Too Good To Be True

A 1Night Stand Story

Disgraced former FBI agent Tim Burkhart desperately wants to reclaim his life and find happiness. Relocating his fledgling private security company to Miami—where his ex-wife moved their two daughters—hopefully is a start. When he’s hired to provide protection for an antiques dealer on his way to Scotland to sell a priceless ancient dirk, Tim believes the break he’s been waiting for has finally arrived. Maybe now he can make enough money to hire a lawyer and get shared parenting of his little girls.

Elliot James runs the antique shop he inherited after his grandfather’s death. Lonely and swimming in debt, he longs for a way to turn his life around but keeps making one mistake after another. Then he finds the ancient dirk tucked away among junk as he’s cleaning out his grandfather’s home. Placing it up for sale, he is thrilled when an out of country buyer purchases the priceless antique. The buyer wants the dirk immediately and sends Tim to ensure Elliot safely delivers it on time.

The moment Tim and Elliot meet, however, everything falls apart. Between break-ins, shoot-outs, stalkers, totaled cars, and the cops, it seems Tim and Elliot will never get to Scotland by the deadline. Despite all the obstacles, an unexpected attraction pulls them together, offering each man a glimmer of hope. But if they don’t deliver the dirk on time, they won’t get paid and neither of them will be able to pick up the pieces of their lives.

Will they complete this job and find a happily ever after, or is all of this really too good to be true?

TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE

EXCERPT

Tim found a parking space in front of Pearl Antiques & Jewelry. A mannequin wearing a fur stole and a June Cleaver dress smiled out from the window with clearance smeared in bright-orange letters across the glass. Lamps, old luggage, candlesticks, and other odds-and-ends filled the rest of the window display. The sign on the door had been flipped to closed. Not the kind of place that looked like it sold antiques which required security details and private jets.

Then again, looks could be deceiving.

He could still hear Mother’s shock. “But, Timmy, you don’t look gay!”

And what exactly was gay supposed to look like? No one had ever said he didn’t look straight.

Too many questions were always bouncing around in his head as he figured out how to “fit in” living a normal life as a man who just happened to be gay—which was proving a lot harder than hooking up with guys at bars and on Grindr. Could people tell he was gay by looking at him? Rita had known, but what if a nice guy couldn’t tell? Should he act gayer? But how? Start flipping his wrist like Mr. Strait? That didn’t feel right. But when a guy called him “straight-acting” once, he’d actually been offended.

Shit’s just too damn complicated.

Getting his thoughts on the job, Tim walked to the antique shop then paused.

Shards of wood lay on the sidewalk and a chunk of molding was missing around the doorknob, like someone had pried open the door with a crowbar.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. He unbuttoned his suit coat and flipped the snap off his holster. Discretely withdrawing his Colt so as not to draw the attention of anyone on the street, he cocked the hammer and pulled back the slide, chambering a round, just in case. Flipping the safety up, he returned it to his holster, locked and loaded.

Senses on high alert, he gently opened the door, eyes peeled. Jangling bells announced his arrival, and a casually dressed Hispanic man about twenty years old looked up from behind the counter.

“Um, can I help you?” he asked, his accent thick and eyes wide.

Tim took a moment to take in his surroundings, his every investigative nerve on edge. No one in the store but the two of us. He noted a door, presumably to the back room, and possibly an exit, tucked in a corner behind the counter. All the junk piled around made mobility limited, but a big stone crock held a collection of walking canes. Those could serve as weapons, too. The iron Boston terrier doorstop sitting on an open armoire might be a better option, though.

“I’m looking for Mr. Elliot.” Tim switched up the names to see how the man would respond.

“Si,” he said smiling. “I am Mr. Elliot.”

Wrong answer.

Damn, he knew this job was too good to be true.

“I’m here to pick up my order.” Tim decided to play along, positioning himself with enough room to draw his gun.

A sheen of sweat appeared on the guy’s forehead even though the air conditioning easily cut through the Miami humidity. The guy glanced at a piece of paper on the desk. “This says your order should be here next week. Come back then.”

That’s a little abrupt.

Tim noticed a cross and the word Mercy across the top of the paper. Medical bills, not invoices. He took a step forward, knowing his size would intimidate. “I’d like to see some form of identification, please.”

A noise came from the back room.

The guy shot an anxious look behind him. “Uh, w-why do you need my identification?”

“Identification now.”

More rustling sounded in the back. The kid reached below the counter.

Tim did not hesitate. He drew his weapon and dropped the safety all in one fluid, well-practiced move, ready for action.

Staring down the sights of his Colt 1911 and into the panicked eyes of the young man, Tim said, “Keep your hands where I can see ’em. I want to know where Mr. James is and why you’re in his store.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim saw a flash of metal. Instinctively he dropped to the floor. The sharp crack of a bullet shot through the store, shattering something on his left.

The guy behind the counter made a run for the door.

Tim rolled behind the armoire, gritting his teeth when the door slammed shut and the first guy got away. Careful to stay out of sight, Tim assessed the shooter who’d come from the back room. He looked as young and inexperienced as the one who’d run. Tim recognized the weapon in his hand—a 9mm semi-automatic Beretta. Though Tim’s .45 could outshoot the little pea-shooter at the range, he had no interest in finding out who was the better shot in real life.

“¿Adónde vas? ¡Esperame!” the shooter yelled to his retreating friend.

Wait for me. Tim knew enough Spanish. The guy planned to make a run for it, too. He clambered to his feet. Before he could tackle and subdue him, the kid aimed his Beretta in the general direction of the armoire and fired off a volley of shots.

“Shit!” Tim dove behind a stack of rugs to dodge the bullets.

The gun went silent.

Tim rolled fast onto his back, his 1911 aimed, only to watch the kid flying out the door behind his friend. The door bounced a few times until it closed, the bells clanging.

“Shit! Shit!”

The scraping sounds in the back room, louder than before, drew his attention once more.

As fast as he could, he crept around the counter, his heart pounding. Both hands on his gun, trigger finger resting on the frame and trigger guard, he took a quick peek into the room, ducking back before a possible third perp could make him.

In less than a heartbeat, his brain registered what he’d seen. He exhaled. Keeping his gun lowered but at-the-ready, he entered.

In the center of what looked like a storage room sat the man Tim had been hired to escort to Scotland. He’d been gagged and duct-taped to a chair.

Elliot James.

“Is anyone else here?” Tim murmured.

Mr. James shook his head wildly.

With a relieved sigh, he rushed over to the man and yanked the gag out. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” He gasped for air. “I’m fine.”

“Were there only two?” he clarified, eyes still peeled for danger.

“Yeah,” he managed, his face flushed and startling green eyes wide. Sandy-brown curls fell across the brow of a very frightened but very beautiful man. He took a few slow, ragged breaths, obviously trying to calm himself. “Just the two of them.”

Tim took a steadying breath of his own and slowly released the hammer on his Colt and flipped the safety up, never taking his gaze off Mr. James. “What happened?” He holstered the weapon then tore the duct tape from the man’s wrist.

“Aarrghh!” Mr. James jumped, the chair bouncing.

Tim winced when he noticed the arm hairs stuck to the tape in his hand. “Sorry ’bout that.” He paused over the other strip. “This one’s gonna hurt, too.”

Mr. James pursed his lips and nodded bravely. He let out a tiny hiss when Tim freed his second arm. That one didn’t take as much hair because a silver bracelet had protected most of the skin. Obviously, those punks had been amateurs in restraining.

“Sorry,” Tim said again.

Rubbing his wrists, he let out a breathy laugh. “It’s okay. Thank you for saving my life.”

“I believe that’s what I was paid for. I’m Tim Burkhart, your private security detail.”

Mr. James’s smile made his heart flutter. No, probably just the adrenaline. Tim didn’t get butterflies.

“Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Burkhart.”

“Call me Tim.” He stood and withdrew his phone. He gestured toward his bound legs. “You okay to get those? I gotta call the cops.”

“No!”

Tim almost dropped his phone when Mr. James shouted. He gaped at the man. “What do you mean no?”

Prying tape off of his khaki pants, the man paused. Those big green eyes grew even wider. “You can’t call the cops. My whole life depends on it!”

TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE