Tallulah Speed (Tallulah Cove Book 5)
Page 2
He’d never envisioned being able to put the kind of time, effort, and money into a top-to-bottom restoration, yet here he was…ready for something more. With no wife and kids of his own, and no plans to have any after seeing how loving a woman who walked away tore his father to shreds, it was the perfect time. Hell, it might even keep him from the temptation of tangling with a woman for more than a night or two of great sex and keep his ass out of the hot seat of a real relationship.
He scrolled through auction sites and sent emails to several contacts to be on the lookout for rare models. Models he had always dreamed of. He’d love to get his hands on a 1954 Oldsmobile F-88 or maybe a 1948 Talbot Lago Grand Sport, but man, that was one hell of a wish list. He’d need Santa, Glinda the Good Witch, the all-powerful Oz, and maybe the hand of God to intervene if he had a prayer of coming across either of those.
Even if he did, they had price tags that made men weep. Working condition with decent bodies, they ran between two and four million. The shitted-up version? Considerably less, but he might still have to sell his soul to the devil to make it happen.
Or maybe an organ on the black market.
Maybe he should start smaller. A 1969 ZL1 Camaro might just do the trick. He’d seen one up for auction. He opened it up again and bookmarked it. The car had rusted clean through the floor boards and several of the side panels.
The lights and glass? All smashed. It had spent the better party of thirty years sitting in a field behind a dilapidated barn in Wisconsin, according to the summary. Eventually vandals had taken a shot at it.
Only an opening bid of a cool 300K.
Enough money to elevate his heart rate. Not enough to cause a stroke.
So…right in his budget. Kinda.
He signed into his bank accounts and went over the projections for the business, just to reassure himself he wasn’t about to do something monumentally stupid.
He dialed the auction house to see if Aaron was in so maybe he could get some extra details on the car, something frowned upon, but since he’d done Aaron a handful of favors over the past couple of years, he had no problem calling in one of his own.
On the first ring, the doorbell echoed through the house with an agressive knock to follow. He hung up before anyone could answer and opened the front door.
“Are you Jeremy Price?”
Call him crazy, but when three guys with dark sunglasses stand at your door, two of them the size of tree trunks, you didn’t just offer up your identity.
He crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. “Who’s asking?”
Jeremy focused on the man in the middle, the one of average height so Jeremy could look down on him. He ran a hand through his short-cropped brown hair, slid off his sunglasses, and hooked them in his dress shirt pocket. “Dante Corrier,” he said, reaching out a hand.
Jeremy shook it, relieved to find that Dante had a solid handshake. Based on that, Jeremy would give him exactly thirty seconds to make this interruption worth his while.
“Jeremy Price. What can I do for you?”
“May I come in?”
Jeremy snorted. “No.” No need to make them feel all warm and fuzzy so they hung around.
“Look, this is a sensitive matter, and I’d rather not be overheard.”
“You’re in Tallulah Cove. My employees are working a good two hundred feet away, with loud machinery, in an enclosed building. Who do you think is going to overhear you?”
The man glanced around with a shrewd, narrowed eye. “I’m trying to protect my best friend, and I’ll take every precaution I can to do so.”
Jeremy held his stare. The guy seemed genuine, but just in case... “Your buddies stay outside.” They didn’t respond, but Jeremy spotted the way the bigger dude’s muscle flexed along his jaw. Well, too bad. His house, his rules. They’re the ones who needed him.
Dante nodded. “Fine.”
Jeremy held the door for him and took more pleasure than he should have at shutting the door in the faces of the other two.
He gestured to the living room. “Have a seat. Can I get you a beer?”
“No, thank you.”
“Well, I’m having one.” He pulled a long-neck bottle of North Stigmata from the fridge, popped the top, and then dropped into what had at one time been his father’s recliner. “I’m all ears.”
“I’m here because when it comes to cars—antique cars—you’re the best in the business.”
Jeremy tilted his head. “Where did you hear that?”
“Everett Harden.”
Well, hell. Dante had friends in high places. And reliable ones. Everett Harden had been a source of invaluable information and guidance when helping his brother-in-law figure out why his profits had inexplicably gone to shit shortly after taking over Kincaid Industries.
Lathan had funded his father’s care in a marriage deal he’d made with Jack, and in doing so, Jeremy had been able take the seed money of the business and grow it with a few aggressive, yet risky investments with Everett’s guidance. Without that help, Jeremy would never have had the money to look into a project of his own.
He’d hated that his sister had made that deal, but he had to admit now that it had all worked out for the best and that Lathan made her happier than he’d ever seen her.
As her brother, he kept a mental block on “how” Lathan made her happy.
“Okay, you’ve definitely got my attention now.”
Dante started pacing. “We think someone is sabotaging my friend, Val’s, antique car collection. Yesterday made the third accident, and it’s all a little too fishy.”
Jeremy shrugged. “So, you need the police.”
Dante shook his head and scratched his cheek. “Val is too high-profile for that just yet. I’m hoping you can go over the vehicles and find the point of sabotage. Also, all three vehicles now need repair and restoration.” Dante held his palms in the air. “If they can be repaired, that is.”
Sure, Jeremy was bored out of his mind, but a potential attempted murder mystery…it had trouble written all over it. But maybe, if the collection was interesting enough…
Jeremy rested his ankle on his knee. “What kind of cars are we talking about?”
“A Helica, a Mercedez Gullwing, and an antique Camaro.”
Jeremy choked on his beer. “Jesus.” He wiped away the beer on his beard. “How many cars are in this collection?”
“Thirty-eight.”
Jeremy couldn’t hide his surprise. His eyebrows had to have shot straight up to his hairline if the feel of his scrunched forehead was any indication. He cleared his throat. “Thirty-eight? Are they all rare like the ones you listed?”
“More or less, yes.”
“So, this friend of yours, Val, has a car collection that could be worth well into the hundred-million-dollar range easy?”
“Yes.”
Jeremy drained the rest of his beer and stood. “I guess I don’t have to worry about being paid.”
Dante smiled. “No, payment will not be a problem.”
Jeremy nodded. “Fine. I’ll get a few things in order here. I can be available in a week.”
Dante shook his head. “It needs to be now.”
Jeremy stood. “I have business to take care of before I just take off for who knows how long.”
“Val will pay a bonus of $100K, if you pack a bag and come with us now.”
So, $100K…that would assuage the pinch in his heart at the $300K starting bid of the Camaro. He might even be able to restore the car without having to give up his favorite beer and commit to a sad, part-time diet of ramen noodles.
“Val better be good for it,” Jeremy said before pulling his cell out of his pocket. He punched in the number for his lead car expert, Kirk. Kirk had been running the daily operation of the shop for quite some time and was the only man Jeremy could trust to hold down the fort with minimal interference.
He got his voicemail, but that wasn’t unusual since the guy had started to tea
Jeremy packed a duffel with enough clothes to last him three days. After that, they would see. Three days was plenty of time to figure out what had happened to Val’s cars—whether this was really sabotage or a paranoid rich dude with way too much time on his hands. Then, he’d have the cars towed to the shop and put his men to work.
He slung his bag over his shoulder and joined Dante in the living room. “Ready to roll, but you sit with the goons.”
Dante smiled. “You should get used to them; they’ll be around for the duration.”
“Looking forward to it.”
They climbed into the sleek, black Lincoln. Jeremy took the front seat and glanced over his shoulder. “So, where are we headed?”
Goon One just stared at him. Goon Two glanced at Dante.
“Toward wine country,” Dante said.
“Of course.” Jeremy snorted. “Where else do old dudes chill with their thirty-eight luxury cars?” He laughed at his joke. No one else did, but hey, he couldn’t help it if they didn’t have a sense of humor.
The working-class neighborhood of Tallulah Cove gave way to lush vegetation backed by a barren, mountainous terrain in the far distance. They probably had a hundred-mile-long drive ahead of them with just light traffic. They’d luck out on the Wednesday afternoon, with it being mid-week and not quite the busy season for Napa.
If you could call a hundred miles of no radio, no phone calls, nothing, not even the audible sound of anyone’s breathing lucking out. The silence only ramped up the tension, giving him a slight headache.
Following a long straightaway, the car slowed, and the driver threw on his blinker.
“I thought you said toward wine country?” he asked.
“I did,” Dante said with an amused smile that only pissed Jeremy off.
“Napa’s still a hundred miles away,” he pointed out.
“You didn’t ask which wine country.”
The driver turned down a private, well-maintained road just past a section of gently rolling hills covered by row after row of grapevines. He’d been so focused on the mountains in the distance, Napa, and his own internal bitching about the quiet that he hadn’t even noticed they were on the edges of Tallulah Cove’s specialty vineyards.
That was what he got for becoming a recluse. The vineyards were there, but he hadn’t realized they were thriving.
They wound through a section of gnarled and twisted olive trees before arriving at a massive circular drive with a raised, limestone fountain dominating in the center.
The house seemed massive, yet small all at the same time. The white stucco and steep peaks gave it a cottage look. From the way it seemed to spread out, a cottage well over 10,000 square feet.
Apparently, those grapes they’d passed were magic grapes because from the looks, the business was really thriving.
Off to the right, behind a cluster of oak trees, lay what looked to be a more modern building with large doors.
The cars.
Jeremy smiled…he couldn’t wait to get a load of this collection.
He glanced back down the driveway, then back to the building, and frowned. The building was tucked away…for someone to sabotage a car in there, they had to not only know about cars, but they had to have knowledge of the building and the ins and outs of the people on the property, since it wasn’t something they spied from the road.
He’d guarantee the culprit was close.
They stopped before the set of double doors, and Jeremy hopped out. Before he even straightened, goons one and two stood between him and the door.
Dante came around. “Follow me.”
Dante led him into a two-story entryway with a curved marble staircase on each side, all leading to a wide landing on the second floor. The house had been bathed in white…so many variations of white. White marble floors, white marble stairs, white furniture, and white walls. The only splashes of color were marbled gray vases here and there, which were close enough to white that it really didn’t count.
Interesting…if anyone on the estate had messed with the cars, they were careful before entering the house again because the house just begged for stains. So much so that he glanced down at his feet to make sure he wasn’t tracking in dirt.
He pictured Val as some sickly germaphobe who’d locked himself away here with his cars and ran meetings via video from his sterile office.
“So, where’s Val?”
Jeremy heard the clicking of heels. Dante smirked and gestured up to the landing.
Jeremy glanced up and locked eyes with…dayuuuum!
“Jeremy Price, meet Valentina Giordano.”
She dragged her index finger along the railing as she took measured steps toward the staircase. A white lace dress hugged every stunning inch of her caramel skin as her heels clicked carefully down each step. Dark hair hung loose, cascading in waves down her back, swinging just above her…yeah.
He’d never seen a more perfect woman. She reached the bottom and stood eye level with him. No smile from those blood-red lips. No emotion he could read, just cool assessment from those heavily made-up charcoal eyes of hers.
She turned to Dante. “This is the expert?” Her eyes roamed over him, her raised eyebrows an indication that she found him lacking.
His mouth quirked. Well, when it came down to it, she needed him…he didn’t need her.
“This is the expert,” Dante confirmed.
“The expert has a name,” Jeremy said.
“Mmm, yes, so Dante said. Let’s take this to my office.” She turned away and gave him a mouthwatering view of her ass, hugged by lace, with just a scrap of white under that lace covering her most private parts.
Valentina, a real-life vixen, a vaguely familiar one. A genuine car lover and collector, too.
All of a sudden, he’d found something a whole lot more interesting than the promise of a rare car collection.
CHAPTER THREE
The Dame
FROM THE LOOKS OF THINGS, Dante had found Valentina a lumberjack rather than a car expert. His red plaid shirt hung open over a snug black t-shirt. He’d rolled the sleeves up to the elbow, exposing impressive muscular forearms, veined and thick, his arms sprinkled with brown hair. She had to give Jeremy credit. He stood tall and confident while she looked him over. Not many people could do that. They squirmed under her scrutiny, but not him.
“So, if you’re a car expert, you won’t mind if I ask you a couple questions, right?” She took a seat behind her desk, crossed her legs, and steepled her fingers, tapping them against her bottom lip.
A bold one, he wandered her office, touching this and that, lifting priceless antiques, roaming his large hands over them, setting them down again, and not answering her.
That’s okay, she could wait him out. This getting to know one another was worthy of savoring.
The image of those hands running along the tops of her open thighs flashed in her head.
Interesting. Another form of getting to know one another. A glimpse into their future perhaps?
Not her type, not by a long shot, but fascinating all the same and the complete opposite of every man she’d been involved with. The dark-haired car guy, with his rugged short beard and mustache, had a natural saunter to his step. His faded blue jeans, an article of clothing she’d never once found attractive, hugged his powerful thighs, his lean hips, and his muscular backside.
He wore his fitted black t-shirt in the confident way the men in her world wore silk dress shirts, but that’s where the similarities ended. At just the right angle, with the plaid shirt open, the t-shirt showed off the curve of hard pecs and tight nipples.
If she had been a man admiring a sultry woman, she’d be loosening her tie and undoing her top button.
He turned to her then, curiosity in his clear green eyes. “I’d worry about your claiming to be a genuine car collector if you didn’t,” he said before propping a hip on her chaise.
She smirked. Point one for the car guy.
His gaze landed on the picture hanging over her. His eyes widened, and a slow smile spread over his face. “I thought you looked familiar. You’re that supermodel, the one who gained fame wearing that little black number a few years back in the Victoria’s Secret show.”
Of course he would know her from that. Not from the four businesses she had built. Not from taking over the helm of her father’s conglomerate.
He saw what everyone saw: just another pretty face.
Well, she was a hell of a lot more than that, and, if nothing else, she’d be sure he knew it before she finished with him. “The Aston Martin Bulldog. Give me the years of production and the original paint colors available,” she said.
“Ahh, the vixen comes out of the gate with a trick question. I like your style.”
Vixen? She supposed she should be insulted, but his playful manner suggested that he meant nothing untoward with the term. “If you’re going to pet-name me, I’ve earned something a bit classier than ‘Vixen.’ Try again.”
He perused her, a flirtatious grin settling on his face. “Ah, yes, I can see that. Dame, it is…”
She cocked her head and gave him a slow smile. “Excellent choice. I hope I’m worthy of your assessment.” She waved a hand. “Back to the matter at hand. You called it a trick question…tell me how.”
“Aston Martin had planned to produce twenty-five, but ended up only producing one. It was silver, but now is owned by a private collector and is green.” He winked. “Is that all you’ve got?”
She drummed her fingers on her desk. True, that was a detail a car lover may run across in a magazine or online. “What is the last front-engine car to have won the 24 Hours of Les Mans, and in what year?”
She spied Dante out of the corner of her eye, watching them with his mouth hanging open just a bit. He’d never seen her like this. She’d never felt like this. She didn’t flirt. She’d never been the pursuer, having always been the pursued. At the moment, she was neither and both.
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