Bed Of Roses (The Five Senses Series Book 4)

by Gemma Brocato

  She scooted around Gunnar until he was behind her. “Did you need something, Chloe?”

  Gunnar turned to face Chloe from behind Mal’s shielding body.

  Chloe snapped the perfect O of her mouth shut and examined the room’s ceiling, as if it held the secrets of the universe. She cleared her throat, but continued to avoid Mal’s eye. “Napkins. Um...we need napkins. For the...um, bagels, you know.”

  Mal moved to step toward the shelves on the side where they stored supplies, but halted when Gunnar dropped his warm hand on her shoulder, holding her in place. His cock prodded her in the butt. He wasn’t ready for her to expose him to the curious gaze of her employee. Instead, she gestured toward the unit. Chloe moved across the room, grabbed what she needed, then scampered away.

  She pulled the door closed behind her, then knocked and opened it again. “Noah from Laurel Glen called a few minutes ago. Said to tell you he’s on his way here.” Chloe met Mal’s eyes for the first time, then flicked them away. “Should be here in about ten minutes.”

  “Thanks. Now, back to work.” Mal motioned for her to leave.

  “Oh. My. God! Gaby—” Chloe’s words were cut off as she banged the door closed behind her.

  Shaking her head, Mal turned to find Gunnar scowling. At least the...other situation had returned to normal. “Sorry about that. This room is about as private as the tram stop on the corner of Front Street and Maple Boulevard.”

  “Why is Noah Kerrigan coming to see you?” he demanded.

  “You know him?”

  “His brother, Sam, is living with my sister, Rikki. Of course, I know him. Why is he coming to see you?”

  “The Secret Garden provides floral arrangements for the lobby at Laurel Glen. He also orders occasional bouquets for some of the VIP guests.”

  His scowl deepened, his gaze stormy blue-gray. Something had crawled up his behind and stuck.

  Understanding dawned. “Wait a minute. Are you...? Jesus Christ, Gunnar. You’re jealous.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “No I’m not.”

  “There’s no reason for you to be—”

  “I’m not jealous. I just...” He pressed his lips into a thin line. “Aw, dammit. I am jealous. Rikki told me you’re dating him.”

  What the hell had Noah told his brother? It had obviously been an incomplete conversation. Her attraction to Noah didn’t go beyond a harmless flirtation. She tamped down her growing frustration. “I’ve had a dinner date with him. He’s just a friend.”

  “A friend?” Gunnar’s voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.

  “Yes, Gunnar. Just a friend. Nothing more.”

  What exactly was he saying? He was the love-em and leave-em half of this relationship. Anger built slowly in her chest, churning like a mixing blade on a blender at slow speed. “Nothing like the kind of friend you are. I’m not that kind of woman.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What kind of woman is that, Malin?”

  “I—”

  Gunnar’s cell phone rang, cutting off her words. She waited while Gunnar glanced at the display. He wouldn’t take a call in the middle of their disagreement. He couldn’t.

  He tapped the screen. “Sorry, I have to... Gunnar Sims.” He paused, listening to the voice on the other end of the line.

  Whoever was on the other end was a woman. The pitch of her voice was audible, even if her words weren’t. Gunnar’s eye met hers. Inscrutable...impossible to read through the short space between them. His brow lowered, and his fingers tightened around the small device, turning his knuckles white. A muscle popped in his jaws.

  “No, don’t let them go. I’ll be there in five minutes. Stall them.” He disconnected the phone. “There’s an emergency at the club.”

  “Gunnar, you can’t leave now. We need to talk.”

  “I’m sorry, Malin. I have to get to Granite Bay. There’s... I just have to go.” He strode toward the door, grasped the knob, and hesitated. Pivoting, he walked back to her. Placing his hands on either side of her face, he pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. “I’m sorry, Daisy Mae. I don’t run from conflict. But I have to take care of this. I’ll call you later.”

  What the hell had just happened? One minute, Gunnar seemed ready to rip her clothes from her body caveman-style. The next, he’d admitted jealousy, gets a call from another woman, and hightails it away from here. And had refused to stay to discuss what her definition of friend was.

  Mal righted the stool. Perching on it, she propped her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. It got harder every time another person she loved walked away from her. The story of her life was starting to smell like a corpse flower.

  Chapter 16

  “Where are they?” Gunnar demanded as he sprinted through the door of the club.

  Charly pointed to the stairs. “In the laundry. George is stalling them.”

  He headed toward the stairs to the lower part of the gym, grim determination powering each of his steps.

  When he’d taken the call at Malin’s shop, his heart had kicked in his chest. Why the hell would the appliance wholesaler he’d bought the new washer from come to the gym to repossess it? On a Saturday morning, one of the club’s busiest times. Thank God, George had been at work.

  He pounded down the steps two at a time, then raced down the long hall to the locker rooms. Skidding around the counter, he grabbed the doorframe and swung into the laundry room. George had planted himself protectively in front of the newest machine—feet spread wide, arms crossed over his huge chest. The scowl on his face eased when he caught sight of Gunnar.

  “What’s going on, George?” Gunnar asked as he joined his housekeeping manager in front of the washer. He motioned for his towel attendants to get back to work. Two burly men with toolboxes and a two-wheel appliance dolly faced George, hands fisted on their hips. They were like Mutt and Jeff—one tall and skinny, one short and stocky.

  George nodded his head to the uniformed repo men. “These guys say you haven’t coughed up the cash for the machine, so they’re here to take it back. Didn’t want to wait for you to get here to clear up this mess.”

  “That bill was paid months ago.” Gunnar spread his hands. “I’d remember a six digit invoice, don’t you think?”

  “Whether you recall or not ain’t the question,” Skinny said. “Central Supplies says your check for the washer didn’t clear the bank, and you never responded to their phone calls to make restitution. We’ve been sent to reclaim their property. Step aside and let us do our job.”

  That was bullshit. Gunnar had paid for the machine. He remembered taking several deep breaths before he could sign the check for nearly two-hundred grand. “There’s been a mistake. There was plenty of money in the account. The check cleared. If your boss lost it, that’s not my problem.”

  Skinny whipped a folded paper from his back pocket and shoved it at Gunnar. “You mean this check?”

  Gunnar accepted the slip from the guy’s grimy hand. His heart lurched like a sloppy drunk at the sight of three red letters, NSF, stamped across the image of the check. “This is wrong.”

  The stocky guy finally joined the conversation. “Bank disagrees. We’re taking the machine. I’m going to ask you nice-like to step aside.”

  Stocky took a step forward, his beefy hands curled into fists at his sides. Okay, he was the muscle of the pair. His size didn’t worry Gunnar. Much.

  “Wait! Just wait a second.” Gunnar raised his hand, palm out, to stop the guy. His mind flew through the possibilities. He looked at the date on the check, then glanced at George. The big man’s face was set in grim lines. “Look, let’s go to my office and make a couple of phone calls. I’m sure I can clear this up.”

  Stocky snorted. “Only thing that will clear your debt would be a money order or cashier’s check.”

  “If that’s what is needed.” Gunnar pointed to the door. “If you gentlemen will follow me, please.”

  Angry heat rose on the back of his neck as Gunnar led the
repo men to his office. Climbing the stairs to the mezzanine level, he was sure the members watched the little parade with more than idle curiosity. There’s no way they knew what was happening, but they could draw conclusions. The men trailing after him like pit bulls had Shylock Recovery Service emblazoned on the backs of their jackets.

  He unlocked his office, then stood aside to let his visitors enter. Closing the door behind him, he strode to the desk and dug through the stack of business cards, searching for his banker’s information.

  Skinny cleared his throat. “I gotta call my boss. This is highly irregular.”

  Gunnar nodded. It was clear Skinny was the thinker of the two. The guy dug an old-style flip phone from his pocket. He met Gunnar’s eye. As if he realized he was being watched, he scowled, stepped to the opposite wall, then twisted until his back was to the room. He hunched his narrow shoulders and began whispering into the phone.

  Gunnar shook his head, then picked up his phone and pounded his bank’s number on the keypad. He booted up his computer while he waited for his call to connect. The Beatles hold music did nothing to improve his mood. Once he finally reached a live person, he tersely explained the situation.

  “It appears we’ve attempted to communicate the insufficient funds situation multiple times, Mr. Sims,” the bank operator said.

  “When? I never received any phone calls.” Gunnar was at his desk six days out of seven. The idea that they’d attempted to contact him and hadn’t succeeded stymied him. He scrubbed a hand over the prickly stubble on his jaw.

  “Our records list Michael Braithwaite as the contact. Eight, no, nine phone messages have been left and two demand letters were sent. The last one certified, return receipt.” Her condescending tone grated.

  “Why the hell is Michael’s name on the account?” Gunnar demanded. “Who authorized that?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir. But we would never have listed him as contact without proper documentation.” Derision colored her words, as if his question had insulted her personally.

  Gunnar took a deep breath, attempting to stem the rising suspicion something was rotten in his business. “Am I still listed as primary contact?’

  “No, sir. You are still listed, but you aren’t the responsible party.”

  Michael had removed him as the contact and responsible party. Without his permission. “What is the current balance on the account?”

  His stomach knotted when she rattled off a number that was less than twenty percent of what his records indicated. He dropped onto his chair, gut punched, struggling to catch his breath. Michael was stealing from him. No wonder repo men had shown up. He sat up ramrod straight behind his desk. “I need you to check another account for me. If you don’t mind.”

  He recited the number. Over the phone line, he could hear the woman entering the digits on her keyboard. When she delivered the number he expected, relief swam through him. Thank God his dickhead assistant manager hadn’t been able to touch his personal account. That son of a bitch had just left for a Caribbean vacation. He was probably living large, spending Gunnar’s money. Aw, shit! He’d gone to the Cayman Islands, one of those places you could hide money from the government. Gunnar’s spirits sank like a submarine with screen doors. Michael was probably visiting a secret bank account. One hefty with the club’s money.

  Shoving down his nausea, he said, “I’d like you to freeze the assets in the Granite Bay account.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, that’s impossible. You aren’t the primary account holder.”

  “That’s bullshit!” he shouted as he shot out of his chair. Stocky took a step back. Gunnar modulated his tone. “The account belongs to Granite Bay Health Club, and I own the club. That makes the account mine. Your bank changed the account information without proper authorization. I want this fixed.”

  “Let me get my supervisor.” Before he could blink, she’d put him on hold. Dire Straits started playing “Money For Nothing.” Not a good omen.

  Skinny had turned when Gunnar lurched out of his chair. The dude was still on his phone. Gunner pinned him with a glare. “Ask your boss if I can make a direct transfer for the balance owed, less interest, today.” He’d move the money from his personal account. He kept part of his trust fund in reserve for emergencies. This was definitely one of those.

  Skinny muttered into the phone, then walked to the desk to find a pen. He grabbed the only paper available on Gunnar’s otherwise empty desk to scrawl a long string of numbers. The copy of the NSF check. Gunnar clenched his fist around the handset, developing a strong dislike for Dire Straits and a jackass named Michael.

  The Muzak disappeared. “Preston Smith here. How may I help you?” a voice asked.

  “This is Gunnar Sims. I have two transactions I need assistance with. I’d like to start with a transfer to another account, please.”

  * * * *

  As soon as Skinny had received confirmation from his boss the transfer had been completed, he left with Stocky in tow but without the washer. The bank had charged an additional two percent fee to execute the transaction on a Saturday, but the repo guys had insisted and Gunnar wasn’t in a position to argue.

  After spending the better part of two hours dealing with the bank on the phone, more funds had been moved to a holding account for contingencies, and the original account had been frozen. Smith had been pretty decent to deal with, and while not actually accepting responsibility for the unauthorized changes to the account, he’d been apologetic. That fact didn’t go far toward alleviating the gaping hole where Gunnar’s trust fund had been.

  A detective arrived to take his statement. During the interview, Gunnar repeatedly rotated his head on his neck and shifted his jaw from side-to-side, hoping to ease the tension growing like a weed at the base of his skull. The detective requested a copy of the club’s accounting records, which Gunnar provided on a thumb drive.

  Taking pity on Gunnar, Charly brought him a sandwich and small salad from the café. After just one bite, he shoved the food away. The solid lump of anger lodged in his throat made it impossible to choke down even a mouthful. The plate remained untouched on the corner of his desk while he placed calls to his attorney and Eileen Kerrigan.

  His last call to his grandfather, Silas Sims, went better than he’d anticipated. Silas ranted in Swedish about lying, thieving scumbags for a minute before he calmed down. He even asked what he could do to help. It was one of the seven emotional wonders of the world that Silas had turned into a real pussycat after all the shit Rikki had been through last year.

  He leaned back and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, then rubbed his eyes. Swinging his chair away from the computer monitor, he glanced through the glass wall lining his office. Overhead lights blazed; the sky, visible through clerestory windows near the ceiling, was pitch black. The clock on the opposite side of the club showed only fifteen minutes until closing time. Except for a brief walk-through three hours ago to check on the staff, he’d been motionless at his desk for nearly eight hours.

  Saturday night was never a busy time at the gym. He could count on two hands the number of die-hard members still working out. The housekeeping staff worked to finish up the last minute chores to prepare the club to open tomorrow. As one member walked out the exit doors, another wandered in. Hopefully, the lady understood she’d be booted out in short order. The front desk employee spoke to her, and she paused, pulling off the stocking cap that had covered shiny blond hair.

  He grinned.

  The employee spoke to her, pointing toward his office. He stood, stepped over to the window, and raised his hand. Mal gave a little wave, then smiled at the girl at registration before setting off across the lobby.

  Her perky, bouncy walk went a long way toward settling Gunnar’s raw nerves. Considering she’d been unhappy at him when he’d bolted from her shop this morning, he welcomed the warm smile on her face as she made her way across the gym floor. With each step she took toward him, the vise on h
is shoulders released more of its grip.

  When she started to climb the steps to the mezzanine, he left his post at the window and walked to the door. He pulled it open, interrupting Mal before she could knock. Surprise flitted across her face, and her arm remained suspended in air. He grasped her wrist, gave a little tug, and pulled her across the threshold and into his arms. Holding her close this way felt right. Like sleeping in your own bed after being on the road for a week. The crushing pressure in his chest lessened further when she wrapped her arms around his waist.

  Reaching out, he swung the door closed behind her. He slanted his mouth across hers, open and greedy. Her lips curved in a smile then opened. Her tongue tangled with his, sending arrows of heat straight to his cock. The zipper of his pants pressed painfully against his erection. He let the kiss linger between them, then gentled his assault and gathered her tight against his chest.

  When he finally released her lips, he rested his forehead on hers, breathing her sweet-spicy scent deep into his lungs.

  When she opened her eyes, her gaze held warmth and desire. “Hello there.”

  He groaned at the breathy quality of her voice and tightened his arms. “Daisy Mae, you are as welcome as a breeze in the desert. Wait, are you just getting off work? You aren’t dressed for a workout.”

  “It’s Valentine season. The week or so before is filled with hellishly long hours. But you’ve been at it as long as I have. Bad day, buttercup?”

  He chuckled. “You don’t even want to know. I’m so sorry I had to run out like that this morning. Had an emergency here. It’s tied me up all day.”

  She laid her palms on his chest, the warmth seeping through the heavy broadcloth shirt he wore. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t get a chance to thank you for helping with my dad yesterday.”