Chapter 9
Chapter 9
Jerry Barela was in his midfifties and possessed a wealth of curly salt-and-pepper hair. He was sitting behind a messy desk squinting at a computer screen when Calvin walked into the office just ahead of Daphne. Calvin had seen her square her shoulders before entering, had seen that stubborn clench of her jaw as she stepped over the threshold.
“Mr. Barela?” Calvin asked, coming to a stop in front of the desk.
The older man leaned back in his ancient rolling office chair and arched his brows. “Morning. Is there a problem?”
“No problem. I’m Sheriff Flint and this is Ms. Davis. We were hoping to ask you a few questions about the work you did over at the sheriff’s department a few years ago.”
Jerry snorted as he combed thick fingers through his hair. He wore a gold wedding band and no other jewelry. “What do you want to know?”
Calvin glanced at Daphne, who took a deep breath as if to center herself. Calvin wondered why she’d be nervous when she was the one who’d tried to stop not one but two criminals by putting her body on the line. How was this any more nerve racking?
She straightened her spine and gave the other man a nod. “Hi, Mr. Barela. Could you tell me why the work on the extension was never completed?”
The man spread his arms. “I never got paid, that’s why. Do you work for free?”
Daphne frowned. “You weren’t paid?”
“Got the deposit and started working, bought all the supplies, and then zilch.”
“I have invoices here that are marked as paid.” She dug through her bag and brought out a folder filled with old paperwork. After flipping it open, she found an invoice stamped with “ Paid ” with a bank confirmation stapled to the back, and handed it over to the contractor.
“This is an invoice for insulation and drywall as well as the electrical rough-in. It’s dated four years ago and is marked as complete. I walked through the extension yesterday, and it doesn’t seem to have more than a frame and a bare concrete floor.”
Barela pawed at his desk, then seemed to remember his glasses were hanging off a string on his neck and put them on. Furrowing his brow, he read the invoice. After a few moments, he handed it back. “Don’t know what to tell you, Ms. Davis. I never got the money.”
“And is this your bank account information?” Daphne pointed to the bank confirmation on the second page.
Barela looked at the string of numbers, then turned to his computer and tapped it a few times. A printer whirred, and he grabbed the fresh sheet from the tray. He handed it over to Daphne. “Payment information is at the bottom of every quote. Hasn’t changed in thirty years.”
Daphne frowned as she compared the two account numbers, then nodded. “May I keep this?”
“Be my guest,” he said, waving a hand. “I can even show you all the materials that we bought for the job and haven’t been able to repurpose.”
Calvin met Daphne’s gaze, then turned back to Barela and nodded. “Sure.”
The man groaned as he stood, then ushered them through the back door. He paused, grabbed a couple of fluorescent vests and hard hats, and handed them over before donning a hat of his own. The hard-packed gravel of the lot crunched as they stepped onto it, neat rows of stacked materials spreading before them. A forklift moved a pallet of PVC pipes at the far end of the yard, while Barela led them in the opposite direction.
They entered a small warehouse cluttered with materials. A saw whined as carpenters assembled a frame to the right. Barela nodded to the men as they glanced up and watched their troupe walk by, then led them down to the far end of the warehouse.
“We repurposed most of the timber and drywall, but the flooring and electrical fittings were a loss. I had half a dozen guys working on that place for three months before I called it quits,” he said. “That bastard Bill Jackson gave me the runaround, and I finally told him I wouldn’t be back until the money was in my account.” Barela snorted as he shook his head. “That was it. Never saw a dime, so I never went back.”
Calvin glanced over to see Daphne peeking at the flooring and taking notes. She looked good in her hard hat and vest, staring at everything like she could figure out the mysteries of the world just by digging into the financials. She had a little wrinkle between her brows, her lips pursed as she turned to the light fittings stacked on nearby wire shelves.
Jerry Barela had no idea who he was up against.
Calvin turned to the contractor. “Was Bill Jackson your main point of contact for the work?”
“Yeah, him and—”
A yelp made them both turn toward Daphne, who was stumbling back from the shelving while a cat yowled at her feet before darting across the concrete floor.
In two long strides, Calvin had his hands on her arms to steady her. “You okay?”
“Fine,” she said, breathless as she hunched over, folder hugged tight to her chest. “Did you see that cat?” She pointed to where the animal had run. By the time Calvin had turned back around, Daphne was already hurrying toward the exit.
“Davis?”
“That’s just Dumpling,” Barela called out. “She won’t hurt you.”
“I’m allergic!” Daphne said, almost sprinting away.
What the hell was she doing? Had she seen something? Were they in danger?
One hand on his holster, Calvin scanned the area as he followed her. He kept one eye on Barela as his blood thrummed. They passed the two carpenters and were back out in the main yard within moments.
“Daphne! Slow down!” Calvin called out, jogging behind her. He watched her toss her hat and vest on Barela’s desk as she booked it out of the contractor’s office. Calvin did the same and turned to the contractor, who was staring at them both like they’d lost their minds. “Thanks, Mr. Barela. We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.”
“Is she okay?”
“It’s a bad allergy,” Calvin lied.
“Gosh.”
“Thanks again,” he said, and rushed out the door to find Daphne huddled next to his truck. She was doing something, but she had her back to him.
“What’s going on? What was that about?”
Daphne glanced over her shoulder, and ...
Was she blushing ?
“I panicked,” she admitted.
“About what?”
After scanning their surroundings and finding them devoid of other people, Daphne turned. Calvin’s eyes bugged as he saw the state of her shirt. She was wearing a dark-blue button-down tucked into gray pants, which was pretty similar to what she wore every day. Office-appropriate, staid, conservative clothing. Except her button-down had lost a few buttons at some point and had a big horizontal rip across the chest area. It was being held closed by Daphne’s clenched fists.
And she wasn’t doing a great job.
The rip in the fabric cut across her breast, so Calvin got a clear view of an expanse of skin he had no business viewing. Her breast was lovingly cradled by red lace.
Red lace.
The woman dressed like the accountant she was, except she wore undergarments like that .
As Daphne tried to paw at the fabric to cover herself, the middle of the shirt gaped open and gave him a view of the little red bow and sparkly charm dangling right at the base of her cleavage.
Tearing his gaze away, Calvin turned, cleared his throat, and stared at the overcast sky. “I, uh. Your shirt’s ripped.”
“How perceptive of you. That’s why you get the big bucks, Einstein.”
He glared over his shoulder, but while his back was turned, Daphne had dropped her hands to fiddle with the working buttons of her shirt, and now he could see even more red lace cupping perfect breasts. Had she always had those things hiding under there? Full and lush and ...
His mouth watered, and he forced himself to turn around again.
“My shirt snagged on that shelf, and when that cat ran out, I jerked back.” She clicked her tongue. “Another shirt ruined.”
Calvin’s cock was hard. Why was his cock hard? Apart from the lingerie and the tits, of course. Those tits belonged to Daphne Davis, though. They had no business making him feel like this. Sure, he liked driving her crazy, and she’d used that hot breathy voice the day before, and okay, yes, she was an attractive woman in an abstract sort of sense, but he hadn’t realized ...
“You always wear that kind of underwear, Davis?” Why was his voice suddenly full of gravel?
“What kind of underwear?”
“The red, lacy kind of underwear.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Yes. Yes, he would.
“It’s none of your business, Flint.”
That was true. “It’s just a surprise, is all,” he said, finally managing to think of something other than full breasts cupped in red lace so that he could actually unlock his truck. He moved to the driver’s side and reached over his seat to grab the small duffel he kept in the back. Daphne opened the passenger door.
“It’s a surprise that I wear nice underwear?” She glared at him across the cab of the truck.
Calvin impressed himself by not letting his gaze drop to the fantastic view he could glimpse in his peripheral vision. “Well ...” He rifled through his bag to find his spare uniform shirt. “Yeah, Davis. It is. I didn’t peg you for a red lace lingerie kind of woman.”
“That’ll teach you to make assumptions. Now can we get out of here so I can go home and change?”
“Put this on,” he said, tossing her the shirt. “I’ll drive you home.”
She grumbled something that might have been gratitude, and Calvin got behind the wheel and kept his gaze firmly fastened out the windshield until Daphne had slid in beside him and buckled herself in. Then he glanced over and felt an odd sort of satisfaction at the sight of her wearing his clothes. In his defense, a good portion of his blood was currently occupied in places other than his brain.
He put the truck in gear and drove to Daphne’s house.