by Stacy Finz
“Wow.” Sloane was surprised it was getting this much traction. And so soon. “Thanks, Harlee.”
“Just remember who your buddy is when you crack this case wide open.”
“I won’t forget,” Sloane said as she left to go back to the station to tell Rhys.
When she got back she had at least a dozen messages from the media, including Dateline.
“Look, if you want me to leave, I’ll leave. I won’t hold it against you, Nate. In fact, if the shoe was on the other foot . . . You’ve gotta take care of your business . . . your family.”
Nate scrubbed his hand over his jaw. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Brady gave him a long look. “You’re not terminating me?”
“What, over the wingnut? I thought they were hot on her heels in Arizona.”
“They found her car but have no idea where she is.”
“I thought we went over this already. As I recall, you offered to leave and we all said no. So why are we revisiting it?”
“I just assumed that when you wanted to have a sit-down, you’d reevaluated.”
“Well, you were wrong. I’m firing Richard. Sam hates his guts and I’m quickly getting there. I’d like to replace him with his chef de cuisine. He’s not a control freak and can actually take direction. He’ll be fine as far as handling the food for the Theodore. But he doesn’t have the chops to oversee food service for all my hotels. That, my friend, would be you, if you want it.”
Brady blinked, stunned. This had not been what he’d expected.
Nate held up his hand. “Don’t say no yet. I get that hotels are not your bag, and if it weren’t for your current circumstances you’d likely be working toward starting your own trendy restaurant group. But it’s time to come out of hiding, and this is a great opportunity, Brady. You’d have free rein over the kitchens and menus in my nine San Francisco hotels, the Lumber Baron, and Gold Mountain. Not to mention a huge budget and staff at your disposal. If somewhere down the line you want to do your own restaurant, that’s a possibility too. Think of the investors you would have access to.”
“What about the Lumber Baron?”
“Obviously, you would no longer have time to be making breakfast and snacks for a twenty-room inn. You’d hire someone here.”
“Would I have to work out of Breyer Hotels’ corporate office in San Francisco?”
“Some of the time, yeah. But you can do like Sam does and make your base here. We’ll give you an office in the Lumber Baron. When you work in the city, we’ll give you a suite to stay in at the Theodore.” That was Nate’s flagship and one of the most decadent hotels Brady had ever seen.
Nate grabbed a Post-it pad and scribbled a figure on it. “This work for a salary?”
Brady’s jaw about fell open. It was more than he’d ever made in his life—even at Pig and Tangelo, which paid just shy of six figures.
“That’s not counting bonuses and benefits,” Nate said, and scribbled another figure on the pad before pushing it at Brady. “You’re looking at a package worth at least that.”
Being an executive chef for a hotel corporation might not be as high profile as running a Michelin three-star restaurant, but it sure the hell paid better. And as long as Sandra was still on the loose, being low profile was a good thing. But would it be as creative? For the most part he’d be fine-tuning banquet and room service food. At least at the Lumber Baron he could modernize and tart up the kind of comfort dishes he’d grown up with. But hotels typically served continental cuisine in order to appeal to a large clientele. That really wasn’t his thing.
“I’ve got to sleep on it,” he told Nate.
“Absolutely. Talk to Samantha about it too. As Breyer Hotels’ event planner, she’d be working with you a great deal.”
They’d been buddies since his first day at the Lumber Baron, so that wouldn’t be a problem. The truth was, he liked the whole Breyer clan. “I’ll do that.”
First person he wanted to bounce it off, though, was Sloane. Not that she factored into his decision making. The only reason was that she’d tell him whether or not taking the job would be the same as selling out. He crossed the green to the police station.
“Did you come to see the bust?” Connie asked him.
“What bust?”
Connie grabbed his sleeve, dragged him into the conference room, and whipped a blanket off . . . someone’s head.
“Whoa.” He jerked his head back, at first thinking it was real. “Is that the John Doe?”
“Yep. Freaky, right?”
He touched it. “It’s realistic, that’s for sure.”
“Who knows if it really looks like him, but it looks like someone. Matt Lauer called. He wants Sloane to go on the Today show.”
“So it’s drumming up publicity, huh?”
“Harlee’s story has been picked up all over the place, and the AP did something too. Apparently forensic facial reconstruction isn’t all that common and it’s kind of controversial as far as using it in court. Although you’d never know it from watching CSI.”
“Why’s it controversial?”
“Because there are too many unknown variables and often the sculptor is relying on artistic interpretation. A lot of people think it’s too subjective. But what the hell, right? It’s worth a try.”
“Where’s Sloane?” He hadn’t seen her when he came in.
“She got called out on a DWHUA.” Connie must’ve known he had no idea what she was talking about and supplied, “Driving with head up ass.”
Brady laughed, then realized it might not be funny. Connie wasn’t exactly sensitive. “Anyone hurt?”
“Nah.”
“That’s good. Tell Sloane I dropped by, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
He decided to kill time at home and do some laundry before the afternoon service. His place could use a good cleaning too. Since he’d been spending most of his nights at Sloane’s, he couldn’t remember when he’d vacuumed last or thrown away the expired food in his refrigerator.
Today, he had Sloane’s Rav4. She’d wanted him to drive it so it wouldn’t get rusty. He parked it next to his van, did the usual security check on the windows and doors, and let himself in. The place was stuffy as hell. He opened a few windows despite it being about fifty degrees outside, and put a load of laundry in the washer. For the next half hour he tidied up, went through his mail, and cleaned the kitchen and bathroom. Sloane, he’d noticed, was a neat freak. In spite of her crazy hours, she managed to keep her place spic and span. He thought about all her ruffles, curlicues, and flowers, and smiled to himself. Yeah, he liked a girlie girl who could kick ass. Once again, he wondered what she’d think of his job offer.
If he decided to take it, the first thing he’d do was change the room-service menus. They were a good twenty years behind the times. Baked Alaska. Who did that anymore? He’d be willing to bet that not one had been sold in the last year or so. The menus needed to be seasonal. Dungeness crab in fall and winter. Squash in summer. Fresher, lighter food. For events, he’d do the same. The wedding fare at Breyer Hotels reminded him of something out of the eighties. Blackened seafood, salads drenched in raspberry vinaigrette, and pesto. Tons and tons of pesto.
No question, he could improve things at Breyer Hotels. And working for Nate and Sam would be easy peasy. They were great bosses. He got the electric broom out of the hall closet, plugged it in, and ran it through the living room. Over the whir, he heard a faint noise, like something scraping against the hardwood floor, coming from next door. Turning off the vacuum, he thought Sloane must be home. But her police rig wasn’t in the driveway. He put his ear against the wall and listened. Nothing. It had probably been the broom cord slapping against the floor.
About to turn on the vacuum again, he heard something else. This time it sounded like a thumping coming from the back of the duplex. He went to the kitchen, looked out the rear window, and saw a shadow. It appeared that a person was coming around the
side. Brady grabbed a cast-iron skillet on his way out and crept along the living room wall. He’d gotten as far as the front door when someone knocked.
“Ah, Jesus,” he said aloud as he peeked outside. The psyching himself out had to stop. Brady put down the pan and opened the door. “Hey, Skeeter.”
He’d never actually met the kid, but had seen him and his Camaro around town a few times. “Where’s your car?”
“I hiked up from the train yard. I knocked on Officer McBride’s back door, but I don’t think she’s home.”
That must’ve been what Brady heard. “What do you got there?”
Skeeter turned red and handed Brady a box of drugstore chocolates. “It’s a finder’s fee for helping me get the job at the Gas and Go.”
Between bringing her flowers and candy, Brady thought the kid might be harboring a crush on Sloane. “You want me to give them to her for you? I’ll see her tonight.” Brady made sure to say it in a way that Skeeter understood that he and Sloane were together. Petty, since the boy couldn’t be more than twenty. Twenty-one at the most.
“Yeah, I don’t want the critters to get it.”
“No problem.”
Skeeter started to walk away but stopped. “What happened to her back window?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The pane is gone.” Not when Brady had done his routine check less than an hour ago. “If she’s getting a new one, she shouldn’t leave it open like that. Raccoons will get in and tear the place apart.”
“Come in the house!” he told Skeeter, and grabbed his cell off the entry table where he’d left it when he first came in. “Call 9-1-1.”
Brady picked up the skillet, went outside, and silently made his way to the rear of the duplex. Sonofabitch! Sure enough, the pane above Sloane’s kitchen door was missing. Someone had used a glass cutter to pop it out. Brady didn’t have time to check the door because he saw movement behind a copse of trees a few feet from the house. Crouching down, he used the propane tank enclosure for cover, and like a ghost made his way toward the grove. Slowly and as quietly as possible, Brady inched closer, desperately trying to stay out of sight. He used to hike with a former Green Beret who could sneak up on a person without so much as a faint rustle. What he wouldn’t do for those skills right now.
He heard voices. They were too low to make out, but for a second Brady thought he’d been discovered. That’s when he saw a gun trained on Skeeter.
I told you to stay in the house. Dammit, dammit, dammit! Brady continued toward the trees, skulking through the bushes. The armed person faced Skeeter with his back hidden from Brady’s view by a giant redwood. At least Skeeter acted as a diversion as Brady tried to get closer without being detected.
He continued to hear hushed voices, but still couldn’t tell what was being said. If only he could create another distraction, just enough of one that he could get to Skeeter without being detected. He considered throwing a rock down the ravine, but worried that the sudden movement could trip someone with a hair trigger. Almost there, he took a couple of deep breaths, wondering if Skeeter had at least called 9-1-1 before stupidly wandering into the line of fire. Idiot kid. But if anything happened to the boy, it would be Brady’s fault. He’d always known that this would end badly.
At the grove now, he maneuvered himself behind the thick trunk of a tree, waiting for his moment. Because he knew he’d only have one. He saw the muzzle of the gun but couldn’t see who held it. Brady didn’t need to. In his gut he knew.
He could see Skeeter. The fear in the boy’s eyes reminded Brady of a feral cat calculating a way to escape danger. He wished he could signal to him some way; get him to draw the shooter out where Brady had a clear shot. But it was too risky. So he stood stock-still, ready to pounce.
Sirens rent the silence and the gun holder spooked, lunging for Skeeter. Brady didn’t think or breathe or even flinch. Lifting the skillet high, he ran closer and slammed it over the assailant’s head. It wasn’t until the shooter crumpled to the ground that Brady realized he hadn’t hit Sandra.
“You okay?” he asked Skeeter.
“What the hell is going on?” The kid was shaken.
“I’m not entirely sure.” Brady looked up from the body to see Sloane running at him with Rhys and Jake taking up the rear.
“What happened?” she yelled, skidding to a halt when she saw the man on the ground, his gun a few feet away. Brady still clutched the skillet. “My God, it’s Roger Buck.”
She knelt down and checked his pulse. “He’s still alive,” she told Rhys, and pulled her radio from her belt to call for an ambulance.
Rhys put on gloves, pried the cast-iron pan from Brady’s hand, and said, “You’re out of this, McBride. Jake, bag the weapon.”
Sloane threw her arms around Brady. “Are you all right?”
“Yup.” Brady stared down at Buck. “I thought he was Sandra.”
Sloane put her finger on Brady’s lips. “Don’t talk without a lawyer.”
Rhys rolled his eyes and read Brady his rights.
“What the hell do I need a lawyer for? He tried to break into Sloane’s apartment and held a gun on Skeeter.” Brady watched Jake seal the gun in a plastic bag.
An ambulance stopped at the top of the driveway and two paramedics came down carrying a gurney. Jake went with Buck and the medics and Brady and Skeeter went with Rhys to the police station, where they each gave statements. Sloane was not allowed to be present, since her being romantically involved with Brady and a former colleague of Buck’s amounted to a double conflict of interest.
Brady told Rhys everything, including about the missing pane from Sloane’s kitchen door, how Skeeter had likely interrupted Buck before he’d had a chance to go into the apartment. After Skeeter gave his statement, both were told they could go home. Sloane was waiting for him outside the conference room.
Rhys took one look at her and said, “That must have been Buck you saw last month. He came to case your place, I’m sure of it now. And I’m kicking myself for not having done more. If Brady hadn’t been home, if Skeeter hadn’t come when he had . . . God knows what you would’ve walked into. Dammit, Sloane, I screwed up.”
“No you didn’t. I wasn’t sure it was even him. And then the harassing messages stopped. How could anyone have known?”
“I’ll tell you this: He’s not walking away. I’m gonna have his badge and anyone else’s involved in harassing you. Come here.” Sloane obeyed the command and Rhys wrapped her in a hug. “I’m sorry I let you down.”
“No, LAPD let me down. I know you have my back, and Brady . . . he saved the day.”
“He sure the hell did.” Rhys shook his head. “And with a fry pan, no less.”
Chapter 23
“What are you doing?” Lina lounged in Griffin’s bed, watching him empty the dresser in his room.
“Making space for you to put your stuff. There’s also plenty of room in the closet.” Together, they couldn’t fill the giant walk-in unless Lina owned a department store.
“Griff, it’s bad enough that my family thinks I was in my Reno apartment last night. It’s a small town. I don’t want to be caught in a lie.”
“I don’t want you to lie, I want you to move in. Officially. You already said that keeping the Reno place was a waste of money.”
“Griffin, slow down. All of a sudden you seem like you’re in such a rush. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Of course not. It’s just that we can finally be a real couple now.”
“We can be a real couple without me moving in.” She got out of bed and Griff watched her walk to the bathroom. Lina took his breath away. A few minutes later she came out, wearing his robe. The thing swallowed her. “I’ll stay when I can. But it seems a little soon to be moving in.”
“Lina, do you love me?”
She blinked at him in surprise. “I’ve loved you since the first day I met you. What kind of question is that?”
“I don�
��t know. You just don’t seem as committed to this as I do.”
“When I was committed to it, you weren’t. In fact, I overwhelmed you with my commitment.” She laughed. “I don’t want to do that again.”
He pulled her into his arms, tugged open her belt, and let his hands roam over her body. “You won’t. I’m all the way in this time.”
She tilted her head back as he fondled her breasts. “Mmm.”
“I love you.” He slid the robe off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor and walked her backwards to the bed. “I’ve always loved you. But now the time is right.”
“Because you say it is?” she teased.
Griffin stopped touching her. “Because you’re truly a grown-up now. You have to admit, Lina, you weren’t back then.”
She went down on the bed and took him with her. “I’ve done some maturing.”
He let his gaze sweep over her. “Yes, you have.”
She started to say something and he covered her mouth with his lips. “No more talking.”
He caressed every inch of her with his hands and lips. She pushed his shorts down. They bunched around his feet and he kicked them off.
“You smell good,” he whispered in her ear. “And taste good.”
“Am I allowed to talk now?” She let out a giggle when he swirled his tongue around her ear and nibbled on her lobe.
“Only sex talk.” He licked and laved his way down her body.
“Mmm. Lower,” she pleaded in a breathy voice that drove Griff wild.
He lifted up, cocked his brows, and went directly to the spot she begged for. She clutched his head, wound her fingers through his hair, arched her back, and screamed out his name when he brought her to orgasm. It hadn’t taken long. She went off like an air-raid siren.
He moved over her, molding her breasts in his hands. God, how he’d missed these breasts. They were round and firm and larger than expected for such a petite woman. Her brown nipples puckered prettily and he whorled his tongue over each one while she moaned with pleasure.
He still couldn’t believe she’d waited for him. Nearly two years of college and she hadn’t been with a man. Not until last night, with him. In the beginning, when they’d first started seeing each other, it had been a constant fight. She’d wanted to make love with him and he’d wanted her to wait. After they’d broken up and she started seeing students her own age, Griffin had been convinced that she’d lose her virginity to one of them.
