Passion's Fury (The Doms of Passion Lake Book 2) (4 page)

He grinned.  “Yeah, right.  Don’t worry, I’m buyin’.”

“Really, Mr. Rafferty—”

“Simon.”

“—Simon, that’s not necessary.  You don’t have to buy me breakfast.”

“I know I don’t have to, darlin’.  But I sure as hell want to.”  His voice was low, rough, stroking across her nerve endings like a tiger’s purr.  He turned toward her, capturing her with his blue gaze.

She had to look away to keep from drowning.  “Uh…okay, sure, whatever you say,” she stammered, her mouth suddenly so dry, she had difficulty maneuvering her tongue around the shapes of the words.

He turned the key in the ignition, put the truck into gear, and pulled out onto the deserted highway.  He drove fast, but with consummate skill, as she instinctively knew he would do everything.  She studied him surreptitiously from beneath her lashes.  His hands were large, his long, lean fingers curving loosely around the steering wheel.  His arms rippled with muscles and were corded with deep veins.  He was darkly tanned, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors.

Her eyes went back to his hands, trying
not
to imagine them curving around
her,
stroking her skin with heat and passion.  She tried
not
to imagine the feel of those soft, perfectly shaped lips covering hers, his tongue seeking entry into her mouth. 
God,
she had to stop thinking like this!  How could she be so attracted to this…this…
stranger
?  She knew nothing about him!

But somehow that didn’t seem to matter.  Liquid heat gushed between her legs, making her squirm in her seat.

She had never responded so strongly to a man before—not
any
man.  Not even Brad.  In fact, now that she thought about Brad, she realized that he had done her a huge favor by cheating on her.  When her tears had ended, so had any feelings she had ever had for him.  His constant sniping and criticism of her, her messiness, her lack of culinary prowess, her weight, her lack of skills in bed had left her constantly anxious and nervous and pathetically eager to please.  And he had taken advantage of that to live in her house rent-free while his condo was being renovated.

Well, no more.  She was free from Brad Sullivan and his demeaning words and deeds.  Never again would she allow a man to have such control over her.  She was in charge of her own destiny, by God—just as soon as she figured out what the hell her destiny was.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To Mansfield’s Diner in a little town named Passion Lake.”

“Never heard of it.  Do you live there?”

“Yes.  My brothers and I own the Passion Lake Airfield.”

“You’re a pilot?”

“We all are.  We have two Gulfstreams that we use for charter flights out of Richmond and D.C., a Cessna, a sightseeing helicopter, and an old Steerman bi-plane that we use for stunt flying at air shows and for dusting a few local farmers’ crops.  I run the airport.  My brother Caleb is the sheriff, although he handles an occasional flight, and Ash is a professional photographer.  We live in a big old restored Victorian house.”

“So none of you is married?” 
Oh, my God, did I just ask that?  Seriously?

“No.  We’re waitin’ for the right one.”

Who isn’t?
  She fell silent, turning her gaze out the window to watch the passing scenery.

“You are now entering Passion Lake,” Simon said around ten minutes later, gesturing with his hand.  Straight ahead, perched on top of a hill, surrounded by centuries-old live oak trees, was the most magnificent Victorian mansion Kylie had ever seen.  Three stories tall, it was like something out of a fairy tale, with turrets, an enormous tower with a Moorish dome, a Widow’s Walk, and major gingerbread trim.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

“It’s now the Passion Lake Bed and Breakfast.  It was moved here from the old town of Porterfield, just about a mile down the road.  The town was bankrupt, so a group of us spec ops buddies bought it, along with thirteen square miles of surrounding countryside.  The owner of that house was the last holdout.  She only signed the deed of sale because all twelve of us agreed to move her house here and restore it.”

“Well, you did a fabulous job.  It’s awesome.”

He turned to the right down Main Street.  More lovingly-restored Victorian and Queen Anne style houses were on both sides, making Kylie feel as if she’d been transported back in time.  Even more lovely old buildings lined the side streets.  As they left the residential area, the street widened considerably.  It was at least five lanes wide, but only one lane in each direction was actual street.  Down the center of the main thoroughfare a walkway meandered through a wide, grassy median with Victorian style wrought iron lamp posts, beds of colorful flowers, and a charming gazebo.  The junction of every crosswalk was marked by terra cotta planters containing tall, stately juniper trees rising above even more flowers spilling over the planters’ edges.  Crepe myrtle trees in shades of bubblegum pink, fuchsia, lavender, and white marched down the middle of the entire five-block-long median.  Enormous hanging baskets filled with pink and white petunias along with some deep purple and yellow flowers Kylie didn’t recognize hung from the lamp posts.  Parking spaces angled in toward center of the median on both sides of the street.  The sidewalks in front of the store fronts were also wide, with planters and trees and mulched beds full of begonias and tall snapdragons in nearly every color of the rainbow.

“Oh, my God, this is so beautiful,” she said on a note of awe.  “Are you telling me a bunch of big, burly, hard-assed, spec ops
warriors
designed
this?”

Simon laughed.  “I know.  It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?  But we didn’t design it to fit our own tastes.  If we had, Passion Lake would probably be a trailer park full of double-wides.  We wanted to build a thrivin’ community that would appeal to a wide variety of people and a broad range of ages.  A place where people could come to unwind.  Relax. Get away from their every-day cares.  We wanted the downtown area to be really special and unique, with an authentic Victorian look and feel that would set it apart from other tourist places.  We moved several of the houses we just passed from Porterfield and the surrounding countryside, in order to maintain the overall period look we wanted.”

Kylie indicated the storefronts. “Did you guys move these buildings here, too?”

“No, they were built here, but the period architectural details make them look old and established.  They’ve actually been here less than two years.  When the architect showed us the mock-up of this street all twelve of us were instantly on board.’

She turned to look at him.  “It’s very impressive.  But how does one go about buying an entire town?  I know spec ops soldiers get paid well, but how can it possibly be enough to buy thirteen square miles of property?”

Simon chuckled.  “Our XO’s—that’s Executive Officer, to you civilians—Uncle Joe is a Wall Street genius, who made all of us a great deal of money through shrewd investments.  And Passion Lake is actually not a town, it’s a corporation, with a CEO instead of a mayor and a Board of Directors instead of a Town Council.  I told you Caleb was the sheriff?  His actual title is Head of Security, although he wears a typical sheriff’s uniform, mostly for the tourists.”

“And that actually works?”

His grin widened.  “Well, sometimes it feels like we’re gropin’ in the dark and makin’ it up as we go along.  But we have an attorney, to make sure everything is at least legal, and a CFO, to make sure we don’t go into the hole.  We’ve been talkin’ about it ever since Uncle Joe started makin’ really big money for us.  It was in the plannin’ stages for over three years, and when this property became available, we jumped at the chance.  We’ve been here nearly two years already and it’s workin’ so far.”

“Wow.”

He pulled into an angled parking space and shut off the engine.  “What are you in the mood for?” he asked.  There’s Katie’s Barbecue, right there, or Mansfield’s Diner across the street.  They both do a fabulous breakfast.”

“The diner’s fine.  I’m ready to kill for a cup of coffee.”

They crossed the median and walked across the street to Mansfield’s Diner, Kylie doing her best not to limp or wince at the pain from the cuts on the bottoms of her feet.  As soon as they opened the doors, the delicious smells made Kylie’s stomach growl loudly enough for Simon to hear.

He laughed.  “Looks like we got here just in time.  C’mon, let’s grab that empty booth right there,” he said, nodding toward the third booth ahead of them along the storefront windows. He acknowledged several of the other diners with waves or nods of his head as he and Kylie slid onto the padded vinyl seats.  He placed his Stetson on the bench beside him.  The interior of the diner was all red and yellow and shiny chrome.  The waitresses all wore short red skirts, small white aprons, white blouses with red checked cuffs and collars and jaunty little pleated white caps perched on top of their heads.

A perky little blond teenager came right over with their set-ups and menus.  “Hi, Mr. Rafferty.  Welcome to Mansfield’s Diner.  Can I get you something to drink?”

“Two coffees,” Simon said.  “And leave the pot.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Rafferty.”  She gave Simon a big smile and an almost worshipful look.  She gave Kylie the same smile, but the look was a lot less worshipful.  Then she bounced off to get their coffee.

Kylie shot him an amused glance.  “She’s got a crush on you.”

“Well, since my brothers and I are triplets, I guess technically she has a crush on all three of us.  That’s why she just calls us all Mr. Rafferty because she’s never quite sure which one of us she’s actually talkin’ to.  Unless Caleb’s in uniform, of course.  Then she calls him Sheriff.”

Kylie laughed.

“Sometimes he comes in wearin’ civilian clothes just to throw her off.”

Kylie was still laughing when the teen returned with two large mugs, which she set down in front of Simon and Kylie, and a thermal coffee pot, which she set down in the middle of the table after filling both mugs full of steaming hot brew, making Kylie’s stomach growl again.  That’s when she noticed the girl’s name on her shirt pocket. 
Brandi.  With an “I”
. 
She probably dots it with a little heart when she writes it. 
She had to press her lips between her teeth to keep from smiling.

“Brandi,” Simon said, “this is Ms. Ferrell, a special friend of mine. She will probably be in here several times over the next few days.  I want you to give her your special attention, okay?”

“Sure, Mr. Rafferty.  Hi, Ms. Ferrell.  Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Brandi.”

“Are you ready to order?” Brandi asked, whipping an order pad out of her apron pocket, her pencil poised in mid-air above it.

Simon looked at Kylie.  “Will you trust me to order for you?”

“Sure.  You know what’s good here.”

Simon smiled.  “Everything’s good here.”  To Brandi he said, “Two deluxe breakfast specials.”

She scribbled briefly.  “You want your eggs scrambled as usual?”

Simon quirked an eyebrow at Kylie.  She nodded and Brandi scampered off to place their order.  Kylie emptied two sugar packets and two creamers into her coffee, stirred and took a cautious sip of the steaming brew.  “Oh, my God, that is heaven in a cup.”  She looked at Simon and started to slide out of the booth.  “If you don’t mind, I need to use the ladies’ room.”

He set down his cup.  “Gimme a minute and I’ll go with you.”

“To the ladies room?” she asked, bemused.

He hailed Brandi, who was carrying a tray full of plates heaped with food to the next booth over.  “Brandi, tell your dad to wait until we come out of the bathroom before he starts to cook our breakfast, okay?”

“Sure, Simon.”

He laughed.  “Just figured out which one I am, huh?”

She just grinned.

“When you’re through deliverin’ that order, could you bring a chair back to the ladies room?”

“Sure.”

“Simon, what are you thinking?” Kylie asked, aghast.  “Are you crazy?  You’re not coming to the ladies room with me.”

CHAPTER TWO

“Look at me, Kylie.”  His command was quiet.

For some unfathomable reason, she did as she was told.

“You drove all the way from Philly in a rust bucket of a car that’s so old it’s pre-historic.  You slept in it last night.  You must need to pee somethin’ fierce.  And I bet you’re dyin’ to brush your teeth, too.  If it’s been as long as I think it has, they must feel like they’re covered with fur.  You have two bags from Walmart.  One has maybe three changes of clothes.  The other has some basic toiletries, the kind most people already have and don’t have to go out and buy all at the same time—toothpaste, tooth brush, shampoo, deodorant, body wash.  Aside from your laptop and purse, the contents of those two bags seem to be the only things you possess in the world. 

“I also saw a tube of antibiotic cream, and Band aids, which means that despite your protestations to the contrary, you did a hell of a lot more than just step on a piece of broken glass. I’m sure you were hopin’ I’d forget.  Do you think I didn’t notice you limpin’ on the way in here?  Or that I didn’t hear your little hisses of pain?”  He reached across the table and took both her hands in his, his touch gentle and strangely comforting.  “Yes, I am goin’ into the ladies room with you.  I’m gonna sit you on the chair Brandi’s gettin’ for you and I am gonna look at the bottoms of your feet to make sure your cuts aren’t infected.  And you’re gonna let me because, whether you want to admit it or not, you’re in trouble and you need help.  So, please, Kylie, let me help.”

She just stared at him, dumbfounded.  He sounded so sincere, so concerned, as if he really cared about her. And he’d said
please!
It was very seductive. And very dangerous.  “Simon, I—”

“I put the chair where you told me to, Simon,” Brandi reported perkily. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“Yeah.”  He stretched upward, fishing his truck keys out of his jeans pocket and handing them to her.  “In my truck, on the floor behind the passenger seat, are two Walmart bags.  Could you bring them to me please?”

“You got it.”

“Simon…”

“No arguments, Kylie.  If you leave now, you can go ahead and pee while I’m waitin’ for Brandi to come back with the bags.  Otherwise, I will be in there with you for that, too.”

Omigod, he means it!

As if she’d been shot from a cannon, Kylie slid across the booth and jumped up, wincing when she put her full weight on her feet.  Instantly, Simon was there beside her, his arm around her shoulders, head bent close enough to hers to murmur in her ear, “Here, darlin’, let me help you.”

She compressed her lips between her teeth.  “Really, Simon, I can manage.  Honestly.  Just let me walk to the restroom under my own steam, and I-I’ll let you look at my feet, okay?”

He released her.  “Then go.”  He nodded toward the plate glass window.  “Brandi’s already on her way back in here.”

Still biting her lips, she felt everyone’s eyes on her as she limped her way around tables, heading toward the restrooms at the back of the diner. She had just finished peeing in one of the two stalls and was washing her hands at the sink when Simon knocked on the door.

“I’m comin’ in,” he announced, even as he pushed the door open and walked in carrying the chair in one hand and the plastic bags in the other.  “Sit.”  He patted the seat and again, inexplicably, she did as she was told, wondering where her backbone had gone.  Wasn’t she the same woman who, not two hours ago, had vowed to take charge of her own life?

Simon hunkered down in front of her and lifted her right foot onto his thigh.  She watched as he untied her tennis shoe and removed it.  Rolling her sock down around her ankle, he eased it over her heel and off her foot.  Using great care, he pried the adhesive from her skin and removed the various Band aids she’d used to cover the worst of the cuts.  Two were still oozing sluggishly.  “God damn it, woman.  No wonder you’re limpin’.”  He repeated the process with her left foot, to reveal even more oozing cuts.  Releasing her feet, he stood up.  “Wait here.  I’ll be right back.”

True to his word, he was back mere seconds after leaving the room.  Another man entered right behind him, this one with brown hair, eyes the color of milk chocolate, and the lean, muscular build of an athlete.  He was carrying a black medical bag. 

He held out his hand for her to shake.  “Hi, Kylie, I’m Dr. Lucas McKay.  Simon here says you might have some glass shards still embedded in your feet.  Mind if I take a look?”

Kylie just shrugged, spreading her hands helplessly.  “Sure, why not?”  She looked up at Simon, trying to keep a smile from forming.  “Anybody else out there you wanna invite to this shindig?”  She glanced around the small room.  “We could fit at least six more people in here if we tried really hard.  Eight, if two of them stand on the toilets.”

Simon just smirked.  Lucas McKay chuckled as he set his bag down on the floor.  He quickly washed his hands and snapped on a pair of latex gloves before hunkering down in the place Simon had just occupied.  “Give me your feet, Kylie.”  He ran his index finger gently over the sole of each foot, pressing lightly around the cuts that were still oozing blood.  “You’re right, Simon.  There are still shards in a few of these.  I think we should get you to my clinic, Kylie.”

“No.”  Her refusal was adamant.  “No clinic.  We’ll do this right here.”

McKay just shrugged.  “You’re the patient.  Simon, could you please fetch me a chair?  My legs are about to give out.”

She glanced at his legs. 
Really?  They look as strong as tree trunks.  These are two seriously hunky dudes.

While Simon went to get another chair, Dr. Lucas McKay reached into his medical bag and stood up, holding a couple of sterile alcohol swabs, an aerosol can, and a pair of long tweezers wrapped in paper.  As soon as Simon returned, the doctor took the chair from him and placed it in front of Kylie’s.  He sat facing her, lifting her feet onto his lap.  Opening up one of the alcohol swabs, he gave her a commiserating look.  “Sorry, Kylie.  This is going to sting, I’m afraid.”

Kylie gripped the sides of her chair, closed her eyes and held her breath.  The alcohol was cold and felt like a million stinging bees.  In spite of the fact that her lips were clamped tightly between her teeth, she let out a little shriek.  She didn’t even notice Simon texting something on his phone, then taking her picture.  He came around behind her and bent over her, putting his arms around her shoulders and the side of his head against hers, whispering words of comfort in her ear. 

Lucas held up an aerosol can.  “This is a numbing agent.  I can just spray this on your feet and try to get all the shards out.  But it will hurt.  A couple of them appear to be fairly deep.  Or we can go to my clinic, I can give you a local anesthetic, and you won’t feel a thing.”

She shook her head.  “No.  Just…do what you have to.”

He aimed the can.  “It’s going to tickle and feel cold,” he warned, pressing the button and spraying the bottom of her left foot.  She twitched and giggled. 
At least that’s better than sobbing my eyes out.
  McKay picked up the long, bent-nose tweezers and unwrapped them, holding them in his right hand, securing her left foot on his lap.  “Okay, Kylie.  I’ll try to be as gentle as I can, but I might have to dig a bit.”

“Go ahead.”  Without even thinking about it, she let go of the chair and lifted her hands to grip Simon’s wrists, deriving enormous comfort from his heat and the feel of his arms around her.

“It’ll be okay, darlin’,” he murmured, “I’ve got you.”

Dr. Lucas McKay had a light, deft touch.  She barely felt the first shard being removed.

The door opened.  “Hello.”  A plump older woman with salt-and-pepper hair stood on the threshold, smiling at them.  A pair of reading glasses hung from a beaded chain around her neck.

Without lifting his head, Simon said, “Sorry, ma’am, I’m afraid you’ll have to use the toilet in the men’s room.”

“Actually, I’m here to help,” she said, stepping a little farther into the room, allowing the door to close behind her.  “I’m a nurse.  I saw this man come back here with his medical bag and I just came to offer my assistance.”

“Do you need anything, Lucas?” Simon asked.

“I could use a few clean towels and a glass or stainless steel bowl,” McKay said without looking up from Kylie’s foot.  “And can you also bring me a take-out coffee cup for all these little glass pieces?”

“Sure thing.”  The woman disappeared, but quickly returned carrying the requested items.  Without waiting to be told what to do, she set the bowl down on the floor next to the doctor’s medical bag.  Lucas lifted Kylie’s foot off his lap and the woman draped two towels over his thighs to keep the blood from staining his slacks.  She draped the other two over the edge of the sink.  “Here, honey,” she smiled at Kylie, holding out an open bottle of cold water.  Kylie had to release her death grip on Simon’s right wrist to take it.  Her nearly overwhelming reluctance to do that shocked her.  This man was a complete stranger.  And yet the warmth and comfort he offered her was something she wanted with desperate intensity.  He seemed so…familiar, somehow.  Yet, how could that be if they’d never met?  She uncurled her fingers and took the bottle, draining nearly half of it in one gulp.  The woman chuckled.  “Thought you might like that.  Hi, honey.  I’m Helen Voorhees.  My hubby and I are down from Boston to do a little fishing.  How’re you holding up, sweetie?”

Kylie smiled back.  “I’m good.  I’m Kylie Ferrell.  The man torturing me is Dr. Lucas McKay and the man holding me down to keep me from escaping is Simon Rafferty.”

“Gentlemen,” Mrs. Voorhees murmured.

“Mrs. Voorhees.” Lucas McKay ran his thumb up and down the bottom of Kylie’s foot until he was satisfied there were no remaining bits of glass.

“Helen.  I insist.”

“Helen.  I’m done with this foot.’  He wiped his bloody thumb on the towel covering his thighs.  “If you would be so good as to get the peroxide out of my bag and cleanse the wounds?”

“Certainly.”  Helen Voorhees moved the stainless steel bowl closer to Kylie’s chair and positioned Kylie’s foot above it.  While Dr. McKay sprayed the numbing agent on Kylie’s right foot, the older woman found the peroxide and a gauze sponge.  She poured a slow, steady stream over the bottom of Kylie’s foot and waited for it to stop fizzing.  Then she retrieved one of the towels she’d draped over the edge of the sink and gently patted the foot dry.  She picked up a roll of gauze from the medical bag and held it up so Dr. McKay could see it.  At his nod, she ripped off the sterile wrapper and proceeded to wrap the gauze around Kylie’s foot and ankle.

“She has clean socks in one of those Walmart bags,” Simon said, tightening his embrace around Kylie’s shoulders as she jerked and cried out.  “Christ, Lucas, what’re you doing to her?”

“This one’s in deep,” McKay replied.  “I’m having trouble grabbing it.”  He gave Kylie a moment to catch her breath before once again bending his head to his task.  “Hang on, Kylie, we’re almost there.”

Kylie let out a low sob, snapping her head back against Simon’s shoulder as a shriek was wrenched from her throat.  “Holy fuck!  That
hurts!  Omigod!

“Got it.”  Lucas dropped a shard twice as big as the others into the paper cup.  “Okay, sweetheart, I’m done.  You are officially glass-free.”

“Oh, thank God!”  Kylie sagged forward in relief, tears streaming down her face.  “Sorry to be such a baby,” she sniffled, wiping her cheeks with the backs of her hands, “but that hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.”  She winced as Helen poured peroxide over this foot, then patted it dry.  Before she wrapped it, Dr. McKay put a couple of butterfly strips across the long cut to help hold the edges together. While the nurse wrapped, Lucas McKay stood at the sink, ripped off the latex gloves, and washed his hands.

“You’re not a baby,” he assured her.  “It must have hurt like hell.  If it had been me, my screams would have been heard over by the lake.  How did you happen to be walking barefoot through broken glass?”

“I-my house just…sort of…blew up.”

Simon straightened abruptly, placing his hands on her shoulders.

“Oh, my God!”  This from Helen Voorhees as she picked up the metal bowl.  Walking it over to one of the stalls, she poured the peroxide into the toilet and flushed.

Dr. McKay frowned.  “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“Just some cuts and bruises on my left arm.  I fell asleep on the sofa in the living room.  The explosion happened in the back of the house, near my bedroom.  I must’ve stepped on the glass when I walked out my front door.  I-I was so dazed, I didn’t even realize it until a bit later.”

“Merciful heavens, child, an explosion!”  Mrs. Voorhees came back, placed the bowl in the sink, and turned on the hot water.  It’s a wonder you weren’t killed!” she exclaimed.  “God was really watching out for you.”

God. 
Kylie didn’t bother to hide her grimace. 
Right.  Would that be the God who told my father that the only way to purge me of all my sins was to beat the living crap out of me?  The same God who let me find my no-good boyfriend banging another woman in my bed?  The God who made me a target of Mafia hit-men?  The God who let my house be blown up and who ignored my constant litany of pleas to keep my car running?  That God?

“I figure the back of the sofa kept me from worse injury,” was all she said, as Helen knelt again and rummaged through the Walmart bags looking for the new socks.  She ripped off the card and the hang tag, tossing them in the trash.  Then she eased the thick white socks over Kylie’s bandaged feet.  Even though her hands were gentle, Kylie winced at every touch.