SEAN: A Mafia Romance (The Callahans Book 3)

by Glenna Sinclair

It wasn’t that I didn’t want a woman in my bed. I did. The last time had been longer ago than I cared to remember. It just seemed like I never had time anymore. Opportunities presented themselves, but it felt like my time was better spent bent over my draft board and computers than chasing after something that took more effort than it was worth.

  But I supposed Justin did have a point. I was tense. Things were good with the business, but it seemed the better things went, the less I was able to indulge in the part that drew me to begin the business in the first place. I was spending less and less time creating and more time in boardrooms, dealing with issues that had nothing to do with the heart of the business.

  Maybe a night out was in order.

  I almost decided to go for it—when the elevator doors opened. Shelly, my personal assistant, office manager, friend, surrogate mother, and God knew what else, was standing there waiting for me, a file folder in her hand.

  “We have a problem with the Watson account. They’re saying that we quoted them a figure much lower than what they actually ended up paying. They want to see a detailed bill. They say their accountants think there’s something nefarious happening on our side of things.”

  I just stared at her for a second, wishing I wasn’t hearing what I was.

  “That’s the third company this month.”

  Her lips tightened, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Who’s in charge of that account?”

  “Philips and Collins.”

  “Weren’t they…?”

  She nodded.

  I grabbed the file folder and marched into my office through a side door, sinking onto the couch as I opened the file and began sifting through the paperwork inside. Just like the other two complaints, the same designers were involved, the same supervisor, the same accountant. Even the assistant accountant…

  “Who is this?”

  “Joey Forman—an assistant accountant here for about a year now.”

  “Was this assistant accountant involved in the other two complaints?”

  “No. Just this one.”

  “Call Joey up so we can talk.”

  Shelly immediately headed out, carefully closing the double doors at the front of the office as she did. I turned my attention back to the paperwork, comparing the numbers on the estimate to the final billing. There were several places where the bill had been pushed up, mostly on the cost of the billboards the client had ordered and the cost of materials. We have a very specific formula we use to estimate cost for our clients. The numbers on this seemed to add up, so I couldn’t imagine what could have changed unless the client had asked for more billboards after the initial process.

  I got up and searched through my computer, bringing up the same paperwork on the other two complaints we’d had earlier in the month. Both had been resolved at no cost to the client. We ate the deficit. But now…it couldn’t be a coincidence that the same team was involved in this sort of complaint so many times. And I was determined to get to the bottom of it, especially since Watson Pharmaceutical was one of our biggest clients.

  I was still staring at the numbers when Shelly tapped on the door.

  “Joey Forman’s here, Mr. Brooks.”

  “Send him in,” I said without bothering to look up.

  There was something that all the bills in question had in common, and I was on the verge of seeing it when I heard steady footsteps approach the front of my desk. I touched my finger to the computer screen, running it slowly over the columns of numbers, and it finally clicked.

  “Damn,” I muttered under my breath.

  “You wanted to see me, Mr. Brooks?”

  The voice was very definitely female. I looked up, having imagined a nerdy, young man with thick glasses. Instead, I found myself looking into large, round, blue eyes and a gentle but nervous smile.

  She was petite, dressed in a simple black shift that looked like it had seen better days more than a few years ago. However, it hugged all the right places, giving her curves where they mattered the most. It was short enough that it showed off a nice curve in her calves and delicate ankles above her practical flats. But it was that face that made me want to stare at her for hours and hours. There was a perfect roundness to the curve of her jaw, and her nose was so delicate that it was hard to imagine that it was used for much more than to adorn her beauty. And she had the thickest, waviest head of golden-brown hair. I wanted to run my fingers through it—and that threw me for a bit of a loop. I’d never been so instantly attracted to a woman before, unless you counted the month or so I was obsessed with Natalie Portman in high school.

  Her smile faltered a little.

  “Joey Forman?” I asked, not sure what else to say.

  “Yes.”

  I thrust the estimate she’d done in the Watson file, careful to keep my fingers far from hers.

  “Do you recognize this?”

  She studied it for a minute. “It’s an estimation I did last month.”

  “It is. Can you explain to me why even the highest estimate is thousands of dollars less than what the client was billed this week?”

  Her eyebrows rose. “No,” she said. “Everything on here is accurate.”

  “The cost of billboards hasn’t changed?”

  “No, sir. We’ve worked with the same company for as long as I’ve worked here, and they have only changed their price once in that time. Six months ago. They lowered it by about two hundred dollars a billboard. And they offer a discount for multiple billboards that’s not reflected in this estimate, so the final bill should actually have been less than this.”

  I sat back in my chair, wishing she’d had something different to say.

  “Could you come over here and look over the estimates for two other clients, please?”

  She hesitated an instant, but then she did as I asked, moving to stand behind my chair. I pulled up the paperwork in question on my computer screen and slid over, gesturing for her to move beside me. When she did, I caught a slight scent of vanilla that threatened to make my head spin.

  Concentrate!

  She leaned closer to the computer, and it caused her arm to brush against mine. I leaned back to give her more room and that just opened up a lovely view of her back, of her rounded little ass pressed against the thin material of her dress. I found myself imagining what it would feel like to run my hand over that ass, imagining the soft material of the dress mixed with the warmth of her flesh. And that, contrasted with the feel of the skin on the back of her thigh when I slid my hand under that skirt…

  “There’s a little discrepancy on this one,” she said, pulling me out of my reverie.

  I sat up and forced myself to focus on the spot she was taping with her slender forefinger.

  “What discrepancy?”

  “I think whoever worked on this one forgot to add in sales tax on this line. It should actually be about eighty dollars more than this.” Her finger ran slowly over the screen in almost the same spot my finger had touched just a moment ago. “And here. Same mistake. Should be about ninety dollars more.”

  “That’s a good catch. I hadn’t noticed.”

  She shrugged. “I do this every day.”

  She picked out a couple of other places where the accounting assistant had made a few mistakes, but nothing that was overly significant. Nothing that could account for the discrepancy between the estimates and the final bill.

  “Can I show you something else?”

  She nodded, stepping back as I reached for the keyboard. She leaned against the front of my desk, crossing her ankles over each other, muffling a yawn with the back of her hand.

  “Tired?”

  “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  I hadn’t meant to make her feel bad. She clearly was tired. Now that I could see her a little closer, I could see the dark smudges under her eyes. But she wore it well.

  I gestured at the computer again. “These are the final billings for the two estimations you just looked at.”

  She
leaned over again, studying the computer screen as if she was reading great literature instead of bills. After only a second, she made a little sound, kind of like my brother clicking his tongue.

  “The billboard prices are inflated. If this is for five billboards, whoever drew up the bill charged for seven. And the material costs are a little inflated. It shouldn’t have taken this much paper or billboard fabric to cover this order.”

  “And the other?”

  “Same thing,” she said. “Whoever sent the receipts downstairs must have mixed up the account numbers or something.”

  Again, that was the last thing I wanted to hear. Because I was pretty sure where the mistake had been made, and I was also certain that it hadn’t been a mistake.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She moved around the desk again, pausing where she’d been standing before, her hands behind her back. I looked at her, my thoughts again wandering to places they shouldn’t have been going.

  “Do you mind if I ask how you ended up with a name like Joey?”

  Her eyebrows rose in surprise. I wondered why. Surely she’d been asked that before. But maybe it had more to do with the fact that I was the one asking.

  “It’s short for Joanne,” she said.

  Joanne. It was a classy name. I wondered why she didn’t use it.

  Shelly stuck her head in the door. “Mr. Simons from Watson is on the phone.”

  Back to work.

  “Thank you, Joanne,” I said.

  She nodded, turning slowly as she headed to the door. I found myself watching, enjoying the way her ass moved under that skirt.

  If she didn’t work for me…

  “Hello, Mr. Simons.”

  Chapter 3

  Joey

  “What was he like?”

  I watched the sifted flour fall into the bowl like baby powder on an infant’s bottom.

  “He called me Joanne. You know how long it’s been since someone’s called me Joanne?”

  “About as long as it’s been since someone called me Roseanne.”

  I smiled. My parents had thought it was cute to name us as if we were twins—despite the fact that there were four years between us. Rosie was the youngest, barely nineteen, and loving her newly discovered independence. She lived with me, but spent the majority of her time at her boyfriend, Jackson’s, place across town. If not for our small cake business, I probably wouldn’t ever see her. But my kitchen was much bigger than Jackson’s.

  My first job was JB Graphics. My second was a bar across town, Nico’s, where I was a waitress. The third was the cake business. I wasn’t an artist, so I had nothing to do with the decorating. Rosie was brilliant with icing and food coloring and piping bags. She could turn a simple chocolate cake into a work of art, and that was why we had a steady flow of orders. About twenty a month. If we had any more than that, we probably couldn’t keep up. As it was, I was baking cakes every weekend afternoon and on my evenings off from the bar. I couldn’t create beauty, but I could read a recipe like a pro. I even had the few stokes of genius that led to certain additions that gave the cakes a special little something that was unique to us.

  Not too bad, I supposed. And I liked to bake. It kept stress at bay.

  “But, really. What was he like?”

  I looked up and watched for a second as Rosie created perfect little leaves out of green fondant for a cake we were supposed to deliver in the morning.

  “I don’t know. It was all very professional.”

  “What did he have you do?”

  “Just look at a couple of estimations and bills that were sent to clients.”

  “Uh, oh,” Rosie said. “Sounds like someone’s in trouble.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He wouldn’t have had you look if there wasn’t a discrepancy. And that usually means heads are going to roll.”

  “I hope not. Lesley did one of the estimations he asked me to look at.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We all have an employee number that appears at the bottom of the reports. I know her number.”

  “Did she mess up?”

  “Just a couple of minor problems. Nothing to account for the high bills.”

  “Then maybe he’s not looking at your department. Maybe he’s looking at someone else.”

  “Yeah, well, that only leaves one of the accountants and the creative team.”

  “Who do you think it is?”

  I set the sifter down and began stirring the flour into the butter-egg mixture.

  “I don’t know. I can’t imagine either one would benefit from making that kind of mistake. Unless they found a way to siphon off the extra money and pocket it.”

  “That would be unethical.”

  “That could be a felony theft charge.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Are you kidding?”

  I shook my head. “It could be pretty serious. So I hope whoever did it has a really good excuse.”

  “Poor Mr. Brooks, having to deal with something like that.”

  “It’s part of doing business.”

  But I kind of sympathized for him, too. I mean, he was so nice. He kept looking at me as if he felt bad for having to ask me up to his office. And the distracted way in which he responded to me suggested he wasn’t pleased with what I was telling him. I got the impression he really wanted it to be a mistake.

  And he was so cute…when I accidentally brushed against his arm, it was as if these little fingers danced up and down the length of my spine, settling somewhere deep inside of me that I’d thought had been dormant these past few months. I mean, working three jobs didn’t really allow for much dating time. I hadn’t been with anyone since…geez, had it really been three years? Not since Brad, and that hadn’t been the best relationship to leave things on. He was a self-centered ass who didn’t even know what a clit was, let alone why women prefer a little foreplay to a quickie.

  I wondered what kind of a lover Mr. Brooks would be. And then I blushed, a little ashamed to let my thoughts go in that direction. He was my boss, after all.

  “Hey, listen,” Rosie said, carefully placing the fondant leaves on a piece of wax paper to be deposited in the refrigerator until she came by to finish the cake tomorrow. “Do you think you could do me a favor?”

  “Depends on the favor.”

  “I wouldn’t ask, but Jackson had a cow when he found out what I was doing tonight. He said if I go through with it, he’ll break up with me. And you know how important he is to me.”

  “If you do what?”

  “I normally wouldn’t ask you, but you did it before, so you know how it works.”

  “Do what, Rosie?”

  She didn’t answer me right away in favor of putting the leaves in the fridge. I glanced over at her, but I had to mix the melted bitter chocolate into my cake before it started to harden again. I watched as the dark chocolate mixed with the pale batter, turning it into a satisfying caramel color before taking on the deep color of a really good chocolate cake.

  “I know you haven’t had a night off in nearly a week, but Jackson—”

  “Just spit it out, Rosie.”

  She sighed. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to fill in for me on a surprise cake tonight?”

  She said it like a question, but it felt more like a statement. I glanced at her, the beater blades touching too high on the side of the bowl and splattering cake batter all over the front of my shirt. My favorite concert tee, too. A white tee with Billy Joel sitting at a piano across the front. I shook my head, a curse on the tip of my tongue as I turned the mixer off and grabbed a towel.

  “I’m sorry. I should have asked earlier, but they just called me a couple of hours ago and we got to talking—”

  “Why won’t Jackson let you do it? It’s not like he didn’t know that you worked for these people months ago.”

  “It’s just that the guy who ordered the cake said that his brother—the recipient—isn’t going to be home. I g
uess he’s some sort of workaholic or something, so Rahul’s not going to wait around like he normally does. Someone’s going to let us into the house, we set up the cake, Rahul helps me—or you—inside, and then he leaves while I—or you—wait for the recipient to arrive. And when it’s all over, you just call a cab and text Rahul to go get the cake.”

  “You’re going to be there all by yourself?” I shook my head. “I wouldn’t let you go either.”

  “It’s perfectly safe. The guy lives in one of those ritzy neighborhoods with the gate and the security guard and all that stuff. There’s no way anyone could get into the house.”

  “Except for the guy you’re supposed to jump half naked out of a cake to sing for.”

  “You sound like Jackson.”

  “Of course I sound like Jackson. I don’t like you working this job. If it weren’t for Rahul—”

  “But it’s the first step in becoming an actress. Bette Midler worked as a signing messenger in Beaches.”

  “That was a movie.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes things that work in movies can work in real life.”

  I groaned. “You’re stubborn. You know that, right?”

  “Please, Jo. If no one shows up tonight, I’ll get fired. And I really love this job.”

  “Rosie—”

  “All you have to do is jump out of the cake and sing ‘Happy Birthday.’”

  I shook my head, but she was giving me that look, that look that all little sisters perfect over the years, the one that makes me feel like a heel if I even think of saying no.

  “I seriously have to sit alone in this guy’s house?”

  “It probably won’t be more than an hour. Then you can call Jackson and me, and we’ll come get you. I’ll even take you to A&W for a root beer float if you want.”

  How could I say no to that?

  “Okay.”

  She squealed and began jumping up and down.

  “But I get the full commission for this one.”

  She paused, her head tilted just slightly. Then she nodded. “Fair enough.”

  ***

  Rahul picked me up a little after eight, sighing when I opened my apartment door and the scent of freshly baked chocolate cake wafted over him.