Trouble in Tampa (5 page)

I smiled conventionally and waved as I left Mrs. Tucker. The thing that stuck with me most about our conversation was that I didn’t doubt what she’d said. She would go through another twenty years at the mercy of a pair of fists in exchange for her children. When I slid into the car, I was hit with a wave of depression that my whole life, I’d only loved one person like Mrs. Tucker loved her children. There’d been a single soul I’d walk through hell for.

He was the same person who was responsible for dropping me in hell and leaving me there. The person I was seeking my own revenge on.

Love is positively fucked up.

MR. TUCKER’S FILE WAS probably the least surprising one I’d ever gone through. Since I already knew he beat his wife, the rest was easy to fill in. I know that stereotypes were generally frowned upon, but in my business, stereotypes were less about labeling and more about math. To an Eve, stereotypes were a rudimentary form of probability and statistics.

I could study a Target’s file until my fingers were numb, but no amount of paperwork could prepare me for every situation that might arise with the Target. So I read the file, took what I learned, and applied the stereotypes I’d picked up along the way to improvise my way through an Errand. Yes, I planned. Sure, I manipulated. But I improvised just as much, if not more.

Rob Tucker owned a string of car dealerships throughout Florida. His commercial and billboard advertising included him in every shot, with his blinding white smile, too-bronze tan, and bloated ego. Looks-wise, he was attractive for a man in his fifties, but he was aware of it . . . although he was probably inflating his looks by double. Mr. Tucker probably couldn’t pass a mirror without stopping and smiling at himself before making a douchy pistol shot.

He wore tight polos to show off the biceps he worked out five days a week. That explained why Mrs. Tucker’s bruises went deep and hung around longer than most. He drove a Corvette—yes, a red one—played poker on Friday night with his “buds,” and played eighteen holes of golf on Saturday. On Sunday, he religiously rose early and went to church with his wife, and sometime after, he religiously struck her across the face for drying out the pork roast, or undercooking the haricot vert, or making the custard too soupy. Mrs. Tucker’s notes were detailed in a way I’d never seen. She was taking it seriously, at least five steps more serious than any of my other Clients. If she could do that, I’d step my serious scale up five steps, too.

From the amount of time Mr. Tucker spent at gentlemen’s clubs, he could have a regular customer punch card. Though she couldn’t prove it, he’d had a handful, if not a small army, of affairs with employees, friends’ wives, prostitutes, and quite possibly a couple of neighbors.

As stereotypes went, Mr. Tucker threw the general curve by several points.

After spending the majority of the night perusing the file, I got up early to send Henry a quick email to let him know I needed a week to wrap up something before I could start at Callahan Industries.

Not even two minutes after hitting send, his response pinged in my inbox:

Vacation requests already? What have I gotten myself into? Have fun wrapping whatever-that-something-is up. -HC

Henry didn’t have a clue what he’d gotten himself into. Not a clue. That was my first thought after reading his reply. My second was to let a smile creep out right before I hit reply.

How’s it going on the other side of the world?

Before I could type anything else, I rushed to slip on my heels, grab my purse, and head for the door of my hotel room. Another ping from my laptop stopped me. I should keep going and check it later. My focus needed to be on and stay with the Tucker Errand, not exchanging pointless emails with Henry.

I hurried over to check my laptop. My focus wasn’t as ironclad as I’d always believed.

Let’s just say I’m going to need another Guinness the instant I step foot on U.S. soil again.

Poor Henry. The days where his infectious smile and shrug could fix just about any problem were over . . . and what was I doing thinking
Poor Henry
? If that wasn’t the last time I put those two words together, I would wrap a rubber band around my wrist and snap it each time I even
thought
about pairing Henry’s name with the word
poor
.

G had booked another penthouse for me, so after making my way down thirty floors, I stepped out of the elevator and headed for the rental car that was already waiting for me at valet. My car was nice, but not as nice as I was accustomed to. That was because I was about to go shopping for a really nice car at a nearby car dealership.

Tucker Automotive Group.

Yes, the abusive bastard had named his company after himself. Not exactly the surprise of the century. Or even the hour.

According to Mrs. Tucker’s notes, Mr. Tucker didn’t work directly with the customers anymore. He mainly stuck to running the business and screwing the conveyor belt of young assistants he had rotating through his office.
But
he made an exception for clients who were deemed “high profile”—aka wealthy ones shopping for cars in the six-figure range—or customers who were . . . of the XY chromosome and genetically blessed.

My plan was to shop those high-ticket cars from the get-go to alert the big man that a deep-pocket customer was on the lot . . . and I might have worn a skirt that was shorter than the typical one, a pair of heels higher than the average pair, and a blouse a bit tighter than most. Basically, if he didn’t get the message that a high profile customer was there, I hoped he’d catch the other message.

I pulled up to Tucker Automotive to find a semi-sized sign with the tagline
Shop the rest, then come visit the best
alongside a photo of Mr. Tucker himself. I resisted the temptation to plow my rental car right through the billboard and proceeded to the parking lot. After I finished the Errand, if I still wanted to destroy that monstrosity, I could. That wasn’t exactly the way I was hoping to catch Mr. Tucker’s attention.

A small herd of salesmen in white dress shirts and red ties stood around the main building when I pulled up. I’d no more than put the car in park and every one of them was staring at me as if they were ready to pounce. I was contemplating how to steer clear of the rabid white-shirts when a flashy red sports car pulled into the spot beside me. A flashy red
Corvette
.

Bingo.

If that was a sign as to how the rest of the Errand would go, it would be a breeze. As I slid out of my car, I grabbed my purse, gave my hair a quick rumple, and played oblivious to the man crawling out of the hard-to-miss car beside me. I started up to the main building, but before I’d gotten to the curb, a low whistle came from the turd of a human to my left.

“This is a car dealership, sweetheart, not Heaven’s gates, you know.” Mr. Tucker’s voice was, as suspected, overly confident and had a deep baritone quality to it.

I already knew where he was going with this whole “wow” greeting, but I played along. “What makes you think I’m looking for Heaven’s gates?” I glanced at him as I stepped up on the curb.

“You’re an angel, aren’t you?” Mr. Tucker settled his hands on his hips as a slow smile moved into place.

I had dark sunglasses on, so I allowed myself an eye-roll. His eyes, however, weren’t hidden behind sunglasses, and he wasn’t shy about checking me out hardcore. His gaze circled my breasts long enough I was tempted to remove my sunglasses and zero in on his crotch to see how he liked a stranger checking his goods out for that long. Then I realized a slug like Mr. Tucker would probably get off from a young woman checking out his (anti) goods.

“That’s the first time anyone’s ever called me an angel,” I replied, knowing the role I needed to play, and it wasn’t getting offended because the Target was eye-motor-boating my boobs. That he was doing that so early was a good sign that I wouldn’t need much time or persuasion to get him into a “compromising” situation.

“Oh? What do they usually call you?” Mr. Tucker came around the front of his Corvette and stopped a few feet from me. “Because a guy can’t help but want to call you something, sweetheart.”

Other than sweetheart, you un-original creep?
“Fiend seems to be in the top running.”

Mr. Tucker lifted an eyebrow, his snaky smile still glued in place. “And why would people call you a fiend?”

I gave him a tilted smile. “That’s a question for my ex-lovers to answer.”

Mr. Tucker stepped closer. “I’ve always been more of a fiend fan than an angel fan.”

“Then it’s nice to meet you . . .” I extended my hand and waited.

“Rob Tucker. CEO, President, and Owner of this dealership, as well as six others. Soon-to-be seven when the Miami store opens next month.” He wrapped his hand around mine tightly before giving it a powerful shake. We were barely out of the gates, and he was already asserting his power over me. Classic beater behavior. “And what’s a girl like you named? Other than fiend?” His index finger stroked the inside of my wrist, but the rest of his hand stayed locked around mine.

“Fiona. My name’s Fiona.”

“Fiona Fiend, eh?” Rob pulled on my hand to bring me closer to him. When I was close enough to detect his spicy cologne, he leaned in. “Now that’s the kind of name a man wants to curse when he’s fucking a girl.”

Humanity never failed to amaze me. There I was, a stranger one minute ago, and he was whispering about fucking while a half dozen of his employees watched us with rapt interest. Employees who knew he was married with two kids. I doubt he’d care if they watched him bend me over the hood of his fancy car if I gave him the green light.

All of the men I worked with deserved what they had coming, but some deserved it most. Rob Tucker had just earned the blue ribbon for most deserving. I couldn’t wait to bring the bastard down.

“You’re right.” I slid my sunglasses on top of my head so I could lock onto his eyes. “Fiona does have a certain ring to it when a man grunts it out as I come around him.”

Rob’s pupils dilated as he wet his lips. The Target was mine. I owned him. Just like that, in a handful of words and looks, along with a tower of innuendoes, I could name the time and place, and he’d be there an hour early.

“And where do I sign up for that ride?”

“I don’t know. Do you think you meet the minimum size requirements to ride that ride?” I lifted my eyebrows before glancing at his zipper.

“If you’ve got a maximum size requirement, that’s where I might be in trouble.” He popped his hips forward so I could make out the tell-tale bulge behind his khakis.

I realized Rob wasn’t only a dickhead, he was practically dick
less
. Maximum size requirements my butt. “Before we go any further discussing
that
ride, I need a different kind first.”

Rob’s eyes went wide again as his twisted mind started jumping for joy at the possibilities. Time to rein him in. Two steps forward, one step back. It was a game of finesse, and knowing when to pull back was just as critical as knowing when to surge forward.

Shifting my gaze to the car lot, I pulled my hand free of his. “I need a new car. Something nice, expensive but understated. Not exactly like the head-turner you drive.”

“You turn enough heads without the car.” Rob nudged me as he slid beside me. “You certainly turned my head. Both of them.”

Too bad my sunglasses weren’t back in place—I really could have used an eye-roll. “Are you going to sell me a car or keep trying to seduce me?”

“That depends. Is the seducing working?”

If that’s what you call seducing, you need to fire your seduction instructor.
“No, because seducing doesn’t work on me. When I see what I want, I take it. Whether I want a man or not has nothing to do with his ability to seduce me. I’m un-seducible.” I smiled to myself. That was true. I couldn’t be seduced by any man—because I knew every last trick in the book. Identifying a seduction angle was easy when I’d worked every single one multiple times.

“And what about me? Am I one of those men you want?” There wasn’t a hint of doubt in his voice. It was barely a question.

I glanced at him as I headed for a gunmetal Aston Martin. “I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

Rob followed me, sliding his hands into his pockets. Probably attempting to disguise a hard-on that didn’t really need to be disguised since it was barely detectable. “You don’t need to let me know anything, Fiona. You can just rip off your clothes and fuck my brains out when you’re ready to admit that you feel the same animal attraction to me that I feel toward you.”

Men used the term animal attraction as an excuse for wanting to screw a woman they’d just laid their eyes on. It wasn’t animal attraction. Animals had more discretion than that. It was nothing more than a case of a degenerate human wanting to add another mark to his tally. In his imagination, he’d already scratched that mark into his bedpost.