TRACKING TRISHA - A Black Hounds Motorcycle Club Romance (The Fox and the Hounds Book #1) (4 page)

Trisha’s ears perked up at the last word. “Hello, I am Beatrix Kaplan, owner of Foxtail Farms. And you are?”

“Pleased to meet you, Beatrix,” he replied, his eyes fixated on the woman. “My name is Dante Alastair. I was just discussing a business to business deal with Harold just now.”

Trisha fought and failed to keep from blushing. The biker was even more handsome and charming in person than he was in magazines. His face was proud and sculpted like that of a Renaissance statue. His windswept hair was of medium length and looked incapable of being combed properly. The man was gorgeous and he knew it. He had the tall, well-muscled build of a man and the boyish swagger of troublemaking teenager.

“Likewise, Mr. Alastair.”

“Please, call me Dante,” he laughed, causing her to turn flush again. “Mr. Alastair was my late father’s name. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being called that.”

“Dante said he wanted to place an order,” Harold chimed in. “Actually, he wanted to place a lot of orders. He wants everything from turnips to strawberries. He even wants some of the wool we have left over from shearing!”

“I’ll take it from here, Harold,” Trisha said, dismissing the young man. She led Dante to her house as she probed him for answers. “I’ll take you inside to fill out your order.”

“Thank you,” he replied. “It’s a long drive here from the city. This place is beautiful. I should have made the trip earlier.”

“What brings you to Foxtail Farms, Dante?” Trisha asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “From the looks of it, you’re placing a very big order from an admittedly small farm. In fact, I would say that this sounds like a recurring supply order.”

“Well, I enjoy… perusing smaller providers when selecting suppliers,” he answered, reaching the door to Trisha’s house. “The bigger farms can’t give the same attention to detail or natural quality as the smaller farms. I want to make sure we’re getting our money’s worth when supplying my business. That’s why I’ve come here in person.”

“Is that so?” Trisha answered, suspecting that something wasn’t right. “Do club presidents, or CEOs or whatever they call you do the grocery shopping?”

The man had to have an agenda. The biker was born into money and power. He never had to live paycheck to paycheck. He never had to worry if he had enough money to keep a roof over his head.

Trisha wondered why the man had come here. He couldn’t be sick and twisted enough to see her failing farm as some sort of entertainment. He also couldn’t possibly interested in buying her land considering the money he had.

Nevertheless, the man looked impressed at her line of questioning. “I learned of this place from my mother. I would always pass it when I would go out riding in this area. I figured I should finally drop by.”

“Your mother?”

“Whenever she was around here, my mother, Samantha, used to buy from Foxtail Farms,” he answered, looking somewhat nostalgic. “She always hated the city and preferred these parts. I remembered she would buy fresh fruits from here and bring it home for us. She would always get that dried grapefruit candy that was made fresh here. My sister Lucia and I would always fight over it. Do you still have some by any chance? I just got a craving.”

Trisha’s eyes widened in surprise. “I’m afraid not. We don’t grow grapefruit here anymore. It’s just too water hungry with the drought warning.”

Dante smiled. “My mother always made small talk with the woman who helped run the place. I think it was Mary Kaplan. Is she still here? I always ride pass here but never got the opportunity to meet her.”

“That was my mother,” Trisha whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. “She died earlier this year from heath issues. Dad didn’t last too long after that. He just stopped taking care of himself.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” the man offered. He seemed to internally curse himself for upsetting her. “I’ve lost my mother recently as well, Beatrix.”

“Please call me Trisha,” she replied, stopping the tears from flowing. This was now a time for business rather than reminiscing. “Beatrix is my real name but only my mother ever used to call me that. I always hated being called. It always made me feel old.”

“Okay, Trisha,” he said. “I should have come here sooner for a joyride. The fresh air is already making me feel better.”

Trisha gave him a teasing smile. “Happy to get away from the media frenzy surrounding your motorcycle club?”

Dante shifted uncomfortable in his riding boots. “You heard?”

“I may not be a city girl but I follow the news,” she replied. “I heard about the awful things they’re saying about your uncle. The man did his time. He should be able to live the rest of his time out in peace. It’s like as if the media wants another trial.”

“The media has to justify its wages,” Dante said, bemused at her words. “I won’t blame a dog for wanting to bark.”

“I apologize if I sounded rude earlier,” she said, opening the door to her home. “It’s just that when people come here to do business, I always expect them to give me offers for the land.”

“I can assure you,” Dante said with a playful smile. “I have no interest in your land. Let’s go inside and discuss my order.”

Life was hard for Beatrix Kaplan. Now, her burden felt a little lighter.

He had hit the jackpot. Trisha Kaplan was perfect. Lucia couldn’t find a better woman outside of the Virgin Mary herself.

Dante wasn’t a romantic by any stretch of the imagination. However, he couldn’t help but think their meeting was orchestrated by a higher power. Hell, their mothers even knew each other. Trisha was the perfect puzzle piece to finish Lucia’s scheme.

The farm girl had was the perfect salt-of-the-earth woman to balance his image as the bad boy biker. The woman had her own business and wasn’t afraid to get dirty performing hard labor. She had a strong ties to the local community and was descended from a farming dynasty. The woman looked like she knew what it was to do a day’s work for a day’s pay.

Sure, she wasn’t a beautiful model but he was better off for it. The public would love her down to earth persona rather than some stickup model. Dante personally found the farm girl’s sooty look to be appealing. It reminded him of the grease covered mechanics he had dated during his teenage years.

The woman seemed ashamed of her home’s frugal furnishings but Dante didn’t mind. He loved the messy clutter of a good car repair shop. What was there at Trisha’s home looked to be rundown and need of a good dusting. The areas that were clean looked to be from furniture that had been moved around.

Or sold off to raise money.

Business forms and other financial documents littered the house. The woman had tried hard to buy more time for her sinking farm and its workers. The line between home and office was nonexistent. Dante even found a certificate thanking Foxtail Farms and Trisha for donating food to needy children. Trisha must have invested more of her time and money on her business, workers, and charity work than her own well-being.

The two discussed business over some very nice peach-mango tea at her dinner table. They began by talking about the business order but conversation soon turned to agriculture. In spite of her youth, Trisha knew as much about agriculture and biology as a Professor with a Ph.D. She impressed him with how she had been able to run a farm while there was a water conservation act limiting resources. Occasionally, Trisha would go out of the house to direct her workers before returning to him and their conversation.

She was certainly smart enough to deduce he wasn’t exactly here to do grocery shopping. Dante was reminded of his sister’s appearance belying her intellect. Nevertheless, Trisha would never suspect what he had come here to buy.

Eventually, tea time turned into lunch.

“Trisha, this pasta primavera is delicious,” Dante praised, chowing down on the freshly cooked meal. He suspected the woman wanted to seal their business deal with a show of hospitality. Nevertheless, Dante could never say ‘no’ to a home cooked meal. “I’ve gone to Italy with my sister to look at Ducati’s show rooms. I’ve had pasta from the four star Italian restaurants. This is better. What’s your secret?”

“It all has to do with quality of the ingredients,” she said, growing flush at the praise. “What I can’t grow, I buy from a trusted provider. That’s how the Kaplan family has cooked for years.”

“Want me to help with the dishes?” he offered. “It’s the least I can do after such a great meal. I used to be the best dishwasher at juvie hall.”

“No, that’s alright,” she answered, softly shaking her head. She appeared to be taken aback news of his delinquency. “I enjoy cooking. Doing the dishes is the price I pay for that pleasure.”

Dante decided to pull out the old Alastair charm. “Sure you didn’t miss your calling by running a restaurant?”

“No, farming is in my blood,” she smiled. “I just love working the field and watching the land change and grow. I’d help my father run the show since I was five. I love having dirt stuck between my toes. I loved working with animals back when we could afford to have a whole private zoo of them. It’s just the business part that I’m trying to get to grips with. Sometimes, I give the workers free meals during their breaks. I just feel so guilty making them work for so little.”

“I’d work for free,” Dante replied, finishing off the pasta. “So long as you kept cooking like this for me.”

The woman giggled at his offer. The biker felt happy to have made her smile, even if it was for a brief moment. The woman was different from the people he had dated in the past.

Dante had thought he would always end up with a biker girl. However, those types tend to love their motorcycles and the speed of riding more than they loved their men. There was something comforting about Trisha Kaplan. “Thanks, but we should get back to talking about the order. Would you prefer subcontracting distribution to one of my partners or arranging transportation by yourself?”

“Sure,” Dante answered, uninterested in the order itself. “Think your farm has enough food to feed my troops? If I came off looking like a glutton with how I’ve eaten your pasta, then know that I by no means have the biggest stomach in the motorcycle club.”

“Well, I better ratchet up production,” she joked. “Or risk getting shot and robbed in a driveway shooting.”

Dante’s brow became furrowed. The club’s violent past always raced up past him like a bike running on nitrous oxide. “Is that what you think of us?”

The woman looked mortified. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the biker, laughing it off. “And I haven’t taken any offense. It’s true that the Black Hounds has had a violent history. I won’t deny that. But we’re trying to shape ourselves into something better.”

“I guess you can tell why I’m not any good at closing a business deal,” Trisha sighed, looking down at the dinner table. “I keep on blabbing and eventually say something stupid. I think you’re the most important man I’ve ever met, Dante, and I still managed to say something stupid.”

“I’m the same as you,” Dante said. “I love a good meal and I hate paying taxes. A fancy title like club president or CEO doesn’t make me into an alien from Mars.”