Just business. Cool, controlled business.
He parked the Lincoln in the cavernous four-car garage and walked the short distance to the front door. The house was profoundly quiet when he entered, and even though it was hard to be absolutely certain in a house this large, his gut told him no one else was home.
He headed for the kitchen, trying to pretend he wasn’t disappointed and failing miserably.
There was no rule that said Sierra had to be here. She was free to do whatever she wanted in her own time. If she wanted to go to a bar, or out on a date, or—
He caught himself. What she was doing or who she was doing it with was none of his business.
He dumped his briefcase on the counter. Then he stood with his hands on his hips. He had more work to do—there was always more work to do—but he needed a break for an hour or two. If he’d thought to grab some groceries, he could have made a start on dinner, but he hadn’t. He really needed to get on top of the domestic part of his life. Cooking a meal would be a good return to routine, something he needed to cultivate. This was his life now, he needed to stop living as though filling in for his father was a temporary state.
Tate Transport was his responsibility now. Warts and all.
He walked to the window and looked out over the yard. The glint of water on the pool caught his eye and suddenly he knew what he wanted to do. A swim would help blow all the cobwebs away. Back in Seattle he’d been a regular swimmer and runner. Like cooking, he needed to add exercise back into his life and there was nothing stopping him from hitting the water right now.
He strode to his room and stripped to his boxer-briefs in record time. Grabbing a towel, he made his way onto the deck and then downstairs to the pool.
The sun was turning the horizon a deep crimson orange as he dropped his towel onto one of the sun loungers and walked to the end of the pool.
He curled his toes over the edge of the coping. Then he launched himself into space, his body taut with potential. The water closed over him, warm and welcoming. Sucking in air, he started to swim, using the economical freestyle stroke he’d mastered in high school.
He could feel the stress of the day washing away with each successive stroke. The meeting with Mae, the issue with the payroll software, a roster problem out at the depot . . . It all fell away as he concentrated on getting the most from his body as he cut through the water.
He swam until he could feel it in his shoulders and arms, a pleasant burn that meant he’d know about it tomorrow, in a good way. He swam to the shallow end of the pool and hauled himself up the stainless-steel ladder, water sluicing down his body as he stepped onto the pool deck. He shook his head like a wet dog and felt the tightness of goosebumps as the cool night air met the water on his skin. Then he padded barefoot to the lounger. He was reaching for his towel when some instinct made him glance over his shoulder.
Sierra stood frozen on the trail to the lake, her face pale in the twilight, her startled gaze glued to his body. Then her eyes found his and for a long beat they simply stared at each other, their gazes clashing across twenty feet of pool deck and landscaping. She didn’t say a word, didn’t so much as blink, yet he was suddenly conscious of his own near-nakedness, the heat in his recently exercised muscles, the trickle of water down his back, the way he was standing. The thump-thump of his own heartbeat sounded heavily in his ears as he took in her long legs in a pair of hiking shorts and the tumble of wavy hair over her shoulders.
The growing darkness almost seemed to shimmer with the intensity of their mutual awareness, and the only thought in Garret’s mind was how good she would feel when he closed the distance between them and pulled her body against his own.
Then a dog barked nearby, triggering a call and response from another dog in the neighborhood, and the moment was gone, shattered, over.
He bent to pick up the towel at the same moment that Sierra sprang back into action, ducking her head as she strode toward the house. She had to walk past him to get to the stairs but she didn’t so much as glance sideways as she passed by. Then she was taking the stairs two at a time, her long legs making short work of the climb.
Garret was pretty sure she couldn’t have moved faster if someone was chasing her with a chainsaw. Which told him pretty much everything he needed to know about how she felt about the undeniable awareness between them.
Namely, that she knew it was bad news, in the same way he knew it was bad news.
And that is a good thing. Don’t ever doubt it.
He blotted his face with the towel before roughly drying his body. Then he climbed the stairs and let himself into the house. He wasn’t surprised in the least to find no sign of Sierra when he entered the kitchen. He walked quickly through the empty rooms to his bedroom. His skin smelled faintly of chlorine so he rinsed off briefly under the shower before pulling on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt.
He was barefoot as he returned to the kitchen, his feet silent on the polished wooden floors, which was probably why he caught Sierra closing the fridge, a bottle of beer in her hand.
Her eyes widened when she saw him, giving credence to his guess that he’d snuck up on her. Then she gave him a quick smile.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Um, you want one of these? They’re not as fancy as yours but it’s still beer,” she said, offering him the bottle in her hand.
“Thanks,” he said, more because it felt wrong to deny her than because he wanted a beer.
“I was just about to order a pizza,” she said, her gaze bouncing around as though she wasn’t quite sure where to look. His chest, his shoulder, his eyes, his chest again. She pulled her phone from her pocket and offered it to him. “I’m getting a supreme with extra olives, and I’m really bad at sharing so you need to order your own.”
He hesitated briefly before taking her phone. He’d decided on the drive home that he was going to be careful around her, and the moment they’d just shared by the pool only underscored the need for distance and caution. A smart man—a man committed to staying the course he’d set for himself—would say thanks but no thanks to pizza and beer. A smart man would retreat to the study and disappear into work.
Garret scanned the menu on her phone screen. “I’ll take a large spicy chicken, thanks.”
He handed the phone back and Sierra tapped the screen a few times, one hip braced against the counter. Like him, she’d changed into jeans, pairing them with a soft-looking blue shirt.
“Done.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“Not a problem.”
An awkward silence fell, and for the life of him he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about those heated, taut seconds by the pool.
Danger, danger. Retreat, retreat.
“I’ve got some files to review, but I’ll keep an ear out for the door,” he said.
“Sounds good.” The smile she gave him was perfunctory.
But that was fine. He could live with perfunctory. Sierra Carmody was not his friend; she was an employee.
He took his beer to the study and opened his computer. Thirty minutes later the doorbell rang, and he pushed to his feet. Extracting his wallet from his back pocket, he walked to the foyer and pulled open the oversized front door.
His hand tightened on the handle when he saw Ron Gibson standing there instead of a delivery person.
“What the fuck is this bullshit?” Ron said, flicking a piece of paper at Garret.
It hit his chest but Garret caught it before it fell to the floor. One glance told him it was the letter his lawyer had drafted this afternoon on Mae’s instructions, demanding the return of the laptop and any other Tate Transport documents Ron had in his possession.
“Would have thought that was fairly self-evident,” Garret said mildly.
“You little pissant. Do you have any idea how hard I’ve worked to build Tate Transport with your father?” Ron took a step closer, his face flushed, and Garret caught the sharp smell o
f whiskey on his breath.
“You want to have a conversation about the business, make an appointment to come see me. And bring your lawyer,” Garret said.
“No. We’re working this out now, man to man,” Ron said, gesturing imperiously for Garret to get out of his way so he could enter the house.
All too aware that Sierra was inside somewhere, probably overhearing this ugliness, Garret took a step forward and pulled the door shut behind him. No way was he letting this drunken prick into the house while she was there.
“You’re drunk, Ron,” he said. “Go home, sleep it off, and maybe we can talk then.”
Ron literally spluttered with frustration and rage. “You think you’re so smart with your Ivy League degree and your rich-kids toy start-up. You know why you have all of that shit, Garret? Because Gideon and I made the hard calls. We drove across the country on no sleep. We nursed broken trucks till we could afford to make repairs. We sweated blood and tears for Tate Transport, and you’re not taking it away from me.”
Spittle foamed at the corners of the other man’s mouth as he loomed over Garret, using his extra inches to attempt to intimidate him. Garret hadn’t been in a fight since senior year, but he recognized all the signs of a man about to tip over into violence.
Normally, he’d do what he could to take the heat out of the situation, but he’d just spent the past few days wading through the sewage this man had trailed through his father’s business, and Garret had plenty of his own anger to vent.
Adrenaline spiking in his blood, heart pumping, he lifted his chin. “Spare me the loyal lieutenant bullshit, Ron. We both know you’re nothing but a lying, cheating piece of shit who’s been gaming the system for years.”
Ron surged forward, fists raised, but Garret was ready, his arms coming up to block the blow—and then suddenly Ron was reeling backward, coughing and spluttering, as a hard jet of water hit him square in the face. For a split second Garret blinked stupidly with incomprehension. Then he saw Sierra standing off to his left, holding the pistol-grip nozzle of the garden hose with both hands as she aimed it with devastating precision at a stunned, backpedaling Ron.
A string of expletives filled the night air as the other man tried to block the jet spray with his hands, to no avail. Only when he retreated and turned his back did Sierra let up.
“What the fuck?” Ron spluttered.
“Do we need to order him a taxi?” Sierra asked, shifting her focus to Garret briefly.
She was so calm, so utterly in control of the situation, Garret felt a bubble of surprised laughter fill his chest.
“I’ll call his wife,” he said, reaching for his phone.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Ron bellowed, turning back toward Garret.
Sierra gave him another blast in the face. “Back off.”
“You little bitch,” Ron gasped, hands flailing in a futile attempt to protect himself.
Sierra dropped her aim then, blasting him full in the crotch, sending Ron scuttling backward with a startled yelp.
The man was a slow learner.
Garret couldn’t hold back a grin as he called up Ron’s home number. He was about to dial when Ron threw a final expletive over his shoulder and strode to his car. Dripping wet and mad as hell, he got behind the wheel and left rubber on the driveway as he took off with a noisy rev of the engine.
“That seems like a safe choice,” Sierra said, frowning as she stared after the car.
She was so matter-of-fact, so capable, so utterly unfazed by the situation, the laughter he’d been suppressing finally found a release.
Her eyebrows lifted in surprise as she took in his mirth. Then her mouth curled into a wide smile. It took him a moment to compose himself enough to talk.
“I would give my left testicle to have that on film,” he finally managed.
She laughed. “Sorry. Next time I’ll bring my selfie stick. Should we be worried about him driving?”
“Yes. But there’s not much we can do about it now he’s gone. He lives locally, so he’ll be home soon.”
Headlights appeared around the bend in the driveway as he spoke and Sierra lifted the garden hose, ready to leap into the fray once more. They both relaxed when they saw the pizza logo on the side of the car.
“Perfect timing. I’m starving,” Sierra said.
He huffed out another laugh as she turned away to deal with the garden hose, leaving him to settle with the driver and collect their pizzas. He waited for her on the threshold as she wiped her damp hands down the front of her jeans and came to join him.
“Didn’t realize I was getting a bodyguard as well as a pilot,” he said as he held the door open for her.
“I know, right? You’re a lucky guy,” she said. “I figured it was better than dealing with the police and paramedics.”
She shot him a questioning look then, and he realized that despite her apparent confidence, she was nervous about how he might react to her intervention.
“At least one of us was thinking,” he said as they walked to the kitchen. “Thanks for saving me from myself.”
“My pleasure. And I mean that. The look on his face was priceless.”
Her words prompted an image of Ron’s baffled outrage as he reeled backward, and Garret laughed again. “Hell, yeah.”
He slid the pizza boxes onto the counter.
“You want to go change before we eat?” Sierra asked.
Which was when he realized the front of his T-shirt was damp with overspray. He’d been so caught up the cold hadn’t registered.
“Won’t be a sec.”
He walked to his room and grabbed a sweater. It wasn’t until he was tugging his wet top off that he registered his still-accelerated heart rate and the fine trembling in his hands.
He stopped for a moment, taking a few calming breaths, breathing into his belly. Trying to dispel some of the adrenaline still racing through his system. Then he pulled on his sweater and made his way back to the kitchen and the heroine of the hour.
Sierra had set out their twin pizza boxes side by side on the counter, next to a couple of fresh beers.
“Nope. Don’t think beer’s gonna cut it tonight,” he said, then he pulled open the panel that hid his father’s wine fridge.
He found what he was looking for on the top shelf, a dark green bottle with a nondescript label. “Glasses are in the cabinet to your left,” he instructed, pulling open a drawer to hunt for a bottle opener.
She set a couple of Bordeaux glasses in front of him and he poured two large glasses. Then he handed her one and raised his own in a toast.
“To the best hose wrangler in Montana,” he said.
She laughed. “To growing up with three brothers.”
She took a mouthful of wine, her eyes widening. “Wow. That’s really nice.”
“It’d want to be, for five hundred bucks a bottle.”
Sierra nearly choked. “What? Is that a joke?” She peered at the wine in her glass.
Garret considered the wine in his own glass, taking a mouthful and swirling it around his mouth before swallowing. “Cherry. Praline. Oak.”
Sierra was still staring at him. “Garret, seriously—is this really a five-hundred-dollar bottle of wine?”
“Probably not.”
“Thank god.”
“A 1987 Penfolds Grange Hermitage is probably worth closer to seven hundred these days.”
She blinked. “But—won’t your dad be upset we’re drinking this?”
“Fuck him,” Garret said, flipping the lid open on his pizza box.
He could feel Sierra watching him as he helped himself to a slice of the pizza.
“Well, okay, then.” She set her wineglass down as carefully as if it held radioactive fluid, then opened her own box.
The pizza was good, hot and fresh, and Garret inhaled his first slice, washing it down with wine. Sierra made short work of her own first slice before taking up her wineglass again. She took a big mouthful, then copied his ostenta
tious mouth-swishing before swallowing.
“Mmm. Bananas. Sardines. Moldy bread,” she said. “Might be a trace of Bengay in there too.”
He leaned against the backrest on the stool, amused. “You should send those tasting notes to the winemaker. I’m sure they’ll be flattered.”
“For sure. Every winemaker aspires to Bengay top notes.” She helped herself to another olive-laden slice of pizza. Then she gave him a quick, assessing glance. “So, in case you were wondering, I heard pretty much everything. I gather the plot has thickened at Tate Transport?”
“Just a little.” Garret drained the last of his wine and reached for the bottle to top off his glass. He glanced at Sierra and raised his eyebrows, silently asking if she wanted a refill, and she slid her glass his way.
“Wouldn’t want it to go to waste,” she said.
“Trust me, it won’t. Not tonight.” He took a long pull of wine, then sighed. “I think my father and Ron have been paying bribes to win contracts.”
Sierra’s eyes bulged as she swallowed pizza and inhaled at the same time. She coughed, her eyes watering, and he reached out to give her a helpful couple of pats on the back.
“Holy shit,” she said when she was capable of talking again.
“Actually, I think this is just very grubby, run-of-the-mill shit,” he said.
“Is this confirmed? I mean, is there a chance you’re wrong?”
“Sure. A slim one. I’ve got a forensic accountant looking into things for me, following the money. Since Ron took all the records with him when he had his tantrum the other day.”
“Jesus. And he had the audacity to turn up here tonight and try to tear you a new one?” She shook her head in amazement.
“I’m starting to think there’s no underestimating Ron’s sense of entitlement where Tate Transport is involved. Given he’s probably known where the bodies are buried for a number of years now, I guess that’s only natural. No wonder he and Dad were always so buddy-buddy.”
More Than a Cowboy (The Carmody Brothers Book 3) Page 10