Quick and snowy, p.1
Quick & Snowy, page 1
Quick & Snowy
The Quick Billionaires
Book 5
Whitley Cox
Copyright © 2021 by Whitley Cox
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review
________________________________________
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-989081-52-5
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A few other books by Whitley Cox
The
Single Dads of Seattle
Grab book 1 here
https://books2read.com/HBTSD-SDS
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The Quick Billionaires
Grab book 1 here
Quick & Dirty
https://books2read.com/QDirty-QBS
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The Harty Boys
Grab book 1 here
Hard Hart
https://books2read.com/HH-HB
*
The Young Sisters
Grab book 1 here
Not Over You
https://books2read.com/not-over-you
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Doctor Smug
https://books2read.com/DoctorSmug
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Hot Dad
https://books2read.com/Hot-Dad
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Snowed In & Set Up
https://books2read.com/SISU
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Love to Hate You
https://books2read.com/Love2HateYou
For my brother.
I had another book that I wanted to dedicate to you specifically, but I haven’t gotten around to writing it, so I figured I really needed to dedicate one to you. It was high time. However, I know you don’t buy or read my books, so the chances of you seeing this are pretty slim. But whatever, my conscience is clear. You can’t accuse me of never dedicating a book to you. I have, and this is it. Rejoice.
Thanks for being my brother, Luke. You’re not nearly as annoying now as you were when we were kids.
Anyway, here’s your dedication. Love you and all that other mushy stuff.
~ Your older, wiser and intellectually superior sister
Contents
1. CHAPTER ONE
2. CHAPTER TWO
3. CHAPTER THREE
4. CHAPTER FOUR
5. CHAPTER FIVE
6. CHAPTER SIX
7. CHAPTER SEVEN
8. CHAPTER EIGHT
9. CHAPTER NINE
10. CHAPTER TEN
11. CHAPTER ELEVEN
12. CHAPTER TWELVE
13. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
14. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
15. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
16. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
17. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
18. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
19. CHAPTER NINETEEN
20. CHAPTER TWENTY
21. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
22. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
23. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
24. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
25. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
26. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
LEAVE A REVIEW
SNEAK PEEK
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
FIND ME HERE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chapter one
“You’re welcome to tickle my nuts and sniff my ass crack, but I’m not removing my leg.” Barnes Wark leaned forward over the rolling belt in airport security and squinted at the name tag on the baby-faced TSA agent.
Oden.
He resisted the urge to sneer at the name since he too had an unusual name that often garnered some quirked eyebrows.
He felt half an ounce of sympathy for the kid.
But it wasn’t enough sympathy to save him from Barnes’s impatience.
The barely legal kid’s Adam’s apple jogged, and his brown eyes shifted from Barnes to his supervisor, who was standing in the corner.
“Don’t look at her. Look at me,” Barnes continued. “I’m the person you’re dealing with right now. You saw my prosthetic after I took off my shoes and thought, Hey, let’s make the cripple remove his leg. I’ve never seen that before.”
The kid’s face was turning the shade of an overripe tomato. He shook his head as if Barnes hadn’t just dived into his sick subconscious and read his mind.
Barnes ignored the man’s silent but colorful denial. “I’m going to give you a second chance to speak to me like a human being with the same rights as every other person in here. So tell me again exactly what I need to remove.”
The kid’s eyes found Barnes’s once more. He swallowed again and nodded. “Belt, shoes, all electronics, all liquids and anything metal. But I don’t need you to remove your prosthetic, sir. A pat-down will be necessary, though.”
Barnes nodded and did as he was instructed, then waited for another TSA agent to wave him through the metal detector.
Of course, it beeped.
He always forgot his dog tags. They were an extension of who he was—just like his leg.
Stepping back through, he lifted his tags out from under his black T-shirt and tossed them in with his belt and wallet.
The moment they were off, he felt exposed.
Vulnerable.
A piece of himself was missing. He needed them back. He needed them back to feel whole. To feel like himself.
Calmly, with a hard swallow, he stepped back through the detector.
It beeped again. He rolled his eyes.
It would beep until the day he died.
He’d been through this scenario hundreds of times. But once in a while, he encountered a wet-behind-the-ears greenhorn who had either skipped the page on amputees in the TSA training handbook or had some overwhelming curiosity that made them break protocol and tell Barnes he needed to remove his prosthetic and put it through the security scanner.
He never indulged them.
Sure, he didn’t give two shits that his left leg was made of titanium. He’d come to terms with that part long ago. He’d rather be bionic and still alive than not alive at all. But he did give two shits, probably more than just two, about being made a spectacle or having his rights violated.
It was one thing to have people stare at his prosthetic, or even his stump when he went to the pool. That no longer bothered him. It was another thing to be told he had to remove his leg to satisfy some sick fuck’s curiosity.
He was waved over to the side, where two male TSA agents approached him.
He didn’t say a word. Just spread his legs and let them do their thing.
They wouldn’t find anything.
He was one of the good guys.
Or at least he tried to be.
The TSA agent who was sliding his hands up Barnes’s thigh was busy explaining what he was doing and why. Barnes tuned him out. The other agent had Barnes’s passport. He glanced into the bin of Barnes’s stuff, and his brows lifted. He’d obviously seen the dog tags.
Barnes waited.
Three …
Two …
One …
“Thank you for your service, sir,” the man said, suddenly standing a little straighter.
Barnes grunted and nodded.
“My father served as well. We appreciate everything you’ve done to keep our country safe.”
Nodding at the man, Barnes accepted back his passport. If only this thirtysomething guy with the wedding band and baby spit-up on his collar knew the kinds of things Barnes had done to keep him and his family safe.
It would give the average person nightmares.
Fuck, from time to time it still gave Barnes nightmares.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” the other man said, standing back up.
Barnes grunted, then continued on to gather his stuff.
He was almost home.
One more flight, Chicago to Portland, and then he could hunker down until the new year.
With his dog tags securely back in place, he finished putting on his belt and shoes, slung his rucksack over his back and headed toward his gate.
His sister had suggested that he spend Christmas with her family in Maine. His nieces and nephew were dying to see their uncle Barney, but he just didn’t have it in him to do the big family Christmas thing.
He wasn’t ready to go back to Maine.
Not yet.
The memories were still too raw. Too painful.
Right now, all he wanted to do was sit home alone in his small beachfront cottage in Seaside, Oregon. Drink beer, listen to the waves crash and not see a soul for at least two weeks.
When was the last time he’d been home?
The last time he’d slept in his own goddamn bed?
He’d been on the hunt for nearly four months now, so at least four months.
Hired by the billionaire McAllister family to track down another long-lost sibling—yes, another one, meaning they’d had a long-lost sister they found a few years ago. But now they sought one more sibling—and he’d been hitting nothing but dead ends trying to find them. He didn’t even have a first name for th is person. Or know if they were a man or woman. And if he or she or they didn’t know that their father was the late millionaire deadbeat Randall McAllister, chances are they weren’t even going by McAllister. Because so far, every McAllister he’d tracked down had been the wrong one.
He wasn’t giving up, but he sure as shit wasn’t happy that it was taking him this long to find the person.
He’d done enough jet-setting in his lifetime to write a whole slew of memoirs. Now what he wanted to do was just stay in one place, build the kitchen storage armoire he’d been working on for the last three years, and fucking relax.
Having located his gate, he was just about to sit down when his phone started to buzz in his pocket.
He knew before even looking at the caller ID who it was going to be.
One of the McAllister brothers. Tate, the oldest.
“Another lead?” he asked immediately. There was no need for time-wasting pleasantries. He was too fucking tired for them. They were almost as painful as small talk.
“Yeah,” Tate said.
“Where?” Barnes ran his hands through his more salt than pepper hair and sat down in his seat with a huff.
“Germany.”
Germany.
He’d just been in Scotland.
Why the hell hadn’t they called him and told him about the new lead BEFORE he hopped continents?
Fuck.
“Send me the details.”
He couldn’t say no. As badly as he wanted to, he couldn’t say no.
What they were paying him would set him up for a few years once he found the missing heir or heiress, introduced them to the family and collected his fee.
As it was, the McAllisters were funding his travel, hotel and meal expenses. And his per diem was very plush.
“Already done,” Tate said. “We’re really hopeful about this one.”
Barnes grunted, put his Bluetooth earbuds into his ears and brought up his email to start reading the details on the latest lead. “We also really wish you’d let us fly you on our private jet. You don’t have to fly commercial.”
“Waste of fuel flying one person around the world. The planet is on fire, in case you haven’t noticed. Your kids won’t have enough fossil fuel left to drive themselves to the grocery store if we keep consuming the way we do,” Barnes murmured. “First-class commercial is fine.” That drew a grin out of him and a chuckle from Tate on the other end.
“Fair enough. But know that if you do want to avoid the airports and layovers, you just need to say the word. Besides, I think by the time my kids are old enough, everything will be electric and self-driving.”
Barnes grunted, not in the mood to disagree. “Noted.”
Tate let out a heavy sigh. Barnes could tell that it frustrated Tate that Barnes wouldn’t use their company jet.
Well, too bad. The world was going to hell in a flaming handbasket, and a large contributor to that was greenhouse gas emissions and unnecessary consumerism.
People were gluttons nowadays. They took more than they needed. Used more than was necessary. Overbought. Overspent. Overate.
If he could help even just a little bit by flying commercial rather than burning a fuck-ton of fuel just for his ass to be flown around the world, then he would.
“We’re all heading to Whistler tomorrow for the holidays. It would be really great if you found her and convinced her to come meet us for Christmas.”
Her.
So this lead was a woman.
The last four dead-ends had been men.
Tate was still prattling on. “We’ve got adjoining chalets so tons of room. For our sibling and you, of course.”
Barnes rolled his eyes.
He was avoiding his own family at Christmas. No freaking way was he going to spend the holidays with a loud, crazy family that wasn’t even his own.
“I’ve already had my assistant cancel your flight to Portland and book you another one to Hanover from where you are in Chicago. Leaves in three hours,” Tate said. “Hotel is booked. We’ve procured you a rental car. All the details are in the email.”
They always were.
He started scanning the email.
Name: Dr. Brier Aoife Scofield
Age: 39
Born: Dublin, Ireland
Mother: Ciara Scofield nee O’Leary (deceased)
Father: Unknown (presumed to be Randall McAllister)
Stepfather: Gerald Scofield (deceased)
Occupation: Research biologist for a division of the Cancer Institute of Germany
And that was it.
No address. No phone number.
He shrugged and closed the email. He’d been given less and found his target. This wouldn’t take long at all.
“I’ll call you when I’ve made contact,” he said to Tate at the same time he spied the bar across the way. The amber bottles called to him like a siren on a pinnacle in the middle of a stormy sea.
He got up and made his way over to the bar and mouthed “whiskey” to the preppy-looking guy in suspenders who lifted a brow at him.
“We’re counting on you, Barnes,” Tate said. “If our dad had another child, not only is that child entitled to her inheritance, but she deserves to know she has family out there. Brothers and a sister. Nieces and nephews. We’re creating our own legacy, and she deserves to know she is welcome to be part of it.”
Tate had said some version of this exact thing on numerous occasions, so Barnes was really only half-listening. He grunted into the phone and thanked the bartender for his drink. Putting the crystal to his lips, he sipped the liquor and held it on his tongue for a moment before letting the rich, caramel notes slide down his throat.
“I’ll do my best,” he said after swallowing.
“I know you will,” Tate replied. “Look forward to hearing from you.”
Barnes grunted, and the call ended.
He left his earbuds in and brought up a music app on his phone.
In his youth, he liked classic rock and even a bit of punk. In his military days, he got into country music because that was what a lot of his fellow recruits were listening to. Now he preferred the classics. Vivaldi, Mozart, Beethoven, Bach.
After all his time in the trenches, taking out bad guys and protecting the innocent, the only way to drown out the memories, to drown out the sounds of gunfire and screaming that was like tinnitus in his ears, was to play classical music.
It calmed and soothed him. Helped him function like a normal human being.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he reached for the lowball glass and brought it to his lips.
The malty, grainy scent wafted up through his nostrils, and when it hit that memory node in his brain, he smiled.
The first time he’d ever tried whiskey, he’d been fourteen and his dad had taken him out on a three-day hike into the woods back home in Maine. They brought very few rations, slept under the stars and fished for their dinner. They sat around the campfire listening to the embers crackle, and his dad told him stories of when he was in the Navy.
It was those stories that prompted Barnes to enlist in the Navy when he was eighteen. He wanted to be just like his dad.
A man who took care of people. A man who made the world safer. A protector.
They’d been sitting around the fire on their first night. The crickets sang and wolves howled far off in the distance, then his dad passed him a worn metal flask.
Barnes knew that flask. He’d seen his dad with it for years.
Faint initials were engraved into the center. But after years of hands holding the flask, the letters were barely visible anymore.
Barnes knew what they were though.
They didn’t belong to his father.
His dad’s name was Michael Remington Wark, and these letters were F.D.W.
His father must have read his mind.
“Foster Dalrymple Wark.”
Barnes scrunched up his nose and glanced at his dad.
“That was my grandfather. Your great-grandfather.”
Barnes’s eyes went wide.
“My father gave me this flask when I turned eighteen and enlisted. Just like his father had given him the flask when he turned eighteen and enlisted.”
“So if I enlist, I’ll get it at eighteen, too?”
His father’s smile was small, and he didn’t look at Barnes. He just stared into the flames. “You’ll get it either way. I’m not like them. I’m not going to force you to do something. I was told from early on that it was my duty to family and country to enlist. But I’m not going to do that to you. There are other ways you can make an impact on the world, son. Other ways you can do good and protect your country. You don’t have to enlist if you don’t want to.” He glanced up at Barnes. “And I will not love you any less if you decide not to. Know that, Barnes. Know that if you choose a safer life, a safer career, that I will not love you or respect you any less.”
