It's a Wonderful Wife (22 page)

“I know he looks nineteen, but he's only six years younger than me,” Jesse said, slashing her a grin when her eyes shot to his. “So come on, tell me what you did to embarrass yourself.”

Apparently sorry she'd said anything in the first place, she went back to scowling. “I blurted out that he couldn't be your assistant because he was African-American. And I kept right on making a fool of myself by saying the gentleman I spoke with three weeks ago hadn't sounded the least bit . . . he hadn't . . . Oh!” she huffed as she covered her face with her hands.

Jesse didn't know if it was embarrassment or anger not letting her finish a sentence, but he did know she'd never looked sexier. Well, except for this morning, when he'd opened his eyes to see her tousled blond curls and beautiful, sun-kissed face on the pillow beside him.

“Now do you understand why this will never work between us?” she muttered. “The first fancy party you took me to, I'd say or do—” She dropped her hands when he couldn't stifle a chuckle and smacked him on the shoulder. “Don't you dare laugh at me! It's not one bit funny that I was so shocked just to be
speaking
to an African . . . to a person of . . . to a . . .”

“The term you're dancing around is
black
, Cadi,” Jesse said, pulling her into his arms and grinning again when she buried her blistering face in his clean, dry shirt. “So tell me, how did Nathaniel react when you blurted out he was African-American?” he asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear hers. “Did he appear insulted?”

“No, he appeared surprised and looked down at himself and said he'd always thought he was
Iowan
-American, since he was born in . . . Cedar Rapids,” she trailed off in a whisper.

Jesse fought not to laugh again as he glanced over to see Nathaniel sitting on a rock at the base of the road, his elbows resting on his knees and his head cradled in his hands. Jesse kissed the top of Cadi's head, then let his mouth linger in her soft curls. “Is Nathaniel the first black man you've ever spoken to? Surely you were exposed to a diverse range of people in college.”

He felt her nod and lifted his mouth away when she tilted her head to look up at him, pleased to note her blush had settled down to just two flags of pink. “There were lots of foreign students and people from big cities in my classes, but I was too shy to actually talk to them,” she admitted. “They all seemed so confident and sophisticated and worldly, and I was afraid I'd say something stupid like . . . like I did today.” She looked at him again. “Now do you understand what I've been trying to explain? I need to travel so I can become confident and worldly, too.”

“But you don't need to do it alone.”

She smiled sadly and shook her head. “So if I insult or embarrass a visiting Tidewater client, you're not going to mind when they switch their business to Starrtech? Or when there's a picture of us in the newspaper after a fund-raiser, you're just going to ignore the caption below it that wonders if Jesse Sinclair isn't buying his dates out of the L.L.Bean catalog now?”

“Ah, Cadi, Cadi, Cadi,” he said on a chuckle, clasping her to him again and squeezing until he heard her squeak. “Just like everyone in Castle Cove, the men are going to fall in love with you, and the women are going to show up at the next fund-raiser wearing mud boots.” He sobered, letting her go to clasp her shoulders again. “But the only way you're ever going to believe me is if you
try
. That's all I'm asking for—that you give us a chance by letting me take you to some of those parties and fund-raisers. I promise, by the third one you'll realize that half the people there are as fake as your engagement was, and the other half are just going through the motions—just like I am—out of obligation.”

She silently stared up at him, her beautiful baby blues unreadable. “Will you at least try?” he whispered. “For me—no, for
us
? When this thing with Stapleton is over, will you let me take you to Rosebriar?”

More silence, more staring, and still unreadable. “I . . . I'll think about it,” she finally whispered. She then stepped out of his grasp, picked up the tote and backpack off the backseat of the runabout, and headed to shore.

She was halfway down the dock when she suddenly stopped and turned to face him, and Jesse perked when he caught the hint of a sparkle in her eyes. “How about if we make a deal? I'm not promising I'll go to one of those parties, but I will go with you to Rosebriar if you agree to rent an office on the mainland instead of building one here on Hundred Acre.”

Jesse felt his jaw slacken when he realized she was serious. “Why in God's name would I want to cross three miles of water just to go to work?”

“For me—no, for
us
?” She canted her head. “And for yourself.”

“What in hell does that mean?”

She eyed him for several seconds, then shrugged. “It was just an idea,” she said, turning and walking away again.

Jesse actually felt his heart pounding as he watched Cadi stop in front of Nathaniel, who immediately stood up. They conversed for several minutes before she gave a laugh as she reached out and patted his arm and then headed up the road—whatever she'd said to Nathaniel leaving the kid grinning like a simpleton as he watched her disappear around a curve. She was just emerging from the woods at the top of the rise when Jesse called her name, making her stop.

“Deal!” he shouted.

She stared down at him for several heartbeats, then silently nodded and turned away.

Jesse closed his eyes on a curse when he saw she was walking in the direction of her campsite, then dropped his head on another curse at the realization she'd done it to him again. Son of a bitch; just when he thought he was making headway she'd turned it back on him
again
.

“Should I assume the mail boat sank with my invitation, or is a boss not inviting his assistant to the wedding the latest version of the pink slip? Because personally,” Nathaniel continued when Jesse snapped his head up, “I prefer good old-fashioned email—preferably before I nearly drown trying to be the best damn assistant you've ever had or ever
will
have.”

“What I have is an assistant who better have a damn good reason for being here,” Jesse said by way of answer as he snatched up the briefcase and strode down the dock, “or the jet fuel you just burned and the crew's salaries are coming out of yours.”

“Hey, it's not my fault your
little missus
has your tighty-whities in a twist,” Nathaniel said, falling in beside him when Jesse strode past.

“Is that an
Iowan
expression?”

“Naw, I think missus is universal.”

Jesse started to glare at him but changed his mind when he saw Nathaniel wasn't looking like the damn best anything at the moment. “You remember when Miss Glace called the office several weeks ago? The reason she wouldn't give you her number,” he went on when Nathaniel nodded, “was because she was only trying to find out when I'd be returning to Maine.”

Nathaniel stopped walking. “She used me?”

Jesse gave him a nudge and started walking again. “Cadi's got this little habit of helping herself to other people's stuff—including their names. And since she needed someplace safe to hide—from Ryan Stapleton, actually—she's been living on Hundred Acre as my wife for the last three weeks.” This time Jesse stopped. “Speaking of which, and assuming I'm correct in guessing the little project I gave you is why you're here, is there a reason you simply couldn't email me what you found? Hell, you've been dying for a legitimate excuse to use that encryption program you put on my laptop.”

“Two reasons, actually,” Nathaniel said, all business again as he squared his linebacker shoulders inside his soggy suit. “One, because I wouldn't put half the stuff I uncovered in an email encrypted by the Pentagon. And two, because I didn't feel it was an appropriate way to ask if you wanted me to continue researching a dead man.”

•   •   •

Jesse turned off the burner under the pot of Tang he'd been heating, figuring Nathaniel needed something sweet as much as he needed something hot, then lifted the pot and poured the Tang into two large mugs—because hell, he was chilled to the bone himself. He grabbed the bottle of Aberfeldy out of a cupboard and gave each mug a couple of shots, then carried the odd toddies to the table just as Nathaniel came down the stairs rolling up the sleeves of his stretched-tight borrowed sweatshirt. Jesse slid out a chair and sat down to hide his grin when he saw the cuffs of the jeans he'd lent him were also rolled up.

Nathaniel was about the same inches under average for a male that Jesse was over average, and even though Jesse had most of his shirts tailored to fit his slightly wider than average shoulders, he didn't come close to his protégé's linebacker build. In fact, that build had gotten Nathaniel an Ivy League education he'd somehow managed to stretch into a master's degree. But what really impressed Jesse was that the kid had jumped on his offer of employment after graduation instead of the NFL's.

“What is this stuff?” Nathaniel asked in a winded rasp as he set the mug back on the table, having taken a sip before he even sat down.

“Just drink it. It's hot, it's sweet, and it will put hair on your chest.”

Nathaniel pulled out the chair opposite Jesse. “Women don't like hairy chests,” he said, sitting down and nearly bursting the sweatshirt's seams when he puffed out the chest under discussion. “Which makes up for all the ribbing I got in the locker room for not having
any
,” he added, just before taking another drink of the steaming Tang, which led to more coughing.

“Now can you please explain that statement down on the beach?” Jesse asked.

Nathaniel set his mug to the side and reached for the briefcase Jesse had placed on the table. He undid the buckles and pulled out a thick file, but suddenly looked around. “Is Miss Glace still here? Or do I call her Mrs. Sinclair?”

“No, she's at the other end of the island. And you don't have to worry about calling her anything, because as soon as you tell me what you came to tell me, you're out of here, got it?”

“Oh, I'm fairly sure I got it,” Nathaniel said with a grin, not the least bit intimidated. “Unless you're in the habit of wearing pink socks when you're away from the office.”

Jesse turned in his chair to look at where Nathaniel was looking and saw one of Cadi's socks on the floor between the couch and wall of the slide-out.

“But you're taking me back to the mainland in that boat I saw parked on the mooring out front,” Nathaniel added when Jesse turned back to him. “Which I assume is the big, fast cruiser you couldn't stop talking about all last winter.”

Jesse arched a brow over the rim of his mug as he took a large gulp of Tang, then took his time setting the mug down as he fought the urge to shudder all over. Damn, that was nasty. Hot and sweet and definitely bone-thawing, but really nasty. “Show me what you've got,” he said once he was sure he could talk without sounding like he'd swallowed a frog.

Nathaniel turned all business and opened the file. “Ryan Stapleton wasn't anyone even the mob would do business with,” he began as he shuffled through several papers before pulling one from the pile. “Probably because he was in the habit of changing the rules in the middle of any scheme he was running. Mostly real estate deals, but he'd been known to traffic people, drugs, and”—Nathaniel snorted—“of all things, exotic fish.”

“Get to the part about him being dead.”

“I will,” Nathaniel said calmly. “Right after I tell you about Stanley Kerr.”

“I already know Stapleton was blackmailing Kerr into designing him a house. What I don't know is when and
how
Stapleton died.”

Nathaniel spun the page he was looking at and slid it in front of Jesse. “Mr. Kerr didn't exist until he suddenly showed up in Boston nine years ago with his supposedly three-years-younger brother, Aaron. But in reality,” he went on, still calmly, when Jesse started to protest, “they were Steven and Aiden Shasta, fraternal twins born thirty-five years ago in Miami, which is where they lived until their father and mother and younger sister were gunned down at the family restaurant
nine
and a half
years ago.” He tapped the newspaper article Jesse was staring at, which had a picture of an upscale restaurant with crime-scene tape cordoning it off, along with three inset photos of a middle-aged man and woman and a girl in her late teens or early twenties. “The two brothers were attending a friend's bachelor party at the time of the shooting, but were never seen again after they dropped the groom off on his doorstep. Speculation was they were dead, which was later substantiated when their wallets showed up at the local news station with photographs of their beaten, bloody bodies—which were never found.”

Nathaniel slipped several more pages, fanned out like playing cards, in front of Jesse, then leaned back in his chair. “It was decided the restaurant shooting was an execution,” he continued softly, “intended as an example to anyone needing to know that there was a new crime boss in town who didn't appreciate Mr. Shasta not giving him the respect he felt he deserved.”

“You were supposed to be researching Stapleton,” Jesse said quietly, lifting his gaze from the photo of the two mutilated male bodies. “I don't think I once mentioned Stanley or Aaron Kerr in our discussion.”

“You didn't. All of this,” Nathaniel said, gesturing at the papers in front of Jesse and the pile in front of him, “came off Ryan Stapleton's personal computer.”

“Then how did
you
get it?”

Nathaniel lowered his gaze and began looking through the pages in front of him. “When I read on the newsfeed that an unidentified body was found on a piece of land in East Hampton, and realized it was the land Stapleton was planning to build on, I . . .”