Lilly’s exclamation-point-filled rant about how she was sure her former boss had been kidnapped was beautiful. She declared it the one and only reason in the world she could think of why someone as reputable as Martine Brooks would stiff her employees and clients. Those words left Martine not only missing her sort-of friend, but warmed inside that Lilly had gone to the mat for her like a real tiger.
Until she read Lilly’s final post, stating that everyone was right about her beloved boss.
Lilly, according to her next Facebook post, had finally gone to the bank and spoken to the very teller Martine saw on her last day of freedom six months ago—a teller who knew Lilly legitimately worked for Martine. On the sly, and under the guise of easing Lilly’s worries her employer was dead, the teller confided her ex-boss had emptied both her personal and business accounts.
Then she’d used words like “shyster” and phrases like “scum of the earth” in her final post, and that hurt. Though she didn’t let people get too close, she’d liked Lilly a lot, had enjoyed her attempts at forming a friendship, even if they were futile.
One click to her now-empty bank accounts, chock full of overdraft fees, had proven Lilly correct. There was nothing. No trace Martine Brooks had worked hard for a living.
Martine gritted her teeth. Damn him. She’d loved her business—it had just begun to thrive when Escobar stepped in and nabbed her, the son of a bitch.
And now, apparently, she had no money left either. Her fists clenched tight against her thighs. Someone, likely Escobar, had clearly impersonated her—he’d probably done one of those cloaking spells and stolen her life right out from under her.
A frustrated tear formed at the corner of her eyes. Everything was gone—which meant, she had nowhere to go when her deal with Derrick was done.
Somehow, she’d find a way to return the money to all of her customers and her employees and vendors when this was all said and done. Until then, she had bigger fish to fry.
Like where Escobar was and if he knew she was gone yet. He was infamous for disappearing for weeks at a time once she’d done his dirty work for him. But if he had some sort of tracking spell on her in order to locate her, she would inadvertantly involve Derrick and his family.
And she didn’t want to do that. Her problems were hers alone.
A knock at the door had Martine’s ears picking up the sound of female voices. Closing the laptop Derrick had loaned her, she rose with reluctance and headed for the door.
Popping it open, she saw JC, the woman from the day before, and another woman who resembled Derrick and Max in the most flattering of feminine ways.
JC grinned, her eyes sparkling and clear, her breath coming in cold puffs of condensation. “We come bearing gifts.” She held up a shopping bag chock-full of colorful material and the other woman held up a foil-covered tray.
Martine forced herself to smile and open the door wider, smoothing her hands over her borrowed shirt. “Come on in,” she offered, stepping aside to let the women pass.
The young woman had hair as dark as Derrick’s, worn in a high ponytail, her willowy arms and legs slender, her cheekbones sharp and defined by color from the chill of the outdoors. She stuck out her hand after dropping the tray on the kitchen counter. “I’m Natalie Adams. Just Nat is fine, though. Really good to meet you.”
Martine took her hand and smiled back, liking how their eyes met and how Nat didn’t bother to try to hide her curiosity. Her gaze was direct and clear, and Martine returned it. “Martine Brooks.”
JC held up the bag with the clothes. “And you know me. We, er, talked at my fiancé’s—well, sort of,” she said on a sheepish chuckle.
“JC, right?” she asked, waving them to the couch.
JC dropped down on the sofa next to Nat and nodded. “That’s me. Unsuspecting mate to Max, and reigning death-sex champion.”
Martine chuckled. JC had been kind to her yesterday. She wouldn’t forget that.
As everyone settled in, so did an awkward silence. What did you say to people you didn’t know at all, but who knew your very reason for being here among them was for the coitus?
How did you make small talk with that on the table?
With no warning at all, Martine found herself feeling self-conscious with these two women. It was an unfamiliar feeling—unfamiliar and uncomfortable, and so totally unlike her. She was strong, independent and had been accused of being overly confidant a time or two.
Squaring her shoulders and clearing her throat, she asked, “Can I get you two anything? Coffee? Tea?”
“I think the better question is, can we get you something? Like an escape plan?” Nat asked, her blue eyes full of amusement when she folded her hands over her knees.