Decadent

Book 4: Big Sky Pie

by Adrianne Lee

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

"Adrianne Lee always delivers!" -- Susan Wiggs Contractor Wade Reynolds is having a tough year. His cherry farm went bust, and his construction clients threaten to unhinge what's left of his sanity. But Wade's passion for life heats up when he's hired to remodel a new storefront next to Big Sky Pie -and he falls for the red-hot, bad girl who's setting up her catering shop there. Fresh off her own divorce, Roxy isn't looking for another relationship, just a spontaneous fling or three. Her contractor Wade looks as delicious as her specialty confections, but he's way too buttoned-up for a casual affair. Yet there's an ultra-sexy strength about him Roxy can't resist. What that man clearly needs is something decadent-like her...

Release date: June 3, 2014

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 304

Sample

Chapter One

Going home under these circumstances was like overindulging in decadent chocolate pie; the tummy ache outweighed the pleasure.


“There he is.” Roxanne Nash directed the driver of the hired car to pull over in the parking garage. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“Make sure, lady, ’cause I don’t want that cat decidin’ my ride is a giant litter box.”

“She won’t.” But would she? Roxy bit her lower lip and glanced toward the cat carrier at her feet. Tallulah, her adopted, purebred Ragdoll had a mind of her own. Another reason to quickly scratch this last item off her get-out-of-Seattle-forever list.

Chill air slipped through her thin jacket as she exited the dark sedan and glanced around. She half-expected some of the reporters who’d assailed her at the hotel a while ago to be lurking behind parked cars, seeking one last sound bite in the final chapter of celebrity chef Roxanne Nash and Seahawks linebacker Ty Buckholtz. But there was only herself, her driver, and the man in the five-thousand-dollar suit.

She strode toward him, her high-heel boots clicking on the concrete floor, echoing through the vast space that was already filled to capacity with cars on this early Friday morning. The man, her ex’s attorney, was standing next to a brown Escalade with a grille the same gleaming silver as her favorite sauté pan. She’d expected to meet him in his office on the 29th floor and was surprised that he’d suggested this instead. Although it would expedite their transaction. And given Tallulah’s unpredictable nature, that was a good thing.

Roxy was here to pick up her half of the divorce settlement. So why was the attorney holding a set of keys and a file folder instead of a check-sized envelope? More curious yet, the attorney’s normally unflappable manner showed signs of deteriorating. His tie was askew, his pocket square rumpled, and despite the cold, sweat beaded on his forehead. But most worrisome was his expression. It belonged on a surgeon about to deliver the news that his patient had died on the operating table.

A shiver that had nothing to do with the weather snaked down her spine. Something was amiss. But what? Myriad candidates leapt to mind, too many to pinpoint just one. Stop it, Roxy. Whatever it is, it’s not your problem. Just like Ty is no longer your problem.


Buoyed by that thought, she stopped before the attorney, a paunchy, middle-aged man several inches shorter than her five-eleven. He’d applied his cologne with a heavy hand. The sharp odor mixed with the oily gasoline fumes and produced a nauseating stench. She stifled the urge to cover her nose as she ground to a halt. She didn’t bother with niceties. Too much water had passed beneath the bridge between this lawyer and herself to pretend otherwise. Roxy held out her hand. “My check?”

The attorney shuffled from foot to foot, glanced away, then back at her like a shifty salesman about to offer her a bogus deal. Roxy wished her attorney were here, taking care of this, but that one-woman legal firm had decided to elope and take an extended honeymoon. Probably on the money she’d earned representing me.


The man cleared his throat. “Mr. Buckholtz has been trying to reach you since yesterday afternoon, Ms. Nash.”

“Well, here’s the thing about that,” Roxy said, tilting her head to one side and smiling wide. “I no longer have to take his calls.”

And she wouldn’t. She’d blocked Ty’s number on her cell phone.

“Or mine?”

Her silence seemed to grate on him.

“Well, Ms. Nash, if you’d answered our calls, it would have made this easier.”

“Nothing could be easier than you giving me the money that I’m owed and me getting back in that car and catching the plane to Montana.” She held her hand out again.

“I’m afraid I don’t have the check.”

He did not just say that. Exasperation twisted through her. “Why not?”

“There’s been a…a complication.”

She shivered, feeling the chill reach her bones. She should have opted for something warmer this morning, instead of choosing this lightweight jacket that matched her sage eyes and perfectly set off her layered mop of red hair, the style and shape likely slipping away in this damp air. But then, she hadn’t planned on being outside this long. “What’s the problem? Cut to the chase.”

He pursed his lips, obviously more used to giving orders than taking them. “The sale of your house didn’t close yesterday.”

Of all the things she’d imagined being wrong, this had been low on the list. A knot began forming in her stomach. Ty had signed the closing papers yesterday morning. She’d signed an hour later, and the buyers were supposed to sign right after her. “What happened?”

“The buyers didn’t show up at the title company.”

“They backed out?” At the last freakin’ minute? She tried calculating how much this would affect the plans she’d been making for her future in Kalispell, but she couldn’t even assimilate the news.

“Well, no. They haven’t exactly backed out. They just need an extension.”

“On the closing?” They’d already been given two extensions.

“Yes.” He looked as relieved as if he’d finally presented the problem in such simple terms a whole courtroom would understand, not realizing he’d omitted the important details. If he was a chef in her kitchen, she’d reprimand him for leaving out essential ingredients.

“The Dillons are already living in the house,” she said, irritation clipping her words. Damn it. She’d trusted that couple enough to let them move into the house before the sale closed. Ty and her attorney had advised against this, but Roxy believed the Dillons sincerely meant to go through with the deal. Obviously trusting the wrong people is a flaw I need to work on. She didn’t like being made a fool of. “They need to close as scheduled or get out so we can sell the house to someone else.”


“Mrs. Dillon had a heart attack on the way to the title company’s office.”

Roxy froze, her ire squelched by contrition and concern. “Oh my God, d—did she die?”

“No, but apparently the situation was dire. Narrowed artery. Blood clot. She’s having a stent inserted this morning, and she should be as good as new in a few days.”

Relief flooded through Roxy. “Do you have the paperwork for the extension?” He gave it to her, and she signed it. Then she added, “You can FedEx me the check once the sale is finalized. And now, I’ll take the check Ty is giving me for the bistro. I assume you have that.”

The hired car’s motor revved. Roxy glanced at the driver. He was scowling, pointing to his watch.

She nodded, then peered expectantly at the attorney. “As you can see, I need to get going.”

The lawyer looked peaked, as if he might be ill.

“What?”

“Have you been hiding in a cave the past twenty-eight hours?”

What she’d been doing was none of his business. “I don’t understand.”

“Haven’t you seen a news report or watched TV since yesterday?”

Her TV was on its way to Kalispell. And she had no interest in watching the news. It was bad enough dealing with the paparazzi outside the hotel this morning, shouting questions about Ty. Humming loudly inside her head, she’d simply tuned them out. “I’ve had all the media I can take for a while, thank you very much.”

The driver of her hired car raced the engine, another prodding reminder that he wanted the cat out of the car and that the plane wasn’t going to wait for her. She gave the driver an “I’m moving as fast as I can” glare, then told the attorney, “Look, I have to go right now. Please give me the bistro check.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” What kind of trick was Ty pulling now?

“It’s easier to just show you.” The attorney produced an iPhone and pulled up an ESPN website. Finding what he wanted, he held the screen toward her.

Roxy protested, “I don’t have time for this…”

Ty’s name was a banner across the top of the national sports report. The sportscaster said, “Seattle Seahawk Ty Buckholtz is being benched for the next four games due to alleged substance abuse issues.”

Roxy just shook her head.

“Don’t worry, Ms. Nash. We’re appealing.”

“I’m not worried.” Roxy blew out an angry breath. She wasn’t surprised that someone with Ty’s low moral compass might be doing drugs. But it had nothing to do with her. She said, “Not my problem.”

“Well, it sort of is.” The attorney gnashed his teeth. “You see, Mr. Buckholtz has no access to his financial accounts and can’t come up with the hundred thousand in cash that he promised you for turning over the bistro to him. His salary is frozen, and will be until he’s cleared to play again. But he isn’t trying to get out of his obligation to you. He’s giving you something of equal value for collateral.”

Collateral? “I’m not a bank or a pawn shop. I don’t want anything but that cash.”

“I’ve already explained that cash is not an option at this time.”

She frowned, her foot tapping like a butcher knife through a pile of onions.

The hired car’s engine revved again. She waved at the driver, praying Tallulah was behaving and would continue to do so for a few more minutes. She glared at the lawyer. “What is Ty offering me?”

The attorney held up the set of keys and pointed to the SUV with the gleaming-grille. “This Escalade.”

Her gaze went to the four-door, truck-bed Cadillac that shone like a gigantic chocolate diamond, the color more mocha than brown.

“It’s a 2014 with every whistle and bell imaginable and more. It’s worth as much as he owes you.”

“Tell your client to send it back to the dealer and pay me the cash he owes me.”

“He special ordered it. There’s nothing wrong with it. He just can’t return it. It’s only until his salary is reinstated. Once that happens, Mr. Buckholtz will cut you a check and reclaim this vehicle. I have the legal documentation here. Already signed by my client.”

“But I don’t want it.” She felt her plans slipping away like steam being sucked up a hood vent.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Nash.” The lawyer shrugged. “It’s this or nothing.”

The dark sedan’s engine revved once more. Roxy’s nerves pinched. If she didn’t leave this minute, the plane would be gone. She had to cut bait. Now. “How am I supposed to get the Cadillac to Montana?”

“I’ll arrange to have it shipped.” The attorney rattled off his intention of ordering a closed trailer to avoid road damage as he pocketed the keys.

Her mind was whirring faster than the blades of a blender. “I’d have to have the title in my name.”

“That’s already been done.” He handed her the paperwork. She inspected the documentation, reading fast, glad to find there were no hidden clauses. She signed it.

“And you’ll arrange shipping today?” she asked, returning his pen.

“As soon as I get to my office.”

Could she take him at his word? Probably. He wouldn’t stay in business long if he pulled something as unethical as not following through on a signed contract. But add Ty into the mix and all bets were off. What if she walked out of this garage with only the title and a signed agreement, and the vehicle somehow didn’t get sent? What if she had to go back to court to get her hundred thousand dollars? She shuddered at how much that might end up costing. Her attorney would probably retire on it. She decided that—despite the eleven- to twelve-hour drive-time involved—the simplest solution was the best. “Or I could drive it to Montana.”

The lawyer’s brows lifted. “You could, but I must caution you to be extremely careful. The Escalade needs to come back to Mr. Buckholtz in exactly the same condition as it leaves here.”

“Yeah, well, tell him to worry about himself. The Cadillac is under full warranty, and I’m holding the proof of insurance. So potential mishaps are covered.” Romance should come with collision and liability insurance, Roxy thought. That way when a woman collides with a potential love interest, she’ll be covered when he becomes a liability.


*  *  *

Wade Reynolds’ Friday night was off to a bad start. He felt like he’d stepped on a bear trap, caught by inescapable jaws, the pain so fierce he couldn’t release the screaming in his brain. He glanced at his twelve-year-old daughter for help, but the hopeful gleam in her eyes sent an arrow through his heart. Et tu, Emily? Damn. His beloved little girl was in on this, this…female setup. Why did everyone seem intent on hooking him up? Was he wearing a sign around his neck: Widower seeking mate? Hell no. Just the opposite. His wedding band should deter any such ill-advised action. So what if it had been four years since cancer took Sarah? He still didn’t want anyone else. Not now. Not ever.


He stammered, “I, uh, I, uh, can’t stay for dinner.”

The sexily clad single mother of Emily’s best friend dropped her smile like he would drop an overheated nail gun. “But the table’s set and—”

“I have plans.” It was the truth, but Wade felt his neck getting warm as he threaded the brim of his Stetson through nervous fingers, and he knew it looked like he was pulling excuses from his hat. He backed toward the door. “I’m sorry, but if I don’t leave now, I’ll be late.”

The pretty blonde rushed toward him, her boobs bouncing in the V-neck of her sweater like bobbers on a lake, teasing that a strike was imminent. The thought sent a flash of fear through him. He said, “Emily, I’ll pick you up tomorrow around noon.”

“Awww, Dad.” The look of disappointment in his daughter’s eyes fueled his distress.

“I can bring her home,” said the blonde—Tiffany or Taffy or Tippy—sashaying closer still, every switch of her hips suggestive, seductive.

Wade’s blood began to heat, his body reacting to the stimuli. Hell, he was human. And hetero. And deprived. He saw a cold shower in his near future. “Sure. Okay. I’ll call Emily tomorrow.”

With that, Wade slipped on his hat and hastened out the door, making sure to shut it behind him. He stood on the porch, breathing hard, the cold air flushing relief through his overheated body. Biting wind swirled snow across the front walk and into his face. He’d only been inside ten minutes and already another three inches of the white stuff had piled onto the yard and street, big sloppy flakes, the kind that stick so fast they turn roads into ice rinks. He pulled up the collar of his sheepskin jacket and trudged to his pickup, arriving at the driver’s side feeling like a snowman.

He kicked the compacted flakes from his boots, brushed off his hat and shoulders, the effort futile, the snow piling back on faster than he could smack it away. He climbed into the cab and got the engine running. The wipers swicked across the windshield, clearing a small quadrant of visibility. Still fuming mad, he clamped his hands on the steering wheel as he jammed his foot on the gas pedal. The pickup lurched, the tires skidding, the truck bed barely missing a mailbox. He eased off the gas, but anger continued to boil through him, anger at being set up, anger at himself for being unable to get past Sarah’s death, to let go of the guilt. How could Emily have had any part in this? Yeah, she was a kid, but still…It seemed so disloyal to her mother.


This had Callee McCoy’s handiwork written all over it. He thought back to earlier in the week. Callee, the wife of his best friend, was working as a design consultant on a remodel job he was doing. She’d come to his house to discuss a change to the kitchen they were overhauling. Emily had wandered in while he’d stepped out to take a phone call, and when he’d returned, the two females had their heads together, discussing something like crooks plotting a crime.

He hadn’t known then that he’d been the intended victim.

He considered calling Quint, Callee’s husband, and canceling his plans to meet them at the pie shop before heading over to Moose’s Saloon for pizza and beer. But Quint would ask why, and Wade doubted he’d get any sympathy once he told him. Quint was president of the Get Wade Laid Club.

Wade tossed his hat onto the passenger seat. His friends meant well, but he wished they’d listen to him and just stop. Maybe he should skip the pizza and beer and grab a burger to eat at home. Alone. In that big empty house. Maybe a movie then. Alone. The thought made him queasy. Lately he’d been feeling it more and more, a deep loneliness settling over him that was thicker than the snow on his hood.

If he was honest with himself, he’d admit he missed having a woman in his life. Just saying it in his head seemed to unlock a floodgate and fill him with a yearning he’d denied for too long. Damn, how he missed female companionship, missed the interaction of conversation, missed the warmth a woman brought to a home. Missed the closeness. The sex. Especially the sex.

He twisted the gold band on his left ring finger. He’d tried dating a few weeks back, but had to end it when he realized he wasn’t going to move the relationship beyond friendship. He didn’t want a romance, didn’t want to fall in love. Although he wouldn’t mind someone to go to the movies with, and maybe a little more, occasionally—someone who didn’t expect or want anything permanent from him. An image of the perfect candidate filled his mind: a tiny blonde, as demure and even-tempered as his Sarah had been.

*  *  *

Roxy squinted against the snow ping. . .