Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1)

by P. J. O'Dwyer

  "He didn't deserve you."

  Bren jumped. His voice was edged with a hint of suppressed anger and jealousy she never knew existed. Her mind struggled to connect the Robert Connelly she thought she knew with the man standing beside her. "He was your friend," she said. "We were all friends."

  Robert gave a short laugh, his usual caring eyes hardened. "What were we... nine, ten? We." He cleared his throat and nodded to the newspaper clipping. "He stopped being my friend a long time ago." The edge to his voice returned, and he took a step toward her. "The only one I wanted to be close to was you. I never stopped wanting you... loving you... looking at you."

  No doubt. His photos proved his eye had been zooming in on her for years.

  "We were just kids, Robert." Bren inched sideways, heading toward the end of the bed, her destination the steps, then she'd have her hand on the door.

  "It's locked."

  Her head swung back. The smirk, so unlike any expression she'd ever seen on Robert's face, chilled her blood.

  He dangled a small key in front of her. "This is going to be our special place."

  Like she'd ever come back to visit? But the irrational gleam in his eyes had her seriously thinking her next move. She wanted to wrap her hands around his neck and squeeze until the murdering bastard turned a nice shade of purple like Tom.

  But reality shook her hard, and she gritted her teeth and smiled. "It's nice, Robert. But I really need to get home. I don't want my boys to worry."

  He shoved the key in his pocket. "Are you hungry, sweetheart?" He moved closer.

  "Robert, please take me home. We can come back another time." She shivered and wrapped her arms around her.

  "You're cold." He took two long strides and pressed her against the stone wall and his body. He rubbed her arms. "Let me make you warm."

  Bren's heart thumped with warning. "I don't want to be warm. I want to go home." She pushed on his chest.

  "I can't do that. This is your home now." He pressed a shaft of her hair back behind her ear.

  She remained painfully in place, her insides trembling. Her new home was a cold, damp place, dark and frightening, and the thought of remaining in this closed-off hole, underground, made her chest constrict and breathing more difficult.

  Bren flashed him an ireful gaze. "I see. I'm not good enough to move into the big house." She raised her chin. "What would your father say if he knew you'd fallen for the 'girl?'" Bren hoped that was enough to cause his demented head to spin.

  He cupped her chin. "God, I've hurt your feelings." His voice gentled. "It's not like that, sweetheart." He crowded her once more, the uneven stone wall poking her back. "We need time to get reacquainted." He pressed his body to hers, the proof of his arousal riding hard along her stomach.

  She suppressed every urge to push him away. Her mind raced. "What about Susan?"

  "I'll tell Susan." He made a move to kiss her.

  Bren turned her face, his lips grazing her cheek. She refused the grimace threatening the corners of her mouth and concentrated on the door and her response.

  Keep him off balance.

  "You've been two-timing me, Robert." She met his gaze. "You can't expect me to kiss you."

  He laughed and backed away slightly. "You should talk. If it weren't for that cowboy's interference, I would have been able to court you the way I wanted. He forced me to take you tonight." He touched her throat. His finger traced lazily down to the open collar of Rafe's shirt to rest above her breasts. "I hope you didn't do anything with him when you were in Mexico. I wouldn't like that, Bren."

  It was on the edge of her tongue to give him an earful. Maybe if he knew she'd made love to Rafe, and he'd jolted her world, Robert would consider her damaged goods and return her. But the all-or-nothing look in his eyes told her that would be a serious infraction.

  She stood in his menacing shadow, his head blocking the only light. She suddenly realized she recognized this place. They had played here as kids. There hadn't been electricity in the root cellar then, abandoned years ago. Straddling Connelly and Fallon land, they called it their fort. Since then, the woods had taken claim to it. Two-thirds buried underground, only the roof, which blended into the landscape, remained visible. Other than her father and Kate, only Kevin knew it existed. Would he remember it?

  Keep him off balance.

  "You've done a lot with the place. How'd you wire it for electricity?"

  "Did he touch you?" He gripped her chin, forcing it up, his fingers tightening incrementally.

  His face, which she'd come to rely on as so familiar and welcome, was strained and angry, waiting on her response. "No. There's nothing between Rafe and me."

  "That's wonderful news." His fingers relaxed. "Except he believes there's more. In order for us to be together—sharing my name, the house..."

  Bren stiffened.

  "Relax, sweetheart." He ran his fingers down her arm and held her hand. His palm was clammy and cold, and she swallowed the unease of his touch like medicine. "I plan to make an honest woman of you."

  Oh God, he is going to take me against my will!

  "Bren?" He shook her hand lightly.

  She couldn't speak. Her voice was lost, drowning in the hidden undertow of his deceptive, placid blue eyes.

  "You need to remain here until he moves on. He won't until he believes you're not coming back."

  She wanted to laugh at the absurdity. Wes Connelly would never allow his son anywhere near a Fallon. Rafe would never leave her. Even if he believed she'd met a tragic end, he wouldn't leave her boys. He loved them. She'd be left to rot in this grave alive because she wouldn't starve to death. Robert would see to her every need, or rather his needs, and that made her skin creep.

  "I'll tell him I care for you."

  He cocked his head. "He does seem too proud to grovel." He pulled her hands up and placed them on his shoulders. His arms sliding around her waist, he held her tight to him. "Prove it to me, Bren." His thoughtful tone hardened, demanding her compliance.

  Hell, no! Bren's fingers curled inward along the fine linen of his dress shirt. She wasn't touching him. There was only so much negotiating she was willing to do. What she needed was a weapon. She searched frantically and stopped. Beyond his shoulders, the scissors sitting on the metal table flashed—sharp, deadly. But if he knew her intentions, the blades could end up buried to the hilt in her chest. She didn't need to worry herself. In order for the weapon to be used against her, she'd have to get to it first.

  Damn it. She was going to have to initiate touching him.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Rafe pulled the brim of his Stetson down to avoid the swirl of mist in his eyes. He clamped down on Ryan's shotgun across his lap and urged his horse forward with the old man at his side. Aiden was riding ahead with Roscoe out in front, tracking the scent from Bren's pajamas. They drove further. The cornstalks cracked beneath the hooves of their mounts, hollow and empty, like his life before he'd met Bren.

  The squawk and static of the police radio on his hip kept him alert. Kevin's search team was working out on Route 68. A team of neighbors worked Bren's hundred or so acres, while Rafe's team searched the property along the back forty that bordered Connelly land.

  Aiden remained only a dark silhouette against the curtain of night and mist, his face hidden beneath the hood of his rain poncho. He hadn't said much before they headed out. Only took Rafe's orders like a soldier would from a drill sergeant—a lot of yes sirs, showing a determination Rafe always knew the boy possessed. Even if it was hidden under that obstinate teenage persona he worked like hell to aggravate his mother with and had perfected over time.

  They'd decided to let the dog do the work. If they called out, it could very well tip her captor off. The element of surprise was their best hope. Roscoe's lead remained taut, the hound's legs working the field behind his property, his nose pressed toward the ground, giving every indication he had Bren's scent and was moving in the right direction.

  Bu
t that didn't lift the sick uneasiness tight across Rafe's chest—Bren was slipping farther away from him, and it clung heavy and inescapable like the bleak, gray night surrounding him.

  "She's a fighter, son." Paddy's bay moved alongside him and reminded Rafe he'd asked for the old man's presence.

  Was the old man's comment supposed to console him? It only made him acutely aware Patrick Ryan had years of knowing Bren. Years Rafe was never afforded, and that burned low in his gut.

  "It'll also get her killed."

  "She's smart."

  Rafe's gaze cut to Patrick Ryan, his features hidden under a moonless sky. He could only make out the old man's silver crew cut around his ears, the brim of his cap turned down, his expression left to Rafe's imagination, except he recognized the jut of his chin—stubborn like Rafe's. He grunted in amusement, but sobered quickly. He wanted nothing to do with Patrick Ryan after tonight, and being reminded that he was related to him pissed him off.

  "I brought you for guidance, not your insight." It also riled Rafe the old man hadn't given him enough credit to figure Bren out. "I know her, too. No thanks to you."

  "You look like her." Paddy's head dipped as though it made him nervous to talk to Rafe, and he stroked his horse. "I recognize that now."

  Her? He must mean Pamela Ryan, Rafe's biological mother. Rafe guessed resembling a person who had been dead for almost forty years, her photo forgotten in the corner of a room, had helped keep his identity a secret.

  "You have her eyes."

  "Stick to tracking." He clenched the reins. He could care less about the past now.

  "Rafe!" Aiden peered over his shoulder. "I think he's got something."

  Rafe kicked his horse in the flank and moved to Aiden's side. "Ease up on his lead."

  Roscoe pulled to the right. He came upon the charred earth, what was left of Aiden's bonfire from several weeks ago. Rafe smiled inwardly. His feelings toward that defiant, moody teenage delinquent had changed considerably, and Rafe concentrated on the responsible man Aiden was growing into.

  The hound continued toward the woods.

  "What's beyond the trees?" Rafe called back to Paddy.

  "Connelly land."

  "How far back?"

  "Not far. There's an old root cellar that straddles Fallon and—" The old man stiffened in his saddle. "They were a group, those kids." The comment sounded more like a walk down memory lane. "You don't suppose..." His voice lowered when he came up alongside Rafe and Aiden.

  "This have something to do with Bren?" Rafe gave him an irritated look.

  "Not sure. I never let on to Tom I knew about their fort. Daniel told me."

  A childhood fort? "Where is it?"

  The old man motioned at the hound heading toward the woods. "It's maybe a hundred yards past the wood line. You'd trip over it. It's buried so—"

  "I know what a root cellar is," Rafe snapped. God, I'm a bastard. The old man was only trying to help. He loved Bren like a daughter. This had to be tearing him up as well. But Rafe's nerves were taut as a lasso with a longhorn steer at the end of it, its horns sharp and ready to jab him in the belly if he didn't come up with a plan of attack.

  "Who knows about it?"

  "The kids—Tom, Bren and Kate, Kevin." He rubbed his chin. "As I recall, even Connelly's son was part of that group."

  He leaned over the saddle. "She never mentioned they had a long­standing friendship."

  "They don't. At least not that I ever knew. Wes ordered that boy around. Wouldn't permit him to associate with farmers. It's just been recent... since Tom's death, he's been around more frequent."

  There it was. What he'd been missing. His body went cold, and it scared the shit out of him. He turned abruptly in the saddle, giving the old man an incredulous look. "You don't think that's odd? The guy has a habit of showing up whenever she's around."

  "I can't believe Robert Connelly would want to hurt Bren."

  "Not hurt. Have."

  Rafe pulled back on the reins and brought his horse to a stop. "Aiden, hang on to Roscoe and dismount. We need to go in on foot." He motioned to a stand of trees at the wood line. "Tie your horse off."

  Rafe made a move to do the same when the old man gripped his arm. "You really think he killed Tom?"

  Rafe considered it. If he was right, Connelly had been coveting Tom's wife for a long time. "I'm not sure. But it makes good damn sense."

  Paddy released Rafe's arm and slumped in the saddle. "I never saw it coming."

  "And neither will he." Rafe stepped down with the shotgun and tied off his horse. He was prepared to end the sick son of a bitch's life if it came to it.

  The old man came up next to him and tied off his horse.

  Rafe hooked his chin toward Aiden. He and the hound were several feet in front with little more than a few yards before the hound entered the woods. Aiden worked the dog well, giving Roscoe words of encouragement. The hound kept a steady pace, his gangly legs and clumsy paws plodding through what remained of the cornfield.

  "He's a great kid." Rafe glanced over. "A bit hardheaded." The old man stood next to him, close enough that their breathing was one. The inner strength and warmth of Paddy Ryan's body was suddenly comforting. Whatever the man had done, he was here now, and that counted for something. That day in his house, Rafe had connected with Paddy's eyes. Brown and murky from age, they'd revealed to Rafe the loss and regret of a decision made under duress. Rafe hadn't wanted to admit it then, but his stance was softening now. "But if his father was anything like me growing up, his hard head will make him fight for what he wants in life."

  The old man gripped his shoulder and tipped his head toward Aiden. "Right now he's got the fight, but if things don't go our way... He can't afford to lose his mother."

  "I can't afford to lose either one of them." He meant it. He loved Bren with an ache. But her boys had carved out a place in his heart, too. "Let's hope it's the fort. Once we find them, call Bendix. Then take Aiden and the dog and find cover." He handed him the radio but hesitated. He wanted to say, "I'll work on this thing"—forgiveness. Instead, he let go of the radio and shrugged. "Your son raised a great kid. Keep him safe."

  Family's not something I'm looking for. What a total ass he'd been.

  Now he wanted it all, and he meant to protect all of them, including the old man, until he could make that happen.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Robert stood behind Bren, his arm around her waist, holding her against him. He caressed her neck, the touch of his fingertips like nails to a chalkboard. She wanted to cringe. But she endured because if he believed she belonged to him, had belonged to him since they were kids, then perhaps he'd be blinded to what she was really up to.

  "The lens loves you, sweetheart." His mouth and hot breath, unbearably close to her ear, made her lips tremble.

  She'd maneuvered him to the table. Pretending to be attracted to him had made her nauseous—touching him, equivalent to charming a snake. But the result put her within an arm's reach of the scissors. The sharp point with its nearness taunted her. No way could she grab it in front of him. Robert wasn't ripped with muscles, but he was tall, agile, and a man—three strikes.

  She needed to turn him around. Put his back to the table. In order to do that, Bren needed to block out her derision for him and focus on the result—escape.

  Bren closed her eyes tight. Turn around and touch him.

  "Robert." She ran her hand along his forearm that held her to him. "Loosen up. I want to see you." His hold gave slightly, and Bren turned in his arm.

  "Better?" The tenor of his voice, edged with his usual concern for her, took on a frightening parallel. This Robert lived within the same body as the other one. She couldn't tell them apart at the moment. His easy smile brightened the strong lines of his fine-boned face. Blue, peaceful eyes watched her with interest.

  She wouldn't be lulled into thinking she could reason with him. This Robert would surely disappear, and she'd be left to deal with the bastard t
hat lurked below the surface.

  "The table's poking my back. How about we switch." She cupped his cheek. Unlike Rafe's, it was too smooth. He was smooth, too put-together. How could he have ever believed she would want him with his perfectly pressed pants, starched shirt, and glaringly polished shoes?

  We're complete opposites.

  "The bed's more comfortable, Bren. I can lie next to you." He said it with such seriousness that every nerve ending she possessed went on alert, and the bed loomed with what he had in mind.

  "We'll get to the bed, baby." Her hand slid down his shirt and rested on his tie. She tugged it. "I thought I'd undress you first."

  He smiled wickedly, hopped up on the table, and pulled her to him, placing her between his thighs. "I'm all yours."

  Oh, yes. He was definitely hers. Only with the height of the table, he'd grown by several inches, and his body blocked the scissors. She could reach them. But she still needed to do it without calling attention.

  Touch him.

  Bren took a breath and continued to work on his tie until she pulled it free. The buttons came next, and she pulled his shirttails from his trousers.

  He unbuttoned his cuffs and pulled off his linen shirt, leaving him bare chested.

  Okay, more skin in which to plunge the scissors. This was a good thing. Except the thought of how she would accomplish it made her queasy. But as accommodating as he was at that moment, seeing he was going to rape her with her consent, the queasiness settled into hardcore survival mode, and she moved to his belt.

  He grabbed her hand. "My turn."

  Shit!

  "No fair," she teased. "You've got far more clothes on than I do."

  He'd put her at a disadvantage when he'd stolen her from her home in the middle of the night. Bren aimed to equalize the situation.

  "How about you give up your shoes and socks?" She touched his arm lightly. "You don't make love with your shoes on, do you?"

  He laughed and kissed her forehead. "Then we move to the bed."

  She smiled back, tried like hell to ignore the wet outline of his lips on her skin, said nothing, and bent down to untie his shoes to remove them. When she'd gone to bed last night, she hadn't dressed for the fight of her life. But she could outrun him if they were evenly matched, and something told her Mr. Perfect had tender feet. She did not. If her aim missed a vital organ or only grazed him, he would come after her. With that in mind, she removed his socks.