by Sandra Owens
Even as she closed the door behind her, she was pulling her cell phone from her purse, anxious to talk to him. Court Gentry. A cool name for an awesome guy. She grinned, thinking about how many textbook margins she was going to doodle his name in.
“That’s a smile I haven’t seen in a long time. Who put it on your face, Lauren?”
Ice flowed through Lauren’s veins. Run, her brain screamed, but her feet were frozen to the floor. She tried to look away, but Stephan’s eyes held hers. During the two years she’d been married to him, he’d specialized in training her to fear him.
“I asked you a question.”
There had been a time when she’d loved his Russian accent, but no longer. Now she equated the sound of his voice to fingernails scraping down a chalkboard. She hated it. Hated him. But her hate wasn’t greater than her fear, the reason she stood like a statue, too terrified to move.
“Answer me, Lauren. Where have you been?”
“I was . . .” She swallowed past the lump of dread in her throat, willing herself not to automatically obey his commands. Stop being a coward, her brain said. If you don’t stand up to him now, you never will. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin in defiance. “None of your damn business, Stephan.”
She flung the door open. “Get the hell out of my house.” It felt good to finally be free, not shivering like a cornered little mouse whenever he decided she’d done something wrong. They were divorced. She owed him nothing.
Like a striking cobra, his face was inches from hers in the blink of an eye. He wrapped his fingers around her throat, rubbing his nose in her hair. “I can smell him on you. Tell me his name.”
He was guessing. He had to be. “There is no name to tell you. If you don’t get out, I’ll call the police.” She lifted the phone in her hand, pushing her thumb down on the 9. She never got to the 1-1.
Stephan’s fists rained down on her face, her stomach, every place on her body, beating her so badly that she wished he’d just kill her and be done with it so the pain would go away. She never breathed Court’s name during the assault. She learned later that a neighbor heard her cries and had called the police; otherwise she was sure Stephan would have ended her life that night.
“You’re all brown, which tells me you’ve been at the beach. Who was he?” He hit her again. “A name, wife.”
“I’m not your wife anymore,” she tried to yell, but her jaw refused to work. She put her hand on her cheek, already swelling from his fist. “Not wife,” she finally managed, her mouth protesting the movement by shooting excruciating pain though her eyeballs, up to her skull. “H-hurts,” she whimpered.
“You will always be my wife. Get that through your fucking head. You’re mine, Lauren.” He pressed his big hand against her sex, squeezing so hard stinging pain shot down her legs. “This is mine.” Next, he gripped a breast, digging his fingers into her skin, bringing another whimper from her. “This is mine. No one touches what is mine.” He grabbed her hair again. “I will find out who he is. You can trust me on that. It will go easier on you if you give me his name right now.”
“No . . .” It hurt so badly to talk. Even breathing was almost impossible, but she had to convince him. She pushed the words out of her aching mouth. “N-no one.” Her vision blurred from the tears flooding her eyes, and the metallic taste of blood was sharp on her tongue. “S-swear.”
Stephan wrapped his hands around her neck, cutting off her air, and leaned down, putting his mouth next to her ear. “I will find out his name, Lauren, and when I do . . .” The police broke through the door before he could finish.
The threat was left unsaid, but she knew. To protect Court, she coldly cut him out of her life.
CHAPTER ONE
Six years later . . .
Eight members of the Miami Cubanos Motorcycle Club surrounded Spider, Aces & Eights’ . . . What was Spider exactly? Their mascot?
Court Gentry paused to consider the question. Whatever the dude was, he was about to lose a few teeth. Most of the clubs tolerated Spider, even thought he was some kind of good-luck charm and would rub his bald head on the way out the door as they headed for their bikes. The Cubanos, however, hated him.
That might be because he’d stumbled out of the bar drunk as a skunk one night and had fallen on the motorcycle belonging to the club’s president, knocking it over. The rest of the gang’s bikes had gone down like dominos.
Court sighed. Spider had been told to make himself scarce whenever the Cubanos showed up, but there he was, grinning like an idiot at the eight dudes giving him death glares as they tightened the circle, moving in for the kill. Where the hell were Nate and Alex when he needed them?
“You dudes make him bleed, you’re banned from here for life,” he said, pushing his way into the circle and grabbing Spider’s ear. He pulled Spider away before the Cubanos sent them both to la-la land. The only reason the Cubanos let him make off with Spider was because Court and his brothers were mean sons of bitches, an image the Gentry brothers worked hard to project. No one had bested them in a fight, although many had tried.
“Dammit, Spider, what part of become invisible when those dudes are around don’t you get?” Court asked, dragging Spider to the kitchen. “John Boy, put Spider to work washing dishes, and then feed him.” Their all-around do-whatever-job-needed-to-be-done employee nodded.
“You got it, boss.”
Court caught a glimpse of his older brother in the poolroom and headed that way. Nate was on the phone, a frown on his face. As Court waited for him to finish, he glanced around the bar. The Cubanos had settled down now that they didn’t have Spider to play with, all four pool tables were occupied, and several couples were on the dance floor.
Court and his two brothers, all FBI agents, operated Aces & Eights as a cover for their covert operations. It was the perfect setup. None of the biker gangs guarded their speech around the brothers, allowing them to pick up all kinds of intel. Like the talk over a beer Court had had with a few of them that had given him a lead on the car and motorcycle theft ring he was investigating.
“Alex wants you to go to Madison’s apartment and wait for her roommate to come home,” Nate said, sticking his phone into the back pocket of his jeans.
“I thought he was home sick. What’s he gotten into now?” Where their baby brother was concerned, nothing would surprise him.
“Ramon attacked Madison.”
“The hell?” Alex was head over heels for Madison Parker, Ramon Alonzo’s cousin, which was a complication considering Alex was ass deep in an investigation of the Alonzo drug cartel.
“Alex is there now, but he’s taking Madison back to his condo.”
“And I need to wait for her roommate to come home because . . . ?”
Nate shrugged. “I guess he’s worried Ramon will come back. He doesn’t want the roommate there by herself.”
“Why me? Why don’t you do it?”
“I’m not a babysitter.”
Court knew he’d already lost this battle, but he wasn’t going down quietly. “And I am?”
“Tonight you are.”
“I hate it when you pull rank, bro.” That was the problem with being the middle brother. As the oldest and the one who’d raised him and Alex, Nate got to make the rules. As the youngest, Alex got away with breaking the rules—like falling for the cousin of the target of his investigation. Court thrived on rules and planning ahead. He had not planned on being reduced to babysitter.
Nate patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll live.”
“So you say. Madison okay?” He supposed he should have thought to ask about her right away.
“Alex said she’s shook up, but otherwise unhurt.”
“That’s good. Well, I guess I’m off to babysit. What’s the going rate these days?”
Court parked his Harley in front of High Tea and Black Cat Books. After getting no answer when he rang the doorbell, he called Alex. He’d never been to the bookstore that Madison and her friend
owned, and he eyed the Art Deco building washed in the pastel colors typical of South Miami Beach’s architecture. He loved South Beach, sometimes referred to as the American Riviera—a playground for the rich and famous, as well as sweaty, wide-eyed tourists and local South Florida residents coming over the MacArthur Causeway for a day at the beach.
“No one’s here,” he said when Alex answered.
“Madison just talked to her. She’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Mad didn’t tell her what happened or that you’d be there. She didn’t want to upset her roommate while she was driving.”
“So I get to deliver the bad news? News flash, Alex. I don’t like you.”
His idiot brother laughed. “Yeah you do. We left you a key taped behind the mailbox.”
There was a two-inch gap between the wall and the back of the box. Court slipped his finger in and felt the key. “Got it.”
“Go on in and make yourself at home. Madison said you can sleep in her bed tonight.”
“Dude, I’m not spending the night. I thought I was just supposed to make sure she was locked up safe.”
“I need you to stay over. I don’t trust Ramon not to come back. She shouldn’t be there alone if he does.”
Court pulled the phone away from his ear, scowling at the screen. Had Nate left that bit of information out knowing Court would flatly refuse? His brothers were going to owe him big for this one. He put the phone back to his ear. “Fine, but I’m not a happy camper. I didn’t know I was supposed to bring my jammies.”
“Stop your whining, bro. You don’t own a pair of jammies.”
He hung up on Alex. Key in hand, he went into the apartment above the bookshop that Madison shared with her roommate. His first order of business was to get the lay of the land, so he toured the place, checking to make sure the windows were closed and locked in each room. Since the apartment was on the second floor, the only way Ramon could get in would be through the front door or up the fire escape. He located the fire escape, checking to make sure the window leading to it was locked.
Satisfied everything was locked tight and he knew the entry points, he returned to the living room. The TV remote was on the coffee table. He picked it up, tuning in to a Marlins baseball game. A black cat jumped onto the couch, sat, and stared at him.
“Hey, buddy. You come to watch the game with me?”
The cat blinked. Court blinked in return before turning his attention back to the game. As he watched the pitcher shake off the catcher’s call, he wondered if he could have made it to the big leagues given half a chance. His high school coach had thought Court had the talent to go all the way, but his sonofabitch father had nixed any hope of that. After-school baseball practice and games took time away from Court’s chores at the piece of shit dirt farm the old man called a ranch.
Court snorted, thinking of the ranch—a five-acre plot consisting of three pigs, one mean cow, and a dozen or so scrawny chickens running around, pecking at the dirt for insects. The one time he’d tried to stand up to the bastard, demanding he be allowed to play ball, he’d ended up with his pitching arm broken. He’d never pitched the same since.
Although he’d lost his dream that day, he was happy as an FBI agent. The few times he thought about what might have been, it was more with nostalgia than disappointment. Why cry over something he couldn’t change? And if there were times when he felt like there was something missing in his life, he shrugged it off. He had a great job, two brothers he would die for, and a pretty woman in his bed whenever he wanted. Best of all, his sonofabitch father was dead and no longer able to make their lives miserable.
As for his mother, it was only recently that he’d begun thinking of her, and only because Alex had been wondering lately what had happened to her. Court had tried hard to forget her. She’d left them in the hands of the meanest man on the planet, walking away without a backward glance. He’d been nine the last day he’d seen her, and good riddance.
“Now whatcha gonna do?” he asked the pitcher when he walked the batter, loading the bases.
At the sound of a key in the lock of the apartment’s front door, he muted the game. The door opened, bringing Court to his feet. The last person on earth he’d ever expected to see again walked in, and why in hell hadn’t he asked Alex the roommate’s name?
“Lauren?”
Lauren froze, unable to believe her eyes. Why was Court Gentry standing in her living room?
He swiped a hand through his hair. “I don’t fucking believe this.”
That made two of them. It had been six years since she’d last seen him, and she hated how her heart raced at the sight of him. He’d always had that effect on her, still did, apparently, and that made her angry. She didn’t want to have that reaction to him because he no doubt hated her, and rightly so.
“Why are you here?” she asked, finally finding her tongue. Except for filling out his body, which appeared to be pure muscle, he hadn’t changed much since she’d last seen him. The man she’d turned her back on after the most amazing week of her life for reasons she would never, ever tell him was still mouthwateringly gorgeous. Tall, dark, and dangerous was how she’d always thought of him.
Black eyes glittered with irritation. “Because I drew the shortest straw?”
“Is that a question?” Yes, he hated her, but he still wanted her. The truth was in his eyes. No matter how hard he tried to hide his desire, she saw through his smoke screen. This was how it had been between them—tense, burning-up-the-sheets chemistry. The kind that made her want to happily go down in flames.
But that was then, before she’d let him go to keep him safe. Nothing had changed, and he could never know what that week with him had meant to her. Now he stood in her living room vibrating with anger.
“I asked my questions six years ago, and you refused to answer.” After getting that dig in, he sat, picked up the remote, and unmuted the TV, dismissing her.
“You have three seconds before I call the police. Why are you in my home, Court?” It was a cruel joke the universe was playing on her.
“Call your roommate.”
“Why?” He continued to ignore her, so she fished her phone out of her purse. “Fine. I’ll call Madison. Then I’ll call the police.” When he snorted, she came close to throwing her phone at him. Madison had called earlier to find out if she was on the way home, but hadn’t warned her that a blast from her past was about to happen. Not that her roommate would have known to warn her. Lauren hadn’t told a soul about Court.
As she waited for her friend to answer, it dawned on her that Court had the same last name as Madison’s boyfriend, Alex. Although she’d only seen Alex a few times since Madison had started dating him, she wondered why she hadn’t seen the resemblance. Alex wore his hair longer than Court’s military cut, but they both had black eyes, nearly black hair, and high cheekbones. It wouldn’t surprise her if they had some American Indian blood in them. Whatever flowed through their veins, it had created two very fine-looking men.
Maybe she’d never made the connection because it hurt too much to think of Court and what might have been, so she’d blocked any thought of him from her mind.
“Wow, are you okay?” she asked after Madison told her about Ramon’s assault. Lauren had never cared for her friend’s cousin. She’d thought him too controlling, too demanding, too much like Stephan. His actions tonight only proved her right.
“I’m fine. I think Alex is more upset than I am. I didn’t say anything when I called you earlier because I didn’t want you to refuse to let Court come over.”
Lauren eyed Court. He appeared to be engrossed in the baseball game, but she was sure he was listening. “Tell Alex I want him to call off his dog.”
Madison laughed. “I thought you’d take one look at him and fall in love.”
Oh, she’d done that six years ago. “Nope. I want him gone.”
“Alex wants him to stay tonight in case Ramon comes back. You shouldn’t be there alone if he does.”
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br /> “Don’t I have any say in this?” She didn’t want Court to think she wanted him here, but what if Ramon did come back? If Court left, she’d be here alone. What if he went into a rage because Madison wasn’t here and attacked her instead?
“Nope,” Court said, proving he was paying attention even though he hadn’t taken his gaze off the TV.
She stuck out her tongue, not caring if she was being childish, and got a chuckle from the man on her couch. What? Did he have eyes on the side of his head? After hanging up with Madison, she went to the kitchen. Hemingway followed her, sat, and stared at his empty food dish.
“Your friend didn’t feed you?” She took Hemingway’s drawn-out meow to mean no. When she’d gotten over the shock of seeing Court in her living room, she’d been surprised to see the cat hanging out with him. After Court had sat down, Hemingway had curled up on his lap. Hemingway was the bookstore’s cat and tolerated customers petting him when he was downstairs, but he only snuggled with people he liked.
After filling his bowl, she made a cup of mint tea, then took it with her to her bedroom. Before she closed herself in, she got a lightweight blanket and the extra pillow from her bed, walked back to the living room, tossed them at Court, and then returned to her bedroom. She probably should have said good night or something, but the less she and Court talked, the better. What was there left to say?
She went to her closet, and took down a shoebox filled with photos of her and Court. She hesitated. For six years she’d tried her best to forget the week she’d spent with him, but she’d never been able to throw away the pictures she’d taken during that spring break. Did she really want to take a trip down memory lane?
CHAPTER TWO
Seven months later . . .
“Going in,” Court said, the microphone in the overhead light sending his words out to his brothers and the FBI SWAT team standing by. He sat behind the wheel of a metallic-blue “stolen” Lamborghini, which was actually borrowed from a local dealer who’d had two high-dollar cars stolen off his lot.
