Gideon nodded slowly, thinking this through. “That’s a pretty advanced system.”
“There are others that leave this in the dust.” Neil shrugged. “But this one is my design and it should work for what Moira needs. It’s got a weight limit on it so critters—birds, squirrels, and such—don’t set it off. Body heat, too. If it sees some five hundred pound mass that’s got a temperature more on par with a reptile, it’s going to scan and see a gator, not an intruder.”
“System like that will put you out of a job,” Gideon said.
Neil made a wheezing sort of laugh. “Well, I’ve already got people looking to buy it. I’m going to be looking to sell soon. Retire and take my ass on down to Hawaii and live out the rest of my life, being a bum.” He nodded up to the porch. “You ever going to get that woman to stop running from you?”
“No. I’m done trying. Mind your own, Neil.”
“Done, huh?” Neil gave him a shrewd look, then shook his head. “My ass, you’re done. She’s heading this way. I’ll give her a quick rundown, then I need to check on my crew and get out of here.” He hesitated and then said, “Don’t be a coward … not now. You waited all this time. What’s a bit more?”
Then he glanced past Gideon, lifting his voice as he called out a greeting. “Evening, Moira. Has your brother finished planning out what he’ll do once he gets his hands on the man who did that?”
Gideon bit back his instinctive response. He’ll have to beat me to it—
He was leaving. Right?
Turning to look at Moira, he nodded at her without really meeting her eyes.
She spoke and the low, raspy whisper of her voice had him wincing in sympathy. “I plan on making him gator bait,” she said.
Vicious pride twisted in him, and he shoved it down.
Then the cop in him kicked on, and he shoved a hand through his hair.
“Moira, leave that part to the cops.”
“Since when did cops believe in gator bait?” She looked dead at him, something she didn’t do too often. When their gazes locked, she didn’t look away, either.
Drawn in by the soft, pale green of her eyes, he felt like a moth, caught by the lure of the flame. He’d danced in that warmth until it killed him. He’d been doing that for eighteen long years and it was destroying—
Neil’s rusty laugh had Gideon stiffening.
Get your head out of your ass, he told himself.
“Moira, tell you what. If you catch yourself some decent … bait, you let me know.”
“Damn it, Neil!” he snapped, pivoting and glaring down at the shorter, older man. Slapping his hands on his hips, he bent until they were nose to nose. “Can we maybe stop discussing murder in front of the chief of police? It would make my job easier.”
“Murder…” Neil’s lips thinned out. “For the love of…”
Two hands shoved between them, followed by a slim body.
Moira was small, but she was a force to be reckoned with.
Her father had teased that they’d named her wrong.
We should have named you Hermia … though she be but little, she is fierce.
It would have fit.
She wedged her body between them, knocking Neil back a step and then focused her attention on Gideon. Sparks fired from her pale green eyes, and they might have shot straight into his blood. He was on fire now. On fire and burning … for her. Just like always.
She jabbed him in the chest. “Why don’t you yank that stick out of your ass?” she rasped.
“Stop.” He caught her wrist. “I’m on duty and I’m not going to listen to your temper or your tantrums.”
“My…” Her brows shot up almost to her hairline. “You son of a…”
She jerked her hand away, or tried.
“Neil.” He shot him a look. “Get lost.”
“Listen here, Chief.” Neil coughed and shuffled his feet. “You realize Moira and I aren’t really planning to cut up some miserable son of a bitch. He needs a lesson and all, but we wouldn’t do that, would we, Moira?”
Moira bared her teeth up at Gideon.
“I hear you and understand, Neil.” He didn’t look at the other man. “Now, go deal with your crew. I appreciate them getting out here so promptly.”
Moira jerked on her wrist again, and this time he let go.
She stumbled back half a pace and he reached up to steady her, but she smacked at his arms.
“What the hell is your problem?”
Her eyes, hot now, glittered up at him. “Don’t touch me!”
Then she gasped and pressed a hand to her throat.
“Would you stop tearing your throat up so much?” Exasperated, he gestured to the house. “Go inside. Let Ella Sue make you a hot toddy or something. She sure as hell makes them strong enough.”
Maybe it will calm you down. He thought it. He didn’t say it.
But it must have shown on his face anyway.
“Maybe I don’t want to go inside!” She shoved up onto her toes, pushing her face into his. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, Gideon Marshall. Hell, you are leaving, remember?”
Then she spun around and flounced off.
Nobody could pull off a flounce quite like Moira McKay.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There are few certainties in life.
The sun will rise.
The sun will set.
Everybody dies.
Money speaks.
Friends will abandon you.
Family will always stand beside you.
The McKays will destroy everything that matters.
He’d grown up hearing those very truths. Even as his father lie dying, the cancer eating him from the inside out, he’d heard that truth.
They stole it all, boy. I’ve done what I can, but nobody listens to a sick old man. I have no voice. Money is the voice and they have it. I don’t.
He knew those truths and he kept them close.
Kept them and worked hard.
Years had passed since the day his father was lowered into the earth, raining drenching him from the outside in as he stood alone by the grave.
There wasn’t anybody else. It had been just his father and him.
Now it was just him.
Him and the knowledge that the McKays had taken everything from his family. Not just once, but time and time again.
He’d been nudged out of the classes he wanted over a sodding McKay—Moira McKay, the elegant, icy queen had swept into the college where he’d been holding on with a wish and a prayer. Only a day after he’d been told he would most likely be able to get into the class he needed to finish out his major a year early, he’d been notified there wasn’t any room left.
And who did he discover was a late enrollee?
Moira McKay.
A few years later, he’d been working in the French Quarter in New Orleans—learning, always learning what he needed to accomplish his end goals—and there she’d been, this time with her younger brother in tow. On a buying trip, she’d hardly said two words to him and later, he’d walked into the pub where his girlfriend worked and discovered said girlfriend all but wrapped around Brannon McKay.
She’d all but thrown her knickers in that boy’s face. He hadn’t been much more than a boy, either. Hardly old enough to drink, but had that bitch cared? No. He was rich and that was all that mattered.
From that moment on, he’d hated Brannon—the kid had apologized good-naturedly after Leanna had seen him, scrambling away and tugging her dress down. Brannon had acted like he hadn’t known, but the laughter had been there in his eyes. When his sister had arrived, Brannon had tossed down several bills, told the bartender drinks were on him, and had offered another apology.
He’d wanted to make the boy eat that fucking money.
Instead, he’d just left and busied himself gathering up Leanna’s belongings. She’d let a fucking McKay touch her.
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.”
<
br /> 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.
The Right Kind of Trouble Page 8
