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  “But I’m Nick’s friend,” Abel supplies, wrongly assuming, at least partially, to know where my head is at right now. “Legally,” he continues, “once you sign this document,” he sets a piece of paper in front of me, “I’m your attorney before I’m his friend.” He taps the document. “It’s an offer of representation. And for the record, I might be a criminal attorney, but I had a few years of corporate experience right out of college, and I spend a hell of a lot of time with Nick Roger’s cases. I know how to protect you.”

  “Nick’s the one who needs to be protected,” I argue. “He paid six figures on my behalf.”

  “That he doesn’t want back,” Abel replies, the simple statement contradicting his earlier tone and I don’t like it.

  “How,” I challenge, “can you possibly back up that thought process when you just inferred that I want his money.”

  “He did what?” Nick demands. “What the fuck, Abel?”

  “I didn’t infer you want his money,” Abel bites out, ignoring Nick. “I was reading you just like I do anyone who wants my representation.”

  “Except I didn’t want your representation,” I counter. “And I don’t appreciate being read like a criminal using Nick for his money.”

  “And if I believed that now,” Abel says, “I would have talked some sense into Nick, and declined to offer you representation.”

  “Let me get this straight,” I say, my temper flaring, my tone controlled but biting. “A few minutes ago I was a low-down dirty user, and now I’m worthy of your services?” I don’t give either man time to say anything else. “That’s it. I need out of here.” I slide off my barstool but Nick catches my arms.

  “This is not the time to hold onto me, Nick,” I warn, my gaze rocketing to his, the charge between us ever present, but this time the heat between us is my anger.

  “This is exactly the time to hold onto you,” he argues. “It’s Sunday. We need these contracts signed by tomorrow morning.”

  My gaze rockets to his. “Then you give them to me.”

  “Abel’s involvement not only protects you, it lawyers us up even further with the bank.”

  “You said my actions were enviable,” Abel points out. “And I’m as good an attorney as I am a friend.”

  Angry all over again, I pull away from Nick and turn back to Abel. “It was enviable,” I say. “But so is honesty and your behavior with me was not honest.”

  “You’re right,” Abel surprises me by admitting. “And first and foremost you need to know that my actions were mine and mine alone.” He eyes Nick, who is now standing beside me. “Nick did not know what I was doing.” He looks between us now. “But that said, I won’t apologize to either of you. Considering our timeline, I had to make a decision on where I stood in my involvement now, not later. And I’m all in.” He refocuses on me. “And that’s the case for you as well, Faith, which is why I’ve prepared some guarantees for you.”

  He reaches in his briefcase and pulls out a folder, and sets one sheet of paper on top of the representation letter, and then creates two more stacks. “Start here,” he says, indicating his offer letter. “I contacted your estate attorney, and without disclosing details, aside from my intent to aid Nick in your protection, I asked him to endorse the protection my agreement offers you. He not only read my representation offer, he scanned it back to me with a handwritten note to you that stamps it with his approval.” He shuffles the papers and shows me the note which reads: Faith – this agreement ensures Abel’s legal obligation to protect your interests and privacy. It’s a sound document.

  “Sign the agreement,” Abel says, “and I’m now loyal to you first and Nick second.”

  “Questions?” Nick asks, his hands settling back on my leg.

  “Not about this,” I say, my hand waving over the rest of the paperwork. “What is the rest of this?”

  Abel indicates the second stack of documents, which is actually not a stack, but one form. “Before I explain what this is,” he says, “let me explain why it’s important to you. When someone gives you a lump sum of money for a business interest, they could later claim it was with the promise of something in exchange.”

  “Even without a signed document?”

  “Yes,” Nick states. “Because a verbal agreement is binding and it would be my word against yours and I have the money to fight you on it.”

  “But that can’t happen with this document in place,” Abel interjects, “as it clearly states that the money he’s given you is a gift, and it cannot be treated as leverage against you for any monetary gain. In other words, he can’t claim it was a down payment on the winery, meant to kick in after you inherit. Additionally, the legal verbiage assures that this contract supersedes all others.”

  “Meaning,” Nick says, “that nothing can be signed after the fact that voids its content.”

  “An important factor since this final document,” Abel says, indicating the last stack of papers, “requires one hell of a thought of trust. This is the dummy document that will be shown to the bank and in court, which gives Nick half ownership of the winery once you inherit.”

  This isn’t news to me. Nick warned me this was coming despite not warning me about Abel. I trust Nick. So why, right now, in this moment, are there warning bells going off in my head? Maybe it’s Abel. I don’t know him. Nick sideswiped me with his involvement. That has to be it, but as Nick’s hand comes down on my shoulder and he softly says my name, I still find myself back at the art show, where Nick and I had first connected, replaying a conversation about secrets that I’d had with him there.

  “People have secrets, Faith,” Nick says. “It’s part of being human.”

  “My mother sure did,” I reply.

  His hands find my waist, turning me to face him, intensity radiating off him. “What kind of secrets, Faith?”

  “Her kind of secrets,” I reply, not sure why he is suddenly so very intense. “Like you have secrets,” I add, using his nickname, “Tiger.”

  “My enemies call me Tiger. You call me Nick.”

  “Why do I keep feeling like you’re my enemy?”

  “Why are you looking for an enemy?”

  I return to the present and ask myself that very question: Why am I looking for an enemy? Am I looking for an enemy? And if so who is it that I don’t trust? Nick? Abel? It has to be Abel. I’ve already established that I trust Nick. And he’s earned that trust. He wouldn’t lie to me. He wouldn’t deceive me. And if he trusts Abel, I trust Abel.

  So why am I still so uneasy?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Nick

  Seconds tick by as Faith stares down at the documents Abel has given her, no words, no action, but I sense that wall of hers slamming into place. “Let us have a few minutes,” I order Abel.

  “No,” Faith says quickly. “I have questions.”

  “As you should,” Abel says. “We can go through every line of the documents one by one.”

  “I’ll read them myself,” she says. “These questions are not questions that these documents can answer.” She looks between us. “For starters, I want to verify that we’re all on the same page that I believe us to be on. That being that the bank would not be ordering a property assessment if they didn’t believe it would somehow allow them to stake a claim on the deed. Correct?”

  “Correct,” Abel confirms.

  “That’s the assumption we’re operating under,” I add. “And while my preferred method of operation is not to assume anything, winning is about being a step ahead of our opposition. Which is also why I called my personal banker today and have him on standby to buy out your note.”

  Her eyes go wide. “At what cost to you?”

  “Nothing outside of paying for a rushed property assessment of our own.”

  “We can’t use the current one?”

  “If my bank finds out your bank is questioning the property value and we don’t disclose that, we’re looking at a fraud situation.”

  “Right,�
�� she says. “That makes sense.” She moves on. “And if that assessment comes back under the value of the current note?” she asks. “Can we use the revenue the winery produces to justify the new note? I have that well documented.”

  “We not only can,” I say, “we will. But set that aside and let’s talk about the worst case scenario: My banker makes an offer and they decline.”

  Her brow furrows. “Why would they do that?”

  “That’s our question,” Abel says. “What do they know that we don’t beyond any piece of paper.”

  Faith gives him a puzzled look. “I don’t follow where you’re going with this.”

  “Where’s the money?” I supply. “What makes the winery or something connected to it worth money outside the obvious? Do you have any idea?”

  She shakes her head. “None. And by none I meant that I’m a complete zero on this entire premise. That said, if that were true, if there is some hidden treasure, be it literal or not, the bank will fight hard, and that doesn’t bode well for the outcome we’re after. Which brings me to another question.” She picks up the dummy document and focuses on me. “If you present this, and the bank legally claims the winery, are you left with any liability?”

  “No,” I say. “I am not.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Then can you use that dummy document to force them to pay you back the money you paid on not just my behalf, but that of the winery.”

  “I’d demand they compensate both myself and you,” I reply. “and for all the monies paid on behalf of the rightful owner of the winery. And because under that treasure scenario, the bank would just want us to go away, I believe they’d settle with us. But we’re a long way from that point.”

  “Nick’s the expert here,” Abel says, “I believe there would be a case to prove deceptive practices among other charges, and force the bank’s hand into backing off. But we have to find the proverbial treasure.”

  “Which is why, among other things,” I reply, “that we have a private investigator working on this.”

  “The private investigator that you’re paying,” Faith says, gathering up the documents and turning her attention to Abel. “I’ll read these and let you know if I have questions.”

  “This is time sensitive,” Abel says, before I have the chance. “Let’s read through them together.”

  “Nick needs them by morning,” she says. “It’s afternoon. And I need two things from you. One is your fee agreement. I need to know how much you charge, so that I can budget to pay you.”

  “I’ve been paid,” he states.

  “By Nick.”

  “Not with cash,” he clarifies.

  “He’s been paid, Faith,” I reiterate.

  She ignores me. “Please put together a bill,” she states again. “And additionally, I need a contract that states that I will pay Nick back any and all money he spends on my behalf with fifteen percent interest.”

  My jaw clenches. “Faith—”

  “And,” she continues, as if I have not spoken, “if I do not do so in a year, he receives thirty percent interest in the winery. There will need to be a financial ledger.”

  “He’s not going to do that, Faith,” I say.

  She rotates to face me. “He is or he isn’t my attorney, but yours, and I’m not protected at all.”

  “Don’t be stubborn.”

  She looks at Abel. “I need those documents.” She holds up the paperwork in her hand. “And I’m going upstairs to read these in detail.”

  “My cellphone number and email are on the offer letter,” Abel says, drawing her attention again. “Email me and text me so that I have your contact information to get you those documents. And you can give Nick the signed documents, but if you have questions or concerns, text me, email me, call me. Whatever works for you, but do it this evening.”

  My cellphone rings, and I glance at the number to find Beck is calling for the second time in forty-five minutes, and just that fast, Faith has darted around me and is walking away. I hit the decline button, and take a step in Faith’s direction. “Wait,” Abel orders harshly, his tone insistent, his hands coming down on the counter. “Don’t go after her yet.”

  “Now is not the time for whatever you plan to say,” I say, taking another step, but he doesn’t take “no” for an answer.

  “Damn it, Nick,” he growls. “Wait.”

  With agitated reluctance, I halt, facing him, my gaze pinning his. “Now is not the time,” I bite out again, “for whatever it is you want to say.”

  “Quite the contrary,” he assures me. “It’s the exact right time considering you’re about to go upstairs and bulldoze Faith. Let her do what she feels she needs to do.”

  “You’re supposed to be working for her. Do that. Protect her, not me.”

  “I am working for her,” he says. “Which is why I repeat: Don’t be a bull charging at her. If you—”

  “I don’t want her money.”

  “I know that,” he says. “I get that. So does she.” He grimaces. “Look, man. You don’t deal with death with your job the way I do. I see how it impacts people. It steals your control. It makes you need to find it in other places, and finding it is part of healing.”

  “Death has nothing to do with this, Abel. Again. For the third time. Now is not—”

  “Death is a part of this,” he presses. “You both are dealing with its biting impact on your lives.”

  “There is no biting impact for me. I hated my father.”

  “And yet, despite hating your father, you had to solve the mystery of his death. Open your eyes and recognize how much you both need control right now. Because if you don’t find a way to give Faith some of what you want to take, she will push back and perhaps even push you away.”

  I run a hand over my face, begrudgingly admitting that he’s making sense. “Fuck,” I grind out, stepping to the opposite end of the table from him and pressing my hands to the island. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

  “Go talk to her,” he says. “But don’t bulldoze her with your money, or even with good intentions. It will make her feel unsettled. It will push her away, and frankly, if she was willing to just take your money, I’d be concerned. I was concerned until I met her and she stepped up to do the right thing.”

  “I want—”

  “Her,” he supplies. “I see that. But money doesn’t buy love or anyone worth having. Providing that paperwork to her proved to her that you’re honorable. The fact that she didn’t just accept the money proves she is as well. That’s not a bad thing and neither is her having enough pride to want to pay her own way.”

  “I told you—”

  “Even if,” he continues, “you buy her a diamond the size of Texas and a wardrobe to match.”

  “Where the fuck did that come from?”

  “You,” he says. “It came from watching you with her and for years without her. And on a side note, you have an excuse for not telling her about most of this which is her safety. You don’t have that excuse with the club. Obviously not now, but if you wait too long, that is going to bite you in the ass that is already in deep shit.”

  He starts walking toward the door and I don’t move, his warnings radiating through me, as well as his comment about Faith and a ring. I have never considered myself a marrying man, and even if I did, the mountains I have to climb with Faith are many. The club matters. The truth about how I found her matters. Her safety comes first. And right now, I need to make sure that while I’m trying to destroy our enemies, I don’t destroy us in the process.

  Feeling the urgency of that need, I start walking, double-stepping the stairs, telling myself Faith trusts me. She told me about her mother’s death, but did that come from a place of trust or guilt? Fuck. I need her to trust me. If she doesn’t now, she damn sure won’t when she hears about the club, let alone how I found her. Reaching the second level, I enter the bedroom and Faith isn’t in sight. Continuing on to the bathroom, I find her suitcase open on the floor. She’s exiting the cl
oset with her clothes in hand. “I need to go home.” Her announcement proves that the control I seek is not mine.

  “We talked about this,” I say. “You’re staying and we’re going back at the end of the week together.”

  “You talked about this,” she says. “While I was drinking.”

  “The contracts—”

  “I can read them on the plane and scan them back to you.”

  “I want you to stay, Faith.”

  She zips her suitcase and stands up. “I’m going to be honest with you, Nick, because you know: No one in my life has been honest with me and I really need honest things in my life right now.”

  Holy hell. She’s killing me right now. I take a step toward her. She backs up and holds up a hand. “Stop. When you touch me I get more confused.”

  “Confused,” I repeat. “That’s what my touch makes you feel?”

  “I can’t think when you touch me, Nick.”

  “And that’s a problem? Because I can promise you that if you can do a mathematical equation while a man is touching you, he’s the wrong man. I’m not the wrong man.”

  “You can’t just spend a hundred and twenty thousand dollars on me, Nick. Or more. You want to spend more.” She presses her hand to her forehead. “I appreciate what you’ve done. You are acting like a hero, and I know in my heart that’s your intent.”

  “And you don’t want a hero.”

  “That’s not it. I mean, no. I don’t, but I’m not going to be foolish and not see that I’m pretty lucky to have one in you right now. But Nick. We decided on possibilities based on who we are together. And I like who we are together so far.”

  “But?” I prod.

  “Money changes people.”

  “I told you. I’ve had money all my life.”

  “I’m not talking about you alone.”

  “You think it changes us,” I supply.

  “Of course it changes us.”

  My mind tracks back to the references she’s made to her ex’s fame and stature. “I’m not Macom.”

  “I know that,” she says, folding her arms in front of her. “I do. But I’m still being honest. Once he paid all the bills and made a ton of money, I was subservient to him in ways I should never have allowed myself to be.”