Page 8 of Sultry Nights

The last thing she needed was another man.

Her phone rang. She deftly reached back and pulled her phone from her back pocket.

"Hello, this is Hanna."

The female voice on the other end of the phone sent a chill right through her.

"Hanna Valentine, you owe me twenty-three thousand, five hundred and eighty-two dollars."

Her heart beat so fast she had a hard time catching her breath. "Excuse me?"

The voice came back. "You heard me. You owe me money."

"I don't even know who you are."

"Well, let me tell you who I am. I'm Imogen Cunningham. Your husband, Isaac Annen, has stolen money from me."

Hanna's voice was small, her throat was dry. Her heartbeat wouldn't settle. And now she was finding it difficult to breathe. Moving across the kitchen to the wall, she leaned her back against it and dropped her head back to fully support herself.

"I don't know how he stole money from you, but that has nothing to do with me."

Imogen was pissed. Her voice sounded tense and every word that came out of her mouth was clipped. "Your husband, and I use that term loosely because clearly you don't know what he's up to." She took a shaky breath. "He catfished me. He promised he was coming to marry me. He asked for money to start up his new business. He asked for money to travel to come and live with me and said the whole time that you kept taking that money, which is why he had to keep asking. Now I tell you, I want my money back."

Hanna closed her eyes for a moment. This couldn't be happening. My God, what next? This man was unbelievable. Isaac Annen was nothing but a piece of shit. How could she not have seen that all these years? And, how on earth did this woman track her down after she’d gone back to her maiden name after the divorce? She wasn’t going to ask that right now.

Her hand shook as she held the phone to her face. She took in a deep breath. It was important to sound strong when she could finally respond.

Fear was the last thing she wanted to impress upon Imogen, but good God, she was afraid.

"Look, Imogen, I'm very sorry if Isaac has duped you. Believe me, he's duped everyone in his life. I've never stolen a thing from Isaac. As a matter of fact, just last night, he stole money out of my bank account. He sweet-talked a clerk into giving him money. My money. So I'm here to tell you now, I don't owe you anything. Isaac and I are divorced. I've never gotten any money from you. He has. You'll need to sue him, not me."

Imogen was quiet for a minute on the phone. Hanna could hear her breathing, which was a miracle because her heart beat so hard it was all she could hear in her own ears.

She felt pity for this woman. Lord Isaac had put her through so much, now he was doing it to another woman. Geez, would he never cease to amaze her at what he was willing to do to others.

Imogen finally said, "I will find a way to get my money back. But I do believe you are somewhat responsible for that theft. I'm going to find a lawyer that will agree to that, one way or another. Either you or Isaac or both of you are going to give me my money back."

The call ended with a little beep. And not for the hundredth time since she'd been dealing with Isaac, Hanna so wished the old-fashioned phones were still in existence so she could slam the receiver down.

Instead, she was left with tapping her end call and closing out her phone app. She tucked her phone in her pocket just as the bell over the door signaled another customer.

She swallowed, and brushed her fingertips over her forehead to try to smooth the lines she knew had just formed there from her confusion, frustration, anger, and irritation, all the things that Isaac signaled in her.

She inhaled a deep cleansing breath, plastered on a fake smile, and stepped out to the bakery.

Yes, Quinn's eyes were on her. Hers met his. She tried to smile. She knew it looked fake. The way he sat back quickly told her she was not an actress and should certainly keep her day job.

She turned her attention on the older lady standing at the display counter.

"Good afternoon, Miriam. How can I help you?" She faked.

6

Quinn sat at a conference table in Price Realty's office.

Margot Price, a very pretty fifty-something-year-old woman who owned Price Realty, entered with a smile on her face.

"So here we go. Are you ready?" She asked.

---