Sexy as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  “Two cracked ribs,” Willow said, “and a general air of being put through a meat grinder. How about you?”

  “Shaken up,” Amanda said. “Bruised. You pushed me out.”

  “I did.”

  “Thank you.” Amanda put her hand to her head, and seemed surprised that her hair was in a ponytail. “I think . . . I would have died.”

  “I think we both would have,” Willow said. “We were lucky that Andy took us down over water.”

  “But Willow is pretty rocky herself,” Brett put in. “May we come in?”

  “Oh.” Amanda didn’t seem to know what to do. “There are some people here asking questions, from the safety board.”

  “Two birds with one stone, surely,” Brett said. “Or four, as we were all there. This is Dave, my driver. You saw him yesterday.”

  “Oh,” Amanda said again, and then manners must have taken over, because she stood back, opened the door, and said, “Please come in.”

  They walked through a severe, white-walled, hard-surfaced space that made Brett’s Portland condo look cozy, then into a living room where Tom was sitting on a couch with two men in business clothes facing him, sitting more upright than you normally saw, on dining chairs. Tom got up at their approach, ran a trembling hand through his hair, and said, “Willow. It’s good to see you up and about. Yesterday was . . . it was . . .”

  Brett said to the two men, who had also stood politely, but whose eyes were watchful, “Brett Hunter. And Dave Carson. We were both there yesterday before the balloon launch, and at the end. Witnesses. We heard you were here, and thought we’d make your job easier. Two fewer stops. Three, because this is Willow Sanderson, who was actually in the balloon. Willow should sit down, though. She suffered some injuries in the fall.”

  One of the men, a sandy-haired, freckled guy who was clearly the senior of the two, said, “That’ll be helpful,” even as his blue eyes asked, Why are you here?

  Willow asked Tom, “Can I get a hard chair, please? Soft surfaces hurt.”

  He brought over a dining chair without a word, then resumed his seat. Amanda sat on the adjoining easy chair, where she’d probably been before, and Brett, after thinking it over, sat on the couch beside Tom, while Dave carried over another dining chair himself and settled himself in it like the immovable force he was.

  “You were explaining, sir,” the sandy-haired man said to Tom after a moment, “about hooking up the propane canister.”

  Tom dragged his hand through his hair again. “I’d done it with Andy dozens of times. The hose must have been faulty, that’s all I can think. I checked the connection. Andy probably checked it, too, though I didn’t see him do it. I’ve been thinking about it over and over.” He put his hand over his face, and his shoulders shook. “When I realized what was happening . . . when I saw Amanda fall . . .”

  “And yet,” Brett said, “you didn’t go after her.”

  Tom raised his head, his eyes wild. “It was like I was paralyzed. I couldn’t move.”

  “Good job Brett could.” That was Willow, speaking for the first time. “Even though he’s scared of the water.”

  Brett could have done without that bit of sharing. He said, “It was lucky for Crystal, too, that she took that fall out of the basket right at the start and didn’t end up going up after all. I have no idea how well she swims.” He explained to the investigators, “One of Nourish’s employees, who was originally supposed to be in the balloon. You probably heard about it.” He could tell from their focus that they hadn’t. “She dashed out at the last minute before they took off, fell, and hurt her wrist, and Amanda took her place. How’s Crystal doing, by the way?” he asked Tom.

  “I don’t know,” Tom said. “I can’t remember . . . how she got home. What happened. It’s a blur.”

  Brett was waiting for his moment to drop his bombshell. Or both of them. The second one, that somebody had been skimming money from the company, invoicing from firms that didn’t exist, and that as soon as Willow had asked to see the books, the accidents had begun. He wanted to do it here, while everybody was on edge, and there were official witnesses. He wanted to know what would happen.

  That was second, though. Something else came first. Dave shifted, cleared his throat, and told Tom the thing he’d started to say back in the car, following the van. The deal clincher. “Odd, then, that I saw you out in Mullum with that sheila Crystal a month ago, looking more than cozy, not to mention having a pash behind the café with her afterwards. If you can’t even remember how she got home.”

  It was nearly seven in the evening, and Willow was as drained as if she’d . . . well, fallen from a balloon. She was also lying flat on her back on Brett’s enormous bed. She’d tried sitting up against the pillows, but she couldn’t manage it anymore. Tomorrow, she’d sit up.

  Azra was sitting beside her with her legs crossed. She’d brought over Willow’s clothes, and had stayed for the story, or like she didn’t want to leave. Brett, who was sitting up against the pillows, poured more wine into both their glasses, then tipped the rest into his own and said, “We need another bottle.”

  “Mate.” Willow was buzzing. Floating. “I can’t drink it lying down. I need a straw.”

  He laughed. “Oddly, I have one. We both need to stop getting hurt.”

  He left the room, and Azra said, “He really is a hero, as surely as if he were in a book.”

  Willow smiled, looked up at the ceiling, and said, “He is.” When Brett came back with a straw and the other bottle, then stuck the straw into the juice glass that was serving her as a wine goblet, she took a sip and said, “Tell Azra the rest. I would, but I’m just going to lie here and hurt and smile instead. This is good wine.” She sighed. “I have good taste.”

  “You do,” Brett said. “So the cops came, eventually, once the aviation investigators called them,” he told Azra. “Tom couldn’t wait to throw Crystal under the bus, although I’m sure it was all her idea. It terrified him all the way. You could see it. He was only half thinking it would work, I’m sure, but when Amanda insisted on getting into the balloon instead? I’m sure he thought, ‘Well, that’s fate taking a hand. I didn’t make her do it. I tried to tell her not to.’ And then sweated every minute of it. Not enough to jump in the water and try to save her, of course.”

  “But why?” Azra asked. “Surely there are easier ways to make money. And would interfering with the fuel hose have been sure to kill people? I don’t know anything about hot-air balloons.”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” Brett said. “Very iffy method. I’m guessing she did it for the drama as well as the money, because I’m sure she loves stirring up drama, but let’s consider the money. She was going to run away to Samoa with a fifty-five-year-old man on whatever Amanda and Tom had in their savings and whatever he’d skimmed, and work as a waitress in their beachfront bar, happily ever after? Yeah, right. That’s what she told him. But when the balloon ride came up? That was a whole different prospect. That place of Amanda and Tom’s isn’t cheap, and the business is worth a fair amount, too. The grieving widower would be a much more attractive enticement. Once she was married to him? Six months, then a romantic boat ride at sunset, and he goes for a swim and doesn’t come back. She searches for hours, but she can’t find him. So distraught. She’s a very convincing crier. Or he was on the balcony, had too much to drink, and pitched over. Who knows how he’d have met his well-deserved fate? A woman who watches a TV soap and turns it into her own real-life murder plot the moment the opportunity arises is a woman who’s always thinking. The next husband would’ve been a step up the food chain. Don’t marry a murderer. Life advice. Too bad Tom’s an idiot.”

  “But she must have known they’d be found out,” Azra objected. “And why the mushrooms?”

  “I’m guessing she’s gotten away with most things she’s tried in her life,” Brett said. “And, no. If they’d kept their heads, and Dave hadn’t seen them together? I doubt they would have been found out. The balloon guy, A
ndy, would have lost his business and his reputation, just like Willow and Amanda almost did with the mushrooms, but Crystal and Tom would have been fine. And she wouldn’t have started out by saying, ‘Let’s murder your wife and run away together on the money.’ The mushrooms were a diversion, when Willow started asking to look at the accounts, and then pressed harder on it. She was a monkey wrench in the works, and she was messing up Crystal’s plans. The mushrooms were her revenge, and a way to push Willow out. After which, with nobody to look closely at what was going on, the fraud would have started for real. People trust too much and explain things away too easily, especially when the consequences of believing the worst are too unappealing. Amanda would have bought what Tom was selling. She already had.”

  “And what then?” Azra asked, like a little girl being told a bedtime story. Brett had asked her to stay the night in the guest room, and she’d accepted. “So I can drink wine,” she’d said, “and not have nightmares.”

  “Then,” Brett said, “we started pressing more. Willow was asking to see all the files, including the vendor files. Not to be too conceited about it, I was looking at them, and I probably looked dangerous. The fraud would have been uncovered, and she knew it. Tom had probably only taken ten thousand or so, twenty thousand max, just since the money started coming in better and Crystal had set her sights on him. That wasn’t nearly enough. Better than Jamie, because Jamie was just for keeping Tom jealous, keeping him interested, but it wasn’t taking her where she needed to go, either. When I called the number they’d forwarded and started asking about the so-called restaurant-supply company? Tom panicked. Fraud, grand theft, divorce . . . it was all looming large. Crystal would have persuaded him that nothing really bad would happen. She’d climb down from the balloon, of course, just to make sure, but after that? Andy was a good pilot. He’d have seen the gauge and landed. Another diversion, that was all. Willow looked more than happy to run away from all the troubles with me, at least to Crystal, since that’s what she’d have done, and in a year or two, Crystal and Tom would get that little apartment on the beach and start their new life. She counted on him being too much of a weasel to step in and stop Amanda from taking her place, even knowing what could happen, and she was right.”

  “Still,” Azra objected. “Not necessarily fatal. Not at all. He almost did land the balloon.”

  “That’s right,” Brett said. “She didn’t know people would die, although somebody died on the show, right? An enticing possibility. If nobody’d been there to pull them out of the water, Amanda and Willow, at least, wouldn’t have made it. Even injuries would have worked, though. Amanda has to sell the company, because she can’t do it anymore, and besides, Tom persuades her that it’s time to take it easy. A quick transfer of funds to that offshore account, and they make a break for a place with no extradition treaty. That would have worked, too. Never open a joint account with a man who wears beer T-shirts,” he told Willow. “Make a note.” Sounding giddy himself.

  “When did you know?” Willow asked.

  “Something was wrong. Too many things not adding up. Somebody was crooked, and it made no sense for it to be Amanda. ‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ Sherlock Holmes. And the balloon . . . something was off there, too, something worse. I felt it, and when we were following the van, Dave said, ‘That cute little sheila’s having it off with that fella,’ and told me how he knew, and the pieces fell into place. I didn’t like that substitution, the way Crystal had subtly encouraged Amanda to get in. Also, he knew too soon.”

  “What?” Willow was going to fall asleep pretty quickly here. “Who did?”

  “Tom. Why did he speed up so much when the balloon started descending? He was driving like it was an emergency. How did he know? I made some more calls yesterday, when we got back, about the accounts, and then I was sure. I just had to tell somebody, and Dave got me started. Season tickets for his team are definitely going to be required. Although I still don’t know what ‘Mullum’ is, or a ‘pash,’ either.”

  “Dave,” Azra declared, “is awesome.” She waved her wine glass. “I need more.” When Brett obliged, she said, “Mullumbimby. Hippie town in the hinterland.”

  “You could think,” Willow offered, “that you were far away, because the pace is slow and blissed out, but you’re not. It just feels that way. You’re still likely to run into somebody who knows you. And a pash is kissing, of course. Passion.”

  “Of course,” Brett said gravely.

  “If my life were a novel,” Azra said, “I’d be in love with Dave. The heiress always falls in love with the bodyguard. Why am I not?”

  “Because you want to be a designer,” Brett said. “Everybody has a dream, and right now, that’s yours. Here’s another quote for you. ‘It’s your turn. So go for it. It’s never too late to become what you always wanted to be in the first place.’ J. Michael Straczynski.”

  “Who’s that?” Azra asked. “Also, maybe I’m in love with you. Maybe that’s my problem.”

  “You can’t have him,” Willow said. “He’s mine.” She held up her glass to Brett. “Take this, please. I need to fall asleep.”

  “The guy who wrote Rocky,” she heard Brett say as she allowed herself to drift off. “Which, along with The Godfather, is every man’s ultimate truth. Or close enough.”

  They had to cancel the week’s bookings.

  On Thursday, when Willow was still lying flat on Brett’s bed, because, if possible, everything hurt even more today, she told him, “That sound you hear is all my plans crashing around me. I should be sorrier. It’s too big a wave, maybe, and I haven’t quite tumbled through it yet.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed beside her. “What did Amanda say?”

  She sighed. “Not much. It was just a text. Having your hubby being questioned for your attempted murder could dampen your spirits and keep you off work a bit, I imagine. Crystal’s out, too, for obvious reasons, and I haven’t even heard from Jamie. We don’t have a chef, and we don’t have servers. I need to contact a few other caterers and see if somebody can take our bookings. There’s a wedding Saturday. I can’t just leave them in the lurch. Maybe I could . . .”

  “No,” Brett said.

  “I wouldn’t have to do it all. Just help out. I don’t want the whole thing to go bust. Poor Amanda. I can’t help feeling sorry for her. She did work so hard to build it.” She would have shuddered, if it hadn’t hurt too much. “And on everything else. She trusted too much, that was all.”

  “She trusted the wrong person,” Brett said.

  “Well, yeah. That’s what I meant.” She put a hand on his arm. He was wearing a white shirt and dress trousers, because he had a meeting later. “You can trust the fella who jumps into the sea to hold you up, though, I reckon.”

  “I reckon you’re right. So. You’re calling some other caterers. And not going back yourself. I do have to leave on Saturday, but I’ll be watching until then, and listening for the stirrings of inappropriately strenuous activity after that.”

  “I’ll wait until next week,” she said, “but once I can get up and around a bit better, I’ll go back to work. I won’t go after anything new for a bit, but I’ll hire a couple more servers and take care of the bookings we’ve got. Amanda could be back sooner than you think, too. It’s what she said. Cooks cook. If she wants to go on, the least I can do is help her stay afloat, even if I don’t want to be in business with her anymore. Besides, it’s my investment, right?” She picked up her phone again, reluctant as she felt to do it. “Starting with getting somebody to cook my menu for that wedding. Which means sharing my recipes, but what are you going to do?”

  I have to go back on Saturday, he’d said. She already knew that, though. She’d always known it. But on Saturday morning, when she was back in the flat again, standing in her open doorway and holding onto him for just one minute more while Dave sat patiently in the driver’s seat of the Batmobile, it hit her like that
water had, when she’d fallen from the balloon. Like concrete.

  “Four weeks,” Brett said, giving her another kiss, brushing his thumb over her cheekbone where a tear had escaped, and smiling at her with so much more assurance than she felt. “When your busy season’s over, you and Amanda have decided whether to keep the doors open or to fold up your tents, and you come to the States and tell me which it is.”

  “Right.” She might as well go back to work. Brett was leaving, and Azra had left yesterday, boarding a flight for New Zealand with barely concealed excitement. Which was good.

  It was a month alone, that was all. She’d been alone before. She’d been alone mostly. So why did she feel hollowed out? “Go, though, or I’m going to cry. I don’t want to cry.”

  He bent and kissed her once more. “Four weeks,” he promised. “I love you. I’ll call you.” After that, he turned and headed down the front steps with barely a limp, holding himself straight with some more of that iron will.

  She watched until he was out of sight. Then she went inside, sat on a chair at the kitchen table, wished Azra was there, thought about a cup of tea, and didn’t make it.

  It was another sunny morning in Byron Bay, just like the three hundred or so other sunny mornings in the year, when Brett rang the doorbell of the flat again. Behind him, he heard Dave switch the car’s engine off, no doubt settling in for the wait with an AFL game on his phone.

  Silence inside, and he rang the bell again. He probably should have called first. He hadn’t wanted to, though. If she wasn’t here, he’d sit on her front steps until she was. It felt like that kind of moment.

  Footsteps, a latch sliding back, and the door opened. Willow’s hair was in a knot, she was wearing shorts and a tank top, her feet were bare, she had on absolutely zero makeup, and she was sweating.

  She looked good to him.

  And absolutely flustered. “Brett,” she said, instead of flinging herself into his arms. After that, she touched her hair. Never the best sign. But he knew this was right. He knew it. “Why are you back? What . . . Is something wrong? Your family? Or . . . You look tense. What’s happened?”