"You play the piano. You dance. Very artistic for a former bad boy. Did you rebel because your mother insisted you learn?"
"First, I still have enough bad boy in me to make things interesting."
Liam sent her a pointed look as if he dared her to dispute his claim. How could she? Whenever she looked into his deep blue eyes, she knew exactly what he meant. Not bad to the bone, but just enough to make her mouth water.
"Second," he continued with a self-satisfied smile. "Music was, and is, something I enjoy. As for dancing, Dad pushed my brothers and me in that direction. Claimed, since he won our mother's heart with a waltz, a man couldn't court a woman properly with two left feet."
Liam spoke of his father with such warmth and indulgent affection, he seemed almost too good to be true.
"Was he right—about the dancing?"
"I can't say from personal experience. However, my brothers are married—happily by their accounts. You'd have to ask their wives if a dance sealed the deal."
Everything about tonight charmed Destry. Liam, the pub, the owner, and the stories he told about his family. Destry felt as if she were inside a bubble she knew couldn't last. But for now, she was content to float along and hope her little cocoon didn't burst too soon.
Liam pulled to a stop a few feet from the mansion's front steps.
"You don't have to walk me to the door."
"Have to? No. Want to? Definitely." He stood to one side as Destry keyed in the security code. "I'd like to see you again."
Much to her surprise, Destry felt the same. When Liam's gaze drifted to her lips, she decided to get something clear before she said yes.
"No sex."
"Did I ask?"
"You were about to. And if not tonight, you'd ask after our next date. Or the next."
"Three dates is the standard waiting period," Liam pointed out. "And by my estimation, we're technically on our second."
"Technically, you're wrong." Destry loved a good debate—especially when victory was a slam dunk. "The first time we met was by chance. The night was unplanned."
"A date has to be planned?" Liam didn't look convinced.
"Otherwise we'd call it something else. Date brings to mind something specific. Not necessarily formal, but definitely structured."
"I'll concede the point. Don't get too smug." Liam stepped closer, crowding without touching until her back was to the door. "You swore we wouldn't have sex again. Now, the discussion has shifted from never to when. Point to me."
"Clean out your ears, Mr. Stanton. Not when, if. The ultimate decision is in flux. Four more dates, and—"
"Four!" Consternation entered Liam's eyes, turning the clear blue cloudy. "When did you say four?"
"Five has always been my personal number."
"We had sex the first night we met." He sighed. "Which wasn't a date."
"You're learning."
"What about the tea we shared in your sitting room?"
"Again, unplanned."
"Fine." With a frustrated growl, Liam placed a hand on the door, just to the left of her head. "Meet me for breakfast, and lunch, and coffee. After dinner, we can go back to my place."
"One date a day, Mr. Stanton."
"I wish I could call you a tease, Ms. Benedict. But you're too straightforward. Except for that little chain around your ankle—whatever you call it."
"My anklet?" Destry chuckled. "What does a piece of jewelry have to do with anything?"
"Tiny, but a big, sexy tease. My eyes are drawn to little, round things—"
"Pearls."
"If you say so." Liam's breath brushed against Destry's ear. "You have spectacular legs. Toned and strong. The pearl and gold… anklet? Funny name. The thing drew my eyes up your shapely calf, to the hem of your dress. And since I've already seen you naked, but you've barred me from heaven…"
"My jewelry is a tease."
"Exactly."
"I'd apologize if your reasoning weren't looney tunes." Destry turned the doorknob and slipped into the house. "Good night, Mr. Stanton."
"Don't I get a kiss?"
"Not until date number three."
Liam looked so disappointed, Destry had to laugh.
"What about tomorrow night?" he called out.
"Come to dinner. Six thirty for drinks."
With a wave, she closed the door. As she took off her shoes, her eyes landed on the anklet, and she grinned.
Starting up the stairs, an extra spring in her step, Destry made a mental note to give her sister a great big thank you hug. Who would have guessed a few pieces of metal could cause such a sexy fuss? Bryce, that's who.
CHAPTER TWELVE
~~~~
THE SMELL OF something amazing beckoned Destry to the kitchen. By the time she arrived, a rack of freshly baked peanut butter cookies cooled on a rack as Mrs. Finch prepped another tray for the oven.
"Stop me at one." Destry let out a sigh of pleasure as she bit into the still-warm goodness. "Two. Two's my limit."
"Sit." With an indulgent smile, Mrs. F. poured a glass of milk. "Eat as many as you want. You could use to put on a few pounds."
Normally, Destry took the gentle admonishment with a grain of salt. Mrs. Finch thought everyone looked too skinny. However, this time, the cook was right.
Without a job, or mission, or an adventure to keep her busy, Destry was extra careful what she ate. She indulged during breakfast, but the rest of the day ate little. Combined with her daily exercise regimen, the weight crept off before she noticed the difference.
"A few pounds at the most." More like ten, but she didn't share the fact with Mrs. F.
"A few ounces is too much if you want to maintain an active, athletic lifestyle."
"Three cookies." Destry was happy to give in. She leaned against the counter, sipping her milk. "I'm sorry to drop a guest on you at the last minute."
"Since when is a day's notice last minute?" When Destry reached for the uncooked dough, Mrs. Finch swatted her hand away without missing beat. "Even if your friend dropped in at the last second, I always make plenty."
Leftovers went to the homeless shelter. The woman had a big, generous heart, bless her.
"Promise you won't go to any trouble. Liam is a friend, no need to fuss."
Mrs. Finch smiled, nodded, and Destry chuckled. She knew the cook would do exactly as she pleased, which meant a huge meal with several courses including a spectacular dessert. The food would be amazing—as always. Everyone would be pleasantly stuffed, and dear Mrs. Finch would be over the moon doing what made her happy.
"Do you know if your Liam likes lobster?"
"He isn't my Liam, Mrs. F."
"Salmon would be better, just in case." Her mind on the menu, the cook continued as if Destry hadn't spoken. "Or lamb. No, roast loin of pork. Prime rib? Perhaps I should prepare several choices. Or, you could call Liam and ask what he prefers."
"Go with the salmon."
"Good choice. I already called Dougal. He'll pick me the best and freshest and deliver the whole fish in plenty of time."
"Handy to have a lovesick butcher at your beck and call."
"Now, for dessert."
"Chocolate cake." Destry's favorite and something she knew Mrs. F. could make in her sleep with one hand tied behind her back.
"Perfect." The cook smoothed a hand over Destry's hair, her eyes a little misty. "You never bring anyone home. Is he special?"
"Haven't you always said that everyone is special in his or her own way?" Destry kept her tongue firmly in her cheek.
"Don't be cute. Love isn't something to scoff at. Ask your sisters."
"Three weddings will keep you so busy, you won't need to worry about me."
"Worry comes with children." She didn't have any by birth, but Destry, Andi, Calder, and Bryce were the daughters of her heart. "As do joy and tears. When your sisters walk down the aisle, the two will meld in the best way. As for you—"
/>
"Don't rush me."
"The day will come. And I'll be here, happy and crying."
The odds Destry would marry were slim to none. She could try to explain, but she didn't have words, just a feeling deep down to her bones. Because she didn't want to cause Mrs. Finch distress, she kept the truth to herself.
"Excuse me." Blanche stood in the doorway, a worried look on her face. "Some people are here to see you. I put them in the sitting room."
One glance at the card the maid handed her and Destry's appetite was gone. She set aside the half-eaten cookie as she considered her options.
"Something wrong?"
"No, Mrs. F. Nothing for you to worry about."
Just a nagging pain in my backside that flares up from time to time.
"Should I bring refreshments?" Blanche asked when Destry entered the foyer.
"No!" She didn't mean to sound so harsh. She took a breath and sent the maid a reassuring smile. "My guests won't be here long enough for coffee."
Guests. The description was so far off the mark, Destry almost laughed. Almost. Unfortunately, in all the years they hounded her, she had yet to find anything funny about the FBI.
Shoulders back, Destry kept the expression on her face blank as she opened the sitting room door. She wasn't nervous—after so many times, she knew the routine. She was annoyed, bordering on angry. She knew from experience to keep her cool. The best way to handle the feds was to give them nothing. No information, and most of all, no emotions.
"Agent Treason." A humorless man, Destry wondered if the irony of his name ever hit him. "Long time no see."
"Ms. Benedict."
Joshua Treason. After thirty years with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, he was as far up the ladder as he was likely to climb. A mid-level agent who dreamed of the day when he would take down a fish big enough to get his elusive promotion. Destry's father didn't qualify.
But like the bulldog he resembled, Treason held onto the idea of Miller like a favorite bone he should have buried years ago. The agent wanted to believe, if convicted, her father would roll over on everyone and anyone to gain a reduced sentence.
Theoretically, Treason was right. Miller's loyalty lay with himself and no one else. However, to get her father, the agent needed some dirt. Enter Destry. For nearly a decade, just after she turned eighteen—the first time he could question her without a guardian's permission—he tried and failed, to get something, anything, from her.
The game Treason insisted she participate in was old and futile. But he kept trying. They each played their parts in what she had come to think of as a pathetic version of Les Miserable. Treason looked a little like how she pictured Javert. However, Miller Destry was woefully miscast as Jean Valjean. Try as he might, her father wasn't even the hero of his own story, let alone a piece of classic literature.
"Where are your manners, Agent Treason? You haven't introduced me to your new partner."
Treason shrugged as the woman stepped forward, hand extended.
"Agent Flora Simms."
Bright, eager, she had a quiet intelligence in her dark eyes. Unlike her counterpart's sloppy appearance, her ubiquitous black suit was pressed and tailored to her slim frame.
Destry recognized the signs. Agent Flora Simms had ambition written all over her, and if the history of Treason's revolving door of partners held, she wouldn't be his junior for long.
"I'd ask you to sit, but you won't be here long enough to get comfortable."
"Ms. Benedict, you know why we're here."
"Of course. Little changes in your world, Agent Treason. I almost feel sorry for you."
They formed a triangle. Agent Treason by the fireplace. By the piano stood Agent Simms. Destry, near the door, turned until she faced the woman, a deliberate snub to the older man.
"You read my file? And my father's?"
"I did," Agent Simms nodded.
"Are you a reasonable woman, Agent?"
"Most of the time."
In spite of herself, Destry could relate to Simms. They both had to deal with obstinate men who thought they were smarter than everyone else, but in reality, weren't.
"The day I turned eighteen, any regular contact with Miller Destry ended. At best, we see each other a few times a year—usually less. We exchange pleasantries. He asks for money. I say no. End of visit."
"Sounds rough."
"Hardly." Destry shook her head. "For a moment, let's say I wanted to unburden myself to you. Spill my guts, so to speak."
"Do you?"
"No, and I never will. Good or bad, he's my father."
"Not a very good one, from all accounts."
Destry ignored Agent Treason's grumbled words.
"Everything I know about my father's activities, I learned when we were forced to spend time together. Before I had a choice. In other words, ancient history. If he engaged in something illegal, the statute of limitations ran out long ago."
"When pulled, a single thread, no matter how thin, can sometimes lead to a bigger ball of yarn."
"Interest analogy, Agent Simms. Is my father the thread, or am I?"
"Jesus," Treason mumbled. "Women and their endless chatter will be the death of me."
"Did you say something about women?" Destry heard every word, but she couldn't resist a jab at her hapless nemesis. "Want to repeat yourself for the record?"
Never a patient man, Treason barreled across the room, stopping close enough so Destry could hear the breath wheeze from his lungs.
"Yesterday, your father was spotted in New York City. He never sticks his head out of his hole unless money is involved. What do you know?"
Did the man ever listen? Destry's father kept the details of his business to himself. He never volunteered information, she never asked.
"Ms. Benedict." Agent Simms stepped in front of her partner, redirecting Destry's focus to her. "As Miller Destry's daughter, naturally you love him. I understand your loyalty."
No one understood Destry's relationship with her father. Even her sisters who knew everything, couldn't fully grasp how complex her feelings were. Love? Sometimes. Hate? Often. Anger and disappointment? Definitely. Miller was a complex man. And weak, and greedy, and charming. And, on occasion, loving. And, the only father she would ever have.
Simms was right about one thing. Loyalty, misplaced or not, ran deep.
"Tell me, Agent. Is my father wanted for murder?"
Treason let out a groan as his chin hit his chest. He knew what was next. Every interview he conducted with her ended the same.
"No." Simms frowned at her partner's reaction. Because she didn't share their long history, she walked right into Destry's trap.
"Is Miller suspected as an accomplice in someone's death?"
"Not that I'm aware."
"Then until the day comes when he is, we're done. Good luck, Agent Simms. I'm sure your rise through the FBI will be sure and steady. But if you continue to believe something I tell you will be a stepping stone, you'll be sadly disappointed. Just ask your partner."
Treason's face turned a deeper shade of red than his usual color.
"Enjoy your day, Agent Treason." Destry's lips curved upward, but her gaze was cool. "You know the way out."
Destry exited through the French doors before either agent could respond. Taking the cobblestone path, she brushed her fingers over the vibrant, velvety rosebuds without really seeing them.
Treason and Simms didn't know any more than when they had arrived. But they'd given Destry all the information she needed. Miller was back in town, and it was only a matter of time before he contacted her.
What would he want? Money, of course. However, she knew from bitter experience the kind of crap storm that often followed in Miller's wake. He would blow in, cause an uproar, and leave someone else to clean up his mess. Once, and only once, she took on the job. Never again. Her father knew her resolve was rock solid. But every now and then, whe
n the hole was deep, he tried to pull her in again. And failed.
If the FBI had picked up his trail, something was definitely up. Destry sighed as a familiar weight settled on her shoulders.
"Damn it, Miller. What have you done this time?"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
~~~~
AS LIAM PREPARED for dinner at the Benedict mansion, he found himself whistling. Destry was the evening's draw, not the meal.
Full of surprises, whenever he thought he had her figured out, she threw him an unexpected curveball. Four dates before they could have sex again? No kissing until date number three? If, as he suspected, she made up the rules as they went along, he wouldn't complain.
Destry was a fascinating woman. Quick and nimble, the way her mind worked was a thing of beauty. He didn't like to wait for anything. But, just this once, Liam had no doubt he would enjoy every second.
Five minutes early, he knocked on the front door, a bouquet of flowers in one hand, a bottle of nice Bordeaux in the other. Traditional hostess gifts. But in some ways, he was a traditional man.
Born into a warm, loving family, his parents showed their affection for each other, their sons, and friends, in an open, demonstrative way. They frequently entertained and enjoyed a diverse social circle.
Rich, poor, educated, or the farmer next door who had to drop out of school after the eighth grade to help support his family. They judged a person by character first and taught their children to live by the same edict.
Family values. For some, too often used as a weapon to shame and humiliate, the term had taken on a tarnished image. For Liam, raised by parents who taught by example, the words rang true as much today as when he was a young boy in Ireland.
The love they felt for their families was another thing he and Destry had in common. Her mother and father aside, when she spoke about her sisters, Liam could tell the bond was strong.
Liam had yet to meet the man who opened the front door, but whose face was unmistakable. Zach Devlin was one of the most successful movie directors in the world. As far as the public and critics were concerned, he couldn't put a foot wrong.
"Disappointed?" Zach laughed. He stepped back so Liam could enter. "Destry wanted to greet you, but I had Adam distract her so I could get to you first."
Four Simple Words: A Badass and the Billionaires Contemporary Romance (The Sisters Quartet Book 4) Page 13
