The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) (23 page)

              He sighed and it ruffled her hair. “I’ll always let you go, love. I won’t make you be my wife. But I want you to be.”

              He was a smart man, wasn’t he? Force would never have worked, but his earnest admission left her with melted knees and a throbbing pulse.

              “It’s my wedding night too,” she reminded, and pressed her lips to his.

              It might be her only wedding night, she reflected, because even if he let her go, who would want a biker’s cast-off old lady?

              The sudden bloom of sadness made the kiss all the sweeter. She gave herself over to it completely, leaning into the stroke of his hands, shifting onto her stomach at his gentle urging. She arched her back when he entered her from behind, and curled her fingers tight in the sheet as he rode her.

              “Ah, good girl, pretty love, you feel so good around me,” he murmured, the accent making the words darker, heavier.

              It was the most acute pleasure of her life. It was what she’d hold onto, she decided. An uncertain, terrifying road lay ahead of her, but she had this fantastic well of passion between them, and she’d drink from it, long swallows here and there, to ease the burn of losing the life she’d always wanted.

              She pushed everything practical from her mind and concentrated on the sex. Just the sex. The gorgeous sensation of her man inside her.

              Everything else could come later.

Twenty-Five

“Dude! What part of ‘feed the hose’ didn’t you get?”

              “I thought you were doing one of your stupid joke bits again.”

              “Bits? I don’t have bits!”

              “Bro, you have bits, and they suck. FYI.”

              “Children,” Walsh said with a tired-sounding sigh. “Can we not just do this?” He gestured to the front of the barn with the pressure washer’s wand.

              To be fair, he probably
was
tired, and didn’t just sound that way. Emmie was on her second cup of coffee and still battling flagging eyelids.

              Side-effect of so much awesome sex.

              Stop thinking about it.

              Aidan and Carter had shown up about fifteen minutes ago with a pressure washer, lots of detergent, and a bad case of being mentally twelve. She stood off to the side, not really caring that her hair was still wet and she was wearing Walsh’s faded denim shirt over her sleep shorts. They were married, not like it was a big scandal.

              Her eyes flicked up to the words painted above the barn door. They were just as tall and poorly punctuated as they had been the night before, but held no power to frighten her now. Her husband was taking care of it – he and his brothers. He’d called, and they’d come, simple as that.

              Like family.

              There was a warmth in her veins that had nothing to do with the coffee, and everything to do with the sight of three male friends fumbling through a simple task, giving each other shit.

              She loved it.

              Carter got the hose situation fixed and the washer started with a roar. Walsh manned the wand, and it became quickly apparent that all the mist rolling off the blast zone was going to soak him through. Not that she minded the idea of damp clothes sticking to him. Not at all.

              The machine was so loud she didn’t hear Tonya’s Mercedes SUV pull up. The brunette heiress was suddenly standing beside her, outrageously beautiful in mocha colored breeches and a black Ariat polo. She folded her arms and nodded toward the guys.

              “Enjoying the show?”

              Emmie sipped her coffee. “I’ll neither confirm nor deny that.”

              Tonya sent her a smug smirk. “Hmph. Well, not that I blame you. They do have a certain animal appeal. Purely physical, though.” Feigning boredom, she examined her manicured nails. “Aidan’s taking me to dinner tonight.”

              “Really?” Emmie tried not to look too curious. “Where are you going?” Which meant, where could he possibly afford to take you that you’d deign to eat?

              Tonya shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care.”

              Aidan leaned down to adjust something on the washer and caught sight of them standing there, straightened up and flashed Tonya a truly dazzling smile that, beneath the playboy charm, had a true boyish delight crinkling up his dark eyes.

              Emmie was surprised by the little spark of worry that ignited in the back of her mind…and in her chest. It was an emotional reaction too. “Tonya…I think he might actually like you. Not just in a hookup way, I mean.” She glanced over at her student and frowned in reaction to the self-satisfied expression on the woman’s face.

              “I know,” she said. “Isn’t it funny?”

~*~

Vince didn’t get paid enough to deal with this shit. He really didn’t. “Agent Grey,” he said firmly. “Tell me why you’re here – none of that mustache twirling you do, the facts, man – and then kindly get the hell out of my office. I have work to do.”

              The FBI agent in the chair across from his desk frowned, and it emphasized the new heaviness of his face. He’d been a little tired and worn around the edges the last time Vince saw him – a young, attractive man worn down by stress – but now, he had that bloated, doughy look of a drunk.

              “Fine,” he said tightly, “the facts. The main
fact
is that I’ve got intel on the Lean Dogs that could tear them open from the inside out.”

              Swift punch of déjà vu. “Yeah, you said the same thing the last time. Remember? When you were gonna get Ava Lécuyer’s boyfriend to find some dirt for you.”

              Grey glanced toward the wall, face creasing with disgust. “Ugh. That little bitch. Nothing but a goddamn cat in heat.”

              Talking about the Lean Dogs was one thing; picking on Maggie’s only daughter was another. He frowned. “Leave Ava–”

              “I’ve been watching them.”

              “Excuse me?”

              “I’ve been watching them,” Grey repeated, without an ounce of shame. “They’re boring as hell, mostly, but there’s two things going on.” He pitched forward in his chair. “Big things.”

              “Do your supervisors know you’re doing this?”

              Ignoring the question – which meant “no” – he clamped his hands on the edge of the desk. “Did you not hear me? The Dogs are up to something, and I’ve got a grenade to throw in the middle of them. You could end up putting them all away with this intel.”

              With a deft movement, Vince reached over with one hand and pulled up a Word doc on his computer, poised his fingers over the keys, ready to take notes. He needed to make a call to the feds, report Grey as rogue. Request they pull him out of Knoxville. But before that, he needed to know what the guy was going on about with the Dogs. So he could decide if it had merit, or needed burying.

              Things had been quiet lately. The last Dog-related trouble had been stirred up by the former mayor, his concocted war with the Carpathians that had damn near caused a revolution in this city.

              But the Dogs had put that down, and since, things had been peaceful. A little too peaceful, at moments, signifying the Dogs’ control of the underground. Damn them.

              “Go ahead.”

              “Okay, for starters” – there was a delighted glint in Grey’s eyes, something like the dilated wonder of a junkie who’d just shot up – “the club bought that big horse farm. Briar Hall.”

              Vince nodded. “Walsh did, yeah. I knew that.”

              Grey made a face. “But why? They don’t have a reason to do that. What the hell do a buncha bikers want with a place like that?”

              “What do they want with a nursery?” Vince shrugged. “They own a lot of businesses. It’s what keeps them from living hand to mouth. Kenny Teague likes money. That’s no secret.”

              “Oh, wake up the hell up, Fielding. These guys don’t give a damn about business. It’s all money laundering. They’re smuggling stacks out in the hay or something. Or” – he snapped his fingers – “they’re using the horses as drug mules. Coke balloons.” He made a motion with his hand that was clearly meant to simulate shoving said balloons up a certain part of a horse.

              Vince bit down on a grin. “Wouldn’t that make them drug horses instead of drug mules?”

              Grey sighed. “I’m telling you–”

              “I’ve grown up in this town,” Vince said, “which means I’ve grown up around the Dogs, and I’ve spent more time with them than I ever wanted to. But I know for a fact that the Dogs don’t deal their own drugs. And they pay their taxes, and there’s not a damn thing on the books that so much as smells illegal. If you try to use this farm against them, you’re gonna come up empty.”

              “Walsh. The English one? He married that girl yesterday. The one who works there.”

              “I know.”

              Grey’s brows went up, like he was asking him to give a damn.

              “Emmie’s a nice girl, but she’s really practical and hard-nosed, and she works too much. If she and Walsh get on, then good for them. Her family life’s shit, and I always thought she was lonely as hell.”

              “Jesus Christ, you sound like you’re on their side.”

              “I’m on Knoxville’s side,” Vince said, frowning. “I care about my city, and the people in it. I don’t give a shit about a demented fed’s spying games.”

              Grey puffed up.

              “You brought a spy to my city, and you were involved in starting a fucking street war that got innocent bystanders killed. I hate the goddamned sight of you. Now, either you have orders to be here, or you don’t. And since I’m guessing you don’t, I’m kicking you out of my office. Now.”

              Grey flushed purple with rage, veins standing out in his neck. “Estes is queer,” he snarled. “Did you know that?”

              Vince sat back. “
What
?” He shook his head. “Nevermind. Why would I care?”

              “We both know outlaw MCs are backward as shit. There aren’t gay members. And Kevin Estes? Very gay.” He pulled a digital camera from the pocket of his sweatshirt and handed it over.

              Vince looked at the photos only because he felt he had to, to confirm that this wasn’t another of the man’s lies. He shoved it back. “I don’t care what Tango does. It’s nobody’s business but his.”

              Grey smiled. “Yeah, except all his brothers. You drop this bomb on Teague, and it’ll start a civil war with those losers.”

              Vince sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Remember what I said about getting out? I meant it.”

~*~

“Fucking moron,” Harlan muttered to himself as he left Fielding’s office. The sergeant made him sick sometimes. Sure, there were protocols to follow and all that, but when it came to guys like the Lean Dogs, no one frowned too heavily upon a little blurring of the lines. Putting away an entire outlaw organization, one that bullied and evaded law enforcement, and that ran this city – and one that had humiliated him, personally – should have been top priority. Fielding should have been kissing his shoes right now, thanking him profusely for those photos he would have never otherwise seen.

              Dumbass.

              But he’d worked with dumbasses before, and he’d always found a way around it.

              A commotion drew his attention, a young man walking out of an interrogation room, a woman who was obviously his mother screaming at the officers around her.

              “He didn’t do anything! I will sue this place! I’ll sue the badges off all of you!” she railed, gesturing wildly with manicured hands, eyes flashing in a way that was more insane than it was compelling.

              Meanwhile her son, scowling and muttering under his breath, stormed out of the precinct.

              “My father is turning in his grave,” the woman continued to fume. “Never in my life – accusing a Richards of vandalizing his grandfather’s own farm?”

              “It’s not his grandfather’s farm anymore, ma’am,” one of the officers said in a bored voice.

              “No, you’re just gonna let that goddamn biker have it!”

              Biker? Richards? Farm? Vandalism?

              A dozen thoughts clicked together in Harlan’s head. He took off at a jog, exiting the precinct, hustling down the front steps. The young man was headed for a BMW SUV in an exaggerated, swaggering punk walk.

              “Mr. Richards!” Harlan called, catching up to him.

              The young man paused, turned, expression set in a superior sneer. “I’m not under arrest.” His voice was petulant, childish.

              Why did he always end up working with the spoiled rich brats?

              “You’re Brett Richards?” Harlan asked, and when he got a slow nod, he extended his hand. “Agent Harlan Grey, FBI.”

              Brett wouldn’t take his hand, eyes widening. “Dude…”

              “I understand your grandfather was murdered,” Grey continued, tone professional. “And that you might have been showing your emotion about that. A little spray paint?” He lifted his brows as if to say
don’t deny it
.

              Brett made a face. “Man, they can’t prove shit. I–”

              “I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” Harlan said, quickly. He lowered his voice. “If I’m being perfectly honest, I’d do just about anything to get those damn Lean Dogs off the streets. It seems like we’ve got a mutual problem in them, don’t we?”

              Brett studied him a moment, expression cautious, but finally smiled. “Yeah.” He accepted the handshake at last. “We do.”

~*~

The siding on the barn was rough-cut, and the paint had soaked in. The pressure washer faded the graffiti, but it was still there, a hint of something foul. “We’ll have to paint it,” Walsh said, frowning as he surveyed it. “Stain it. Something.”

              “Bleach?” Aidan asked.

              “Nah. That’ll burn the wood.”

              “Right.”

              Without turning his head, Walsh glanced over to where Emmie had been standing. She wasn’t there anymore; probably went in the back door of the barn so she could properly dress and get to work.