The Goose, the Gander, & the Three French Hens Page 6

  “What’s the verdict?”

  “You have controlling interest, but not by much. It looks like she now owns about forty-eight percent of Coleman Bennett Auto Salvage.”

  “That’s good. Thanks, Trapper. I owe you one.” He stuffed the envelope in the breast pocket of his leather jacket.

  “Just do the right thing by Claire, and we’ll call it even.”

  Mary Claire’s and Andrew’s hoots and howls brought Jack’s and Trapper’s attention back to the game. “It looks like they won . . . again,” Jack said.

  Trapper refilled both their beers from the pitcher he’d brought over. “Looks like I’m up next. Grab a stick and join in on the fun. I need a partner. I just hope you’re better at pool than you are at talking.”

  Jack always held his own at pool, but seeing the way Mary Claire was sprawled over the table, tossing balls in the rack, practically straddling the corner, her long sweater riding up, showing off a world-class ass encased in skinny jeans, it looked as if it was going to be a long, long, long night. Unless he got a turn. “Fine, I’m up first.”

  Claire spun around looking for Trapper and almost ran into Jack. “I told you I can’t talk right now. I still have another game to play.”

  He chose a pool stick from the rack and looked down the length of it. He returned it to the rack and removed another, eyed it, and then chalked the tip. “I know. You’re playing me and Trapper.”

  “We are?”

  He stepped closer, so close she felt the heat flowing off him. He leaned in and tucked her hair behind one ear. “How about a little side bet?” He whispered, his mouth grazing her ear. “Just between you and me.”

  She stepped back and ran into the brick wall. Smooth, Claire, real smooth. She bounced the end of her pool cue on her Converse high-top, going for nonchalance. From the smug smile Jack failed to hide, it looked like she’d missed the mark. “What kind of bet?”

  “If Trapper and I win, then you and I go somewhere private to talk.”

  “And what do I get if Andrew and I win?”

  “What do you want?”

  She wanted a whole hell of a lot of things that had nothing to do with talking. “Talk is cheap; I want action.” And just thinking about the kind of action she wanted made her all warm and squishy inside.

  “It doesn’t change the fact that we have something important to talk about, Mary Claire. But fine. If you win, you get action first, but you have to promise to stick around for the talking later.”

  “I’ll give you twenty minutes. That’s all I’m promising—not that I’m planning on losing. Andrew and I are on a streak.” The look Jack gave her did more than just make her feel warm and gooey; it made her wonder why he looked so damn confident.

  “We lag to see who breaks.”

  “Winner breaks. And that would be me.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart, but no.” He put two cue balls on the table. “Do you know how to lag for the break?”

  “Of course.” It would be easier if he’d just give her the break, but then nothing with Jack outside the bedroom, the kitchen table, the couch, the hallway, the wall, and—damn the man—even the shower was easy. Not since he returned anyway. Just his presence made things difficult for her. She wasn’t happy to lose the advantage of the break. She set her ball on the left side of the table and bent over to hit it, waiting for him to assume the position. “Go.”

  She and Jack hit the cue balls simultaneously, but she didn’t watch his ball; she concentrated on hers. It streaked up the length of the table, hit the foot rail and returned, stopping two inches from the head rail. Jack’s kissed the head rail and stopped, damn it.

  Claire shrugged. “Fine, you choose who breaks.”

  Jack chalked the tip of his pool cue and looked from Andrew to Trapper. “We’re playing bar rules, right?”

  Trapper smiled. “That’s right. Sink the eight ball in a break and it’s the game; always call the pocket . . . the usual. Of course, if you’re playing a biker who’s been waiting for a table for two hours and you sink the eight ball on the break, then you’re dead. But between us, I think you’re safe enough as long as you don’t piss Karma off.”

  “Duly noted: don’t piss off Karma.” Jack placed the cue ball on the table three inches from the second diamond and leaned over to eye the shot, sliding the stick between his long, thick fingers—fingers that had done amazing things to her body just that morning. He looked up at Claire with a knowing smile, like he knew what was going through her X-rated mind. “You might want to collect your purse. We’ll be leaving in a moment.”

  “Collect my purse. Yeah. I’ll get right on that.” She didn’t move to collect anything since she hadn’t brought a purse. Not that she would have run for it even if she had. She tapped her back pocket, felt for her wallet, and let out a laugh. Jack had gotten cockier with age.

  With one smooth move, Jack hit the cue ball, striking the second ball, and the eight ball went right into the side pocket.

  “Well, shit. Why do I get the feeling I’ve been set up?”

  Jack shrugged. “If I didn’t make the eight ball, I would have cleared the table before you ever got a turn.”

  “Seriously?”

  “How do you think I got through college and grad school? A full scholarship only pays for tuition and room and board.”

  “A part-time job?”

  He smiled that damn smile that made her go up in flames, always had, probably always would. “Nope, nothing so mundane. I made all the money I needed playing pool. It’s simple geometry and physics.”

  “I should have known. You always loved that stuff in school, whereas I was into art classes, sewing, and basket weaving. All useful in the psych ward.”

  He brushed his knuckles against her cheek. “Geometry and physics weren’t the only things I loved in high school.” His voice had that gravelly quality again that shattered her concentration and his eyes held something she hadn’t seen since she’d run out of the cabin seven years ago. This time it was he who stepped back. He cleared his throat and shrugged. “Anyway, we all have our talents. Are you ready to go?”

  “Right now?”

  “That was the deal.”

  “Fine, let’s go to the Flying M for coffee.”

  “Sorry, babe. My win, my rules.” He took her hand in his like holding hands with her was an everyday occurrence. Like she was his.

  “Just because you spent the night with your tongue in my mouth—”

  “And other places—”

  Shit, she walked right into that one. And thinking of all those places he licked and kissed and sucked just dragged her nearer and nearer to the edge of a dangerous cliff. She needed to put the breaks on, big time. “Doesn’t give you the right to drag me around like your personal property.”

  “I’m holding your hand.”

  “You never did before.”

  “Because we couldn’t before. Everything is different now. We’re free to do whatever we want. No more hiding.”

  The biggest difference she saw was that they no longer had a real relationship. They had sex and that was all. And that was the mantra she kept repeating as they said good-bye to all the Kincaids. She continued the mantra while he drove through the North End and whizzed by her street. “You missed the turn.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the cabin.”

  “No.” She didn’t think she could handle going to the cabin. Damn, it was difficult enough just having a conversation with Jack. But to do it at the cabin? With all those memories?

  He looked over at her, his face an unreadable mask. She just wished she had the ability to hide her feelings so well. “We need privacy. We have things to talk about.”

  “What kind of things?”

  He downshifted to take a tight turn, and slid his hand onto her thigh and squeezed. “We’ll talk when we get to the cabin.”

  They started to climb Castle Rock Road, which was nothing more
than a bunch of switchbacks all the way up the mountain, with no lights anywhere unless you counted the view of Boise spread out below.

  Her stomach roiled while nightmare scenarios of what he wanted to talk about ran through her imaginative mind. If he said he was sorry about the sex, she would have to seriously maim him and then figure out how to get back down the mountain. Great. She’d be trapped listening to whatever he said in the last place in the world she wanted to be—their cabin. The place where they’d fallen in love, where he’d taken her virginity, stolen her heart, and broken it. The place where he’d break it again because the one thing she was sure of was that she was a goose and he was her mate. The farther they traversed up the mountain, the heavier the snowpack. Boise rarely got snow in the valley, but just a half hour up the road and there was more than enough to play, and ski, and snowmobile in. She drew her jacket closer; she was shaking from the ice of dread flowing through her body.

  “Cold?” Jack kicked up the heat in the old Jag. “It’ll warm up in a second.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re shivering. I’ll start a fire as soon as we get into the cabin.”

  “I’m not staying that long.”

  His silence only made her squirm in her seat.

  Jack passed Castle Rock Ski Resort, and a half mile later he turned into the driveway of the cabin and drove into one of the bays of the three-car garage. She looked around the heated garage and was surprised to see an old truck all torn apart. “What’s that?”

  Jack shrugged. “It’s a 1947 Chevy I found. I thought while I was here, I’d restore it. The body is in amazing shape. Even the engine is original. I’m pulling it apart for paint and chrome work.”

  She rounded the car and looked into the cab of the truck. “There are no seats.”

  “They’re being reupholstered.”

  He stood beside the old red truck and ran his hand along the curve of the fender. “It’s a beauty. With all the shit I’ve been dealing with when it comes to my dad’s estate, it’s nice to have something to keep me occupied. I’d forgotten how much I loved restoring old cars.”

  “You work on cars all the time in Germany, don’t you?”

  He shook his head. “Working on cars and designing them are two very different things.”

  “You don’t tinker in Germany?”

  “No.”

  “How come? You always had a car pulled apart when you lived here. What changed?”

  His face seemed to fall. “I restored those cars to earn money. I’d fix them up and sell them. I was saving up for something big.”

  She leaned against the truck and shoved her hands in her pockets. “What were you saving for?”

  He shook his head as if he were trying to erase a painful memory. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  But it did matter. It mattered a whole lot. If it didn’t, she was sure he’d tell her all about it. And no matter how much she’d tried to protect herself from the pain that came from loving Jack, she’d failed. He still had the power to hurt her more than anyone else on earth. It was best to get this over with and get back to her life without him. “So you needed to talk to me about something?”

  He looked even less happy about that than he did about sharing what he’d been saving for. “Yeah, come on. Let’s go inside. I’ll start a fire.”

  She walked into the cabin—hell, it wasn’t a cabin; it was a three-bedroom log home they’d used as their love nest. The memories slapped her like a windshield wiper in a downpour. The couch he’d lie on with her draped over his big body. She spotted the candlesticks he’d filched from his parents’ house to use for their first-, second-, and third-anniversary dinners. He’d even lit them on the night he proposed. The ring. Shit. “You restored and sold all those cars so you could buy an engagement ring, didn’t you?”

  He looked up from the hearth where he was building a fire and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.” She’d never thought about how he’d gotten the money for the ring. It was gorgeous and big and shiny, and everything she could have hoped for in an engagement ring. The proposal had been sweet and romantic . . . perfect until she said no. “I’m sorry.”

  He stood, wiped his hands off on his jeans, pulled a thick envelope from his jacket pocket, and, taking her hand, tugged her over to the couch to sit beside him. He didn’t release her hand. He rubbed his thumb across the inside of her wrist and stared into the fire, watching the flames lick the wood. “First, I have to say I’m sorry.”

  She scooted away. “Don’t you dare apologize for last night.”

  “I’m not. I’m apologizing for this.” He dropped the envelope onto her lap. “I didn’t know anything about it until I started going through my father’s home office. Go ahead, open it.”

  She slid the papers out of the envelope and saw they were from a big accounting firm in Boise. “What is it?” She looked from a bunch of numbers to Jack’s pained expression. “I’m about as right-brained as a person can be, Jack. What does this all mean?”

  “My father cooked the books when he bought your dad out of Coleman Bennett. I found a second set of books and something just wasn’t right, so I hired a team of forensic accountants to go through them. My father was a bastard. A thieving, lying, cheating bastard, and he bought your father out of the business for pennies on the dollar.”

  “How could he get away with that?”

  “We’ll never know for sure, but it looks as if your dad had to sell—your mom was sick, and they needed all the money your dad could get his hands on. It seems like my dad didn’t give him any other option.”

  She took a deep breath and blew it out slow. He couldn’t meet her eyes. Hell, he looked guilty, as if he’d done it himself. “Jack, it’s not your fault. Besides, it’s over now. It was a long time ago.”

  “It was wrong.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like we can change the past, Jack. My parents are long gone.”

  “So is my dad. But we’re not. You’re not.”

  “What do I have to do with any of this?”

  “Mary Claire, you deserve to have all the money your father should have been paid. I told the accountants to take the difference of what your father’s percentage of ownership was actually worth at the time of the sale and what he was paid. If we consider that number as a percentage of ownership of the company and take into account the money my father took out of the business, that leaves you the proud owner of a little less than forty-eight percent of Coleman Bennett Auto Salvage.”

  She sank back into the cushions of the leather couch, stunned. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No, I’m not. You’re a very wealthy woman. So here’s the deal. We can either keep the business and be partners or we can sell. The choice is yours.”

  “My choice? How can you say that? I can’t run Coleman Bennett. I have my hands full with Three French Hens. Besides, I don’t know the first thing about the auto salvage business.”

  “No, but I do.”

  “What about Germany? Your dream job?”

  Jack slid off the couch onto his knees and pulled a dusty velvet ring box out of his jeans pocket, opened it, and set it on the stack of papers on her lap. The diamond sparkled in the firelight.

  “You’ve saved the ring? All these years?”

  “I did. Mary Claire, I’d rather have a dream life with you than a dream job designing cars without you. I’ve spent the last seven years comparing every other woman I met to you, and no one has ever measured up. No one even came close.”

  “Jack—”

  “Let me finish. I’m a bright guy, and I do my best never to make the same mistake twice. So the choice is yours; no threats, no ultimatums. If you want to be my partner in business, in life, in love, then we’ll keep the business and I’ll run it, and tinker, and love you forever.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  He cleared his throat. “Then we’ll sell Coleman Bennett, you’ll have a boatload of money,
and I’ll still love you forever. Mary Claire, I’ve loved you most of my life. I’ve never stopped. I can’t imagine ever not loving you.”

  She tossed the papers on the couch, leaned back, and took a deep breath. “No.”

  Jack sat on his haunches and watched the emotions flying across Mary Claire’s face settle into a blank canvas.

  “No?” That was it? A monosyllabic answer. No was final. No meant it was over. No meant the end. His breath was forced out with a whoosh like he’d been kicked by a Kentucky Thoroughbred, knocked on his ass, and trampled by the rest of the herd. He pushed himself up, took a deep breath, and paced in front of the fire.

  “If that’s what you want.” His words sounded strangled and flat and lifeless, just like he felt. He couldn’t believe it was over. He couldn’t believe he’d messed up again; he couldn’t believe this time it hurt even worse.

  Mary Claire rose and stepped in front of him. “Jack, I don’t want the business. I don’t care about the business or the money or any of it.”

  “Yeah, thanks. I got it the first time—and the second.” He didn’t know whether to strangle her or pull her into a kiss and try to change her no to a yes.

  “Third time’s the charm. Only this time try not to make it an ultimatum or a business deal.”

  He just blinked. He wasn’t sure what the hell she was saying.

  “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

  “Mary Claire, when it comes to reading a woman’s mind, guys are clueless. When it comes to reading your mind, I’m not only clueless, I’m dyslexic.”

  “Fine. I’ll do the proposing.” She grabbed the papers and tossed them into the flames. “There. That’s better.” She took his hand and, like the whipped puppy that he was, he followed. “Sit.” With a push, he ended up on the couch and before he could make any sense of the situation, she straddled him. “Now this is how you do it, and just in case one of our kids comes to you for advice on proposing, send him to me, understand?”

  “Kids?”

  “Probably, because I don’t know about you, but I’m out of condoms.”

  He flipped her onto her back. The last thing he was going to do was mention the condoms in the glove compartment. “You were saying?”