Chapter 11
“Make yourself at home. I’m going to check on the generator.” Brandon took her slicker and paused as if just noticing how wet she was. “On second thought, go get yourself a hot shower. Guest room is through the kitchen, around back. There are robes and towels in the linen closet. You can wash your clothes later.”
“Thanks.” She bit her bottom lip to keep her teeth from chattering and made her way through the stainless-steel world that was Brandon’s home. At least in the kitchen, where every appliance reflected a fuzzy shape of her drab appearance. A second shower in one day, after being drenched again, didn’t exactly appeal to her but the warmth it promised did.
Only after she’d dried her hair did she realize she’d not ever questioned her safety. Brandon’s expertise on the water and through the storm was unquestionable. And she’d never felt as though she were going to be at risk here, alone in his house with him. Not that Brandon struck her as any kind of serial killer or perv, but she hardly knew him, truth be told. Big city living had taught her to be cautious when selecting a lover.
“What the hell?” She spoke to herself as she walked barefoot out to the bedroom area and through to the hallway. A. Brandon wasn’t a lover, no matter how much her body craved him, and B. She had been in extremis, thanks to the weather. The entire southern part of Louisiana was, judging from the storm.
A long thin faucet indicated filtered water at the sink and her thirst kicked in. She looked around at the understated gray-stained cupboards, trying to guess which one held glasses.
“Last cupboard on the left.”
She whirled around, the hardwood floor as smooth as the black granite counters.
“I didn’t hear you.”
He stood at the other end of the massive kitchen island, in a fresh white T-shirt and faded button-flys. She wondered if he had a weathered pair of jeans for each day of the week.
“How’s the water pressure in the guest shower?”
“Uh, fine? Good, actually.”
He scrubbed his nape and shoved his other hand in his front pocket. Next to where the button-fly was. Get your head out of his crotch. Brandon was obviously taking the high road and making good on his promise that nothing would happen between them. Which was good. Necessary. Maybe a little frustrating. Or a lot.
“I ask because I haven’t had many, ah, guests and I wondered if the rain forest shower head really worked.”
She looked away and retrieved a glass and filled it. “It works great. You know you just admitted that you only have women who stay with you, and not in the guest room?” Damn it, she couldn’t keep her mental filter in place to save her life. “Sorry, none of my business.”
He regarded her with a smug expression but not before she caught a flash of surprise. “Correct. None of your business. But if you’re wondering, you’re right. Except that I usually go to their place if we’re going to engage in some fun.”
She held up crossed fingers in front of her as if he were a vampire. “TMI. Sorry I said anything. What is your Wi-Fi password, by the way?”
“The network is BBG-5, the only one that will come up. You may not have noticed in this downpour but there aren’t any other homes for at least a half-mile radius.” He walked over to a built-in desk and wrote the password on a sticky note. “Here. Feel free to use all of your devices at once—you can’t slow my system down.”
“Thanks.” She took the note from him and did not dwell on his hands. He had workingman’s hands. Large, muscular, a few calluses. The kind that provided the best kind of friction as he ran his hands over her body.
He caught her glance and held it, too long. Heat pushed up from between her legs to her breasts and she shook uncontrollably. It was all she could do to not untie her belt and drop the robe. She wanted to hide from Brandon as much as she wanted to completely expose herself to him.
“I meant what I said, Poppy. You’re safe here. This time together is a matter of circumstance. We’re stuck here for as long as the weather pattern holds. Feel free to work wherever it suits you.”
“Thanks.” A lead weight plumbed her stomach as if he’d said “you’re no more than a stranger to me.” Poppy looked around at the open, airy kitchen. Anywhere but at Brandon. “I’ll talk to you later.”
She all but ran to the guest room before she made a complete idiot of herself. Before she blurted out that she didn’t have any work to do.
Even more odd was the sense of loss that haunted her as she settled into the guest room. Her living space for the duration. For the first time in her life, Poppy was without a job and with no idea what she was going to do next.
* * * *
Brandon was relieved that Poppy retreated to the guest room. An hour later he heard the washer and dryer spinning when he walked by the laundry room, so she’d taken him up on his offer and made herself at home.
She’d looked like a lost rabbit in that fluffy white robe. When he’d built the house he’d spared no expense on the decor, and the interior designer had insisted he’d be glad he’d agreed to have the guest room completely outfitted. The only person who regularly used it was Jena, but since she was overseas it’d gone empty. Henry lived close enough to not need it and his parents… They’d visited him here once. That hurt, somewhere deep down, but not as much as he knew Henry was smarting. To have your own wedding blow up in your face because of your parents was unconscionable. He wanted to drive up to his father’s offices and punch the old man in the face for how he and his mother had treated Sonja. But that was Henry’s circus.
He sat down at his computer and read an email from the investigator he’d hired to find Jeb. No luck on figuring out where the funds were, but a little news on Jeb’s location. Apparently, his best friend had disappeared after arriving in Paraguay. What the hell? Who absconded with fifteen million dollars and went to Paraguay? Wouldn’t Rio or Costa Rica be nicer places to blow Boat by Gus’s hard-earned cash?
“Jesus.” He ran his hands through his hair, wondering for the thousandth time why he didn’t notice Jeb was getting ready to bail in such a spectacular fashion.
“You okay?”
Poppy stood in his office doorway, her eyes wary. Her hair had dried into a riot of waves around her face, the blond emphasizing her caramel eyes.
“Did anyone ever tell you your eyes are the exact color of Southern Comfort?”
“No, but if that’s a bourbon then yes.” She leaned a hip against the pocket door frame. “Usually they get compared to Jack Daniel’s.”
“I see you got your clothes washed.”
She plucked at her yellow pullover, every ounce of her body filling the delicious jeans that clung to her. “Yeah, I threw in what I’d brought in the bag, too. Everything was damp. At least my computer stayed dry.” She ventured into the office. He smelled her—the fancy guest room shower soap, his laundry detergent, and the flowery smell she’d brought in with her from New York. “I thought I’d seen the fanciest laundries onboard the yachts I’ve been on. But yours is space-age.”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes sought his; for what, he didn’t know. The compassion in them made him want to run, fast. Because Poppy Kaminsky was dangerous.
“Well, I’ll go back to work if you’re busy.” She stood there, obviously not wanting to be alone. Guilt sucker-punched him.
“Have a seat. I’m not getting anything productive done.” He nodded at his screen, which thankfully boasted a photo of one of his boats with him, Jeb, and the country’s most popular hip-hop artist posing in front.
“Wow, you’ve sold a boat to Honey Child?” She smiled, her first one since he’d brought her back here.
“He’s not as tough as his songs make out. He brought his wife and kids, and the boat has a special infant crib area because his wife was pregnant with twins.” He clicked through to photos of the boat. “Do you see what I meant about needing help with the decor? Customers like Honey Child bring their own interior designers with them. But we’ve, I’ve, been trying to branch out and come up with a line of sailboats for the average boater. I want to bring quality to everyone.”
“That’s admirable. You seem to be a real expert at your job.” Her voice had grown small again. Probably thinking about her ex on his boat with her former assistant. Married. Brandon wasn’t above doing a few Google searches to find out more about a woman who fascinated him, even if the timing stunk.
“I’d like to think I was on the right track with the company, but a few things have happened that are making me question what the hell I’m doing.”
“Like what?” She sat down on the easy chair next to his, where he often spent hours with his tablet, sketching out new boat ideas. “You can trust me. There’s probably nothing I haven’t heard from my clients when it comes to business troubles. Are you experiencing a dwindling demographic, or maybe you need to up your social media presence?”
His laughter erupted and surprised him as much as her. Poppy startled and answered with one of her tiny smiles. God, that bastard must have really taken her through heartbreak city.
“Naw, nothing like that. You know how a guy left you high and dry, Poppy? Well, the same thing happened to me, only I wasn’t in love with him. But he was like a brother, my best friend.”
Her expression was neutral, her posture open and receptive. “Go on.”
And for the first time since it happened, Brandon spilled his guts.
* * * *
Poppy had lied. Customers didn’t regularly share any of their private lives with her. Sure, she caught glimpses of their true personalities from how they behaved as she suggested different outfits, styles, or colors. No one told her about their companies going belly up. But Brandon had looked so…lost. As if his dog had died. She’d chalked it up to the wedding and his parents’ role in it. No one could blame him or Henry for what had happened, but she understood feeling the weight of shame because of something your family had done. Or in her case, her almost-family with Will. Will, Will and Tori—not two people she wanted to be thinking about right now. Ever, in fact.
“Jeb is solid. He’s not a criminal. That’s what’s making me so crazy.”
“He cleaned out your accounts.”
“Yes, he did. There’s no question it was him.”
“Unless he was kidnapped and killed by thugs after he gave them all of his financial and banking information at gunpoint?”
Brandon didn’t pick up her attempt at humor. “I know it’s crazy but I actually thought about that. That’s how out of character this is for him. Jeb is the epitome of a solid guy. He was right next to me, making all the big decisions, from the very first boat we sold.”
“Then why is it called Boats by Gus?”
“I founded the company and its basic concepts were all mine. Jeb is my numbers guy, the CPA who also knows the business inside and out.” Brandon stroked his chin. “It’s the worst kind of feeling, to realize that for at least the last six months, he’s been planning this. The private investigator working the case for me showed me how it had to have been at least that much time to figure out how to do it without a hitch.”
“What does the FBI say?” At his stunned look she pressed further. “Maybe it’s not the FBI, but you did contact at least the local police about this, right?”
He stayed silent for a long while and she waited. Could it be that pulled-together Brandon Boudreaux was as much of a hot mess as she?
“I haven’t told anyone besides the private investigator. And you. I keep telling myself to call my lawyer.”
She felt the weight of his crisis as if it were her breakup all over again. From the forlorn look on his face, Brandon felt as abandoned as she had.
“You’re an adult; by definition you can’t be abandoned. This sucks, Brandon, but you have to stand up to it and grab Jeb by the fucking balls!”
His lopsided grin was like a hook, reeling her in. “Did you grow up learning to talk so sweetly, or is it something you picked up in New York?”
“I know Southern women who use ‘fuck’ way more than I do. And you’re avoiding my suggestion.” She leaned forward and put her hands on his forearm. His face filled her vision but she didn’t allow herself to soak it up as she wanted. Instead she looked him right in the eyes. “I know it hurts, Brandon, but you’ve got the facts right in front of you. The sooner you accept them and take action to get some of your money back, the better you’ll feel.”
His eyes were downcast, staring at her hands as she pulled back. Touching him, skin to skin, even something as platonic as his forearms, was a bad idea. Because her skin sent signals to the lust part of her brain and her brain was telling her most intimate parts to get ready and raring to go with Brandon.
“There’s no getting it back. If Jeb intended to leave with all that money, he didn’t plan to have a way for me to get it back. He’s too smart for that.”
“Okay, well, you’ve still got your company. How many people work for you?”
His face pinched up and if he was a decade or two older she’d be worried he’d grab his chest next. “Directly? I have twenty-three managers. I had plans to hire a half dozen more but now that’s impossible.” He shook his head before looking at her with that intensity that was sexy as hell when he was focused on her but scary when it reflected his despair. “I’ve got nothing left. I’m going to have to close the company within the month, probably file for bankruptcy.”
She stared at him. He didn’t know it, but she was in the same exact place. It kept her from asking him about how many employees total, for now.
“Don’t you have more orders? For future boats?”
“All the advance deposits are gone, used to order the parts or for overhead. We maintain a large storage facility that’s about to lose power, and not from this damn storm.” His head was in his hands, his elbows on his thighs as he leaned over in his chair.
To hell with skin on skin and what it did to her sexy parts. They’d have to hush up. She leaned forward and grasped his arms again. “Brandon. I know it feels like it’s all over, but trust me, it’s not. You’re a brilliant boatbuilder. I didn’t just read your website, I checked out the media reports. You might have to totally rebuild your financials from the ground up, but you’ll survive.”
“I’ll survive, sure, but what about my team? They’re all screwed. They can’t wait for me to turn the business back around. The economy’s bad enough down here and besides my highly skilled laborers that I’ve fought to keep, I employ the skilled laborers that can’t pick up and get a job anywhere else, not this quickly.” He pulled back from her and slammed his hand down on his desk. She winced as if she could feel the pain jolt up his bones. “That’s the worst part. Not Jeb’s betrayal of me, but my stupidity that led to this. I’ve put all of these families at risk.”
She stood up and walked to the large sliding door on the other side of his office. The rain continued, allowing only glimpses of the water beyond the marsh. It was a metaphor for her life and career but one thing she was good at was motivating others. It was part of being a personal stylist. Yet her skills that she’d prided herself on were incapable of bringing Brandon out of his pit. And he was in a deep one, all right.
“There is one job that might make a difference.”
She spun to face him at his quiet declaration. “What?”
He sighed. “It’s such a long shot. I wasn’t going to even consider it when the offer came in last month. But now it might be all I have left.” He stood up and joined her at the window, his hands in his pockets. His handsome features reflected the shadows of rivulets from the window and he looked like the saddest clown she’d ever seen. She didn’t like clowns, but if Brandon were a clown she thought she might.
“Have you ever heard of San Sofia?”
“The island in the Bahamas?” He nodded. “Yes, I actually helped a Broadway actress get ready for a gig down there, for a corporation’s annual conference. She wanted to be professional, but comfortable she wasn’t performing for the crowd.”
“Well, San Sofia is an island nation. It’s independent and has its own president and everything. My lawyers checked it out, and I had a few conversations with the State Department. They’re having a huge opioid problem, just like ours in the U.S. They want to contract for a dozen of my boats to help them monitor and protect their coastline.”
“Do you mean you’re going to build military boats? Like, navy gunships?”
“No, no. They want the more modest line of yawls—sailboats with engines—fully equipped with all the gizmos and gadgets we’re known for. They have their own coast guard that works with ours, and that’s where the enforcement part will come in. Our Department of Defense will work with them on fitting out weapons as needed. I just have to produce the boats they want in the amount of time they want them.”
“How much is the contract worth?”
The figure he named made her reach to the windowpane to steady herself, to feel the hard surface of the glass to make sure this wasn’t a dream. “Brandon, Boats by Gus is going to be just fine. Say yes and tell your employees that it might get tight for a month or two but that you’ll make it up to them. Give them bonuses at Christmas. It’s win-win.”
“I’d have to win the contract first, Yankee girl. An island nation doesn’t put all its money in one boatbuilding outfit.”
“So win it.”
He shook his head and looked at her. They stood only inches apart but the gauntlet he threw down, while invisible, was palpable. “It’s not my gig. I don’t know the first thing about protocol, and I’d have to ensure our own government that I’m doing this on the up and up. There are huge corporations, shipbuilders that regularly produce platforms for the global economy, vying for this. I’m literally a guppy in this ocean.”
“You don’t strike me as a coward, Brandon. You’re a self-made man who built this business from the ground up. You’re going to quit now, just because your best friend broke all your trust and took all your money?” She couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face.
He looked at her for several moments, unflinching. She’d pushed too far, encroached on his private life where she had no business. The guy had been nice enough to give her shelter during a hurricane and she’d done nothing but antagonize him since she’d arrived here. And the attraction she had for him, it was insane, out of her control.
As was the warmth of an emotion she dared not identify when his face slowly broke into an answering grin. “You’ve got me there, Yankee girl. You got me. But if I do this I have to have the right demeanor for the government meetings. Hell, I don’t even have a conservative suit to my name.”
“You have suits though, right? You said you did.”
“Of course. But they’re not the trim, white-shirt red-tie type. What I have are more suited for cocktails with my more financially sound clients. Linen. I’ve never seen a G-man in a linen suit.” His self-deprecation was a huge turn-on. Brandon exuded confidence but not the narcissistic kind she’d discovered Will was full of. Brandon was financially sound, or had been, and yet he never lumped himself in with his super-rich clientele. She liked that about him. It was a big part of her motivation to help him out of his rut.
“Well, Gus, it just so happens that you’re looking at one of the finest stylists this side of the Mississippi. I can turn a toad into a slick CEO in no time.”
“Only if you’ll let me pay you.”
“Consider it rent for the emergency lodging.”