“He took pictures of every contract, I’m assuming these are what he stole,” Jake said.
“Take the phone, we’ll charge it at home and look at everything more closely. I don’t want to stay here any longer.”
Mitchell stared at the coffeepot, willing it to brew faster. His housekeeper didn’t work weekends. He needed to fire her and bring in a full-time, live-in maid. He didn’t like making his own coffee, and he hated cooking.
It was five in the morning and he had slept no more than two hours.
Ellen McKenna needed to sign that damn contract. She needed to give him what he wanted. He was trading far more valuable property for those two hundred acres! It made no sense that she wouldn’t take the deal. No sense!
He rubbed his eyes. When the pot was half brewed, he jerked out the pot, drips of coffee steaming as they hit the hot burner. He poured some into his mug, then put the pot back to finish brewing.
If he didn’t hear from her today, he would have Presley forge her signature and electronically plant the documents in the recorder’s office. He’d bribe the recorder to file the originals. He’d done it before; he’d do it again.
He just hadn’t done anything like that to the McKennas. They had never been pushovers, and he hadn’t wanted a legal battle.
But by the time they figured it out, the project would already be well on its way, and they wouldn’t be able to stop it.
In fact, he’d deposit money in her bank account to “prove” she had taken the deal. On paper, it would be true, and what court would believe otherwise?
Risky, true, but it could work.
“Dad, I was looking at the security cameras last night and that guy you hired was still at the Coulters’ house at two in the morning.”
He whirled around. His daughter stood there in baggy sweats and a faded T-shirt that readFUN FACT: I DON’T CARE.
“What? What are you talking about?” He had told her over and over that he hated the ridiculous shirts she wore, but she ignored him. The lack of respect annoyed him.
“The guy from Louisiana?”
He froze. Presley wasn’t supposed to know about any of that. Well, she knew the big picture, but he had never introduced her to Brock Jones, and the man had only been to his house once. How did Presley know what car he drove?
She rolled her eyes, and that made him snap, “Show some respect.”
“Dad,” she said coolly, “I think you should—”
“I don’t really care what you think, Presley.”
She glared at him, eyes narrowed, turned on her bare feet and walked out of the kitchen.
Dammit!
“Presley, you know that’s not what I meant.”
She didn’t come back. Well, shit, another woman in his life who was mad at him.
He’d make it up to her. He was just tired, frustrated, and angry.
If people just did what he said when he said it, and did itright, they wouldn’t be in this situation.
He pulled out his cell phone, no signal. Damn towers. He took his coffee to his office and called Tom Garza from his desk phone. The man had slept in the apartment over the barn last night because the roads were flooded, but it still took him five rings to answer that line.
“Yeah,” Tom said, his voice thick with sleep.
“I need you in my office now.”
“Okay,” Tom said and hung up.
Clive was standing in the doorway. How did his older brother always look so chipper in the morning. “Who were you talking to?”
