SEAN: A Mafia Romance (The Callahans Book 3) (57 page)

I gestured at the computer again. “These are the final billings for the two estimations you just looked at.”

She leaned over again, studying the computer screen as if she was reading great literature instead of bills. After only a second, she made a little sound, kind of like my brother clicking his tongue.

“The billboard prices are inflated. If this is for five billboards, whoever drew up the bill charged for seven. And the material costs are a little inflated. It shouldn’t have taken this much paper or billboard fabric to cover this order.”

“And the other?”

“Same thing,” she said. “Whoever sent the receipts downstairs must have mixed up the account numbers or something.”

Again, that was the last thing I wanted to hear. Because I was pretty sure where the mistake had been made, and I was also certain that it hadn’t been a mistake.

“Thank you,” I said.

She moved around the desk again, pausing where she’d been standing before, her hands behind her back. I looked at her, my thoughts again wandering to places they shouldn’t have been going.

“Do you mind if I ask how you ended up with a name like Joey?”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. I wondered why. Surely she’d been asked that before. But maybe it had more to do with the fact that I was the one asking.

“It’s short for Joanne,” she said.

Joanne. It was a classy name. I wondered why she didn’t use it.

Shelly stuck her head in the door. “Mr. Simons from Watson is on the phone.”

Back to work.

“Thank you, Joanne,” I said.

She nodded, turning slowly as she headed to the door. I found myself watching, enjoying the way her ass moved under that skirt.

If she didn’t work for me…

“Hello, Mr. Simons.”

Joey

“What was he like?”

I watched the sifted flour fall into the bowl like baby powder on an infant’s bottom.

“He called me Joanne. You know how long it’s been since someone’s called me Joanne?”

“About as long as it’s been since someone called me Roseanne.”

I smiled. My parents had thought it was cute to name us as if we were twins—despite the fact that there were four years between us. Rosie was the youngest, barely nineteen, and loving her newly discovered independence. She lived with me, but spent the majority of her time at her boyfriend, Jackson’s, place across town. If not for our small cake business, I probably wouldn’t ever see her. But my kitchen was much bigger than Jackson’s.

My first job was JB Graphics. My second was a bar across town, Nico’s, where I was a waitress. The third was the cake business. I wasn’t an artist, so I had nothing to do with the decorating. Rosie was brilliant with icing and food coloring and piping bags. She could turn a simple chocolate cake into a work of art, and that was why we had a steady flow of orders. About twenty a month. If we had any more than that, we probably couldn’t keep up. As it was, I was baking cakes every weekend afternoon and on my evenings off from the bar. I couldn’t create beauty, but I could read a recipe like a pro. I even had the few stokes of genius that led to certain additions that gave the cakes a special little something that was unique to us.

Not too bad, I supposed. And I liked to bake. It kept stress at bay.

“But, really. What was he like?”

I looked up and watched for a second as Rosie created perfect little leaves out of green fondant for a cake we were supposed to deliver in the morning.

“I don’t know. It was all very professional.”

“What did he have you do?”

“Just look at a couple of estimations and bills that were sent to clients.”

“Uh, oh,” Rosie said. “Sounds like someone’s in trouble.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He wouldn’t have had you look if there wasn’t a discrepancy. And that usually means heads are going to roll.”

“I hope not. Lesley did one of the estimations he asked me to look at.”

“How do you know?”

“We all have an employee number that appears at the bottom of the reports. I know her number.”

“Did she mess up?”

“Just a couple of minor problems. Nothing to account for the high bills.”

“Then maybe he’s not looking at your department. Maybe he’s looking at someone else.”

“Yeah, well, that only leaves one of the accountants and the creative team.”

“Who do you think it is?”

I set the sifter down and began stirring the flour into the butter-egg mixture.

“I don’t know. I can’t imagine either one would benefit from making that kind of mistake. Unless they found a way to siphon off the extra money and pocket it.”

“That would be unethical.”

“That could be a felony theft charge.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Are you kidding?”

I shook my head. “It could be pretty serious. So I hope whoever did it has a really good excuse.”

“Poor Mr. Brooks, having to deal with something like that.”

“It’s part of doing business.”

But I kind of sympathized for him, too. I mean, he was so nice. He kept looking at me as if he felt bad for having to ask me up to his office. And the distracted way in which he responded to me suggested he wasn’t pleased with what I was telling him. I got the impression he really wanted it to be a mistake.

And he was so cute…when I accidentally brushed against his arm, it was as if these little fingers danced up and down the length of my spine, settling somewhere deep inside of me that I’d thought had been dormant these past few months. I mean, working three jobs didn’t really allow for much dating time. I hadn’t been with anyone since…geez, had it really been three years? Not since Brad, and that hadn’t been the best relationship to leave things on. He was a self-centered ass who didn’t even know what a clit was, let alone why women prefer a little foreplay to a quickie.

I wondered what kind of a lover Mr. Brooks would be. And then I blushed, a little ashamed to let my thoughts go in that direction. He was my boss, after all.

“Hey, listen,” Rosie said, carefully placing the fondant leaves on a piece of wax paper to be deposited in the refrigerator until she came by to finish the cake tomorrow. “Do you think you could do me a favor?”

“Depends on the favor.”

“I wouldn’t ask, but Jackson had a cow when he found out what I was doing tonight. He said if I go through with it, he’ll break up with me. And you know how important he is to me.”

“If you do what?”

“I normally wouldn’t ask you, but you did it before, so you know how it works.”

“Do what, Rosie?”

She didn’t answer me right away in favor of putting the leaves in the fridge. I glanced over at her, but I had to mix the melted bitter chocolate into my cake before it started to harden again. I watched as the dark chocolate mixed with the pale batter, turning it into a satisfying caramel color before taking on the deep color of a really good chocolate cake.

“I know you haven’t had a night off in nearly a week, but Jackson—”

“Just spit it out, Rosie.”

She sighed. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to fill in for me on a surprise cake tonight?”

She said it like a question, but it felt more like a statement. I glanced at her, the beater blades touching too high on the side of the bowl and splattering cake batter all over the front of my shirt. My favorite concert tee, too. A white tee with Billy Joel sitting at a piano across the front. I shook my head, a curse on the tip of my tongue as I turned the mixer off and grabbed a towel.

“I’m sorry. I should have asked earlier, but they just called me a couple of hours ago and we got to talking—”

“Why won’t Jackson let you do it? It’s not like he didn’t know that you worked for these people months ago.”

“It’s just that the guy who ordered the cake said that his brother—the recipient—isn’t going to be home. I guess he’s some sort of workaholic or something, so Rahul’s not going to wait around like he normally does. Someone’s going to let us into the house, we set up the cake, Rahul helps me—or you—inside, and then he leaves while I—or you—wait for the recipient to arrive. And when it’s all over, you just call a cab and text Rahul to go get the cake.”

“You’re going to be there all by yourself?” I shook my head. “I wouldn’t let you go either.”

“It’s perfectly safe. The guy lives in one of those ritzy neighborhoods with the gate and the security guard and all that stuff. There’s no way anyone could get into the house.”

“Except for the guy you’re supposed to jump half naked out of a cake to sing for.”

“You sound like Jackson.”

“Of course I sound like Jackson. I don’t like you working this job. If it weren’t for Rahul—”

“But it’s the first step in becoming an actress. Bette Midler worked as a signing messenger in
Beaches.
”

“That was a movie.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes things that work in movies can work in real life.”

I groaned. “You’re stubborn. You know that, right?”

“Please, Jo. If no one shows up tonight, I’ll get fired. And I really love this job.”

“Rosie—”

“All you have to do is jump out of the cake and sing ‘Happy Birthday.’”

I shook my head, but she was giving me that look, that look that all little sisters perfect over the years, the one that makes me feel like a heel if I even think of saying no.

“I seriously have to sit alone in this guy’s house?”

“It probably won’t be more than an hour. Then you can call Jackson and me, and we’ll come get you. I’ll even take you to
A&W
for a root beer float if you want.”

How could I say no to that?

“Okay.”

She squealed and began jumping up and down.

“But I get the full commission for this one.”

She paused, her head tilted just slightly. Then she nodded. “Fair enough.”

***

Rahul picked me up a little after eight, sighing when I opened my apartment door and the scent of freshly baked chocolate cake wafted over him.

“Damn, I love coming here.”

I gestured to the kitchen bar. “There’s a couple of shavings. Help yourself.”

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, as I headed up the narrow stairs to my bedroom.

“Because I haven’t yet developed any protection against the Rosie lip.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I get that.”

I stepped into my bedroom and stripped out of the cake-batter-covered tee and tossed it at the laundry hamper, tugging a clean, white blouse over my head instead. Not that I would be wearing it long. Rosie handed me the bikini I was to wear inside the cake before she left, careful not to look me in the eye as she did. I had a few choice words, but they fell in an empty room. She was already halfway to Jackson’s arms before I could even form the words.

Why
was
I doing this? Three hundred bucks was good for such a simple task, but I could have made that much in tips at the bar. Instead, I was rescuing my little sister and putting myself in potential danger for reasons I couldn’t even begin to figure out.

“Let’s get out of here before I change my mind,” I said, as I came down the stairs.

Rahul was sitting on a bar stool at the kitchen bar, scarfing down every bit of the cake shavings I’d left there for him. He grabbed one more piece and shoved it into his mouth as he crossed the room, reaching the door before me so that he could hold it open.

“Such a gentleman.”

“Least I could do,” he said around his mouthful.

I just shook my head and walked out into the hall, tugging my bag closer to my side. We went down to his pickup, the massive pieces of the cake tied down in the back with the boxes of actual cake that would go around the outsides sitting on the bench seat. He opened the passenger door for me and held out his hand.

“My lady,” he said, a little flirt in his voice.

“Thank you.”

He winked before he closed the door and ran around to the other side.

Rahul was a character. He was Rosie’s supervisor, assistant, and bodyguard all wrapped up in one person. He drove her around to her jobs, preferring his truck to her tiny Prius. But Rosie was rarely ready when he arrived—sometimes not even home—so he made himself at home on my couch, sharing whatever snack I might have out, commenting on the shows I often waited weeks to binge on. Rosie thought he had a crush on me. I thought he was just an incorrigible flirt.

“There’s going to be real cake on the outside this time?”

“Not as good as yours. Just some cheap yellow cake they bought at a local bakery.”

But I knew the name on the boxes, and I knew it wasn’t just cheap cake. It was one of the best bakeries in town.

“This client must be paying well.”

“Eight hundred bucks.”

I glanced around the boxes at him. “The last time I did this for Rosie, it was only four.”

“Yeah, well, this client is someone important. Everyone at the office was all excited when we got his call this afternoon. That’s why they decided to do it even though there was so little notice. Any other client and they would have turned him down flat.”

“Do you know the name?”

He shook his head. “They only give me addresses and times.”

It took nearly forty minutes to get there. Houston is a huge city, and there was quite a geographical difference between the part of town where I could afford the housing and the side of town where this guy had his big, fancy house. We pulled up to the gate and the security shack was more impressive than the house I grew up in in Sugar Land.

“Name?”

Rahul handed him a card and the security guard immediately pulled himself up to his full height. There must have been something about it that impressed him.

“Take a right here,” he said, gesturing to the road spread out just in front of the gate, “and follow it all the way around to the back. It’s the last house on the right.”

Rahul put his truck back into gear and it made a loud clanking sound that clearly embarrassed him if the sudden tightness in his jaw meant anything. The gate opened as we inched forward. I stared out the windows at the beautiful brick and stone houses we passed. Most of them were colonial, a few ranches, but mostly colonial style. The big porches, the balconies. They were absolutely beautiful.

“You should live in a house like this,” Rahul said.

“I’m barely making my rent every month. I don’t think I could even dream of affording something like this.”

“Yeah, well, a lady like you deserves a home like this.”

“Life isn’t always fair.”

The houses grew further and further apart as we made our way deeper into the community. And they got bigger. One had turrets, like a castle. Another seemed to sprawl for acres, the wings of the house flowing over the grounds for what seemed like miles. There was no doubt that the elite of the elite lived in this community.