached the door, the woman’s eyes widened. Whatever she saw that caused her surprise, however, seemed to become a non-issue, because she smoothed her expression back into its former blank.

  Too late. That flicker of interest put his curiosity into overdrive.

  “Yes, can I help you?” he asked from his side of the door.

  “Patrick O’Dwyer?”

  “Yes.”

  He waited for her to hand him some paperwork and tell him he’d been served—for God-knows-what, at that, Lord knew he tried to stay on the right side of the law—but that didn’t happen.

  She just nodded and pulled a cell phone out of her coat pocket. Without acknowledging him further, she dialed in some numbers.

  Suddenly, his sense of self-preservation kicked in. He pulled open the door and rested a hand on her arm. “Wait, who are you and who are you calling?”

  She looked first at his hand on her forearm then up to his eyes and pressed her glossed lips into a tight line.

  He dropped the hand. “It’s just that…no one knows I’m here.”

  She worked her jaw left then right, studied his face, and punched the end button on her phone. “Look, Mr. O’Dwyer, I was hired by a member of your staff to find you and ensure you were safe.”

  “I am.”

  “So…” She held her phone up to his face and wriggled it at him. “I’m checking in and informing my client of such. I cancelled a hair appointment for this.” She drew the phone in close and poised her finger to dial.

  He grabbed her arm again. “Please, don’t. They’ll ask questions.”

  This time, she didn’t bother looking down at his hand. She just wrapped her free one around his wrist and removed his hand from her person. “Please don’t touch me.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  She stared at him. Assessed him, it seemed, and for too damned long. She was more than looking. She seemed to be memorizing him.

  He figured perhaps he should do the same to her, because how often was a woman both scary and spectacular going to cross his path? She’d be traipsing through his dreams and stomping on his manliness for weeks.

  He welcomed it.

  Shit, I bet she could crack a whip and a smile with the exact same effort.

  The tension she held in her jaw eased somewhat and she took a step backward.

  “I hope you’re enjoying the show.” He swept a demonstrative arm down his body.

  He knew how he looked. He hadn’t shaved in two days and his hair was any which way but combed. Meanwhile, whether she’d missed a hair appointment or not, she was looking like she’d just walked off a magazine page advertising the new trend of ball-buster chic. She was stylishly hardcore from her tweed blazer down to her knife-pleated slacks and especially her spike-heeled boots. He suspected that if pressed, she’d actually be quite proficient at running in them. Probably even had gel inserts. She looked like the type to be prepared for every contingency.

  She was either a mobster or a mercenary. At the moment, he didn’t care which.

  “You’ve got to throw me a bone, Mr. O’Dwyer,” she said, and her pupils shrank with a dizzying speed.

  He rubbed his eyes, wondering if the cat in him was making him seeing things that weren’t there.

  He’d thought her eyes were nearly black upon first impression, but now, they were definitely brown and her pupils were getting smaller and smaller. Pinpricks, even.

  He stared at them, entranced.

  The fuck?

  She snapped her fingers at him.

  He straightened up.

  “I can’t tell them you’re fine and not give them any proof. That’s shitty work, and I have a reputation for thoroughness.”

  “Reputation? What, exactly, is your gig?”

  She ignored the question. “How do you want me to disseminate this information? Would you prefer to call Mr. Drake from your own phone and I’ll close out my bill from there, or—”

  “Mr. Drake, huh?” Patrick scoffed.

  Should have known he’d crumble under the threat of responsibility. So much for giving him a kick in the pants.

  “I’ll make it worth your while for coming all the way out here, but please—this is important. Just tell them you couldn’t find me.”

  She seemed to consider it for a moment, cocking her head to the sid
e and narrowing her eyes again, but finally shook her head. “No. I’ve got a reputation for what I do. I always find my man, and I’m not a liar. Come up with something else, and I’ll let you know if it’s an improvement.”

  Ball-buster.

  In spite of her brusque dismissal, he felt a grin pulling at his lips.

  Compared to his usual fare, her attitude was rather refreshing. This woman wasn’t going to take any shit from him, or anyone else, probably. She’d probably tell him what he could do with himself and where the moment she thought he was patronizing her. He wasn’t dumb enough to try that. Still, it was his secret to keep, no matter how thorough she was at her job.

  “How about you say nothing? That way it wouldn’t be a lie.”

  The hinges of her jaw twitched again, and her gaze darted around the room behind him. She was thinking about it, otherwise she would have probably given him a flat-out no.

  “Oh. Where are my manners?” He stood a bit to the side and held open the door. “Would you like to come in?”

  She shifted her weight and crossed her arms over her breasts.

  Her arms pressed at them, coaxing her cleavage to her sweater’s V-neck.

  He imagined his hands pushing those pert mounds together, his thumbs flicking over her nipples and teasing her until she was ready to play nice.

  He must have zoned out, staring at her sweater where her nipples should have been, because she snapped her fingers in front of his face again.

  “This isn’t a social visit, Mr. O’Dwyer.”

  “Yes, uh… Right.”

  She raised one of those perfectly groomed eyebrows, daring him.

  Damn, she’s pretty. Too pretty to have an attitude like that…or perhaps that’s why she has the attitude.

  “Mr. O’Dwyer?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry.” Get it together, fella. “Please, call me Patrick.” He extended his free hand for her to shake.

  She looked at it if it bore the taint of plague, but finally, she unwound one arm from her chest and let her fingers be wrapped inside his. “Patrick? Not Paddy?”

  Her hand was so soft; he couldn’t help but to caress the top of it with the pad of his thumb.

  She gave him a blank stare as he grinned like a fool at her. She must have thought he was daft, but as long as she wasn’t dialing that phone…

  “Paddy is what my father called me as a boy. I don’t respond to it anymore, although certain people insist on using it.”

  “Right.” She wrested her hand away and shoved it inside a pocket of her crisp black slacks. “Dana Slade of Shrew & Company. Private detectives and security consulting.” She turned her back to him and scanned the nearby woods for…hell, he didn’t know. Intruders? Bears? He knew some of the dangerous things out there, but she wouldn’t have been privy to that information.

  “Shrew, did you say?”

  The woman, Dana, faced him and nodded with brusque precision. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’d love to hear it.”

  “Mr. O’Dwyer, this isn’t—”

  He put his hands up once again and grinned. “Yes, it’s not a social call. I understand. But, listen, you came all the way out here. Certainly you’re not going to just turn around and drive back to wherever you came from, and I’m guessing it’s somewhere in the Triangle if”—he made a dismissive gesture—“Mr. Drake consulted you. It’s a long drive, and it’s gonna be dark winding down the mountain.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get a hotel room in town and charge it to your bill.”

  He felt his grin falter. “I’m sorry, my bill?”

  She shrugged. “Someone’s gotta pay me, and I don’t think your Mr. Drake is good for it. I was already planning on taking your very fine desk chair to balance the books.”

  Ah, so she has a sense of humor after all. He filed that tidbit of information away for later. “Why were you in my office?”

  “I’m an investigator, Mr. O’Dwyer.”

  “Patrick.”

  “Sure, Patrick. I was in both your office and in your home.”

  He didn’t like the sound of that. It wasn’t that he’d left the place a mess, but he had a few items strewn around that weren’t necessarily fit for public consumption. Most single men did.

  She turned again, this time running a hand behind her neck to lift the hair that’d become trapped behind her blazer collar. As she molested it, he scented the aroma of coconut and fruitier things and found himself leaning in to deepen his inhale. Beneath that scent was the aroma of her skin, the notes of which he caught on a far more intricate level than any human possibly could. He could smell the very essence of her, and that was why he craved dragging his tongue along her salty flesh, tasting her, and maybe taking a bite.

  He closed his eyes and backed up a step.

  Steady, fella.

  He took several breaths to bolster himself, and when he opened his eyes again, he found her back still turned. He let his gaze trail up from the porch floor to study the black leather boots that would probably be so damned hot if they were all she were wearing, and up her legs to the pert, round ass that her pants draped over just right. Beneath that blazer and loose sweater, he bet there was a trim waist he wouldn’t mind leaning over from behind while he…

  He cleared his throat and retreated into the cabin to adjust his crotch.

  Jaysus. I’m not that hard up.

  She turned around and looked at him through the screen, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth and worrying at it.

  Shit, yes I am. Dear Lord, what did I do to offend you so? Is it all the liquor? I swear, I sell more than I drink, and never on Sundays.

  “Can I offer you a cup of coffee, at least?” he asked, trying one last gambit, hoping she’d stay. At that point, he’d nearly forgotten what the secret was he was trying to keep. The only secret he was worried about at the moment was the one found at the apex of her thighs. She was such a goddamned ice cube, though; he’d probably never get close enough to thaw her out. He was charming, but not that charming.

  She studied him through the screen for a moment, and then shrugged. “Okay. I’d love some coffee.”

  Thank you, Lord.

  CHAPTER THREE

  When Dana had been poking around Patrick’s home in search of clues about his whereabouts, she’d found what she assumed were pictures of him. In one, he was behind the bar at the pub, posing with Mr. Drake.

  Flashing a perfect white grin as he handed over a trophy to a 5K runner in another.

  The man in the pictures was good-looking in a two-dimensional sort of way, but nothing that merited a second glance, really. She’d thought at the time that voice of his was the best thing going for him.

  But in person…well!

  Patrick O’Dwyer was the sort of man her mother had always warned her about. She was a fly, and he was honey. Tall, lean, dark-haired, fair-skinned with eyes the color of her first car. She’d loved that little green junker.

  Normally, she liked her men to be bulkier—a lingering side effect of her tenure as a cop, she supposed—but there was something rather appealing about his athletic frame. And the way his cheeks reddened when his emotions were high, well, that was charming. She could admit that. But, cute and charming had never been enough for her. She needed substance, and so far Patrick seemed lacking in that.

  She took a seat at the small kitchen table and assessed the room. The log walls and wood cabinetry made it dark, but it somehow managed to not be completely cheerless. Maybe it was the colorful collection of glass beer bottles arranged on top of the refrigerator or the few framed mountain vignettes Patrick or someone else had hung on the walls.

  Her gaze rested on the empty telephone jack above the toaster. If she hadn’t known for a fact Patrick owned the place, that would have been her sign the place wasn’t a rental. Had the place been a daily rental, the owners would have kept a phone available for tenants to make 911 calls.

  “Why haven’t you settled into the place yet?” she as
ked his back as he measured coffee grounds.

  His shoulders lifted into an elegant shrug. “I’m not here much. I thought about putting the place back on the market, but…I’ll just say that right, now it’s both a curse and a cure.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  Dana had discovered his ownership of the cabin rather easily. She hadn’t even had to dig through his drawers for tax records, which she avoided doing at all costs, anyway. She really didn’t like knowing that much of peoples’ business.

  She’d just looked at what he had tacked on his refrigerator, and on the side was a list of phone numbers, one of which was for a property management company with an 828 area code. She’d dialed the number from her cell phone and asked for a status report on the O’Dwyer place.

  They’d given her one, down to the time his new generator would be delivered.

  Idiots.

  From there, she just pulled up deed transfer records in Swain County and found one with Patrick’s name on it.

  Boom.

  There was a reason she was the boss.

  He pushed the button on the coffee maker and turned around, leaning his butt against the rough-hewn counter’s edge.

  “Are you insinuating I’m stupid, Mr. O’Dwyer?”

  He pulled open an overhead cabinet, grabbing two white ceramic mugs from the shelf. “Call me Patrick, please. And no, you’re obviously quite intelligent if you were able to track me down in thirty-six hours when my staff couldn’t.”

  “It didn’t take me thirty-six hours, Patrick. More like three.”

  He gave a shallow bow in acquiescence. “My point proven, I think. Do you want anything in your coffee besides cream and sugar?”

  “I take it black,” she said, finally shrugging off her blazer. She draped it over the back of her chair and when she looked up again, she found him staring at her torso with one black eyebrow cocked up.

  She thought she knew why. “Do you have a problem with guns?”

  He shook his head as he lifted the coffee decanter off the burner and poised it over the waiting mugs. “No. I don’t believe I know any women who carry concealed, is all. Most just keep their weapons in their nightstands or cookie jars.” After sliding a steaming mug in front of her, he stepped to the pantry door and pulled it open to reveal on the back, a hook bearing a holster.