Tallulah Speed (Tallulah Cove Book 5)

by Casey Hagen

  HAGEN NOVELS, LLC

  KENNEBUNK, MAINE

  Copyright © 2019 by Casey Hagen

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.

  Hagen Novels, LLC

  www.CaseyHagenAuthor.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Tallulah Speed/Casey Hagen. — 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-0-0000000-0-0

  It’s amazing how one day someone walks into your life, then the next day you wonder how you lived without them.

  ―UNKNOWN

  Contents

  The Sting of Betrayal 1

  The Mechanic 15

  The Dame 35

  Out of Control 50

  Wild Ride 68

  The Family You Make 82

  The Fire 98

  Deception 115

  Exposure 135

  Missed Opportunities 150

  Dress Me Up 166

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Sting of Betrayal

  VALENTINA’S CHEST SNAPPED forward. Her hands jerked to the top of the steering wheel working as a meager cushion for her forehead when her 1969 ZL1 Camaro slid off the mile-long road course nestled behind her estate on the eastern outskirts of Tallulah Cove, California.

  The screeching of tires pierced her ears. The scent of burning rubber singed her sinuses. Her body lurched to the side as the right rear panel smacked into one of the many oaks running alongside the track before she came to an abrupt stop.

  She sat stunned, her lungs burning, the pop and hiss from under her crunched hood echoing in her ears. She dropped her head back to the headrest, grateful the back end of the Camaro had collided sideways against a tree, slowing her momentum before she hit the second tree head-on.

  Especially since her recently installed harness failed after the first hit.

  She pushed the wavy strands of her dark hair away from her face with a shaking hand. Her lungs heaved as she struggled to catch her breath. Aches settled in from her neck down to her thighs. Judging by the dull pain in her skull, she would have one hell of a headache brewing at any moment.

  She unzipped her white leather jacket just enough to slide out her cell phone. The cracked, blank screen mocked her. She dropped it onto the passenger seat, littered with broken glass from the passenger door window. Apparently, she had damaged more than just the rear panel. She’d probably totaled the million-dollar car.

  That stung.

  Ignoring her now-throbbing head, she shoved open her car door and climbed out. Slamming the door shut, she took off toward the end of the course. She had about a quarter mile to walk before reaching the turnoff that led to the expansive garage holding her rare, luxury car collection. Her father’s most prized possessions had been left to his only child in his will. Not that he hadn’t left her everything, but those cars were her absolute favorite.

  In the past month, three of those cars had failed in some way. First, the 1921 Helica de Leyat had blown a tire. Easy enough to explain away, as the cars had been sitting for years before her father’s death. He may not have wanted to drive them, but she had been itching to drive them since she was a teenager. Tire issues had been expected.

  Now it seemed like so much more as one thing after another had gone wrong. The tires on the Helica, then the engine fire in the 1955 Mercedes 300SL Gullwing, and now the brakes of the Camaro.

  Between that and her dad’s lifelong car expert in San Jose going MIA, the one he’d kept on salary, something was up, and she was going to get to the damn bottom of it.

  She followed the brick pavers winding through the back gardens to the first set of French doors along the back of the mansion, leading straight into her office. Living on a gated estate, she’d never felt the need to lock her doors.

  She’d rectify that immediately.

  She scanned her office. She’d had it redone in all white. Hell, the whole house had been redone in white, her favorite color. Plush white carpets, ivory leather furniture, and white lace adorning the massive windows.

  After her father’s death, she had made the estate her sanctuary, the one place in the world where she could relax without the constant demands of her many businesses and public appearances monopolizing her every second.

  Her father, Sergio Giordano, had been larger than life, a real estate mogul with vacation resorts all over the world, but he had been turning more and more control of his businesses over to his trusted team and spending more of his time on the estate. She’d thought he was finally ready to slow down.

  She’d assumed he was finally taking time for himself after raising her as a single father. Her mother, a supermodel, had taken off when Valentina was an infant. Ten months later, she had been found dead of a heroin overdose.

  Her manager had suggested heroin as a way to get back to her pre-baby weight.

  She’d paid the ultimate price for her vanity.

  As it turned out, her father hadn’t been taking time for himself. While Valentina had been running around the globe from photo shoot to photo shoot, fulfilling most of the last of her contractual obligations where her modeling was concerned, her father had been sick. He had refused to see a doctor, and instead he wasted away until he fell asleep one afternoon and never woke up.

  He’d died alone.

  The man who, when Valentina went to him with her desire to be a model, supported her but made sure she knew her worth beyond her beauty. He taught her the ins and outs of his business. He ensured she would never be so desperate that she believed that, without her looks, she had no value.

  She hadn’t been there for him. Now the only way she could be close to him was to cherish the home she’d grown up in, and indulge in their mutual love of cars.

  She lived in a world that required her to be “on” almost every second of every day, because her peers scrutinized her every decision, her every move. This latest car accident and the realization of what it meant penetrated the walls she had constructed, tainting her safe place. Her office walls closed in on her, scraping against her raw nerves like trying to wear leather that had gotten wet and had gone stiff.

  “Dante!” she yelled as she yanked off her leather gloves and tossed them on her desk.

  He rushed through the office door a second later and skidded to a stop when he saw her. “Jesus. What happened to you?”

  “Accident.”

  “What?”

  She stood at her wet bar and poured a full glass of whiskey. She drank half of the contents before she turned to him. “I lost my brakes around the back hairpin turn and lost control of the car.”

  He grasped her arms and searched her from head to toe. “You’re bruising over your left eye. You have a damned photo shoot in two days.”

  “That’s what makeup artists are for.” She winced at the echo of their voices in her pounding head.

  “I’m taking you to the hospital, and I’m calling the police,” he muttered, pulling out his cell phone.

  “I’m fine. I’m not sitting through hours of tests. Oh, and no cops. Not until we think this through.”

 
“You need to go to the ER,” Dante said.

  Her gaze snapped to his. “I may have crashed my car, but there is nothing wrong with my hearing. Again, no,” she replied, giving him a look that brooked no argument. She usually wasn’t such a bitch, but frustration had gotten the better of her. She yanked the zipper of her now-ripped leather jacket and peeled it off.

  Her favorite jacket. The buttery leather hugged every part of her just right. The waist never rode up in the back. The goddamned thing fit her like a glove, and just like that, her third accident in as many weeks rendered it garbage. Not that she couldn’t afford another, but that wasn’t the damned point.

  She had enough money to buy a small country, but no amount of money could keep her safe from whoever wanted to hurt her, or worse.

  “What I need is to tighten my inner circle and find out who the hell is trying to get to me.”

  “I agree, but the most pressing thing at this very moment is to rule out any chance they did significant damage,” he said with his hands on his hips, almost as stubborn as she.

  If anyone could make her cave, it was Dante Corrier. Her best friend since college and a financial genius, she had convinced him to leave his job with Harden Financial and oversee her personal finances, a full time job since the creation of her four worldwide businesses. She had almost fully disentangled herself from modeling while she established her own lines of makeup, skin care products, hair care products, and clothing.

  In five years, with his advice and now full-time counsel, she had made Valentina Giordano a name no one would forget. She’d made her own money and shown everyone she was more than a pretty face, more than a rich man’s princess daughter. She had proven that, beyond the face and body she’d been blessed with, she also had one hell of a brain and an aggressive work ethic.

  “I’ll see a doctor, but I want one brought here. I’m not getting into another car on this property, and neither are you or any of my staff.” She had fifteen people in her employ on the property alone between housekeeping, gardening, and her chef, just to name a few, and she wasn’t risking a single life.

  Most of her staff had been at the estate for her full twenty-nine years, first employed by her father. Some of them she’d grown up with, played with, as her dad had been rigid about who she spent time with. These people, some the nearest thing she had to her own extended family, had families of their own, and they would all make it safely back to them.

  And they were all Tallulah Cove natives. They lived where they played and took care of their neighbors.

  Even those a few miles outside of the city limits.

  Tallulah Cove had nurtured her one way or another for her entire life. The Little Laguna of Mid-Coast Cali had nurtured her, and as she gained more fame, protected her, took pride in her, and always welcomed her home with open arms, no matter where her career took her.

  No one would harm a single resident. Not on her watch.

  Dante placed the call and paced the room while talking to the doctor, explaining the accident. He relayed a ton of questions about symptoms that got on her very last nerve. Needing a minute, just a minute, she lay on her chaise, pulled the cashmere throw off the back, and closed her eyes.

  She needed calm; she needed quiet, and she needed to figure out what the hell to do next.

  The cars. Whoever had done this had attacked the cars. All of a sudden, the disappearance of her father’s trusted mechanic seemed suspicious. Even if she could locate him alive and well, she couldn’t trust that he hadn’t had something to do with the sabotage.

  She should have had the security cameras running, damn it!

  First order of business: have them all activated again and make sure every square inch of the property had coverage, which meant installing a few more.

  Next, start looking into her staff and their whereabouts. Did any of them have anything against her? Did they know about cars?

  Jesus, did she really believe any of them would try to harm her?

  No, an unbiased third party or the police would insist that she consider it.

  “The doctor is on his way. Hey! Don’t go to sleep,” Dante said.

  She flinched. “I’m not going to sleep, damn it…I’m formulating a plan.”

  “There’s time for that. Let’s get you well first.”

  “We’re going to start taking precautions, and we’re starting right now. While we wait, we’re making a list. First, we need a private investigator to look into the staff, just to make sure they’re all clear. We need a security expert to get the property monitored. You have anyone in mind for either?”

  “I don’t right off the top of my head, but I know someone who does.”

  “Can we trust him?”

  “Everett Harden? I’d trust him with my life.”

  She raised a brow. “Yes, but would you trust him with mine?”

  He smirked at her smart-ass comment. “Definitely.”

  “Call him.”

  “I’m on it,” he said.

  She grabbed his hand before he could go. “Dante?”

  He sat next to her and smoothed his fingers over her forehead, a hard glare in his eyes.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. It wasn’t often she let her guard down. She’d had to be a hard-ass, had to have a thick skin, but with Dante, she could just be.

  “Always, Val. We’ll find out who did this. I promise.” Dante pushed off the chaise and headed for the door.

  “Dante? You think this Everett Harden knows a good mechanic, one that specializes in rare cars?”

  “If he doesn’t know one, he’ll find one.”

  “Good. I want the best…an expert on mechanics and body work. I want him here yesterday. I don’t care the cost.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  She massaged her temples and sighed. This whole thing sounded like ridiculous paranoia, but she sure as hell wasn’t ready to gamble her life on it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Mechanic

  JEREMY PRICE GAZED OUT THE large plate-glass window of his office across from his body shop. He’d built his best team yet, rendering him unnecessary in his own business. As time marched on, he’d found himself in his office more and more, using his expertise in exotic cars for consulting purposes.

  And growing more and more distant from Tallulah Cove.

  That wasn’t his damn plan. Not that he really had a plan per se, but if he did, spending most of his time in an office wouldn’t be a part of it.

  A consultant on rare automobiles belonged in big cities, or at least on the outskirts, not in Tallulah Cove. Locals appreciated the eclectic little town with their wide variety of revered restaurants, shops, and rare section of beach along the rugged Pacific Coast Highway, and sure they drew in tourists, but vacationers came and went during a narrow window of warm weather before they flitted off again, leaving just the locals to support area businesses.

  Not that he would know much about supporting area businesses. He hadn’t been out to eat in over a year, despite the new gastropub that had opened in the heart of downtown offering what seemed like every craft beer under the sun.

  Relegated to consulting meant he wouldn’t work forty hours, and with his sister married to Lathan now, the tentative connection he had with the town slid away because he hardly ever saw her anymore.

  Part of it was his father. He knew it even if he didn’t say the words, but ever since his father’s decline into Alzheimer’s, he’d avoided people. Avoided the questions.

  Oh, the locals meant well. After all, his father started Price’s, and when he did, he’d become a well-loved fixture in Tallulah Cove before the town had grown and had begun being referred to as the little laguna of mid-coast Cali. Hell, he’d built such a good reputation that at least thirty percent of their clientele headed over from Mariana, about fifteen miles to the east, despite there being two shops a hell of a lot closer. Jeremy had taken on two new mechanics just so he could continue to serve the demand. So it was only natural that they
asked after him every time they saw Jeremy.

  And every time, it was one more reminder of what he and Jack were losing with every minute.

  When his father no longer had moments of recognition, the questions became harder and harder to swallow until finally he blew up during a coffee run—okay, and donut—at Pastry Masters and in his freak out, crushed a powdered jelly donut right in his hand.

  And when Jack had stopped in after a difficult tow and heard about it, she’d climbed right up his nut about it. Hell, he even missed that, but now, she ran Jack’s Towing part time and spent the other part of her time starting up a second Jack’s about an hour away, giving them a secondary spot so she could break up her week between Tallulah Cove and San Jose in an effort to reduce the commute for Lathan as he took more and more control over his deceased brother’s company.

  Now Jeremy had no one around to harass. He missed it. He missed her.

  Jesus, married. Who’d have thought?

  She’d grown up and left the nest. With their dad in a permanent care facility and having no memory of his children, and his mother out of the picture since she abandoned them when they were young, Jeremy had felt the need to watch over her, protect her, guide her…well, as much as you could guide a strong, beer-drinking woman who drove tow trucks for a living.

  Basically, he guided whenever she allowed him to.

  But now she was gone. She’d moved on. She’d gone from sharing the family home with him to marrying Lathan in a matter of weeks.

  At one time, she had sworn off marriage. She’d never wanted to fall in love. She’d made those feelings well known over the years, yet she had married Lathan in the blink of an eye. Ten months later, Jeremy still reeled. His life fit about as well as a pair of dry-rotted tube socks.

  Grabbing his laptop, he headed for the house. He’d had about all he could handle of ivory walls and office equipment for one day. His fingers itched to get dirty doing some good old-fashioned hard work. He needed a project. He’d always dreamed of a project. Maybe it was time to search for one.