Love Under Two Accountants [The Lusty, Texas Collection] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Cara Covington

  Bailey couldn’t say what it was about these two men that set her off balance, maybe even a little nervous.

  That certainly wasn’t a reaction she’d ever had before. But the attraction she’d felt at first meeting was being nipped at by another, equally unfamiliar emotion.

  Chance and Logan had been nothing but polite since she’d met them not a half-hour before. And yet…there was something about the way her two fellow New Yorkers conducted conversation that made the experience seem more like she was being interviewed…or interrogated. They had the art of the tag-team down pat, too. Logan had just asked her if she had family in the area. It had been the—what—sixth or seventh question asked under the guise of polite conversation.

  Maybe I’ve just become used to the more relaxed and genteel Texan mien. Bailey had spent a lot of time thinking about the differences between New York brashness and understated Texas charm over the last few days. Perhaps this was yet another form of culture shock, encountering these two men at this point in her life.

  Bailey focused on Chance, his question still echoing in the air or, at least, in her ears. The longer she stared at him, the more unsettled he seemed. Beside her, Jake Kendall coughed. Or was that a laugh disguised at the last moment as a cough? Hard to tell because his napkin, held close the way it was, pretty much obscured her view of his lower face.

  Regardless, she opted to answer Chance’s question honestly. “I literally tossed a dart at a map on the wall, Mr. Benedict.” She’d cottoned enough during the lunchtime conversation to understand she could turn this around and ask a question right back. “What made you decide to come and visit your grandmother after a lifetime of never having done so?”

  “Boy howdy, she has you there,” Ginny Kendall said. Her wide grin told Bailey that perhaps her discomfort with all the questions hadn’t been so off base, after all.

  “Y’all best be sticking with being bean counters.” Sheriff Kendall laughed. “You make awkward investigators.”

  “Certainly the FBI won’t be knocking on your doors anytime soon,” Jake Kendall agreed.

  Bailey wasn’t certain what expression crossed Chance’s face or what communication traveled between the brothers when he tossed a quick look at Logan, who was sitting beside her.

  “Just as well,” Chance said. “I’ve never had a desire to work for the FBI, anyway.”

  Emily Ann Richardson had been the one to serve their lunch, once Ginny joined the table. Bailey liked the easy, friendly service here at Lusty Appetites. The food was delicious and the restaurant itself quite busy for it being in such a small town. The lunch crowd at Angel’s Roadhouse was also usually quite a brisk business. She imagined the real difference between the two establishments happened at nighttime.

  Lusty Appetites closed by eight each evening, which was about a half-hour before the Roadhouse got really busy. Of course, it wasn’t only supper that happened at nighttime. There was music and dancing, along with the alcoholic drinks that were served beginning with lunch.

  Emily Ann brought an empty tray and began to clear away the now empty plates. Another server approached, this one a woman Bailey hadn’t noticed before. She, too, carried a tray, one laden with a large plate bearing pastries—a veritable mountain of pastries—and a stack of six smaller plates, as well.

  “How was lunch?” she asked.

  “Wonderful as always, Kelsey,” Jake said.

  “This is Kelsey Benedict, owner of Lusty Appetites.” The fact that Ginny introduced everyone pretty much confirmed that the brothers Benedict from New York City were also making their debut appearance here today.

  “We’re so glad you’re all here.” Kelsey looked from her newly introduced cousins to Bailey. “What are the odds that we would have three new folks here, all from New York?”

  Bailey wondered where Kelsey had been born because, judging by her accent, it sure hadn’t been Texas. “I love numbers,” Bailey said, “but calculating odds was never one of my talents.”

  “You love numbers?” Logan perked up at that and gave her a huge grin.

  “I’ve worked in accounting for years, though I don’t have a degree.” Most people, hearing that she worked in accounting, assumed the degree. Sheriff Kendall had referred to the brothers Benedict as bean counters. She’d bet they had degrees. “I’m not a CPA, but I did all right for myself.”

  “So, home state and basic field of work discipline,” Chance said. “That’s a lot for us to have in common.”

  Bailey nearly said that was all they had in common. Unlike them, she couldn’t claim an entire town as kin. She stilled her tongue at the last minute. It wasn’t like her to look at a glass as being half empty. She might not have family here, but from all she’d seen so far, that didn’t appear to make a difference in the way she was received. Bailey didn’t understand all the disparate emotions that had been hitting her since she accepted the job Angela Monroe had offered her just a week ago.

  Maybe those emotions were just a natural response to all the changes she’d made, not to mention the complete shitstorm she’d endured following Dirk’s death.

  That alone would be enough to make me lose my cool.

  “Who knows what else we may have in common?” Logan’s voice had dipped low with that question. A sense of something skittering across her skin and stirring low in her belly almost made her wonder what Kelsey Benedict put in the food.

  “I brought dessert, on the house. Our pastry chef, Tracy, is a genius with cream puffs.” Kelsey set down the large plate, distributed the smaller ones, and then handed her tray off to Emily Ann. She grabbed a chair from the empty table behind her, spun it around, and sat.

  Emily Ann set a cup of hot tea in front of Kelsey, who beamed at the rest of them as if she was a parent, grinning out at her brood.

  “So, two big things in common. This sounds very promising.” Kelsey looked from her two new cousins to Bailey, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

  Not for anything would Bailey say a word. Instead, she reached for a pastry, brought it to her lips, and took a bite. Eyes closed, she nearly moaned in pleasure as the pastry began to melt in her mouth.

  At least if she had to restrain her tongue, she’d suffer in gastronomic bliss.

  Chapter Four

  Everett Forrest liked no one and trusted other people not at all. That very philosophy had held him in good stead so far. It had allowed him to know when to hide from his da’s fists in his family’s grubby lodging in Hackney, a section of London not known for its elegance. And it had stayed with him long after his da’s unfortunate demise at the hands of an unidentified assailant brandishing a wicked knife when Ev had been but fourteen. He’d managed to align himself with various gangs at various times as he’d grown. Each step as he progressed through the fires of life from a grubby and scratching gutter rat to a stronger, more focused blade for hire honed him, tempered him, perfecting his skills. Loyal only to himself, and able to know when the wind changed direction before most others ever caught on, Ev had made his own way and, eventually, his own fortune.

  No longer the grubby, hungry, bruise-bearing child he’d once been, Everett Forrest could have taken his ill-gotten gains and funneled them all into sound investments. He could have, he knew, worked that con as well as he’d worked every other con life had tossed his way. Hell, he could have simply sat back, living a life of ease, watching the pounds, Euros, and dollars roll in.

  But a life of ease wouldn’t be much fun at all.

  He much preferred matching wits with others like himself, with a moral compass whose needle never settled in any one direction for long. He much preferred taking what he wanted, doing what he wanted, and any heed he paid to laws and polite society was remitted only when doing so would advance his goal of the moment. He had invested, yes, and created a persona that allowed him free movement while permitting him the jolly good fun of keeping his hands dirty, because dirty was his natural, preferred state.

  For the most part, he’d been able to juggle
his marks and come out laughing. Today, as he focused on the scene surrounding him, as he let his gaze wander around this ordinary, middle class house in a suburb not far from New York City, Ev Forrester wasn’t laughing.

  He’d come to the United States from London to take back what he’d passed to another in his new bid to double-cross one client in favor of a more lucrative, and far more dangerous, one. He wasn’t certain of his next step, and that sure as hell hadn’t happened very often. Now Forrest found himself in the unusual position of not knowing what to do.

  It wasn’t his former business partner, the emir of a caliphate set on murdering innocents, he was worried about but Phillipe LeClerc, the man he’d decided to partner at the emir’s expense.

  Ev Forrest no longer hired his knife out, but that didn’t mean he didn’t use it when it suited his own purpose. He mentally shrugged. But as good as it had felt to slip his blade between the ribs of Dirk Townsend’s chest, sending that bastard straight to hell, doing so precipitously had been a mistake.

  He’d been certain retrieving his goods would be a simple affair. He had the address of the man’s import business and knew the shipment in question had arrived just hours ahead of him. Forrest figured to go there, take what was his, and be on his way back to Heathrow then on to Turkey for a meeting with his new partner the very next day.

  Nothing happened as planned. He’d arrived at the address only to discover the place swarming with cops. He’d waited them out, keeping the building under surveillance until full dark. Breaking in had been very easy. He even found the unpacked crate, right there in the small warehouse, with the items it had contained set out on metal shelves. Everything was where it should have been except for the one item Forrest had come to retrieve.

  He’d searched the office, the glass cases in the part of the building Townsend used as a walk-in retail business, and every nook and cranny the building held. Further search of files gave him the names and addresses of the man’s two employees—Gary Sharp and Bailey James.

  James was likely nothing more than a skirt kept around to service Townsend, so he focused on Sharp, first. He’d found the man and followed him. He’d stayed back at the funeral for Townsend, watching and waiting. James didn’t show much emotion, and he wondered if his assessment of her had been accurate. He’d shrugged, finding no evidence either way, but figured he’d been right. He was rarely wrong.

  Forrest waited until Sharp left his apartment the next day. He’d searched the man’s few rooms, the whole place not much more than a hovel, really, and found nothing of interest.

  He’d laid in wait for hours, and when Sharp had come home, Forrest asked him, his trusty blade at the man’s neck, for his goods back. After very little time or effort, he’d judged Gary Sharp was telling the truth when he claimed he’d seen the item but had no idea where it had ended up.

  Process of elimination decreed there’d been only one person who could have his package. And as he left Sharp’s apartment, the smell of death leeching into every inch of that small space, Forrest was already looking ahead to his next move. James wouldn’t pose much of a challenge. She was only a skirt, but one who would probably do anything her lover demanded of her.

  He had no doubt she’d do his bidding once she felt the cold of his steel on her throat.

  He’d called James, demanding she give him what Townsend owed him. He’d been patient, allowing the woman two days between his calls. He’d been as firm in his demand the second time as he had the first. Never hurt to scare the shit out of someone. He had her address, but it would be a different matter breaking into a house in the suburbs than an apartment in the city where everyone’s head was down and no one saw a thing.

  He’d received no answer to his subsequent calls, and he gave the chit another two days, generous soul that he was.

  Finally, he’d risked it. Scoping out a khaki uniform, procuring a plain van, he’d gone to the door, clipboard in hand. The For Sale sign out front hadn’t fazed him. It took only seconds to gain access to the building. The place hadn’t even had a proper security system!

  He’d gotten right to work. It didn’t take long to understand that, while the house wasn’t completely empty, it was, apparently, abandoned. He’d searched, emptying drawers, moving furniture looking for hidden cubbyholes, secret hiding places.

  His package wasn’t here.

  He looked around the house and had no idea what to do next. He sat back in the steno-type chair in a room that hadn’t been a bedroom, his eyes scanning what had likely been intended as an office of sorts. Little furniture took up space, the two cabinets standing empty, their former contents on the floor. He’d called the woman’s number, listening to it ring, not even switching to voice mail.

  She’s likely ditched the phone and fled. But where would she have gone? Townsend had no friends and no family, and from all he’d learned looking into Bailey James’s life, she matched her boss/lover in that regard. Forrest would have to go back to his hotel and see what he could find online because he had no contacts on this continent. He wasn’t as skilled a hacker as many, but he usually could discover what he needed to know. He’d see if he could look at her financials, discover her whereabouts that way.

  Forrest’s gaze was drawn to a map that had been pinned up on a corkboard. Looking incongruous, the map of the continental United States appeared brand new. Held in place by four pins, one in each corner, the map almost seemed to be contoured. Until he realized there were other items beneath it.

  The woman who’d lived here had lived very tidily. It was unlikely she’d put a map up without removing what lay beneath, unless the map was newly placed and only temporary.

  He stood before the map for a long moment then reached out, his hand smoothing over the surface. Yes. He could feel other items on the board behind it. The map looked new because it was new.

  Working quickly, he removed the anchor pins, and held the map over his head, scanning for a mark, a note, anything. Shaking his head, he took the map out to the kitchen, to the table that sat empty of items. He stepped around the cupboard contents, strewn about the floor as he’d searched those shelves, and lay the map flat.

  He used his hand again, slowly, gently, caressing every inch. No words, no. But right there over Dallas, Texas, was a tiny pinhole. There’d been nothing on the corkboard beneath the map but a few simple newspaper clippings, nothing that could have caused this hole. And yet…

  Forrest went back into the empty room and looked at the top of the shelf directly under where the map had hung. He picked up the dart and shook his head. Leaning forward, he found another tiny hole on a page clipped from a newspaper. He’d bet it was made at the same time as the hole in the map, and by the same implement—this dart.

  Forrest folded the map and tucked it into his pocket. He’d do his research, but he had a very strong feeling he knew where Bailey James had fled. While he would still see what he could learn about the woman online, he acknowledged he’d also be looking into the best way to get himself to Dallas, Texas.

  He’d rushed his fences, both with Townsend and with Sharp. He’d take a bit more care, this time, on planning his pursuit of Bailey James. He couldn’t wait too long, though.

  Time was growing short. If Forrest didn’t come up with that package soon, heads would roll—most notably, his own.

  * * * *

  Chance and Logan had walked from the Big House to the museum, and then on to the restaurant. It only made sense for them to continue to appear to tour the town as they walked back. Lusty, Texas, wasn’t very big, after all.

  During their stroll to the museum, they’d noticed street signs pointing to different destinations—the school, a bed and breakfast, and a clinic. The firehouse they’d spotted when they’d arrived at the museum, visible on the cross street, not far from the corner. They’d seen a sign for the library, too, but that was on the other side of town, to the east.

  They turned down the tree-lined street, heading west toward the school. The
y’d already learned there was a park situated right next to the building. The warmth of the February afternoon, so different from the weather they’d find back home, was impossible to resist. Chance figured that they spent so damn much time working indoors that any opportunity to bask in the sunshine should be seized. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

  They chose the second picnic bench in and sat, stretching out their legs, taking a moment to observe their surroundings. It was just after two in the afternoon on a weekday. While they’d passed folks walking on Main Street, here, there was no one in view right at that moment.

  That didn’t mean he and his brother were not visible. Anyone looking out any of the school windows or house windows facing this way was sure to see them. But no one was close enough to hear them.

  Logan nodded, and Chance pulled out a cell phone. This wasn’t his personal cell phone but a business cell phone, one he and his brother used to contact only one person. It rang twice before it was answered.

  “Talk to me.”

  Chance had to grin at the gruff, no-nonsense directive. Porter Wells was a man who prided himself on getting straight to the point.

  “I’ve got you on speaker, boss, and we’re private. We’re going to be here awhile. And by here, I don’t mean Dallas, although we are still in Texas—in a small town named Lusty.”

  “I was wondering if you were going to take the opportunity to discover your roots. As long as you work on the secured server, it doesn’t matter to me where you are. I do, however, appreciate the notice.”