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His gaze flicked in the direction of her gesture and he immediately looked away. “Ignore them, Kara. That’s the Devil’s Patrol. Motorcycle club. One-percenter describes outlaw MC clubs. The other ninety-nine percent of bike riders are law-abiding. These guys are not. They’re criminals and dangerous.”
A shiver raced down her spine. “Aren’t most bikers skirting the edge of the law?”
Reggie bristled. “Most motorcycle enthusiasts are good guys. Stop clumping them all together.”
Kara hid her surprise. “Sorry. I did not know.”
Reggie nodded. “Let’s order.”
As the waiter brought their drinks and they ordered, Kara turned away and focused her attention on Reggie. He began talking about everything from fishing to motorcycles.
When he finally came up for air, she dove in and removed a sheaf of papers from her briefcase. “Reggie, the contract to hire my firm is all ready for you to review.”
He took the papers, frowned as he scanned them while sipping his beer. “This part about the commission you collect...”
“My commission is thirty-five percent.”
Reggie lowered his beer. Frowned. “Your website said twenty-five percent.”
Offering a serene smile, she locked her gaze to him, ready to play hardball. “Willow Wind Estate Sales charges between twenty-five and forty-five percent to liquidate an estate. I have to charge you toward the upper end of the scale because you requested expediency. That means I must scramble to hire extra help the day of the estate sale, not only to handle sales but keep an eye on your valuables so people do not walk off with them.”
He drank more beer. “I don’t know. What if you don’t sell anything?”
Kara’s confidence rose. She knew how to push the facts without shoving. “Reggie, my firm pays all the expenses of the estate sale, and the items that do not sell can be donated and you can collect the tax write-off. I assure you, you will get more than a fair price for your treasures. I have buyers I will connect with your valuables so they get a private showing. These are clients who will pay more than a fair price.”
As he squinted at her, she went for the kill, lowering her voice so no one could overhear. “My costs will be considerable, and your net will be as well. Perhaps over one million.”
Beer sloshed over the side of his mug as he set it down. “That much? Hot damn!”
Her smile widened. “It will be more than enough to fund your trip west, plus hire an attorney to set up a legacy for your grandchildren. I’m sure Miles and Macy cannot wait to see you.”
Reggie nodded. “I thought it was a bunch of old junk. Well, you’re the expert, Kara.”
Expecting him to shake hands, she was shocked to see him grope for a pen in his pocket and begin to sign. Kara stopped him. “In your best interests, you may want to have your attorney review the contract.”
“In my best interests, lawyers are a waste of time and I have no time to waste.” The pen hovered in midair. “I can trust you. And the jewelry you plan to sell at your store will be guarded at all times?”
Thinking of the jewelry, which she’d appraised at more than one hundred thousand dollars if it went to the right collector, Kara nodded. “We have excellent security.”
He signed.
Tucking the signed contract back into her briefcase, she allowed herself a moment of sheer relief. Their meals arrived—catfish for him, salad for her. She ate, enjoying the fresh greens and the homemade dressing, as Reggie talked with growing excitement about his plans for moving and ensuring his grandchildren received a generous college fund.
As he talked, her gaze drifted around the bar. The bikers were absorbed in their meals and drinks. Soon all but the Devil’s Patrol left the bar and she heard the unmistakable roar of motorcycles. Kara fought the usual nausea she experienced when she heard a motorcycle, unable to forget the belch of smoke and the growl of the engine as the motorcyclist had headed straight for her new car...
The biker had been killed.
So had her little brother.
Throat tight, she forced herself to drink more tea and peeked at the Devil’s Patrol gang. One man, who had his back to her, suddenly turned and laughed as he signaled to a nearby waitress. The salad turned to cardboard in her stomach.
Kara stared at the handsome face of her ex-fiancé. Jace Beckett. Clad in a tight black T-shirt that showed off the curves of hard biceps, and ragged jeans that hugged his amazing butt...
Swigging back a bottle of beer, he stretched out his long legs and plopped up biker boots on an empty chair. Jace laughed at something said by another at the table.
Jace. Here with a notorious motorcycle club. What on God’s green earth was he doing here? He was a straight shooter, a white-collar pencil pusher who’d worked at an investment firm six years ago when they broke up.
Not a rowdy biker who shouted for another round for his pals, but that what he was doing right now. His dark brown hair had gold streaks and was curled at the edges. Hanging to the firm jawline of his once clean-cut face was a beard. A well-trimmed beard, but a beard just the same.
