Three Little Words (Fool's Gold #12)(9)

“What if I turned him g*y?”

Ford smiled. “You didn’t.”

“You can’t know that. Maybe I was so horrible in bed he had to go be with a guy.”

“I don’t think it works that way. Isn’t sexual preference biological? Sorry to disappoint, but you don’t have that much power.”

He was being so kind, she thought. Gentle and sweet. The unexpected support made her want to lean into him. “I feel stupid. Like I should have known.”

“You trusted him, Isabel. You believed in him and he used you.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“Because it is.” The smile returned. “I’m always right.”

“Oh, please.” She felt herself start to smile back at him.

“Better,” he said, then leaned forward and lightly touched his mouth to hers.

The kiss was brief. More comfort than seduction. Even so, she felt a distinct jolt deep in her belly. She told herself it was a combination of wine—even though she’d barely had a sip—and embarrassment. No one knew the truth about Eric. She’d been too humiliated to share what had really happened. Now she wondered why she’d been so reluctant to trust the people who loved her.

“Thank you,” she said when he straightened. “For listening and not laughing.”

“Your story wasn’t funny.”

“I was thinking more of being laughed at rather than with.”

“Not my style,” he told her.

What was his style? Who was this man who drove a ridiculous vehicle and claimed to be God’s gift to women, yet offered comfort and knew the exact right thing to say?

Before she could ask, he turned away and checked on the steaks. “They’re about done,” he said.

“I’ll get the potatoes and salad.”

She walked into the house and drew in a breath. She felt better for having told the truth. As if the secret of why her marriage had ended had been weighing on her.

What she hadn’t said, what she wondered if Ford or anyone else would guess, was that the sadness she felt was for the loss of a friend. Not of a husband or a lover. She didn’t feel as if she’d ended things with her one true love. Which meant the marriage had been a fake from the beginning and somehow she’d never noticed.

* * *

FORD LEANED BACK in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. “Two more accounts,” he said, nodding at the folders on the desk.

Consuelo pushed his boots off the desk. “You’re smug. I hate smug.”

“I’m good at my job,” he corrected, then drank his coffee.

Angel’s expression turned pained. “You get the glory because you’re in sales. We’re all working just as hard.”

“Do you hear anything?” Ford asked Justice. “I’m getting a buzzing sound in my ear.”

Justice turned from his laptop and opened the folders. He glanced at the printed copies of emails, along with the signed contracts.

The workload at CDS was divided equally. Justice, who had pulled the business together, coordinated all their activities and kept everything running smoothly. Consuelo was in charge of classes and training. Angel put together custom programs for their security clients and the corporate customers, while Ford was in charge of sales.

“Don’t make trouble,” Justice said mildly as he reviewed the documents. He was tall and broad shouldered, and the only one of them wearing a suit. Ford, Angel and Consuelo had on cargo pants and T-shirts, which in Consuelo’s case was really a tank top. The influence of their military training. The clothes provided for easy movement in any situation.

“Nice,” Justice said, looking up. He turned to Angel. “I’ll touch base with the companies to find out the details of what they’re looking for. Then you can start designing the programs.”

Angel looked disgusted. “How are you doing that? You have new clients nearly every week and we’ve only been open a month.”

“Jealous? I’m good at what I do.”

“Don’t make me separate you two,” Consuelo said.

“I’ve got style, bro,” Ford said, ignoring her. “Real style.”

There were three parts to the CDS business plan. The first types of client were ones already in the security business. CDS provided advanced training for senior operatives and basic training for new hires. Most companies found it cheaper to outsource instruction.

The second source of income came from corporate clients looking for a unique team-building experience. Using the town as a selling point, Ford presented the idea of a simple series of survival exercises to grow trust in a group. Most of the corporate clients picked weeks of festivals for their dates, bringing in the employees on Monday and flying in family members to join them on Thursday. At the end, there would be a group hug and a round of “Kumbaya.” Or some crap like that.

The final source of income was from classes held for locals. Self-defense and basic exercise. It was good for the town, good for CDS, and that was all he cared about.

“You don’t have style,” Angel grumbled. “Look at that thing you drive.”

“It’s a classic.”

“It’s an embarrassment to Jeeps everywhere. The company should come take it away from you.”