“Yeah,” he agreed roughly around a lump in this throat. “Love.”
And as he slid inside her wet, welcoming body, slow enough to savor the glorious moment they became one again, he knew it with absolute certainty.
Love was being made on this mattress again.
John J. Hennessy.
Who the fuck was that?
Because he had all of Jameson’s money. Every dollar he’d ever sent his father over the years, then some.
It was Thursday afternoon, and he’d been in East Hampton for eleven days. Been in Chloe’s bed for half those. And if you’d told him that would be the case, as recently as twelve days ago, he’d have bet his truck against it.
But here he was, opening cardboard boxes by day and Chloe Morgan’s legs by night.
Cleaning out the house wasn’t nearly as enjoyable. Searching through every box, filled with things both meaningful and trivial, then sealing them back up. Transferring truckloads of them to a storage unit near the hardware store.
It all made his dad’s death real. Realer.
Reality.
The finality of it had just begun to sink in.
For a smart guy, he was slow on the uptake when it came to pesky things like emotion. You see, there’d been a girl, back when he was eighteen. And he was head over heels for her. And then she did a doozy on him. Ever since, he’d taken a hard pass on feeling his feelings.
Problem was, he was human.
Good thing he wasn’t in the Navy anymore. They would not appreciate his evolution.
This week had been tough, what with those feelings breaking through, but that girl who was now a woman still held her same magical powers. And somehow, with a smile that rivaled the sun, made everything right in his world.
But still, those fucking boxes. Ignoring them was no longer an option, so he tackled them one by one.
And not found a single clue as to where the money went. The reason Jonah lost the house.
Until today.
The blue file was shoved inside the bottom drawer of his father’s old mahogany desk. It was the only paperwork not related to the hardware store that was organized, his father noting each deposit on an old-fashioned paper ledger. Monthly, on or about the same day, dating back to the very first check Jameson sent him. Right after he graduated BUD/S and SERE school, and went wheels up for the Middle East.
Every red cent accounted for.
In a trust fund that had only two signers.
Jonah Maine. And John Hennessey.
“Who’s John Hennessey?” Jameson asked Doug, not bothering with pleasantries.
His father’s lawyer must have been expecting this question since Jameson returned.
“Jameson, good to talk to you, too. I’m doing well, thank you for asking.”
Chuckling, he realized how growly he sounded. And how polite Doug did even though he ended a meeting to take his call.
“How’re you doing, buddy? Good?” Jameson leaned back in Jonah’s office chair, the old leather creaking with the shift in his weight. Propping his booted feet on the desk, he rested the blue file on his belly. “Heard you’re expecting a little one. Congrats.”
Wow. That didn’t hurt as bad as it usually did.
“Thank you,” he replied in surprise. “Poor Wendy, though. Sicker than a dog. Can’t keep anything down.”
He made a sound of sympathy. Then, “So, who’s John Hennessey? And why did Jonah set up a trust in his name?”
Silence on the other end.
“Spit it out, Doug. Don’t make me come down there looking like an unhinged stranger who’s about to rampage a quaint town and its residents.”
“I’ve never heard that name,” he finally said. “I don’t know who that person is.”
The opening of drawers and shuffling of papers sounded in the background, and he tried to gauge Doug’s genuineness. Truthful, or stalling?
“You sure?”
“Yes. I’m searching the paperwork for the estate again.” A drawer slammed shut, and he seemed as confused as Jameson. “What’s the name of the bank?”
Jameson told him, flipping through the ledger as he waited, the numbers familiar by now. He’d studied this file for the last half hour.
After long seconds of listening to Doug read under his breath, he finally said, “Nope. There’s no mention of any such account, nor that Jonah was a member of that bank. And nobody named Hennessey listed as a relative or beneficiary.”
The bank was a well-known financial institution, but a quick internet search showed no branches within The Hamptons. He’d need to make a trip south toward the city for an in-person inquiry.
“Maybe an old friend of Jonah’s from when he was young?” Doug suggested, his tone curious. “Or a black sheep brother who was estranged from the family? Or, and don’t rampage because I say this, but . . . possibly a dependent born from another relationship?”
Jesus, the idea made him sick.
His father had been devoted to his mother. Hadn’t he?
Pitching forward in the chair, he tapped the folder on the desk. “Thanks for checking. And the interruption to your meeting. I’ll get with the bank directly. See if they’ll give me any insight.”
“Email me the documents beforehand. I’ll see how legit they are, and, as his sole beneficiary, whether you can access the fund on his behalf. At least get some contact info on Mr. Hennessey.”
“Will do.”
Not for the money. But to see why this person was so important, Jonah let go of the house for him.
“Before you go, I had you on my list of calls today anyway. Sheila reached out. She’s got a potential buyer for the hardware store but said she’s having a hard time pinning you down on a rescheduled time to formalize the listing and hand over keys. I told her that didn’t sound like you.”
It didn’t sound like him. “I’ve been busy.”
“Busy with Chloe, perhaps?”
He smiled. “Perhaps.” But that was all he was giving him.
“It’s true? You’ve not rescheduled? I figured you’d give the place to the first person who offered you half what it’s valued at.”
That had been his plan, and it was simple.
Get in, get it done, and get back out of town. Turn it around in hours, not days. His ass here over a week meant shit went seriously south.
So far, the only thing going south was Chloe, on him. And he, on her.
“Jameson?” Doug was waiting.
“Yeah. I’ll give Sheila a call. Set up a time for tomorrow.” But he couldn’t manage much enthusiasm.
His focus was now on the identity of this Hennessey character. That might keep him in town a few days longer. Sounded like a valid excuse anyway.
He made a mental note to touch base with his company in Tampa, who’d granted him plenty of latitude on his return time. Nico was the only one concerned about the delay, worried it was Chloe-conspired, texting him regularly for sitreps.
The situation wasn’t good. Jameson had failed at his don’t-touch-Chloe mission. And so, he didn’t report.
Wrapping up the call with Doug, he quickly made another.
“Hey, boss,” Cade said, answering the hardware store’s land line on the first ring. “You just left a couple of hours ago. All is still well.”