Collateral Damage (Teaser Chapters)

Chapter 2

Muse stared at the man in front of her thinking he couldn’t possibly be related to anyone from CB Construction. He was probably just some unfortunate soul who got a flat in his Beemer.

“C-Can I help you, sir?” she asked in a low, melodious voice.

Clay blinked back at her and fought the urge to check the number above the door. She sounded almost as good as she looked, and he wondered if he had stepped into the Twilight Zone. This couldn’t actually be happening. It was almost too fortuitous.

“Yes, miss. This is the Anderson residence, isn’t it?” he asked. Muse liked the man’s voice, though she hated the pretty package it came with. Of course, CBC would send their prettiest, most appealing corporate bigwig to try to schmooze with them.

Not. Happening.

“Yes, this is,” she agreed, stepping back and gesturing him into the house with an arm raised. “I’m Muse Anderson. My father told me someone from CBC would be coming by. May I take your jacket? There are no formalities in this household, sir.”

She said “sir” with a hint of disdain, and Clay picked right up on it. Of course, he couldn’t honestly blame her. He was trying to buy her father out of the only home she ever knew.

“Muse—as in Greek mythology?” he asked as he took off his jacket and handed it to her.

Muse shrugged nonchalantly and looked back at him, no trace of her earlier smile on her face. “I don’t know,” she told him. “My mother named me. I’d say you could ask her, but she’s dead.”

She ushered the man into the living room where her father was slowly getting up from his seat in the battered old La-Z-Boy that the shape of his butt would be forever imprinted on.

“Ah, Mr. Bennett,” her father greeted as he shoved his hand toward the man. “A pleasure to have you in our home.”

Muse looked between her father and the handsome man she had let into her home mere seconds ago. “I thought that Clayton Bennett would middle-aged at the very least,” she said, her mouth on autopilot.

Clay smiled at her disarmingly, and she twisted her frown into a flat line over her chin.

“That would be my father,” he explained. “Clayton Bennett Junior. I’m the third of that name and I run the company now. Mostly on my own.”

Muse nodded before leaving the room and headed into the kitchen where she checked the hors’ doevres. Seeing that they were nearly done, she went back into the living room to offer their guest a beverage through gritted teeth.

“May I get you something to drink, Mr. Bennett?”

“Ice water, please,” he told her and watched as she walked back into the kitchen.

While she had worn some very threadbare clothing that morning at the store, her pretty dress that evening was in complete contrast, though a few seasons out of date. She’d originally bought it at Goodwill for a wedding she’d had to attend several years earlier. It was maroon, low-cut, and quite tight in the bodice before it flared out over her hips and dropping to the ground in an asymmetrical hemline. Her only piece of jewelry was a thin silver chain with a medallion of some sort hanging between the tops of her breasts.

Muse listened to her father and guest talk about the mega-mall and couldn’t help but cringe. If she heard another word about the topic this year, it would be too soon. It made her gnash her teeth together, and she pursed her lips before biting them, trying to ease the ache in her tight facial muscles.

Where the hell was Drew? she thought to herself. He should have been here by now. If it had been Muse that was late, she was sure to have caught hell from her father. Drew was the golden boy, though, and could do no wrong.

She brought her father a beer and Clay his ice water before he took a sip and set it down on the coaster Muse supplied for him discreetly. By that time, the appetizers would have been done, so Muse turned right back around to go to the kitchen and take them out of the oven.

“Muse! Get Mr. Bennett here a beer, will ya?” her father asked.

“No, but thank you, sir,” the distinguished man said to his host. “I have to drive tonight and don’t want to end up with my car wrapped around a telephone pole.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Bennett?” Muse asked. Please drink—and drink lots, she thought. Maybe if you are incapacitated for a bit, I’ll be able to come up with the money to pay off the mortgage by the time you’re able to feed yourself anything more challenging than a turkey smoothie.

It was inconsiderate of her to think so, but think it she did. She would do anything to keep her father housed in her childhood home. Anything. She knew of his deep fondness for the house where he’d made his first home with their mother. And while the man harbored no love for his daughter it seemed, she had only one parent, and Muse would love him no matter what.

“Positive, Muse—and please call me Clay. Both of you.” He once again smiled disarmingly at her, and she gave him a tight smile back before leaving the room.

Placing the appetizers on a nice tray that her parents had gotten at their wedding decades ago, she was tempted to spit on all of the little spinach puffs and fought back the urge to be that petty. She was a grown woman, and this house was her father’s, if in title only. She would have to suck it up for as long as the despicable man was in the house.

Muse brought the tray of hors’ doevres into the living room and told the men to help themselves while she looked over the chicken marsala. Giving them the appetizers and a chance to talk would allow her ample time to concentrate on the dish.

She had a sudden malevolent hope that Clay was a vegetarian.

Smiling to herself, she stirred the sauce and made sure the chicken didn’t overcook while she tossed a salad and steamed some vegetables. She tried to listen in on the conversation as she cooked, but the sizzling of the chicken didn’t allow her to hear anything but a faint mumbling punctuated by bits of laughter here and there.

Schmoozing. She hated it with a passion. She had to do it to customers all day, and while she didn’t mind it at the workplace, doing it in her own home made her want to vomit all over the strange and beautiful man.

No. Not beautiful. Evil—pure evil.  

Once dinner was ready to be served, Drew finally showed up in a dress shirt and light khakis. He was more of a wifebeater and sweats type of man, so it had been hard to find a pair of actual pants that still fit him. He hadn’t bought any semi-casual clothing since he’d graduated from high school six years earlier.

Clay must have been really laying it on thick, because once all of the food had been placed in the center of the table, the man got up and pulled out a chair for Muse next to him.

She looked at him with barely-disguised scrutiny but murmured a soft “thank you” and took her seat.

Grace wasn’t something that either The Andersons or Bennetts said before a meal, so they each dished out their own servings before starting to eat.

All was silent until Bryant demanded another beer from his daughter, who put down her fork in the middle of bringing it up to her mouth. She got up from her chair without saying a word to fetch him his beverage.

Grabbing him another bottle from the fridge, she turned around to see that Clay was watching her, his eyes a piercing, pale green.

Muse’s gaze flickered away from his, and she wondered why the man was looking at her in such a probing manner. Perhaps he was thinking that her place in the home was as the resident slave. He probably thought she deserved it as well. But if she really knew what Clay was thinking, she would have been genuinely surprised.

In fact, he was not thinking that a woman’s place was in the kitchen. He had several female architects who were just as talented, if not more so, than some of the men he’d hired. Clay was simply aghast at the way her father talked to her. Like she was a second-class citizen, of lesser value than the son.

And he wondered why that was.

“So, what do you do for work, Muse?” he asked her when she had sat back down to her meal. She swallowed thickly around half-chewed chicken and looked over at him. Clay noticed her eyes were a little sad, though she smiled slightly at him, trying to disguise it. But it was not the genuine smile he had noticed at the store earlier. This one was obviously a mask she’d put on.

“I work at a diner downtown as a server,” she told him.

“Are there good tips?” he asked her, not knowing what else to ask someone whose job description included busing tables and bringing people food for a living.

“I get by,” she commented, and put another bite of chicken up to her mouth. Barely got by, she wanted to add.

“What about you, sir?” she asked him.

“Clay, please,” he urged her.

“Okay then. Clay,” she corrected. “I’m sure your job is much more interesting than taking orders from people who see you as their personal slave for 45 minutes out of their day.”

Clay cleared his throat. The girl had a bit of spunk in her. Not that Clay minded one bit. Maybe she would turn out to be feisty in his bed as well.

“I was sort of forced into my job, Muse,” he explained. She stopped chewing for a brief moment as her eyes met with his. “My grandfather built his company from the ground up and expected his son—and then I—to take over when he retired.”

That brought Muse up short. His words made the atmosphere awkward, and she felt a slight ache in her heart. Just a minute one. The man made money hand over fist, so she wasn’t about to shed any tears for him. Vast amounts of cash could not buy happiness, but it sure did make life easier and possibly lease a good facsimile of it.

“So, you hate your job?” she questioned and took a bite of her chicken.

“I didn’t say that.” He pressed a napkin to clean his lips of excess sauce. “Your cooking is delicious by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“I have learned to tolerate it well enough and any projects or duties I have no love of, well—I have enough money to pay someone else to do them for me.”

Typical. The rich thought people could be bought and sold like the objects they were to them.

“Must be nice to have disposable income such as that,” she stated, clearing her throat. Everyone seemed to be done for the most part, and she had lost her own appetite for the food she had slaved so hard over.

Standing up, she took her guest’s plate first, then her father’s. This allowed Drew, who had been quiet throughout dinner, to grab his own and hers and follow her into the kitchen.

They didn’t have a dishwasher, as they couldn’t afford it, and it was so sloppy to have dishes piled in the sink when there was company. Muse figured she would wash them after she served their after-dinner coffee.

Watching Muse walk into the kitchen obediently and placing the plates and cutlery in the sink for now, Clay stood from his chair and asked to speak with Bryant again, preferably in the living room so they could discuss the business he had come here for initially.

Clay’s plans had changed slightly after meeting the Andersons, and he was glad he had left all of his documents in the car instead of bringing them in like some realtor or bank representative. His deal had taken a left turn when he witnessed the atmosphere in the house. This was not a happy home for the female who’d caught his eye, and he knew how he could remedy that. Both parties could be relatively happy with the end result.

Muse brought out mugs and filled all four with decaf coffee after placing sugar and creamer on a tray. It was placed down onto the coffee table in front of their guest.

When she went to walk away, Clay stopped her.

“Muse, if you could sit with us for a few minutes, I think it would be best,” he requested. Her brows raised, but she slowly made her way to a chair before sitting down. “This concerns you as well.”

Muse swallowed and wondered what the man meant. The house was in her father’s name, and it was ultimately his decision on what he wanted to do with whatever offer this man placed on the table. She had little input in what went on since she wasn’t financially responsible in any legally binding way.

Swallowing down her unease, she folded her legs underneath her and placed her hands on her knees to wait.

Clay watched as her slim calves flexed with her movements and averted his eyes to look at Mr. Anderson. Clearing his throat, he spoke slowly.

“Mr. Anderson, I realize that this home must mean a lot to you for you to resist our very generous offers,” Clay began. “It sends the message that this house isn’t just an investment on your part as so many homes are these days. It tells me that it means more to you than the money you put into it. I wish I could say that I understand your reasoning behind it, but to be honest, I cannot.”

Clay sat up straighter, and his cool gaze once again flickered over to Muse as she sat perched on the edge of her seat.

“I am prepared to offer you a…a different kind of deal,” he told the older man. “No physical money exchanged, you get to keep your home, and your mortgage would be paid in full within twenty-four hours of signing the papers.”

“What about your mega-mall?” Muse blurted out. This sounded too good to be true, and she never trusted things that seemed too perfect. Plus, she didn’t trust the man the least bit. There had to be some sort of catch.

“The part of the mega-mall that would sit on your property would be at the edge of a six-story parking lot. It wouldn’t make much of a difference if I added another story or two instead of expanding the mall onto the meager acreage of your property. I can have my architects redo the blueprints with the new prospective footage, in any case.”

Bryant’s eyes narrowed on the man before speaking. “What’s the catch?” the man asked. At that, Clay smiled.

“I wouldn’t call it a catch—more like...fair trade.”

“And what would I be trading? We have nothing besides this house and an old clunker of a car on its last legs sitting in our garage,” Bryant warned him.

“I would trade you full possession of your house for—” Clay smiled and cleared his throat. “—for your daughter.”