Chapter Two
Rachel Grant had some nerve. Trick lowered her wrist to her waist. He'd been texting his attorney 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.
“What are you doing here?” she ground out and yanked her arm free.
“I'd ask you the same question. Waitressing?” He was still astonished Rachel worked at this over-priced gentlemen’s club.
“Yeah, waitressing,” she spat. “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. “Those days certainly are over.”
Three years ago, this woman had been his everything. 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.
“Your shadow in Baltimore, too?” he hissed. “Of course Jay is. You two are joined at the hip. Your relationship with your stepbrother is just a tad unnatural—another example of the two of you ‘keeping it in the family,’ I presume.”
“Stop touching me.” She yanked 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 for Talman’s across the narrow street. He put his back to the crowd and lowered his voice to a vicious undertone. “You didn’t stay in town for a hot minute after—”
“Why do you think I did that?” she sneered.
“Oh, I know why.” Man, did he know why. Funny thing about being imprisoned for twenty-nine months, four days and six hours. It gave you lots of time to stare at gray bars and blank walls and think about why his best friend and his fiancé set him up on charges of embezzlement. He still didn’t know what had happened to their trust fund money. He only knew he didn’t have it. Two feet from her face, he shook his head and let all the disgust he felt show.
“Don't shake your head at me, Trick Masters,” she spat.
“Babe, I could care less what you want. What I can't understand is why the hell you're in a seedy place like this. Blown through your money already? Searching for a new sugar daddy, a sucker to fund your extravagant lifestyle like I did?”
“Did prison affect your hearing? Let me say it slowly so even you can understand.” She leaned forward almost nose-to-nose and hissed, “I. Have. No. Money!”
“Liar.” He snorted in derision and his gaze fell to her four-inch heels. “Like I’d believe that fairytale. Still running around in those $800 Louboutin heels I see—shoes I bought you if I recall.”
“Fairytale!” she seethed. “You killed any belief I had in fairytales just like you killed everything.” Her eyes reddened, and that tell-tale quiver of her chin started. It always had when she got frustrated.
Shit. He could almost feel sorry for her. He was being an asshole, but damnit, she deserved it—and more. She and her stepbrother waltzed off scot-free while he'd lost his law license, his career, his reputation—shit, his entire life—and that thought stiffened his spine.
“Don't you dare cry,” he bit out. He wouldn't fall for her tears, not from the witch who shredded his heart, hell, shredded all his belief in humankind. “Have you tried the stage? You’re a damn good actress.”
When Jay and Rachel’s trust fund of $3 million had been discovered missing, his employers, the investment firm of Baskers & Trout, had turned him over to the District Attorney's office as the only man they assumed had the knowledge and opportunity to have committed the crime. Jay, his supposed friend, immediately believed he’d stolen their money, which stung like a bitch, but what felt like a thousand needles being driven into his heart was Rachel's distrust, her immediate and total abandonment of him. His own damned fiancé never showed up at the courthouse—not once—or visited him in prison.
For eleven fucking months he’d paced a 10 x 12 foot cell—waiting and wondering. Then when he got out? He won the prize of a clunky GPS ankle bracelet and stewed under house arrest for another eighteen mother-effing months, unable to track down Rachel and Jay because they’d high-tailed it out of D.C., a move that unequivocally supported what he'd suspected. The conniving bitch and her spoiled little stepbrother had set him up.
She screeched in anger. “This is the only job I can get, you . . . you. . .” That finger of hers was drilling a hole through his sternum again.
He swatted her hand away. “I can't believe you blew through all that money. Tsk. Tsk.”
“You have some fucking nerve standing there in your Hugo Boss suit while I—”
“I have no sympathy for you.” He snorted. “You want a better job? Quit your whining and go get one.” He pulled out a card to the club, Shakedown, and shoved it into her hand. Being the club manager was the only job he could land after he got out. Thank God Declan had honored his promise. He found it supremely ironic that one of the most honorable men he’d ever met he’d met in prison.
She peered at the card. “Shakedown? A strip club? That’s a cheap shot, even for you.”
“Furthest thing from a strip joint, sweet cheeks. But hell, even if it were you'd make more money than at”—he waved his hand—“this place.” He also could keep an eye on her and find out what really happened three years ago. Over the last four months, his mission in life focused on one goal: to clear his name. That meant finding out where she and Jay had put $3 million.
She threw the card back at him. It floated to the ground in a series of graceful arcs.
“I'd never work for you,” she hissed.
“I knew you’d be afraid.”
“Ha.” With a final toss of her head, she marched back across the street. The long blare of a car horn sounded as a Jaguar barely missed her.
He ran out and slammed his palm down on the guy's expensive hood. “Jesus, Rachel. Watch yourself,” he called.
The guy behind the windshield flipped him the bird. Whatever, dude.
“Go fuck yourself, Trick Masters,” she yelled without looking back.