“Ooh, do tell,” Charlotte chimed, eyes shimmering interest.
Beckett was relieved the attention shifted away from him. Garrett shot him an irritated look. “Thanks a lot, man.”
“Anytime,” he said pleasantly.
The doorbell rang again.
Beckett rose from his chair. “I’ll get it,” he said in a singsong voice.
“Good because it’s probably your woman,” Charlotte said, pumping her eyebrows as her voice went juicy. “She’s been pining away for you,” she said dramatically, placing a hand over her chest. “She couldn’t wait forty minutes until you got off, she had to come rushing here to see you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Beckett said dryly. He went to the door and opened it, surprised to see a tall man about his same height standing before him. The man looked to be in his early seventies with a shock of snow white hair, bushy brows, and a handlebar mustache. Never having seen him before, Beckett was surprised when the man’s face lit with recognition.
“Beckett Bradshaw,” he said in a deep, booming voice, “just the man I wanted to see.”
The man had a drawl, like he was from Texas. Beckett frowned. “I’m sorry? Do I know you?” Beckett shivered at the cold blast of wind.
“Nope, we’ve never met. I’m Houston Thomas. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Now? We’re just about to change shifts. Things are kind of hectic right now.”
Houston’s feet remained firmly planted, his expression unyielding. “It’s important.”
Beckett let out a breath. “All right. Come in.”
Houston stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
“What’s up?” Garrett asked, stepping up and looking Houston up and down, a deep furrow carved between his brows.
“I’m not sure,” Beckett answered, looking back at Houston.
“It’s personal business,” Houston said tersely, tugging at his coat. Clearly, he wasn’t used to having to explain himself. “I just need a minute of your time.”
Garrett raised an eyebrow, pointing to his chest. “My time?” His gaze lingered on Houston’s pointy-toed, snake-skin boots underneath his white pants.
“No, his,” Houston said, pointing at Beckett.
Beckett looked at Garrett and shrugged as if to say, I have no idea what this is about.
“We’ll be in the community room,” Beckett said as Garrett headed back up the stairs. When they stepped into the room, he motioned at the long table and chairs. “Have a seat.”
Houston removed his coat and placed it on the back of one of the chairs. Beckett bit back a smile when he saw the white suit. Houston could’ve been a dead-ringer for the KFC restaurant icon Colonel Sanders. He was wearing a Western-style tie with black cords, the ends tipped in silver metal. The cords were held together by a round, silver clasp with a turquoise stone in the center. In a dignified manner, Houston sat down and crossed his legs, straightening the pleats on his pants. Beckett also sat down. He couldn’t imagine what this could be about.
“I’m here on official business,” Houston began, “representing my late client Milton McQueen.”
Houston’s voice was deep and melodic like the actor Morgan Freeman. Milton McQueen. Why did that name sound familiar?
“He owned McQueen Capital Group,” Houston supplied.
“The real estate investment company?”
“Yes.”
Ah. That’s where he’d heard it, in his other life in the financial world. McQueen Capital Group was a powerhouse whose ambition was to acquire key commercial properties around the globe. He rubbed his jaw. “What does this have to do with me?”
They heard the murmur of someone talking and then Nikola came in, pulling the phone away from his ear. “Hey, Beck, you seen my iPad?”
“No, man, I haven’t.”
Nikola frowned. “I know it’s around here somewhere.” He offered a casual wave to Houston. “Sorry to interrupt.”
Houston just sat there, a stern expression on his face. Beckett smiled. “No worries. It’s all good.”
Nikola nodded, leaving as quickly as he’d come.
Houston tugged on his tie clasp as he leaned forward, speaking in a low tone. “It’s better if we continue this conversation somewhere more private. My office.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a card, sliding it across the table to Beckett. “Here’s the address. Meet me there later today.”
Beckett picked up the card. This whole thing was odd. Very odd.
Houston scooted back his chair with a loud scrape, then stood, buttoning his suit jacket. “Shall we say one o’clock?”
Beckett rose to his feet. “Before we go any farther, I need to know what this is about.” He squared his jaw, eyeing Houston.
A hint of amusement glittered in the older man’s eyes. “All I can tell you at this point is that it would be in your best interest to be there,” he said crisply, reaching for his coat and draping it over his arm. He offered a curt nod.
Beckett watched, befuddled, as Houston strode out. The elderly man’s carriage spoke of grandeur, like he was a gentleman of a bygone time. “Strange duck,” he muttered, turning the card over in his hand. Beckett was getting together with Jazzie at three to take her Christmas shopping. This evening, he planned to go to dinner with Ava. There was no reason why he couldn’t meet Houston at his office; although he would’ve appreciated it if the man had asked him to come, rather than summoning him. If he didn’t go, curiosity would prick away at him. Houston said he represented the late Milton McQueen, meaning the real estate tycoon had passed away. He exhaled a long sigh, wishing Houston had just come out with whatever it was he had to say, saving Beckett the trouble of going to the man’s office. Oh, well, after he got some sleep he was heading into Salt Lake anyway to pick up Jazzie. He’d just leave a little earlier and stop by Houston’s office first.
Whatever this was, it had better be good.
Hot prickles covered him. This wasn’t some throwback from his time as a hedge fund manager, was it? He’d never done any work for McQueen Capital Group. It was possible that one of his clients had connections with McQueen. There were so many hidden ties between people and companies that it was hard to tell who was connected. Was this some sort of retribution for the money he’d lost? If so, why come after him now, after all this time? Could anyone come after him? Sure, he’d lost money because of bad judgement and taking unnecessary risks, but everything had been on the up-and-up. Clients entered agreements with the understanding that no investments were guaranteed.
He shoved the card into his pocket as he walked back up the stairs to grab his things and say bye to the crew. Before Houston’s arrival, he’d been light as air, excited about getting off work to spend time with Ava and Jazzie. Now, he was apprehensive about what business Houston had to discuss with him. Anytime a man threw around terms like, “It would be in your best interest to be there,” Beckett grew concerned.
The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that whatever this was about—wasn’t good.
Chapter 9
In moments like these, the only thing Ava could do was apologize. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Benson.” She truly was sorry. Ava never would’ve recommended the painting crew had she known they were such derelicts.
“Clint and I use you because we trust you. The contractors you’ve recommended in the past have been wonderful, but this …” she shook her head “… this is unacceptable.” Her voice quivered with intensity. “Clint doesn’t need this stress right now, with him recovering from his heart attack.”
“I know. You’re absolutely right,” Ava said fiercely. “I just put in a call to Mason Winthrop, the owner of Winthrop Painting. Rest assured, I’ll get to the bottom of this.”
Fire shot from Mrs. Benson’s eyes. “Under no condition are Mitch and Randy to ever step foot in my house again.”
Ava’s jaw tightened. “Don’t worry, there’s no chance of that happening.”
“If the paint won’
t come out of my rug, I’m going to expect it to be replaced.”
“Absolutely.” Ava was mortified when she received a frantic call from Mrs. Benson. The two painters were supposed to show up at eight a.m. to work on her home. Instead, they showed up at ten, both sloppily drunk. As they were painting the walls in Mrs. Benson’s living room, they got into a fistfight, with one of them accusing the other of stealing his Mtn Dews from the cooler. During their scuffle, they knocked over a can of paint that spilled on Mrs. Benson’s ten-thousand-dollar Oriental Rug. Thankfully, the paint was latex. Had it been oil, they wouldn’t have had a prayer of getting it out. The other bright spot was that Winthrop Painting was bonded and insured. Otherwise, Ava or Mason Winthrop would have to cough up money to cover the rug. Ava took great pains to recommend good contractors. She’d been working with Mason Winthrop for years. He was a good man, but had fallen short on this one. At the end of the day, the buck stopped with the owner and his poor choice of employees.
The goal at this point was to salvage her relationship with Mrs. Benson. Her phone rang. “That’s probably Winthrop now.” Nope, it was Houston, probably trying to talk her into giving the okay for him to contact Beckett. That wasn’t going to happen. She was going to insist that Houston wait until after Christmas to speak to Beckett. She let the call go to voicemail.“Sorry, it’s not Winthrop. I’ll keep trying until I get him though. The rug cleaner should be here soon.” Knowing time was of the essence, Ava had used a towel to soak up the excess paint and then came behind it with a wet cloth. She didn’t want to rub too hard for fear of breaking down the wool fibers of the rug. Better to let the cleaners do their thing.
“What about my living room?” Mrs. Benson grumbled. “It was supposed to be done today. I’ve got company coming into town, tomorrow, for Christmas.”
“I promise, I’ll do everything in my power to get someone else out here to finish the job.” Why wasn’t Winthrop calling her back? She’d left him two voice messages and three texts. Obviously, it was time to start looking for another painting company. Ava would be hard pressed to find anyone to come in at the last minute, so close to Christmas. Her best hope was to play on Winthrop’s sense of ethics and his desire to keep her happy. She’d sent him a lot of work over the years.
Her phone rang again. “It’s Winthrop,” she said to Mrs. Benson. “Hey,” she began, “we’ve got a big problem.”
An hour later, Ava managed to sort through the mess. Winthrop spoke to Mrs. Benson personally, assuring her that he’d have another painter there within a few hours to finish the job. The rug cleaner guy felt sure he could get the remainder of the paint out without damaging the rug. He’d bundled it up, taking it with him to his shop. Supposedly, he’d have it back by tomorrow. Ava hoped that was the case.
Her mind ticked through her to-do list. She had enough time to grab a quick lunch at her favorite sushi restaurant. Afterwards, she’d head to a furniture store off Highland Drive where she would help a client select the style and fabric for a custom sofa. That was it for her work today. After that, she planned to go shopping for a new outfit to wear tonight. The thought of seeing Beckett again was enough to erase the headache of her morning. She smiled, thinking of the text he’d sent her earlier, saying he couldn’t wait to see her.
Her eyes widened as she tightened her hold on the steering wheel. Houston had called her at Mrs. Benson’s house. She should probably listen to his voicemail. She pushed the touch screen on her dash, playing the message.
“Hey, it’s me.” He paused. “I wanted to let you know that I spoke to Beckett at his fire station this morning.”
“What?!” she exclaimed. “No!” Fury spiked through her as she hit the center of the steering wheel.
“Beckett’s meeting me at the office today at 1:00. There’s no reason to keep putting this off. The longer it sits, the harder it’ll be for everyone.” Another pause. “All right. That’s it.” He ended the call.
Tears rose in Ava’s eyes. This couldn’t be happening! She glanced at the clock on her dash. 12:40. It would take at least thirty minutes to get downtown.
Her mind raced. Should she try calling Beckett? No, she couldn’t tell him over the phone. She had to get there! Had to! All thoughts of her impending client meeting flew out of her head as she pushed the accelerator, weaving around the car in front of her.
Ten minutes later, she let out a cry of dismay when she heard the siren and saw the blue lights. Renegade thoughts of outrunning the officer whirled through her mind. No, that would be stupid. She let out a hard laugh. Just her luck!
Having no other choice, she pulled over.
* * *
Standing on the sidewalk, looking up at the imposing glass and metal building, Beckett felt like he was thrust back in time. McQueen Capital Group was located two blocks from where he used to work at W. Shields Financial Group. He glanced down, his attire of a jacket, jeans, and casual work boots putting him at ease. He was no longer that other man. He’d find out what the deal was with Houston Thomas and would be on his way.
He offered a silent prayer, asking for help to move his feet forward through the double-glass doors. A second later, he put on his game face and strode in where a woman was sitting behind a reception booth. “Hello. How may I help you?” Her disapproving eyes flickered over him, shouting loud and clear that he wasn’t appropriately dressed. For some reason, the woman’s snub helped ease his jitters a fraction.
It registered in his mind that classical music was playing. His eyes searched for the source of the music. There, in the center of the large, open space stood an enormous Christmas tree with all the trimmings. Beside it, a man sat at a black lacquer baby grand piano, playing his heart out. Beckett grunted. Except for himself, the receptionist, and a security guard, the space was empty. Such a waste of resources.
The familiar scent of floor cleaner assaulted his nose, bringing back a trove of memories. How many times had he rushed across a polished floor identical to this one, donning a custom suit and black leather shoes, offering glib comments to the security guys as he rushed to catch an elevator? He’d felt invincible then, ready to make his mark on the world. How naïve he was. He swallowed. “I’m here to see Houston Thomas.” He rested his hands on the top of the booth, trying to appear more composed than he felt. Everything in him wanted to flee this place, forget that Houston Thomas had ever shown up at the station this morning.
“Your name?”
“Beckett Bradshaw.”
“Yes.” For the first time, the woman smiled like he’d suddenly met with her approval. “Mr. Thomas is expecting you.” She pointed. “Take the elevator up to the tenth floor. Mr. Thomas will be waiting for you.”
“Thanks,” he clipped.
The first thing Beckett saw when the elevator opened was Houston, who offered a brief nod. “I’m glad you came.”
Not knowing how to answer, Beckett only nodded.
Houston shuffled down the hall, getting a few steps away before he beckoned for Beckett to follow. “This way.”
As nice as the foyer was, the executive suites were even statelier with the patterned ruby-red wallpaper-covered walls and handsome cherry crown molding. The hall opened to a large sitting area that boasted soft camel leather couches and high-back chairs. Spacious offices surrounded the perimeter of the area. A few of the doors were open, and Beckett could tell they were occupied. Again, he wondered what this was about.
Houston stepped through the door on their left. For a second, Beckett hesitated, then went in behind him. Houston sat down behind the desk and motioned. “Have a seat.”
Beckett’s pulse was thrashing a fast beat against his neck. He was hot all over except for his hands, which were ice cold. As inconspicuously as he could, he took in a breath, willing himself to get a grip. PTSD was a beast. Never would Beckett have imagined that it would be so difficult to come back to an office building. Well, it wasn’t just the office, but also fear of what Houston had to tell him.
Hou
ston sat back in his chair and folded his legs, adjusting his crease as he’d done at the station. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you to come here today.”
“Yes.” His heart pounded out a frenzied beat like a basketball being dribbled across the court. He was ready for the man to just come out with it. Geez. How much longer was he going to draw this out?
“According to a report generated this morning, McQueen Capital Group has an estimated value of 2.2 billion dollars.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
Houston held up a hand. “Hold your horses. I’m about to tell you. Milton McQueen was the founder of the company. He placed all the assets and properties of the capital group into a living trust. He was the trustee. Upon Milton’s death, I became the successor trustee. It therefore becomes my responsibility to inform you that you are the designated beneficiary of the living trust.”
“Huh?” A laugh rumbled in Beckett’s throat. “Is this some kind of joke?” He kept waiting for Houston to break into a smile and point a finger saying, Gotcha! When that didn’t happen, Beckett coughed, scooting forward. “There must be some mistake.”
Houston didn’t even blink. “I assure you, there’s no mistake.”
A fist closed around Beckett’s throat as panic engulfed him. For a second, he couldn’t breathe. “No, that’s not possible. I didn’t even know Milton McQueen.”
Alarm streaked through Houston’s eyes. “Are you okay?”
Beckett coughed again, trying to take in a breath.
Houston pushed a button. “Teresa, can I get a glass of water, please? Now!” The intercom clicked off.
This couldn’t be happening. A wave of dizziness rolled over Beckett as he tried to grasp what was happening. He didn’t want a company, the high-rise building, or the fancy furniture!
The Christmas Bliss Romance Collection Page 37
