with sandy beaches and icy drinks.
Suddenly Carlotta’s mind raced to assemble disparate bits of information. “I’ve never been to Boca Raton and my geography is a little rusty. Would we be driving close to Daytona Beach?”
“Right through it, as a matter of fact.”
A wicked smile curved Carlotta’s mouth. “What time do we leave?”
7
Wesley squeezed the hand brake on his bike and grunted when pain seized the muscles under the bandage on his forearm. He’d convinced Peter not to take him to the emergency room for stitches, but that meant the wounds would take longer to heal.
His opinion of Peter Ashford had never been high. Wesley had been young when the guy had dumped his sister shortly after their parents had left town. But he remembered how Carlotta had cried herself to sleep holding Peter’s picture, how the man’s absence seemed to affect her more than the absence of their parents. Probably because, like Wesley, she had expected their parents to return any day. Peter, on the other hand, had apparently made it clear he wasn’t coming back.
Carlotta had been devastated, and Wesley knew she blamed their folks for Peter breaking the engagement. She’d said he hadn’t wanted his family name intertwined with theirs, tainted from their father’s behavior. As Wesley had grown older, though, he’d blamed himself for Peter leaving. It seemed obvious that the man hadn’t wanted to be saddled with a kid.
But since Peter’s wife had died, he’d certainly been trying to make up for his past behavior, coming around and acting protective of Carlotta. When Wesley started to feel bad about taking advantage of Peter’s guilt, he told himself that he was doing the man a favor, giving him a chance to get back into the Wrens’ good graces. Peter had agreed not to tell Carlotta about the incident at The Carver’s warehouse—or the money that had changed hands—and for that, Wesley was grateful.
He must have been one hell of a mess judging from the expression on Peter’s face when he’d picked Wesley up at the prescribed badass corner after Mouse had counted the cash with his thick fingers. Ashford hadn’t said, but he was probably glad he’d driven his luxury SUV instead of his Porsche to shuttle Wesley and his bike home. Still, it was going to be hard to get bloodstains out of leather upholstery.
To his credit, the man had asked only if Wesley wanted to go to the hospital, holding his tongue about what had transpired until after Wesley had showered and eaten a pizza that Peter had ordered. Then, while he cleaned the wound on Wesley’s arm and wrapped it with a bandage, he’d extracted the story one well-placed question at a time.
The guy should’ve been a lawyer, Wesley thought wryly.
He wheeled into the parking lot of the building that housed the probation office to which he’d been assigned after his arrest for breaking into the courthouse computer. Once a week he checked in with E. Jones, his surprisingly hot probation officer, who cut him zero slack. His pulse picked up just at the thought of seeing E. In those dark moments when it looked as if he might not get out of that dingy, windowless room alive, he’d imagined E.’s smile and the way her red hair fell over her shoulders. She was way out of his league, but he could dream.
He locked up his bike and slung his backpack over his shoulder with his good arm. His cell phone rang. Both the movement of retrieving it and the name on the display made him wince—Liz Fischer. He connected the call. “This is Wes.”
“Wes,” she crooned. “It’s Liz.”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“I was just calling to see if you were okay. After your phone call yesterday, I was worried.”
Right. “I’m fine.”
“I hope you understand why I couldn’t get involved, Wes.”
“I do.”
“Good. But I’d like to make it up to you.”
His eyebrows shot up. “What did you have in mind?”
“Come over tonight.”
His cock twitched. There was no denying the woman was a looker, and great in the sack. But he wasn’t sure he could trust her.
Of course, she had no reason to trust him, either. He had ransacked her files on his father’s case in her guesthouse, the place where she stored her archives, as well as “entertained.”
“Maybe,” he said. “I’ll let you know.”
“Don’t take too long,” she said, then hung up.
He put away the phone and walked into the building, thinking he could do worse for evening entertainment. But he’d been planning to cook a nice dinner for Carlotta, considering she’d been so worried about him, and that her already pathetic kitchen skills were now further hampered by the cast on her arm.
Even though his own dexterity would be curbed somewhat by his bandage, he could outcook Carlotta using only his thumbs and elbows. It was a good thing she was so damn pretty—no man was going to marry her for her culinary skills.
He walked into the now-familiar office and nodded to the now-familiar surly woman behind the check-in desk. “Wesley Wren to see E. Jones.” He scanned the waiting room as nonchalantly as possible. The Carver had once sent a man here to remind Wesley that he was behind on his payments, and the thug had punctuated the message by snubbing out his cigar on Wesley’s hand. That wound was still pink and puckering. If he didn’t find a way to get out of debt soon, his entire body would look like a strip of badly cut meat. Thankfully, though, no one in the room seemed to care he was there.
The old bat at the window sniffed. “You can go on back.”
He walked to E.’s office door, adjusted the sleeve of his shirt so that it didn’t emphasize the bandage underneath, and rapped.
“Come in.”
He swung open the door and miserably pondered the tightening of his chest when Eldora Jones lifted her green-eyed gaze to his.
“Hello, Wesley.”
“Hi.”
“Have a seat.”
He did, across from her desk. She wore a white buttoned-up blouse that might have been prim if not for the curves it clung to.
“How are you?” she asked. Her voice sounded friendly, but he’d been meeting with her long enough to know that even an innocuous question was usually leading somewhere.
“Good.”
“Why did you miss our appointment yesterday?”
He shifted in his chair. “I … was with some guys, lost track of time. Sorry.”
“You couldn’t call?”
“Battery on my phone died.”
“Your sister was really worried. She was afraid you were hurt.”
“I’m fine.” He smiled and lifted his hands, but the motion pulled the tightened skin under the bandage. The sudden pain took his breath away and made his arm jerk involuntarily.
“Did something happen to your arm?” she asked.
“Bicycle accident,” he said, continuing with his lie. “I scraped it.”
She studied his face with a half smile, her green eyes saying she didn’t believe him. “Sounds as if you were lucky. You could’ve been hurt much worse.”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“You do realize that missing your scheduled meetings is a violation of your probation?”
Wesley wet his lips. “Thanks for letting me reschedule.”
“Next time you won’t get off so easily.”
He nodded.
“But