Tough Road: The Shakedown Series Read online

  Tough Road

  Shakedown Series

  Elizabeth SaFleur

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright ©2020 by Elizabeth SaFleur. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Elizabeth SaFleur LLC

  PO Box 6395

  Charlottesville, VA 22906

  [email protected]

  www.ElizabethSaFleur.com

  Edited by Patricia A. Knight

  Cover design by LJ Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-949076-18-9

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Also by Elizabeth SaFleur

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Trick’s breath ran over Rachel’s lips. “Two months in the lap of luxury. How will you ever survive?”

  She laughed and fended off his hundredth kiss. The airline wasn’t going to hold the plane for her, and they were standing in public at the gate. He’d bought an airline ticket just so he could walk her all the way to the plane’s jetway.

  She straightened his tie. Trick really knew how to wear a suit. “The Viña del Mar Resort might be the height of luxury for a guest, but I’ll be working nonstop. That’s what they do to interns at those exotic resorts. I hear it’s nearly a mile from the administrative offices to the restaurant where I’ll be spending most of my time.”

  “So, I guess you didn’t pack your Louboutins?” He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

  She pulled back further, though his arms tightened around her waist. “Of course, I did. Even in Santiago, Chile, style counts. Dress for the job you want, right?” God, let his cologne, a deep woody scent, seep into her clothes. He smelled so delicious, and even though she desperately wanted this internship opportunity, suddenly, the thought of leaving him made her heart hurt. She’d packed two of his T-shirts just to sleep in them.

  He finally released her when the airline attendant sidled up to them. “Final boarding call,” she whispered and then winked.

  Trick let out a low groan and released her. “Okay, Future Mrs. Masters. Go to your fancy resort and leave us working class—”

  “I’d hardly call an investment firm working class, but don’t worry. Two months will fly by and then you can continue to sweep me off my feet when I return.”

  “We’re eloping, by the way.”

  “Oh, really?” She cocked her head. Four nights ago, he’d slipped a two-carat, custom-set, Tiffany diamond on her ring finger. She glanced down at the sparkle, winking up at her in the harsh airport light.

  “Condition of you leaving me for sixty whole days … and nights.”

  Her stomach fluttered when his eyes crinkled. Being married to this man would be heaven, so why not as soon as possible? “Okay, I will.”

  “Really?” He pulled her closer to him, pressed her body flush to his once more.

  Three months ago, she’d not known Trick Masters existed. Now? She couldn’t imagine her life without him.

  “The day I get back,” she said quickly. Why not? They’d only known each other for a little while, but when you know, you know, right?

  His mouth retook hers. A loud female ahem brought them back to their senses. He broke the kiss and smiled over at the flight attendant. “She just said ‘yes’, so, ya know …”

  He lifted her hand, kissed the ring he’d placed on Rachel’s hand, and stepped backward. “Okay, if I must …”

  Rachel pecked him on the lips one final time, turned to the gate, and joined the last stragglers as they shuffled to the jetway.

  When she glanced back, he still stood there, hands stuffed into those custom trouser pockets, jacket stretching across those broad shoulders. He looked every inch the king who’d just conquered a new land. She was more than happy to be conquered, captured, and devoured by him.

  He lifted his chin. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world, Rachel Grant. Don’t let those island men flirt too heavily.”

  Her hand flew to her chest. “Who, me? Flirt?” God, please let these two months fly by. She’d never even look at anyone else. She had a perfect man waiting for her at home.

  1

  Three Years Later

  “Blend in more? Just how does a cocktail waitress do that?” Rachel shifted and her baby toe screamed in pain. For ten minutes, she'd stood in her manager's office, feet aching, listening to this crap while her tables remained unmanned. “Are you accusing me of something specific, Mr. Jergenson?” She crossed her arms, an unwise, defiant move, but this “chat” was ridiculous.

  “The other waitresses have implied your banter with the customers is suggestive. There's flirting, and then there's … well, they've complained that you lure—”

  “Lure?” She choked back a scoff.

  A little harmless chit-chat wasn’t exactly seduction material, and who else would she talk to if not her customers? The cocktail waitress clique had frozen her out from day one, all because one of their husband’s hands had found their way to her ass as she’d served his table. He’d deserved that beer she’d poured in his lap. Ever since, the female servers had treated her with poorly-disguised hostility.

  “Our patrons like my service. Our guests ask for my tables. I thought you'd be pleased. In fact, I was hoping to talk with you about picking up another shift or two.”

  “And have the other girls complain more?” He stood as if signaling the meeting was over. “Thanks, Rachel. I know this is uncomfortable. The men at Talman's are used to getting what they want, but let's make sure they know you're not on the menu, too.” He winked.

  Un-fricking-believable.

  As she fought her way through business suits and raucous laughter to the waitress station at the bar, the insinuations her manager and the other girls had lobbed at her stuck to her skin like an irritating rash. She didn't prostitute herself for tips. How dare he suggest it. She wasn't on anyone's “menu.” So what if a few patrons had asked her out? Big effing deal. She'd turned them all down, even that super-hot Wall Street guy all the other waitresses “oohed” and “aahed” over like teenagers last week. She knew her boundaries.

  “Hey, Gabe. You got those drinks for me?”

  The bartender gave her a quick chin lift.

  As she waited for him to finish her cocktail order, she fished her phone from her apron pocket to see if Jay had returned her call. He hadn't. Shocker. She had another new idea to launch a business they could work together and get them both out of their financial rut, but only if he'd finally pick up the dang phone. Jay would never get very far ahead by working on an oil rig, and she'd never finish her hospitality management degree by waitressing.

  “Order up, Rachel.” Gabe nodded at
the row of martinis he'd set on her tray. “You outdid yourself with this suggestion.”

  “Thanks. They look great.” She adjusted a sprig of lavender on one of the martinis du jour she'd “invented” with Gabe's help.

  “Same Red Hat ladies this week?”

  “They do love their surprise cocktails of the day.” She lifted the tray. “Guaranteed thirty percent tip.”

  “Interesting indeed.”

  Her heart jumped into her throat at the sound of that voice. She set the tray down on the bar just in time. His voice was rougher, deeper than she recalled, but there was no mistaking who that rumble belonged to. She slowly turned and blinked a few times. Trick Masters. The floor underneath her threatened to give way, and she stepped back, crashing into the pass-through door.

  Jesus, he still looked good. But, then again, he always had.

  “Rachel Grant. As I live and breathe.” He reached around and grasped the side of her tray to prevent the three lavender martinis from crashing to the floor.

  His suit coat brushed her arm, and just as if a lit match touched a puddle of gasoline, a searing pain flashed in her rib cage. That familiar humiliation she'd fought to release years ago threatened to devour her. Her therapist's words flooded her brain. Visualize a stop sign whenever bad feelings arise. Stop the negative thoughts and pictures.

  “Rachel, you alright?” Gabe's voice echoed distantly against the rush of blood in her ears.

  Alright? Hell, no. A tickle rose inside her nose. Her breath burned hot in her throat, and her eyes pricked. She had to stop this cascade of emotion threatening to let loose.

  Do not cry. Stop sign. Do not cry. Stop sign.

  She sucked in a breath. That same woodsy aftershave he loved rushed in, and it was too late to stop anything. Her heart was going to split open, spill every secret wish she'd sobbed into her pillow over this man.

  “Can I get you something else, sir?”

  Gabe's voice likely saved her from doing the unthinkable—shedding more useless, wasted tears over Trick Masters.

  “Another club soda.” Trick leaned his elbow on the bar and stared at her. “Gabe, no offense to you, but Rachel's got some interesting mixology ideas. You should put her behind the bar. She's good at dishing out fantasies.”

  His words snapped a lid on her useless nostalgia, and red-hot heat flared through her limbs. Good. Anger was better than longing and sorrow over what should have been. Maybe it'd cauterize the crack that threatened to rend her heart in two. She lifted her tray and, with sheer willpower, lowered her shoulders. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her come undone.

  “Rachel, I need to talk to you.” The heartless thief peered down at her with those same blue-gray eyes she'd once thought so kind—but weren't. He flashed that same charming smile—which she now knew hid a thousand lies.

  “No.” She'd meant the simple word to land hard, like the punch she never got to deliver on his smug, model-perfect face three years ago.

  The haughty bastard's mouth twitched up at her resolute tone.

  Her feet escaped the invisible concrete that had kept her in place for far too long. She balanced the tray on her palm, lifted it high, and turned away. Two men parted for her to scoot by, one of them skimming her with his gaze. With any luck, Trick had caught the man's admiration.

  Shit. Claire, another waitress, stood in front of her table of The Three Suits who had “big tippers” written all over them, from their cuff links to their Berluti handmade shoes.

  After delivering her martinis to her ladies and scooting over to The Three Suits to ensure her tip wasn't in jeopardy, she dashed back to the bar. Please let Trick's presence be an illusion or a mental delusion. How could The Betrayer be here in Baltimore? She poked at her sternum as if that would force her heart back into that mental cage she’d forged to keep all the pieces inside.

  Stop sign. Stop sign. Stop sign.

  Gabe leaned toward her so she could hear him over the symphony of happy hour chatter and laughter. “You know that guy?” He cocked his head toward the exit as Trick slipped through the revolving doors. “He told Mr. Jergenson you should join me behind the bar.”

  “Rachel.”

  She jumped at the sound of Mr. Jergenson's voice behind her. Her heart was going to give out before the end of her shift. She turned to face her manager, who she did not want to deal with right now. “I'd be no good behind the bar.” Bartending tips sucked, and so did standing around all night.

  “I have a better idea.” Mr. Jergenson glanced across the room. “See those two guys over there? They asked for you. I'm putting you on hostess duties. As you said, you're popular.”

  “But—”

  “See me when your shift ends. We'll talk details.” He turned away.

  The universe was trying to kill her. She'd earn no tips hostessing, just a dead-end, minimum wage way to stand on her feet all day and night while watching all the women who hated her slip bills into their aprons.

  Trick did this. She dropped her empty tray on the bar. Tears? No way. The wrath she’d suppressed for years? Bring it on.

  “I’m taking a break, Gabe.” So what if breaks weren’t allowed during peak hours. She would not go without a fight this time, starting with the person who had tipped her day from bad to untenable, the two-faced bastard who’d sentenced her to three very long years of scraping change off dirty tablecloths instead of getting her degree. She’d come back from Chile to find everything gone—just gone—including him. And now he was here? At the very least, she wanted her three million back.

  She pushed her way through a gaggle of women holding martinis and then the revolving door. With any luck, he’d still be in the parking lot. Bingo. He leaned against a black sedan parked across the street, casually scrolling through the latest iPhone like he hadn’t care in the world. Her last mental last stop sign melted into a puddle. She jogged across the road, and immediately, that woody cologne scent wafted between them once more. The effing nerve of the man, the unbelievable gall to smell good, to look good, to …

  “Rachel.” He straightened and gave her that same smirk he'd delivered fifteen minutes ago.

  She took a swing at him.

  He grasped her wrist in mid-air before she could land a satisfying crack on his cheek. “What the hell?”

  “How dare you be here! Where’s my money?” So much for her two years and eight months of therapy. Stop sign, meet Trick Masters, the man who’d ruined her life, who’d stolen everything from her.

  2

  Rachel Grant had some nerve. Trick lowered her wrist to her waist. He'd been texting his attorney with her location when that long, dark, curly hair and legs from here to infinity charged up and attacked him. She'd always been a spitfire—a beautiful one, at that.

  She yanked her arm free. “What are you doing here?”

  “I'd ask you the same question. Waitressing, Rachel? Really?” He glanced across the street at the front façade of the over-priced gentlemen's club.

  “Yeah, waitressing.” She rubbed her wrist. “Why do you think, genius?”

  Jesus, this woman had more than nerve—more like deranged arrogance, especially after all he'd gone through because of her. “Easy on the insults, sweetheart.”

  “Don't call me sweetheart. Those. Days. Are. Over.” The harpy poked his chest at each word.

  He grabbed her wrist again, that impossibly smooth skin under his fingers sparking memories better left alone. Never again would he allow his feelings to overrun his common sense. “Those days certainly are over.”

  To think three years ago he was ready to tie himself to this woman for life after only knowing her for a few months. He’d showered her with everything she’d ever wanted—clothes, rent-free living, a two-carat, custom-designed, Tiffany rock on her hand. Now, Princess Rachel's crown was a tad banged up. If he hadn't seen her with his own eyes, scurrying around tables in that excuse for a skirt—he'd seen Ace bandages with more material—while balancing a tray of martinis
over her head, he wouldn't have believed she'd demean herself by doing something as common as serving in some gentleman’s club.

  “I have unfinished business with you and your stepbrother. Is Jay here in Baltimore, too?” He’d found her after all this time, and it was time for answers. “Of course, he is. You two are joined at the hip. Your relationship with your stepbrother is just a titch unnatural—another example of the two of you 'keeping it in the family,' I presume.”

  “Stop touching me.” She snatched her hand away again. “I'm not even going to respond to your disgusting implications. So, you're here to screw him over again, too?”

  “Me screw him over?” His bitter laughter drew the attention of those waiting in line across the narrow street for entrance to Talman's. He put his back to the crowd and kept his voice low, though he'd like nothing more than to scream. “You didn't stay in D.C. for a hot minute after—”

  “Why do you think I left?” That sneer of hers hadn't changed in the last three years either.

  “Oh, I know why.” Man, did he know why. “Funny thing about being in prison. Lots of time to think.” Hell, twenty-nine months, four days, and six hours, exactly. More than enough time to think about why his fiancée and Jay, once his good friend, set him up on charges of embezzling their trust fund money. Why would he bother doing such a thing? It made no sense. Had he wanted the money—which he had not—all he would have had to do was wait until he married Rachel, and half of the three million would have been his legally. No … those two greedy excuses for humans didn’t want it doled out. They wanted it all, lump sum, and framed him for the crime. Two feet from her face, he shook his head, disgusted at her for her duplicity and himself for ever falling for her.