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

by Mary J. Williams

  Times like now when the need to do something crazy tingled beneath her skin, an itch she felt would drive her crazy unless she scratched, nothing helped but to look common sense directly in the eye—and spit.

  With a resigned sigh, Destry rolled to her feet. She locked up her gun, tucking the case on the shelf in the closet behind a blue, terrycloth blanket. When she was fourteen, she watched, helpless, as her father almost lost his life to a wound in the gut—courtesy of his own knife and a disgruntled drunk. Miller's near-fatal mistake taught her when the ever-lurking devil entered your soul, leave all weapons behind.

  As she tied the laces on her boots, Destry considered calling the one person who might talk her off the proverbial ledge. Andi was more than her big sister. Bound by more than blood, they were eerily close, as though they shared a womb—three years apart.

  Andi was the light to Destry's dark. Calm in the face of chaos, rock solid through every emotional earthquake their mother tossed their way, she was always there, no matter what. Even better, she loved Destry unconditionally—warts and all.

  When the phone lit up, Andi's picture on the screen, Destry wasn't surprised. Her sister seemed to know when she was needed most.

  "You read my mind." Nothing new.

  "Did I?" A laugh in her voice, Andi didn't sound surprised. "I felt the need to check in. Are you okay?"

  Okay was Andi-speak for, any new injuries I should know about? Her sister knew the score. Destry ran a finger over the cut on her neck. For everyone's peace of mind, she didn't mention the loss of blood—or loss of hair. Unless absolutely unavoidable, she kept her nicks and bruises to herself. If she worried her family over every little scrape, Andi and her sisters wouldn't sleep a wink when she was away from home. She refused to worry her family over what amounted to nothing more than a close call.

  "Hearty and hale," Destry declared.

  "Mm." As usual, Andi was skeptical—with good reason.

  "Put out the welcome mat, I'll be home tomorrow. Barring a flight delay."

  "Really? You weren't due for another week. The job must have gone smoother than anticipated."

  "Like silk." Destry thought her fashion designer sister would appreciate the analogy. Not the highest quality material, but Andi didn't need to know the details.

  "Excellent. Calder and Bryce will be happy to have baby sister back in the fold."

  Chuckling, Destry grabbed her backpack. Once upon a time, Andi's baby sister crack would have rankled. The youngest Benedict, and smallest by more inches than her ego liked to admit, she'd outgrown the need to remind her siblings that they might be bigger, but, if so inclined, she could knock them on their butts without breaking a sweat.

  "Must be a slow night if you only called to push my buttons." Destry tucked the phone under her chin as she double checked the contents of her backpack. "Don't tell me you're already bored with that hunky fiancé?"

  "Noah is many things—boring isn't one of them."

  Destry heard the affection in her sister's voice and bit back the criticism of Noah Brennan that sprang to her lips. Andi was happy, she reminded herself for the thousandth time. Whatever he'd done in the past was forgiven and forgotten.

  However, her memory wasn't as easily wiped clean. Noah had caused too many tears and heartaches. One wrong step this time around and he would know the bite of Destry's wrath.

  The sound of laughter in the background chased away her dark thoughts as she recognized her sisters' voices and the deeper timbre of their chosen mates. For the first time in their lifetime, love filled the Benedict mansion. Calder, Bryce, and Andi found their happily ever after. And reservations about Noah aside, Destry was thrilled for them.

  "Sounds like a party," Destry observed with a smile as the background volume rose.

  "An informal send-off for Bryce and Zach. They're off to Greece for exterior shots on the movie."

  Destry felt a burst of excitement for her sister. Bryce's book would soon grace the big screen. A major plus? The tug of war over who would write the screenplay brought Zach Devlin into her life. The world-famous director started out as an adversary, but to everyone's delight, turned out to be so much more.

  "Will Bryce and Zach be gone long?"

  "About a week," Andi assured her. "Two at the most."

  "Good. Give her my love. And the same to Calder."

  "What about me?" The teasing note in Andi's voice said her sister already knew the answer.

  "Hugs and kisses." Destry made a smooching sound.

  "What are you up to tonight?"

  In other words, what kind of trouble are you headed for? Andi knew her well.

  "Manfred is a small town." Destry slung her bag over her shoulder and crossed her fingers in one smooth motion. "Nothing much to do."

  "Destry…"

  "I'll see you soon. Love you. Bye."

  Take care were the only words Andi managed before Destry cut her off with a swipe of her finger. Tonight, she wasn't in the mood for her sister's calming influence. She wanted trouble. And she knew just where to look.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ~~~~

  STEPPING FROM HER motel room, Destry breathed in the scent of the muggy August night—pine trees laced with the promise of rain. With a quick glance right then left, she jogged across the street to a bar she noticed when she checked into the hotel. The parking lot was half full of mostly pickup trucks of varying age and condition. The light over the door flashed Take-Down Bar and Grill in neon blue.

  Entering the dark building, beer, sweat, and the underlying smell of stale cigarette smoke replaced the clean air. Looking around, Destry told herself she didn't want trouble—only a small lie. If some came her way, she wouldn't complain—or run.

  As was her habit in any new environment, Destry scoped out the room, including the location of the ladies' room and the quickest pathway to the exit near the back. Her entrance, she noted, garnered a few glances, but she didn't hold anyone's interest for long. Either there weren't any of Harvey Clyde's far-reaching network of relatives and friends present, or word of Destry's gender and description hadn't traveled to the Take-Down Bar and Grill—yet. After all, the night was still young.

  "What can I get you?" the bartender barked when she stopped at the end of the bar.

  Destry didn't hesitate. She wasn't much of drinker. Wine with dinner and the occasional whiskey when the mood hit. However, when she wanted to bust loose, tequila was her liquor of choice.

  "A shot of Cuervo—gold, if you have it."

  The big man nodded, the muscles on his ink-covered arms flexing as he reached to the top shelf for her request. His movements smooth and efficient, he poured her drink, balanced a slice of lime on the rim before he delivered the glass and a shaker of salt.

  "Six bucks."

  Destry took a fifty from her pocket. She knew her limit and how sloppy she became when she was imprudent about her alcohol intake. When in a strange town and without a wingman—or wing-sister—to have her back, she was careful not to overindulge.

  "Thirty-two for you. Stop serving me—not another drop—when I've used up the rest. Okay?"

  With a laconic nod, he sauntered to the other end of the bar where a customer beckoned.

  The mellow liquid ran down Destry's throat in one gulp, and the fire hit her stomach, a zinging reminder of how quickly she could get flat-on-her-face drunk if she didn't get something in her empty stomach besides the eighty-proof liquor. The burst of lime that squirted into her mouth as she bit into the wedge and a lick of salt was a tease, not a meal.

  Bar food—the greasier, the better—sounded perfect about now. Onion rings were her favorite, but she wasn't picky. Fries, the crispy and salty, would do just fine. Her mouth watered at the thought.

  Destry grabbed a menu just as the corner jukebox's sad-song honkytonk fiddles faded long enough for the crack of a cue against a ball to hit her ears. Intrigued, she shifted until a lone pool player caught her eye. T
he felt-covered table was standard issue, nothing special. On the other hand, the man bent at the waist, his attention fully on his next shot, was worth a second look. And a third. And a fourth.

  Dressed in obligatory jeans and plain, dark t-shirt, her potential dreamboat blended in with the crowd—except he didn't. Something made her eyes linger on the line of his back while the sweet curve of his ass made her lick her lips.

  A recognizable and welcome surge of desire heated Destry's blood. When the man made a particularly difficult shot, he stood with a satisfied grin, his teeth visible through a thick, mountain man-like beard. Her pulse ticked up in tempo. Bad dental hygiene might not be at the top of most women's deal breaker list, but she wasn't most women. Give her a healthy set of pearly whites, plus a butt you could bounce a quarter off, and she was halfway to naked.

  "Ready for another?" the bartender asked.

  With a short nod, Destry reached for the drink.

  "Do you know the guy at the pool table?"

  Destry figured she should ask—just in case Mr. Gorgeous turned out to be from a branch of the long-reaching Clyde family tree.

  "Been in a couple times in the last month. Probably on vacation. We get a lot of campers and fishermen this time of year." For the first time, his focus landed fully on Destry, a speculative glint in his narrowed gaze. "Can't say I've seen you around before. Just passing through?"

  "Close enough."

  Taking her drink, Destry sauntered toward the pool table. She felt the bartender's eyes follow her progress but didn't care. He could wonder about her all he wanted. As the daughter of a world-famous beauty/socialite and an unrepentant career criminal, she was used to stares and speculation.

  The secret to survival? Give as little personal information as possible and if the questions kept coming? Give the asker a metaphorical finger—occasionally a literal one—and walk away.

  Destry leaned her hip against the table and smiled at the stranger. She'd learned the art of flirting from her sisters—then added a few touches of her own. The tilt of her head, the curve of her lips, the directness of her burnished, amber gaze. She didn't come right out and tell the man she was interested, but he'd have to be blind not to read her signals.

  "Mind if I join you?" she asked, the naturally husky timbre of her voice drawing his attention. "Unless you're waiting for someone?"

  "All alone." Interest heated his dark-blue eyes. However, like a casual shrug, his tone held little emotion. "Help yourself."

  With a nod, Destry set her backpack on a chair and her drink on the table before she took a cue from where they formed a neat row on the wall. She didn't ask the man's name because she didn't want to know. The hint of Irish she heard in his voice intrigued her, but not enough to ask for an explanation. The best part of the fun was the element of mystery.

  Better than a fight—and less likely to end in bloodshed—tall, dark, and handsome was the perfect middle road to help her drive the crazy from her system.

  Destry cocked her hip to one side as she watched the man rack up the balls. He seemed focused on his task, but she knew his attention was more on her than the task at hand. Happy to give him a show, she slowly chalked the end of the stick. The caressing motion of her fingers, her stance, the way her tongue lightly traced her lower lip were a deliberate come-on. Tonight wasn't about subtle. She wanted him to understand how the evening would end—if he were so inclined. When his gaze met hers, his smile slow, she had her answer. He recognized her invitation. A little flirting to start. Maybe—probably—more. Game on.

  "Straight eight ball?"

  "Why not?" Destry sipped her drink. The buzz in her ears was a reminder of the food she meant to order but forgot when she let herself get sidetracked by the lure of a pretty face. "Want to add a little interest to the proceedings?"

  He raised an eyebrow and chuckled.

  "Already pretty interesting. What did you have in mind?"

  "Loser pays for drinks and snacks."

  "Sounds fair."

  Blessed with the ability to retain information at an impressive rate, Destry snagged the only waitress and ordered one of everything from the menu. Thin to the point of gauntness, with a seen-it-all weariness, the woman scribbled on her pad with impressive efficiency.

  The waitress turned to the bearded man.

  "Anything for you?" she asked with a straight face.

  Destry snorted. Laughter loosened her muscles, another outlet for the adrenaline buzzing through her body.

  Though his lips twitched, he met the waitress' serious expression with one of his own.

  "A pitcher of beer and two glasses."

  Win or lose, Destry planned to take care of the check. She knew looks could often deceive, but her companion didn't strike her as a man of means. Even if his finances were flush, she didn't care. When on one of her adventures, she always paid her own way—always.

  "Ladies first."

  Aww, he's a gentleman, Destry thought as she moved to the end of the table. As she leaned forward, she wiggled her hips, drawing his gaze. Good manners weren't as common as one might think. However, her new friend was about to learn a hard lesson. Where pool was concerned, give her an inch, she would take a mile without a second thought—or an ounce of guilt.

  Before the man could take his eyes off her butt, Destry sank three easy shots in the corner pocket—whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. A little rusty, before long, the skills she acquired as a teenager came rushing back.

  Arms crossed, the man watched without comment as she cleared the table. When the final ball disappeared, he let out a long, low whistle.

  "Something tells me I've been played," he said just as the food arrived. Shaking his head, he snatched up the bill before Destry could react. He took out his wallet and handed the waitress a credit card. "You won, I pay."

  "Didn't we decide on best two out of three?"

  "Nope." White teeth flashed through his dark beard. He poured the beer, handing Destry a filled glass. "Be a gracious winner and drink up."

  Destry cursed herself and her need to show off. The bet aside, she hated to be in anyone's debt. Biting into an onion ring liberally coated with ranch dressing, she chewed and made a silent oath to pay the man back before the evening ended.

  "Bartender said you reached your limit." The waitress gave Destry's beer a knowing look as she set the pre-ordered tequila onto the table.

  Not the least offended, she returned the shot glass—untouched—to the serving tray. "Tell the bartender, thank you."

  "Drinking problem?" the man asked as he tossed a fried pickle into his mouth.

  "More of a stupid problem. The more I imbibe, the dumber I get." Breathing in his clean, distinctive male scent, Destry held his gaze as she ran a finger along his cue stick. "I prefer to make all my choices with a clear head. Eliminates any morning-after regrets. Understand?"

  "Yes." He leaned close, his lips a whisper away from her ear. "I approve and agree—wholeheartedly."

  Destry's smile widened. Better and better. The Irish in his voice pleased her ears. He made her laugh. He smelled like heaven and seemed to possess higher than average intelligence. She'd dated men back in New York who didn't tick as many boxes as her anonymous pool partner.

  "Excuse me." Destry picked up her backpack. "Bathroom break."

  Nodding, she could feel his gaze follow her across the room. Lord knew she wasn't a prude, and she didn't need to know a man's life history to sleep with him. However, she could count on one finger the number of times she jumped into bed before she knew if she at least liked the guy—a big reason she watched her alcohol intake.

  Destry considered herself a good judge of character—not perfect, but damn close. As she washed her hands, she looked into the cracked mirror and made up her mind to end the evening wrapped in the arms of a gorgeous man.

  "Are you married?" she asked, returning her bag to the chair near the pool table. She picked up her beer, sipped, and gauged his rea
ction. Surprise flitted through the man's dark blue eyes.

  "Interesting." He drew out the word as he walked around the table and considered his next shot. "First personal question you ask has to do with my matrimonial status. Should I be worried?"

  A teasing quality entered his voice, the brogue deepening, and Destry smiled.

  "Worried about what?" She was happy to play along.

  "If we go back to your motel room, will your father burst through the door, shotgun in hand?"

  The idea of Miller Destry as an irate parent, worried about her virtue, was so ridiculous, she almost spewed her beer onto the floor. Wiping the corner of her mouth, she shook her head.

  "You're safe from all my relatives," she assured him. "I asked because I don't sleep with married men."

  "I could lie."

  "I'd know." Actually, she wouldn't. But why tell him? "Yes, or no, blue eyes?"

  "No." With a short, sure stroke, he sent a ball across the table straight into the far pocket. "I answered your question, now answer one of mine."

  "Ask away." Whether she answered was still to be determined.

  "Are we going to sleep together?"

  When he missed his next shot, Destry bumped him out of the way.

  "Pretty sure I already made my position on the subject clear." To illustrate her point, she lined up her cue stick but deliberately missed. The shot she left him was like her, not a slam dunk, but definitely makeable—if he had the skill to seal the deal. "Ball's in your court, gorgeous. Next move is up to you."

  Before he could answer, raised voices from across the room caught their attention. A group of four men huddled together around the jukebox. One—a dead ringer for Harvey Clyde—pointed Destry's way.

  In a flash, she shifted from flirty and sexy to survival mode.

  "You should leave. Now," she told the man by her side. "Exit at the back."

  Instead of confused by her command, his eyes turned cool, his expression calm as he glanced over his shoulder.