"Mush is for breakfast. I want cheesecake for dessert."
"Do you think that's him?" Calder's dark eyes lit up as her gaze moved to a spot over Destry's shoulder. "Wow! Yum, yum."
"Down, girl," Adam warned with a chuckle.
"Whether he's the owner or a random diner, the man is definitely easy on the eyes." Andi saw Noah's pointed look and shrugged. "Can't fault a woman for stating the obvious."
"Too G.Q.," Adam muttered. "Probably spent an hour in front of the mirror, picking out the perfect tie, worrying about the crease in his pants."
"You just described yourself, my darling clothes horse."
"Hardly."
When Calder raised a challenging brow, Adam's lips twitched.
"I never take more than forty-five minutes to get ready."
Destry enjoyed the banter between her sister and her fiancé, but she was impatient to get a look at the owner of the hotel. Her back was to him, and the eyes of everyone else at the table were already directed his way. She didn't want to turn and gawk, but her curiosity was piqued.
"What's taking him so long?"
"Other diners," Andi explained. "One person stops him to talk. Then another, and another. He must know everyone in the room."
"Jeez," Destry scoffed. "What is he, a freaking rock star?"
"Judging the reaction from the crowd, I wouldn't be surprised if someone asked for his autograph." Amusement crinkled the sides of Calder's eyes. "Here we go. Ten seconds to landing."
"Nine, eight, seven…"
Patrick's whispered countdown was so perfect, so ridiculous, Destry had to laugh. Naturally, the rock star arrived at their table just as her half-snort, half-chuckle burst from her lips.
"I'm glad you're enjoying your evening," he said with just a trace of an Irish accent.
Blue eyes—the bluest Destry had ever seen—flickered over her before he smiled and held out his hand to Calder.
"Ms. Benedict. A pleasure to finally meet you."
"The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Stanton." Calder shook his hand and smiled.
"Please, call me Liam."
The beard was gone. His hair was several inches shorter. Perfectly tailored light-gray suit shot through with a thin, white pinstripe had replaced jeans and t-shirt. The Liam she remembered was the salt of the earth, not New York society chic. Though they hadn't spent a lot of time together, she knew he was the same man she met just over a week earlier.
His eyes. Lord, she'd know them anywhere. And then there was his voice. Deep, distinctive, and sexy enough to make her toes curl.
Destry didn't have time to worry about why he was here, or how. She only had one question swirling like a cyclone through her head. If the night they spent together was as exciting as she remembered, how could Liam Stanton look right at her without even a flicker of recognition?
CHAPTER EIGHT
~~~~
LIAM STANTON'S LONG legs stretched out in front of him. Ankles crossed, his bare feet rested on the window seat of his penthouse apartment. The New York City skyline glowed as the first light of day crept over the horizon. Hues of pink and gold mixed into a kaleidoscope of colors, a reminder he'd spent the dark of night wide awake, his mind too busy to allow his body some much-needed rest.
Destry Benedict. Liam finally had a name to put to the face—and the mouth-watering body. But in his wildest imagination, he never would have guessed her real identity.
A whiz at math, even he couldn't calculate the odds that the sweet little badass he met in the wilds of the Pacific Northwest would turn out to be one of the Benedicts. The definition of blue-blooded old money, Destry's family sat about as high on the New York society ladder as anyone could climb.
Eyes closed, he pictured the way she looked last night. The elegant, richly dressed woman was the opposite of the hellion he remembered. Yet, the moment their gazes met, he had no doubt of her identity.
For a second, Liam would have sworn she didn't recognize him. Luckily for his ego, he was an excellent poker player. In cards as in business, he'd learned the value of a blank expression. Turned out she was close to his equal except for one little thing—Destry's tell. When he caught the slight flicker of awareness in her dark, expressive eyes, he knew she remembered everything as vividly as he did.
Liam's mystery woman was Calder Benedict's sister. Again, he sighed. And grinned. Wasn't life just filled with surprises? Sweet, unexpected, satisfying surprises. Destry barreled into his life like a curvy, compact hurricane. She picked him up, twisted him around, and tossed him aside—and he'd loved every second.
One crazy night. One exciting, penny-bright, wild woman. Less than a blink in time compared to the rest of his thirty years on earth and the many more he hoped lay ahead. Yet, he couldn't forget. Destry Benedict wasn't like any woman he'd ever met. Fierce and fearless, she took what she wanted and walked away without a backward glance.
The feel of her in his arms, her incredibly soft skin, the taste of her on his tongue—she was simply unforgettable.
"Always leave them wanting more," he grumbled to the empty room.
Liam frowned at the cynical thought. Nothing about Destry had struck him as calculating. When she left, she was gone. He was certain she hadn't expected or wanted him to try to find her. Much to his chagrin, Liam scoured every inch of her motel room for some clue to her identity. He found nothing.
At the time, Liam shrugged off the experience, certain he'd forget her as quickly as she forgot him. Instead, when he packed his bag and headed home, she came with him.
She would steal into his thoughts at the most inconvenient times. A prime example was the other day during tense negotiations for the acquisition of a floundering aerospace company. Hundreds of millions of dollars on the line, he needed his mind sharp, focused, and on the business at hand—not on a woman he couldn't even name. The deal went through, and she was still in his head.
Destry. Suited her, Liam decided. Unique, distinctive—like the woman herself. But, he wondered as he walked across the cool, Italian tile floor, who the hell was she really?
Liam took a package of freshly ground coffee from the cupboard. He pondered the question while he made himself a cup of rich, black espresso.
Perhaps she was a superhero, he mused. Rich girl by day, defender of the downtrodden by night. What would be her secret moniker? Dynamite Woman? He chuckled. Why not? She packed a hell of a punch. With her fists and her body—as he could attest.
Liam rolled his head in a slow circle, wincing when his neck popped in protest. The internet wasn't any help. He found reams of information about Destry's mother. Seemed publicity was the lifeblood of Billie Benedict. The woman's every move had been chronicled from the moment she was born, through her coming out as New York's top debutante, her many marriages, followed with breathtaking speed into divorce court, to the birth of her daughters.
Picture after picture, article after article, the matriarch of the Benedict family didn't make a move without a photographer, every moment captured for posterity, perfectly lit and always in focus.
Destry's father was equally popular with the press but in a vastly different way. Unlike Billie Benedict's other husbands, Miller Destry wasn't born with a silver spoon in his mouth. To compensate for his less-than-fortuitous upbringing, he chose to cheat, steal, and swindle to a better life. Trouble was, at least according to everything Liam read, Miller had no head for crime. He was enthusiastic enough, but his failures far outweighed his success. Until he pulled off his greatest con—he married money, lots and lots of money.
One headline declared The Princess Gets Her Pirate. Other news outlets weren't as romantically inclined. Most people gave the union a year. Most people overestimated Miller Destry. He, as with his chosen vocation, turned out to be a bust as a husband. His daughter barely a week old, he took his divorce settlement and slunk back to his low-level life of crime.
Liam contemplated the one picture he could dig up of Destry a
nd Miller together. Taken five years earlier, the background was of a Maryland courthouse after his conviction for tax evasion. He looked miserable and defeated. She looked stoic and resigned.
Other than the same dark hair, the resemblance between father and daughter was minimal.
Skinny as a rail, his clearly expensive suit hung on his frame, while his sunken cheeks gave him the look of a man one meal away from starvation. A stark contrast, Destry was the epitome of a healthy, vibrant young woman. She wore a conservative, black skirt and simple, white blouse. With her hair pulled back and minimal makeup, if her goal was to appear sober and supportive, she pulled off the look with aplomb.
"Criminal or no, is he a good father? Is your mother there for you when you need her most?" Picking up his phone, Liam ran his thumb across the image of Destry. "In a perfect world, the answer would be yes. But something tells me where your parents are concerned, you drew the short straw."
Liam took his steaming espresso onto the penthouse balcony and breathed in the fresh air. He loved New York, but sometimes in the sweltering heat, when the city's odors and unavoidable pollution were at their worst, his heart longed for Ireland where he was raised and allowed to run free, the green, green grass below his bare feet.
The thought of his childhood home brought Liam back to Destry. The little he'd learned about her highlighted the similarities of their upbringings, and the differences.
When Liam's father and mother married, they had nothing but each other and a few dollars in the bank. However, by the time his oldest brother came along, the family fortunes had changed dramatically.
Always a tinkerer, Berton Stanton liked to work with his hands. A milkman by trade, as a hobby, he fiddled with things around the house to make them better, more efficient. He never dreamed his slight alteration to the thermostat on the water heater would change his and his beloved Minerva's lives. The patent sold for three million pounds. The next, a tweak to the gas stove, made him even more.
Needless to say, Berton quit his day job, continued to fix things for the better, and left the money managing to Minerva—smart move. With a nose for companies about to break big, she invested wisely and soon turned their sizable nest egg into an ever-growing fortune.
Money often changed people. Not Bert and his Minnie. The house grew along with the size of their family—Liam was the youngest of five boys—but Stanton's outlook on life remained the same. They were at heart, down-to-earth folk, simple in their wants and needs.
Kindness, a sense of community, and an open-hearted generosity were his parents' hallmarks. They stamped their beliefs deep into their children. More than the money they gave him on the day he graduated college, Liam's inheritance was the love they enveloped him in every day of his life.
Liam rested his elbows on the wrought-iron railing. He hated to judge people by reputation alone. But he could only go by the evidence in his possession. On paper, Billie Benedict and Miller Destry were not parents of the year material.
As far as Liam was concerned, his folks would win the award every time—going away. He couldn't imagine what his life would be like without two such grounded people. They'd guided him, given him a blueprint on how a man should live his life, and though he'd taken a different path, to this day, they were the ones he turned to whenever he needed advice or simply a sympathetic ear.
Who was Destry's rock? Who helped nurture her through the fears every child experienced, the tumult of adolescence, and the uncertainty of adulthood? A good question, and he'd never find the answer unless he had a chance to know her better.
Liam lifted the half-empty cup toward his mouth, froze, and cursed. He'd become obsessed with Destry Benedict. Or damn close. And he knew why. He hated an unsolved mystery. As soon as he figured her out, he'd move on and forget her the same way he had every woman before, the same way he would every woman after.
Besides, he thought as he deposited his dirty cup and saucer into the dishwasher, he still wanted Destry. A few more hours with her in his arms, naked, and he'd be well and truly finished. He considered the idea and decided a week would be better… or two. A month, tops. After all, he didn't want to leave any curve on her luscious body unexplored. Anything worth doing was worth doing right.
Satisfied he'd found a course of action, Liam paused by his bed. He had enough time before his first meeting to grab a few hours of sleep. Instead, he headed for the bathroom. If he slept now, his internal clock would be completely out of whack. A brisk shower and a few more shots of espresso and he'd be good to go.
Liam raised his face to the showerhead and the pulsing spray just this side of frigid. The water was cold, but his thoughts heated as they turned back to Destry. Until now, she'd called the shots, and he'd been content to let her. Strong, take-charge women were sexy as hell.
Things were about to change. An alpha male to his core, Liam was born to lead. They were headed for an epic war of wills. He felt a surge of anticipation as adrenaline pumped through his blood. Destry wouldn't be a pushover, and he had the feeling she'd probably win a round or two and grinned at the thought.
Victory would be sweet when Destry was his. And if he played his cards right, neither of them would be the loser.
CHAPTER NINE
~~~~
WITH A WIDE yawn, Destry absently poured the warm maple syrup onto her stack of fluffy blueberry pancakes. She didn't notice as an excess sticky pool formed on her plate, but Mrs. Finch did.
"Destry Honoria Benedict!" Because Mrs. F. used their middle names sparingly, the censure always packed a wallop. "Put the syrup down before you spill goo all over my clean counter."
"Honoria," Bryce snorted. Back for a few days from the set of her movie, she arrived minutes earlier, just in time for breakfast.
Destry handed the near-empty pitcher to Mrs. Finch with a sincere I'm sorry then turned to her sister.
"Want to get into a name game?" she asked Bryce. "Bet I win… Zinnia."
Calder's laughing sputter earned her a dirty look from her twin.
"Don't pull me into your fight. I have no problem with my middle name."
"Because you don't have one," Andi reminded her. "Neither do I. Vintage Billie. No rhyme or reason to her methods. Her first daughters get two names, the last two get three. And lovely ones to boot."
"Could be worse," Mrs. Finch said as she refilled the pitcher, then took Destry's plate and poured half the syrup down the drain.
"For example?" Calder asked.
"I don't have a specific name in mind. But always remember, ladies. Nothing is ever as bad as it could be." She returned Destry's plate, a gentle smile on her lips. "Eat. Enjoy. I made certain no one snatched any of the blueberries." She sent a pointed look at Andi, the infamous fruit thief in the family. "They have a tendency to disappear when my back is turned, and I bought them specifically for pancakes when my girls were all together."
"I like fruit," Andi muttered. "Think she'd be happy I prefer healthy snacks."
"I keep plenty of other things like apples and bananas in the house. A nice variety. But the strawberries for my shortcake? The peaches for my cobbler? You always want the items earmarked for a specific purpose."
"I'm contrary." Andi didn't look the least bit ashamed of her admission.
Mrs. F. crossed her arms over her ample bosom, the expression in her pale-blue eyes stern. However, as usual, she couldn't stay annoyed at one of her girls for long. Her lips twitched, and a second later, her warm laughter filled the room.
"Eat." With indulgent affection, she patted Andi's hand before she turned back to the griddle to flip a fresh batch of pancakes with expert ease.
"I like your new hair color, Mrs. F." Calder smiled. "What does Dougal think of the blond highlights?"
Mrs. Finch blushed—a charming quality for a woman of her age—as she did every time her boyfriend was mentioned. Though she and the neighborhood butcher were an item of longstanding, they still behaved like a couple in the earl
y days of their relationship. The woman they considered the mother of their hearts loved a good man and was loved in return, much to the Benedict sisters' delight.
"Dougal says I look like Marilyn Monroe." The cook's blush turned a deeper pink. "Silly man."
"Darling man," Destry corrected. "If you ever get tired of him, Mrs. F., send him my way. I've always had a bit of crush on your big, handsome Scotsman."
"Forget the Scotsman," Calder teased. "You already have your hands full with a certain blue-eyed Irishman."
Destry gave Calder a warning poke in the arm. She breathed a sigh of relief when she realized Mrs. Finch was out of earshot.
Unaware of the sisterly drama, Mrs. Finch placed the newly cooked pancakes on a platter next to slices of crisp bacon and just-done scrambled eggs. Turning off the gas burners, she placed the food—one of the many ways she showed love—onto the counter.
"Should hold you until lunch. I'll be outside if you need me. If the new gardener doesn't learn to distinguish between a weed and my green beans, he won't be around for long."
The back door shut with a click. Silence followed, but not for long.
"You need to cut your fingernails," Calder groused, rubbing her arm.
"You need to learn to keep your pie hole shut."
"Pie hole?" Bryce mused. "Nice one."
"Really?" Calder turned and happily redirected her ire.
"Nothing the writer in me loves more than a good colloquialism."
"Destry injured my arm, and you, the person I shared a womb with for nine months, can only think about writing?"
Destry rolled her eyes. "Give me a break. A little poke does not an injury make."
"I bruise easily," Calder said with an exaggerated pout.
"Like an overripe plum," Andi laughed.
"Overripe?" Calder had a new target to jump on. "I'll have you know, I'm in peak condition. Prime, is the word Adam used last night after I gave him a—"
Four Simple Words: A Badass and the Billionaires Contemporary Romance (The Sisters Quartet Book 4) Page 9