“That’s… I don’t know what to say. Thank you,” Dekker said, with another of those slightly ill-at-ease glances at Will. “Thank you both.”
He did seem thankful. But Will couldn’t help thinking Dekker also seemed more scared than when he’d first walked into their office.
Chapter Two
Will was not happy.
Even after two Knob Creek bourbons and ordering Aloha Steakhouse’s legendary prime rib Menehune cut, he remained stern-mouthed and steely eyed, and, in the normal course of things, that would have bothered the hell out of Taylor. In this case… Well, in this case, Brandt needed to suck it up.
Taylor sighed mentally, gazing out the wall of windows overlooking the moonlit ocean. The restaurant was one of their favorite places. The food was good, the drinks were good, and the beachy decor with its high ceilings, polished wood, and marine-themed art was usually as relaxing as a walk on the beach.
Not so much tonight.
This was not exactly the celebration Will had wanted, and Taylor was sorry about that. But a promise was a promise, and if anyone ought to understand that, it was Will. He was the most honorable guy Taylor had ever known.
He swallowed the last of his Aloha Amber Ale. He was sticking to beer tonight, not wanting to risk an alcohol-infused argument when they got home—he recognized the precariousness of his own mood. He should never have brought up David Bradley. Will, still appalled by the hurt he’d unconsciously inflicted in Paris, was bound to think that’s what this was about. But it was nothing to do with Bradley. This was about one thing and one thing only: keeping his promise to Ashe.
And yeah, Will was right. Taylor had made that promise in a different life. Will was right that the timing was not good. Well, that went without saying. There was no good time for bad things to happen. Will was also right that they were already stretched too thin and they couldn’t—could not under any circumstances—afford to jeopardize the Webster account.
And finally, Will was right that Ashe was not being completely candid with them.
That was something he’d brought up after the first round of drinks. They’d been making carefully neutral conversation over the fried calamari, and Will had said suddenly, “Maybe I’d feel better about the situation if I didn’t have the feeling your boy Dekker is hiding something.”
Until Will put it into words, Taylor hadn’t acknowledged his own reservations. And even then he said, “Yeah, well, he’s probably a little embarrassed. No guy likes to feel like he can’t take care of himself. I’m guessing the sheriffs weren’t particularly diplomatic.”
“He was definitely vague about the arson report.”
“That doesn’t mean someone didn’t try to burn down his place.”
Will hmmed and sipped his bourbon. Eventually, he said, “How did he find us?”
“We’re in the Yellow Pages. We’re on the web. We’re running ads in Ventura Life magazine. I would hope people could find us.”
“That’s not what I mean. How did he know American Eagle is you?”
“Us.”
“Us. It’s not like we’re running ads under our names.”
Taylor said, “We’re not hiding our identities either. Anyone who looks up our website is going to see our About Us section. It’s reasonable that our names might be popping up in Google searches.”
“Maybe.” Will still sounded dissatisfied.
Taylor again considered Ashe’s nervousness, came up with, “After all, it’s been a long time. Maybe he wasn’t completely comfortable coming to us.”
“Coming to you.” It was said dispassionately, but point made.
“Still.”
Will’s comments confirmed his own gut feeling that there was more to Ashe’s story. But then Ashe had always been a little…evasive.
He said slowly, watching Will’s face, “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” Will said. “I’m just making observations as they occur to me.”
They were both a little paranoid after Oregon.
Maybe with good reason. A few weeks earlier they had visited Will’s father for Thanksgiving—now there was a homecoming for the history books—and discovered they were being tailed by a not-very-efficient PI by the name of Stuart Schwierskott.
Schwierskott swore he did not know who had hired Schwierskott & Associate to conduct surveillance on them—or rather he insisted he had been hired by a legal firm acting as a middleman—and despite their best efforts, Will and Taylor had not been successful in finding out who wanted to keep tabs on them.
It seemed pretty unlikely Ashe could be connected to any of that. For one thing, he claimed his troubles had begun months ago, and that was something that could be easily verified.
Besides, Ashe was genuinely afraid; that had been plain to Taylor. And really, that was all that mattered. Ashe needed help, and Taylor owed him that much.
Their meals came, and within a few bites of meltingly tender black & bleu filet mignon, Taylor’s mood lifted. Will stopped looking quite so bleak and ordered a third round of drinks.
They were halfway through their dinners when Will said thoughtfully, “He doesn’t really seem like your type.”
“What’s my type?”
“Me,” Will said promptly, and Taylor gave a little huff.
But Will was smiling at him, teasing, though maybe a bit tentative—they had come way too close to really arguing earlier. Taylor smiled back. After all, it was perfectly true. And Will, with his chiseled, square-jawed handsomeness—alert and amused blue eyes, boyish sweep of glossy brown hair—was about as far from Ashe’s edgy, sensual, and slightly dissolute appeal as it got.
“Maybe we were just friends,” Taylor suggested.
“No. Not the way he looked at you.” Will shook his head. Started to say ruefully, “And…”
Taylor glanced at him. “And?”
“There was a note in your voice.”
“A note in my voice?”
What did that mean? Was Will jealous? No. Will knew perfectly well he came first for Taylor and had from practically the minute they’d been teamed. Will had never doubted Taylor’s feelings for him, just his ability to keep his pants zipped in the face of temptation. To mix a metaphor or two.
Anyway, he didn’t want to dwell on old resentments. Not everything could
