Four Simple Words: A Badass and the Billionaires Contemporary Romance (The Sisters Quartet Book 4)

by Mary J. Williams

  "Some mother you are," Miller ranted.

  "You have the nerve to call out my parenting skills? You just used your only child as a bargaining tool." Smug dripped from Billie's voice. "And lost. Now get out. I need to get ready for a dinner date with a very handsome, very wealthy investment banker."

  "Screw you, Billie. And screw your investment banker." Miller sounded bitter and angry—par for the course where his ex was concerned. "Hell, you don't need my suggestion. Knowing you, screwing is exactly how the evening will end."

  The sound of glass smashing followed a high, screeching wail. The door opened as another piece of antique crystal paid the price for Billie's unpredictable temper. Miller rushed into the hall, wiping liquid from his dark, leather jacket.

  "You're crazy," he yelled, slamming the door shut with a frustrated jerk of the solid brass doorknob.

  Muttering under his breath, Miller turned, his gaze falling on a still-seated Destry. Briefly, he took in Andi, the way she gripped her sister's hand, a worried expression on her young face before he dismissed her without another thought.

  "You heard?" His words were directed at his daughter.

  Destry nodded. She stared hard at her father, into dark-chocolate irises the exact shade of her own, as she sought the slightest flicker of embarrassment or regret. As always, the only thing she saw was hard-hewed determination. Once Miller took a stand, he rarely wavered.

  "Then what are you waiting for? Grab a bag and get your butt down to the car. We're out of here."

  "But, you can't." Andi jumped to her feet before Destry could pull her back. "She belongs with us."

  Miller rounded on the teenager with a snarl. A man who claimed to top out at five feet nine inches—five-five was more accurate—a flash of surprise crossed his face when he needed to tilt his head upward to look Andi in the eyes.

  "Keep your opinion to yourself, missy."

  One thing about her father, he could control his temper no matter the provocation—most of the time. A glib and clever tongue, Destry witnessed Miller talk himself out of the direst of situations. Now and then, without explanation, he lost control and came out swinging. More often than not, through skill, deceptive strength, and sheer will, he walked away, bloodied but victorious. Once or twice, he was flat-out beaten to a pulp.

  Either way, Destry had never seen him raise a hand to a woman. However, she recognized how close to the edge her father was. She didn't think he would hit Andi, but there was always a first time.

  Quick as a wink, Destry positioned herself between Miller and Andi, her back to her father. Her eyes pleading, she shook her head.

  "Go to Calder and Bryce. Whatever you do, stay in your room until we're gone."

  Andi's green eyes filled with tears as she pulled Destry close.

  "I love you," she whispered.

  Destry held on, letting her sister's strength seep into her body.

  "I love you. Always. Now, go. Please."

  Though she hesitated and the frown she sent Miller was filled with a silent warning, Andi relented. With a deep sigh, her arms fell to her sides, and she walked away without a backward glance.

  "Pain in the ass," Miller muttered.

  "You sure are," Destry tossed back defiantly.

  "Watch your smartass mouth," he told her. "My patience is on its last thread and fraying fast. You have two minutes—and counting."

  She could have asked what he would do if she were late. She could have asked why he was so determined to jerk her from her home. She wanted to know what kind of hole he'd dug himself into this time. Who put the look of near-feral desperation into her father's eyes?

  Destry didn't ask. What was the point? Miller could talk the ear off a deaf man on any subject. But where his dirty dealings were concerned, the man was a clam. She wasn't blind. Her father was a criminal. He maintained a certain level of success when content to stick to his role as second banana. The times he got into real trouble was when he tried to lead instead of follow.

  Miller had the brains to be the boss, but not the patience. He wanted everything now, and the shortcuts he took too often landed him in hot water—like now.

  "What the hell are you waiting for?" Giving her a not-so-gentle nudge toward the upper staircase, Miller headed down. "Don't make me wait."

  One advantage to her exposure to her father's world, Destry learned early to think on her feet. As she made a fast track to her room, her mind ran faster. Her father's failures taught her valuable life lessons. Number one? The simpler the plan, the better.

  Destry kept her bedroom neat as a pin—she had enough chaos in her life without the added distraction of unnecessary clutter. Her sisters jokingly called her fanatical. Destry preferred organized. When a girl spent three months out of the year never sure where her father's latest subterfuge might take her, she was smart to have all her ducks in a row at all times.

  Without a second glance, she bypassed the perfectly made bed and sparsely decorated dresser top covered with a few cherished knickknacks. Dressed in loose cotton pants and a sleeveless shirt, Destry slipped her bare feet into a pair of butter-soft leather loafers before she grabbed her ever-ready backpack.

  The heavy-duty canvas bag contained two days' worth of food and water, a first aid kit, and everything in between. Literally her lifeline on more than one occasion, she updated the pack's content on a regular basis—just in case.

  Glancing at her watch as she jogged down the stairs, Destry rushed across the marble-floored foyer with seconds to spare. Out the front door, she walked to where Miller paced in front of a beat-up, four-door sedan. Rust coated the outside, making the original color indeterminable.

  "About time." With a huff of impatience, he opened the passenger door and slid across the bucket seat until he gripped the steering wheel. "Get in and shut the door."

  Destry did as her father ordered—to a point. She entered the car without protest, but she left the door ajar.

  They sat in silence, eyes locked. A war of wills was pointless—as Miller knew. The one and only thing Destry inherited from her mother was a stubborn streak a mile wide. Combined with her father's hard head, when she made up her mind, nothing short of a ton of dynamite would move her—maybe.

  "I don't have time for games. If you won't shut the door, I will."

  As Miller made a move to reach around her, Destry placed her small but deceptively strong body in his way.

  "I'm not going with you."

  Miller sighed, running a hand through his thick, dark hair.

  "Look, kid. I don't know how much you heard of what your mother and I said back there, but—"

  "Everything." Over the shock, Destry calmly met her father's gaze. "I heard everything."

  "Right." For a second, Miller almost looked sorry. The moment passed quickly. "You need to learn something right here, right now. Life stinks."

  At twelve years of age, Destry wasn't ready to make a blanket statement about her current situation. As for the future? No matter how many times her father exposed her to the bleaker side of humanity, nothing he could do would change her nature. Destry, for all her snark and swagger, was at her core, filled with hope.

  Though she didn't speak, Miller must have seen something on her face that gave her away.

  "You think the Benedict name will save you?" Miller scoffed. "Honey, check the spoon in your mouth. One side might be silver, but the other is like this car—rusted and ready to fall apart at any second."

  "Tarnished silver?" Destry laughed without humor. She was over the hurt her parents' words had caused. However, she wanted Miller to understand she wasn't about to forget his actions any time soon. "Then why bother with me?"

  "Listen, smartass, you're my only asset."

  "Too bad I'm not worth a heck of a lot. At least as far as Billie is concerned."

  Okay, maybe the hurt ran deeper than she wanted to admit, Destry thought when a touch of petulance crept into her tone.


  "The hell with your mother. For that matter, the hell with me. The only person you can count on is yourself. Harsh truth, but the sooner you understand, the better off you'll be. I learned a long time ago that if I don't take care of myself first and foremost, no one else will."

  Destry felt genuinely sorry for her father. By choice, he aligned himself with people just like himself—users and takers. The idea that anyone would put their needs aside to help another was too foreign a concept to contemplate, let alone understand. However, unlike Miller, Destry knew she wasn't alone in the world—and never would be.

  A second later, as if to emphasize what she always knew, the back passenger door opened and three bodies piled inside. A blonde, a redhead, and a brunette. Nothing alike, yet, unmistakably sisters. Destry's sisters.

  Rendered momentarily speechless, Miller gawked. His angry gaze landed first on Andi, then Bryce, then Calder.

  "What do you think you're doing?"

  "Simple." Andi crossed her arms, her expression smug. "Where Destry goes, we go."

  "In other words," Bryce piped in, her gray eyes an icy silver. "We're a package deal."

  "One for all and all for one." Calder gave Miller a smug smile. "I hope you stocked up on snacks. When we travel, we like to eat. Especially Bryce. She's a bottomless pit."

  "True," her twin nodded, not the least offended. "Junk food's the best, but I'm not picky."

  "I like fruit," Andi said. "Whatever's left is biodegradable—just in case we aren't near a garbage can."

  The conversation was so nonsensical, yet matter of fact, Destry had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Miller hadn't experienced a concentrated quadruple dose of Benedict sisters before, and by his expression, the experience left him dumbfounded.

  "I…" Miller swallowed. "You…" His head fell back. "Get out."

  "All of us?" Destry asked.

  "All of you," he growled. "You're more annoying than a swarm of mosquitos. And four times as effective."

  Calder and Bryce slid from the car. Andi hesitated.

  "Destry?"

  "I'm right behind you."

  "Promise?"

  She smiled at her sister.

  "Promise."

  "What are you waiting for?" Miller asked when Destry stayed in her seat. "You got what you wanted."

  "We both know you wouldn't have held onto me for long."

  "No?" Her father raised an eyebrow.

  "Taught me too well." Destry felt an uncontrollable rush of affection. "I'd be gone in a day—two at the most."

  "Mm." Miller snorted. "You're my daughter, all right. But smarter. And a heck of a lot better looking."

  "Here." Destry pulled a stack of money from her backpack. "I don't have enough to pay off your debts. But you should be able to lay low until you put together a doable plan."

  Miller took the cash without argument—as she knew he would. As he counted, his mouth fell open.

  "Ten thousand dollars?" he yelped. "Have you always carried so much?"

  At least since Destry was old enough to access what the man who handled her trust fund considered pocket money for a young women who would one day inherit millions.

  "Damn, you're lucky."

  Crisis averted, Destry kissed her father's cheek. Standing on the sidewalk, she waved as he pulled away. She was lucky, she thought as three sets of arms enveloped her. Not because she had money. Or lived in a mansion. Or had a last name that opened doors all over the world.

  If Destry lost every dime, she would always be rich because she had what money could never buy—her sisters.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ~~~~

  MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF sweat poured from Harvey Clyde's face. His t-shirt, stained with food and God only knew what else, was soaked through, front to back. Red faced, he struggled to no avail to rid himself of a pair of handcuffs and the woman who, minutes earlier, slapped the steel restraints on his wrists.

  "You're a bitch," he bit out through teeth yellowed by years of chewing tobacco abuse.

  "And you stink like moldy Limburger." Breathing in his foul scent as little as possible, Destry Benedict shoved Harvey through a pair of wooden doors. Manfred, Washington wasn't a large town, but the good people were blessed with a sheriff's office that remained open twenty-four hours, seven days a week.

  "Trust me, Harvey. Ninety percent of the world would rather deal with my bitchiness than your rank odor. The other ten percent are fools—and probably smell worse than you do."

  "I'll kill you."

  He sounded close to tears. Though tough as nails when necessary, Destry's heart wasn't immune to the plight of others—when deserved. However, a man like Harvey Clyde—thief and attempted murderer—wasn't about to melt her steely resolve.

  Besides, Harvey already had his chance to take her down—and failed.

  Mind you, Destry didn't blame him for the swipe he took at her throat with his hunting knife; a trapped animal always tried to get away from his captor, even when the effort was futile. She would give Harvey a pass where the attempt on her life was concerned; she readily accepted the danger of her chosen profession.

  What pissed her off? What she found unforgivable? Harvey's would-be deadly knife swipe left a long swatch of her dark hair on the floor of the cabin where she found him hiding out. Not only would she need to visit a salon to even out the length, but she'd also need to explain the reason to her sisters. No matter how Destry downplayed the incident, Andi, Calder, and Bryce would see right through her. They were the only ones who could.

  Harvey, his bulk almost as wide as the door, stumbled as Destry shoved him into the office. She could have grabbed his arm and saved him a few bumps and bruises. Feeling a few contusions of her own, she let the big man fall—right at the feet of Sheriff James T. Whitmore.

  "What the hell?" The sheriff, a full cup of steaming coffee in his hand, jumped back just in time to avoid three hundred pounds of whimpering criminal scuffing the high shine on his black boots.

  "Nice reflexes." Destry gave the middle-aged man a half smile—she was too tired for a full one.

  "My mouth is broken!" Harvey wailed.

  With a sigh, Destry knelt. With a grunt, she turned him onto his back and took a close look at Harvey's face.

  "Open up," she said and immediately regretted her request as the odor of untended teeth mingled with the stench of unwashed body. With a grimace, she straightened. "You didn't even split a lip, you big baby."

  "Cunt."

  Destry rolled her eyes. From the moment Harvey realized he was well and truly caught—and by a woman a third of his size, no less—he repeatedly spewed the spectrum of go-to male insults. If he thought he could puncture her thick skin with mere curse words, he was sadly mistaken.

  Sheriff Whitmore set his coffee on a nearby desk. He ignored the man at his feet, turning his full attention toward Destry.

  "Harvey Clyde. Wanted for—"

  "I know who he is. As for what he's done?" The sheriff ran a hand through his thick, white hair, the wrinkles around the corners of his eyes deepening as his lids narrowed. "He's been a thorn in law enforcement's side since he stole his first candy bar at the age of… How old were you, Harvey?"

  "How the hell should I know?"

  "Even Harvey can't remember when his life of crime started." Pushing sixty, Sheriff Whitmore was trim and spry for a man his age—for a man of any age. As if to prove the point, he leveraged the cuffed man to his knees, then his feet, with relative ease. "The Clyde boys are legends around here."

  Destry, brow raised, watched as the sheriff handed Harvey off to a uniformed deputy.

  "Harvey Clyde beat Mr. Jerry Pine almost to death, stole the few dollars the eighty-year-old had in his wallet, and according to the only witness—Mrs. Pine—spit on her husband before he shoved her to the ground and ran off." Destry's disgust grew with every word. "He took down an elderly couple. Makes him scum, not a legend."

  "Can't argue."
Whitmore sent her a good-natured shrug. He took a sip of coffee, his eyes sharp as they met hers. "You want to fill me in?"

  "I caught a criminal." Destry reached behind her, past the gun holstered at her side, and pulled the long bowie knife from the waistband of her jeans. "And he came with this."

  The sheriff's eyes widened—his only change of expression—as she set the leather-sheathed weapon on the desk.

  "Impressive," he muttered.

  Destry wasn't sure if the sheriff meant the knife, or her. A second later, she had her answer. As usual, a man underestimated her—no surprise.

  "A little thing like you couldn't have disarmed Harvey by yourself, let alone cuffed him and dragged him into town." Whitmore's gaze shifted over her shoulder to the closed front door, then back to Destry. "Where's your partner?"

  "No partner. Just me."

  She wasn't surprised by the sheriff's attitude. However, she was a bit disappointed. She'd learned long ago to take the measure of a man—or woman—quickly and thoroughly. As her father liked to say, if you can't read someone in a heartbeat, you're just asking for trouble. In Miller Destry's case, trouble meant prison or a hard beating. Sometimes, both.

  Destry wasn't worried about the law, or a fight—she could hold her own against both. In her world, the worst kind of predator was polished, well-spoken, and tended to raise a glass of perfectly aged scotch before a fist.

  Raised in the lap of luxury on New York City's Upper East Side, when your name was Benedict, you had one natural predator to fend off—a species known far and wide for his charm and persistence. The fortune hunter.

  With a sigh, Destry crossed her arms and met Sheriff Whitmore's inquisitive gaze. She pegged him for an open-minded kind of man. Perhaps he was. Since she knew what he saw when he looked at her, she couldn't blame him for his assumptions.

  Pushing twenty-seven, her delicate-featured face scrubbed of makeup, she could easily pass for a teenager. When asked, she claimed her height reached five foot six; an inch shorter was closer to the truth. The curves of her body—lush, some called them—spoke the truth. However, dressed in jeans and a baggy, dirt-stained t-shirt, her womanly figure wasn't readily discernible to the casual observer.