Wrong Question, Right Answer

by Elle Casey

  ALSO BY ELLE CASEY

  ROMANCE

  By Degrees

  Rebel Wheels (3-book series)

  Just One Night (romantic serial)

  Just One Week

  Love in New York (3-book series)

  Shine Not Burn (2-book series)

  Bourbon Street Boys (3-book series)

  Desperate Measures

  ROMANTIC SUSPENSE

  All the Glory

  Don’t Make Me Beautiful

  Wrecked (2-book series)

  PARANORMAL

  Duality (2-book series)

  Pocket Full of Sunshine (short story & screenplay)

  CONTEMPORARY URBAN FANTASY

  War of the Fae (10-book series)

  Ten Things You Should Know About Dragons (short story in The Dragon Chronicles)

  My Vampire Summer

  Aces High

  DYSTOPIAN

  Apocalypsis (4-book series)

  SCIENCE FICTION

  Drifters’ Alliance (3-book series)

  Winner Takes All (short story prequel to Drifters’ Alliance)

  To keep up to date with Elle’s latest releases, please visit www.ellecasey.com

  To get an email when Elle’s next book is released, sign up here:

  http://ellecasey.com/news

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 Elle Casey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503938205

  ISBN-10: 1503938204

  Cover design by Lisa Horton

  For my husband, Craig.

  Any time one of the male characters in my books is sexy, funny, kind, or loving, readers get a little glimpse of the man I married.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  I’m the first one to show up at the pub. I order myself a Long Island iced tea and find a spot at the end of the bar where I won’t be bothered. I didn’t come here to hook up, and that should be obvious to anyone looking at me; I have my long, dark, straight hair up in a messy bun with a steel pin holding it in place—a pin that could be used to puncture a lung if necessary—tight jeans, a white tank top with a well-worn denim jacket over it, and my high-heeled, black leather work boots, zipped up to the knee. I’m off the clock, but I can kick ass and take names in between sucking down my cocktails if the need arises. I never go out unprepared.

  The rest of the team is supposed to be here soon, and if I’d known they were going to be late, I would’ve delayed coming. I hate being in bars alone. Guys hit on me, and when I turn them down, they get offended and piss me off. It’s better if I avoid losing my shit. I don’t have the best temper in the world, and I’m woman enough to admit it.

  The door opens and a big guy comes through. I perk up, thinking it’s my boss, but when I realize it’s not, I go back to nursing my drink. Checking my black Suunto military watch—a gift from the team—I frown. They’re ten minutes behind schedule. Assholes. Like I’ve got nothing better to do than hang around here and wait for them to show. After hissing out an annoyed breath, I take another long pull from my drink, glaring at the door over my highball glass. I swear I can hear the seconds ticking away inside my brain.

  I sense someone coming up next to me and look over. It’s a guy in a button-down shirt, his hair gelled and styled to appear as if he hadn’t spent thirty minutes getting it just right. He’s got an expensive Citizen watch on his wrist, a leather belt that matches his loafers, and not a scruffy beard or scar in sight. I try really hard not to sneer. He is so not my type. I call him Skip in my mind.

  “Hey. I haven’t seen you around here before.” Skip gestures at me with his beer bottle and smiles. His teeth could star in a Colgate commercial.

  “Really? That’s funny, since I’ve been coming here for over ten years.” I take another sip of my drink, hoping my rude and completely unenthusiastic delivery will be enough to send him away. I’ve played this game enough times to know how it should work. Smart guys walk away to flirt another day; dumb ones leave with scars. But it’s not my fault. I send off all the right signals: Cold-hearted bitch here. Do not approach.

  I used to let guys pick me up in bars when my ex, Charlie, and I would go through periods of being on the outs, but I don’t do it now that he’s gone. And if I were going to start doing that again, it wouldn’t be tonight. I’m not in the mood. This was supposed to be me meeting my team here so we could celebrate our latest victory and the bonus that came along with it, not me fending off guys who decided to take a walk on the wild side for a change. Hopefully Skip knows how to play the game too and he’ll beat it before things get awkward.

  “Really? So, you’re a local girl. Cool. Love your accent, by the way.”

  Or not.

  “It’s cute and sexy.” He winks.

  Okay, so he definitely doesn’t know how the game is played. Maybe it’s because he rarely gets turned down. He has that vibe to him: confidence in spades, a cluelessness often suffered by the wealthy and attractive males in the area. Unfortunately, their complete lack of self-awareness is fully supported by many of the women here who’d just as soon flash their tits to earn a necklace as anything else.

  I say nothing. I just stare at him as I take another sip of my drink. Can he not feel the icicles I’m launching into his soft body with my cold glare?

  “I guess I should’ve figured from the accent you were New Orleans born and raised.”

  I shrug lightly. “Maybe.” I have nothing to say to this guy, but I can’t just stare at him and watch him squirm. I do have some mercy in me. A very, very little smidge of it. Time served and two years’ probation will do that to a girl.

  “You here with someone?” Skip looks around the room.

  “I
will be.”

  His eyes light up.

  I realize my mistake as soon as I see his reaction; I’ve given him hope. I put my drink down on the bar and shake my head. “I’m waiting for somebody else.”

  He loses a bit of his smile. “Oh yeah, sure. Someone else. He must be late.” My new friend makes a big show of checking his watch, thinking he’s being cute but inadvertently letting a little of the asshole side of his nature show.

  A ghost of a smile comes to my lips. Now I’ll finally see the real man behind the mask. Skip was all sweet and polite when he thought he was going to get some, but his manners are fading fast. Just like every other guy in the world—my teammates excepted, of course—he puts on a show to get what he wants, and then the true person appears from behind the veil later to wreak havoc, after his prey is hooked good and solid. At least now I have something to entertain me until my friends arrive. No mercy for assholes.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask. “Does it piss you off that I’m waiting for someone else?”

  The muscles in his jaw tense before he answers. “No. It doesn’t piss me off.”

  “Your body language says otherwise.” I smile even bigger, taking a sip from my drink. I’m more than half done with this generous cocktail, and already looking forward to the next. I lift my finger at the bartender to get his attention. He nods, knowing exactly what I’m saying. He’s already filling another glass with ice for me. Yeah, buddy. Bring on that vodka-tequila-rum-gin-and-triple-sec buzzzz . . .

  Skip’s body is as stiff as a board. “It wouldn’t bother me if what you were saying were true.”

  I look at him sideways. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  He shakes his head. “Women like you are all the same.” He takes a big swig of his beer, like he’s Mister Cool now, when Mister Playing-With-Fire is who he really is.

  I turn on my stool partway and lift my chin at him with a quick jerk of my head. “You know me after walking up to me in a bar and talking to me for all of ten seconds, is that it?”

  He shakes his head, refusing to look at me now. “You came in here looking for attention tonight, but when somebody finally gives it to you, you act like a bitch. Like you’re too good.”

  I lose a little bit of my good humor. I might have a slight issue with being called the b-word, and that could be because a man I thought I loved liked to use that as my nickname when he was in a certain mood.

  I get partway off the stool, letting my left foot drop to the floor. “Tell me you didn’t just call me a bitch. Tell me you didn’t come into my bar while I’m trying to relax after work and call me a bitch just because I turned you down.”

  He looks at me, surprised. “You own this bar?”

  “No, Skip, I don’t own this bar, but I might as well.” Been coming here since I was fifteen. “Why don’t you just get the hell out of here before you really piss me off?” My other foot drops to the floor. Adrenaline trickles into my veins as my brain quickly assesses the situation and what might happen. I have to be prepared for anything. I spread my legs and get ready to rumble.

  He laughs, but there’s no humor to it. “It’s a free country. I can drink a beer wherever I want . . .” He pauses before delivering his last word. “. . . Bitch.”

  My first impulse is to punch him in the side of the head, but that’ll get me kicked out of here and then I’ll miss the celebration with the team. Danny, the bartender and owner, is a friend, but he draws the line up pretty short. So instead, I lift my leg, put my stilettoed boot heel against the guy’s hip, and shove as hard as I can while hanging onto the edge of the bar.

  Skip wasn’t expecting the contact or the force, so he loses his balance easily and goes flying, taking his drink with him. Tripping over his own feet, he lands on his side on the ground, his beer bottle smashing into the floorboards. Beer sprays everywhere, dousing the legs of the person sitting at the nearest table.

  The recipient of the spray, an old, bearded guy wearing motorcycle leathers, stands up in a hurry, sending his chair backward. He glares down at the one responsible for covering his pants in beer. “Hey, man! What’s your fucking problem?”

  “It wasn’t me!” Skip yells, pointing in my direction. His voice is up a full octave. “It was her!”

  The old guy looks at me, and I smile, giving him the girliest shrug I know how to make. “He just fell over. Tripped on his fancy shoes, maybe. I think he’s had too much to drink.” I frown real pretty.

  Skip struggles to his feet as the bartender moves down toward us. Danny places my new drink next to my old one. “What’s going on over here?” He looks at me. “Toni? Are we going to have a problem tonight?”

  I shake my head. “No problem here, Danny. That guy just took a dive.” I point at Skip, my eyes open wide to help me look more innocent.

  Skip is standing now, so angry he’s shaking. “She kicked me! She knocked me over! All I was doing was talking!”

  I stand away from the bar a pace, showing off my diminutive stature, my current 5'3" height made possible only by my substantial heels. “Yeah, right. I knocked you over.” The guy has at least a foot and ninety pounds on me.

  After hearing me, people sitting nearby look at both of us and do the math, shaking their heads at Skip. Shame on him, blaming a tiny girl for his own stupidity. Only Danny glares at me. He knows me better.

  “What were you drinking?” Danny asks Skip, sounding tired. “The next one’s on me. Just take it down to the other end of the bar.” He gestures to a spot as far away from me as the man can get and not be out the door. Mister Matching-Belt-and-Shoes glares at me and looks like he wants to say something, but he just hisses out a breath and walks away, shaking his head. I was kind of hoping he was going to use that b-word again, but no such luck. I guess he’s not as stupid as he looks.

  I smile to myself as I get back on my stool and pick up my drink to finish it off. In my experience this little drama will either ensure me an evening of uninterrupted drinking pleasure because I’ve scared off all the other guys in the bar, or it’ll guarantee a line of ’em will be trying to pick me up after, convinced that I’m just looking for a more attractive catch, which of course means them. I wait the few seconds it takes for things to settle down and start in on my second drink with gusto.

  The door to the bar opens, and this time the man walking over the threshold is my boss, Ozzie. And he’s brought his girlfriend, my teammate May, with him.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m fine with violence and sticking up for myself when necessary, but I’d much rather just have a drink and talk to the people closest to me about a job well done. And it’s not that I need someone to have my back, but I prefer it. Sometimes when I go it alone, I get a little too hot-headed and then crazy comes for a visit. I’m trying to avoid inviting crazy in for the rest of my life if I can help it. I already narrowly escaped, nearly killing myself with it once. I push away the ache in my chest when it tries to intrude. I’m not going there right now; tonight is supposed to be about celebrating, not regretting.

  I wait for them to see me and jut out my chin in recognition as May waves. She’s always way too enthusiastic. Her constant cheer is something I’ve almost gotten used to after six months of working with her, but it hasn’t been easy. Sometimes I just want to put her into a headlock and squeeze that absurdly overdone happiness out onto the floor. I smile when I imagine her as a giant tube of glittery toothpaste that needs emptying.

  Ozzie is more low-key, letting me know with a vague nod that he sees me sitting at the bar. Just behind the couple come my brother Thibault and my teammate Lucky. I’ve known Lucky practically my whole life, so it’s tempting to say he’s like a brother, but I can’t do that. When we were kids, we got stupid and kissed once, so I could never see him like I do Thibault.

  Lucky and I never repeated that mistake, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking about it from time to time. Now is one of those moments. He looks especially good in that black leather jacket, with his hair al
l messed up and hanging in his face. When he broods like I think he’s doing now, I can’t stop thinking about what might be bothering him. I’ve always been drawn to the darker side of things.

  May interrupts my wandering memories by grabbing me in a hug. “You’re early! Oh, and you smell good! Like cherries.”

  I shrug inside her embrace and finish off my drink over her encircling arm, picking out and crunching down on the cherry that had been floating in the ice. Danny always gives me extra; he said once he was hoping they’d sweeten me up eventually.

  “I had to get my tea on,” I say. “Couldn’t wait for you guys all night.”

  When May finally releases me, Ozzie gives me a fist bump and my brother reaches over to pinch my cheek.

  “Uh-oh. She’s drinking Long Island iced teas,” Thibault says.

  I jab him with the toe of my boot. “Shut up.”

  Ozzie takes a credit card out of his wallet and taps it on the bartop. “Drinks are on me tonight. Got a nice bonus.” He lifts a hand to signal Danny, who gives him a nod in response. Ozzie is well known here, just like the rest of the team. Whenever we finish a case, this is where we celebrate. It’s where we’ve been coming since all of us were way too young to drink. They have several pool tables in the back and pretty decent music. The crowd is mixed, locals and tourists, Skip being of the latter crowd. He’s trying to pretend he doesn’t see us down here.

  Ha, asshole. Told you I was meeting someone.

  “Hey,” Lucky says, taking the stool next to mine and glancing over at me before scoping out the liquor bottles lined up behind the bar. He’s squinting, but I know he’s got eagle-eye vision.

  “Hey, yourself.” I look away. There’s something going on with him. Usually he’s full of smiles and comments that put people at ease, but tonight he seems single-minded, maybe even depressed. But I’m not interested in figuring out the puzzle that is Lucky; not tonight, anyway. There are at least two more teas waiting for me and a celebration I plan to fully enjoy, especially now that it’s Ozzie’s credit card picking up the tab. If something’s really going on with Lucky, he’ll act weird tomorrow too, and I’ll ask him what’s up then. Delving into it now when I’m getting my drink on could get complicated.