by Lora Leigh
“Stay silent,” Noah hissed in Rory’s dark face. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
Rory’s expression was frankly disbelieving. But Noah would have been surprised if he’d reacted any other way.
“You have one chance to know what I know about your brother,” Noah warned him quietly. “One chance. Blow it, and it will never return.”
Rory’s eyes narrowed. Startling blue eyes, true Malone eyes.
“My brother’s dead,” he bit out quietly. “What could you tell me about him that my uncle couldn’t?”
Noah leaned closer. “Bràthair, what could I tell you that you want to know?”
Then Noah leaned back again slowly. Rory was shaking. His dark face, Gaelic dark, paled as he stared back at the shadow hovering in front of his vision.
Noah moved back slowly, still gripping the rifle. “Come with me.” He jerked his head to the shed at the edge of the house yard. “Does he still keep the shed lit?”
There was no answer, but Rory was following. They stepped into the shed and Noah closed the door carefully before flipping the light on.
Rory collapsed on the old chair in the corner and stared back at him. His gaze was dark with pain, anger.
“I thought you were my brother,” he whispered. “Hell, I hoped you were.”
Noah watched as his brother rubbed his hands over his face and shook his black head.
Noah removed the night vision glasses he wore. A new toy the unit was playing with. One he had taken advantage of. He stared back at Rory, realizing the color of the eyes he saw every morning in the mirror was wilder, bleaker, much darker and more dangerous than his brother’s.
Rory blinked.
“Do you still sneak in here to smoke?” Noah asked, remembering how his brother used to slip a cigarette when he thought no one would catch him.
Only he and Rory had known that.
Rory’s hand shook. He gripped the arms of the old chair and stared at Noah as though he could force himself to see what he needed to see.
“Who are you?” Rory finally breathed out painfully, his voice filled with more disappointment than Noah had expected. “And what the hell do you want?”
Noah shook his head. “I don’t have time for games, Rory.”
“You’re not Nathan,” Rory whispered.
“I’m not the Nathan you remember.” He moved to the wardrobe in the back of the shed, opened the small door in the bottom and extracted the bottle of whiskey he knew his grandfather kept there.
He hid his spirits from his Erin, he would always grin when he slipped a sip. Even though his Erin was dead, his grandfather continued the tradition.
Uncorking the fine imported Irish spirit, he tipped the bottle to his lips and took a healthy drink. He didn’t grimace as it went down, he savored it. Recapping it, he returned it to the drawer and turned back to Rory.
The boy was staring at him now as though he had seen a ghost.
“No one knows about Grandpop’s stash,” he whispered.
Noah nodded shortly. “You knew. I knew. Grant never knew.”
Rory breathed out roughly. “You stopped calling Grant dad after you found out about me.”
Noah lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “He couldn’t be your dad, then he was no dad of mine.”
Rory shook his head as though to shake the confusion clear. Nathan almost felt sorry for him. He didn’t have time for pity though.
He grabbed an old wooden chair and pulled it to him. Straddling it, he stared back at his brother.
“You’re not making sense,” Rory said, his voice forceful. “You’re not Nathan, but you know the things only he knew.” The younger man’s gaze looked him over desperately. “Who are you?”
“Nathan’s ghost.” He sighed. “I’m Noah Blake, Rory, and you can’t ever forget that. From this second on, believe Nathan is dead, because that man is long gone. Only Noah exists.”
And still Rory was trying to find Nathan within him. Noah watched the desperation in his brother’s gaze, felt it lashing at his soul.
“I need your help, Rory.”
“My help?” Rory shook his head again. “Hell, I don’t even know who you are.”
“You wouldn’t have known me even five years ago,” he told him. “Hell happened. Death happened.”
“Sabella?”
“Doesn’t know.” Noah’s voice hardened. “And no one’s telling her. I wasn’t joking, kid. Nathan Malone stays dead.”
Rory stared everywhere but at him for long, tense moments.
“Damn you!” The boy got to his feet, anger churning in his face now. “You son of a bitch! You’re not Nathan. And you know how I know you’re not Nathan?”
Noah stared back at him remotely. Pushing the emotion back was the killer. Hell, he’d thought it would be easier than this. He had told Jordan, a walk in the park. This wasn’t the park, it was a bleak nightmare.
“I’ll tell you,” Rory snarled. “You’re not Nathan because Nathan wouldn’t be here.” He stabbed his finger at the floor of the shed. “He wouldn’t be here with me right now, he’d be taking care of his wife before someone else decided to do the job for him.”
Before Noah realized the lack of control festering inside him, before Rory could guess his intent, Noah lifted him by the throat from the chair and threw him against the wall. Pinning him there he snarled back in Rory’s face.
Rory looked as Nathan had once looked. He was built as Nathan had once been built. Or as Noah had. They could have been twins at one time. They could have been born of the same mother and father, rather than different mothers.
Rory was a younger Nathan. And Noah bet he remembered how to laugh.
“Have you touched her?” Ice seeped inside him. It filled his voice, filled his soul. “Did you comfort her?”
His hands tightened around Rory’s throat. He could see it. Rory touching her, holding her, as Sabella whispered Nathan’s name, whispered forever. His hold became tighter.
His Sabella. Sweet, soft, warm. Forever whispering in his ear. She had promised him forever. Was she giving it to Rory instead?
“Nathan?” Rory was choking as he stared back at him in shock.
Tears filled the boy’s eyes, darkened them. “Nathan,” he wheezed. “Oh God. Oh God. You’re alive. You bastard!”
Noah deflected the kick, the fists to the kidneys, and the younger man’s choked curses. He released the hold on his neck, twisted his arm behind his back and flattened his face to the table next to the wall.
“Did. You. Touch. My wife?”
“I should have,” Rory cried, half sob, half enraged bellow. “I should have. You son of a bitch. You son of a bitch. You’re just like him. Just like that heartless little bastard that made you.”
Rory laid his head on the table as Noah released him and his shoulders shook. He kept his forehead pressed into the wood, and a sob tore from his throat.
Noah flexed his hand, staring at it, his jaw tightening until he felt it would crack as he stretched his fingers and realized, they had been wrapped around his brother’s throat.
“Get out of here!” Rory straightened, keeping his back to him. “Get out.”
“I can’t do that, Rory.”
He turned furiously, his eyes blazing as he sneered back at Nathan. “Granddad cries when he talks about you. When he sees Sabella struggling with that fucking garage. Trying to survive. He tried to help her and that son of a bitch father of yours took damned near everything he had. And here you are.” He flipped his hand back to Nathan, fury filling his face. “The big tough warrior the old man had such pride in. Six years, Nathan. Six years and where the hell have you been?”
Noah lashed out, pushing him back in the chair as he glared back at him. “Watch it, boy,” he bit out. “Keep pushing and you’ll get more than you want.”
“I got more than I wanted when I felt you watching the place this afternoon,” he snarled, anger pushing past fear.
“I’m back, that’s all that ma
tters.” Noah rubbed his hand over his short beard. “This isn’t as simple as why I didn’t come back. It’s not even as simple as having the option to come back for a damned long time. I’m here now, and I need information.”
“That’s what they make computers for.” Rory was three seconds from attacking him again and Noah knew it. The boy had that damned Irish pride and temper.
“Listen to me, you little shit!” He moved over him vengefully. “Look at my face. My body. Do you think this shit happened because I wanted to be someone else? Because I wanted my life fucked up the ass and back? Look, Rory. Look at the scars. You want to see my back? How about my legs? You want to see the hole they cut in my foot? Will that help?”
He jerked back, furious, enraged. So much for control. He hadn’t let his control snap in more than five years.
He inhaled roughly. He wasn’t going to let it snap now, not any further than it had already.
He turned back to his brother and pushed back the emotion. The horror in his brother’s eyes wasn’t what he’d wanted to see.
“Belle’s not the same without you,” Rory whispered. “She’s sad all the time. All she does is work. All she does is close herself off. She’s not even the same girl anymore. Any more than you’re the same man.”
Noah clenched his jaw, his fists. He couldn’t talk about Sabella. Not now. Not yet.
“Tell me about the Black Collar Militia.”
Rory blinked. “BC?” He snorted. “I stay outta that shit. I remember the whipping you gave me before you left, okay?”
“I didn’t ask if you were still stupid,” he growled. “Tell me what you’ve heard.”
Rory licked his lips and looked away for a second. “Two of Belle’s mechanics are BC. Low level mostly. No one knows what’s high level. The little twits like to brag sometimes. Mostly they run errands, crap like that.”
Noah straddled the chair again. “When did they start working for Sabella?”
Rory narrowed his eyes at him. “You always called her Bella, Nate.”
“Rory, don’t piss me off again.” He sighed. “Answer my questions. And you call me by that name again and I’ll bust your head. My name is Noah Blake.”
Rory flinched before tensing and shaking his head.
“Hell.” He breathed out roughly. “A year or so ago maybe. All the guys working for you left that first year. Belle was in bad shape for a long time. When she finally came out of it, she was on the verge of losing the house and the garage. I couldn’t keep it running.” His expression twisted painfully as he stared back at Noah. “I tried,” he whispered. “But I couldn’t keep it going.” He shrugged. “And Belle, she’s a hell of a mechanic, but she doesn’t have good people skills, ya know? Getting things back up and running has taken all our time.”
Sabella, a mechanic? Noah held back his total disbelief. That one he would have to see to believe. And no people skills? Who had kidnapped his wife and replaced her?
“Just tell me about the militia,” Noah growled.
Rory pushed his fingers through his hair. “I simply don’t know much.” He shook his head. “I’m pretty sure Mike Conrad associates with them. I know he’s hot for the garage since news came you were dead. He’s made Belle an offer a few times, but she refuses to sell. Sometimes Mike gets a little drunk, and when he does, he’ll run his mouth, but he hasn’t spouted off about anything dangerous yet. Sheriff is a badass, he could be in it, but with him who the hell knows. There’s rumors the BC are involved in some of those deaths in the National Park, but, like I said, rumors. Hell, Noah, I’ve been so damned busy just trying to keep the wolves away from Belle that I don’t have time for that crap.”
Noah nodded. He hadn’t expected Rory to know a lot.
“You’re giving me a job at the garage. You hired me tonight. You met me last month when you were at that bar in Odessa.”
Rory gave him a surprised look. “You know about the bar?”
“And the barmaid,” Noah grunted. “I showed up this afternoon, found you heading back here and stopped. We chatted. You offered me a job.”
Rory stared back at him confusion. “And Belle?”
“Won’t know who I am,” he told Rory quietly. “And if you tell her, Rory, if you even hint it to her, you’ll disappear until all this is over, you understand me?”
He stared back at his brother. There was no anger now, no emotion. The ice was falling back into place.
“But Bella’s your wife,” Rory whispered painfully. “You almost stayed away too long, man.”
“I’ll take care of Sabella, my way.” He rose from the chair, staring down at Rory with hard eyes. “Do you understand me, Rory? My way.”
Rory nodded hesitantly.
“Stay here tomorrow. Sleep off that drunk you’re going to tie on tonight. Don’t show up until you can get a handle on this.”
Rory grunted. “Then I guess I’ll see you next lifetime.”
Noah stared back at him silently for long moments.
“Fine. Day or two.” His brother shrugged.
“And you don’t tell Grandpop either,” Noah warned him.
Rory shrugged. “I won’t tell, doesn’t mean he won’t know. You know Granddad.”
Unfortunately he did. Riordan Malone always seemed to just know things. It had been creepy as hell when he was a kid, comforting as he grew older. And now, now it was just worrisome.
“Why Noah?” Rory asked the question Noah couldn’t answer. “Why the name, and why are you back here for the BC and not your family?”
Bitterness filled his brother’s voice, his expression, and Nathan was damned if he could blame him.
“I’m back because the BC threatens my family,” he stated, his grating voice harsher, darker than it should have been. “As for the name.” His lips quirked. “It’s Irish. Now keep your eyes and ears open. I’ll tell you more as I can.”
Rory gave him a mocking sneer. “Fuck you, man. You know, you’re right, Belle doesn’t need to know who you are. She has a second chance now; maybe this time, she’ll get a man that will stay home a while.”
Noah froze, he didn’t even blink. “Meaning?”
“You should have checked things out a little before you came back and accused me of touching what’s yours. It’s not me you have to worry about, Noah. Try worrying about your good friend Duncan Sykes. She’s been seeing him since his divorce a year ago.” Rory’s smile was mocking. “If I were a betting man, I’d bet she’ll be letting him drive your truck soon.”
Noah pushed back the demon rising inside him. Long of fang, sharp of claw, it tore at his brain, threatened his control, his ability to think.
Duncan Sykes.
No. It hadn’t happened. Bella hadn’t been with another man. No other man had touched her. No other man would dare. Because he would kill him. And he would have known.
Noah slipped back into the night as silently as he had come in. He made his way back around the house, moving quickly, staying in the shadows until he reached the canyon where he’d left the Harley, more than a mile away.
He was aware of Rory trying to track him, but the kid wasn’t experienced enough. He’d lost sight of Nathan seconds after he left.
But there were other eyes, old eyes, tear-filled eyes, that watched every stride he took with pride, love, and fierce exultant joy.
Dawn wasn’t far way, but rather than returning to the command center to catch a few hours’ sleep and report to Jordan, Noah pointed the Harley home instead.
He couldn’t get it out of his head. Sabella was seeing someone? Was she sleeping with his old friend Duncan Sykes? He had to know. He had to see her for himself, feel her, know she belonged to him even though he knew he couldn’t have her.
Six years. He couldn’t be reborn. Nathan Malone was dead in more than just name. The man he had been was dead. The man Sabella had loved was dead. Had she found someone to replace him?
He couldn’t consider it. Over six years without her touch, without the soft
scent of her. He couldn’t take another woman. He couldn’t bear the thought of it. His vows held him. Sabella’s soul held him. He couldn’t have her, but he couldn’t have anyone else either. Could he bear to know she was in another man’s arms?
He turned down an old back road and pulled the Harley into a shelter of trees, turned the ignition key, and swung off. He began the short hike that would take him to the back of the house. The two-story brick house sat at the edge of town. There were no neighbors close enough to see him if he came in on the lower edge of the property. He just wanted to stay a minute, he told himself as he moved through the predawn light, keeping to the shelter of trees that bordered the backyard.
He had nearly stepped into the yard before he stopped. Came to a hard, freezing stop and just stared at the vision that stepped out on the back porch.
His reaction was like a fist to the gut, threatening to double him up. It was the immediate, violent erection in his jeans. It was his heart rate increasing, the blood rushing through his veins hard and fast. His breathing felt restricted, locked in his throat. His fingers curled against his palms, forming fists so tight the bones ached.
He stared at the woman, the man’s long white shirt falling past her thighs, gaping open to reveal the white tank top and boyshort panties she wore beneath. She lifted a cup of coffee, the steam curling against her face as dawn edged in, lighting the yard, the porch, and the woman with gold and violet rays.
“Sabella.” He whispered her name.
Rory had noticed his slip. He had always called her Bella, unless he wanted her. Unless the need to be buried inside the velvet-soft, rich warmth of her body had been overwhelming. And it had never been as overwhelming as it was now.
He imagined he could smell her scent in the air, a blend of honeysuckle and feminine warmth. Against his palm he imagined he felt the heat of her flesh, silken and giving, lifting to him, her lips whispering his name.
He remembered several times, many in fact, that he had taken her on that back porch. He’d lifted her astride him as he sat on that swing. He’d bent her over the railing and buried into her from behind.
