Authors: Christine Bell
S
ix months later
…
Jake gazed down at his tanned fingers and wriggled his wedding ring with his thumb.
He and Sadie had opted for bamboo rings, handmade in a little town in Cape Verde. In spite of his bride’s penchant for cat burglaring, she really had no love for gems, except the ones they’d managed to find off the coast of the island. It was about the hunt for her, and the contentment that came with a great find.
He totally got that. He’d managed to unearth a treasure himself, in Sadie, and he still couldn’t believe his luck.
It had been a few weeks, but the ring still felt strange on his hand. A good strange. A physical reminder that, even in his dark times when he felt those old twinges of sadness and anger, grounded him. Reminded him that the past was gone, and the future was so bright, it was almost blinding.
Which made it all the more sweet when Alistair Hannigan stepped into the room dressed in orange, chains jangling.
Jake didn’t need this to be whole again. Not anymore.
But it sure as fuck felt good.
He made a mental note to buy his brother a juicy, steak dinner as a thank you for going against the grain and skirting the rules to give him a few minutes with Hannigan before the other man’s extradition.
The prison guard pulled out the chair opposite Jake, and Alistair took his seat.
“Just press the red button when you’re ready to come out,” the guard said as he fastened Hannigan’s cuffs to a metal loop attached to the table.
“Will do,” Jake murmured as the officer headed from the tiny, nondescript room.
Jake met Alistair's gaze, not bothering to hide the disgust he felt for the first time since making his acquaintance.
“Hello, Alistair,” he said softly, leaning back on his seat and offering the bastard a nod in greeting. As content as he was, he couldn’t deny the fleeting sensation to leap over the table and give him one more, good shot to the jaw for the things he’d said to Sadie. But Mike had done him a solid by pretending he was Hannigan’s lawyer and getting him a few minutes time here, and he wasn’t about to squander it.
“What the fuck do you want, you Irish prick?” Hannigan snarled.
Jake unclenched his fists and examined his fingernails nonchalantly. “I just wanted to be the one to tell you, face to face, man to man, that the charges you’re facing here are nothing like the ones coming down the pike.” He leaned forward and laid his hands on the table between them, a grim smile tugging at his lips. “They’re reopening my Pop’s case. And when they do, you’re going to go away for a long time. So long, by the time you get out, your business will be long gone, your mind will be mush, and your dick will be useless. I wonder,” Jake said, cocking his head. “Was it worth it?”
Hannigan’s eyes were wild with rage, but his voice was almost a whisper. “Awfully cocky for someone in the mud right next to me. You won't get away scot-free either, you know. Once they start digging to build their case, your Boy Scout brother is going to see the emails. They’re going to uncover your plan to extort me, and then? When they see the pattern? What you did to the others involved? You think he's going to be able to cover for you?"
"That's the difference between me and you, Hannigan. I won't ask him to. Like every man, he needs to do what he feels is right. If that means I have my day in court, so be it.”
Besides, he’d been careful. Maybe not careful enough to avoid suspicion, but surely careful enough to avoid prison.
“The beautiful part is, no matter what becomes of me, that won't change your fate,” Jake said. “In a few days, word will spread that you’re in prison and the artifact world will torch your name. You'll be the talk of the community...for about two weeks, and then? You'll be nothing but a sad, pathetic cautionary tale. A nobody.”
Hannigan's face went beet red and his weak chin trembled with outrage. "And you? What will you be? The weepy son of a crooked cop."
Hannigan shot to his feet and banged his cuffed hands on the red button, shooting Jake a venomous glare. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking this is over, Callahan. It’s only just begun. And I won’t rest until I’ve smeared what’s left of your pathetic family all over the streets of this town. One way or another, I’m coming for you all, so get ready.”
Jake's stomach tightened at the threat but kept his face impassive. It was nothing but a show. The rantings of a blowhard tough guy who had been rendered impotent.
The guard stepped into the room and Alistair leveled a mocking stare in Jake's direction.
"Take this man off my visitor's list. He's a shitty lawyer."
The officer unhitched the cuffs and led Hannigan from the room. It was only when he’d rounded the corner that Jake heard his enemy’s voice echo down the hallway back at him.
“See you soon, Jake. Count on it.”
Jake stayed seated for a moment, a tiny, niggling sensation in the back of his mind. Then, his brother stepped into the room and he shoved it away.
“Hey, brother mine. How about a pint?”
Mike’s wide grin settled over him as Jake stood.
“Sounds perfect.”
Hannigan had stolen enough from them. They’d won. He’d gotten his life back, he’d gotten Sadie. And, the icing on the cake? Soon their father would be absolved.
It was coming up roses with clan Callahan and he couldn’t wait to see what tomorrow brought.
W
ant
more of the Callahan brothers? Check out Mike’s story, coming October 2016, and find out if Alistair Hannigan plans to make good on his threat!
Need more steamy contemporary romance? Check out
Wife for Hire
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H
e needs
a wife for three weeks...
Owen Phipps is out for revenge. His mission? To expose the man who stole his sister's money and dignity. All he needs is a "wife" who can play along. Too bad his last best hope is an actress who tries to mace him with perfume when he offers her the role of a lifetime.
Lindy Knight is a real sap. She loves too hard, feels too deep, and often finds herself saying yes when she should be saying "Let me think about it." She can't believe her good fortune when Owen offers her more than enough money to hold off foreclosure until she can find a job. Three weeks at a resort, money she desperately needs, and she gets to help bring a criminal to justice? Score. It seems easy enough until a couples bonding game turns intimate, and they realize how dangerous their mutual attraction could be.
Can they keep their hands to themselves long enough to find the evidence Owen needs? Or are the close quarters more temptation than they can handle?
C
hapter
One
L
indy Knight stared
at the mountain of feathers and cotton batting that used to be her couch and tried not to cry. “Melba?” she called, hoping the desperation she felt wasn’t evident in her voice.
“Yes, dear?” Melba rounded the corner from the kitchen, sauce-covered wooden spoon still in hand. She stopped in her tracks. “Holy Toledo, it’s snowing in here! Is there a hole in the roof?” She trained her milky blue gaze toward the ceiling.
Lindy sucked a breath through her nose and let it out slowly through her mouth, like that lady in the yoga video. “That’s not snow. That’s the couch.”
The old woman shuffled closer and bent low, peering into the mess, dripping globs of marinara onto the crème colored carpet. “Huh. Well, I’ll be. Looks like snow.” She straightened and shrugged. “Thought we had a hole in the roof. That’s good at least.”
That
was
good, since a new couch cost less than a new roof. But when one’s life saving amounted to—she spared a glance to the account statement she’d been reading when she’d walked into the house—two hundred sixty-three dollars and eleven cents, neither scenario was exactly ideal.
“Where are the puppies?”
“In the kitchen with me. We were making gnocchi.” A delighted grin spread across Melba’s wrinkled face, and Lindy couldn’t help but return it. There was no question she meant well and wanted to earn her keep. It wasn’t her fault that the attempts invariably backfired.
“We’ve got to make sure we keep the door shut, okay, Melbs? No puppies in the living room unless I’m home,” Lindy said gently. “I’m going to go through the mail and clean this mess up. I’ll be in to help with dinner as soon as I’m done.”
“No problemo. We’re finished anyway. I’m on my way out to St. Mike’s, and don’t worry, Fanny’s driving. I’ll put the sauce on warm for you. See you later tonight,” Melba chirped, ambling back to the kitchen.
Since the last house fire, she wasn’t supposed to be cooking when no one was home, but Lindy needed to pick her battles. At least their neighbor had been kind enough to offer Melba a ride to the church for Friday night bingo. She didn’t have the strength to argue about her elderly charge getting behind the wheel. It had been a doozy of a week, and she wanted it over with. Maybe after dinner she’d curl up with a good book and call it a day.
She was flipping through the mail, mostly bills, when her cell blared the opening lines of “Push It” by Salt-n-Pepa. Usually, the song cheered her. She was hard-pressed to recall a time that it hadn’t resulted in some serious booty shaking, but today she wanted to pitch the phone into the garbage disposal. She rummaged through her purse and yanked it out just as it went to voice mail.
One missed call.
Whoopty-doo. Probably Mal with another one of his cockamamie ideas. She jammed the phone back into her bag without a second look and tackled the onerous task of cleaning up the remains of her couch.
It took nearly an hour, three vacuum bags, and four trips to the trashcans out front, but by the time she was done, the room looked passably clean. And extremely empty, she noted with a twinge of despair. She cut off that train of thought before it became a real locomotive, and floundered for a silver lining. Now she had an excuse to redecorate, and she did love Indian-inspired designs. It would be the perfect time to find some bright fabric at the thrift store and sew four gorgeous seating pillows to go around the coffee table. She’d get some patterns and ideas online before bed.
A sharp rap on the door jarred her from her thoughts. She peeked through the peephole and gasped. The man on her porch was the most gorgeous she’d ever laid eyes on. Even distorted by the curved glass, his face was a work of art. Full, firm lips perched above a square jaw, capped off by angular cheekbones and a slash of a nose that kept him from looking too feminine. Close-cropped, raven black hair set off dark gray eyes that were currently locked with her one that was fixed on the peephole, and became filled with exasperation.
“Hello?” he called.
“Hello?” she parroted dumbly.
“Can…I come in, or?” The tone seemed like one reserved for either children or imbeciles and was at odds with the lilting, almost song-like Irish brogue. She bristled despite the delicious accent, pushing thoughts of his stunning good looks to the back burner.
“I’m not sure. Who are you?” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. She uncrossed them when she realized he couldn’t see her combative gesture. Instead, she narrowed her peeping eye suspiciously, in case he leaned in to look.
Tall, dark and handsome sighed heavily. “Owen Phipps. We had an appointment.”
She did a mental rundown of her schedule and winced. They did have an appointment. For a job, no less, and this clearly wasn’t the best foot to start off on. If it hadn’t been for the damned…well, everything today, she would’ve remembered for sure. Compared to all the other wanted ads she’d responded to, this one was the definite oddball and stood out like a gangrenous thumb. She’d found it on Craigslist when she happened upon the “gigs” section entirely by accident. There, at the top of the page, was Mr. Phipps’ strange little advertisement.
W
anted
: Attractive woman, age 25-35, with some acting experience needed for three week position beginning January 25th. Recognizable television and/or movie personalities need not apply. Pay is a flat rate of $20,000 for three continuous weeks of 24/7 availability. Must be willing to travel. Email [email protected] to set up an interview.
S
he’d actually snorted
a laugh when she first saw it, but for some reason she kept coming back to it, rereading and, more to the point, recalculating. It would take her—she did the math quickly on her fingers—a million shifts at the restaurant to make twenty grand. That amount of money could get her out of the hole and pay her mortgage for a year. With a little old lady and seven puppies counting on her, credit cards bursting at the seams, and everything of value already in hock, she was plum out of brilliant ideas. They had eight weeks before the bank came a-calling. If desperation actually had a smell, she’d reek right now.
So she’d emailed him. To her shock, he hadn’t responded asking her to send her social security number or a check to secure the position. Nor had he asked her to send a picture of her boobs. No, instead, he’d asked her for a list of qualifications and references, which she supplied. Still, when he contacted her asking if they could meet in his home for an interview, she hesitated. Although there weren’t any obvious indications of psychosis in his email correspondence, odds still had to be pretty good that he was either a whack job or a scammer.
Right as she had been about to delete his request unanswered, her brother Mal phoned from the vet’s office where he’d gone to pick up Melba. Melba had tried to call Lindy’s cell phone earlier because Sneezy had swallowed the top half of a plastic spork, but Lindy was in the middle of a shift. When no one answered, Melba had taken a cab to the emergency veterinary clinic out in Mount Vernon, since the regular vet was closed.
By the time Mal brought her home, Melba was armed with the same squirming puppy and a four hundred dollar note advising them to keep an eye out for spork shrapnel coming from Sneezy’s back end. Lindy later found the hunk of plastic on the floor where it had likely been the whole time. She was proud of herself, though. She didn’t have a mental breakdown. Instead, she emailed Mr. Phipps and explained that she understood his desire for privacy, but, as a young woman alone, she would feel more comfortable at her own house, perhaps with her brother in the adjacent room. His response was almost instantaneous. He agreed and commended her vigilance.