Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2) (19 page)

He faced her, as well, his relaxed legs spread wide, and Hope forced herself not to look down. “Things I learned in the military, honey. The Navy, actually. I was with the SEAL teams for about a decade. Retired a few years ago.”

She loved the easy way he used the word honey. She did not love the vagueness with which he spoke. Or that he was former military. She already had one too many ego-driven males in her life. But like it or not, it did explain his swagger. And how he might know her brother. Maybe there was a special soldier club or something, with a super secret handshake so the other person would know they were a member, as well. A far less obvious sign that they were from the same gang than the way the Crips and the Bloods did it, with frightening face tattoos and blue or red bandannas. And it still didn’t tell her what exactly he did for a living.

“Whatever your pretty mind is imagining,” he said, reaching out to trace a knuckle down the bridge of her nose, “It’s probably not even close.”

“Good, because I’m imagining knives and guns and bombs. And gang affiliations.”

The corners of his mouth lifted. “You’re warm on the weapons. Cold on the drive by’s and rap videos.”

Nudging his knee, she grinned. “So if you’re not popping caps in people’s asses all day, what do you do with those things that go pow-pow and ka-boom?”

“It’s different all the time. A month ago I was in Karachi, locating, tracking, and monitoring a high value target. Earlier this week, I was in the Midwest, mitigating community violence and ensuring safe passage for hunted police personnel. And in,” he glanced at his heavy chrome watch, “less than eighteen hours, I’ll be wheels up for a security detail in South America.”

It was said so matter of fact, Hope could only stare at him. When he didn’t add, “Just kidding. I actually work at the hardware store down the street,” she found her voice. “That all sounds scary and dangerous.”

“And fun.” Smiling with a genuineness she’d not seen on him before, he tossed empty food containers in a garbage bin hidden within a lower cabinet.

Momentarily distracted by the clever custom feature, it took her a second to realize he was serious. “You really think it’s fun? Because it sounds complicated. And awfully dirty.”

He shrugged. “I enjoy turning... stuff,” he said, after a pause, “into tiny, flying chunks of... stuff. Don’t get me started on how much fun the pow-pow part is. Do you think teasing cock is fun?”

Thrown off by the swift change in subject, she rolled her eyes at his less than smooth turning of the tables. There was no judgment in his tone, but she felt the need to defend herself, anyway. “I think counting the cash in my pocket at the end of the night is fun. And I think the debt free college degree I’ll have next spring is fun, too. Now you need to let go of the whole,” she waved her hand, “cocktease thing. I’m just a waitress.”

A waitress who’s moonlighting on the main stage this Saturday night, playing girl number three in a trio of burlesque dancers shaking their naked tail feathers. And a few other naked things, too. The bare boob discussion had quickly gone south—literally—when Kiki fiercely campaigned for a little extra latitude from Bubba regarding vagina cleavage. Hope promptly raised her hand to rescind her reluctant agreement to participate and Marcia smartly tabled the heated discussion until tomorrow. But Beck didn’t need to know any of that. Already battling a raging case of stage fright, it would only increase if she knew he was in the audience, watching her amateur moves. Or worse, watching Bridget and Kiki’s professional moves, instead.

Hope wasn’t exactly sure how Bridget, who was girl number one, had talked her into this to begin with. One minute Hope had been adamantly shaking her head no, the next she’d had a change of heart. Temporary insanity, maybe. Or the dollar figure Bridget had virtually guaranteed they could all make, more likely. Intense rehearsals and a ten minute show on stage could easily net them an extra grand for the night. Close to two grand if they worked the floor for an hour or so afterward, the audience sufficiently hot and bothered, ready to make it rain twenty dollar bills. Divide that by three and she’d had Hope at the words,
ten minute show
.

“In what? Your degree,” Beck clarified, when she didn’t answer right away.

“Landscape Architecture.” Nobody but Val had ever asked her that question and she felt silly saying it out loud. Like it wasn’t a realistic profession, but a waste of an education, yielding an unusable degree. Like an athlete majoring in underwater basket weaving. “I know it sounds odd, but the placement of trees and shrubs can hold my attention for hours. So can planning the planting of a perfect seedling along with a hundred other plant species, designing irrigation to nurture them into a source of shade, or food, or visual serenity for centuries to come.” She tilted her head toward the front of his house. “The way a blooming jacaranda tree can transform a simple yard into an enchanted forest. It fascinates me. If you want a fancy garden, I’m your girl.”

Otherwise, odds were she’d be re-potting English ivy plants at a local nursery, making less than she was now and working twice as many hours. Jesus, she might be working at Club Kitten until her social security income kicked in. Poor Val had spent many a night in the last few years talking her down from the dreaded ledge of regret, reassuring her that she was on the right career path. When she’d been stressed, cramming for finals while serving wedding cake under Helen’s tyranny, he’d been there to remind her that standing on her own two feet was worth sweating for, and that somebody somewhere was bound to pay her good money to plant a maple tree for them.

At least he had until this past winter, when the comments about her hustling the family wine instead had started.

“I’ll keep that in mind for the next house.” Unscrewing the cap on another bottle of water, Beck leaned back against the island. “How does someone who lives in her car manage a college education with no student loan debt?”

This was the longest conversation they’d ever had and while he spoke casually, she got the feeling this was less curiosity and more interrogation. “The first three years were funded by my father. I’m working at Club Kitten and calling my car home so I can pay for the last year myself. It’s a small sacrifice. Hotels are expensive. Boarding houses are dangerous. And what do you mean, the next house?”

His look was knowing, well aware that she was the one changing the subject now. “I’m just flipping it. Like I told you the other day, I don’t really live here. It’s temporary housing. It’ll be on the market by fall and sold before the end of the year. By then, I’ll have closed on another fixer upper and be knee deep in more renovations. Pending the length and degree of difficulty on my work assignments, I’ll have that one on the market by spring, sold by summer.”

He was selling the Lark Street house? But what about the gorgeous kitchen with the handy hidden trash can? The wide wood staircase leading to an ultra private master suite where a mirrored waterbed possibly awaited? The majestic purple jacaranda, in vibrantly full bloom?

She looked around, unable to imagine anyone else eating take-out at the marble island.

“Do you do this a lot? Remodel a house just to sell it?” Mold and shape it, making it unique and beautiful, only to discard it, walking away like it meant nothing?

Looking at his boots, he scrubbed a hand over his jaw, shadows darkening his eyes. “When I was stationed in Virginia Beach, a buddy of mine and I would fix up and flip houses when we weren’t deployed. Serving in the same unit meant we had similar schedules.” He finally glanced up at her. “We did a handful in Virginia. This is my second here.”

“You live a very planned life, don’t you?” When he gave her a half shrug, she pursed her lips. “What happens when something comes along that you haven’t planned for?”

“It doesn’t. There are very few unknowns in my world. When a rare one comes my way, I handle it quickly and efficiently, and move on. With little mess left behind.”

Narrowing her eyes, she tried to decipher if he meant professionally or personally, because his level expression and lack of emotion told her exactly nothing. For the life of her, she couldn’t read him. No matter how deeply she stared into those green eyes, dotted with golden flecks the same color as his lonely bottle of booze, he gave nothing away. It wasn’t that he was evasive because he held her gaze without blinking, but not a hint of his thoughts were revealed in those breathtaking depths. He could’ve easily been staring at an inanimate object. A lamp, maybe.

Despite the ding to her self-esteem, Hope tried not to take it personally. Too bad for him, she thought, because she was about to shake up his world. Show him that some things in life couldn’t be so easily handled.

“Well, if your back in town by Saturday night, you should come by the club.” Standing, she reached around him to grab a chocolate chip cannoli from the paper lined plastic tray on the island, brushing against the front of his body.

He didn’t move a muscle. Hope wasn’t sure he even took a breath as she absorbed his scent, a mix of subtle musk and his natural masculinity, the duo making her own breath hitch. Taking a gooey bite of the Italian pastry, she slowly licked the excess cream from her lips, using the tip of her pinkie to swipe at a dollop left at the corner of her mouth. Holding her finger out, she offered him a taste, but got only a hard stare and a clenched jaw in return. Shrugging, she licked it from her fingertip instead.

“Mmm, this is yummy. Anyway, I’ll be showcasing a couple of my best assets on the main stage for the audience’s viewing pleasure. I have to warn you though, there might be pineapple flavored body oil slathered all over me, so it could get real messy. And I know how you feel about messes.”

And with that, she left him standing in his beautiful but dysfunctional kitchen, his eyes shooting jade colored sparks. He was right about one thing. Teasing cock was fun.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Sweat soaked through the back of Beck’s grimy t-shirt and dirt from the deserted gravel road clung to his skin as a powerful dust devil blew by. Bits of rock pelted the rusted out truck where he sat waiting, leaving a powdery brown layer of dust in its wake. The wind was as hot as jet wash, the random rush of pungent breeze gone as quickly as it came. It did little to cool his skin or disrupt the heated mirages hanging in the air. Thick, triple digit air that you could cut with a knife.

He didn’t bother to roll up the windows. Dirty air beat the shit out of no air at all.

But the weather wasn’t what had Beck sweating through his shirt and swearing under his breath. Or what had his trigger finger just a tad too twitchy for comfort.

It was day twenty-seven. Twenty-seven days without a drop of alcohol.

And day two without Hope Coleson.

White knuckling the rifle gripped in his right hand, he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to banish the mental image of her smart mouth and dancing blue eyes so he could do his damn job without getting himself killed. Or worse, somebody else.

“You want to check in sometime soon, Smith? Maybe before we’ve got trouble staring us in the face? If your hand isn’t otherwise occupied with your dick, that is.” Ash’s irritated voice crackled in his earpiece, and Nolan’s snort of laughter followed.

“Still clear.” Beck replied tersely, from his idle position in the drivers seat of a beat up produce truck he’d borrowed—okay, stolen—from a small farm a few miles outside of Bogota. “If and when it isn’t, you’ll be the first to know. Once I get my pants zipped back up, that is.”

He’d return the truck in a few hours, the local grower none the wiser that his vehicle had provided useful cover for Beck while he played watchman, ensuring nobody nosed around their ancillary route from El Dorado International Airport to the Pindao factory and back again. The ripe smelling produce truck did its job, hiding Beck in plain sight. Any unlucky son of a bitch who might happen upon him would assume he was broken down on the side of a rarely used, washboard-worn gravel road, not that Beck was taking any chances. If a passerby looked beyond the farm truck, the dirty clothes, and the straw hat he wore, and got a decent gander at his face, it was obvious he wasn’t a local. That was what the rifle was for. The pistol strapped to his side and the knife in his boot were backup.

Tilting his head, he looked up and down the road. It was empty in all directions except the most important one. Behind him, a tall tower of dust rose from the fast moving, three vehicle convoy, providing an unavoidable sign to anyone looking that the rugged, vacant road was being used to move precious cargo. It was a necessary hazard. The plan to use the busier, but faster main road was scrapped even though their recon showed no potential threats that couldn’t be easily headed off. “I’ve got a feeling,” Ash had simply said, and not much more than that. And since the big man was rarely wrong, nobody argued.

The three dark SUV’s, their windows blacked out for privacy, traveled tightly together, maintaining a speed faster than the dirt road warranted, no doubt jarring the teeth of their occupants. Nolan was alone in the lead vehicle, with Mendoza alone at the wheel of the tail car, where Beck would normally be riding shotgun, his eyes peeled to the open road behind them. And despite Beck’s adamant, curse filled objections, Ash was riding solo with their clients, he and the three Pindao executive’s in the middle vehicle. The same black SUV also carried two personal security guards the executives had brought along, without Scorpio’s prior knowledge or consent, and that fact had Ash’s temper flaring. Once the private jet had landed in Bogota and he’d seen the two unknowns, he’d reached for his phone and had a colossal shit fit, making it clear to whoever was on the other end of the line that pulling this kind of stunt wasn’t cool and their quote had just increased twenty-five percent. Inside jobs were common. And now they had two potential threats attached to the hips of their paycheck. Ash shouldn’t be alone in that car, but no matter how many times Beck had used words like bullshit, fucking bullshit, and goddamn fucking bullshit, Ash hadn’t relented. Instead, he’d assigned Beck the dickless job of lookout, while he rode in a vehicle with two secret service drop out’s who might very well attempt to gut him.