Playing for Keeps (Texas Scoundrels) (19 page)

Austin laughed and slid from the booth.
 

“Speaking of which, where is your mom?”

“Dallas. She’s looking for a job.”

So that’s where she’d gone. It didn’t take a genius to know that something was going on in her life. The going out of business sale a few days ago, the “for sale” sign on her front lawn, and now the news that she was job hunting. Once the wire transfer came through, she wouldn’t have to worry about money. He’d tell her tonight.

Jed nodded a good-bye to Goldie. “That doesn’t sound like much fun.”

“Yeah, we need to make supper or clean something. You know, soften her up.” Austin pushed through the glass door. “Maybe then she won’t ground me for the rest of my life.”
 

“Trust me, pal,” he said when they slipped inside the Escalade. “Leave this one to me. I happen to know a thing or two about softening up women.”
 

*

Griffen gripped the steering wheel of her Jeep, willing herself not to cry, to remain calm and think about her next move. She needed a secondary game plan because Plan A had just been shot to hell.
 

She pulled in a deep, shuddering breath and let it out slowly. A heavy weight had settled on her shoulders that sent her confidence spiraling south. No matter how hard she tried to hold on, she couldn’t get a solid grip. She’d been delusional in thinking her old boss would welcome her back to the firm with open arms. Unfortunately, the Dallas investment firm now laid claim to being a victim of the crappy economy and anti-corporate sentiment. In other words, there’d been no job for her. He had promised to call if anything developed, but she couldn’t afford to wait around for the phone to ring. She needed a job now. Even the corporate head hunting firm she’d visited hadn’t offered her much hope.

By the time she finally pulled into Hart, it was well after six o’clock. After her disastrous meeting with the executive employment agency, she’d sent Austin a text to let him know she’d be late. She didn’t get into the city all that often and since they were low on groceries, she took advantage of the time and made a couple of stops. She’d received a text back, but from Jed instead of Austin, telling her not to worry and that he and Austin were fine and dinner would be ready by the time she made it home.

She hadn’t even heard the timbre of his voice and the tempo of her heart had picked up speed. Just seeing his name on her iPhone was enough to kick start the memories of what they’d done, of what she wished they’d finished, the night before.

She pulled up in front of Antiquities. While in the city, she’d also taken the time to hire the auctioneer who would sell the remainder of her stock. She needed her tablet with her inventory list before their meeting the next morning.
 

There was enough sunlight left for her to make her way through the showroom to the back without turning on the lights. The red light on her cordless phone base flashed, alerting her to voice mail messages waiting. She punched in the appropriate code.
 

“Griffen, this is Keith Shelton at the bank. Give me a call as soon as possible. Call me on my cell if it’s after hours,” he said, then left the numbers.

Maybe he had a job for her, after all, she hoped for all of two seconds. She listened to the rest of her voice mail, then with more dread than excitement, dialed Keith’s cell phone number. The only reason he could be calling her was to remind her that her store was about two weeks away from foreclosure.

Her insides went all jittery with nerves. She aimed for calm, and prayed she conveyed it to the banker. “Hi, Keith. Griffen Somerfield.”
 

“Griffen,” he said, sounding relieved. “I’m so glad you called. Hey, we had a wire transfer come in today in your name. I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to do with it, so I’m holding it until I could talk to you.”

“How much is it?” she asked cautiously. Who would give her money?
 

“One hundred thousand dollars,” he said.

“What? Is it from Ross?” But she knew it wasn’t. Only one person she knew could afford to throw that kind of money around, and it sure as hell wasn’t her ex. Then again, maybe guilt over cleaning her out had plagued Ross and he recovered a modicum of decency.
 

“That’s the thing. I have no way of knowing who actually sent it,” Keith said. “The sender is only listed as an escrow account from a Dallas law firm. I called both the originating bank and the law firm, but other than the name Steve Rafferty, who wasn’t in when I called, no one would give me any information.”

“Do you have the numbers?” She jotted down the information. Although it was after six, she still might be able to find out if the money was indeed from Jed. It had to be, because no one else would just give her one hundred grand. Life didn’t work that way, especially hers.

“Do you want me to apply this to your loan?” Keith asked, a hint of awkwardness in his voice.
 

She winced. “I don’t know yet, Keith. Let me get back to you on that.” She wasn’t doing a thing with that money until she knew for sure its origin. The money would satisfy the business loan and pull her mortgage on the building out of foreclosure. In other words, save her from bankruptcy—and humiliation.

As she slid her iPad into her purse, she promised to call Keith as soon as she made a decision. She then placed a call to the Dallas firm.

She asked for Steve Rafferty and was put on hold. A rock and roll station filtered through the line. She flipped through her mail while she waited, relieved she found nothing more important than junk mail. Steve Rafferty. Where had she heard that name before? Ross’s attorney had been from a large firm in Houston, a former client of his, if she remembered correctly. Besides, she seriously doubted the money was from her ex.

The line clicked and so did her memory.
 

“Steve Rafferty.”

“This is Griffen Somerfield. I just got off the phone with the bank manager at Hart Savings & Loan. He tells me that a wire transfer for a substantial sum has been sent to my account. Can you please tell me the origin of those funds?”

“I’m operating under my client’s discretion, Mrs. Somerfield,” Rafferty explained, his gravelly voice all businesslike and efficient. “There is no mistake. The money is yours.”

“Who is your client?” She didn’t need to ask, she already knew, but she wanted to hear it.

“Jed Maitland.”

Her world started spinning, anger its vortex. “I’ll be instructing Mr. Shelton to return those funds immediately.”

She didn’t wait for a response, but hung up and stalked out of the shop. She’d call Keith when she’d calmed down, but right now, she had an arrogant bastard to confront.
 

By the time she arrived home, her temper hadn’t cooled. Oh no, she’d just begun, and by the time she was finished with him, Jed Maitland wouldn’t so much as give her a quarter for a parking meter.

She pulled into the garage and started hauling groceries and supplies from the back of the Jeep. Her limbs wouldn’t stop shaking. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so angry. With half a dozen bags in hand, she stalked across the garage, around the boat, jet skis and dirt bikes that would be sold in a few days. That’s where her money was coming from—from the man who’d ruined her. She’d be damned if she’d let Jed bail her out. It was her own fault she was in the financial mess she’d been dealing with the past six months. Not that she’d caused it, but in her opinion, she was equally at fault because she’d been foolish enough to trust Ross. Foolish enough to take him at his word that everything was fine and they could afford to buy a huge monstrosity of a house or take out a hefty loan so she could build an substantial inventory for the shop.
 

She walked through the door and into the kitchen, or what had once been her kitchen and surveyed the pans cluttering the sink and counter top. She set the bags on the floor. Austin stood at the table, tossing a salad, laughing at something Jed said as he added a generous portion of salt to a stock pot full of boiling water. The father and son bonding scene only fueled her anger.
 

The door closed a little harder than she’d intended.
 

“Hey, Mom,” Austin turned to face her, a bright smile on his face, his chocolate eyes filled with a happiness she hadn’t seen in months. “We made supper.”

“I can see that,” she managed, trying to shake her anger. She looked at Jed. He wore a black, graphic t-shirt tucked into faded jeans. A black button down shirt hung open, the sleeves rolled back. He looked sexy and completely at home in her kitchen. “I need to talk to you.”

“Spaghetti’s almost ready,” he said as he dropped the pasta.

“Now, Maitland.” She set her purse on the counter and gave him a pointed look. “Austin, there are more groceries in the Jeep.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, looking from her to Jed, then back again. The happiness disappeared, replaced by confusion and wariness.
 

Griffen blamed Jed, which only made her simmering anger boil to the surface and spill over. “You had no right,” she said once she was certain Austin was out of earshot. “One hundred thousand dollars, Jed? Was that for services rendered? Jesus, how much for a blow job?”
 

“Give me a break.” He turned on the faucet and rinsed his hands, drying them on the dishtowel slung over his shoulder. “I told you last night I was taking responsibility for my son.”

She gripped the top rung of the ladder back chair so hard her fingers ached. “I don’t want your guilt money.”

He leaned against the counter, his hands braced behind him. A muscle twitched in his jaw, telling her she’d pushed a few buttons.
 

“It’s not guilt money,” he said, his tone even and controlled, belying the irritation she sensed lurking just beneath the surface.

“We don’t need your money.”

“Oh, really?” He crossed his arms over his chest. Despite his casual stance, Griffen had learned one thing about Jed the past few days, the man was anything but casual. “Seems to me like you do.”

“Stay out of my business.” She stormed out of the kitchen. She’d change clothes, she’d calm down and they could talk about this reasonably. Maybe if she tried a calm, rational approach she could get through to him, instead of yelling like she really wanted to do. Loudly.

She made it up the stairs and into her bedroom without him following her. She tossed her suit jacket on the bed, then unzipped her black skirt, grateful for the reprieve to pull her anger back under control. After hanging up her clothes, she slipping on a pair of yoga pants and a loose-fitting tank, then pulled the pins from her hair and shook it loose, scrubbing her fingernails over her scalp as it fell around her shoulders. As she dropped to her knees to look under the bed for her gym shoes, the door opened.

“Don’t you ever knock?” she asked when the source of her anger stepped through the door.
 

“No.” He closed the door behind him.

She ignored him, intent on finding her gym shoes. She didn’t want to talk to him until she was calm, and she’d nearly been there, until he barged into her room uninvited.

“The pasta’s going to overcook.”

“It’s taken care of.”

“Can I please have ten minutes to myself?”

“Your ten minutes were up fifteen minutes ago,” he said, his voice hard. “Look, your life affects my son. That makes it my business.”

“Go away.”

“You’re selling your house,” he said, ignoring her demand for solitude. “You’re selling your business. You’re selling practically everything you own, according to Austin. He also told me you were in Dallas looking for a job today. What the hell is going on?”

She found her gym shoes and pulled them out from under the bed. “It’s none of your concern.” If she looked at him, she’d weaken. He’d smile at her or show concern or tenderness, and she’d fall apart. Instead, she crossed the room to her dresser for a pair of socks, determined to remain strong.

“I disagree.”

She walked to the chaise in the corner and sat to tug on her socks. “Tough.”

“Oh, that’s mature,” he fired back.

Just as immaturely, she shrugged, then tied the laces of one shoe before looking at him. He stood by the door, one hand resting on the knob, the other at his side. “You’re a fine one to talk about maturity.”
 

His eyes narrowed. “You haven’t answered my question.”

She turned her attention back to her task, shoving her foot into the other shoe and tugging on the laces. “I’m instructing Keith to send that money back. We don’t want, or need your money.”

“Looks to me like you do.”

“My life is my concern.”

“And your life affects my son,” he repeated, his rising voice indicative of his increasing frustration with her. “If you’re in trouble, I can help you.”

She sighed and stood. Calm and rational. No shouting matches. She repeated the mantra twice before the spoke. “I’m going to be honest with you.” She shoved her hands in the back pockets of her yoga pants so she couldn’t clench her fists. “I don’t like the fact that you’re dead set on insinuating yourself in Austin’s life because I still think he’s going to get hurt, whether you mean to or not. If you want to be a part of his life, fine. I can get used to that. I don’t have a choice. But you don’t have to buy my cooperation.”