“I’m sorry if this is out of line, but your son is twenty-two years old. I can’t just move into his house and watch him against his will.”
“The hell you can’t. My son is currently on house arrest which he received after failing his court-mandated breathalyzer tests. He might be an adult according to the law, but he relies on me to live. Until this accident, he was finishing his final year at the University of Florida before moving on to law school. He had to take a year off to serve out his sentence, but he knows he belongs to me. He certainly doesn’t have the skills or ambition needed to support himself. He’ll do what I tell him. He’ll do what you tell him.”
Linc’s eyes dropped back to the picture, his dick intrigued by the notion of the green-eyed boy doing anything Linc told him. He shook the thought away. “Sir, if he’s on house arrest, what do you need me for? If he’s got an ankle monitor, aren’t the cops already keeping tabs on him?”
“He’s left the property twice despite the damn monitor. He’s got two weeks left on his house arrest and then Miami-Dade’s finest are releasing him back into society. I need you to keep him out of trouble so they don’t extend his sentence, and then I need you to keep his name out of the headlines for the next five months. It’s a damned miracle I’ve kept the house arrest a secret.”
Monty sure loved to throw the word miracle around.Linc suspected the senator didn’t fully understand the word’s definition.
“The one good thing about that Topher kid,” Monty continued, unaware of Linc’s inner monologue, “he’s determined to run a ‘clean’ campaign, so he hasn’t tried to dig up any dirt on me. He only wants to debate the ‘issues.’”
Linc didn’t trust anybody who used air quotes as much as this man did. “So, I’m not a babysitter, I’m a prison guard?”
“If you consider living in a seven-thousand-square-foot penthouse apartment overlooking Biscayne Bay a prison, then sure, you are the world’s luckiest and most well-paid prison guard.”
These people were everything Linc hated about the world. “Alright, then. I’m in.”
The senator’s face lit up and he once again stood, extending his arm. “Excellent.” Once his hand was around Linc’s he squeezed tight. “Let me be frank. I cannot stress the importance of discretion enough. Understood?”
“I signed a non-disclosure agreement when I took the job with Elite.”
“Excellent. I trust you won’t mind signing another one my attorney drew up on your way out.”
Linc frowned but nodded. “I suppose not. That’ll be fine.”
“Then there’s nothing else to say but welcome aboard. Once you collect your belongings, my driver will be happy to take you over to the house.” Linc had a hand on the doorknob when the senator spoke once more. “Don’t forget you work for me, Mr. Hudson. No matter what my son tells you.”
Linc closed the door behind him, a headache throbbing behind his left eye.
He hoped this job was worth it.
Wyatt rubbed at the strap cuffed to his right ankle. Underneath it, the skin looked raw and irritated, but he consoled himself by imagining the look on his father’s face if he could see him sunning himself by the pool, a bottle of the old man’s best Bordeaux beside him. He wasn’t even drinking it, just had it open in case dear old Dad popped by unannounced. Not that his father ever had or ever would. He put his efforts into the things he cared about, and Wyatt hadn’t been a thing Montgomery Edgeworth cared about since he was six, if ever. Pressure swelled behind Wyatt’s ribs, but he pushed it back, biting down on the inside of his cheek until the taste of metal filled his mouth.
Whatever.
He flopped back onto the plush green lounge chair, throwing one last glare at his government-issued ankle bracelet before he closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the sun and the pain of his throbbing cheek push away the sick feeling he didn’t want to acknowledge. He hadn’t seen his father in months, not since the judge had given Wyatt a stern lecture about responsibility and then sentenced him to six months of house arrest. He had no reason to think his dad would darken his doorway, even though Wyatt had chased off another watchdog.
Without opening his eyes, Wyatt picked up the bottle ofChateau Latour Pauillacand sniffed it before taking a tentative sip and wincing. It tasted like plums and dirt and reminded him of wood shavings. He took another generous swig. Maybe if he got drunk enough, he could pretend the white noise of Graciela’s vacuum cleaner was the beach and the upbeat Latin music pouring from his Bose speakers was a live band at a tiny island bar.
Today wasn’t Graciela’s cleaning day. She was only scheduled on Wednesdays, but since his incarceration at Casa de Tightass, she’d been there every day pretending to clean. In exchange, Wyatt pretended not to notice it wasn’t her day. He liked the company, even though he suspected his mother sent Graciela there in the hopes she would spill Wyatt’s secrets. He couldn’t fault Graciela for pretending to. His mother paid her spies generously. But Graciela was one of two people in the world who were loyal to Wyatt above anybody.
Despite the noise, Wyatt had no trouble hearing the obnoxious chime of the doorbell as it blared Beethoven’s Fifth. He stayed where he was, but he forced his eyes back open. “Graciela! Doorbell!”
The housekeeper flicked her gaze in his direction then deliberately turned her back to him, swinging her ample hips to the music.
“That will reflect in your Christmas bonus, lady,” he promised as he walked past her.
“Oh, and I was so looking forward to that fifteen dollars,” Graciela simpered, her accented words dripping with sarcasm.
He grinned and patted her graying bedraggled bun as he passed. He didn’t bother to put on pants, instead throwing open the door in only his black boxer briefs.
Big mistake.
“Wyatt Edgeworth?”
Wyatt was certain his mouth fell open. He gaped at the six-foot-plus slab of suited muscle standing in his doorway, but he couldn’t help it. It wasn’t often every fantasy you ever had came to life and knocked on your front door.
The man before him had a wide stubbled jaw, gorgeous honey eyes, and thick chestnut hair shot through with silver that Wyatt decided was the perfect length for tugging. He was old. Easily forty. There were crinkles forming at the corner of his eyes and deeper lines along his forehead, but that didn’t detract from long sooty lashes and a very kissable mouth. A mouth pressed into a hard line as if irritated. Shit.
