Some Like It Deadly (12 page)

Richard’s expression softened. He set his coffee cup aside then stood to open the large umbrella. Cooling shade spread over her. “I took a summer and traveled with him, got a real taste for his life. I couldn’t take a piss without one of them being somewhere nearby and it brought up a lot of bad memories.” Crouching next to her, he moved the coffee cup from her lax fingers. She watched him. It was a hell of a fight to keep her eyes open, but at least her shoulder didn’t hurt. “I used to play cards with the guys and they lost a lot, but I made them a bet. If I could get away from them, they would have to pay up on what they owed. Otherwise, they wouldn’t owe me a dime.”

“Hmm, you got away didn’t you?” She shook her head. Her Richard liked to win and when they’d been watching him, he’d watched them.

“Yes I did.” His mouth curved. “Really pissed them off.”

“Promise me you won’t slip away this time?” She yawned and her eyes kept shutting no matter how hard she forced them back up. Some bodyguard she was—but then Richard hadn’t brought her home to protect him. He didn’t know it was her job. “Don’t want you hurt.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He stroked her cheek. “Go to sleep, honey. I’ll make sure you don’t burn and we can talk more when you wake up.” He might have said something else, but she floated away to the soft, masculine sound of his voice.

Chapter Nine

Watching her sleep fascinated him in a way that bordered on obsessive. Richard had to drag his attention away. Checking the umbrella to make sure she stayed in the shade, he carried the food tray back inside and put up their breakfast. Morning papers tucked under his arm, he was about to head back out to the pool when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket.

The number was one of the security detail. “Yes?” he answered and walked to the front door to check the gate via the window.

“Mr. Prentiss, we have a Benedict Prentiss at the gate. According to the notes from your assistant, you have a restraining order in place. He insists it’s important, however. How do you wish us to proceed?”

“Keep him there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Richard tossed the papers down on a table and walked back to the pool. Kate lay on her side, face pillowed against her good hand, sound asleep.

Did he want to see his father?

Not particularly.

His gut clenched the moment he’d recognized his father’s voice in the outer office. It had been nearly ten years since Benedict’s last attempted contact and Richard had had to bodily throw him out of Barbara’s apartment.

His sister had moved to London shortly thereafter and Richard filed for the restraining orders to keep the man away from the rest of his family. It had broken his mother’s heart, but he’d convinced her in the same ruthless fashion he’d tackled every business deal before or since. Benedict Prentiss cared about one person—himself. The government never recovered the money he’d stashed away and Richard had endured more than one tax audit over the last few years as a result.

Even understanding why the government kept a stern eye on him didn’t ease the fuming resentment in his soul. The front desk at his building had mentioned his father had tried to access his office floor several times since the scene in Kate’s office, but they’d declined him admittance. Richard knew why.

Kate’d handled it for him so he didn’t have to. She’d never breathed a word about it, never asked him for any explanations and, until his overindulgence with the wine, they hadn’t broached the topic. The woman had rapidly found a foothold in his heart and he was hard-pressed to see any reason why he should keep holding back purely for professional reasons.

Wanting her was the sweetest torture he’d ever suffered.

Sliding his phone back into his pocket, he walked back to the door and headed for the gate. His father’s car sat, engine off, on the other side. Two of the security guards flanked him. Benedict walked up to the wrought iron as Richard approached from the opposite side.

Stopping a good foot away, he slid his hands into his pockets and nodded to the men. They backed off a discreet distance, then Richard focused on his father. “What do you want?”

“Richie, is that any way to speak to your father?” The bravado in his voice said one thing, but the sad, defeated look in his father’s eyes told a different story.

“No one calls me that anymore. You have...” He pulled his hand out of his pocket and checked the time on his watch. “Five minutes.”

“You’re not going to let me in?” His father had always been a big man and, in his childhood, Richard imagined his father was secretly one of those lumberjacks with his booming voice and broad shoulders. It seemed possible that his father carried the weight of the world up there. His charm, even at the height of his trials for fraud and embezzlement, could never be denied. It was how he’d parted many of his victims from their hard-earned cash.

People wanted to trust him.

Hell, Richard had worshipped him.

He’d also had a front row seat to the havoc and destruction caused by one man’s charm and lies. “No, you’re fine right where you are and now you have four minutes and thirty seconds.”

“We didn’t raise you to be rude.” The snapped admonishment was laughable.

“You didn’t raise me at all. Four minutes and ten seconds.” He returned his hands to his pockets, it helped maintain a cool head and the gate was for his father’s protection. If it opened, Richard might very well punch the old man in the face.

And he wasn’t worth that kind of aggravation.

Rubbing a hand against his jaw, Benedict Prentiss took another step toward the gate. Oddly enough, today he appeared lucid and sober—a far cry from the disheveled drunk that had stormed into Richard’s office. “I want to apologize to you.”

“All right.” Because after all these years, what was an apology worth?

“Dammit, Richie, I know I screwed up. I screwed up a lot, but you and Barb—you’re all I have. Your mother won’t speak to me, won’t take my calls, and that new husband of hers? He’s as bad as you are. Won’t let me take a step on the property or pass on my messages.”

Richard had always been fond of Carlisle Jackson. Looking back on it, their benefactor had been interested in his mother from the beginning, but Jennifer Prentiss had loved her first husband and remained ridiculously loyal through not one disaster, but two. Jackson gave his mother a job, helped send her back to school, and he’d settled rather comfortably into the role of friend.

Divorced before Richard went to high school, his mother hadn’t dated and Richard still recalled his graduation day. Carlisle had taken him aside and asked him, man-to-man, would Richard object if Carlisle took his mother on a date. He’d been patient for years, and he’d been a damn good stand-in for the idiot in front of Richard now.

“Benedict...” Because he didn’t deserve to be called Father, much less Dad. “You are not allowed to be within one hundred feet of her. That’s what the restraining order is for. If you came here to complain, I’m done.”

“No, that’s not why I’m here.” He reached out to grip the iron bars between them and Richard studied his sallow, faintly yellow complexion.

“You’re sick.”
Son of a bitch.
“You didn’t come here to make apologies or amends. You’ve been trying to get ahold of me and Barbara because you’re sick.”

The older man’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, I’m sick, but I do want to tell you I’m sorry. I’m sorry I screwed up our lives and I’m sorry for what I did to you kids. You shouldn’t have had to... You shouldn’t have had to grow up with a father like me.”

“Well, we didn’t. You made sure of that.” Richard shook his head. “But you don’t get it. You’re sorry
now.
Because you’re sick, because you’re dying and alone. That was your choice, you made that bed. Now you can lie in it.”

He pivoted to walk away, then paused before storming back to the gate and pinning his father with a glare. “Are you sorry for all the other lives you ruined? For the money you took and never gave back? Are you sorry for all the nights Mom cried herself to sleep because Barb wanted her daddy? Are you sorry that the FBI tore our lives apart to find out where you hid the money you stole? Or because thirty years later they still keep an eye on me in case I have some of your money? Are you sorry for that?” Richard wanted to throttle him.

Benedict couldn’t hold Richard’s gaze and looked down. “You made a good life for yourself, Richie. I’m proud of you. I won’t come back, if that’s what you want.”

Refusing to be sucked into the pity party the old man was throwing, Richard nodded. “That’s exactly what I want.” Transferring his attention to the security men, he had to appreciate their lack of expression as they watched the argument. “He’s leaving now. Don’t ever admit him and you don’t have to call up and let me know he’s here.” The last was for his father’s benefit.

Turning his back on Benedict, Richard strode up the driveway and inside before he could change his mind. If for one instant he thought his father really had achieved an epiphany and was willing to turn his life around.

Slamming the door behind him, he paused to lean his head and fist against it. Nothing his father ever said would be worth listening to. He wanted to pound something until his knuckles were raw and bloody. Any other time, he’d have picked up the phone and called Armand—they could hit the racquetball court.
But Kate...

Lifting his head, he glanced toward the pool.
Kate’s here.

The roiling black cloud of anger dissipated and he scooped up his papers and walked to look at the clear blue water. She was awake and on the phone. Sliding the glass door open, he leaned out and her sleepy smile soothed the bruised ache in his heart.

“No, sir. Like I said, I didn’t see the plate. I think the most remarkable thing about the sedan was that it wasn’t remarkable.”

Frowning, he stepped out and shut the door behind him before walking over to join her. Ducking under the umbrella, he sat on the lounger next to her.

“I understand that.” She gave him another smile, then sighed as she listened to whomever was on the phone. “Yes, if I can think of anything else, I will call. Yes—no. I don’t know if we’re going into the office on Monday. I would presume so.” She shot him a questioning look and he nodded.

Who the hell was asking her about their—

Peterson.

Richard held his hand out and her brows went up. “Let me talk to him,” he said, loud enough for the man on the other end to hear.

She handed over the phone, but he read her reluctance. “Peterson?”

“Yes, Mr. Prentiss. I apologize, I wanted to go over the details one more time with Miss Braddock after she’d had a chance to rest.”

“Well if you need to talk to her again, you can call me. Otherwise, she’s taking the rest of the weekend off. Have a good day.” He hung up without waiting for the man to respond.

“Someone’s testy.” Kate rubbed a hand against her face and smothered a yawn. “Sorry I fell asleep on you.”

“Sorry I wasn’t here to keep the phone from waking you up. How’s the shoulder?”

“Achy, but not bad.” He loved how husky her voice went and the soft expression on her face. It was an enticingly new picture of her.

“Good and ignore Peterson if he calls you back. They can direct their security inquiries through me.” For once, he didn’t mind the idea of being barricaded in his house. At least he had Kate to share it with.

“I’m your assistant,” she pointed out, dry humor in her smile.

“Not this weekend you’re not.” A fact for which he was profoundly grateful. “This weekend you’re my guest and I’m your host.”

“You realize that saying it doesn’t make it so.” Her resistance was back, her spirit seemed to have rebounded from the numb state of the painkillers and she appeared to be shedding the shock from the day before.

“Truth is found in perception. If you say a thing enough times, people will start to believe it.” He tossed down the verbal gauntlet.

“That’s a purely philosophical argument. I can say I’m your guest until we’re blue in the face, but come Monday morning we go back to the old labels.”

“Maybe,” he countered.

“What? If we get involved then you fire me?” Amusement filled her eyes. She didn’t believe him.

Not yet.

“Or maybe you quit—though I really hope you don’t. I like working with you.” Oddly enough, he recognized a great deal of truth in that statement. He’d worked with Miranda for years. They’d been a well-oiled machine, but at the end of the day, she went back to her life and Richard to his. In the intervening weeks since her departure he hadn’t really missed her.

He’d miss Kate.

“You can’t have it both ways,” she argued and his grin grew.

“Why not?” After all, it was his job to be impossible. It said so in their contract.

* * *

They’d retreated indoors after lunch and, to his delight, Richard found out that not only did Kate know how to play video games—she was damn good at them. Several rounds of
Call of Duty
put their debate on the backburner and he hadn’t laughed so hard in a long time. When she’d excused herself to shower, he went out to fire up the grill and get the steaks ready to cook.

A night on the deck, under the stars, with some real food and maybe a glass or two of merlot—
well
,
with her meds
,
maybe water but we’ll still have a good time.
Stacking up the steaks neatly and wrapping the potatoes in foil, it occurred to him he’d been laughing all afternoon.

He’d relaxed.

His father, the shooting, the upcoming contract negotiations, his pending cases—they’d all gone on the backburner. He’d had fun. Grinning at the realization, he checked the bins in the fridge for tomatoes and lettuce. He could toss a salad after the steaks were grilled.

“Richard?” Her voice drifted down the stairs. He left the food on the counter and walked around the corner to look up.

“You okay?” He started to climb the steps, then paused when he realized she was only in a towel again. White cotton had never looked so good.

“I’m a little embarrassed, but otherwise fine.” She retreated a few steps. Her long hair hung damply down her back.

Continuing up the stairs, he kept his gaze on her face because he’d already gotten a glimpse of her legs and, while the towel covered a hell of a lot more than the swimsuit, it was only one tug away. “What’s up?”

Turning around, she showed him the bandage. “I can’t get it off. I think it’s the angle, but I wanted to change it.”

Understanding kicked his rising temperature down a notch and he motioned for her to precede him. “Got the rest of the stuff in your room?”

“Yeah, I can put it back on.”

“Don’t worry about it. This definitely falls under the
I
get to take care of you
part of our quid pro quo.” A certain amount of satisfaction flowed through him because she’d
asked
him. Yes, she had tried to do it on her own, but when she needed help, she asked him.

So I help her change the bandage and then I go back down and fix dinner.
It demonstrates I’m a good guy even when I’m impossible.

He followed her into the room and through it to the bathroom. The air was steamy from the shower. Vanilla and juniper filled his nostrils and it was liked being wrapped up in the warm, damp heat of her. The thought went straight to his groin and his cock stiffened uncomfortably.

“The stuff is here.” She tapped the fresh bandages and tape on the counter along with the antibiotic ointment they’d given her at the hospital.