Red & Wolfe, Part I: An Erotic Fairy Tale, Page 3

  So…a moneygrubber.

  “You’re right,” Halcomb says. “Her name is Sarah. She needs to take a position with the trust. She can then decide if the island should be sold to an individual. You. You’ll need to convince Sarah to get involved, and convince her to sell the island to you.”

  “I hope your office intends to handle this. It’s your fuck-up. And I don’t leave the island. Ever.” That’s a stretch, but I’m damn sure not going to this bastard’s office.

  “I can send someone out to help you—”

  “Not someone. You.”

  “Ah, well, I—”

  “If you and I have to meet for any reason, you come to me. I don’t want to deal with an intern or some fucking first-year lackey.”

  I enjoy his silence. Nervous silence.

  He clears his throat again. The fucking pussy.

  “Er…yes. Of course. Just tell me when and…well,” he chuckles, “I don’t need to ask where. Gertrude paid my firm well to be…considerate of her preferences. Her solitude. Yours as well, by extension, sir. But there won’t be any paperwork to sign, no business between you and me, until you contact Sarah.”

  Fuck.

  Chapter Two

  RED

  I arrive in Charleston in mid-morning. There are so many more trees than I remembered, many of them adorned with beautiful gray moss. Water spreads out around the city like an obsidian plate of glass. The historic homes—Federal style, Queen Anne, Italianate—are painted in pastels, and arranged in neat rows along lamp-lit sidewalks. The day is overcast, with dark gray clouds like rain, so some of the lamps are already glowing.

  I drive around, reacquainting myself with iron-gated cemeteries and sprawling plantation homes. Finally, about 3:30 p.m., I stop at a little local produce store and ask about the Briar Bay boat dock, which I’m told is in a cove near Dill Creek, on the James Island side of Charleston Harbor. I head across the Ashley River, find a shrimp shack, and spend the next hour and a half eating and obsessively checking my phone. I fire off a quick e-mail telling Gertrude I’ll be the girl with long, red hair, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved gray t-shirt.

  When I got the call from my bank confirming that an anonymous donor had infused my account with new life, I renewed the lease on my apartment, but I didn’t have time to buy new furniture or clothes, so here I am, in my slightly baggy jeans and a Northwestern shirt I’ve had since...spring my junior year. So yeah, meeting grandma for the first time in a six-year-old t-shirt.

  I refresh my red lipstick about twelve times before leaving the shrimp shack, then point my Camry toward the water.

  The clouds are darker now, hanging low over the harbor. Gulls crisscross the sky, moving in frenzied zigzags. I follow the instructions of my GPS and pull into a parking lot that reaches to the water’s edge, where there’s a long, wooden dock lined with boat slips. Mossy trees shade the deck and walkway, hanging over boats big and small. I run my eyes over the larger boats, wondering which one is my grandmother’s.

  I pull my phone out of my cup holder and shoot off an e-mail. “I’m here.” Then I grab my duffel bag and purse, lean against my hood, and wait.

  What will Gertrude look like? I watch the docked boats, serviced by fluttering figures, heads bowed against a swift but muggy breeze.

  There’s a luxury boat, maybe fifty feet, with a pelican’s post on the top. I wonder if she’s wealthy enough to own that. I guess she probably is. I cast my gaze to a smaller boat, this one blue and white, with the name Dirty Sammy scrawled across its back in cursive.

  I’m holding my breath when my phone vibrates. ‘The boat name is Fog.’

  My heart hammers. My mouth feels dry. I tuck my hair behind my ears, adjust the bag on my shoulder, and start toward the dock. The square, wood deck adjoining the parking lot is dotted with a few benches and an abandoned fishing pole. I take a left onto one of the long planks that runs parallel with the shoreline. Boats bob all along it, settled into little, wood-framed slots.

  I walk slowly, glancing at each boat for Fog. I see Double Trouble, Choppy Cass, Stupid Does, Great Escape. I think the beige, gray, and crimson sailboat a few slots down looks like a Fog, and am disappointed to find its name is Rammer Jammer. I pass a few smaller boats, the kind you might ski behind, as well as a yacht that looks almost too big for its allotted docking space.

  I pass a yellow boat named Fifty, where a pretty blonde mans the steering wheel and a short-haired brunette in a red bikini stands beside the motors, waving her hands in an attempt to help the blonde back out.

  I look down at my feet as gulls caw overhead.

  The wind blows my hair across my cheeks. A few strands stick to my lips.

  I’m pushing at them with my fingertips, glancing down the dock for a woman with gray hair and my mother’s mouth, when I see him: a tall man blocking my path. He’s wearing a pair of loose, charcoal slacks and a battered-looking white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, so I can see his muscled forearms. His face is partially shaded by a baseball cap. And even so, I know he’s here for me.

  My cheeks heat up, as if I’ve been sunburned; my stomach aches; and, swear to god, my pussy actually clenches, like it’s saying “fuck me now.”

  Then he takes a slow stride toward me, lifts his head a little, and I see his face.

  Holy fucking wow. This man is brutally handsome.

  A short, scruffy black beard covers his face, begging for my fingers. His jaw is hard, his cheekbones stark and high. His mouth, which twists when he sees me, is full and pink and sensuous. And yet, there’s something harsh about it. Almost mean. I picture it closing around my nipple, sucking me before he sinks his teeth into my tender flesh.

  His eyes flick up to mine and my heart beings to hammer. They’re dark brown—intense and long-lashed—but that’s not what makes me stop mid-stride. No. It’s the way they sweep me up and down, so obviously assessing.

  Does he find me wanting? Satisfactory?

  I want to take a step closer and yank off his Mets ball cap. I want to run my fingers through his hair.

  I notice I’m breathing fast and shallow, like I’m recovering from a panic attack.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  He steps toward me and I lick my lips.

  “You’re Red.” His voice is so low, I can feel the timbre of it between my legs.

  “You’re…not my grandmother.”

  “No.” His mouth presses into a tight line. “Red,” he says slowly, “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. Gertrude passed a few days ago.”

  “She died?”

  He nods once. “She did.”

  He swipes his cap off his head, revealing short, black hair.

  I stare at it, as if it might help me comprehend. I waited a lifetime to meet my grandmother, longed for her since my mother died, and came this close to knowing her? How could she be gone?

  My eyes water—from shock or disappointment? Maybe from the wind. “When did she die?”

  “Earlier in the week,” he says.

  I can’t believe it. I cut my eyes away from him, casting my gaze into the water lapping at the wood posts of the dock. I run my eyes back up his body, and in that moment, I resent his beauty. I don’t want to notice the way his slacks hang on his muscled legs, the way the wind presses his button-up to his washboard abs.

  And yet I do.

  So inappropriate.

  I put a hand over my face and try to collect myself. When I feel cooler—too cool now; cold—I ask, “So the money…? It’s an inheritance?”

  His features morph, from neutral to furious in seconds. “So it was the money,” he barks.

  “What?”

  “You needed money.” His tone is harsh and judging.

  “The money was given to me. I didn’t ask for it.”

  He makes a face that starts out as a wince and turns into an angry smirk. “That’s how I got you here. Money grubber.”

  My stomach tightens. “I’m not a money grubber. What d
o you mean ‘got me here?’” It hits me like a cannon ball that I don’t even know who he is, this man who’s suddenly so angry with me. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Race. I was Gertrude’s assistant.” He folds his arms in front of his chiseled chest, revealing thick, tanned forearms.

  I look beyond him, down the dock, where a group of men are unloading fish into several large, white coolers.

  “You said you got me here with money. What does that mean?”

  His eyebrows narrow. “I deposited thirty thousand dollars in your account. Gertrude didn’t leave you anything.”

  “What?”

  “She left her island to me by putting me in charge of her trust. But it turns out the trust can’t transfer ownership of the island to me without you, because the island is conservation land, and conservation land can only be passed down within a family. I can’t have it unless you become involved with the trust and sign off on the sale of it to me.

  “If you want to keep the money that I gave you, what you have to do is simple. Sign on to oversee her trust, and decide the island should be sold to me. The money will go to the trust, but I’ll give you an additional thirty thousand dollars for your trouble.”

  I blink a few times. “Are you…bribing me?”

  He pins me with that awful look again. The condemning one. “Do you consider yourself above that?”

  “I don’t know. Yes. You called me a money-grubber. That’s not a good way to get my help.”

  A beam of sunlight pushes through the dark clouds, illuminating the man’s wavy black hair. “So you’re saying you won’t do it?”

  I rub my eyes, noticing as I do that my hand is shaking. “I don’t know if I will. I don’t know.” I draw a deep breath in. Force myself to look into his almost-black eyes. “I don’t think I would agree to sell her island to you. You seem like an asshole.”

  “Do I?” He steps closer, and my chest and cheeks go molten hot.

  I grit my teeth. “Yes. You are an asshole. I can spot one.”

  “You’re a beggar.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “How did my grandmother die, asshole?”

  His face hardens. “It was cancer. Do you care?”

  “Of course I care!”

  His sneer tells me what he thinks of that, but I ignore him. “Pancreatic cancer?” I ask.

  He frowns.

  “Did she die of pancreatic cancer?”

  “Lung.”

  I exhale slowly, feeling faint. “She didn’t want to meet me, did she? It was you who told me to come here.”

  He nods, and my throat constricts.

  “After your first e-mail,” he says, “I did some digging. I found out about your financial woes. After she passed, I gave you a ‘gift.’”

  “A bribe.”

  “A gift. A token of my intent if you were to decide, on behalf of the trust, to sell the island to me. Her trust will get the money. A little under a million, if I’m correct about the island’s worth. You can keep the sixty thousand I give you, and I get to continue living at my home.” He holds his hands out, as if everything he’s said is totally logical.

  I shake my head. “Just because you were dumb enough to deposit money into my account—under false pretenses, might I add—doesn’t mean I have to agree to sell the island to you. How could I do that, anyway? If you’re one of the trust’s administrators, wouldn’t that be like…illegal?”

  “I’d have to remove myself first.”

  That sounds complicated. “Why do you care so much about this island? If you can buy this one, couldn’t you just buy another one?”

  He shakes his head, as if he’s lost. When he speaks, his voice is surprisingly soft. “It’s my home.”

  “Only if I decide to give it to you. So far, I haven’t thought of a single reason why I should.”

  “What if I told you the money is gone unless you do?”

  I snort. “Are you a magician?”

  His eyes harden. “The money is gone, Red. It’s been gone since this morning. I had it removed.”

  “W-what do you mean?” My voice is squeaky.

  “Your check for that car you bought won’t bounce. But everything else is gone.”

  I start to tremble, shoulders first, then chest. “Are you fucking kidding me? Is this a fucking joke?” I fumble for my phone and he steps closer. “Go ahead and check,” he says. “You’ll see.”

  I can barely get to the bank’s web site, my hands are shaking so badly. When I see the balance, I nearly vomit: $245.13.

  “I don’t understand! Why did you do this?”

  “I needed to get you here.”

  “I would have probably come if you’d asked like a normal person!”

  He shakes his head. “I needed a guarantee.”

  I grind my jaw together as hard as I can and put my head in my hands. I haven’t felt this screwed—this utterly and totally fucked—since mom was diagnosed.

  I feel his hand touch my shoulder, and I slap him off. “I can’t believe this shit. I can’t believe—”

  He holds up a check, and I shut my mouth.

  My name is in the “to” space. The dollar amount is $60,000.

  Suddenly, my lungs work again. It takes me a moment to find my voice, and when I do, it’s raspy and weak. “How can I trust you? If you can deposit and remove money from my account one time…” I shake my head. “How did you even do that?”

  “It wasn’t easy. It’s not something just anyone can do. I doubt I could do it again, for what that’s worth.”

  “It’s worth nothing.”

  I take a step back, and his fingers close around my arm as his black eyes find mine. “I’m sorry I did things this way. I really am. I’d like nothing more than to hand this check to you—and I will. As soon as you agree to sign the island over to me. Come with me, Red. Just for a night. Give me a chance to talk you into this. You can see where your grandmother lived.”

  I look at the blue and white sailboat behind him. It’s got two glossy cedar benches in the middle, two motors on the back, and a steering wheel podium near the front. I shake my head. I’m not going anywhere with him.

  “God, this is so my luck. Some asshole poses as my grandmother, and now you want to steal her island from me. You’re like…the big bad wolf.”

  He blanches for just a second before he turns his face into something more neutral. “Get into the boat, Red. I promise you’ll be glad you did.”

  *

  WOLFE

  Surprises.

  Fucking hell, I’m rocked by her surprises. For starters: the little redhead makes my dick hard. The righteous outrage. I’m glad I pissed her off. How fucking sexy is that mouth when she’s using it to slap me around?

  As she stands there with her hands on her hips, glaring at me like she’s sure she knows how big and bad I am, I’m shifting to try and hide my erection.

  I can’t keep my eyes from returning to her breasts. They stretch her long-sleeved gray t-shirt. I run my gaze down to her curvy hips and wonder what she’d do if I grabbed her ass right now.

  I can’t believe my reaction to her. The way my dick salutes her. The way my balls draw up like she’s tickling them with her tongue.

  It’s not because she’s classically beautiful. She’s got an unusual look: long, straight, red hair; red lips; porcelain skin with a smattering of freckles on her nose. Her blue eyes are big and wide. If I had to paint her as an animal, I’d make her a fox. Sleek. Striking.

  I roll my gaze down her lithe body, lingering on her hips, encased in jeans. I wonder what her cunt would taste like.

  Strawberries, I bet.

  I imagine thrusting two fingers into her slick, pink flesh; working my pinkie into her tight asshole.

  I’d love to see those legs sag open for me.

  I want to hear her moan and pant, feel her writhe under me.

  “This is a really terrible thing to do to someone,” she says, han
ds on her hips. “You’re using my financial troubles to manipulate me.”

  I arch a brow. “I’m offering you an easy chance to drive off tomorrow with a check for sixty thousand dollars and an opportunity to net much more for your grandmother’s trust.”

  “Really? Because it looks to me like you gave me thirty thousand dollars, then snatched it away in order to control me. I’d rather be poor and homeless than manipulated by an ass like you.”

  Christ, she’s sexy.

  I struggle to suppress a smile.

  “I’d like you to come and see the island,” I try.

  “So I can decide if I want to give it to you?” She snorts. “I can tell you right now, my answer is ‘no.’”

  “Reconsider.”

  She bites down on her lower lip, and my dick pulses. I wonder if she’s red between her legs.

  “Why should I get into a boat with you, wolf?”

  I hate how she keeps calling me that—my real last name—so I’m terse when I say, “Do it because I asked.”

  A little laugh, soft as the wind. “Are you sure you were my grandmother’s employee? Something about you feels really…lawyer to me. Lawyer or…hmmm.” She strokes her chin. “Maybe banker.”

  I force myself to breathe. “You’ve got it all wrong, Rojo.”

  I step down into the boat to give her the illusion of space. If she turns to leave, I’ll go after her, but she doesn’t need to know that.

  I watch her look from me to the parking lot, so obviously considering her choice. I’m still hard, so I lean on the dock and try to find something about her I don’t like.

  Freckles.

  Never have liked them.

  She has freckles.

  Except on her, they emphasize just how fucking smooth and soft and unblemished the rest of her skin is. I wonder if she has freckles on her breasts.

  I grit my teeth again, and when I look back at her face, I get this feeling like she might be checking me out, too.

  Another surprise: The scrutiny makes me squirm.

  Squirming makes me angry. I’m not who I used to be, and most days I think it’s for the best. But this is pathetic.