The Billionaire's Dare (Book 4 - Billionaire Bodyguard Series) (14 page)

Memories flooded her. All those nights, all those gallons of coffee, all the times Grandpa had driven him home…

With her free hand, she squeezed Adam’s leg so hard he slammed his knee against the underside of the table and cursed under his breath. “Nice to meet you,” she murmured, retrieving her hand and lowering her hat over her eyes.

“Found yourself a mighty pretty lady, my friend.”

“Thanks. My better half.” Adam beamed, but he tapped her thigh twice, and she discreetly nodded. “You know, we’re just grabbing some grub to go.”

“I figured.”

She peered at Jack, er, Red Eye from beneath the pink airbrushed brim, watching his expression turn grave.

“Signs are up all over town advertising Tate’s estate sale. It’s bringing out the treasure hunters in droves. And that’s not all it’s attracting.”

Adam frowned. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“It ain’t. Butcher and his gang are circling the block like vultures. Just might drive some people back into their houses to lock their doors and close the shades.”

Marissa covered a gasp with her hand. Adam caressed her shoulder. “What are they doing at the house? I figured the prize was the bar.”

Red Eye shrugged. “No telling what those devils are up to. I’d hate to find out, but it’s also got me curious.”

“Me, too,” Adam muttered.

Their plates arrived, and Marissa immediately shoveled her food into a to-go box, her appetite gone. If there were already people swarming the sale, she couldn’t waste a second. Even if it meant putting herself in frightening proximity to Butcher again. Recalling the encounter at the cemetery still made her shudder.

Adam tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the table and they left the diner with him telling Red Eye they’d meet up at the bar later to figure out what was going on with the gang, and why the members expressed so much interest in the house.

“This seems personal for you,” she remarked as they headed toward her childhood home.

“I don’t know, it’s weird,” Adam admitted, rubbing his forehead. “Last night when I told folks at the bar I was a relative of Tate’s, they made me feel like one of their own. Almost like they’re looking to me to make things right in the face of Butcher’s sketchy comeback. These are good, decent people. They don’t deserve to be rode roughshod over by biker assholes.”

She smiled faintly, a slight wobble in her chin. “They find their way into your heart, don’t they? Now you can understand why it was so hard to leave this place.”

He nodded and glanced over at her. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around hers. Not the lover’s handhold he displayed earlier, but the reassurance of a close friend. Were they back to friends when they were in private? She was confused about what to make of Adam’s pendulum swings. Right now she didn’t care, as long as he pushed the pedal to the floor and drove as fast as possible to Grandpa’s house.

Red Eye’s account proved true—in both cases. The first was the crowds.

Parked cars lined the left side of the street around the whole block. Groups of folks gathered and milled around in the hot sun, waiting for the doors to open, to let the clawing and grasping begin.

No doubt people assumed Grandpa Tate stocked all kinds of valuables and collectibles, since he’d been a rare commodity, one of the few business owners in town who’d survived the dismal economy. They didn’t realize he’d invested most of his capital back into the bar. Last she knew he’d taken out a second mortgage on their home, a year before she’d left. He owned several prized collections: over a dozen Rolling Stones records, old tools with a few dating back to the Civil War, miniature painted soldiers, a couple train sets in the basement. But they had special meaning to him. Except for the tools, maybe the records, she suspected the gathering might be disappointed by the lack of “treasure.”

Red Eye’s second description, also correct, sent a chill of dread creeping over her. Butcher and his crew made noisy passes by the house. People jumped when an aftermarket pimped-out pipe blew past them. The gang members messed with the housewives and retirees on purpose, their faces gloating with sneers each time they startled a newcomer. They flicked lit cigarette stubs at sidewalk loiterers. They glared at children who hid behind their mothers. What a bunch of schoolyard bullies.

Disgusted, Marissa exhaled. “This is how it used to be when Ames Gray became the leader. He took every opportunity to menace folks in town.”

“The apple didn’t fall far,” Adam muttered, sharing her disgust. “There’s no excuse for the crap their pulling.”

“I hope they didn’t come back to buy the bar.” The worst irony imaginable. They’d probably burn it down afterward out of spite.

“Do you know about the auctions?” Adam asked carefully.

“There’s an auction? For the bar?”

“And the house.”

“My house.
Our
home?
” She swallowed back a surge of bitterness. “They can’t do that,” she insisted. “Can they?”

“I don’t know.” He ran a hand through his hair. “A Google search can tell us how they decide those things. Right now we need to find a way into the house past all these cars and people, before the sale starts.”

“I know a way.” She guided him three blocks down. Two left turns later they parked in an alley behind the back of the property. “There’s an opening in the fence we can cut through.”

Adam inspected the sharp work of wire cutters as they approached the tall gap, the chain-link pulled back by a strong set of hands and frozen in a permanent curl. “Something tells me you snuck through here once or twice.”

She grinned and shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Did you create the escape hatch.”

“No.” She frowned. “It’s been like that for years.”

“Huh…”

“What?”

“Could be nothing. Let’s head to the house. And for the record, if anybody asks, I was the one who knew about the gap in the fence. Makes me seem legit as a relation of Tate’s.”

“You just like taking credit for clever accomplishments.”

He gave her a playful swat on her ass. “That, too.”

Again he laced his fingers through hers and they crossed the backyard acreage to the patio sliding doors. Water beaded on the glass, revealing the sharp contrast in temperature between the outside and the air-conditioned interior. He tugged the handle. The sliding door scraped open on a squeaky track.

The smells of her childhood rushed to greet her. Overripe bananas he’d forgotten to refrigerate. Old Spice cologne. Quarters touched by thousands of hands rolled in wrappers awaiting deposit. Lemon Lysol bathroom spray. Sweet pipe smoke still steeped in the wallpaper long after he’d quit.

“Home,” she whispered.

Suddenly a well-dressed woman draped in pearls raced to them. “You can’t be in here yet,” she snapped. She stared down her bony nose at them, reading glasses perched at the tip. “Return outside and wait your turn like the rest.”

“I have more right to be here than anyone,” he stated. “Even you.”

While Adam stood his ground, the woman matched his unwavering stance. She pursed her mauve lips. The chains attached to her glasses swayed as she shook her head. “I think not.”

“Are you related to Bill Tate?” When she frowned, he retorted, “Didn’t think so. You need to move.”

“And you are…?”

“Adam Tate—I’m here to take family keepsakes. Don’t worry, nothing of value you’ll lose commission on,” he said, ending on a faint snarl. “I want first dibs before people buy his Vietnam War medals for a buck and sell them on eBay for ten to a schmuck who wants to pretend he served his country.”

“Commission?” Confused, Marissa glanced between them.

Noting her expression, he explained. “She’s the appraiser for the estate sale, judging by her dress code. For her appraisal services, she gets a ten-percent kickback from anything sold.”

“Ten-percent of the total valuation,” she corrected, speaking through her sour lemon lips. “And I prefer to call it my fee.”

“I’m sure you do.”

She pointed a finger at his sidekick. “If you’re related to Mr. Tate, what’s she doing here?”

“This is my girlfriend, Marissa. She’s here for moral support. We’re in town from Vegas, and we didn’t come all this way for nothing.”

A man wearing a dapper suit popped his head into the doorway of the kitchen, when led to the family room where they were at an impasse. His shrewd glance touched on each of them, lingering on Marissa. “Everything all right in here?”

The woman spun on her heel. “This man
claims
he’s a relative of Mr. Tate.
From Las Vegas, the con artist capital.”

“A relative?” Interest sparked in the man’s dark eyes. “Then by all means.”
He swept his arm in tacit welcome. “Let the man in.”

“But, Mr. Greenburg—”

“June, we’re not running a showcase of the Crown Jewels. These people don’t need to prove their royal legacy. They lost a family member. We’re not going to ban them from Mr. Tate’s things.”

“They could’ve informed us beforehand,” she said with a high-pitched
humph,
before turning to a row of tables requiring her fastidious arranging.

All of Grandpa’s possessions on the auction block. A bleak sensation penetrated Marissa’s soul for a moment, until the pleasant man waved them up to the living room.

“Please, have a seat.” He murmured low, “Forgive June. She’s a stickler for rules and takes her job very seriously.”

“Too seriously,” Adam said, unimpressed by the man’s explanation. “Who does she think she is?”

“She’s nervous about the crowds, worried something will get pocketed when no one’s looking. Go on, have a look around. Take what has meaning to you.”

“Thanks.” Adam shook his hand. “I appreciate your understanding. We’ve had a rough couple of days.”

The man nodded with deference. “No doubt.”

Then Adam steered Marissa upstairs toward the bedrooms. “He seemed nice,” she said.

“He’s the lawyer,” Adam revealed in hushed tones.

“Oh.” She hunched behind her former bedroom door with Adam. “You didn’t get to tell me about him.”

“There wasn’t time. Look.” He blew out a breath. “I don’t know what his deal is. He popped into the conversation downstairs the second he heard your name.”

“Okay…” She waited for an explanation.

“Not okay. Last night when I was talking with Bones he mentioned a lawyer handling the estate sale and auctions. Do you know anything about your grandfather hiring a lawyer to draw up a will or something?”

She shrugged miserably. “How would I know that, Adam? He might as well have been dead to me for the past ten years.” Tears threatened. “I don’t know anything.”

“Not a big deal,” he said, tone softening. “Take a deep breath. One more. That’s my girl.” He cupped her shoulders. “You need to stay strong through this. The plan has changed. I’m going to pump the lawyer for information. You go around and find the things you came for. But bring them into the living room and run them by me, as if I gave you a list. Thank you can handle that?”

“God, Adam, you’re so good at this. What would I have done without you here?”

“You can thank me later.” He gave her a sexy wink. “I’ll see you back downstairs, okay? You good?”

She nodded and tried to reassure him and herself with a smile of determination. “Good.”

He kissed her forehead and retreated down the steps. She meant what she’d said. She never could’ve done this without him there for her every step of the way. They made excellent partners—well, he did, anyway. She hadn’t brought much to the table so far.

But having lived with lies for ten years, she could act her way through this. No tears allowed. She’d deal with her emotions later.

Moving to the window, she turned the plastic cylinder attached to the blinds and sunlight pushed through the slats. Dust flecks whirled through the air. The sight of her old room made her heart ache with amazement. Grandpa could’ve packed all her things into boxes. Instead, he’d kept everything the same, as if time had stopped the day she’d walked out of the house.

She grinned at the faded posters she’d tacked to the wall, with rock stars from Guns ‘N Roses and Skid Row, her hair-band favorites back in the day, staring at her with careless scowls like they were too cool for the camera taking their picture. Then she’d gone through a hippy phase. A seamstress had helped Marissa sew tie-dyed curtains for her room. A simulated concert poster of Jim Morrison hung above her stuffed animal collection, crowding the wicker bowl chair with the shiny fabric.

There on the wall over her bed hung a watercolor picture she’d “painted” of Kermit the Frog holding a banjo. And on the night stand, a pastel rendition of her at twelve years old sat in its cheap gold frame. The summer between sixth and seventh grade, Grandpa had paid one of the town’s resident artists to give her lessons. Marissa had come away without a speck of artistic talent, deciding she was better with a pen than a paintbrush. But Grandpa had liked and kept the picture the artist had drawn of her.

Walking over to her dresser, she carefully she opened her old jewelry box. The dancing ballerina twirled and music drifted up, as though someone had just wound the crank at the bottom. She curved her fingers against her mouth, biting down on one knuckle.