Page 5 of The Devil’s Detail (The Greystone Family: Greystone Brothers #2)

Carter

“Do you think he’ll come, honey?”

“Carter, yes, he’ll come,” my good friend Evie Greystone-Barclay-Russell assures me. “If Jax made the appointment, he’ll keep it. Don’t worry, he’ll be able to sort you out. Have things gotten worse? Kasey mentioned a few bits and bobs.” Her voice is full of concern for me, and I adore her for it.

It’s not surprising she’s so worked up. I did ask her brother to meet me about a security issue. But I may need to play it down just a little. I don’t need her worrying over me. Not in her current condition, anyway.

“It's nothing, sugar. Just security stuff, don’t you worry. You just concentrate on having that baby.”

I’ll never forgive myself and my selfishness if anything stresses her out. Plus, I’ll never hear the end of it. Her family puts the “pro” in super protective.

I need to talk to Kasey, too. Tell him to stop gossiping about my issues. I won’t let him put me on their negative list. Once there, I’ll never get off it. And to be honest, it really is about more than friendship this time. I need Jackson. I need his skills.

I pull into the sand-covered parking lot of the cafe. It’s practically empty—only a handful of cars and one motorcycle, that I assume might be Jackson’s.

My mind wanders off to Jackson in leathers.

I’ve always fantasised about him and his brother, Jonno.

Although I must say, over the past few months, with Jackson being in LA more, our paths have crossed a few times, and it’s left me wanting more of him.

His mellow energy compared to Jonno’s frenetic one soothes my nerves.

But I have to behave myself. If I over-flirt, or go over the top in general, he’ll shut me down.

Tell me to fuck off. This is about security first and foremost, and to be honest, it’s a huge worry for me.

My security bills could eclipse the national debt of a small country.

And the kicker is, I don’t feel any safer for it.

In fact, recently, I feel worse. I don’t know who to trust, and my paranoia—which is at def con three on a good day—is firmly in charge.

I stroll into the cute little cafe to see Jackson at the back.

He looks out of place. Larger than life.

And that’s saying something this close to the worldwide phenomenon of California celebrity culture.

His being shouldn’t be contained in such close confines.

He needs to be outside, free, unencumbered by the trappings of chic society.

Shit , I need to stop. My paranoia is bringing out the crazy side of my personality. And that will not help me today with Jackson.

I focus on the Daisy Cafe. It’s one of the cutest cafes in Malibu, but also one of the kitschiest. Gawdy colours and mismatched chairs and tables give it an eclectic charm.

None of the teacups or glasses match either.

The cup I had last week had a Hawaiian dancer on it.

My plate was decorated with aeroplanes. Everyday it’s a surprise. And I love it.

The man who owns the cafe ran one of the best food trucks on a film lot I worked on.

So when he decided to give that up and open up near the beach, I helped him out.

Invested a not-insignificant sum in the place.

In exchange, I have free food and drinks for life.

But more importantly, he looks out for me.

Gives me a little safe haven near my beach home.

“Hey, Jackson, how are you honey?” I stride up and go straight to shake his hand. I’d air kiss him, but I’m not sure I could keep my lips from his skin, so I opt for restraint. Not normally my first choice.

He grins at me as he stands to greet me, his large hand swamping mine, and I’m not a small guy.

His dark brown hair has light caramel natural colours at the ends.

My mouth waters at the thought of him, how he would taste—rich, sweet, decadent.

But I keep my voice light and natural. I don’t want him to know how quickly I’d dump all the security stuff in favour of an afternoon with him.

How I’d trade all my close protection for him to keep me really, really close.

I try to hide the smirk that’s in my mind.

“You alright? You look a bit—” He pauses and then states, “Off.”

Christ. I’m going to have to keep it together. He is more astute than the average bear. Security has to be the order of the day.

“Shall we get a coffee? I’ve ordered an iced latte, what will you have, Carter?” His voice is like perfectly chilled lemonade on a hot veranda. Roses, lavender, sunny skies, and cool shade. Aaand he’s watching my face again. Shit, this is going to be harder than I thought.

“I’ll get my usual. I come here a lot. Dave, the guy who owns the place, I helped him start it up.

This is on the house, sugar.” I waft my hand around as if I’ve delivered some sort of exquisite banquet for him.

Checking around the cafe, I wave at Dave, and bring my eyes back to Jackson. Not a hardship at all.

But I can’t sit still. Instead I’m twitching, and constantly turning my head to check out the other diners.

Jackson settles his large frame back in the booth, surveying the two other diners, the outside parking area, the restroom doors, the counter. He studies everything intently, and then turns back to me.

“Where are your security staff?” The conversational tone doesn’t take the edge off his intense stare. “Why are you here alone?”

He’s tapping the table with his long fingers, and my eyes are drawn to them.

To the veins popping up on the backs of his hands.

I have to stop myself from reaching out and stroking the length of his fingers.

He’ll leave, and sue me for harassment. And if I was in any doubt that this is not a cosy chat amongst friends, he just blew that illusion to smithereens.

“In the parking lot,” I lie smoothly. I’m not an A-list actor for nothing.

He nods as if that’s satisfied him. Well, they probably will be here by now. I shot out of the house, telling them it was a personal visit I was on. But I could see them a few cars behind me. At least they haven’t barged in here yet.

“Okay, so why am I here? You’ve got security. A lot of it.” He raises a perfectly formed eyebrow at me. And I’m going to expire if he keeps doing that. “Why do you need more close protection?” He studies my face as I try to explain my predicament.

“I do have a lot of security, honey, but I don’t feel safe.

And that’s a problem. Someone is selling my stories, my whereabouts, and therefore god knows what else.

” My southern drawl gets more pronounced the more agitated I get.

And there’s no way he misses the distress in my voice, but his face doesn’t change, his calm demeanor firmly in place.

“You got proof?” His calculated tone hits me hard.

I shake my head. “I can’t say it’s this person or that, it’s just… stuff.”

I feel like a complete idiot, and a total novice. Of course I should have collected evidence. I can’t go around with accusations with no back up. But I know it is happening. I’ve been around long enough to know when something isn’t right.

“I need you to help me out. I need you to be my close protection. I need—” Desperation seeps into my voice, but he cuts me off.

“I don’t do close protection for anyone. I have staff for that. I coordinate, I oversee, but I don’t get involved hands-on anymore.”

My face drops, and he sees it. I’m surprised when he gentles the very firm tone he just hit me with.

“Carter, look, I run the company, but all my staff I would trust with my life. Some I have done.” He pauses and looks out the big front windows. “But I don’t think your existing security team is going to be happy with my outfit turning up.”

He sits back and relaxes, his brush-off delivered with calm confidence. He’s a man in control of his world and surroundings. God that confidence is a turn on. I can feel myself getting flushed. Get a grip, Maywood.

I open my mouth, but no words come out. The white T-shirt he has on pulls taught over his chest muscles as he lays his arms across the back of the booth.

My mouth is dry. What I wouldn’t give to see that divine scrap of fabric off his virile frame and on the floor.

A sliver of skin appears near the waistband of his jeans, and I have to stop myself from leaping over the table and licking it.

I look over my shoulder instead, giving myself some thinking time by perusing the little cafe again.

“Is it that bad that you can’t even have a coffee without thinking someone is following you?” He’s sitting forward again, concern on his face, and I could cry. He cares, really cares. “Carter, is it that bad?”

He's trying to get to the bottom of my issues. Well good luck with that. There’s a huge gulf opening up between us, and it’s stocked with issues.

“What would I need to do if I wanted to replace my current team?”

Both eyebrows go up now. Fuck me, the man is a god.

“We’d need to see your contracts. Your exit clauses, if any.

If you fire them without any cause or evidence, they may sue.

” He looks me over like a butcher perusing a piece of meat.

“Carter, why don’t you take some time. Try and put your finger on what the issues are.

If you can’t sort them, then find the contracts and we’ll take a look. ”

He’s being fair, rational. While I’m all over the place. He’s the calm in the storm, the safe haven in the maelstrom. And I want to curl up on the bench next to him, put my head down in his lap, and stay there for eternity. Let him stroke away the stress and bring the calm.

But I know I can’t. I nod resignedly. And then he smiles.

Two dimples, white teeth. Creases around his eyes. It lights up the dark, and I’m back to being mute. Oh honey, take me home, please!

“I’m going to nip to the loo. Order me an iced latte, and think about what, if anything, you would want from me going forward. Let’s assume your old firm is gone, think about what it is you want.” He grins again, as if he’s read my intentions since I sat down.

Holy mother of God, this man is going to be the death of me.

And make a list? Where is the pen and paper? I can write one helluva list, but security would not be anywhere near the top of it. Me, him, the end. Actually, that’s a pretty short list—I’m not a greedy man. Should be easy. But I know it won’t be. He’s not even interested in men in general.

He leaves, but his scent lingers. Woody, spice, and his own brand of musk. I close my eyes and take a deep breath in, trying to trap it in my lungs. I could happily suffocate on it.

“Hi, are you Carter Maywood?” My eyes pop open to find a man standing next to me. Paper and pen in one hand, a phone in the other. “Can I get a selfie?”

Those words. I’ll have them engraved on my tombstone.

But I serve up my practised smile, and ask him who to make the autograph out for—his sister, she loves me.

He’s just here on ‘holiday’ from London, loving Cali, the weather you know, sun.

It rains in England, all the time according to him.

I stand and take off my jacket, pose for the picture, then slide back into the booth seat.

He’s just exiting the cafe when Jackson appears back at the table.

Well, I think it’s Jackson. He looks like him. But the change in his demeanour is incredible. Who the hell is this guy?

“What’s wrong, sugar?”

I look from him to the restrooms. What went on in there? What the hell is wrong with him? My head is on a swivel now, as his whole body is motionless. It’s like watching a panther catching scent of its prey. And lord have mercy, how the hell can I become that sort of prey.

His eyes dilate rapidly, his pupils like black dinner plates. The devil has taken over, his possession complete.

But Jackson doesn’t look concerned about that. He looks fucking deliriously. Ecstatic. And I don’t even give a shit that it’s not me causing that reaction. Just watching it is fanfuckingtastic.

Because, when things are said and done, I want it to be me.