by Cait London
After all, Hogan’s land had once been Ben’s, sold to protect the major portion of the Bar K. The outsiders with California tans and soft hands had left— rather ran from Montana’s harsh weather— and now the land was Hogan’s. The bastard’s land, cast off to preserve the rest.
Hogan braced his hand against the gray, smooth river stone of the fireplace and studied the flickering fire within the huge open grate. A fireplace insert would have been more practical, but Hogan wanted the color and flow of fire, the arc of sparks. He frowned and followed his darker thoughts: He’d come home, and he ached for something that had always eluded him. He would find it—here, where he belonged.
Headlights speared his windows, forcing his thoughts back to Jemma Delaney. Used to years of Jemma’s pushy demands, he sighed wearily. But he tolerated her because of her unwavering love and absolute devotion to Carley. What did Jemma want of him now?
Through the years, she’d never missed a chance to make money. She intended to marry money and get more money. She’d been everything from a bartender to a nurse’s aid, and she knew how to hustle, to promote. Carley had said that Jemma’s family was poor, but that was all that Hogan knew of Jemma’s young life. He didn’t care to know more. He didn’t want to understand her.
He dreaded her visit, the brisk familiarity, the verbal jabs. Jemma was illogical, self-centered, and maddening— except when it came to Carley. And Carley had badly needed her during those summer and holiday visits.
At five-foot-eight, Jemma wasn’t intimidated by the tall Kodiaks, but sailed right into the midst of them for Carley’s sake. Vivid and fierce, she’d rip into anyone who pushed Carley about laying the past aside and creating a new life as a woman. Jemma had a call-it-as-I-see-it personality and a sharp, protective tongue when Carley was challenged.
She wasn’t afraid to pit herself against Ben, and he liked her, often laughing at her sassy mouth. Hogan frowned; that sassy, fast mouth had taken strips off him, digging at him, when they were younger.
Now, headlights lasered into the shadows of his home and died as quickly as they appeared. A car door slammed outside his house and with a slow, painful sigh Hogan opened his front door.
“Nice,” he said, noting the black four-wheeler.
“Rented,” Jemma returned in the years of clipped conversation that suited their relationship. Leggy and lithe, and bundled in a bulky hot pink jacket and tight jeans splattered with sunflowers, Jemma sailed by him to stand before the blazing fireplace— her muddied, knee-high yellow boots stood on the long, soft, Egyptian cotton rug.
He stared at those boots long enough to let her know his displeasure, not that she’d care. Hogan preferred to lie naked upon that rug to watch the fire’s designs. It was typical of Jemma to tear into his home and destroy his simple, ordered peace.
She lifted her hand to her ponytail and tugged the yellow ruffled band from it. A river of dark red waves spilled into the firelight. Cut in layers, the tips of her hair seemed to ignite, a fiery halo gleaming around her head as she stood in front of the fire. She shook her head and pushed her hands through the thick mass. The feminine gesture caught Hogan, forced the air from his lungs.
On another woman, he might have thought the action was erotic and sensual. But he knew Jemma too well— she had a mind like a full-steam-ahead locomotive, deterred by nothing when she wanted something. And she always wanted something.
“So this is the cave where you hide from the world— I heard that pained sigh. It sounds like Aaron’s and Mitch’s, like you’d like to avoid me and can’t. It’s a doomed sigh. I’ve had years of dealing with all you male Kodiaks, and none of you are going to escape me. Shut the door, the heat is getting out,” she said, just as Hogan was closing the door.
He paused, then pushed the door closed, making it click on his terms, not hers. He turned slowly to her and her gray eyes ripped down his body, clad in a black silk shirt and loose flowing slacks, his feet bare on the smooth cool wood. “Ben would hate that outfit. You probably wear it just because you know it gets to him when you dress like an artist. Or an Indian. You knew very well that long braid you wore as a teen drove him nuts.”
Hogan closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, and withdrew into his control. Jemma was right, of course, but he didn’t like people seeing past his walls. He liked quiet people and a smooth, uncomplicated life. He liked harmony, quiet, soothing colors, and Jemma tore into all of them.
His sister’s friend knew how to irritate and dig, but she was devoted to Carley. If Carley needed attention, Jemma was the first to notice and she didn’t hesitate to call anyone to tell them what they could do for Carley.
She’d never left Carley after the attempted rape, sleeping with her when the nightmares tore his sister apart. They’d become women, and still that bond held true. For that, Hogan tolerated Jemma Delaney.
“What’s this about?” he asked.
Hogan studied her face, the bone structure that would serve her well as she aged. He could almost feel that pale, fine skin, a contrast to the living flame of her hair. The bones beneath her skin were delicate, fascinating, and he wondered what her face would feel like beneath his hands, those cheekbones beneath his thumbs—
He tossed that idea into the fire.
“You look awful. From the shadows under your eyes, you’re not sleeping. Missing Mama?” She referred to Simone D’Arcy, Hogan’s Paris lover of years ago and now his friend.
Jemma ripped off her hot pink coat, sailed it to a cream-colored angular couch with matching throw pillows, and glanced around the room. She tugged up the sleeves of her bulky pink sweater, the soft cowl neckline framing her pale face. Her tight, flower-decked jeans slid down long legs into those high yellow boots. As always, Jemma’s color choices raked Hogan’s need for visual harmony; so did her reference to Simone D’Arcy.
Ignoring her taunt, he settled into the shadows. He studied Jemma, who was a chameleon, adjusting to the role that suited her at the time. In Seattle he’d seen her elegantly dressed for the theater and in a tailored, gray suit for business. She could be flirtatious to a potential male backer, and in the next instant suck profit from him and stroll away without a backward glance.
But now she was free, the real Jemma, who hid nothing from the Kodiaks, including her love of vivid, irrational clothes. For years, she’d twisted through their lives like the myriad facets of sunlit citrine in a dark, shadowy room. In business, she shielded her expressions, but with the Kodiaks, that oval, honed face changed expressions within a heartbeat— a lift of an eyebrow, the tilt of her head, all easily read.
In her power-woman role, alive with color, she had a reason for coming to Hogan, and he probably wasn’t going to like it.
She wasn’t a creature of whimsy, but had dedicated herself to earning millions— and pasting the Kodiaks together for Carley’s sake. And she knew how to get what she wanted—
Hogan frowned. He braced himself for Jemma’s pleas to make peace with Ben, to make life easier for Carley. Hogan resented the woman striding into his shadows, slashing at the Kodiaks with the freedom no one else dared. Not even his family.
The firelight caught on her wild dark red mane, and she impatiently pushed it back from that angular fascinating face, the expression that ran through her like a tumbling stream. Her hair had always reminded Hogan of a rich carnelian stone with varying shades. The tendrils and waves fell below her shoulders, a living mass of color that clashed with her vivid clothing.
She scanned his uncluttered, peaceful living room and tore into its harmony. “It’s big and too dark. Needs plants and a few color cushions. Think about pink and rust. Where’s the kitchen?”
When she hurried off, exploring his home without waiting for an answer, Hogan shook his head— his tranquil home was threatened by a tornado of clashing colors and nonstop woman. He followed her into the kitchen, resenting the need to be herded or to follow Jemma Delaney anywhere.
“Carley’s Whirlwind” hadn’t changed— Jemma ate vorac
iously, she bossed and prodded, and she loved Carley without qualification.
Hogan frowned at the artist awakening in him— the need to touch, to smooth that lithe taut female body between his palms, absorbing the curves into him, to store for use in his work.
He’d always had the need to touch, to draw into him, and he resented the need to feel Jemma’s body beneath his palms, to smooth those narrow hips and stroke those firm, long thighs, to wrap his hand around her ankle, an image of male capturing a female. Her uptilted breasts had taunted him since she’d matured years ago.
He pushed away the artist and slid into the man who knew Jemma too well— she always wanted something, and she wasn’t sweet.
In the kitchen, Jemma bent, studying the contents of Hogan’s double-wide refrigerator. “I’m starved.”
“What else is new?” In contrast to his rounder, shorter half sister, Jemma’s lithe, restless body never reflected her bottomless-pit eating habits. “I suppose you flew in your own plane.”
“Sure.” A top entrepreneur, she’d been an arctic bush pilot.
Hogan tried not to study those tight jeans, that wiggle of her bottom as she leaned down to the bottom shelf.
Despite his attempt to kill his response to Jemma, the artist within him awakened at her smooth, graceful movements, her slender, eloquent hands that could— Hogan inhaled sharply when he realized that his skin had tightened almost sensually. And he didn’t like that his body reacted to Jemma’s...
Jemma was not a sensual woman, never stopping to enjoy a texture or image. In constant motion, she disturbed Hogan’s naturally methodical senses, creating an earthquake, a tidal wave in his smooth, calm, pensive waters.
She had as much sensitivity as a block of marble. Unless Carley was concerned, Jemma was strictly geared to stuffing her checkbook.
Jemma straightened and scanned his spacious, gleaming kitchen, all in one quick movement.
Hogan disliked her efficiency, the way she bundled her movements, her quick takes.
She turned toward him, her eyes locking onto him, and his senses spiked. He knew that edgy look; Jemma was on a mission... “What’s up, Jemma?”
“Nice place. Expensive and classy. Cold, though. But it suits you, I suppose, all this gleaming stainless steel. Yes, it does suit you.”
“Now I’m ‘stainless steel.’ The last time I was Mr. Granite Heart.”
“You’ve always worn armor, as long as I’ve known you. You never let anyone get too close— all the doors swing shut— even with your family. That’s awfully hard on people who love you— but then, you don’t care about that, do you? You know— family, loved ones? Carley?”
Hogan leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. The comparison to stainless steel grated. He resented the quick glance in the kitchen window to see his reflection, to see if he was that easily read.
Nettled that Jemma could distract him so easily, he turned to her. The sooner he got answers, the sooner she’d leave. “Cut to the chase... What about my family? What about Carley?”
“She’s in trouble. You’re going to help.” Jemma opened the refrigerator door and bent down, scanning it.
Hogan tried not to notice the tight fit of her jeans across her hips. He frowned, certain that the sudden jarring he’d just felt was the awful sunflower pattern clashing with his artistic sensibilities. He had the awful image of gathering those soft, sunflower-decked hips into his open hands— His body jolted to hard alert, the primitive need to take, startling him.
Hogan lowered his lids and wished the slight tic at his temple would stop— he had no interest in Jemma’s body. He needed sleep; his raw edges were showing. Jemma Delaney did not appeal to him.
Jemma retrieved half of a blackberry pie from the refrigerator and placed it on the counter. She withdrew a roast turkey breast and mashed potatoes. Hogan’s eyes narrowed as she hacked at the neatly cut meat, slapping it onto a plate, and plopped a generous helping of mashed potatoes beside it. She bent to study his microwave, punching the buttons. “You must have a cook.”
He noted the slivers of meat and dollops of potatoes Jemma had left on the counter. Hogan wiped them away and neatly replaced the wrapping on the roast turkey breast, replacing the food in the refrigerator.
Hogan saw no reason to explain that Maxi Dove, Ben’s housekeeper, and her daughter, Savanna, came and went in his home as well. He appreciated the meals, laundry, and housekeeping. When neither would take money, Hogan had funneled regular payments in their names to Aaron Kodiak’s brokerage company in New York. Neither woman knew that they owned shares in Kodiak Designs.
He’d wondered at times if Savanna was his sister, her sleek, dark, Native-American coloring matching his own. Maxi was Assiniboine and Blackfoot—what was he, in a land of Blackfoot, Crow and Cheyenne, and Kootenai?
He treated Maxi with respect, and she had acted as his mother. Clearly Ben honored her, protected her when she had Savanna outside of marriage— Who was Hogan’s mother?
“About Carley?” he asked, pushing away that cold, haunting, and familiar ache.
Jemma pushed a fork filled with turkey into her mouth, chewed and closed her eyes. “Mmm. Good.”
She reached for a wooden pepper grinder, used it, and carried the pie and plate of food into the living room. She sat cross-legged near the fire and flicked an impatient glance at Hogan. He was nettled by having to follow her through his house to discover why she had come. Jemma had always managed to place him in positions he didn’t like.
“Stop hovering. I’m not going to hurt you,” she said.
In typical Jemma fashion, she ate the pie first, all of it, stuffing it into her mouth with a spoon. She licked the last bit of blackberry from her lip and dived into the roast turkey. “Ben still doesn’t know about that summer when Carley and I were hiding in the bushes. I circled around, because I thought if you guys went skinny-dipping, I wanted to see it all. Anyway, I’ve always felt guilty that I left her and that creep, whoever he was, almost raped her.”
Hot rage slapped at Hogan, the fierce need to protect his sister. He didn’t like feeling helpless, and Carley’s haunted expression made him want to—
He glanced at the window and saw a killer’s face...
“You’re blaming yourself again for not catching him that night. The rest of us are humans, Hogan. We accept that we make mistakes— but you’ve an unforgiving, cold heart, even with yourself. You’re almost terrifying when you look like that, Hogan. I wonder sometimes what would have happened to him, if you had caught him. I don’t think he would have lived— you’re very protective of your family, and that’s your only value to me.”
Her fork paused over the mashed potatoes. “Steamed brown rice would be healthier— You don’t have gravy, do you? No, you wouldn’t.”
“I’ve had a plate or two of fettuccini Alfredo in my time.” Hogan resented the way Jemma could put him on the offensive so quickly. In the way that had served for years, he quietly returned the barb— just a little warning tap to remind Jemma that he could defend himself. “You were married, weren’t you? About four years ago?”
The color of brewing thunderclouds, her eyes flicked at him as she disregarded his question. “Sit down. You’re making me nervous. You’re too big and tense. You fake that easy look, but it’s all packed up tight inside you. You haven’t changed. You’re just as moody-looking, intent like a cougar waiting to spring. I see you’ve still got the long hair Ben hates, though that’s probably a high-priced designer cut, tied at the back with a leather thong. The short ponytail at your nape works. It’s better than that long braid. But you know how to market yourself—the artsy look. I like that.”
“Get to the point,” Hogan said, and instantly regretted the sharp edge to his usual quiet tone. “You came here for a reason. What is it? Is this about Carley?”
Jemma’s expression tightened into fury and words burst from her like bullets. “That bastard who nearly raped Carley has followed her. He’s been sending her li
ttle messages. Eighteen years, and he’s still after her.... Hogan, she hasn’t slept in all these years— not unless you or Aaron or Mitch or Ben were in the vicinity. No one is sleeping, it seems, haunted by that night and watching Carley come apart.”
Hogan’s indrawn breath hissed around the room. “Damn it.”
She took a deep breath as if preparing herself to go on, and then words burst angrily from her. “I think she’s afraid something is going to happen to Dinah, too. One night I found Carley sitting in the kitchen with a knife in each hand, just sitting there, staring at the door. You know she’s never told anyone— even Dinah— and now he’s started the threats. Dinah knows Carley is terrified, and Carley won’t leave her job. Every day, she goes to the office, walking on the streets, terrified of everyone, every shadow...”
Jemma’s fist closed on her fork, the knuckles showing white beneath the skin. “She’s a sitting duck right now. I promised I wouldn’t say anything before this— before he started up again— he might have died meanwhile, anything could have happened, and I was hoping Carley would forget.... But she can’t now. Because he’s back, and we have to do something.”
Hogan’s blood ran cold; this time he couldn’t push his rage back into the shadows, and his fist hit the wall. He knew then that he was capable of murder, if not of love.
Jemma shoved back her hair and crossed her arms as she stared out into the night. For an instant the glass threw their reflections back at them, the pale vibrant woman, hair aflame and the dark dangerous man, towering behind her, his eyes burning hot with rage.
In a typical, restless, abrupt motion, Jemma rose and turned; she walked to the wine decanter, and filled their glasses. “There’s one thing about you, Sasquatch, I can always count on you for Carley’s sake. We may not like each other, but you’ll be there for her and for Dinah.”
Hogan continued to stare at his reflection, all shadows and harsh planes, his eyes glittering. His fists locked to his sides, fists that wanted to batter his sister’s attacker....
