Which had been the crux of his family’s explosion. Tobias had found himself a lady friend. A lonely widower, he’d become a cliché, falling hard for a nice rack and promises made between the sheets. She must have been damn good, because she’d blinded the king of cons into letting her into his game. Fifty-fifty split.
His little sister, Maya, had screamed betrayal, claiming her father cared more about his bimbo than his own kids, the memory of his late wife and the legacy they’d built together.
His younger brother, Gabriel, had been pissed over losing half the take.
Caleb had just seen it as a sign to get the hell out.
He ignored Hunter’s arched brow. For the first time since sitting down, Caleb looked away. His gaze rested on the mirrored wall behind Hunter. In it, he could see the tattoo on his own biceps. The sharp, snarling teeth of the lone wolf was clearly visible beneath the black sleeve of his T-shirt.
A teenager’s ode to the father he’d worshipped before the idol had fallen. An adult’s acceptance of the simple fact of life—that he could depend on no one.
“What do you want me to do?” Caleb asked, swinging his eyes back to Hunter.
“Just nose around. You can get into town, get close to the right people, without arousing suspicion. Nobody there, other than your father, knows you’re DEA, right?”
Caleb shrugged. “Most think I’m the lowlife I use as a cover. The rest probably figure I was shivved in prison years ago.”
“That’ll work.”
Caleb sighed. He could walk away. It wasn’t his gig and nobody was pulling his strings. But Hunter’s accusation was a game changer. Whatever went down, Caleb would be the one uncovering the truth. How or what he’d do with it, he had no clue.
“I’m not making any promises,” Caleb said. “Dear ole dad isn’t much for welcoming the prodigal back into the fold, you know.”
“I have faith in your powers of persuasion.”
Caleb smirked, tilting his beer bottle in thanks. “You’re buying.”
“One last question,” Hunter said as Caleb pushed back from the table.
“Yeah?”
“Do you really do Christmas shopping?” For the first time that night, emotion showed on Hunter’s face. Skepticism with a dash of amusement.
“Yeah. But now you can consider this little favor your gift, instead of the blow-up doll.” Caleb stood, shrugging into his worn denim jacket. “She was a nice one, too. Vibrated and everything.”
2
A LUNCH-LADEN TRAY held high over her head, Pandora nodded at Fifi’s frantic signal to let her know she’d make her way into the store as soon as she could.
Rehiring Fifi, a young blonde as cute as her name, was the second smartest thing Pandora had done since she’d taken over the store. The first, of course, was to serve up the promise of hot sex.
She wound her way through the throng of customers packing the solarium attached to the back of the store. It was amazing how a few tables, some chairs and minimal investment had transformed what two months ago had been storage into Pandora’s brainchild, the Moonspun Café.
All it’d taken was a list of her skills, a couple bottles of wine with Kathy and a huge hunk of Pandora’s favorite seven-layer chocolate cake to nail down the details. She’d spent years off and on working in restaurants. She was a really good pastry chef, but sandwiches and salads had been an easy enough thing to add to the menu.
Between Great-Grammy’s cookbooks, a list of foods reputed to be aphrodisiacs and the judicious start of a few rumors, and she’d launched the lunch-only venture last month.
And it was a hit. If this kept up, Pandora was thinking about starting a little mail-order business. Sexy sweets, aphrodisiac-laced treats for lovers. A great idea, if she did say so herself. And—ha!—one that didn’t require any special family talent.
She grinned and shifted the heavy tray off her shoulder.
“Here you go, the Hot-Cha-Cha Chicken on toasted sourdough for two, a side of French-kissing fries and ginseng-over-ice tea,” she recited as she set the aphrodisiac-laced lunch order on the small iron table between a couple of octogenarians giving each other googly eyes.
Pandora carefully kept her gaze above the table as she smiled into the couple’s wrinkled faces. Yesterday, she’d bent down to pick up a dropped fork and saw more than she’d bargained for. She’d never be able to look librarian Loretta and the office-supply delivery guy in the eye again after seeing Loretta fondle his dewy decimals.
“This looks lovely, dear,” said the elderly woman, who’s granddaughter had babysat Pandora back in the day. The woman giggled and shot the age-freckled man across from her a naughty look before adding, “You’ll bring us up a slice of the molten hot-chocolate cake, won’t you?”
“Wrap that cake up to go,” the gentleman said, his voice huge in his frail body. “We’ve got a little siesta loving planned.”
Pandora tried not to wince. She loved how well this little venture was taking off, but holy cow! She sure wished people wouldn’t equate her making their sexy treats with wanting to hear the resulting deets.
Proving that wishes rarely came true, Mrs. Sellers leaned closer and whispered, “Since you started serving up these yummy lunches, I haven’t had to fake it once. This stuff is better than Viagra. Now my sweet Merv, here, is a sex maniac.”
Ack, there were so many kinds of wrong in that sentence, Pandora couldn’t even wrap her mind around it. Trying to block the images the words inspired, she winced and shook her head so fast her hair got stuck in her eyelashes. “No. Oh, no, Mrs. Sellers. Don’t thank me.”
“Don’t be modest, young lady. You’ve done so much for the sex drive of Black Oak as a whole. Not just us seniors, either. I heard Lola, my daughter’s hairdresser who can’t be much older than you, telling the gals at the salon how you’ve saved her marriage with your mead-and sexy-spiced chocolate-dipped strawberries.”
What was she supposed to say to that? All she could come up with was a weak smile and a murmured thanks. She caught Fifi’s wave again and held up one finger to let the girl know she was on her way.
“My favorites are those sweet-nothings ginger cookies, Pandora. I’d ask for your recipe, but I know you put a little something special in there. You have your gramma’s magic touch, don’t you?” Mrs. Sellers joked, poking a bony elbow into Pandora’s thigh. “Your mom must have been so happy to have you come back to Black Oak. Are you running the store on your own now?”
“Mom’s thrilled,” Pandora said, the memory of Cassiopeia’s excitement at her daughter’s plans to save the store filling her with joy. “But if you’ll excuse me, I need to check in with Fifi. Don’t forget to look over the fabulous specials for the holiday season. We’re offering a Christmas discount in the store for our diners, if you wanted to do a little shopping.”
With another smile for her favorite elderly couple, Pandora gratefully excused herself and hurried over to the wide, bead-draped doorway that separated Moonspun Dreams’ retail side from the café.
“What’s wrong?” Pandora asked.
Two months ago, whenever she’d asked that question it was because the store seemed to be spiraling into failure. She’d been freaked about vendors demanding payment, customers complaining about a lack of variety in the tarot card stock or, on one horrific occasion, a mouse so big it had scared the cats.
In the past five weeks, Moonspun Dreams had done a one-eighty. Now she had vendors begging her to take two-for-one discounts,