Baker's Dozen Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Baker’s Dozen

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  He stepped closer,

  lowering his chin, giving her a deep stare. His eyes had a depth Andy had never seen before. Knowledge and understanding and something else in those pupils.

  “Your black belt won’t always save you, you know.”

  Andy turned away. He continued to follow her.

  For some reason, his persistence irked her. She thrust a hand to his chest. Rock solid. “Don’t. I could take you down if I had to.”

  “I’m sure you could.” A cocky grin started at one side of his mouth, before spreading to the other. “Goodnight, then.” With a salute to her, he marched backward. When he rounded the corner out of sight, Andy found her phone and dialed Carla.

  “What did the guy want?” Carla asked.

  “Karate lessons.”

  “Are you sure? I think he was into you.”

  Andy changed the subject. “What did your mom want?”

  Before Carla answered, two men in rubber masks rushed Andy, sliding up beside her, grabbing her phone and purse. She immediately let go of the burner phone, but her tote! Everything she needed was in there.

  She was not giving up her bag without a fight.

  Baker’s Dozen

  by

  Amey Zeigler

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Baker’s Dozen

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Amey Zeigler

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Crimson Edition, 2017

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1837-0

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1838-7

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my husband for his unfailing loving support

  Chapter One

  Men lie. They lie about how many women they’ve been with, their alcohol tolerance, and the size of their, uh, paycheck. Which was exactly what Jack, sitting across from Andy Miller, was lying about.

  He tapped his coffee mug with the tip of his finger, stretching his lean body against the booth at Ronney Dell’s. “Ninety grand this year alone,” he claimed.

  Closer to fifty grand, according to his secretary. Though maybe he was taking into account all the vehicles he had sabotaged before fixing which weren’t on the books.

  But Andy didn’t contradict him. Instead, she demurely batted her lashes and smiled into her shoulder. “Ninety grand,” she cooed, snapping her gum. “I don’t believe it!” she said.

  And that was the truth.

  Andy brushed back the bleached wig of her “Mary Lou” persona covering her natural brown hair. Brown as the Mississippi mud, her dad always said. She fingered a necklace just above the plunging neckline of a tank top and Daisy Dukes combo. Oh, the depths she sank to for a story. But to avenge poor, old Mrs. Wheyland, it was worth it.

  “It’s been all this overtime, you know.” He gave her a crusty smile. It had been too long since he’d seen the inside of the toothpaste cap.

  “Are you going in to work tonight?”

  She wanted one more peek at Jack’s books. Something was amiss, something more than the sabotage. After doing some research on how much small repair shops made, she wanted to recalculate the figures.

  “I’m just about to finish up your BMW. Want to come?”

  She nodded. “Watching you work gives me such a thrill.”

  Andy smiled in anticipation of sharing all seventeen of Jack’s dishonest dealings with her ten thousand Twitter followers @BakersDozen. And if there was a bigger story in the books, it would be the cream on top of all the corruption and scandal. Lies à la mode.

  “Let’s go.” He tossed his head.

  He gulped one last swig of coffee. Andy slid from the booth, arms jangling with bracelets, her stiletto boots nearly entangling in the table legs. At the register, Jack patted his back pockets, then his shirt pockets, and swore.

  “Forgot my wallet in my other pants. Mary Lou, will you?”

  Andy flashed a tight smile as she did some mental math. She had paid for dinner five of the six times they’d been out. If this had been a real date with a real boyfriend, Andy would have left him to wash dishes for their meal. At least Jack was a tax deduction. She slid her wallet from her red weekender tote. “Sure, hon.”

  “Last time, I promise,” he whispered in her ear. This was the only truth he’d uttered their entire relationship. He didn’t even know how true it was. Andy paid and headed for the doors while Jack lingered near the waitress, smiling coyly as he attempted small talk.

  Blinking in the setting sun, Andy shoved open the first set of glass doors and reached for the sunglasses nestled in her wig just as a broad-shouldered guy entered from the opposite set of glass doors.

  At first, she didn’t pay much attention to him. To be sure, his glance swept up her body. But Andy was used to men ogling her, especially in her current attire. Shorts barely to there and legs up to here. Andy’s legs were sexy, her torso tight, her body desirable, and she didn’t mind using it to get what she wanted—information.

  And normally, when Andy worked on a story, she didn’t get distracted. It was a cardinal rule. It could mean life or death to even let an eyeball roll in the wrong direction. But this man’s physique begged her to look. She couldn’t help it.

  Tall. Strong jaw, with a hint of stubble. Discriminating blue eyes. Sandy blond hair falling in just the right places. Lithe, toned, perfectly built.

  Perfectly distracting.

  Three seconds was too long to stare. She ripped her gaze away to refocus on her cover. But as she did, the man did the most unexpected thing—he raised his eyebrows and smiled at her.

  Recognition?

  Andy jerked in surprise. Her jerk disrupted the delicate balance of her weight hovering over heels the size of sharpened pencils. Mid-stride, Andy’s ankle faltered. She tried to recover by setting down her other foot. But it never made it safely under her as the heel caught on the area rug, pitching her forward.

  Her hand flew out to grasp something, anything to keep her from toppling. She caught nothing but air.

  Until she caught hold of…him.

  With swift reflexes and amazing agility, Andy noted, the man caught her about the waist, saving her from a most assuredly embarrassing tumble to t
he floor with more leg and perhaps a little inseam exposed.

  “You all right?” he asked, holding her aloft with warm hands, his face hovering inches from hers. They paused there, suspended in an almost tango-like bend over the checkered tile.

  She absorbed him, memorizing every detail, the curl of his lip, the arch of his eyebrows, the smooth planes of his nose. A small scar split his left eyebrow in two. It was a nice face. But his arresting gaze held her, perceptive, sparkling with amusement—and familiar. Definitely memorable.

  Andy searched deeper into his eyes. He was taking in detail, too. Some static or lightning or maybe indigestion from Ronney’s jalapeno spaghetti and meatballs flashed in her stomach.

  “Andy, isn’t it?” he whispered.

  A pleasing smell of leather from his flight jacket radiated from his body. And something else. Sandalwood incense? The stranger quickly righted her, his gaze never leaving hers.

  “Do I know you?” she asked, struggling to remain in character, patting her wig, hoping it was not jostled. It was fine, secured with no fewer than a hundred bobby pins. But still her gaze locked on his.

  “You don’t remember,” he said.

  “Do you know this guy?” Jack demanded behind her. He placed a possessive hand on her back, attempting to ease her away from the man.

  Strong. Handsome. Andy was still dazed. She had been dating dross too long.

  “No,” Andy, as Mary Lou, said.

  Jack scowled at the stranger. But Andy barely noticed. Jack and the whole world disappeared. Only she and the stranger existed, encased between sets of glass doors and Andy balancing like a flamingo.

  She set her foot down. A streak of lightning shot up her leg. Her yelp broke the trance. She glanced down at her foot, wincing in pain. The stranger jumped into action, crouching to examine Andy’s ankle.

  “You’re hurt.”

  “She’s fine,” Jack said, shoving her toward the next set of doors, Andy limping. Jack glared at the man as he wrapped a protective arm around her waist.

  “Want ice?” the man asked, opening the door and moving toward the dining area.

  “No, thank you,” Andy said. Jack continued to lead her toward the parking lot doors. Every step caused her body to shake with pain. She was losing her cool and her cover. The guy needed to go away.

  The stranger glanced from Andy to Jack, then back to Andy. He abruptly strode ahead of them to the doors, propping one open for the couple.

  Andy hobbled past the man, feeling, rather than seeing, his gaze. She peeked from the corner of her eyes. A split second was all Mary Lou could give him, although Andy wanted to see more, feel more.

  “Name’s Hugh, if you ever need anything,” he whispered to her as she passed, giving Jack a nervy stare.

  “Thank you.” Her voice, pinched with pain, almost lost the dumb laziness of Mary Lou, but she quickly recovered. Her mind searched through her cerebral database, grasping for recognition, dismayed at her near-photographic memory for forgetting a guy like him. Little glimpses flashed in her eyes. She remembered him outside, but she couldn’t recall where.

  “We can get ice at the Shaft,” Jack said, pulling her farther from the restaurant. “I’ve got an ice maker there.” Her leg radiated with pain. Those hooker shoes! Had to wear the six-inch heels tonight, didn’t she.

  In the parking lot, Jack paused by his pick-up. “Why don’t we go in my truck?”

  “But we always walk.” Second rule. As a twenty-three-year-old woman, she never rode in the same car as one of her marks. She had left a dynamic ten-speed chained to a nearby tree.

  “But traffic’s terrible tonight. And your ankle looks swollen.”

  Truth be told, her ankle was a lot swollen. And painful, too. But rules were rules. Andy couldn’t let anyone give her rides. Never. Not when she was working, anyway. Too easy to lose control of the situation.

  Jack persisted. “And the crosswalk is so far from here.”

  The shop was just across the street. And the spring weather in St. Louis, though warm during the day, was still chilly at night, and she hadn’t remembered a coat. And the traffic was bad this evening. And if her ankle was sprained, hobbling to the shop might aggravate it.

  Andy weighed the options in her mind. Just a jaunt. It was still early. Plus, Jack was not a threat. They’d been “together” for four weeks, and he’d never tried anything. His smell was worse than his bite. Which was saying something, because with those teeth, his bite was probably infectious.

  “Sure thing, hon,” she said at last.

  With her red weekender tote on her shoulder, she hopped into his truck and set aside wrenches, invoices, napkins, and bills still in their envelopes. A rancid smell from either the oil stains or the rock-hard french fries hidden in the seats rose to meet her.

  This story had better break big.

  If she could just dig a little deeper into the books. The income Shaft Auto reported to the IRS was high for the number of repairs Andy had observed. Even with the tampered vehicles.

  “Where we goin’?” Her voice almost cracked. She’d been so involved in her thoughts to realize he’d passed Shaft Auto Shop.

  “Oh,” he said chuckling. “Some place I’ve wanted to take you for a while.”

  “I thought we were finishin’ up my car.” After picking up the car tonight, she was supposed to wrap up the investigation and dump Jack.

  “Don’t worry. We can finish tomorrow morning.” He gave her a little wink. “Or afternoon.”

  Andy suppressed a shudder. “But I need ice for my ankle.”

  “There’ll be ice where we’re going.”

  A pit formed in her stomach. And she would never get another chance to study Jack’s books. Or get back Carla’s car. She’d relinquished control.

  She glanced at her watch. Six p.m.. Two hours until absolute deadline. She still had to write up her lead and send her story to Mr. Hershal, her editor at Gateway Times. Her tight deadline left no time for dallying.

  When they arrived at his apartment, Andy pasted on a fake smile. “Is this your place? Why, it’s so nice.” On this neglected facade hung a once white, now bleeding rust, Latin Quarter-style lattice. “I love the pretty iron-work.”

  But Jack only had eyes for Mary Lou. He jingled his keys in anticipation before exiting the car. Andy dreaded this part. It happened too often.

  Andy opened her own door slowly. There comes a point in every relationship, even fake ones, when someone, usually the guy, wants to take it to the next step—bed. In the last three years as a freelance investigative journalist, Andy had developed three cures for the grabbies. Two of them she learned from Sensei Tanaka.

  They climbed the stairs together to his door arm-in-arm. At least the drive in the car rested her ankle. With jingling keys, he opened the door, then faced her.

  “Let’s take a selfie, shall we? I want to remember tonight.” He stuck out his phone in front of them.

  Andy’s hand flew to her face. “No, Jackie, you know I don’t like my picture taken.” Andy couldn’t afford to leave any photographic evidence of her with Jack.

  “But,” he still persisted.

  Desperate times called for desperate actions.

  “There is something I want more.” Holding her breath, she snuggled into him, nuzzling his chest, turning her face away from the camera. Andy paused before pressing her lips against his.

  “Honey, you—” But her lips were on his. His initial shock only lasted half a breath before he gnawed at her lips, forcibly parting her teeth for greater depth, their teeth clanking in his unrestrained desire.

  One of the reasons she didn’t date much in her personal life was because she still hadn’t found anyone who could satisfy her in the kissing area. And if the kissing wasn’t good, nothing was good.

  While he was distracted, she held down the arm holding his phone. He slipped it in his pocket then grabbed her with both hands on her shoulders, clutching her into him.

  Andy broke away, almo
st suffocated by his embrace. Then, keeping her facial expression seductive, Andy grabbed him around his bristling neck. His eyes lit up in delight. Drawing closer and massaging his neck, her fingers found the pressure point.

  Three seconds later, Jack collapsed inside the door in a heap.

  “Sorry, Jack,” she said to his almost corpse, moving his legs inside before writing a breakup note to leave in his hand. “But I just couldn’t kiss you one more time. Not even for poor, old Mrs. Wheyland.” She paused, observing his crumpled body with a sigh. “Be glad I put you to sleep the nice way.”

  Law-breakers always looked so peaceful in their sleep. Made you wonder how they sleep at night, though, robbing little old ladies of their Social Security and all. Not to mention the other customers who had also had cars tampered with.

  “I hope you sleep well after this hits the news,” she said out loud while closing the door. She wished she could be in the room of the mysterious corporate owner of Shaft Auto when the story broke. Still, she regretted not being able to follow up on the irregularities in the books. There might have been an even bigger story. She would have to leave any bigger story to the police investigation.

  Slipping off her shoes, she descended the stairs, her ankle finally feeling better. This little detour cost her too much time. Deadline was an hour and half. She had to act fast.

  ****

  Hugh parked his car outside the Kwik-E-Mart just after sunset. He checked his watch. He had a few minutes before his meet up with Antonio Guterelli.

  He opened his car door. The hot dogs and corn dogs plastered on the windows of the gas station matched the smells wafting from the place and encouraged his hunger. It’s not what he would’ve called food, but neither was anything at Ronney Dell’s.

  Ronney Dell’s was a disaster. He clearly interrupted something. An op, or whatever you call it when you’re not a professional. Hugh might’ve blown her cover. Though it was most amusing to catch her in action. Most amusing indeed. He wouldn’t soon forget those shorts.

  Once inside, he nabbed two dogs from under the heating element and slid them into the sleeves. The door pinged behind him as a large man entered the store. Not Antonio. This guy had on a tattered unbuttoned shirt open over an even more tattered t-shirt exposing a diamond playing card tattoo on his neck. He picked up a bag of chips as he moved to the cashier’s desk. Hugh stood in line behind him, his hot dogs warming his hands. The girl at the cashier rang up the bag of chips and gave the total.