by Sarah Andre
“Like what?”
He shrugged and felt heat rise in his face. “It was the end of the ski season, and I traveled a lot. Tried to stay focused.”
“You must remember something she said.”
He scratched his beard and searched another void in his brain. “Her grandmother dictated her life too much…I don’t know.”
“Given the behavior I just described, I’d say the grandmother had no influence.”
“I disagree,” Leo said. “Recreational drugs turning to addiction? Rebelling against an authority figure? All that definitely explains erratic behavior.”
Lock’s thoughts turned inward. He’d barely noticed Tiff’s excuses to avoid his friends and team parties, and when he finally did notice, he didn’t care. He was secretly relieved when she chose not to accompany him on the World Cup circuit. As guilty as it left him, his performance was better last year without her and all that emotional bullshit.
“We got along great when I was away. I missed her, and we had great phone calls. If I read crazy stories about her, she always told me her side, which I believed because the media makes up shit about me all the time too.”
He was pleased to see Jordan’s pen pause. The fact that she was a reporter was the razor’s edge holding him from acting on his attraction. He reminded himself he hated everyone in the media. Hated knowing they used him to sell copy and make money. Really hated the fake gushing they thought might elicit more gossip from him. And most of all, he hated the lies they eventually published.
He glanced down at her, the shark who’d written an article perpetuating the lie about him doping. Don’t ever forget that. Yet here she was, doggedly helping him. How could he be so annoyed and so thankful and so attracted all at the same time?
“When did you realize her coke habit was out of control?”
He let the question hang while he refocused. “Once the season was over, I came home to a completely different girlfriend. I noticed small things—the constant runny nose, crazy high-strung reactions. Sometimes she didn’t answer her cell for hours. Then that last week, before she went to Milan, she asked to borrow a bunch of money.”
“She was an heiress to a diamond fortune.”
He flipped on the blinker. “She had a trust and got a monthly stipend until age thirty. Usually if she ran low, her grandmother covered her expenses without blinking. I think that last month something changed.”
“Did Tiffany ever ask you for money before?”
“No. So I figured it was for her trip and gave it to her. After she left, I found out Marcy paid for that, so I guess mine went to her dealer. When Tiff got back and needed more, we had it out. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t have the money or I’m cheap or anything. I was furious she’d allowed herself to sink into this addiction so badly she went broke.” He shook his head, seeing the exit ahead, but concentrating on the ugly standoff. “And she was vicious, because she needed some blow and her dealer was about to cut her off. She said she didn’t care how she got the money. Just stood there and threatened me with that ultimatum. Shit, when she was like that, I didn’t even know her.”
“So you just gave her the money.”
Again with the snippy reporter tone.
“Yes,” he lashed out. “I just told you she threatened to whore herself out. Who are you to judge me? Do you have any idea what it’s like to love an addict?”
“Lock,” Leo murmured.
“No,” she said, without looking up, “not an addict. I do know what it’s like to love a person so much you’d do anything for them.”
Well, howdy-do, she just gave an inch. Had hell frozen over? “Care to elaborate?”
He tensed, waiting to hear why she shot her father. Felt that odd connection again, only now it was that they both had it in them to harm others. He had to know more about her past.
She bit her lip, and the glistening pearl of her teeth against that pink plumpness tightened his groin something fierce. Reminding himself she was a reporter didn’t help.
“Come on, Jordan,” he said, a little sharper this time since he couldn’t stop fixating on her erotic little lip biting. “Tell us about yourself. Simple shit. Where do your parents live?”
Chapter Sixteen
Jordan stilled between the brothers, frigid with fear. Talking about herself or her family was never on the agenda, ever. It’s why she’d had so few boyfriends. Who wanted to be with someone who wouldn’t give up any information? Wouldn’t give up control over the slightest issue or situation or decision?
“We should get back to your case,” she said. “We’re down to three and a half days.”
“It’s a simple question.”
And it was. To not answer would raise his suspicion, which might lead him to Google-search. “My parents live in the Midwest.”
Leo’s head swung her way. Yes, Leo, I’m lying again. This is how I stay safe.
“Where in the Midwest?” Lock pressed, and she began to perspire.
It’s none of your damn business! No. That would also trigger suspicion or, God forbid, more questions. “Kansas City.” There were two of those, so at least the next question would be obvious. She scanned the charming, shop-lined downtown. Where would they stop for those errands?
“What does your dad do?”
She glared at Lock, but he watched the road ahead, his profile bland and clueless.
“He’s a mechanic.” And a reckless gambler and a raging drunk, and he regularly beat the two people he claimed to love.
“Was he—”
“The library’s up here on the right.” Leo leaned forward pointing, and Jordan wanted to hug him. Lock pulled as far to the curb as the snowplowed mounds allowed and shifted into park.
“Back in a minute.” Leo opened his door.
Frigid air swirled in and snatched her oxygen. Or maybe it was the sudden realization she was about to be left alone in the car with Lock and all his questions.
“I’ll go with you,” she said hastily.
“That’s okay. I’m just picking up a research book. It’s not worth you trying to negotiate the stairs.”
The door shut on her reply, and there she sat, next to the golden-haired, honey-voiced nightmare. In the seconds of silence that followed, she realized in dawning horror that her shoulder and thigh still squashed intimately against his. With forced casualness, she eased over an inch, causing the ancient leather seat to crackle.
Instantly a heavy arm dropped across her shoulders, gluing her in place.
“Where are you going?” he murmured, sliding the extra inch too.
His intimate tone thrummed something deep within, but she was too busy trying to regulate her heartbeat and steady her breathing. The heaviness of his arm and the heat of his right side fusing with her left messed with all rational thought.
“So how does it feel?” Lock asked.
Being smashed against you? Super-fan-tabulous. “Unnecessarily claustrophobic.”
He chuckled, like he knew she was lying. “No, I mean all those questions. Having people invade your privacy when you’ve given clear signals the topic’s over.”
She blinked up at him. “It’s not even remotely the same.”
“How so?”
“You’re famous. It comes with the deal.”
“Privacy is privacy, Jordan.”
Those warm, gray eyes held her spellbound. The way they crinkled at the corners shredded her self-control. Please hurry back Leo, before I do something stupid.
“This article you’re writing,” he said, without waiting for a response. “Which magazine is it for?”
Instinctively she tensed under his arm, her desire cooling. “Article?”
“Let’s cut to the chase, sweetheart. You flipped your car in your hell-bent hurry to get to me. I ain’t swallowing your explanation that it was just to help me with my defense.”
And there it was. The jackass comment she needed to raise her journalistic shield. Thank God. She tilted her chin, her
voice scathingly polite. “I must have misunderstood. Are you asking if I crashed on purpose to meet you?”
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, slick.”
The right side of his mouth quirked up, and suddenly the flinty eyes of Lock and Load stared down at her. Her stomach did a little flip. Great, now she was in the tight embrace of his jerky side, who was capable of any outrageous behavior. Her mouth dried up.
He slid his fingers through her hair, super slow, eyes darkening as they followed the falling strands “Stick to answering the question, reporter lady,” he said softly. “Who’s buying the article?”
She shrugged, hoping her expression said, “Dude, you’re crazy.”
“There’s Sports Illustrated,” he murmured. “You’ve sold to them before. Vanity Fair probably wouldn’t turn you away, and neither would all those women’s magazines that talk about orgasms and nail polish.”
He glanced out the side window. His fingers now stroked the curve of her shoulder, which, jacket or no jacket, she felt in every throbbing cell of her being.
“And Leo told me some tabloid is offering a huge reward for an article.” He turned back, scanning her face. “But that seems beneath you.”
Although his tone remained light, his eyes were now chips of granite. Her pulse skittered like a rabbit, and it took all her willpower to maintain the scornful expression.
“My point is, Jordan, the shittier my life gets, the more your article will catapult you to fame.” His grin held no humor. “You’re using me. I get it. I’d do the same if I were you. But in all fairness, I have a right to know who’s buying your words.”
She exhaled a shuddering breath. “Read. My. Lips. I’m here to help you.”
He did that erotic little trick where he studied her lips intently, parting his in preparation. Desire hummed through her. Oh God, she was so in over her head.
No! This was Lock and Load manipulating a reporter for answers, not the sweet guy comforting her nightmares on a hospital cot. This kiss would be as superficial and impersonal as the persona staring down at her.
“That’s not going to work either, pal.” She managed a husky whisper—pretty good, considering the brain mush she was fighting.
He cocked his head thoughtfully, deliberately angling his mouth into striking range. His peppermint breath mingled with hers. She was going down.
He met her whisper with his own. “Come on, Jesselynn, tell me the truth.”
“My name,” she croaked, “is Jordan. And stop trying to kiss me.”
The corners of his eyes creased. “Honey, if I wanted to kiss you, there’d be no trying.” His parted lips moved a fraction closer. “What magazine?”
His nearness and that fresh-air scent engulfed her. If she didn’t get out of this car in the next three seconds, the word “tabloid” would fly out of her mouth the way other people cried “uncle.” She glanced away from the heavy-lidded, playboy stare and breathed in enough oxygen to utter, “Your Lock and Load facade gives me the creeps. Back the hell off.”
His arm promptly lifted off her shoulders leaving an awful lightness. The seat crackled as he slid away. She swallowed hard, unable to gather the courage to peek over. Had he ever heard the word no come out of a woman’s mouth before?
Moment after moment of deafening silence passed. Inanely she calculated the time it would have taken her to manage the library steps, and yep, she could have gone with Leo…his errand was about as quick as a trip to the DMV.
Lock cleared his throat, the sound making her jump.
“You wanted to get your stuff from the cops?” His voice held an indescribable hardness.
“Uh…huh.” She braved a glance. His handsome profile was etched with dark tension.
He pointed out the window. “The station’s over there, across from that diner.”
“Thanks.”
She wrenched the passenger door open, sucking in the brisk air like a drowning victim.
“Don’t forget this.” Without making eye contact, he lifted a crutch they’d found in Leo’s shed from between the file boxes in back, and thrust it toward her.
She clasped it like a life preserver and, in her haste to be free of him, almost stumbled into a snowdrift. At the sharp pain in her ribcage, she pulled herself together, but her thoughts remained so tumultuous, she barely acknowledged Leo coming down the stairs insisting on helping her walk.
…
Christ, she was driving him out of his mind!
Ignoring Leo standing by the car chatting her up, and Jordan shaking her head, Lock unzipped his jeans, reached in and adjusted himself.
It couldn’t be her, he was sure of it. She was a control-freak, and a reporter! He just needed some relief. He’d been without a woman for so long that touching thighs or smelling her warm, forest scent, or even watching her bite her lip made him want to snap.
Hell, he was off the team; no reason to hide anymore. Maybe a booty call to Trish or Amber—or both. Get stinking drunk together and invent some deviant sex act. The thought left him curiously empty, and he grimaced.
Leo got in and shut the door. They watched her limp the last few yards to the police station.
“You couldn’t have driven her that half block?”
“I could tell she wanted to walk and cool off some.” His brother snorted, and Lock felt his muscles tense further, spoiling for a fight. Anyone would do. “What’s with the pig imitation?”
“I’ve never seen a woman wind you up quite like this.”
He stared out his window. “I’m not wound up.”
“Shit, she’s got you so torqued you could launch into space without a jetpack.”
His brother was right, and Lock was damned if he’d let her get to him. He consciously relaxed his shoulders and cranked his neck until he heard a pop. On impulse, he tried to think through his frustration aloud. “I know my way around women. All women.” He shook his head. “But Jordan’s another species. I start to like her and then find two dozen reasons not to trust a word she says. I wake up thinking about her, and then she questions me in that snippy tone until I can’t stand being in the same room with her—it’s all extremes.” He shrugged, not knowing the right language. Leo was good with words, not him. “Every time I think I’ve figured her out, she blindsides me with something else.”
“Your Lock and Load facade gives me the creeps.” Are you kidding? Shit, women stood in line for that persona.
“Tiffany was extreme too,” Leo remarked.
Lock studied the empty, slushy street as he thought about that. “Naw, she was like all the others. I know her kind well.”
“Kind?”
“A user. Chicks date me because I’m Lock and Load. They aren’t attracted to me.”
“Pity…party of one?”
He should have seen the sarcastic maître d’ retort coming, even knew the sullen expression plastered on Leo’s face without looking over. It would mirror the bitterness and resentment that ended most of the topics between them these days. Just because he was born healthy, he could never complain, never have problems. Clue in, bro—I’m hemorrhaging problems.
He shifted into gear and let the car roll to the police station on its own, cursing the nanosecond of vulnerability he’d shown Leo. Minutes dragged. They were alone. Time to butch up and talk about the blackout, but what a shitty segue after the Perfect Brother-Rotten Brother insinuation.
Aw, Christ, just get it over with.
“So. About the blackout.” His voice sounded rusty. He dragged his eyes to his brother’s stony profile. “I swear on all that’s holy, Leo, I wasn’t that drunk.”
“Evidently you were that drunk.” His brother kept staring out the windshield.
“I’ve never broken my promise to you. I wasn’t even close to my limit.”
Leo turned then, and Lock flinched inwardly at the accusation and disgust burning in his eyes.
“All the rationalizing in the world won’t bring
Tiffany back to life, Lock. You didn’t remember running me down fourteen years ago, and now you don’t remember this.” He shook his head. “The thing is, I believed your remorse back then. I believed your promise. I’ve let you live with me all these months believing in your innocence…” He trailed off, eyes straying over Lock’s shoulder, lips pressed tight.
“Well, thanks for the support today,” Lock said wearily, the lack of sleep all last night finally catching up with him. “I’ll think of something to tell Jordan so she won’t expect your help anymore.”
“No need. I’m happy to help search for a killer.”
“Even though you’re certain it’s me.”
“Well, I have been on the receiving end of your blackouts. I know how impulsive you are as an angry drunk.”
“That was different. I was a stupid kid and crazy drunk—”
“As opposed to a stupid adult only moderately drunk. Yes, that’s different.”
“I didn’t kill her—”
“And you know this how?”
He didn’t. The more he talked through his case aloud with them, the more he didn’t believe it either. He was just hoping against hope that he hadn’t killed Tiffany. Because he honestly hadn’t been that drunk. Not like before. “Leo—”
“There’s Jordan. Pull across so she doesn’t have to hurdle the drift.”
Lock struggled to bury his seething frustration. He glanced tiredly in the rearview mirror. There were no other cars so he strayed into the oncoming lane and met Jordan as she got to the curb. She limped awkwardly on the crutch, lugging a camouflage backpack.
Feeling like a chump for making her walk from the library, he jumped out and assisted her wordlessly into the front seat, dumping her backpack among the boxes in the rear.
He paused before getting back in, absorbing the scenery of the snow-covered town. Even though no one wandered the sidewalks, it felt strange to be out in public like this and not holed up with his brother. A brother who knew just exactly how rotten he was inside. And a journalist who thought he was creepy. The afternoon of errands crawled by.
