Under The Millionaire's Influence

Her pretty lips went tight. “You don’t have to and in case you missed out on noticing, I didn’t ask for your help.”

She may have been standing there steely strong, but he remembered well the teen who’d cried all over his chest because of how much damage these people could do with even a token visit when they attempted to lure her into their world again.

“David?”

He snapped back to the present. “Yes?”

“Step aside, please.”

“No.” Not a damn chance.

“No? Who the hell do you think you are to tell me no?” Her amazing hair seemed to crackle and lift with the energy overflow, as if her short and willowy body couldn’t contain it all. “I realize you’re embarrassed to have them in your precious prestigious neighborhood, but this is my property and I will take care of the issue.”

He started to explain to her…then stopped. He didn’t want her softening because then he’d do something risky…like touch her.

“We can stand here and debate this all day, but you know me well and once I’ve made up my mind…” David began to say.

“You don’t budge.” She fondled a glue gun tucked halfway in her pocket. “It’s not an endearing quality, you know.”

Perhaps not, but it was one that would keep her safe.

Problem was, this woman was almost as stubborn as him. Almost.

So where did that leave him? Much more of this and he would have to do something like toss her over his shoulder and pass her off to her sister. Claire was the most logical woman he’d ever met. Surely he could garner an ally in her.

Starr stepped closer as if to brush past. His hands itched to touch her, even if only for a fireman’s hold that would no doubt inflame her. God, she was hot when her temper flared.

Her pupils dilated with an awareness that could well send them both dashing back to her place. They wouldn’t even have to get naked. They’d done it half-clothed often enough, coming together in a frenzy, too impatient to wait.

Then had come the slow, leisurely sex…

His breathing went ragged. His whole body tensed, muscles straining to be set loose and take this woman.

His cell phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. Damn.

It could only be work. He didn’t have anything else in his life. He usually lived for the thrill of his job, but right now the thrill of this woman…

Just damn.

Stepping back, he reached into his coat and pulled out his phone to check the number. It could wait until he got into his car.

He shoved his cell back into his coat. “Starr, none of this changes what needs to happen with your family.”

“And none of this changes the fact that my business, my life is not your problem.” Her stubborn jaw jutted.

Without question, he would have to carry her off the lawn and lock her in her house, not exactly legal.

And then it hit him. He had a better way to circle around the situation after all. His connections at work. Find something on her family, because his radar, honed from assignments around the world, blared that they were always up to something, something that would spell bad news for Starr.

He nodded. “Believe whatever you want for why I want them gone, but I’m not done here. I’ll be back to settle this later.” He had to add, “Be careful.”

David thumbed the remote control to his Lexus. The sooner he got to work, the sooner he could put out feelers about the Cimino family.

Just because Starr was hell-bent on her independence didn’t mean he would stand back and let anyone take advantage of her.

Starr plunked her butt down on the back step of the Beachcombers Restaurant and stared at the Cimino family RVs from the quiet retreat of the deep porch. After her confrontation with David, she needed a moment to collect herself before she could handle another face-to-face with anyone—especially the residents of those three crumbling RVs.

The front of the restaurant hummed with activity from brunch traffic transitioning into lunch. Ashley worked the gift shop while studying for her CPA exam. The back section, which they used as a bar, wouldn’t stir to life until suppertime and into the evening when the weekend’s live band cranked to life, so she soaked up the second’s silence to watch the shadows moving behind the gingham curtains covering the RV windows.

Her time to gather herself had come to an end.

The larger RV—the one towed behind a truck as opposed to the other two that were single units—rocked with walking bodies. Her stomach clenched. She’d seen her family only five times in the last seventeen years—this would make number six. And during each visit, they made their displeasure known when she hadn’t fallen into line by returning to the “traveler clan” fold.

Aunt Libby’s stolen silver flatware.

Mrs. Hamilton-Reis’s Dutch tulips smashed by RV wheels.

David’s keyed Mustang.

They knew how to hurt her most, through embarrassment. What would they do this time? Hard won control inched away.

A door swung wide. Ma filled the opening.

Gita had aged. The notion stabbed through Starr with a sympathy she didn’t want and outright feared because it made her vulnerable, seeing those streaks of gray in her hair, the wrinkles lining her mother’s face. Her ma still wore her hair long and curly like Starr, gathered in a ponytail, her jeans and shirt with fringe in constant motion, giving her a hummingbird air as she raced down the steps. “Good morning, sunshine.”

More like good afternoon, but Starr wasn’t going to start off the conversation by being contrary. “What brings all of you to the area?”

“Our baby girl of course,” her father answered, standing on the top step, stretching his arms over his head.

No denying her parentage. She’d inherited her mother’s hair, and her da’s face and slight stature, which gave her a clear view into their home on wheels. Over his shoulders she could see the standard assortment of purses. Not that her ma collected purses in the manner of most fashion-conscious PTA moms. Nah. Gita Cimino collected purses from PTA moms.

Currently visible—a black sequined bag with a cell-phone caddy dangling and an oversize brown leather bag with diapers sticking out and a couple of bottles tucked into pouches along the side. Starr’s heart squeezed as she thought about the poor young mother reporting her bag stolen while she jostled a hungry baby on her hip.

Gita and Frederick Cimino were a match made in hell.

The other two Cimino brothers and their wives had their own scams of choice. The older brother specialized in items bought in bulk on the Internet and sold door to door—magic sweepers, garbage disposals, dishes, vitamins, herbal remedies. You name it, Starr figured he’d scammed it.

The youngest brother specialized in out-of-court settlements—slipping on a sidewalk, breaking a tooth in a restaurant, the list went on. She’d been roped into those many a time as a child because an injured kid evoked major sympathy.

Was it any wonder she’d been so jaded when at ten years old she’d clutched the social worker’s hand and stood in front of Aunt Libby’s looming double doors?

“So hey there, Starr,” her mother called, making her way across the lawn. “No hug for your ma?”

“If you need one, then I’m over here.”

Her mother hesitated mid hummingbird buzz across the lawn and perched her hands on her hips. “Still carrying a grudge, I see.”

Starr stayed silent even though she wanted to speak. Nearly being killed by the woman after being stuck in the camper all day in the heat? Reasonable grudge material so far as she could tell.