Storm Surge

By Connie Chastain

Life and Love in Dixie -- Book 1

Can love conquer deceit and distrust?

All her life, Briana Farrior has been a SAP -- a Southern American Princess, small-town, small-time version. But since she was a college freshman, she has wanted to shed her frivolous self concept and do something with her life that matters.
Her first chance comes when she is hired by Guardian Consumer Protection Group, a watchdog organization in Mobile, Alabama, to help get the goods on ruthless corporations that victimize the little guy.
But her big chance comes when her boss and mentor, Sylvia Watson, helps her go undercover at Gulf States Insurance Services, an independent adjusting firm in nearby Pensacola, Florida.
The young company is headed up by its founder, Justin Adair, who Sylvia suspects of big-time insurance fraud.
Briana's mission -- become Adair's trusted administrative assistant and find the evidence.
But Sylvia didn't tell her young friend that Adair was so handsome and charming. And she didn't tell her how a crook could be a man of such high principles and virtue.
And now that Justin is falling in love with his new administrative assistant, how can Briana stop herself from loving him in return?

More to the point, why should she?

Finding themselves attracted to each other, the pair must deal with her deceit and his distrust as they struggle toward love, while a dangerous adversary from Justin's past, provoked by envy and vengeance -- and Category Five Hurricane Kathy -- imperils them both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Connie Chastain
• Release date: Oct 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463357088

Connie Chastain

Connie Chastain grew up in Georgia and Alabama. A former staff writer for Joe Scarborough's The Florida Sun, she was inspired to write fiction by Rex Stout, Harper Lee, Frances Parkinson Keyes, and Margaret Mitchell. A crazy cat lady, she lives in west Florida with her crazy cat guy husband and a collection of the sweetest cats on earth.

Book preview

Prologue

Birmingham, Alabama

Spring 2002

Moonlight shone down on the steep roofs of the gabled and turetted Victorian mansions in Dutton Heights.

He shivered from the chill in the air. An April cool snap had rolled in. Blackberry winter, he'd heard it called since he moved down here from upper Michigan.

Humph. These hicks and rednecks don't know what winter is.

A glance at his watch told him it was going on two a.m. Everyone in the neighborhood was flat in their beds, dead to the world. Even the dogs had been silent when he parked seven blocks away and trod soundlessly in soft-soled shoes to this particular house.

Fish scale shingles of cedar weathered to dark silver covered the roof and front gable above light maroon wood siding. The many windows were dressed up with dark blue shutters, and cream-colored gingerbread trim encrusted the mansion from top to bottom, which comprised two stories plus attic and basement.

Ostentatious structure. Yes, a structure, not a house and certainly not a home. A status symbol. Been in his wife's family for generations. Her father had lost it to a gambling addiction decades ago, and he, dutiful husband, had got it back for her. Took everything he had to do it -- and now she wanted to leave him? Take it all and leave him empty handed while she sneaked around and frolicked with her lusty eyed divorce lawyer?

We'll see about that.

He headed down the driveway and melded with the shadows.

The second story was the logical place to begin. From containers he had stashed earlier in carefully chosen hiding places, he sloshed kerosene on the beds and furniture and poured trails from the doorway of each room to the stairs. He repeated the task on the main floor where pricey antiques hulked in the front rooms and the latest imported appliances anchored the kitchen.

When the fuel cans were emptied and waiting for him on the back porch, he ascended the staircase -- the beautiful workmanship of unknown craftsmen and artisans who lived a hundred and thirty years ago -- and halted a few feet from the top. He flicked the starter of a long-necked barbecue lighter and gazed at the small golden flame that jumped to life.

Smiling, he leaned forward to touch the flame to the puddle of kerosene. His stomach clenched from the wild blending of distinct and intense thrills -- fear and pleasure.

But he didn't stay to watch the flames dance along the trails to the bedrooms, as much as he would have liked to. He had to repeat the performance, and quickly, on the floor below.

By two-thirty he was back in his vehicle, streaking eastward on Interstate 20 headed for Logan Martin Lake, not far from Pell City. As his destination neared, he detoured down a road to a bridge that crossed over a narrow finger of the lake.

He removed his clothes--they reeked of kerosene--tied them to the handles of the fuel cans and pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt he had waiting on the front seat. It took only moments to pound gashes into the fuel cans with a hatchet, to insure they'd fill with water quickly. That done, he stepped to the rail and dropped cans, clothes and hatchet into the water, watched long enough to assure himself they were sinking and resumed his drive.

Half an hour later, he slipped through the door of a pseudo-rustic waterfront cabin. In the living room, he crawled under a granny-square afghan on the sofa.

He lay awake a long time, trembling, listening for sounds from the bedroom where his wife slept. The cabin was silent. He hadn't awakened her.

A multi-class regatta was scheduled for tomorrow -- no, today -- sponsored by the Birmingham Yacht Club. He'd spent a lot of time conspicuously preparing the Lightning for it.

But long before the race began, word would come of the tragic fire that had destroyed the beautiful, historic home in Dutton Heights where he and his wife resided.

He thought about the payoff in the form of a big, fat check from Sunbelt Property and Casualty -- half of it his. He would not be left with nothing to show for the time, money and effort he had wasted on her.

In the darkness, he smiled and his trembling ceased.

Chapter One

Pensacola, Florida

Spring 2008

Crook. Cheat. Liar.

The words flashed through Briana Farrior's mind as she looked across the desk at the man seated behind it. She resolutely pushed them down, buried them. It would ruin everything if her thoughts showed on her face.

Your résumé's impressive, he told her. Pertinent coursework in school, solid work history.

Thank you. I've had good counselors and mentors. Her voice sounded scratchy and she cleared her throat.

The secret mission that brought her to this small office in Pensacola, Florida, a few blocks from the city's deepwater bay, gave her a mild case of nerves. But the fellow interviewing her was the real cause of her discombobulation, no doubt about it, and it related as much to his handsome face and lean, muscular form as it did to his possible history of insurance fraud.

Of all the things Briana's boss had told her about Justin Adair, founder and owner of Gulf States Insurance Services, it was unbelievable that she had forgotten to give a description of him.

Never occurred to me that criminals could be so good-looking.

When he looked down at her résumé again, his eyelids lowered and shielded his eyes with spiky lashes...dark, honey brown eyes that turned to amber when the light hit them just so. Conservatively styled brown hair fell at a slant across his forehead.

He reminded her of someone but she couldn't place who and she didn't have the luxury of mulling it over. The interview required her full attention.

Discussing her qualifications and work experience with him earlier had inflated her apprehensiveness. Some of the information on her résumé had been fudged to give her an added advantage in landing the job. But there were no outright lies, and she had made it through that part of the interview above suspicion.

Adair raised his head to make eye contact and her stomach fluttered faintly.

You know this interview is for a secretary and administrative assistant to me as the head of the company, but also for me personally.

Native Southern accent in a voice...not soft-spoken, precisely, but perhaps toned down for the climate-controlled quiet of the postmodern business environment.

If you're hired, I wouldn't think you'd have a problem making out checks for my signature, to pay company bills. But there may be times when I will hand you my checkbook and a stack of personal bills and expect the same thing.

Briana looked thoughtful a moment and shook her head. That wouldn't bother me.

Good. I'm not going to ask you to do my laundry-- his smile was charming and fleeting --but I'll occasionally ask you to pick up my dry cleaning or fill up my car. I don't foresee personal chores becoming habitual, but they will be a part of the job. You think you'd have a problem doing things like that?

Briana gave a slight lift to one shoulder. No, I don't think so. I haven't heard anything objectionable. They just sound like errands to me.

It also sounded like he was a bachelor. Or divorced. Or living alone, for whatever reason. She had already noticed that he wasn't wearing a wedding ring.

Yes, pretty routine ones. The candidate who gets the job will cross train to back up my office manager, Dottie Parker, who also does support for the in-house adjusters.

Right. She and I talked a little and she mentioned that.

Our work here is property and casualty claims. What that means, basically, is anything covered by homeowners insurance. We don't do liability claims, except what may be covered by a homeowners policy -- no auto, health or life claims, or any other kind. And don't worry if you're not familiar with the terms.

He talked for several minutes about other things the job would involve and she asked a couple of questions, hoping she sounded like a job applicant eager to learn. He seemed to take the questions at face value and gave her short but informative answers that didn't waste time on details. When he finished the overview, he glanced down at her résumé .

So you've already moved to Pensacola...from...Mobile, was it?

Yes, Mobile. Well, I have an extended stay motel suite but I'll start looking for an apartment this weekend.

So if you're hired, you could start Monday.

She gave him a pleasant smile, hoping it conveyed mild, pre-hire anticipation rather than the fluttering excitement starting up in her midsection. Yes, I could. No problem at all.

Dottie might have told you, we have two more candidates to interview tomorrow. We're coming up on our busy season and need help a-sap, so I'm going to make a decision by Thursday and we'll call the new hire Friday at the latest. All candidates who interviewed will be notified by postal or electronic mail when the position is filled.

All right.

Do you have any other questions?

No, I don't believe so. You and Ms. Parker have been very thorough. She gave him another smile, this one accompanied by a tilt of her head, a habitual, frivolous mannerism that always embarrassed her when she caught herself doing it.

He apparently didn't notice. Handing her a couple of business cards, he said, If you think of anything else, you're welcome to call Dottie or me.

I'll do that. Did their fingers touch when she took the cards, or was it her imagination? Then why was that tingle zinging up her arm like an electric shock, only pleasant?

Adair stood and Briana followed. Try as she might not to, she couldn't help but notice that the pleats of his gray trousers did not fan open even a little. It took a paunchless gut to wear pants like that and Adair had it, along with a complimentary broad chest and square shoulders encased in a tattersall-checked shirt the color of sun-bleached driftwood. He looked to be approaching thirty and stood about six inches taller than she, making him around five foot, ten. Average height. Possibly the only thing average about his physical appearance.

Thank you for coming in. He stepped around his desk and extended his hand. It was pleasantly warm, dry and strong, his grip firm. There was no further tingling, perhaps because she was ready for it this time. And perhaps because, now that the interview was over, awareness of her undercover mission was resurfacing.

I appreciate the opportunity to interview, she replied.

Hire me and I'll bring you down, you shyster.

She hitched the strap of her purse across her shoulder and left the office.

*****

For a moment, Justin gazed at the door after Briana stepped through and closed it behind her. She was the last candidate of the day.

He would have to hear Dottie's impressions and keep an open mind for the last two candidates tomorrow in case either of them knocked his socks off. But that wasn't likely.

She was very attractive. Average face prettied up by lively expressiveness, jewel-like blue eyes and a captivating smile; streaky brown hair that reached her shoulders. She was not petite, exactly, but certainly not tall and her traditional navy suit hinted at a nice figure.

She was somewhat overqualified for secretarial work, having obtained an associates degree in office management and completed much of the coursework toward a bachelor's degree in business administration. She'd said she planned to continue her studies at the University of West Florida, as time and funding allowed, with an eye on a master's degree in the future.

Ambitious girl.

Yes. She'll do.

He took a deep breath and blew it out, his cheeks puffing slightly. He was tired. Tired and overworked, in need of a short rest, some time off, maybe a weekend back home in Alabama, visiting family. He hadn't seen his mama and daddy since Christmas.

But mostly he needed more help in the office. Dottie Parker had been doing her job as office manager and filling in as his secretary for over a year, plus caring for her family, which included her elderly and infirmed mother. She was overworked and tired, too.

Hurricane season, with its potential for a skyrocketing increase in property claims, was a month away. They had to be ready.

He strolled out of his office, past the empty cubicle that would be occupied by his new assistant next week, to Dottie's desk in the open reception area.

So, what'd you think? Justin asked.

Gotta be between Smitherman and Farrior.

Dottie was in her mid-forties, fair, slightly stocky, a woman who took responsibility seriously and dealt with people firmly, but also with respect and affection, whether the setting was home, church or workplace. Her wide, attractive face, sprinkled with pale freckles, was framed with a helmet of pale hair, a perfect top-off for her traditional office garb and low-heeled shoes.

I agree. Justin cleared his throat. I'm gonna hire Farrior.

Already made up your mind, huh? Then why did you ask me?

He flashed a disarming grin. I like having you validate my decisions.

"Wise approach. She's pretty, too. And she's not mar-ried," Dottie sang, giving him a pointed look.

Justin tilted his head and looked at her from beneath his brows, trying for stern, but he didn't have a lot of experience with stern, not even theatrical stern, and a smile broke across his face. Listen, office manager. You know my employees' private lives aren't my business unless they make it my business.

"But she is pretty," Dottie insisted.

Yep. I noticed that. It's her only drawback, that I could see, though more may come to light with time.

Dottie's brows went up. Pretty is a drawback?

It can be. It might give people the impression she's shallow or flighty. Fair or not, a lot of people don't take a good-looking woman seriously. And I'm going to depend on people doing that.

She came across very positive when she talked to me. I think company contacts and policyholders will take her seriously.

I think so, too. We were reasonably comfortable with each other in the interview. I was more comfortable than she was but I'm not the one with a future job at stake.

I noticed she was a tad antsy, too, which isn't unusual in a job interview. She's well qualified but I was impressed with something in addition to that.

What? Justin sat on the edge of her desk.

She's from Andalusia, got kin all over the southern part of Alabama and a few spillovers down here in Florida. She has an elderly aunt living here and she's been driving over from Mobile once or twice a week to do errands for her, take her shopping, get her out of the house for a change of scenery...

Justin lifted a brow. That's admirable.

I thought it would impress you. Anyway, she said with gas prices what they are, the drive's getting expensive. And her aunt's starting to need her to be here more.

Yeah, I am impressed. Alabama gal, sense of family responsibility... If she only had insurance experience, she'd be perfect.

She does.

Justin shook his head. How could I have missed that?

It isn't in her work history. It's in 'Other Experience.' And it's not much, but in high school, she did part-time summer work in her uncle's insurance agency.

A smile crept across Justin's face. Better than nothing. Now, do something for me, Dottie.

She tilted her head to look up at him. What you want me to do?

Don't let me load her down with too much, too soon, and run her off. I don't want to have to go through another employee-hunt. It's depressing.

They both knew where he was coming from. The majority of the applicants for this job had been twenty-somethings. Whatever their sex, race or origins -- Pensacola was home to many people from elsewhere -- Justin and Dottie had noted some odd traits cropping up among them -- a futuristic version of literacy born of texting and internet shorthand but not yet acceptable in a staid insurance office, a sense of entitlement to the job regardless of qualifications and bizarre dress and manner.

Of the dozens of people who had applied, she and Justin had found ten to interview. And Briana Farrior was running well ahead of the rest.

*****

On Friday, in her small suite at the motel on Davis Highway, Briana pressed a key on her cell phone to end a call. For a moment, her stomach stirred subtly. Then, suddenly, a deluge of excitement whooshed down over her, as if a tub of water had upended above her, and her hands began to tremble.

It was all she could do to dial the phone. She put the instrument to her ear and paced the little room.

Fifty miles to the west a phone chirped in an office of Guardian Consumer Protection Group. Briana pictured it sitting on the desk of her friend and mentor, Sylvia Watson. By the third ring, her excitement and desire to share her news were almost unbearable.

Don't go to voice mail.

Two more rings, and she expanded her imagination to visualize the whole room, with the desk chair vacant, her slender, business-suited employer nowhere in sight.

No! Pick up the phone!

Hello.

Briana blew out a deep breath. Well, thank goodness. I was starting to think you weren't going to answer, and boy, have I got something to tell you.

Sylvia gasped softly. "And I've got something