Christmas Con Read online

  After crossing the remote mountain passes into the valley, I finally zoom through the barren rolling hills to the prison yard. While I drive, I try to figure out what Sammie will want.

  A steak dinner, perhaps?

  A shopping trip or maybe a spa visit?

  I’ll want to soften her up so she can let those loose lips of hers sink ships.

  When I pull up to the prison right before dusk, she’s not there. No one is waiting out front. Perhaps I overestimated my “pull” on her—my being Mitch’s hold on her. Maybe she’s not moonstruck by Mitch after all, or she found another ride.

  What if Mitch already got to her, and I’ve hit another dead end?

  I’m not going to let self-doubt creep in and forego the advance my client, a prominent but dirty state politician, paid me.

  Nope. The guards may offer a clue. I park the car and head for the visitor’s area.

  “We’re not open for visiting,” a buxom guard says, eyeing me up and down. “Although I get off at six.”

  “I’m looking for Samantha Reed. She was released today.”

  The washed-up blond exchanges glances with an older guard who says, “You the ride she called? Or are you the boyfriend?”

  I narrow my eyes and wonder how much Sammie told them about Mitch. Since he’s my quarry, I play along.

  “Former boyfriend. I’m the guy she was seeing before she ended up here.”

  “Funny, she never let on what a hottie she had.” The stout younger guard flutters her hand over her purposely heaving chest. “Care to have a drink with me, and I’ll tell you everything she did in prison.”

  “I’m more interested in finding her.” I take the offered card with her phone number on it just in case. “It’s too bad I missed her. Did someone else pick her up?”

  “Nope. Sad puppy, that one.” The wiry crone well past retirement age cackles. “She confessed all her crimes. Didn’t even cop a plea deal. But at least you showed up.”

  “How romantic,” the hefty milkmaid-type blinks, eyelashes fluttering and sighs as if I’m a superhero. “You came to pick her up from prison.”

  I flash her an encouraging smile. “Did she talk a lot about me?”

  One thing I’m good at is eliciting information from complete strangers. That and keeping them from finding out anything about me.

  “Not that much,” the geriatric guard says. “Never had visitors. I felt sorry for her. Anyway, I win the bet because you didn’t show up.”

  “Actually, he did,” the bosomy guard says. “He’s standing right in front of us.”

  “He didn’t show up in time,” old prune-face says.

  “Where did she go?” I ask, but the two Tweedle Dees and Dums are doing the “did not,” “did too,” back and forth.

  Not that they’re of any use. It’s obvious Sammie didn’t talk about Mitch, because I don’t look a thing like that douchebag—pale, milky guy with a surplus of body hair, weak flaccid muscles, and bloodshot eyes, and if I were her, I wouldn’t be bragging about a milquetoast who let me take the rap sheet while he partied on yachts and hobnobbed with senators and congress critters.

  I amble back to my car and text Sammie.

  Where the hell are you?

  She texts back a few seconds later. Sorry, I don’t talk to strangers.

  Ha, ha. I feel like congratulating her. I wouldn’t have respected her if she didn’t pick up that I’m not exactly Mitch.

  I thumb back a message. Don’t worry. I’ll find you. I always get my woman.

  She has the cheek to reply. I’ll never be yours.

  My last offer. Will you settle for a steak dinner?

  She doesn’t answer.

  ~ Sammie ~

  Fake it until you make it.

  Fake it until you make it.

  I slap my cheeks to keep myself alert.

  Evening’s coming, and I should have accepted the ride to the Greyhound terminal. Now, I’m on a long, lonely road between smooth and treeless rolling hills with miles and miles of road ahead of me.

  All because of stupid Mitch Slack.

  I’ve had three years to rue the day I let him walk over me with his geeky charm and fake biker vibe. Granted his computer skills are legendary, and he’s a master at back doors and jailbreaking systems, but after I flew cover for him, he let me rot in prison.

  Now he’s playing games with me and offering me a steak dinner? As if I’m on death row?

  Eff him. Maybe he’s the one on death row with that hoarsely deep voice that sounds nothing like him. I hope he has throat cancer. Serves him right for vaping like a foghorn.

  I trudge over the cooling ribbon of asphalt. Thank God, the day is over. This road is so out of the way, I’ve yet to see a passing car. The only ones likely to come my way are the guards getting off their shift.

  Will I eat crow when that hooting heifer or the ancient mummy pass my way? One thing’s for sure, I’m too proud to take a ride from either of them.

  I raise my chin and march onward, looking like I’ve conquered the barren hills and valleys.

  I came.

  I saw.

  I … have sore feet.

  Who am I fooling? Even if I return to San Francisco, whose couch can I sleep on? My cousins are all snobs, and my mother’s gone silent. She’s Asian, and the loss of face was too much for her to stomach.

  Plus, she has to keep up the bragging rights in front of her mahjong friends, and she couldn’t hold her head up once it came out that I’m a convicted felon.

  I keep marching forward, head held high. I might be alone in the world, but hey, I’m free, and I’ll always land on my feet.

  The ants are marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah;

  The ants are marching two by two, hurrah, hurrah …

  The sound of tires and shining headlight beams knock me back to reality. I hop to the side of the road, but there are no trees or structures of any kind to hide behind. The amber waves of blowing grass shimmer on both sides of me, and I hope whoever is passing by doesn’t stop.

  The silver sedan passes me and comes to a smooth stop.

  It’s a late model Mercedes.

  Damn.

  Mitch ditched his Harley for a Benz? I thought he was lying. And then that joke about not being Mitch? Real lame.

  If he thinks I’m sleeping with him, I’d rather shank him first.

  The passenger door opens, but I skirt it and keep walking.

  “It’s getting dark out here, and you’re miles from the nearest town,” a deep, raw voice calls.

  Whoever it is, it’s not Mitch. I don’t care what stage throat disease he has, there’s no way his ribcage is large enough to project a booming bass voice that can melt the panties right off me.

  “I don’t talk to strangers,” I call back.

  The car idles up to me, following me with its door open.

  “Mitch sent me to pick you up. Samantha Reed, right?”

  Yeah, right. Like I’m going to believe him. He’s already proven to be a liar, impersonating Mitch all because he got his old phone number. Still, I’ll test him.

  “What else do you know about me?” I allow the car to pull even with me and take a look at the owner of the swoony voice.

  He’s definitely not Mitch. Much bigger, bulkier, and I’m betting tall. His dark, black hair is wavy and in need of a trim. Strong, aquiline nose, rugged features and suspicious, electric-blue eyes like he can see right through me.

  One more thing?

  Wow.

  He’s hot, and that’s a chemical reaction, not my hacker brain talking. He’s stealing my scene. His presence drains the air from my lungs as he leans toward the door and holds out a sturdy and inviting hand.

  “I know you’re a proud woman, Miss Reed, and you don’t do anything you don’t want to do. You’re no victim, and if you got the short end of a stick, it’s because you chose it.”

  Whoa. This palpable energy he exudes is as irresistible as a strong magnetic field. I swallow, despi
te my dry mouth, and lick my lips. My gaze skims the breadth of his shoulders, down the stretchy shirt hugging his well-proportioned chest, to the flat abdomen with no hint of a paunch, and beyond.

  “Surely, you’re flattering me, Mister who are you again?” I let the question hang in the waning daylight of a red sun dipping into the sea of undulating weeds.

  “Braden Powers.” He takes my hand easily and shakes it.

  Did I approach that close? Stretch out my hand without being aware? And why am I not letting go? Holding on to the large hand overpowering my dainty fingers?

  He doesn’t smile. That would have seemed insincere and smarmy. No, he gives me a curt nod and says, “Mitch sent me to take care of you. Whatever you want to eat, wherever you want to stay, just let me know, and we’ll do this—on his dime.”

  “Tell me something about Mitch, so I know you’re truly his friend.” After hearing Braden’s opinion of me being proud and not a pushover, I have to at least keep up the act.

  Fake it until I make it.

  “That’s easy.” Braden’s manly smirk is traced on an unshaven jaw, heavy with “sex” o’clock stubble.

  Let’s admit it, all inmates have sex on our minds twenty-four seven. It’s what gets us through the drought, and if Mitch is sending me a gift of “anything I want,” well, I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially if he’s hung like a horse.

  I wait for Braden’s answer and squirm from a combination of tingly horniness and an abundance of caution, ready to be thrown to the wind. There’s a smidgen of self-consciousness in the mix. When was the last time I brushed my teeth? Did I put on deodorant before leaving the prison? These are things I didn’t much care about when surrounded by women I’m not interested in.

  Yikes. I’m wearing the yucky jeans and grungy sweatshirt they issued to me for my release. Didn’t even think to try any of my expired makeup or run a brush through my hair. Luckily, it’s straight and scraggly, whew, but wait, is he speaking to me?

  I need to pay attention. He’s describing Mitch in not so flattering terms.

  “The guy’s mind is brilliant, but social skills? Not so much. He was one of the early adopters of social media with TrophyShots. Pre-Instagram selfie-sharing, with private groups, collections, and browser-enabled scrapbooking. Of course, all that’s been subsumed with apps on smartphones, but Mitch has moved on to online dating, HookLinkSinker, without the dot com, now that it’s a smartphone app.”

  “Anyone could have told me this by Googling him,” I counter to show hunkazoid I’m not an easy target, especially on a lonely road in northeastern California in the middle of nowhere.

  “He has a tattoo of lines and dashes,” Braden says, catching me off guard, because I distinctly remember Mitch wanting me to get a matching one—which I took to mean some sort of commitment.

  “Meaning?” I put a hand on my hip to signify skepticism.

  “He’s unstable, like the wind over water,” Braden says, letting go of my hand.

  Of course, he’s right. Mitch has a tattoo taken from the Chinese book of changes, the I Ching. It’s a hexagram symbolizing dispersion, or a strong wind blowing over water, scattering the droplets abroad.

  “I wouldn’t call him unstable.” I take the opportunity to slide into the passenger seat now that Braden’s passed the test. “He doesn’t like to waste time going over the same territory. Like wind over water, he’s always stirring up trouble, or opportunities, casting a wide net.”

  “So true,” Braden says. “But I’m more interested in you, Samantha Reed. What would your changes entail?”

  “I haven’t matured to the point of a tattoo,” I reply. “I’m a wildflower, perhaps, a seed still to sprout.”

  “How about back there? In the prison?” He hooks a thumb toward the direction I came. “Did you do any sprouting?”

  “I’m fully and completely rehabilitated.” I toss my head and give him a sidelong glance. “You won’t find a devious bone in my body.”

  “Oh, I’ll find plenty to interest me.” Only a corner of his mouth turns up in a grin. “Now that you trust me, tell me where you want to go. What you want to do. I gather you called Mitch because you wanted to speak to him.”

  “Not really.” I shut the passenger door and fasten my shoulder belt. “I only called because he owes me. I don’t know how much he told you, but I’m the reason he’s scot-free.”

  “Do tell.” He puts the car in gear and drives smoothly over the dips and curves of the rippled earth. I heard in prison that the terrain is caused by the abundance of earthquake faults.

  “I don’t tell secrets to strangers, but if you tell me one of yours, maybe I’ll spill one of mine.” My eyelids flutter on their own accord, and the atmosphere inside the Mercedes is suddenly saturated, thick, and electric.

  “I told my family I’m in law enforcement, but …” He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but all the same, I feel as if his gaze is piercing my soul, skewering me like a sacrificial lamb.

  Is he, or is he not, in law enforcement?

  And wouldn’t it be my dumb luck that Mitch sent someone to nail me for another one of his crimes, or as he puts it, mishaps?

  “He can’t nail me on anything, because while on the inside, as you know, if you’re in law enforcement, I don’t have access to computers, phones, or anything hackable.”

  “Don’t be so defensive,” he says. “I told you I’m not in law enforcement.”

  “So your secret is that your family believes you’re one of the good guys, but you’re really black ops?”

  He shoots me a “what do you think?” roll of an eye. “Your turn. Tell me a secret. It can be anything. A desire. Something you did that you wish you hadn’t. Or what you want for Christmas.”

  I notice he snuck in the regret part, as if I’m so stupid to fall for it. Mitch is definitely trying to entrap me, and he sent a muscle-bound minion to get me to trip up.

  I sit back in the passenger seat and watch the stream of headlights and taillights roll by as we get close to the interstate.

  “Still thinking?” he asks in that deep, hoarse voice that drags desire through my veins. “Going through all the stuff you did and wondering which one is most innocent?”

  As if. Nope. I’ll give him a wild goose fantasy instead.

  “Actually, what I want for Christmas is not my two front teeth, because as you can see, I have all of them.” I tap my two front teeth. “My secret wish is to have a perfect white Christmas with snow, sleigh rides, a big tree, presents, a fireplace, chestnuts, candy canes, peppermint tea, and a Yule log, oh, and Santa coming down the chimney, and most of all, a large, happy family gathered around a Christmas feast, full of jolly merriment and love.”

  He’s silent, and I watch him as the miles roll by.

  “You know my family, don’t you?” I ask when it’s apparent he’s not going to respond because he didn’t get what he wanted—a juicy tidbit of a hack that’ll send me right back to prison.

  “Since you’ve gone all mum, I’ll tell you about them,” I continue. “My mother is ashamed of me, but I don’t get why, since she had me out of wedlock. My father’s a rich guy who has another family or two or three. My half-brother, Jordan, is off somewhere sailing around the world, and my cousins, who own a Christmas tree farm, hate me because I was the careless idiot who let the hackers into their company’s network.”

  “I don’t see you being careless,” Braden says. “You’re too smart to be tricked or social engineered into committing a crime.”

  “You got that right.” I cross my arms smugly. “Like I said. I’m completely rehabilitated. It’s nothing but the straight and narrow for me.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he says enigmatically and merges onto the interstate, heading for San Francisco.

  Chapter 3

  ~ Braden ~

  Now what?

  Sammie swallowed my Mitch story, and I owe her at least a steak dinner. Even worse, I have no idea what I’
m going to do with her when I get to San Francisco.

  Although, judging from the sparks of heat prickling my skin every time I glance at her, my body knows exactly what to do with a hot hacker with lightning fast fingers.

  “Since you’re Mitch’s man,” she says after her stomach growls loudly. “I say you treat me to a king-sized steak. He’s paying, right?”

  Actually, I’m going to have to pay, but for now, I better stick to the charade until I figure out how to turn her into an asset. Actually, her beauty and the waves of attraction tangling between us is already an asset, but I’ll need her help to nail Mitch eventually.

  Since Christmas is coming up, and I have some downtime before reporting in, I can allow myself some time to fantasize about this intriguing woman.

  Unlike my usual type, she’s a petite brunette with flyaway ends in need of a haircut. Her light-brown eyes are rimmed with thick, dark lashes, and her lips are plump and juicy. Yeah, I can picture her tongue wrapped around a king-sized piece of meat, red and rare.

  I clear my throat and answer her. “Mitch is going to pay, all right, but it can’t be a blank check.”

  “Aw, come on, now. Mitch can’t be so stingy when I sat my ass in the can without implicating him.” She taps my shoulder, and an electric spark jangles straight to the tip of my dick. “Put it on the expense account and tell him he owes me.”

  “What exactly does he owe?” I tamp down the waves of lust surging through my bloodstream and ease the car into the fast lane.

  “My silence.” She clamps her lips shut. “Weren’t you the wise guy who told me to keep quiet?”

  “Uh, that was me impersonating Mitch. Since you’re with me now, feel free to dish.”

  “Not opening my mouth for anything but a big, juicy steak.” She pulls a baggie from her backpack and takes out a tube of lipstick.

  Yikes. My cock throbs at the bright-red ring she could smear around it. I better find that steakhouse, so I can watch her lips in action.

  I tap the navigation system and ask it to search for restaurants near the pass through the Sierra Nevada mountain range.

  After locating a roadhouse not far from the interstate, I follow the directions to a quaint diner called Sherelle’s Roadhouse.