Money, Honey Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28 - One month later

  Teaser chapter

  “Sey’s prose sparkles with energy and heart . . . A delightful debut novel packed with strong, intelligent characters and a plot that truly satisfies!”

  —Jane Porter, bestselling author of Flirting with Forty

  Killer Kiss

  Patrick moved faster than Liz imagined was possible. Before she could even work up a good sneer, he was there in front of her, his big, hard hands cupping her elbows and lifting her right off her feet and into his body. Then his mouth was on hers, hot, seeking, hungry.

  A thousand fragmented thoughts flitted through her brain, none of which were any help. Should she jam a pencil in his ear? Ram a knee into his crotch? Throw her arms around his neck and start participating with some enthusiasm?

  Then his tongue traced the seam of her lips, a request, a demand, an invitation . . .

  “Money, Honey is laugh-out-loud funny and fantastically hot! Susan Sey is a fantastic new voice on the romance scene.”

  —Victoria Dahl, author of Lead Me On

  “Money, Honey is fast, hot, fresh, and outright fun. Just go read it. You’ll love it!”

  —Susan Kay Law, author of The Paper Marriage

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

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  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are 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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  MONEY, HONEY

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / July 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Susan Seyfarth.

  Excerpt from Money Shot by Susan Sey copyright © by Susan Seyfarth.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-44227-2

  BERKLEY® SENSATION

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Acknowledgments

  First, to my mom, Dorothy, who taught me to love books and to think I could do anything. And to my dad, Bob, who taught me the day’s not over until the work is done. Between them, they gave me the courage to start and the grit to finish. I love you both.

  To my mother-in-law, Linda, and my father-in-law, John, both of whom love me and don’t hesitate to claim me in public in spite of the fact that I write books with s-e-x in them. I know it’s not exactly what you signed up for, and your support means more to me than I can say.

  To Claudia and Greta, who fill me with pride and wonder every single day because they are amazing little people. And also because they can and do occupy themselves during the hours I spend hunched over the keyboard. Thanks, chickens. Mommy loves you.

  To my agent, Susannah Taylor, who always finds a way to make my work more rather than different. Thank you.

  To the Romance Bandits—a girl couldn’t have better friends. Here’s to potted plants, the arsenal and true love with lots of boom.

  To my wonderful critique partner and dear friend Inara Scott, without whom I would be a long-winded (okay, longer-winded) disaster. I’m so grateful our husbands have exquisite taste.

  And finally, to my husband, Bryan, whose faith in me is a force of nature. You are, without a doubt, the best thing in my life. If this writing thing actually takes off, I’m totally going to buy you that ridiculously huge TV your heart desires. And if you want to watch Husker football on it all weekend, I won’t say a thing except Go Big Red. I love you that much. xoxoxoxo

  Chapter 1

  Southeastern Minnesota, late spring

  Patrick O’Connor strolled into the FBI’s Grief Creek office with a sangfroid not normally seen in the average felon. Patrick, however, was no ordinary felon. He was a superior felon. At least he had been. And had it not been for a woman—two women, actually—he might still be one today.

  He didn’t necessarily regret reforming. The straight world had been ridiculously good to him. But having his hand forced, and by a couple of women? That was a trick he didn’t care to repeat. He’d spent the past three years shunning them both with a bloodless and very satisfying precision.

  So he was mildly astonished to find himself on the verge of paying a visit to one of those very women at the behest of the other. He was a rich man, but loyalty had already cost him more than he could afford. He really ought to give it up.

  Not that he hadn’t tried on occasion. Thieves didn’t achieve Patrick’s level of success without a certain moral flexibility on the concepts of loyalty and ownership, after all. So he’d been startled to run up against this stubborn and unexpected streak of possessiveness in his character. What was his was, apparently, his. Troublesome women included.

  And while he’d been more than happy to allow them to weather life’s storms these past years without his supervision or influence, this was different. This particular storm was his fault and Patrick wasn’t one to shirk responsibility. No matter how uncomfortable that
responsibility might be.

  He paused outside a cubicle, checked the nameplate stuck to the cheap fabric partition: FBI Special Agent Elizabeth Brynn. He hesitated next to an evil-smelling coffee station, amused by an unexpected tingle of nerves. Liz Brynn. The law-enforcement half of his own personal Waterloo and the last person to ever arrest him. The only person to ever arrest him, actually.

  He put his usual mental asterisk next to the word arrest. After all, did it really count as an arrest if a man voluntarily surrendered himself to the authorities? If he was never booked, formally charged or incarcerated?

  Not that he hadn’t done his time. Three years weaseling for Liz Brynn in exchange for his sister’s get-out-of-jail-free card had been a particularly punishing sentence, and not just because he wasn’t accustomed to the leash.

  It was more because Liz Brynn wasn’t just a cop. She also had the unfortunate distinction of being the only woman Patrick had ever wanted but never had. Fate’s idea of a laugh, he supposed. Cosmic justice, maybe. His cross to bear in return for all those years of unrepentant thievery. Who knew? The universe was a mystery, and he’d given up trying to work it out.

  The urge to smooth his shirt was unbearable, but he didn’t give in. He shook his head at his own foolishness, sank deeper into the indolent slouch he knew she hated and stepped into her world.

  Her back was to him. She had the desk phone tucked into that old-gold spill of hair at her shoulder while she typed with one hand and punched buttons on a cell phone with the other. Even from the doorway, Patrick could see that her black pantsuit was off the rack and not the best choice for that interesting little figure of hers. Certainly not the best choice for concealing the shoulder holster she wore.

  Even so, the usual shot of pure adrenaline rocketed through his system at the sight of her, and he had to reach for a properly lazy tone when he said, “Hello, Liz.”

  He had the pleasure of watching that capable hand falter over the keyboard, clench briefly into a fist, then slap down on the arm of her chair as if she needed to put it somewhere safe. Maybe she didn’t want him the way he wanted her, but at least she wasn’t unaffected by him. That was something.

  She snapped shut her cell phone, hung up the landline and spun her chair around to glare at him.

  “Patrick O’Connor,” she said. “Our security must be slipping.”

  Patrick only smiled at her, uncomfortably aware that words were quite beyond him for the moment. God, that face of hers. It had always packed a punch, but now that she’d grown into it, he could hardly breathe for drinking it in.

  She wasn’t pretty. Liz would never be pretty. The cheekbones were too strong, the chin too sharp, the eyes too big and not nearly guileless enough. But all those precise, determined edges framing that soft, baby-doll mouth commanded his attention just like it always had, God help him.

  “It’s nice to see you, too,” Patrick finally said, when he was certain he could speak again. “You’re looking well.” He allowed himself a brief glance at the sleek sweep of gold that brushed her shoulders and made his palms itch to touch. “You’ve grown your hair a bit. A little girlie for you, but it works surprisingly well.”

  She ignored him. “What are you doing here, Patrick?” she asked.

  He lifted his brows, all innocence. “You don’t know?”

  “If I did, would I have asked?” Her cornflower eyes went narrow.

  “Well, no. You’re not one for idle chitchat, if I recall.”

  “You do, and I haven’t changed. Now what are you doing here?”

  He shrugged. If the FBI didn’t already know, he wasn’t going to tell them. “Mara called me.”

  “You haven’t spoken to your sister in three years.”

  “Not on purpose, no. But Mara stays in touch, whether people cooperate or not. She has an unfortunate command of voice mail and e-mail technologies.” He gave her a faint smile. “Which is how I’ve come to understand that her restaurant has fallen victim to some criminal bedevilment.”

  “You’re here because of that?”

  “Yes.” Which was the truth. Just not all of it.

  “It’s my case, Patrick. I’m taking care of it.”

  “Yes, she mentioned you were involved. Let’s just say she’s unsatisfied with your progress.”

  “And you’re, what, the cavalry?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  Liz closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “You haven’t had any sort of relationship with Mara for three years, Patrick. Why the hell would you start riding to the rescue now?”

  “She said she needed me.” More than she probably knew, actually, if Patrick’s instincts were correct. And unfortunately for all parties concerned, Patrick’s instincts had proven themselves exceptional.

  “Uh-huh.” Her mouth tightened into a skeptical rosebud that Patrick didn’t allow himself to look at. “So you just hopped on the next flight out of LA and rushed to her aid?”

  “It was Palm Springs, but yes.” He lifted his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “She’s an O’Connor. We protect our own.”

  “I do, too,” she said. She stood up and moved closer, her blue eyes steady and assessing. “And I consider anybody who comes to the FBI with a legitimate complaint my own. So there’s really no need for you to be here.”

  The clean, no-nonsense scent of her drifted under his nose as she moved toward him, and a familiar desire uncurled in his gut. He squashed it with the ease of long practice and sent her a bland look.

  “I’ll have to hear that from my sister, I’m afraid.”

  “Fine.” Liz spun away and stomped over to a filing cabinet. “What does she think you’re going to do, anyway?”

  “I have no idea,” he said, watching her yank open a drawer to retrieve an ugly satchel-like bag she probably thought passed for a purse. She tossed it over her shoulder, pocketed her cell phone and marched past him into the hallway.

  “Well?” she said, poking her head back into the cubical to glare at him. “Do you want to come?”

  “Come do what?”

  “Come straighten Mara out.”

  Patrick considered this. Did he want to witness the two women, who between them had turned his life upside down, go after each other like a couple of feral dogs?

  “Why, yes,” he said, a smile spreading over his face. “Yes, I do.”

  FIFTEEN MINUTES later, Liz blew through the doors of Brightwater’s Casino and Restaurant like she had a SWAT team at her back. Patrick, however, saw no point in charging about when walking sufficed quite nicely. Besides, he wanted a look around. It never failed to amuse him that his baby sister had fallen in love with a guy who owned a casino. Not that it had been much of a casino when Jonas Brightwater had inherited it from his deadbeat father, but still.

  After the unfortunate incident in which Mara had escaped jail time by the skin of her brother’s teeth, she’d vowed with religious solemnity to never come within one hundred yards of a gambling establishment again. Jonas, however, wasn’t the sort of guy who took no for an answer.

  Patrick had always admired his brother-in-law’s business acumen—the guy had worked some serious magic transforming the broken-down casino his father had left him into this sleek showpiece of a gaming hall, after all. But now, with the scent of Mara’s culinary magic hanging in the air like a cozy invitation to sit down and eat, his respect for the guy grew. Investing in an on-site restaurant had been a master stroke, second only to pursuing Mara with a single-minded intensity until she agreed to run the place.

  Giving her a wedding ring and half his assets in return for a job well done seemed a bit excessive to Patrick, but so far he hadn’t heard any complaints. And given his sister’s stubborn penchant for leaving chatty, endless messages on his voice mail that he never returned, he figured he’d have heard a few if there had been any.

  He strolled after Liz, taking a moment to admire the rear view she presented. She never walked when she could jog, and jogging gave a very
compelling bounce to everything she’d packed into that ugly black suit.

  Perhaps too compelling a bounce. There were appearances to be maintained after all. Patrick tore his eyes from her backside long enough to slide the woman at the hostess stand a warm smile. She smiled back, and Patrick shifted course.

  “Can I help you?” the woman asked, her voice as husky as a brand-new smoking habit. She leaned over the reservations book, treating him to an outstanding view of her cleavage.

  “Absolutely,” Patrick said, just as Liz looked over her shoulder and snapped, “No.” She flashed the woman her badge and said, “We have a meeting with Mara.”

  “Oh, of course.” The hostess sent Patrick a more guarded look and straightened until her cleavage was more suggestion than invitation. Patrick sighed. “Let me just show you in.”

  “We know the way,” Liz said, then drilled Patrick with a stern look. “Are you coming, or was there something more pressing you had to do?”

  Patrick gave the hostess a wry smile. “Forgive her. She’s nasty when she drinks her own coffee.”

  The hostess nodded solemnly. “I’ll bring some of the good stuff to Mara’s office, then.”

  He took up her hand, pressed a lavish kiss to her wrist. “You’re an angel.”

  Her mouth formed a silent oh as she gazed at him, coloring prettily. Liz made an impatient noise and stomped toward the kitchen. Patrick suppressed a smirk and followed her.

  IF ANYBODY knew the value of a second chance, it was Liz Brynn. She’d gotten hers when she was ten, and she’d worked like hell to make herself worthy of the badge that allowed her to grant a few herself. Six years ago, she’d given one to both Mara and her brother. And while she and Mara hadn’t exactly become fast friends as a result, Liz did like and respect the woman for everything she’d done with the opportunity.