A Just Deception Read online

“Holy cow,” she said.

  He drew his eyebrows together. “What?”

  She shook it off. “Nothing.”

  What the hell was she doing? Bad enough about the elevator and now this?

  “Hello, Isabelle,” Kendrick said to her back. His monotone voice never left her memory. Never.

  A sizzling rage overtook her. Leave it to Kendrick to spoil her relatively normal reaction to an attractive man. Damn him. She spun around.

  “What?” she asked, wanting him only to go away. She sensed Peter shifting behind her.

  Kendrick glanced over her shoulder at Peter. “I’m Kendrick Edmonds. Isabelle’s cousin.”

  Peter held his hand out and the men shook hands. “Peter Jessup.”

  “Jessup Industries?”

  “Yep.”

  Jessup Industries. What the heck was this guy doing working for Vic when his family’s company built half the destroyers floating in the ocean?

  Isabelle turned to him. “You are surprising me today.”

  His mouth curved into a smile and a thrumming in her ears knocked her a little daffy. “Here to please, ma’am.”

  She turned her attention back to her cousin. “Mr. Jessup and I have a meeting.”

  “Have you considered what we talked about?” Kendrick asked.

  The only thing she’d considered was how to kick his ass from every possible angle. “I gave you my answer and it’s still no. Goodbye, Kendrick.”

  He narrowed his eyes and Peter moved sideways, probably reminding her he was there. He must not know she could take care of herself, but if he had half the skills Vic did, it would be fun to watch him work. An oily smile spread across Kendrick’s face before he held his hand to Peter. “A pleasure.”

  Peter hesitated, took it but didn’t speak.

  Interesting. Kendrick would be a complete dope not to see whose side Peter Jessup was on. She hitched her shoulders back a little further.

  “Let’s go, Peter.” Isabelle grabbed his elbow and turned him toward her office. She didn’t dare glance back, but felt Kendrick watching them. Despite the freezing cold office, perspiration beaded and rolled down her back. Sick, sick, bastard.

  “I’m guessing he’s the problem.”

  Isabelle picked up the pace. “He’s the problem all right. You’re here to help me fix it.”

  Chapter Four

  Isabelle DeRosa drove like a kamikaze pilot on his—er—her last mission. They tore down Ocean Avenue with the top lowered on her Audi and Peter hanging on to what was left of his balls after the elevator incident.

  He turned his face to the sun and sucked in the salty ocean air. He couldn’t help it. He’d never get enough of fast cars.

  She took a hard left and swung into the gravel driveway of a baby blue oceanfront cottage.

  “This it?” he asked as she came to a stop in front of the house. He admired the white trim around the oversized windows and the bright white Adirondack chairs on the porch. Beach grass surrounded the house on all sides and, with the ocean as a backdrop, the greens and blues and white mixed together to make it all picture perfect. And for Peter, love at first sight.

  “This is it,” Isabelle said.

  “Will you sell it to me?”

  She gave him a half smile. “You haven’t even seen it.”

  “I’ve seen enough. This baby is a classic.”

  They got out of the car and paused to admire the house.

  “It was my grandmother’s,” she said, her voice soft. “She died a few years ago and the house sat empty. My uncle wanted to sell it. My mother didn’t, so I moved in. I’m working on buying it. In the meantime, I’m doing all the renovations. I just finished the kitchen.”

  “You sound proud of it.”

  With the key dangling from her fingers she waved him forward. “I love this house. It’ll be spectacular when I’m done. The front door is original and weighs about five thousand pounds.”

  She opened the five thousand-pound door and ushered him into the large, open living room. Her spike heels clicked against the shiny hardwood floors, but Peter couldn’t move.

  She must have knocked out a couple of walls because three white support columns separated the front of the house from the back. French doors lined the rear and, from where he stood in the entry, he could see clear to the ocean. He had to have it. “I will buy this house right now. Call whomever you need to and tell them you have a cash buyer.”

  She stopped, leaned against one of the beams and looked around.

  “No,” she said. “This house is priceless. Thank you for the compliment though. Come on. I’ll give you the tour and you can tell me what kind of security I need.”

  Peter strolled into the living room and admired the blue-and-white striped chairs and oversized cushions. Isabelle had phenomenal taste. He stepped close to the wall and nearly put his face against it trying to determine the color.

  “Is this white paint?”

  She laughed. “Possibly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It started out as white, but I didn’t like it. I had them mix a few darker whites in. Sort of my own creation.”

  “It’s a great color. Not plain, but still white. I hope they wrote down the percentages for when you need to repaint.”

  She scanned the room. “Hopefully that won’t happen for a while. It was a job. Took me three weeks.”

  She painted the house herself. A capable woman. Why wouldn’t she hire someone? More than that, though, he wanted to know why her friends didn’t help.

  They walked down a short hallway to the two bedrooms. Peter snapped photos and jotted notes about the house’s vulnerabilities. Touring the two bedrooms—one of which was hers—sent lascivious thoughts through his head. He got out of there quick as Isabelle walked him to a third room.

  “This is the gym.” She pushed the door open and sunlight flooded the room.

  A heavy bag hung from the ceiling in one corner and hand weights, lined like soldiers, sat next to a workout bench along the far wall. Large mats covered the floor and walls, offering a perfect set up for sparring. Maybe she was into martial arts? It would explain her physical shape.

  The kick-ass ocean view got his engine going, but all those windows could be trouble.

  Peter noted the number of windows along the back of the room. “You like to work out at home instead of the gym?”

  She nodded, her dark hair swinging. “I’m not crazy about the gym.”

  “Guys hit on you, huh?” He couldn’t blame the poor schmucks, considering his own thoughts were leading him down that road.

  She shrugged. “It’s been known to happen.”

  Peter gave the heavy bag a shot. “Let’s talk about what you want versus what you need. I’ll talk to Vic and we’ll come up with something that’ll work for you.”

  “Good. Let’s sit in the kitchen. It’s my favorite spot these days.”

  He followed her into the kitchen and let out a soft whistle over the maple cabinets and speckled granite counter tops. If he hadn’t seen it himself, he’d have thought the white appliances against the quasi-white walls would be too much, but with the blue of the ocean as a backdrop through the oversized windows, it made a perfect beach home. Peter pulled one of the ladder-back chairs and sat at the oak farm table.

  “This really is a great space. I can see why you love it.”

  “You like the beach?” she asked.

  Man-oh-man she had those devastating eyes aimed right at him. Something he’d like to see as he buried himself deep inside her.

  Ho-kay. Not going there. He gave himself a mental head slap.

  Killer, killer eyes, though.

  “I love the beach,” Peter said. “Actually, I like to surf. Can’t surf in Chicago unless the weather kicks up. I windsurf there, but it’s not the same.”

  “So move back.”

  Now there was a thought he hadn’t entertained in a while. He’d spent years rejecting his life here, not wanting the pressu
re of his family’s status, but he did miss the ocean.

  “It’s complicated. Maybe someday.” He flipped to a fresh page on his legal pad and checked his watch. “How are we on time? You need to get back?”

  She stretched to glance at the clock on the wall. The motion pulled her blouse tight against her body.

  “No. I told them I’d be gone a couple of hours.”

  When she turned back, she busted him staring at her tits and rolled her eyes. “Again, Peter?”

  That earned him a self-induced head pounding with his fists. “I’m sorry. I’m a single guy, and you’re a beautiful woman. It’s hardwired.”

  She shook her head and laughed. At least she had a sense of humor.

  “Back to work,” he said. “Do you want motion detectors or glass break? Both probably.” He answered his own question and made a note. Easy. “What about the locks? Who has keys?”

  “My uncle and my mother. After I changed the locks, my uncle, Kendrick’s father, insisted on having a key. He and my mother are technically the homeowners.”

  Peter eyed her. Call him crazy, but Kendrick’s father having a key wasn’t sitting right with him. “Do you have a problem with me changing the locks?”

  “Right now, no. I’ll give my father the spare key and, if there’s a problem, my mother can get it from him.”

  Interesting that she chose not to give her mother the key.

  She plucked at her bottom lip with two fingers. “What did Vic tell you about all this?”

  He shoved the pad away and sat back. “Nothing. He told me you needed a security system. I got a bad feeling from your buddy Kendrick though. What’s his deal?”

  While she drummed her fingers on the table, Peter forced himself to stay silent. If he seemed relaxed, she’d relax and then the curiosity driving him batshit might get satisfied.

  “Hang on.” She grabbed the cordless phone from the cradle and walked away.

  Peter blew out a breath. Okee-dokey.

  “Can I trust this guy?” Isabelle asked when Vic answered his cell.

  “Monk? Why? Everything all right?”

  “Monk?”

  Vic cracked up. “That’s what the guys call him. He’ll have to tell you the story. And yes, you can trust him. I wouldn’t have sent him otherwise. He’s not hitting on you, is he? I’ll kick his ass.”

  Of course he was hitting on her. She wasn’t sure she minded, either.

  “He’s fine. We’re at the house and I wasn’t sure if he knew about Kendrick.”

  “I didn’t think it was my place to tell him. If you choose to tell him, he’ll keep it quiet. He’s a good guy.”

  “Okay. That’s all I needed. I think we’re almost done here. I’ll call you later.”

  Isabelle clicked the phone off, tapped it against her lips. She could trust him. A new concept considering she didn’t have many friends who knew about Kendrick. She’d lost countless friendships over the years trying to walk the line between total disclosure and self-protection.

  Unease snaked around her and she shivered against the building fear. Would he give her the pity face? Or the disgusted face? Could she risk it?

  She dipped her head in shame. There was her answer.

  Absolutely not.

  She couldn’t tell him. She liked him, actually liked him, and didn’t want to taint his opinion of her. She breathed deep, marched into the kitchen, tucked the phone back into the cradle and sat. Peter entertained himself by doodling on the legal pad, his face completely relaxed.

  “Sorry about that,” she said. “I remembered an important call I forgot to make. So, where were we?”

  Please don’t remember where we were.

  Peter grinned, a targeted message that told her he was well aware of her attempt to avoid talking about Kendrick.

  “What?” she asked. Right. Play dumb. That always worked.

  The grin turned into a soft laugh. “I’m going to make a wild assumption that you’re not comfortable talking about Kendrick. Am I right?” A moment passed before he sat back, tore a piece of paper from the pad and wrote down two phone numbers. “No problem. I’ll back off, but these are my numbers. Call if you need anything. Doesn’t matter what time. Or the problem. Got it?”

  The tension inside her broke. He wouldn’t push and he’d help her. Yes, she liked Peter Jessup. A lot.

  She folded the paper, shoved it into her pants pocket. “They call you Monk? I can’t wait to hear that story.”

  He shrugged. “During my military days, when we got weekend leave I was so dog-tired I stayed in the barracks. All the guys went storming out in search of women and booze. All I wanted was a good book and a beer.”

  “And Monk was born?”

  “Yeah. It stuck. Now I’m Peter in Jersey and Monk in Chicago.” He cracked a smile. “It’s tough keeping my identities straight, but somehow I manage.”

  Isabelle laughed. “Oh, please.”

  “Really, it’s not a big deal. It’s probably the same thing for you when people call you Iz or Izzy.”

  That would be the day. “Absolutely not. No one calls me Iz. And definitely not Izzy. My name is Isabelle.”

  “Then we’re gonna have a helluva problem because if I have to call you Is-a-belle all the time, it’s gonna take a while to have a conversation. I like Izzy. It’s short and sweet.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Considering I just told you I don’t like Izzy.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve never called you Izzy, Izzy. See, it’s got a nice ring to it.”

  Could this guy be for real? Still, she couldn’t resist laughing. Peter Jessup’s mind must be an exciting place. His laid back, yet somehow assertive nature fascinated her. This man was no dummy.

  He waved her off and picked up his notepad again. “Izzy isn’t so bad. I’ve been living with Monk for ten years. At least Izzy is obvious.”

  “When did you join the military?”

  Peter smiled. “Now that’s a good story, because I almost didn’t survive telling my mother I’d enlisted.”

  “She wasn’t happy about it?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Uh, no. I guess I understand it now. I don’t suppose many mothers would like their sons dropping out of Yale their sophomore year to join the navy and blow shit up.”

  Holy cow. Yale? Definitely not a dummy. “I’m not a mother and it just shocked the hell out of me.”

  “To compound the problem, I flew off to Vegas and got married before I reported.”

  “Oh, wow,” she said. “The navy and a wife? How old were you when this happened?”

  “Nineteen.”

  Married at nineteen. Yikes. The wife must no longer be in the picture. He did say he was single.

  She shook her head. “I’d have murdered you. Don’t you think that was a lot to dump on your mother at one time?”

  He raised his hands. “First off, I was young and stupid and in love. I wanted to join the navy, but I didn’t want anyone stealing my girl. Marriage seemed logical. I’d fly off to who knows where while Tricia stayed home being faithful to her devoted husband. At the time it made perfect sense.”

  Ah, young love. Too bad at nineteen a man couldn’t think with anything but his penis. “So what happened?”

  “She left me.”

  Isabelle winced. So much for the faithful wife. And suddenly, her heart ached for him. He’d been betrayed by someone he loved. She knew all about that. “Ouch.”

  “It sucked. Big time. Now I’m older and I get it. I’d been stationed overseas, and she wanted to finish school and be near her family. The problem was she didn’t know enough about life to stay with a husband she saw twice a year—if she was lucky. Plus, I had to concentrate on my job and didn’t want to be worried about my young, unhappy wife shagging someone else.” He gave her a no-teeth grin. “I don’t share.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “Three years.”

  “Did you still love her?”

  “Absolutely. Some marriag
es survive military life. Mine couldn’t. It hurt like hell, but I accepted it.”

  This was one interesting man. He knew himself and made no apologies for what he believed. Something told her Peter Jessup always offered the truth. Good or bad, he would give an honest assessment.

  “So, are there any gray areas with you?”

  “Nope. I’m a pretty simple guy.”

  She doubted that.

  He leaned forward, propped his elbow on the table and stuck his chin in his hand. “I like you, Izzy. There’s no bullshit with you. You laugh when you want, you say what you want and, my guess is, you do what you want.”

  The focused intensity in his eyes sent a juicy ripple up her arms. She was definitely attracted to this man. Not good. Unless, of course, they could keep it light. No emotional entanglements.

  “No fair talking about me when we were talking about you dropping out of one of the best schools in the country and getting married.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t belong at Yale anyway. I made the grades easy enough, but I’ve never fit into the blue blood set. All I’ve ever wanted to do is jump out of airplanes. My parents can’t figure it out. Sometimes I wonder if they found me on the side of the road. My brother coasted into that life when I’ve spent most of my time avoiding it.”

  She must have given him the “poor baby” face because he held out his hands.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “The money is great. I’m thankful for it every day. I just don’t like the crap that goes with it. All the snobbery and judgments. The women hitting on you because they’re trying to land a rich husband. I like living in my scarcely furnished two-bedroom condo in Chicago. Nobody there cares about my decorating skills. In my parents’ world you need to be on the lookout for the flesh-eating predators.”

  “Flesh-eating predators? You like these people, huh?”

  He laughed. “Love ’em. I’m not whining about it. I just don’t fit. I need real friends. The ones who stick when you’ve screwed the pooch. Like Vic. And Tiny. Tiny was great in screw-the-pooch mode.”

  Vic’s cousin, Justin, aka Tiny, had been killed last summer on an assignment for Taylor Security. “I never met Tiny. Vic talked about him often though. What a tragedy. Were you close?”