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He considered her, his eyes searching her face. “What would it take to make you break the rules?”
“Nothing short of a life-changing experience—and I’m not looking for that kind of commitment, either.” Daniel reached for her but she stepped out of range. “I’ll catch the red-eye to Seattle first thing in the morning and check in after I get a feel for the place. Keep a bag packed on the off chance I have to call you in early.”
“I’ll pack as soon as I get home.” He tipped his head toward the lobby and spoke so low Harper had to lean in to hear him. “Don’t go out there with the idea you’ve got something to prove to these desk jockeys, Harper. That’s how people end up getting in over their heads.”
“I’m almost six feet tall without heels, so the odds of me getting in over my head are slim to none. Tell the director I’m out and I’ll be in touch after I wrap the first day.”
She started for the lobby, her stride long and sure. The anomalous snap of her stiletto heels on the thin industrial carpet was muted but still set her apart from the muffled shuffle of men’s dress shoes. She couldn’t care less. She’d been given her first solo assignment, and she was going to work—and close—this case with her notorious efficiency.
For a brief second, she felt sorry for the strippers at Beaux Hommes. She hated to see people lose their jobs. But corruption couldn’t be stopped otherwise. They could dance at other clubs.
The owners, on the other hand, the men she suspected were using the club as a front to move large amounts of cash? Harper intended to make those men pay the highest possible price for their lies and corruption.
And to her, the price to be paid for deception was never high enough.
* * *
LEVI WALSH PROPPED his elbows on the small desk and tunneled his fingers through his hair. A monstrous headache had settled on his temples. If it kept evolving at this rate, it would become a full-blown migraine before the club opened its doors later tonight. Considering he was the marquee dancer this evening, he couldn’t afford the complication. Because Levi was in deep shit.
He’d bought into the club as a 25-percent owner six weeks ago. After the three other owners discovered Levi was an investment whiz, they’d encouraged him to check out the books. They didn’t realize he’d been the kid who’d gone to the University of Washington at age sixteen and then the Foster School of Business for his postgraduate degree at age twenty. They only knew him as the shy boy who’d been thrust onto the stage during open-call night on a fraternity dare. The other dancers had bet against him surviving the experience. He’d taken their money right down to the last dime. He’d enjoyed working at the club and believed in its earnings potential. Even so, prior to the purchase, Levi had taken a couple of days and done an in-depth review of the profit-and-loss statements and both the digital and manual-entry ledgers. The club turned out to be a bigger moneymaker than he’d estimated, so he’d bought in. It had nearly wiped out his and his parents’ investment funds, but the returns should have been immediate.
But then, just days after he’d signed the contracts, he’d learned via a passing comment from the general manager about a third ledger, one the guy used to track “daily stuff” before entering firm numbers into the formal ledgers. That had made Levi very uneasy. Since then, he’d had been bugging the general manager, Kevin Metcalf, to hand over that third ledger.
It had taken almost a month to corner him, but Levi had caught Kevin in the main office this morning and demanded the ledger, no excuses. Kevin had handed it over and retreated to his private office without a word.
Now that the manual-entry book was in his hands, though, Levi was sorry he’d pressed. Something was seriously wrong. Granted, he was busted-ass tired after having been up all night entertaining Sarah—or was it Tara? Whatever. He wasn’t nearly so tired he couldn’t decipher simple double-entry bookkeeping ledgers.
Leaning forward again, he parked his head in his hands and tried to view the ledger entries from a different perspective. It didn’t help. They didn’t add up. “What a freakin’ mess.”
The club’s general manager ought to be whipped with the electrical cord from an adding machine for the mess he’d made of this thing. There should be checks and cross-checks to ensure nothing was omitted, skipped or forgotten. Not in this case. How the company managed to function blew his mind. That he depended on it for roughly half of his monthly income? His gut cramped.
The digital files he’d reviewed had led him to believe the club was raking in the cash. If he’d seen this third ledger, he would have abandoned the deal before he reached the end of the book’s first page. Levi had made a very bad and very costly mistake.
Picking up his cell, he hit speed dial for the direct number to Jeff Wheaton, the owner Levi was most familiar with. The alcohol distributor was also the owner who’d originally approached Levi about buying in.
The man answered on the second ring. “Wheaton.”
“Jeff, it’s Levi.”
“What’s up, man?”
“Have you seen the manual ledger—the third ledger—Kevin keeps for the club?” The pause on the other end stretched out so long Levi checked his phone’s screen to ensure the call hadn’t dropped. “Did I lose you, Jeff?”
The guy cleared his throat. “Apologies. I was trying to remember whether I’d ever seen his working ledger.”
Levi blew out a hard breath. “This isn’t a working ledger, Jeff. This is a mess of epic proportions. There’s no way the P&L sheets and the digital ledger can be right if Kevin’s entering figures from this thing.”
“I’m sure it’s fine, Levi.”
“And I’m sure it’s proof the books aren’t right,” he bit out.
“How can you be sure?” It sounded as though Jeff was speaking through a clenched jaw.
“I’m looking at his ledger right now. The guy has alcohol purchases categorized as income, payroll written in and then written over multiple times in ink so there’s no telling what the right numbers are, and quarterly tax payments have been deducted more than once. I’m on page one.” Levi closed his eyes and scrubbed a hand over his forehead. “It’s royally screwed up.”
“If it will give you peace of mind, I’ll make a couple of calls, get in touch with Mike and Neil, and find out what the accountants have been apprised of,” Jeff said, his words strung tight and close together. “In the meantime, why don’t you get together with Kevin and ask him about his methods?”
The headache tightened its invisible metal band, crushing Levi’s skull. “Just keep me posted.”
“Of course.”
The distinct click of the call disconnecting sounded louder than it likely was. Levi swiped a thumb across the screen to make sure his phone was off before tossing it onto the paper-littered desk. Slowly rising, he kept his hands braced on the desk and let his head hang loose as he took a few slow breaths.
There’s an easy answer to this mess. The club’s never missed payroll, never had vendor issues. No way is it as bad as it seems. Just my paranoia. I would’ve noticed if something had been wrong, really wrong, when I reviewed the books.
He hoped.
Lifting his face, Levi slid his glasses down and, rubbing the bridge of his nose, shouted as loud as he could manage without cracking his head wide-open. “Hey, Kevin!”
Nothing but silence.
He’d find the guy and drag him in here, get him to explain the convoluted system Levi hoped and prayed was being used. “Kevin!”
Still no answer.
Shoving his glasses on, he stalked out of the tiny closet–cum–side office and glanced around.
Empty.
What the hell? Where did everyone go? And when?
A sharp knock startled him. He strode to the door and opened it a few inches, bracing his foot and shoulder on the back side to prevent being rushed. “Yeah?”
“Open the door, please.”
The woman’s voice was as smooth as fine whiskey and hot as smoke-fueled sin. Levi drew in a sharp breath. Then her foot hooked around the edge of the door to expose a length of leg that could have tempted an angel to fall. And he was no angel. He wanted to trace his fingers from the arch exposed in the cutaway heels all the way to her—
“I’ll ask once more. Open the door, please.”
Levi cleared his throat. “Club opens at nine tonight. Come back then.”
She laughed, the sound rich and throaty. “Right. Open the door. Now.”
The authority that infused her voice made Levi’s brows draw down, pulling the skin over his temples and making his headache even more pronounced. “Shit.”
“That’s closer to the response I expected. You know who I am?”
“No clue. I’ve got a headache.”
“Isn’t that usually my gender’s line?” she asked drolly.
“Cute. Seriously, club’s not open.” He moved his foot just as she shoved. The door nailed him in the forehead, the impact splitting his skull. Stumbling away from the door, he bent forward at the waist and clutched his head. “Son of a bitch.”
“Now that? That’s more the greeting I’m used to.”
He slowly stood, his gaze traveling over the longest legs he’d ever seen, over the trim swell of hip and the tight nip of waist, over a pair of what had to be heaven-sanctioned breasts and up to stunning gray eyes. Ringed in sooty lashes, those eyes were cool, almost cold, and hidden behind benign, ’50s-style men’s glasses. She hadn’t played up the pixie cap of black hair that framed a face almost devoid of makeup. Her full lips curled down at the corners.
“You got your fill yet?”
“Huh?”
“C’mon. I realize the door caught you on the head, but it wasn’t nearly hard enough to warrant me breaking out the hand puppets.” She blinked slow, smiled slower. “Unless, of course, your head is as thick as it seems, based on the sound it made on impact.”
“Thick?”
“Head, door, thickheaded.”
Levi chuffed out a short breath. “You think I’m stupid?” The idea entertained him. It also made him want to prove her wrong. The longer he thought about it, the more her assertion pissed him off. “Rather juvenile assumption. You’ve spent less than three minutes in my presence.”
She waved the comment off and glanced around the office. “I need to speak to a manager.”
“I qualify.” He didn’t elaborate.
“Are you the manager?”
“I’m the only employee here, so it’s me or no one.”
“Looks like today’s just not your day, handsome.”
“Why?” he asked absently, massaging the knot forming on his forehead.
One corner of her mouth curled up. “I really have to speak to someone with authority.”
“And I told you I’m your only option at the moment.” Shrugging off the pain, he pulled his glasses off and arched one brow disdainfully. “You’ve become the bane of my existence in record time. Now, who are you, princess?”
She grinned, the expression so feral Levi fought not to take a step back. “Princess? Not terribly original, are you.” A quick flip of the wrist and she’d unclipped a bifold ID holder at her waist and held it out for him to read. He slipped his glasses on again and immediately wished he hadn’t.
“My name is Harper Banks. I’m a senior criminal investigator with the Internal Revenue Service.” She handed him a sealed envelope. “Beaux Hommes is under investigation for suspected tax evasion and fraud.”
Shit.
2 (#udb388576-4e0c-53d6-891b-57433b887674)
HALF OF HARPER’S brain was mentally peeling this guy’s clothes off because, damn, he was gorgeous. The other half demanded she forgo the mental stripper scene and simply dress him down. No way was an attractive face going to derail her field investigation before it really began.
She clipped her government ID on her hip and glanced around the office. The place was nice if you ignored the layer of dust on the fake plants and the general disorganization of what she presumed was the receptionist’s desk. Generic office furniture appeared relatively new, the visible technology more so. MacBooks and color laser printers sat idle on several desktops while somewhere deeper in the office suite, a telephone rang. But the file cabinets were out of sight, and that’s where she wanted to start.
The weight of the man’s stare was both hot and cold, curious and furious when she shifted toward him. The way he considered her, so intense and controlled, dragged an involuntary shiver up her spine.
“Uncomfortable?”
“It’s eighty-three degrees outside. I’m wearing a long-sleeved shirt because your weatherman forecasted early winter temperatures last night.”
“So, not physically cold.” He crossed his arms. “What’s the problem, then?”
Harper considered him, wondering how he could still be so inexplicably sexy in a simple pair of glasses and baggy sweats. And when he lost the glasses and donned the attitude? Things south of the belt went on alert. “I’m not the one with the problem...”
“Levi.”
“Levi what?”
“Levi Walsh.”
Her eyes snapped to his face before she could stop the reaction. Interesting. So she’d nabbed the newest owner right out of the box. Lucky her.
She considered how to play this. She could tell him straight out that she knew he was the club’s newest co-owner. But he’d likely shut down and wait for the troops before talking to her. Not productive.
The other option was to go along with his game, pretend ignorance and see how much he volunteered. He might play nice if he didn’t feel cornered. Yet not owning up to the fact that she recognized him was a lie of omission, and she didn’t know if she could accept that kind of near deceit.
He watched her, widening his stance. Not quite combative but not friendly, either. “So what’s the protocol?”
“What are you, ex-military? ‘Protocol,’” she said on a snort, mind racing to another option than the lie.
He whipped off his glasses, pale blue eyes alight with irritation. “You can be as much of a smart-ass as you’d like, Ms. Banks, but don’t lord your authority over me like I’m some two-bit chump here to take your beating.”
“Quite the speech.” She tugged at her sleeves, ensuring her wrists were covered. “Beaux Hommes is being investigated—”
“Based on what? Anonymous tip? Filing discrepancies? What was the red flag that sent you haring across the country to make my life hell?”
Drawing a deep breath, she forced the clenched muscles in her jaw to relax. “If you’ll let me finish?”
He dipped his chin once.
“Gracious of you. Thanks.” Even in her heels, this guy topped her by an easy two inches, making her have to stand up straighter and lift her chin in order to meet his gaze. “Everything is outlined in the letter I handed you, but I’ll summarize.”
“Gracious of you,” he parroted, his sarcasm as thick as cold syrup and just as distasteful.
“The IRS lives to serve.” Hands resting below her belly button, she gripped her opposite wrist. “Beaux Hommes had a variety of red flags—a radical drop in revenue, excessive expenses in relation to that annual revenue, a significant increase in employees disparate to the drop in revenue and tip reporting discrepancies on official documents.”
She paused, gauging his reaction. The guy actually appeared surprised by her list, but she’d seen too much over the past few years to buy a ticket to that particular show. Still, the expression on his face wasn’t the deer-in-the-headlights, oh-man-I’m-so-busted look most audit recipients sported. He seemed concerned but curious, and that curiosity threw her for a loop. She hated loops.
“Seems like an awful lot of suspicion for a single year’s return.”
Smart, she mused. Or it had been a lucky guess. “As I said, the letter explains everything.”
His eyes roved over her and she had the distinct impression he was using the borderline rude action to buy time to formulate his response. Too bad she didn’t feel like accommodating him.
Releasing her hands so they hung by her side, she blinked slowly. “This conversation has been great, but I have to speak to the manager on duty. Now.”
