Shameless

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “I need to just open that card from my father. Now. This morning.”

  She starts to move away and I catch her arm. “I called Frank. He knows what it says and it’s not what we need.”

  “Did he tell you what it says?”

  “Only that it’s personal and it has nothing to do with business.”

  She inhales and sinks onto the edge of the stool. “Okay. Well, I always thought it was. You know. A good ole personal punch in the chest. The whole: Your destiny is the winery. It’s in your blood. I’m counting on you. Art is a hobby. Set it aside. Focus.”

  I step to her and run my hand down her hair. “Don’t do that. Don’t let this get into your head. You’re an artist. That is what you want. That is what you are.”

  “I called my uncle,” she surprises me by saying.

  Alarms go off in my head and I pull back and rest my elbow on the table. “When and why?”

  “Yesterday. I meant to tell you sooner, but last night was good, and I didn’t want to ruin it with him.”

  “Why did you call him and what happened?”

  “I got this idea in my head that he might know what the value of the winery is outside the obvious, but the minute I heard his voice, I had second thoughts. I don’t trust him. I was afraid that if I alerted him to a potential payoff, that despite being a wealthy man, he might try to take it.”

  Smart girl, I think. “Then what did you say to him?”

  “I blurted out that my mother said that my father liked to watch my mother with other men and asked if he was one of them.”

  “Holy shit, woman,” I say, scrubbing the new day stubble on my jaw. “What did he say?”

  “He didn’t say no. He talked around it.”

  “Holy fuck.”

  “I know. But what doesn’t make sense is why my father would be furious about him sleeping with my mother if they’d already been together. As in all of them. Unless their fallout wasn’t about sex at all.” She shakes her head. “But then he swears he and my father made up before my father’s death.”

  “Something with him doesn’t add up, but Beck can’t connect the dots between him and the bank. Whatever the case, I’m moving forward. I’m going to get in front of a judge and get you out of probate. But from a timeline standpoint, I may have been overly ambitious with that Thursday night dinner with Kasey. Let’s make it Friday night.”

  “He’ll be fine with that. I talked to him today and I’m feeling really good about him running things without me.”

  “Good. You’ve come a long way in a short while, sweetheart. And on that note. Show me what you painted this morning.”

  She stands up. “Not what I was supposed to be painting,” she confesses as we start walking.

  “What were you supposed to be painting?”

  “Something appropriate for the show,” she says. We start up the stairs and she adds, “I’m obsessed with those eyes. And I don’t even think it has anything to do with the whole ‘face the past’ motto I’d used when I picked up the brush. It’s just different and challenging. I’m enjoying it.”

  “You know the saying. Do what you love and success will follow.”

  “I need to move on and work on my final show piece. Oh, and that reminds me. Sara wants me to do a mural in one of the offices.”

  “What kind of mural?”

  “It will cover one of the walls and it can be anything I want it to be, but it’s kind of intimidating. Chris painted her office.”

  “You need to stop comparing yourself to Chris.”

  “Funny you say that. He said that.”

  “Maybe he’ll be the mentor you need then,” I say, as we enter the studio and cross to stand in front of her canvas, which is now well developed. One of the eyes is now filled with a rainbow of colors. The other is red and black. Almost as if it’s her past and her present. And I can’t explain what it is about two eyes on a canvas, but it’s brilliant. “You have to put this in the show.”

  “No,” she says. “Macom will read into it and I don’t want that drama. The entire point in this painting was to face the past and get rid of it.”

  “You just said it had become about the challenge. And it shows. And if you want to stick to the original theme of facing your past, face Macom with this painting. Get rid of him in person. And if he doesn’t get the idea, I’ll handle him.”

  She narrows her eyes on me. “You want trouble.”

  “I love trouble.”

  “You want trouble with him.”

  “I want to beat the shit out him.”

  “Nick. You can’t—”

  “I can,” I say, pulling her to me, “but I won’t.”

  “Promise.”

  “I promise, unless he makes it impossible to resist.”

  “Nick.”

  “Sweetheart, I’m not violent, but I am brutal. Come get naked with me and I’ll show you.”

  “How did you just make that sound sexy?”

  “Must be love, sweetheart,” I say, “and now, I’m going to do things to you that you won’t forget for the rest of the day. And that is a promise.” I scoop her up and start walking toward my bedroom, and my bed, where she belongs. And I’m going to make sure she knows it.

  ***

  I arrive at work with a box of donuts, which I set on Rita’s desk, earning me a smile. “You remembered.”

  “I did,” I say. “Because you, Rita, are like Glinda the Good Witch, who’s a really good bitch to everyone but me, when you are well fed. I like you well fed.” I head to my office. “Whatever I’m doing today, when that property assessment arrives, get it to me.” My mind turns to my personal banker. “What time will Charles be here?”

  “Four o’clock,” she says. “And North is on standby for the emergency filing the minute you say go. It’s prepped and on your desk. He, on the other hand, is sleeping in his office. He’s sick. The kind of sick that makes being sick look good.”

  “Fuck. Send him home.”

  “I tried. He refused.”

  I walk back to her desk, pick up her phone, and dial his office. “North?”

  “Yes?” He starts coughing.

  “Get the fuck out of my office before you make me sick.” I hang up and Rita opens the donut box, pointing to a certain donut. “Your favorite.”

  I turn away and walk into my office. About the time I reach my desk, my cellphone buzzes with a text and I have to sit down when I see it. “Holy Mother of Jesus,” I murmur at the sight of Faith’s uncle, naked, tied up, and with a woman—I think she’s a woman—but whatever the case, he or she is spanking him. Rita’s voice lifts from the lobby and suddenly Beck is walking into my office without knocking. My intercom buzzes. “I told him to wait,” Rita says. “He’s impossible.”

  “Yes,” he is, I say. “But it’s fine. I’ll deal with him.”

  Beck’s lips twist sardonically with my comment, and he shuts the door, his dark hair extra spiky today. His t-shirt—an image of a middle finger with a “fuck you” printed above it—somehow appropriate considering that photo he just sent me. He crosses my office and sits down on the arm of a visitor’s chair, always a rebel, even in the smallest of ways. “You got my good morning calling card, I assume?”

  “I did.” I lean back in my chair. “Did he?”

  “Not yet,” he says, “and here are my thoughts. We both know that you already decided you’re making your deal with your bank and hers. If her bank simply thought they could cash in on the winery, it’s over. If there’s more to it, it’s not and we have two sources of potential trouble: Someone at the bank and the naked, perversely kinky uncle.” He holds up his hands. “Married uncle. We both know you’ll use your extremely large bank account to influence her bank. I will handle the naked married uncle.”

  “I didn’t hire you to fly blind and tape on Band-Aids, Beck.”

  “We both like trouble,” he says. “Maybe there isn’t trouble to be found. Until we get the autopsy report, we don’t know, and unles
s you want to wait on that report, this is where we’re at.”

  “Are the cameras in place at her house and the wintery?” I ask, concerned about Faith’s safety.

  “Yes, and we’re watching her so closely that I can practically tell you what color Faith’s panties are.” He holds up his hands. “Don’t worry. I’ll ask if I’m curious. I’m curious. What color—”

  “Get the fuck out.”

  He laughs and heads for the door. The minute he’s out of my office, Rita is inside. “Seems a good bribe works wonders. We have the winery’s new evaluation.”

  “How much?” I ask.

  “Forty million,” she says. “Five million more than Faith’s note with the bank.”

  “Fuck me in a good way. Get Charles—”

  “He’s on his way over now. Look over the filing and I’ll get it done myself. North and the trashcan are now one.”

  I reach for the documents she needs, do a quick review of the key points, then hand them to her. “File it at four o’clock. I don’t want the bank to have time to get someone to the winery before we end up in court.”

  “Can you get an emergency hearing tomorrow? Because the Nichols family is coming in at ten and you know—”

  “How they are. Yes. I do. Plan on Thursday.”

  “Got it,” she says. “Is Faith prepared for court? She’ll need something to wear.”

  “Fuck. Yes, she will, and no she isn’t.”

  “I can order her some clothes, but I have no idea on shoe size.”

  “Negative. If I just order her a wardrobe, she’s going to be pissed.”

  She arches a brow, her hands settling at the waist of her navy dress. “Really? Most women would love for a man to buy them clothes. Interesting. I like her already. Did you say, or did I overhear, that she’s working at a gallery here locally?”

  “Allure Gallery.”

  “I’ll put your black card on file at several boutiques nearby.” She pulls her phone from her pocket and tabs to the Gallery. “Chanel and Dolce & Gabbana are two blocks away. I’ll get it done right away.” She glances at me. “When do I meet her?”

  “Go file the paperwork and eat a damn donut,” I say.

  She smiles and walks toward the door.

  She’s barely had time to get there, before I’ve sent a text to Beck with the details. Next up, I dial Faith. “Forty million, Faith.”

  She breathes out. “Oh, thank God. It’s lower than I expected but still good and I can’t believe the bank really thought that I’d come in under that.”

  “I suspect they would have come in with a much different number than our person came in with. Whatever the case, it’s done. We beat them to the punch.”

  “So now what?”

  “I work my magic and you’re not only out of probate, my bank owns your note by the time we return to Sonoma. But I need a complete ledger of all your vendors and outstanding accounts payable.”

  “You’re going to pay off the bills, aren’t you?”

  “We talked about this, sweetheart.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “And?”

  “And I’ll have Kasey and Rita connect. Does that work?”

  “Yes. It does. This is good, Faith. If all goes as planned, we’ll be going to court Thursday.” I decide a conversation about money and shopping is better saved for in person, but she goes there on her own.

  “I need to be in court?”

  “Yes.” I say. “You do.”

  “I have nothing to wear here. I have to go buy something.”

  “About that—”

  “No. You’re paying off my debt. I will not use your money to go shopping. End of subject.”

  “Faith—”

  “No.”

  “Rita is putting my card on file for you at Chanel and—”

  “No. Move on, Nick.”

  I move on. For now. “I’ll have a plane on standby for either Thursday night or Friday morning, whichever we decide we prefer. Any thoughts?”

  “Friday,” she says. “I don’t want to put that pressure on us Thursday.”

  “Friday it is,” I say, pleased that she so easily chose to stay here, instead of go there.

  She’s silent several beats and then, “Nick.”

  “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “Thank you. For everything. Even trying to spoil me with clothes.”

  “The only thank you I need is you naked in my bed tonight. I’m going to be late but I’ll update you soon.” I end the call and push away from my desk and stand up, walking to the window. Maybe there were no murders. Maybe this is over the minute I get that autopsy report but every day that passes, I feel the betrayal of my lies, as much as I dread telling Faith the truth. How the hell do I tell a woman who has become everything to me, who I’ve asked over and over to trust me that I thought she was a killer? I press my hands to my desk. I have to make her love me more than she can possibly hate me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Nick

  The “stupid” disease erupts not long after the evaluation comes in on Reid Winery. Every client I personally handle needs me personally, and why? Because they’ve done something stupid and the only pill that will fix them is me. It’s nearly six pm by the time the eruption calms down, but I’ve still managed to secure my Thursday court date, coordinate action with Beck, and pound on Abel until he confirms that the autopsy on my father has become one big fuck up. We are weeks from answering the murder question, and therefore weeks before I can risk telling Faith the truth.

  Rita appears in my doorway. “Your broker has called four times,” she says, walking to my desk, an envelope in her hands. “I suspect that means he’s called your cellphone at least that many times.”

  “I’ll call him back.”

  “I know,” she says. “You’ve told me that four times. And I know, Nick Rogers, that you’re this mega-superstar attorney, but apparently, I’m older and wiser. So here is some sound advice. When someone controls as much of your money as that man does, and he calls that many times, call him back.”

  I scrub the back of my neck. “Right. I will.”

  “When?”

  “Before I leave.”

  She gives me a keen inspection. “You haven’t even started prepping for the Nichols meeting tomorrow, have you?”

  “No. I have not.”

  “What do I need to do?”

  “Go home. I’ve got this.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “A few updates first. Number one: Kasey sent me the accounts payable for Reid Winery. All the bills are now paid in full and I have it set up for him to send me the bills once a week.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Number two.” She sets an envelope on my desk. “This came for you. It’s from Faith. And if it includes further accounts payable, I haven’t paid them. I didn’t know if that’s what it was and I didn’t want to risk invading your privacy.”

  I arch a brow. “And you’ve cared about my privacy since when?”

  “Since your privacy became Faith’s as well. Do you want me to arrange dinner delivery?”

  “No. I’ll wait.”

  She gives me a knowing look. “To eat with Faith.”

  “Yes, my nosy-ass assistant. To eat with Faith.”

  “Good,” she approves. “You’ve been alone too long. And on that note. I’m going home and leaving you alone.”

  She heads for the door and I reach for the envelope, opening it up to find a check for sixty thousand dollars and a note:

  Nick,

  You promised to take this and I believe that you’re a man of your word. And I owe you this and so much more and I’m not talking about money. I’ll be waiting on you when you get home.

  Naked.

  Faith

  My lips tighten and I re-read the note a total of three times before I set it on the desk. I don’t want her damn money, but I do want her. And naked or not, I like the idea of going home to her. I
exhale and tap the desk, and while it matters to me that she isn’t in this for the money, I want her to take the damn money back.

  My cellphone buzzes where it rests on my desk and I grimace at my broker’s number on caller ID yet again. But Rita is right. The man has a shit ton of my money.

  I take the call. “Ned,” I greet.

  “What the fuck is this fucking shit you’re fucking doing to me?”

  “Once a New York fuck-mouth, always a New York fuck-mouth,” I say.

  “I’ll fuck-mouth you, Nick Rogers.” He pauses. “No. No I won’t. Fuck you for even tricking me into saying that. I got you out of Blue Textiles. They were tanking.”

  “I had 200 in them. How badly did they tank?”

  “I got you out before you lost your original investment and fifty more.”

  “I was up a hundred and fifty.”

  “Fucking call me back when I call. In case you’ve forgotten, I shouldn’t have pulled you without your approval. Bottom line. I got you out fifty up, man. And I have a deal now that will make up your loss and then some. This is a 200k buy-in and it’s hot. I need you in now and the money will be big and fast.” He gives me the pitch and it sounds worth the risk.

  “Do it,” I say, and when I would hang up, I hesitate, “And,” I say, an idea hitting me. “Do a separate buy-in of sixty thousand dollars, under the name of Faith Winter. Whatever you need on Faith, Rita can get you tomorrow.”

  “That’s one hell of a gift.”

  “Do it without comment,” I say, ending the call.

  And now, I feel good about taking Faith’s money.

  It’s two hours later by the time I’ve finished my prep for tomorrow’s meeting, and I’m just about to call Faith and see if she wants me to pick up dinner, when I hear footsteps in what I’d thought was the empty offices. A few seconds later, Faith appears in my doorway, the sight of her setting my blood to pumping, and not because her black jeans and light blue t-shirt accent every one of her many curves. It’s simply because she’s here. She’s Faith. And she rocks my world.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” I say.

  “Hey,” she replies, leaning against the door frame and looking a bit tentative. “Rita helped me get past security.”