The Right Kind of Trouble (11 page)

There had been other things since then, and as he'd worked his way closer, it had only gotten worse.

He'd prepared for that, expected it, and dealt with each problem. He had a plan and nothing would stop him.

First he had just planned to confront them—let everybody know the truth. But as he had gotten closer, he'd realized they were too stupid to understand and that his own hatred had grown.

Truth wasn't enough.

He wanted them to hurt, to suffer as he had.

Then he'd begun to dig deeper, heard more and more talk of that treasure. So much talk, so elusive, thought to be legend. But was it? Legend had basis in reality as often as not, so he'd dug deeper, read all the tales.

It had taken time, more than he'd liked, but he'd had plenty of it and nobody noticed him. He'd been there in the background for so long. Nobody ever paid him any attention. Neither of them had even recognized him when they all met up again, years later.

That moron Brannon couldn't find his prick in the dark with a roadmap, plus he was always out at his winery.

He'd long since learned how to keep Moira out of his way.

Then Neve had come home, ruined everything. She was such a nervous wreck, and
she
looked at things. She paid attention. It shouldn't have been hard to send her packing—after all, she was nothing but trouble. That's what they all called her. But planting drugs in her backpack hadn't worked to cause a split between them and she'd just further ensconced herself in her family home and now he was having to watch his back that much more closely.

But he'd get it sorted.

He was too close not to. Too close to let it all fall away.

Lying on the bed, he stroked a finger down the journal.

It wasn't the original.

That one was old, priceless. To him at least. Locked up and protected from careless handling, he'd had to use caution when he made the duplicates. Even though the copy he'd painstakingly reproduced by hand was no more than a few years old, it was already worn, the leather cover smooth in places from how often he'd handled it.

His eyes drifted closed as he thought back to what he'd done.

He'd left bruises on her.

It wasn't the first time he'd brought harm on a woman, but before it had been done simply in the name of expediency, carrying out his duty, the way he saw it. This … it had been different. He could feel the soft, almost delicate arch of her neck, the trembling of her body.

Her voice had shook as she answered.

As she
lied
.

“It's there.”

He
knew
it was.

Everybody did.

The whole fucking
town
was named for it.

*   *   *

Have Ella Sue make me a hot toddy
. Moira was fuming.

She grabbed a bottle of scotch and splashed it into a glass, tossing it back. It burned the whole way down, and her eyes watered. That didn't stop her from splashing more into the glass and doing it again.

When she heard a noise behind her, she slammed the bottle down and turned around, her lips peeled back in a snarl.

Seeing Gideon standing there, she narrowed her eyes to slits and pointed to the door. “Out,” she said.

The scotch had done a bit to numb her throat, and she managed to speak with more volume than before.

Gideon tapped the badge clipped to his belt. “Got questions.”

“Go fuck yourself, Chief Marshall. Get out.”

Instead, he sauntered into the room. “Just what has you so worked up?”

She gaped at him. Clutching the crystal tumbler in her hand, she stared at him as he made a slow circle around the room. His dark head of hair was disheveled, and she found herself thinking of the times she'd run her hands through it.

Had Maris—

No. Don't go there,
she told herself. She couldn't do that and still stay sane. She knew Maris and Gideon were lovers, didn't need to torment herself with imagery of it.

Maris was bigger than Moira, taller. As short as Gideon's hair was now, it was would barely be long enough to curl—

Her blood heated and jealousy burned even as the memories ripped at her heart.

He was
leaving
.

The agony just might tear her in two.

“I want you to leave,” she said again.

“I've got questions, Moira.” He turned and pinned her with a flat look. “Deal with it.”

Her head was all full of what she
was
dealing with—the fact that he was leaving, the fact that she had really lost him, the pain in her throat, and the fear from the attack, combined with the sudden attack of dizziness. She realized she'd neglected to eat anything and that probably wasn't good since she'd bolted eighteen-year-old scotch.

Deal with it
.

“Deal with it?” she said. The words shook, which just made her madder.

Since she couldn't yell, she did the only thing she could do.

She threw the tumbler at his head.

He dodged—she knew he would—it went sailing over him to crash into the wall. It made a pretty little tinkling sound as it shattered and fell to the floor.

“What the—”

Furious and shaking, she swiped out a hand to grab for something else.
Anything
else.

Her hand closed around a small brass elephant and she let it fly.

That
didn't make a pretty little sound.

Gideon swore and lunged for her.

He caught her, pinning her arms to her sides. She tried to twist away, but it wasn't happening. “Get—” Her voice splintered. It was like the dying shards of it stabbed into her throat and she gasped, the pain awful.

“What in the blue
fuck
is going on here?”

Wheeling her head around, she tried to find Brannon, but she couldn't see around Gideon. “Bran—”

She couldn't manage to finish her brother's name.

Sagging in Gideon's arms, she silently started to cry.

Above her, she heard Gideon sigh. “Brannon, do me a favor and just shut the doors. Leave us alone, okay?”

“I come in, see you grabbing her, see her crying, and you want me to leave you alone?”

*   *   *

Gideon jerked his head around, staring down Brannon.

“Like I'd ever hurt her,” he said, voice harsh. He felt every soundless sob that shook Moira's body. He didn't know what had pushed her over the edge, but something had. Another spasm racked her body. “Brannon … please.”

The man's mouth tightened. But he turned his back and pulled the doors shut behind him.

Scooping Moira up into his arms, Gideon carried her over to the couch and sat down.

It was agony.

It was also the sweetest ecstasy he'd known in months. Holding her like this … he set his jaw and tried to keep from thinking of the last time he had held her. The last time he'd touched her. Those few brief hours had given him the faintest bit of hope and then he'd gone smashing down into the darkest, ugliest pit of despair.

He'd been doing fine—

Moira shuddered again, a violent spasm that had him hugging her tighter out of instinct. She twisted out of his arms and half-fell out of his lap.

“Moira, would you—
oomph!
”

She drove her elbow into his gut and then shifted, bringing her fist upright and clipping him on the chin. It was an awkward blow, delivered with more emotion than anything else, but he ended up biting his tongue and while she stumbled onto her feet, he swallowed down the taste of his own blood.

“
Thon of a bitth!
”

She glared at him as she dashed away tears.

The sight of them was a punch in the heart.

“Moira…” Helpless, he lifted a hand.

She held up both of hers in a clear
stay back
gesture.

Stay back. Stay away. All she'd wanted from him since the night of her twentieth birthday.

“Fine. I get it.” He swallowed down more blood, coughed, then cleared his throat. “I'll have one of the detectives take this on. You can deal with him.”

He started toward the door.

A pillow hit him in the back of the head.

Blowing out a breath through his teeth, he stared at the floor.

Another throw pillow came sailing through the air and hit him in the back. He turned around just in time to catch the third as he glared at her. “Just because they are called
throw
pillows doesn't mean you can pelt me with them, sugar.”

She looked around, a half-wild look on her face.

“If you throw one more thing at me, I'm going to arrest you for assault, you hear me?” He jabbed a finger at her.

Moira flipped him off and stomped over to the small secretary along the wall, just a few feet away. He swore and turned away. Something small hit him in the shoulder. He had no idea what the projectile was and he didn't care. “That's it, damn it.” Spinning around, he crossed the room, pulling the cuffs off his belt.

Only to stop.

She was scrawling a message on a piece of paper.

Fine, you SOB. Go ahead. When I need you …

She hadn't managed to write anything else.

“What?” he asked, his voice rough.

She stood there, head bowed over her note. Her fingers were trembling. Her shoulders rose and fell as her breathing sawed out in broken, irregular stops and starts.

His cuffs hung useless in his hand. He stared at them and turned away, lifting his head to stare at the ceiling. “What are we doing to each other?” he asked softly. “What the fuck, Moira?”

The faintest scratching sound caught his ear.

He turned, but what he really wanted to do was leave before they bruised each other even more.

She was no longer by the delicate little desk.

She stood by the window, staring outside.

But the note was there.

I need you and you're leaving me.

“You don't need me, Moira,” he said quietly. “Save for Brannon and Neve, you don't need anybody.”

He took the piece of paper and folded it, first in half, then in fours, tucking it into his pocket.

Then he turned and walked to the door.

He turned the handle, the hinges creaking slightly. He stopped, though, pain splitting through him. There had been one time, exactly one, when he'd hurt like this and it had been the day she told him she couldn't be with him.

Now, here he was trying to pull away just to save what little remained of his soul and …

Slim hands came up to grip his waist.

He closed his eyes.

“Moira…”

Slowly, he turned, telling himself that he was going to pull away. He'd walk out the door. He'd turn this case over to his best man and keep his distance until he could get the hell out of Treasure.

But she had tears on her face and when he reached up to wipe them away, she turned her cheek into his palm.

Her breath was a soft kiss against his hand and he knew it was already over for him.

He was done, already caught back in her orbit. Damn them both.

She stared at him, the lost, hopeless look in her eyes all but ripping the heart out of his chest. He wanted to pull her up against him and take every last hurt, every last misery from her life. If only she'd let him. Her lips trembled as she averted her gaze, sagging back against one of the doors.

She was exhausted. It was written in the slump of her normally proud shoulders, in the defeated droop of her head.

“Come here,” he said, keeping his voice quiet.

He didn't wait for a response, just swept her up into his arms. Using his booted foot to kick the door the rest of the way open, he carried her up the steps, taking the hall that led to the eastern wing, where her room looked over the sprawling front lawn of McKay's Ferry.

She had her head tucked against his chest, one hand clenched into a bloodless fist.

The light to her room was on, burning bright, and he sat her on the edge of the bed. “You're exhausted. You need to sleep.”

Moira didn't look at him. The bruises on her neck were exposed as she lowered her head, staring at the pale silver of the carpet, the wild, silken mess of her hair framing some of the mottled bruising. Unable to stop himself, he pushed her hair aside and stared at her neck. Fury bunched and knotted inside him as he stroked a finger down her neck. She flinched.

“I hurt you. I—”

She caught his hand when he would have pulled away.

Slowly, she lifted her head and met his gaze.

The pale green of hers seem to glow, something burning in those depths that would have made him half-insane, if she hadn't pushed him past that point long ago. She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed his palm.

The feel of her lips on his skin had the immediate effect of sending his blood pooling straight down to his groin.

Then she traced her tongue over his skin, and his cock started to pulse in demand.

“Moira. This … don't…” his voice broke. “Fuck, you can't keep doing this to me.”

“I…” A spasm of pain crossed her face, but she kept going. Her voice wasn't even a whisper, but she kept trying to force the words out.

“Don't,” he said. “It's hurting you to talk, so just stop.”

She jerked on his hand, mouthing something to him.

“Damn it, Moira…”

She lurched upright and shoved her hands into his pockets. It had him crossing his eyes, but then she stopped, sitting back down with his phone in her hands. “Moira, what the…”

She turned it around and displayed it.

The screen was pass-coded.

“Gimme my phone back.”

She rolled her eyes and started tapping.

*   *   *

It wasn't his birthday.

It wasn't his mom's.

She paused and slid him a look.

Then she tried hers.

The phone unlocked.