The Sex On Beach Book Club (11 page)

That had to be brutal. “But she came around, right?”

He took a deep breath. “I didn't wait to find out. I had to make sure Michelle was safe. She was all I had left—our father had been murdered and our mother had died a few years before. I had failed to protect my family from the home invasion, then I failed to protect my client, whom I was making a shitload of money off of, and then my sister was beat up. It was time for me to step up and take action. So I sent Michelle to Australia until the trial was over. I put enough money in Michelle's bank account to keep her comfortable for years.” He turned back to look at the playground. “I testified. I had to. For my dead client and for his wife. The morning after the guilty verdict came in, I went surfing and purposely disappeared. Nick Mandeville was dead and I set up a new identity as Wes Brockman. I knew Michelle was going on a surfing tour for months and should be safe. I never contacted her. She probably assumes I'm dead.”

Holly's brain had been working the puzzle as he gave her the pieces. “And now you think the mob has found you? Why would they kill Cullen in your bookstore?”

He looked over at her. “It's possible they found me, but it seems unlikely. If the mob wanted me dead, I'd be dead. I'm sitting here now out in the open. Anyone could shoot me. It doesn't make any sense.”

“But you are sure it was the mob that beat up your sister?” Holly wanted to clarify her facts.

“Michelle didn't get their names and social security numbers. Mob was my best guess.”

It didn't add up, in Holly's mind. The mob could have killed Wes—or Nick, as he'd been back then. They hadn't needed to bother with his sister. And he was right, if they had found him now and wanted him dead, he'd be dead. Still…“Cullen's murder did look professional with the twin shots in the head and chest.”

He looked over. “So you think it is the mob?”

She shook her head. “No, I think it was someone who knew how to kill, someone who had some training. Besides, the victim was facing his killer. A lot of hits for show have the victim on his knees and shot from behind. Cullen didn't leave any signs that he'd been afraid of the killer. No struggle. He'd been shot while casually standing there watching the killer come in the doorway or something like that.”

Frustration coated Wes's words. “Then what?”

She kept thinking it through. “It's possible that a pissed off lover or a revenge-seeking victim of Cullen's earlier scams did it. But the murderer planned it. It was not a heat of the moment, passion-driven killing. And the fact that it was in your bookstore brings you into the equation.” Holly took a deep breath and said, “If you are telling me the truth, I think someone is setting you up. Maybe for revenge. Someone is destroying your life.”

He looked stunned, then recovered enough to say, “So you'll stay on the case?”

Holly made herself stand up. “I'll let you know.”

 

Holly had spent a solid hour and a half at her office, running searches and checking all her sources. Wes's story held up. She believed him. That was why she was standing in his kitchen watching him pour Monty's food into a bowl while the dog did a clumsy dance in anticipation.

Wes set Monty's bowl on the floor by the sliding glass window. In his eagerness, Monty skidded on the tile, fell over, then got up and finally made his way to the bowl.

Holly had to clamp her lips to keep from laughing. The dog radiated happiness. It was revolting in a sort of cute way.

Wes stood up, picked up two glasses of wine, and handed one to Holly. “I'm glad you came over.”

She took the glass. “Tell me who George is?”

He looked away from her, his shoulders tensing. “A friend. That's all. Just a friend.”

She set her glass down and said, “This is exactly the kind of evasion that's going to stop. I can't work with half-answers.”

Wes picked up her glass of wine and looked her in the eyes. “Holly, George made a bundle of money by doing security work for very wealthy clients. He's retired, and does occasional consulting. That's all. We've been friends for three years. He's the only one who knows the truth about me.” He held out her glass. “Until now.”

That rang true, or nearly true. Holly wondered if George had done a little corporate espionage and was now keeping a low profile. She took the glass. “I'm keeping my eye on him.” But near as she could tell, George had no connection to Cullen, and no reason to kill him and destroy Wes.

“He's not involved,” Wes repeated.

She ignored that. “Let's get to work. We need to figure out who killed Cullen and why.” Feeling a little edgy, she took a healthy swallow of the wine. Being in the same room with Wes had that effect on her. She needed to clear up one more point. “If we find out there's some kind of hired killer in Goleta…”

He cut her off while absently rubbing his shoulder. “We'll tell Rodgers. She's running her own investigation, too. But we both agreed it wasn't likely a mob hit. You said maybe it was revenge, but why kill Cullen to get revenge on me?”

Seeing him massage his old injury, she felt a heavy ache behind her breastbone. Sympathy wasn't useful so she ignored it and answered him. “Did you see what happened at your baseball practice today? Killing Cullen in your locked bookstore puts suspicion squarely on you. And now rumors are being spread about you. It looks like your life is being systematically destroyed. And I'd say that whoever is doing it—and my bet is
so
on a woman—is just getting started.”

He dropped his hand and stared at her. “You believe me.”

Holly shifted on her feet, feeling like she was losing control of her boundaries. Of course she believed him, he was her client. If she didn't believe him, she would have cut him loose. But something about his tone, his gaze, made her feel…needed in more than just a professional way. “Bet your ass, book boy. I might be street educated, but that means I know a setup when I see one.” She set her wine on the table and went to his refrigerator and opened it. “Where do you keep your candy bars?”

“Don't have any.”

Disgusted, she shut the door and opened the freezer. “Any ice cream?”

She felt him move up behind her and put his hand on her shoulder. “Have you eaten since your last candy bar? Let me find something to make for dinner.”

She shut the freezer door and turned. “Forget dinner.” She needed to focus on work. “Let's look at suspects. How pissed was your wife? What did she think you ruined by going to the DEA?”

He slid his hand to the back of her neck and massaged her tight muscles. “Our lifestyle. Tiffany liked being the wife of a powerful man. I knew that, I married her because she was perfect for the job, designer-clothes thin, charming, and willing to let me be the family star. Then I changed the rules. I saw myself in the eyes of a woman who called me a murderer and I didn't like it much.”

Holly tried to keep her mind on the job. “Where did she go? What happened?” His hand was still on her nape, his long fingers caressing her. It felt too good to make him stop.

“She moved to New York and divorced me before the case came to trial. She started dating other powerful men before the divorce was final.”

She wondered how much that had hurt. “That's cold.”

Anger thinned his mouth. “You aren't being fair to her. She had no control over what was happening. I screwed up, and believe me, she was furious about that. But what tore her up was that I wasn't putting her, and our life together, first.”

She rolled her eyes and put her hands onto his chest to shove him away from her. “Don't make me hurl, Brockman. That's a load of crap and exactly why I don't get involved in romantic relationships.”

He turned away from her. “Not every woman's cut out to be a hard-ass.”

Nice direct hit. She had to admire it. Wes had accurately pointed out that she was more of a hard-ass than a woman.
Big deal.
“This hard-ass is trying to find out who is screwing with your life, so you might want to get over the disappointment.” She walked to the table where she'd put her laptop and her wine. “I'm going to do a search of Tiffany Soft-Ass's current address.”

“Holly.”

The whole point of being a hard-ass was that it didn't matter and it didn't hurt. So she looked up. “What now?”

He moved toward her. “I'm a huge admirer of your hard ass.”

She put both hands on her hips, trying for a casualness that had deserted her. “You're just trying to charm me into keeping your secret. Now go away so I can work.”

He shook his head. “You gave me your word. I'm not worried. You won't break your word unless you have to.”

Her chest hollowed out at his words.

His hand slid around the back of her neck, pulling her to him. “I told you earlier, in your office, no more interruptions.”

She tilted her head back. “That was before I knew who you were.”

He lowered his head until she could just feel his breath. “What name are you going to call out when I'm stroking you into an orgasm?”

A tremor of longing traveled down her spine and spread until she throbbed between her legs. Her belly was on fire and she pressed her hips against him instinctively. She didn't know if she was answering him or protesting when she said, “Wes.”

“Damn right you are.” He took her breath away by skimming his mouth over hers, starting at one corner and sliding to the other side. Chills and heat collided. He moved his free hand to her butt, cupping her and pulling her into his hard-on. She couldn't stand it and opened her mouth, sucking his lower lip between her teeth.

He tightened against her, his dick pulsed against her belly, and he gave a sensual little sex-growl deep in his chest.

His obvious desire ripped through Holly, increasing her desire. She didn't lie to herself, she knew people reacted to stress and danger with heightened sex drives. But his drive grinding against her belly showed her how sex was getting in the way for both of them. They both wanted it. The best thing to do was get the sex out of the way and get back to work. “Let's do it, Brockman.”

He lifted his mouth from hers. “Hill
baby
, you have the soul of a romantic.” Shifting, he lifted her into his arms.

“Bite me.” She let him carry her. Why not? If he wanted to play caveman, she'd show him what a cavewoman could do.

Rolling out a killer smile, he said, “Absolutely.” He walked through the living room and made a left turn into the master bedroom, which had a view of the beach. He set her on her feet next to his king-sized bed.

She watched him walk to the French doors to the left of the bed and open them. The deck wrapped around the back of the house. Damp salt air breezed in.

“Take your hair down.” Wes stood a few feet away, watching her. He was backlit by the dying light as the sun sank into the ocean. She couldn't see his eyes. But she could see him fist his hands at his sides, struggling to control himself.

There was nothing as sexy as making a man want her, crave her. Reaching up, she took the clip from her hair. Then she pulled her shirt off and let it fall to the floor. Kicking off her shoes, she unbuttoned her jeans, shimmied them down to her ankles, and stepped out of them. Leaving her in a black, lacy bra, and barely-there panties.

Wes made a sound, then he pulled off his shirt, got rid of his shoes, and shucked his pants and his boxers. She had a full ten seconds to take him in, and wow, he was worth looking at. His shoulders rippled with the strength to throw the fast pitch she'd seen today. She shifted her gaze to the old scar on his right side. The bullet must have shattered the bone, but he had healed and the scar almost blended in. She lowered her gaze to skim over the flat waist that narrowed to his hips, full-sized erection, and powerful thighs. Then her viewing time was up and he came to her naked and said, “God, you are hot.”

“You're not bad yourself. For a book boy.” He'd kept himself in shape from his athlete days. She touched the pads of her fingers to his chest and ran them down to his iron-hard abs. She felt his muscles twitch and jump.

“Before I totally lose control, do we need a condom? Or are you safe?”

“Safe.” She dropped her gaze and wrapped her hand around his penis. The warm swollen length of him pleased her. Especially when he thrust into her hand.

Sucking in a sharp breath, he said, “My turn.” He pulled her hand away from his cock and went to work on the front clasp of her bra. He slid it off her shoulders and let it fall.

She ached for him to touch her. She ached for him to slide inside of her. He wrapped his left arm around her waist and cupped her breast, gently massaging and squeezing, then teasing her nipple. The sensations arrowed through her, and this time it was her arching into him.

He took her mouth and slid his hand down her belly. She wanted him bad enough to beg. Thrusting her tongue against his, she tilted her hips, waiting for his touch through, or under, her panties when she felt him freeze.