A Bad Boy is Good to Find(60)

She pushed up the lower sash of the window. It went up smoothly. The sash-cord must have been replaced in the money-hemorrhaging renovations.

“Maisie!” she called out. About forty feet away, Maisie squinted at her, her phone still pressed to her ear. “Dwight called. He’s flying down today. Got something important to tell you.”

Maisie muttered something into her phone. She strode toward the window. “Today? You mean he’s arriving tonight?”

“Yup. On his way.” She smiled cheerfully.

Maisie’s perfectly smooth forehead wrinkled. “What on earth for? It’s not like I won’t be back next week.”

“He said he’s been trying to schedule time with you for ages, but you’ve been too busy.”

“He knows my job is demanding.” Standing right under the window, Maisie glanced at her clipboard. “It’s my time to build my career. He understands that.”

“He sounded very anxious to see you.”

Maisie’s face brightened and got a strangely distant look. “I have a funny feeling he’s finally going to set the date.”

“Of your wedding?”

“Yes. We’re always waiting until the timing is just perfect, and then of course we’re both so madly busy—” She paused and pressed her pen to her mouth. “I wanted to get married last June, but his company was in the midst of a merger and he had an important bond deal to close. Of course it’s given me more time to research and plan and develop a truly impressive guest list…”

Lizzie glanced sideways into the drawing room, where opened boxes of linen napkins and fine stemware lay gathering dust.

“That’s it, I’m sure of it. We’re going to set the date.” Her eyes gleamed like ice cubes.

“Speaking of which, um, what day are we planning to do my wedding?” Lizzie’s voice came out kind of high and squeaky.

“Um,” Maisie tucked some hair behind her ear. “Has, um Con said anything about…No?”

“Con? What are you talking about?” The knot in her intestines tightened a notch.

“He has been terribly busy. Well, I must go. I need to get directions to the storage facility as we’re driving out there right away. As I said there’s no need for you to come.” Maisie was already turning away and fingering her phone.

“I’m coming.” She slammed down the window for emphasis. Suddenly she didn’t feel like letting Con out of her sight for a single instant.



Con had planned to tell Lizzie the wedding was off on the way over to wherever the hell they were going. Maisie had the okay from Don, and he wanted to get that one mess straightened out. Things were so out of control right now he didn’t know which way was up. People were talking about the house like it was his, and the story about his father and what he’d done to his mom was out there in the news and complete strangers with cameras were asking him questions about things he’d never even dared to think about let alone talk about and…

“So you guys think it’ll be a big chest of treasure or something?” Roger’s jovial voice from the backseat drew him back to reality. As soon as Rog climbed into the car, Con knew his news for Lizzie would have to wait.

“What exactly is it supposed to be?” Lizzie looked distracted and nervous, playing with her watch.

“I don’t know. Some stuff in a lockup. The documents they found didn’t have a list of specifics, just a key.” Con drew the key out of his pocket and dangled it from its soiled string. “Hope it’s not a bunch of skeletons or something.”

“Too right. I never know what’s going to happen around here lately.” Rog shifted his long body in the Jeep’s tiny backseat. “So the house is really yours?”

“So they tell me. There’s an old will involved, dating back to when the house was first built. The house goes to the oldest male of the line, failing that to the oldest female. Primogeniture or something, it’s called. They did a DNA test on me to make sure I’m who I say I am.”

“Smart move,” murmured Lizzie, eyes on the windshield.

Con chuckled. “Yeah. Anyway, they have to match it up with something of the old man’s. I think they have a lock of his hair from when he was a baby or something creepy like that. They get the results back tomorrow.”

“How do you feel about being related to him? To the guy who abandoned your mother to her death?” Lizzie turned to him, eyes flashing. She knew he’d caved under pressure and shown the letters to the news media, who’d slavered all over them. He also suspected Lizzie thought there was something pornographic about him splashing his unsightly family history all over the press.

“I hate him,” he said with conviction that tightened his voice. “He didn’t want to leave his precious crap to Mom. Only reason it’s coming to me is because of some old will he couldn’t change. I hope the bastard rots in hell.” It felt good to get that off his chest after playing nice for the cameras all morning.

“So I guess you’ll be giving all his money and possessions to a charity for battered women?” said Lizzie archly. She wasn’t looking at him, but he could see her raised eyebrow.

“Maybe.” The prospect of inheriting the house still seemed weird. Wrong. Damn he loved the area, though. Now he’d gotten over all those ancient fears, the thought of living back down here on the bayou held a lot of appeal.

“Are you serious?” Lizzie’s head snapped round.

“I don’t know. I barely know my own name right now.” He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, the firm leather and metal something he could at least hold on to.

“Your name’s Conroy Beale, unless the story’s changing again.” Her tone was cool.

What was eating her anyway? He’d hoped all that hot sex they’d enjoyed lately would mellow her out a bit. He also hoped that after he told her the good news that she’d get her money without having to marry him, they could pick right back up where they’d left off in the early hours of this morning. Either that or she’d be pissed as hell he’d gone to Maisie behind her back. He was hoping for the former.

A surge of warm anticipation tightened his pants and he smiled at her.

“What are you smiling at?”

“You.”

“Don’t miss the turnoff!” called Rog. “It’s the next right.”



The storage facility was an old one. Long corrugated metal buildings set deep off the road in a weed strewn lot.

“Shouldn’t think there’s anything still in there.” Lizzie scratched an itchy bug bite on her arm. “It’s hardly protected by armed guards is it?”

“There’s a security guard in the office, though he’s about a hundred years old. He’s the one who told me where number four was. Says it’s this whole building.” Patches of red rust-preventative paint were crudely daubed over the peeling pale blue powder-coat of a building at least two hundred feet long.

The van door slammed and Maisie strode toward them, Dino close behind with the camera on his shoulder.