Like Honey (10 page)

T
he first starflower honey that was now processing would be trucked to several mead makers and bakeries tomorrow in huge metal barrels. As far as Gray was concerned, that was about the only thing this honey was good for. It crystallized way too fast for him. Not a good kitchen honey.

But Gray was most concerned about the predicted weather—snow, in April. It happened. The bees should be okay but would simply hunker down around their queens and not venture out, which meant less honey. Good thing they got a really luscious, full crop in already. Jennifer should start seeing some money rolling in soon.

He sat on his back porch and looked out over the stream. The hillsides were now dotted with early spring flowers. Hard to imagine there might be snow later today. Either snow or rain. Both would keep the bees inside and might mess with the heather crop—and that was the moneymaker. He caught himself.
Moneymaker, humph.
Yes. But not compared to the other business, which, if he calculated correctly, was worth millions. If he and Kasey and the agency were correct, this would be the biggest case he ever worked. Extremely important to his career.

His phone beeped. “Yeah,” he said.

“Gray, it's Jen. I hear there's a storm predicted.” Damn, she was on top of things. But she was supposed to be vacationing now. Just a few days on the beach, she had said.

“Just a couple of inches,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”

He wanted to alleviate her stress, but he wasn't so sure about it himself. Scotland's weather was brutal at times.

“Is there time to add some covering to the hives' holes?” she asked.

“If you had twenty hives. But you've got seven hundred, so I don't think so. The storm is coming pretty hard and fast,” he said.

“Maybe I should try to get home, then,” Jen said.

“Why? Nothing you can do,” he said. Not that he didn't want her to come home. They needed to talk. He wanted to get her in the sack again—and he thought that was what she wanted, too, even though she denied it. “Wait there until it's all over with. It's the safest thing. By the time you get back, the snow will likely be gone and you'll be sorry you left. ”

Silence.

“Jen?”

“Yes.”

“You hired me because I'm competent. I hope. I'll take care of things here,” he said.

“Okay,” she said, and let out a sigh of frustration. He pictured her chest heaving.

“How was the conference?” he asked, trying not to think about her boobs.

“Okay, but pretty boring,” she said. “But I went to Rucher Ecole in Paris with a Mr. Du Jardin who's quite the expert, and that was worth the trip, really.”

“I bet,” he said.

“I found out some things about the business and my in-laws. I'm a bit confused, but I'll check into it more when I get back,” she said.

“Maybe I can help from here.” It was true that the honey business was a small world. Several families were well known in the industry. The D'Amicos were flamboyant. So he was not surprised to hear this.

“Du Jardin claimed they were doing business under the table with someone in China,” she said.

Gray's heart leaped into his mouth.
True,
he wanted to say, but where is the proof? “Seems complicated,” he said instead.

“I think the best place to start is with Patrick, the previous master beekeeper,” she said. “But unfortunately, he didn't leave on the best terms.”

“Jennifer!” He heard a voice in the background.

“Who's that?” Gray asked.

“Maeve. I'll get off the phone in a minute,” she said.

“Maybe I can find him and talk to him,” he said.

“He's not hard to find. He hangs out at the pub in town. A lot. He was always drunk, which was a problem. His wife divorced him almost two years ago, shortly after . . . Ren died. And it just went downhill from that point on. Also he was a good friend with Liam and his brothers. Used to go out with them a bit. But the Gradys never came to work drunk,” she explained.

“No, but one did try to kill you,” he said. “So I don't trust the lot of them.”

She was silent and he swore he heard a seagull cawing in the background.

“Where are you? The beach?” He hated the beach. But he liked the idea of a half-naked Jen lounging around on the sand.

“Yes.”

“Lord, I wish I was there to see you in a suit—” It just tumbled out of his mouth.

“Stop, Gray.”

“Wait. Please. Indulge me. What kind of suit are you wearing? What color?” His voice lowered. Parts of him were standing at attention, and his mind's eye was waiting. That ass in a bikini, luscious mounds peeking out, with maybe little specks of white sand clinging to it.

Damn. She just hung up on him.

That made him laugh. If there was one thing Gray was really good at, it was knowing when a woman wanted him. Jennifer couldn't hide it. Even from a beach somewhere in France.

 

Maeve and Jackson had rented a beach house in Saint Tropez. Jennifer had flown in for just a few days. It was only the end of April, but the beach was warm enough to get a little sun and lounge along the seaside.

As was always the case when they vacationed together, Jackson took off to take photos at all hours and left Maeve and Jennifer alone to shop, eat, and chat.

“Did you just hang up on that gorgeous hunk of a man who fucked you silly?” Maeve asked. Jennifer had tossed her phone in her bag with attitude.

Jennifer nodded. “He wanted to know what I was wearing.”

Maeve laughed. “Did you tell him?”

“Hell, no. If he knew I was topless, he'd hop a plane,” Jennifer said. “And besides, whatever this thing is between us needs to stop. I'm his boss.”

Maeve made a noise like a stifled giggle, only more obscene. “You should be able to make that work for you. Ya know boss him around a bit, get him to—”

“Stop,” Jennifer said, adjusting her sunglasses.

Maeve quieted, then sat up, her breasts jiggling freely in the French sun and breeze. “We need to have a serious conversation.”

Jennifer laughed. “I can't. Not with those huge boobs of yours flopping around. Sorry.”

“Okay,” Maeve slipped her top back on over them. “How's this?” She held up her boobs, now covered, just as a man walked by. He grinned and nodded—which made Jennifer and Maeve giggle like a couple of schoolgirls.

“Here's the thing,” Maeve said after they calmed down. “You seriously need to get on with your life.”

“I am!”

“No. You're wavering.”

“I am?”

“You're going to sell the place after we get it back on its feet.”

“We?”

“We.”

“Humph. You've got it all figured out, don't you?”

Maeve nodded. “The other thing I have figured out is that you must really like this guy or you wouldn't be here.”

Jennifer bit her lip.

“I mean you needed a break. And you had a great excuse with the conference. But I know you're running away,” Maeve said.

Jennifer said nothing. She looked away at the sea, rolling in and out, so blue against the white of the sand.

“You can't live your life like that. I want my friend back. I'm tired of your moping. Ren's been gone two years and I get that you don't want to hop into a serious relationship. But there's nothing wrong with two adults just enjoying each other's company,” Maeve said.

Jen's eyes pricked with tears. “I just feel so guilty.”

“I think that will go away in time, but you'll have to work at it,” Maeve said, her voice soft and compassionate, as if she were soothing a kitten. She gestured for a waiter. “I could use a drink,” she said to him.

Waiters on the beach. Jennifer could get used to that. But traveling with Maeve and Jackson was always like this. It gave her an exclusive look at the way the other half lived—if only briefly.

Maeve ordered them both drinks, then said, “Speaking of work, you said you were finally able to reconcile some of the D'Amico financials.”

“Yes, but reconcile is not exactly the right word,” Jen said, and then she filled Maeve in on the financial situation.

“It's odd,” Maeve said. “Honey can be big business; it just seems like they weren't taking advantage of all the opportunities. We covered a story about that horrible Chinese honey, you remember that?”

“What's that?” Jennifer said, reaching for the biggest strawberry daiquiri she'd ever seen. “Thank you,” she said to the waiter.

“You know, a few years ago there was all that tainted Chinese honey that got into the U.S. and undermined the U.S. market because it was so cheap.”

“I kind of remember that. Funny you should mention China. Du Jardin told me that he suspected the D'Amicos were selling the Chinese honey, under the table.”

“And the plot thickens,” Maeve said after taking a long sip of her pink drink.

“Gray is checking into it for me. I asked him to speak with the previous master beekeeper.”

“Why does master beekeeper sound so sexy?”

“Because it is,” Jennifer said, and a silly grin spread across her face.

G
ray sat at the edge of the bar. He felt like all eyes were on him. Maybe they were. Let them look. It always was like this in these little bars. These places were all over the world. Gathering spots mostly for men. Sometimes you'd see a group of middle-aged women out for a rare night. Sometimes you'd see some young women, but most of the time the only women you saw were those looking to get laid, for money or not. Many times Gray had obliged. These places were not pretty—probably barely passed the local safety inspection—and were not a place you'd bring your lady to drink.

“Can I help you?” the man behind the bar finally said to him. Scotland was a lot like Ireland, with no real sense of customer service. The Americans had it all over the Europeans when it came to this one thing.

“I'll take a stout. You have it on tap?” Gray asked.

The bartender nodded. “Coming right up.”

Someone had slipped a coin in the jukebox, which was now playing Kenny Rogers, he thought, or maybe it was some other washed-up American country icon. He didn't know, not bothering to keep up with such things. But he did know that the Irish and the Scottish alike loved American country music.

The bartender, a ruddy, older man, sat his foaming glass down in front of him. Nodded. Smiled.

“Shall I get a tab going for you?” he asked. The man wore a pleasant but weary expression. Suddenly Gray felt a burst of sympathy. This was probably the guy's second or third job, and he probably had a brood of kids at home to feed. Gray tipped him well.

“Sure,” Gray said, then turned his attention to the dark, thick liquid in front of him, taking his first sip of the bitter stuff. He loved it. It was like drinking liquid bread—and the brew here was much smoother as Scotland didn't have the hideous pasteurization laws that the States had. This was the real thing. Such a treat.

He watched the men in the corner. A pitcher of beer sat on their table. This was going to take some time. But he was a pro at waiting, among his other gifts. Patrick, the man who was the previous master beekeeper at D'Amico Honey Farm, was the fat man leaning against the wall as he sat there drinking one beer after the other and stuffing his face with chips.

Gray swallowed another twinge of sympathy. A line from Billy Joel's song “The Piano Man” played in his mind. “Yes they're sharing a drink they call loneliness. But it's better than drinking alone.”

In the far right corner was Seamus and Ian Grady with two women who also looked like they were sisters. Couldn't be sure, of course. The lighting in here was not that great. Seamus was into the woman who sat next to him. Very focused, his arm was casually placed around her chair. Was this his wife? Something told him that she was not. He was also fairly certain the Gradys had not seen him come in. If they had, they'd have bought him a drink. Because he was their boss. And that's the way it was done.

“Hey there,” said a female voice.

Gray nodded.

She sidled up next to him on a bar stool. She wore a very short skirt and fishnet stockings and what Gray was certain was a push-up bra to end all push-up bras. Huge boobs that would sag and sink the first minute they escaped from its constraints. Such a cliché of a woman that he felt sorry for her.

“What can I get ya?” The bartender was there promptly.

“A Diet Coke and rum,” she said. “A girl's gotta watch her figure.”

“You ain't been a girl in twenty years or so, honey,” said another man coming up alongside of her.

She laughed. “Well, I guess that's right. How are you?”

“I'm fine. Question is, how are you?” The tone in his voice was obvious, and Gray didn't have to look at him to not like him. It was an immediate visceral response.

He caught a sidelong glance at him. Not one you'd expect to be in a bar like this. He knew who he was: Kenneth Cullen. He hadn't checked too much into his background, but he knew that Jennifer had tea with him occasionally. He made a mental note to check him out. He was definitely a “gentleman,” looking to slum it with some local hoochie mama. Which told Gray a lot about him, of course, but also about this place—the man felt free to go about his shenanigans and not be ratted out to anybody, including his wife, if he had one.

God, Gray was getting tired of bars like this. It was one cliché after the other. And he used to be amused, but now he was just saddened. He took another drink of his stout. Where were the happy people?

And for some reason Jennifer's face popped into his mind. Not that she was exactly “happy.” But she seemed normal and well adjusted. And he doubted she ever came in here. This place, “Cock's Crow,” with its cheap posters of football players and different kinds of whiskey, did not speak of home and hearth. For some reason, Jennifer did. He hoped she found the healing and happiness she deserved. But in the meantime . . . he'd like to make her happy in other ways.

One of the guys from the table where Patrick was seated left to a cacophony of good-byes, and he took this as his cue to walk to the corner and introduce himself to the man.

“Hey, Mr. Reilly, I'm Gray McGhilly the new beekeeper over at—”

“Ach yes, I know who you are,” he interrupted, his speech already slurring.

Good things came to those who wait, Gray thought with an inward sneer.