Fool's Paradise (Cartwright Brothers Book 5)

by Lilliana Anderson

  It was probably better if I didn’t know.

  With Toby’s boat listed as missing on official documents, I had hopes he’d just given it a makeover and assumed another identity to cover his tracks. After searching for any new fishing boats applying for licenses or paying for pen fees, I hit the jackpot when a boat matching Toby's make and model turned up. It had been at the marina in Wannanup for the last three months, its owner setting up business and running tours three times a week for tourists wanting to throw their line in and catch a big fish or spot local sea life.

  Jackpot.

  Wanting to inspect the boat in person—and possibly catch a glimpse of the current owner—I armed myself with the registration and pen numbers before heading out. I also took an extendable baton in case things got ugly, you could never be too safe when it came to these criminal types.

  As I stepped along the grey swollen wood of the pier, the planks shifted slightly under my weight. I wasn't the daintiest girl in existence, but I certainly wasn’t overweight either. I had curves where I should and a big set of tits which I willingly used to my advantage. I was five-nine—not so tall that I was intimidating, and not so short that I gave off a helpless vibe—with an attractive face, green eyes and thick blonde hair I paid a lot at the salon for. I had a strong body that I maintained with hours spent at the gym, lifting weights and working out. My favourite activity was MMA training, which I took part in as often as I could. Self-defence and a robust attack were essential tools required in my line of work. Those attributes made me muscular and confident; everything my foster carer told me a woman should never be. She had no clue.

  I smiled to myself as the sea breeze kissed my skin and ruffled my hair, thinking about my third foster mother who would lecture us girls—there were three of us at the time—on the qualities a woman needed to make a man marry her.

  Insert eye roll here.

  She listed things like, being demure, taking care of others, learning to clean, sew, and cook, looking after our appearance—shit like that. It was basically lifted out of a 1950s housewife magazine. But at thirteen, I couldn't imagine anything worse than modelling myself in the hopes of finding a ‘decent man to look after me'. After seeing the way men treated my mother, the last thing I wanted was to be anything to a man. Instead, I decided I needed to be better than all the men I'd ever known so I could look after myself. I learned about cars, I learned to fight, I picked up odd jobs, and saved every cent I could. I refused to be reliant on anyone for anything. When my foster mother found out what I was doing, she labelled me as ‘unteachable’ and ‘belligerent’ before she sent me back to the home. I labelled her as ‘moronic’ and ‘blind’. Her ‘decent man’ of a husband was as handsy as a guy could get. I was glad to be out of there.

  “Miss?” A man doing something with a rope beside one of the boats called out, stopping me in my tracks. “You have business here? This is a private pier. Public access is restricted.”

  Turning to him with a bright smile, I tucked my shoulder length hair behind my ear. “I’m looking for pen number thirty-eight. Am I in the right place?” That wasn’t quite the pen I was looking for, but it was directly across from it. I kept my voice light and my chest out. His eyes travelled down, taking in the low V-cut of my fitted shirt, the tight-fitting jeans, red lipstick and nails. He’d clock me as a tinder hook-up or an escort, which was precisely why I dressed the way I did when working on foot. It made life easier whenever I looked a little lost if people thought I was some guy’s date. See, I could be demure…

  “Down there a way,” he said, pointing. “But I don’t think anyone’s on board. I’ve been here all morning and haven’t seen anyone.”

  I frowned a little then pouted. “Well, I’ll check and come right back if that’s the case.” I took a step away then paused and placed my hand against my chest, hoping he had more information for me. “There aren’t any guard dogs up there I hope, this being private property and all. I’m awfully frightened of those ferocious jaws when they growl, like they wanna make a meal out of my behind.”

  He chuckled and smiled, his eyes dropping to appreciate my behind, which was easy for him since I jutted out my hip to show it off. “Definitely not at thirty-eight, but there is a little terrier at thirty-three. He barks sometimes, but he’s old, so nothing to worry about. He won’t bite.” A terrier at thirty-three? Perfect.

  “Well, that’s a relief. Is he one of those scruffy looking things then?”

  “No. A Boston terrier, I think. Short hair, black and white markings. He’s a good dog, always happy and excited.” People were far too free with other people’s information. Thank you, Mr. Sticky-Beak.

  Rocking my shoulders lightly from side to side, I looked at him through my lashes. “So, he’s not gonna jump off the boat and chase me away?”

  “I’ll be here to catch you if need be.” He winked, and I giggled. This is too easy.

  “I might just hold you to that.” Then I thanked him for his time and headed towards the end of the pier, even more certain that my gut had been right.

  When I found myself standing in front of a freshly painted Kong Halvorsen Island Gypsy cruiser moored at pen thirty-three, I knew I was right. The boat had been built in the late eighties, but it was still impressive to look at—all forty-four feet of it. If I was Toby Cartwright, I think I’d have a hard time letting go of this beauty as well.

  As I admired the vessel before me, the snuffling sounds of the Boston terrier caused me to look up. “Hey, little fella,” I said quietly, clicking my tongue in a friendly manner at the panting dog my file had listed as ‘Rogue’. “You got a master on board, or you all by yourself?” My gaze moved along the length of the hull, lingering on the cabin windows, looking for movement. The dog barked twice, and I stepped back, hands up. Seemed no one was home. “All right. I’m backing off.”

  With a quick glance down the pier, I made sure Mr Sticky-beak wasn’t watching before I climbed onto the deck of the boat at thirty-eight. Being a girl who was thorough with her research, I knew no one was onboard and picked the lock on the cabin door before heading inside. The owners of this particular vessel weren’t locals, and they had adult children who sometimes used the boat to entertain their friends. Facebook was a treasure trove of information, it could arm me with a believable story just by clicking through some pubic photos.

  Opening the tiny galley fridge, I gave the beer a longing look then pulled out a water—I never drank while on the clock. That was one rule I didn’t break—then I took a seat at the tiny table and gulped down a long drink while staring out the window. Why is Western Australia so damn hot all the time? I didn’t think I’d ever been on this side of the country without sweating my face off. I was born a Melbourne girl, so the cooler climate suited me.

  Finding a piece of paper to fan my face, I observed the dog sunning itself on deck, its belly pointing towards the sky as its ear flicked occasionally to ward off the buzzing flies. Oh, to be a dog. It must have been nice for them when they had good owners. They got to laze around all day, go for walks and eat good food. I often thought dogs were people who’d had it so tough in their last life they needed a rest in this one. I wouldn’t mind coming back as a lucky dog. I could do with the rest.

  About half an hour into my stakeout, I heard voices floating down the pier, carried far on the warm breeze. That guy who’d stopped me was talking to someone else now. A man.

  Getting up from my position at the table, I moved closer to the window and looked out, spotting a massive man holding two overflowing green bags as Mr Sticky-Beak tried to engage him in conversation. The massive guy looked disinterested. He also looked a lot like Toby Cartwright.

  His hair was a lot longer and there was enough scruff on his face to make me take a second look. But men that size weren’t exactly a dime a dozen, and there was no mistaking the way my heart pounded just by looking at him. It was definitely my mark.

  I held up my phone, the attached 12x lens allowing me to zoo
m in for a clearer picture. I snapped several photos as he fought to end his conversation with the sticky beak up at number twenty-seven, even managing to catch one of him rolling his eyes when he finally turned away and headed for his boat. The little dog jumped up and rushed to the guardrail, his tail wagging excitedly as his master approached. I snapped more pictures, my heart skipping happily because this job had been a cakewalk. I’d found him. Now I just had to call Big Jim and wait for the cavalry to arrive.

  Slipping the zoom lens into my bag for safekeeping, I was effectively done.

  Done.

  Did I want to be done?

  Call it in, Blair. The Grim Order is involved with his family. You don’t know this guy or what he’s capable of. For once in your life, do as you’re told.

  That’s what I would have thought if I was a sensible woman. But, I wasn’t a sensible woman. I was a risk-taker, which was why I was so good at what I did. It was both a curse and a blessing.

  Before I could give it much consideration, my feet were propelling me forward, and I was heading in his direction, my eyes on my phone and a scowl on my face.

  I could have been an actress if I’d wanted, I always had a character teed up, ready to present to the world. The real me was reserved for me and me alone. No one knew what really went on inside my head, not even Big Jim.

  “Hey,” I said to Toby, stopping him mid-stride. “You know when Devin is supposed to be here? He said four and I’ve been waiting thirty minutes already.” I shook my head and snapped a sneaky close-up photo before slipping my phone into my back pocket.

  He took a minute to assess me, those blue eyes of his so much softer and calmer than I’d seen in his photos. The fisherman life obviously agreed with him. “You know him well?”

  I pressed the toe of my wedge heel into the wood under my feet. “It’s new. We’ve spoken back and forth a bit, and I’m in town a few days, so we thought we’d catch up in person, ya know?”

  “You met online?” His brow shot up.

  I pulled at my bottom lip with my teeth and shrugged. “You probably think I’m stupid meeting some guy on a boat for the first time, huh?”

  “Not the safest location I could think of. Most of the houses here are empty outside the summer months.” He moved his gaze, doing a sweep of the surrounding houses that were smack on the water with their own private jetties.

  “If it’s so scary, why do you live here?” I asked, widening my eyes.

  “Who says I live here?” His mouth quirked in a half grin.

  “I don’t know. The groceries. That dog wagging its tail at you. You’re at least staying on that boat right there.”

  “Good observation skills.”

  I shrugged. “Well, they tell us girls to be wary of our surroundings.” Lowering my voice, I took a step towards him, looking up into that handsome face of his. He was even better looking up close than he was at a distance and he smelled good too, soap and sea breeze. The photos didn’t do him justice. “But, between you and me, I came prepared in case things went sideways.” I held out the strap on my bag, showing him the extendable baton sitting safely inside. “A little insurance.”

  “You thought of everything.”

  “I am always prepared.” I placed a light touch on his forearm, flirtatious as I held eye contact. His pupils dilated, and he licked his lips. “Anyway, I should get going. Hey, you know somewhere I could get a decent drink and something to eat?”

  “You staying in Mandurah?”

  “No. I’m in Wannanup at a little B and B.”

  He nodded, his eyes dropping a touch before lifting back to my eyes. “There’s a place at the end of the marina. Or if you don’t mind roughing it a little, there’s an Irish pub a few streets over. Great food, great beer, great people. I’m partial to the Guinness pie myself.” His voice sounds like honey. I’m in lust.

  “You eat there often?” I wanted him to keep talking, imagining that soft rumble of his voice whispering erotic things in my ear while those strong hands roamed my body.

  “Occasionally.”

  “Want to join me?”

  He grinned and glanced away before meeting my eyes again. “I’d love to. But not tonight.” He lifted his bags to show me his groceries. “I have plans.” Would it be rude if I invite myself for dinner?

  “Cooking for two?”

  He laughed a little, the sound light and easy. Something I hadn’t expected from the brooding man I’d been looking for. He seemed… happy, free….

  “I am.”

  Now I’m jealous.

  I shrugged. “Makes sense. You have that first date air about you.”

  “It’s not a date. Just dinner. But it is the first time I’m cooking for her. So, yeah. I’m nervous.”

  Her.

  Forcing a smile, I placed my hand on his bicep and gave it a squeeze. So firm. “As long as you can cook, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  “Here’s hoping.” He lifted the bags again, and I suddenly felt shitty for making him stand here talking when those bags seemed heavy.

  “I should let you go then.Thanks for the recommendation. I’ll check that pub out. Enjoy your date.”

  “Dinner. It really is just dinner.”

  I moved past him, throwing a smile over my shoulder, “You don’t need to convince me.”

  “I’ll tell Devin you were looking for him.”

  “Don’t bother, I’ll tell him myself.” I lifted a hand and waved over my head.

  “I’m Tom,” he called out.

  Tom.

  “And I’m leaving.”

  I heard Toby laugh as I passed Mr Sticky-beak’s boat. He popped up his head, so I winked and blew him a kiss then quickened my step. I would need a new vantage point. Toby, I mean ‘Tom’ was having a woman over for dinner. If it wasn’t a date, then I wanted to know exactly what and who she was. I told myself it was research, that I was doing this investigating to present our client with a thorough picture. But if I was honest, I was doing it for me. Because I was selfish. Because I liked looking at him. And because I wanted him, date or no date, I wanted him to be mine. Just once.

  Maybe twice.

  CHAPTER THREE

  STUCK ON THINGS

  AFTER DROPPING CLOSE to a grand on Airbnb, I found myself inside one of those beautiful big houses Toby Cartwright had indicated when I spoke to him on the pier. From my new position, I had a view of the entire marina. With a good set of binoculars, I could easily see what was happening on his boat. He was wining and dining some twenty-something woman with wavy dark hair and a tall slender body that a swimsuit model would sell her soul for. She moved like a ballerina, and I hated her instantly.

  Snacking on a couple of meat and salad sandwiches I’d bought at the service station, I sat in the dark, camped out by the window for three hours straight. Toby and this woman—who was at least half his age—sat on a small table he’d set up on the deck, eating in the open air and talking quietly. Well, it was quiet for me, at least. From my vantage point, all I could see were moving lips and awkward smiles.

  So many awkward smiles. How was this not a date? Their body language said, ‘nervous but interested’. I kept waiting for one of them to make a move—a hand sliding across the table, a dance in the moonlight—but nothing came. They stood, hands smoothing clothes with relieved smiles. They’re not into each other.

  Good.

  Toby needed a more mature woman, anyway.

  I rolled my eyes and shook my head. Like I’d know. I was acting weird over this one.

  When she gestured that she was going to leave, he lurched forwards, his movements jerky as he offered her a hug. It lasted maybe two seconds then they pulled apart and the girl held up her phone, saying something that caused him to shake his head. The girl’s shoulders dropped as she seemed to say, “OK”. But before she could put the phone away, he flicked his hands in a manner that said, “What the hell,” which made the girl smile. Next, they leaned their heads together while she took a selfie t
hen tucked her phone into her handbag, her lips curved in a small smile. After that, they said a quick goodbye, and Toby helped her down from the boat before waving her off. She got about ten steps away before he chased after her and walked her all the way down the pier and into the carpark. There, she got into a light-blue hatchback, spoke to him through the window for a few minutes then drove away.

  Interesting. I jotted all of this down on paper in point form, splitting my attention between my notes and my binoculars.

  I placed the pen back on my notebook while Toby stood and waited until her car was out of sight before he ran his fingers through his hair, shook his head, and smiled like he was bemused by the way the evening went. Then he slipped his hands into his jeans pockets and took a slow walk back to his boat where he cleaned the dinner dishes and disappeared into the cabin with his dog at his heels.

  After noting his final movements, I continued to sit, watching the vacant window until the light switched off. 10:45pm. I wrote that down then added the words, ‘end surveillance’, underlining them twice before taking a moment to study the list detailing his evening: a romantic home cooked meal, a beautiful young woman, nervous actions, gentlemanly behaviour….

  It wasn’t a date, he’d said. But, I could feel the expectation of something more than friendship as I watched them converse. Their happiest moment was just after the hug and the photo. She was obviously something to him. The question was what?

  As I stood and stretched my legs, I swiped through the pictures I’d caught of her on my phone, zooming into her face, trying to read her expression. She wants to like him.

  Not a date.

  Was that true, or did he lie?

  A lie was certainly possible if he was a player. Lots of men downplayed their romantic connections when they wanted to keep their options open. But was there romance here? I tapped the screen and flicked through the pictures. Maybe. Especially if he was playing the long game with this one. I’d seen it before. Some guy acting the gentleman, wining and dining a woman, making her feel safe; as though she was the only woman in his world. And while he was waiting for her to be ready to give it up, he satisfied himself elsewhere. With women like me. It happened all the time. Men were ruled by their dicks.