Dear God, he was pushy. “First of all, I don’t work here. I’m doing a favor for a friend.”
“For Dan, you said. Are you sure it’s not for Sam?”
She could feel the blood drain from her face. “And second of all,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “you still didn’t tell me why it matters so much to you.”
His eyes narrowed into menacing green slits. “Because this is my restaurant and bar. By rights. By law. By the last will and testament of Jake Peterson.”
She almost fainted. Breathe, the yoga instructor in her insisted. But no breath would come. This was her worst fear. Jake had left a will after all.
“Well, you better take that up with Liberty Management,” she said, marveling at her calm.
“Miss, could we have a refill, please?” a patron called, sounding like an angel sent from God.
“On my way.” She gave Law a tight smile. “Good luck, hon.” She walked around to the other side of the bar so she didn’t have to feel his eyes boring into her, digging for answers she did not want to give.
She took her time pouring two more beers. Chatted with the customers. Refused to look around to see if he was still there. Patted her jean pocket to check her phone in case Sam texted back. And swore hard under her breath.
Her phone wasn’t there. Her phone…was on the bar in front of Law.
Pivoting, she darted around the bottle stack, stopping with a sudden slam on the brakes. Her phone was right where she’d left it, but Law was gone.
She’d been so determined to ignore him that he left a ten on the bar and got away.
Grabbing her phone, she saw a text. A text that no doubt flashed when it came in and an astute and inquisitive snoop would read. What had he seen? The name of the caller: Sammy from Miami, punctuated by an emoji with sunglasses, the way she liked to think of that cool lawyer she loved so much. And Law had probably seen the first few words of Sam’s text.
Checked in. Drinking at Junonia. Come up and talk to me.
Did Law read “drinking at Junonia?” Because he would, of course, know that was the name of the restaurant at the resort in Barefoot Bay. They’d both spent plenty of time there the week of the high school reunion.
And if she knew anything about anything, Law Monroe was on his way there right now.
With a low-grade panic spiraling through her, she tapped the phone to call Sam back, hearing it ring and ring until it dropped into voice mail. She typed a message.
Don’t talk to anyone about TP!! Especially a guy named Lawson Monroe!
And then she looked around, ready to scream for the last few customers to get out. But she couldn’t. People were drinking and eating. Not many, but she couldn’t bring that kind of attention to herself or the bar, or her whole plan could collapse.
Suddenly, her world tilted, and balance, her precious, hard-won balance, became a thing of the past.
Chapter Three
Finally. Progress. Junonia. Hope. Sam.
Whoever the hell he was, Law would find him.
Following his instinct, the lead, and an uncanny ability to make friends with anyone in any bar, Law rode like hell up to Barefoot Bay.
At ten o’clock on a Saturday night in August, the parking lot of the Casa Blanca Resort & Spa was packed. Even at the height of summer, when the Gulf Coast of Florida was steamy and sweaty, this upscale jewel of a resort had a crowd.
He glanced down at his black work slacks and the T-shirt he’d worn under his chef’s jacket. Ripping off the shirt, which probably didn’t smell that great, he dug through his backpack for the blue dress shirt he’d picked up from the Ritz-Carlton cleaners on the way into work that afternoon.
Perfect. He shook out the folds, slipped it on, tucked it into his pants, rolled back the sleeves, and went in to find Sammy from Miami, who may or may not own the Toasted Pelican, but it was the first real lead Law had in almost a year.
The marble-floored lobby was cool after the hot summer night, the blast of air conditioning welcome on his face and body. The area was peppered with moneyed guests and an efficient resort staff, but he strode to the restaurant that had become a destination in the few years since it opened with the resort.
Law knew the executive chef, Ian, and had even considered moving over here from the Ritz at one point, but then Jake died, and Law figured it would make no sense to move to another restaurant unless it was the Pelican or one he bought himself. He’d looked at a few, but they weren’t what he wanted.
The man who had what he wanted was somewhere on this property, and Law was going to find him.
Was Sam alone? Waiting for his sexy date and her Deadly D’s? He kind of wished Libby wasn’t the type to go for a guy who could afford this place. Didn’t she learn anything from her “rich but unfaithful ex-husband?” Guess not.
Still, questions irked. What was her deal with the Sam dude, anyway? If he owned the Toasted Pelican, why’d he put her to work at the bar to get hit on by boozy locals?
No one was alone inside, so he stepped out to the deck, wandering over to the more casual pool bar. There was also a tiki-type thing where drinks were being served, but it was very small and on the sand. This one had far more people and activity.
Even with the proximity to the water, the air was still, heavy, and hot, making his shirt damp already. Some steel drums set a tropical beat off in the corner, the perfect side dish for the chatter, laughter, and the clink of glasses. The sounds of a bar.
When he was in AA—the first time—the conventional wisdom about a bar was simple: you don’t go there. So he’d avoided bars for years and filled the hole in his gut by going into the Army. For fifteen years, the war Law fought was with himself, and he usually lost.
When he got out and hit what was affectionately known as “rock bottom,” he walked back into the one bar he could never stay away from, the Toasted Pelican.
And Jake Peterson succeeded in pushing Law into one more AA meeting and then to a cooking-school program, all the while doling out advice that…that, well, a father would give. A real father, not the SOB Law had.
That’s what Jake was to Law, and that’s why he’d left him the restaurant, and that’s why Law, whose weakness was quitting when things got tough, would not quit until he had his hands on Sammy from Miami’s throat and squeezed the ever-lovin’ truth out of him.
Fired up by the thought, he marched through the sights, sounds, and smells of people getting loose and juiced. Fact was, they didn’t make Law want a drink. But when he went home tonight—which wasn’t even home anymore—then he’d crave a numbing agent. But he’d make it through the night.
For Law, it wasn’t one day at a time. It was one midnight at a time, when his personal demons came out to haunt and torment him.
He spotted a balding man sitting alone at a table, nursing a red wine, and walked a little closer, slowing down. When the guy looked up, Law gave him a puzzled expression.
“Sam? Is that you?”
The guy shook his head.
“Sorry,” Law said, adding a smile. “You look like someone I know.” He moved on, tried the trick on another guy, but failed again. Damn it. He cruised around the bar one more time, looking for an empty stool so he could possibly chat up the bartender, when a pretty blonde got up and freed a seat.
“Well, bye,” she said wistfully, putting a hand on the wide shoulder of a man at the bar. “I wish my friends didn’t want to leave. I hope you’ll call…Sam.”
Bingo.
“Of course I will, April,” Sam said, adding a flirtatious smile that probably made April’s panties get wet but made Law seriously doubt Libby’s judgment and taste.
“You promise?” she cooed.
“I promise.” The guy was handsome, in that Superman in a Suit kind of way, Law supposed, and looked to be about Law’s age, with the same amount of dust on the shingles.
Well, everyone had a type. Law’s type was…Libby, he admitted to himself. Libby’s type must be rich cheating bastard
s. That was, if this was the infamous Sam of Liberty Management.
Law surreptitiously checked him out, sensing there was something vaguely familiar, but it was probably the fact that the guy looked like all the Ritz patrons. A man who had confidence and cash, wearing well-tailored clothes. He had a decent build and wore a pair of tortoise shell rimmed glasses that Law bet were clear glass to capitalize on that Clark Kent vibe.
But his name was Sam, he was hitting on women, and he looked like he might be from Miami, so Law took a chance and the barstool next to him.
“’Sup?” Law asked with a quick chin jut.
“Hey,” the guy responded, reaching for his phone. Oh no, couldn’t have that.
“I gotta ask you a question,” Law said, his voice low and serious enough to at least slow down the guy’s interest in the phone.
“What’s that?”
Law paused, trying to decide what would work best. A slow work-in during a casual conversation or a hard hit? In that second’s hesitation, the phone on the bar lit up with a text, and Law glanced down to see the name. Libby.
Hard hit it was.
“Do you own the Toasted Pelican?”
Sam froze, an imperceptible reaction in his eyes that quickly went blank. “Excuse me?”
A ploy for time or an honest question? “The Toasted Pelican,” Law said slowly, as if talking to someone from another country. “It’s a restaurant and bar not far from here.”
“Why would you ask?”
Answering a question with a question was just this side of lying, and Libby had used the technique plenty during their last conversation. Did she think Law hadn’t noticed?
“Yes or no? Very simple. Do you own an establishment on this island called the Toasted Pelican?”
He sized Law up with interest now. “Who are you?”
Screw this. He’d have to hit really hard to get what he wanted, because keeping Jake’s will a secret hadn’t helped him at all this past year. “I’m the rightful owner,” Law said.
The other guy gave away absolutely nothing, not so much as a flicker in his eyes, as he stared back. Finally, he asked, “Can you produce a deed to the property?”
Hell, no. Was there a deed to the property? Jake had owned the place free and clear for…ever. “Can you?” Law volleyed back.
“I didn’t sit down at this bar and start making accusations,” Sam said.
Accusations? “That’s a strange word to use for a simple question.”
The other man regarded him, silent for a moment before taking a breath and leaning closer. “The rightful owner of a business in the state of Florida can produce a deed to the property,” he said, his voice low but each word crystal clear, even with the ambient sounds of the restaurant, bar, and steel-drum band. “And the rightful owner has the bylaws and articles of incorporation, a certificate of compliance and clearance letter, and a properly executed Form DR-835 with power of attorney. Of course, common law doctrine covers all equitable title issues, and it depends on which statute governs the interpretation of the documentation.”
Law groaned noisily. “And we got ourselves a lawyer.”
Sam put out his hand. “Samuel G. Chesterfield, attorney at law.”
Chesterfield. Wait. That was Libby’s last name. She couldn’t be married to future ex-husband number three, so who was—
“Sam! Sam!” They both turned at the sound of a woman’s voice, along with every male head in the place, as Libby nearly broke into a run crossing the wide patio. Her blond hair flew like corn silk in the wind, her bodacious body moving like a slow-motion beer commercial selling sex as hard as the brew.
“Libby.” Sam stood as she came closer, extending his arms as if he would catch her if she fell.
She stopped just short of the other man’s outstretched arms, breathless, looking from one to the other. “You met.” She sounded utterly defeated.
“We were just talking about—”
Libby cut off Sam’s comment by holding her hand up, catching her breath. “He claims he has a will. Jake Peterson’s will.”
Sam whipped around to Law, who still hadn’t put two and two together and come up with anything that made sense. “Well, that could change everything,” Sam said.
Precisely. Only there was one problem. He didn’t exactly have the will. “How does it change everything?” he asked.
“We’d need to see the will,” Sam said.
“Why? Who are you two?” Law demanded.
Sam stood a little straighter, looking all lawyerly and official. “We’re Liberty and Samuel Chesterfield, siblings, and the sole heirs to the property on Mimosa Key known as the Toasted Pelican.”
Siblings. Liberty. Oh shit, now this was making sense. Except… “Jake didn’t have any heirs.”
“Yes, he did,” Libby said. “He was our father.”
“Your…what?” Law could barely say the word, shock bringing him off the barstool.
“Father,” she repeated, sounding a little embarrassed, disgusted, and unwilling to use the word.
Law just stared at her, stunned.
“Our biological father,” Sam said, as if that explained anything.
“And my twin brother and I are the rightful heirs to the Toasted Pelican.”
No way. There was no freaking way this was possible.
While he was still speechless, Libby gestured from one man to the other. “Do you two remember each other from Mimosa High? Lawson Monroe was a year ahead of us.”
“Vaguely,” Sam said, extending his hand. “I didn’t go to that reunion thing back in March, though.”
Law shook Sam’s hand without much enthusiasm, sort of remembering that Libby had a brainiac brother.
Jake had a daughter and a son?
Law’s whole body tightened as that possibility settled over him. And, just as quickly, disappeared because it wasn’t possible. Jake wouldn’t hide something like that. He’d always talked about if he’d had kids and how he’d missed the boat on being a father. He’d said that on many occasions.
So, if they were telling the truth, which he doubted, Jake hadn’t known. Which made Law hate them even more.
“I was really close to Jake,” Law said, fighting for control. “If he had kids, I would have known it.” He gave his head a firm negative shake. “No. Jake Peterson did not have offspring or heirs.”
“His name is on our birth certificates,” Libby said.
“Which proves nothing,” Law shot back.
“Why haven’t you filed the will with the state?” Sam interjected. “I have the estate in probate currently, and no will has been produced.”
Because he’d need to have that sucker in his hands, wouldn’t he? No way he was letting them know that. “Because I’m trying to deal directly with the owner on file, this…Liberty Management. That’s you, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she conceded. “I’m Liberty Jane Chesterfield,” she said. “And my brother is named after Uncle Sam.”
“Born on the Fourth of July,” Law added, remembering what she’d told him in the bar.
Unbelievable. It had to be a con, and they were just a couple of scam artists who trolled properties of dead people and pounced.
“I’m a property attorney out of Miami.” Sam produced a business card, as if reading the doubt in Law’s head. “And I’m handling the estate and probate. So why don’t you call this number next week, and we’ll arrange a time to meet? You can bring the will, and I’ll start the legal ball rolling to determine its validity.” He put a hand on Libby’s shoulder and started to lead her away. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Monroe.”
Law grabbed Sam’s sleeve without even looking at the card. “Not so fast, pal. Before I hand over a piece of paper you could destroy, lose, or discredit, why don’t you get me some proof that you are Jake’s rightful heirs, and I’ll determine your validity?”
“I have no intention of doing anything to discredit said document,” Sam replied, using that vague language of superiority that s
creamed attorney. How many stinking times had Jake griped about how much he hated lawyers? A thousand. Law never knew why, just that he did.
Because he knew his son was one?
His stomach rolled as the lawyer droned on. “…other than verifying that Jake Peterson wrote it and that it’s been approved by a notary or an attorney and filed with the appropriate offices and departments.”
Screw this.
“I have absolutely no reason to believe you,” Law said.
“And we have none to believe you until we see a legally executed will,” Libby countered. “Call Sam next week, and we’ll look at your so-called will.”
“So-called?” He let genuine indignation cover the truth. “Why don’t we start with who is your so-called mother?”
She drew back as if he’d physically hurt her. “Leave my mother out of this.”
“Not sure how we can do that,” Law said. “Assuming Jake didn’t give birth to you himself. Or is that your next claim?”
She narrowed her eyes at the sarcasm.
“Or did you two just dream this whole thing up to snag a valuable piece of property in the middle of a rapidly growing tourist destination?” he pressed, anger washing over him now. Anger and not a little bit of dread.
What if they were telling the truth?
Libby opened her mouth to reply, but this time Sam cut her off. “No, Libby,” he said. “We won’t have this conversation here and now. We’ll make it official and on the record, not shooting off our mouths in a crowded bar. Bring us the will, Mr. Monroe.”
Son of a bitch. Taking a deep breath, Law turned to Libby, trying to read the emotions in her eyes. All that playful flirtiness was gone, replaced by something he couldn’t quite read. Distaste? Determination? A little dread of her own?
Or was that just the face of a swindler?
“The Toasted Pelican means everything to me,” Law said, modulating his voice so that he hid just how much emotion was ricocheting through him. “It was promised to me by the owner, a man I called my closest friend. A man who should have known if he had kids.”
“He did know.”
“Bullshit,” Law shot back. “And you know what else is bullshit? The fact that you two moved in, took over, and started renovations on my property. That can’t be legal.” And it sure as hell wasn’t fair.
Barefoot at Midnight (Barefoot Bay Timeless Book 3) Page 4
