Ciaran ducked his head, and his lips quirked upward. “I’d hardly have anything other than conversation in mind given her current condition…and her lack of inclination.” He gave the dog a pat on the belly. “Besides, we’re well chaperoned.”
Matt huffed out a breath. “Fine. I’m going to go see if I can’t move this doctor along. Why the fuck they think no one else has anything to do but wait on them I’ll never know.”
When Matt left, Loralei looked at Ciaran and steeled herself. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
He shrugged as he absentmindedly scratched the dog’s belly and set the pug’s back leg to trembling furiously. “Then you can listen to what’s been on my mind…I owe you an apology.”
She looked away. “You don’t owe me a damn thing, and even if you did, it’s way too late for an I’m sorry.”
He moved closer, seating himself on the edge of the bed next to her. “You can hate me forever. You’re entitled. But you have to know I didn’t mean to hurt you. That was always the last thing I wanted to do.”
“Is that why you blow hot and cold? Because you’re trying not to hurt me? It’s a piss-poor strategy.”
“No,” he replied. “I’m not good at relationships. Never have been. I should have stayed in the damned army. I’m not fit for much else. But when I met you, I thought… No. I didn’t think. I wanted and I took and then I ran. I was a coward, and I’m not proud of it. But, right now, there are more important things. I’ll keep you safe, mavourneen. You might not trust me for anything else, but you can trust me for that. ”
“You said that last night.” Her voice was soft, pitched low. When she’d woken this morning, she thought perhaps she’d dreamed the whole thing, until Matt had begun outlining his plan for her continued well-being. Just as before, Ciaran’s words left her off balance and uncertain, but then he had always been good at keeping her off balance.
“I meant it then, and I mean it now. All this, me and you, it’s just until you’re safe. Then everything goes back to the way it was. You’ll be shed of me for good if that’s what you want.”
Loralei shook her head. “I don’t think I can do this.”
He reached out and traced one of the long scrapes that covered her hand. “I don’t think you have a choice. He targeted you, love, specifically. They want your brother’s focus on you and not on them. Until he’s finished with this, you’ll not be safe. The Russians don’t fuck around. They are brutal and effective, and if they want you dead, they’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen. And if they don’t want you dead, they might make you wish you were. They’re set to make an example of your brother, and they’ll do that by going after what he cares about the most. Right now, that’s you.”
Loralei shuddered. She didn’t want to recall just how brutal. It had been the element of surprise that saved her the day before. He hadn’t expected her to fight back, and if he cornered her again, she wouldn’t have that advantage. “Fine.”
Just as she capitulated, the doctor walked in looking harried while Matt strolled in behind him looking victorious. The doctor frowned at the dog, but after a surreptitious glance at her less than pleasant-faced brother, wisely said nothing. “Well, Miss Crawford, you’re free to go. The nurse is preparing your discharge instructions. You’ll need to return in a week to have the stitches removed. You were very lucky.”
“If I were that lucky, I wouldn’t have needed stitches,” she replied drolly.
The doctor’s frown deepened. He clearly did not understand humor. “The nurse will be in shortly.”
It was only a moment later that the nurse shuffled in with a wheelchair. “Oh, no,” Loralei said. “I’m not going out in that.”
The nurse shrugged. “You can go out in the chair, or you can stay here. It’s up to you. Either way, that creature goes. He’s drooling.”
Loralei glanced over at Churchill, who, sure enough, was in fact drooling. She knew just how skilled Ciaran’s hands were, and for just a moment, she was jealous of the dog.
“Get in the damn chair, Lor,” Matt said. “I’m sick of this shithole.”
Loralei rose from the bed and then climbed into the wheelchair. It offended her to the depths of her soul. “Fine.”
“I’ll get the truck,” Ciaran said, handed her the dog, and walked out.
“I don’t like this,” Loralei said to Matt as the nurse pushed the chair down the hall. She cuddled Churchill close and tried to figure out how the hell she was going to get through this.
“I don’t care.”
“Asshole,” she said bitterly.
“Yep.”
Ciaran walked around the truck and opened the door. He didn’t have to help her in. Her brother would do that, but there was no point in giving the man even more reason to despise him. It had rocked him to see Loralei in such condition. Even with the pound of makeup Kaitlyn had slathered on her face, the bruises were glaring on her pale skin.
Her injuries, all things considered, weren’t that severe. A total of twenty-seven stitches between the wound at her shoulder and the ones on her thigh and her ankle, but no one had to tell him how much worse it could have been. She’d been damned lucky to have gotten by with such minor injuries, and if she faced off against the bastard again, the outcome would be very different.
Taking the dog carrier from her, which was empty of course, as the damn dog was cuddled close to her chest, he placed it behind his seat. She loved the thing though it had less than two brain cells to rub together. It had driven him crazy the way she carried on over the little beast,, but at the same time, he’d found it endearing. Her need to rescue animals and the way she melted at the sight of any baby animal had charmed him. And he’d almost lost her.
That thought kept running through his mind, but on its heels came another thought. She wasn’t his. She could have been, would have been if he hadn’t been such an asshole, but he’d blown it. All that was left was to keep her safe and do his best to convince her he wasn’t the worthless shite he’d behaved like.
So he stood there like a third wheel, looking like a dumbass, as Matt helped her from the wheelchair and into the truck. When the door closed, Matt turned to him. “Your job is to make sure no one else hurts her. My job, if you hurt her again, will be to make your life hell. We clear?”
“Crystal,” Ciaran replied with a nod. It goaded him, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t earned their distrust. Walking back around the truck, he climbed behind the wheel and met her questioning gaze. “Your brother doesn’t trust me,” he said.
“Should he?” she asked skeptically.
Ciaran smiled. “Probably not. Let’s get you home and settled. You look like hell.”
She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. “Where’s that silver tongue now, Irish?”
“Ask me when you’re better and I’ll demonstrate,” he shot back.
“Oh, no. That’s not happening. Not ever again.”
We’ll see, he thought, and turned the key in the ignition.
The ride to his farm wasn’t a long one. They managed to avoid the worst of the day’s traffic. Heading out of town toward the horse country that spanned Fayette and Woodford Counties, it was only twenty-five minutes before he was parking the car in the driveway in front of his small house.
He’d bought the small farm that butted up against Grant’s property not long before their break up, if it could be called that. Since then, Loralie had been noticeably absent from Ash Grove farm and had visited Kaitlyn DuChamps-Ashworth much less frequently. He knew, because he’d been watching for her small car every time he’d heard one pass his house.
Kaitlyn had gathered clothes and toiletries for Loralei earlier in the day and dropped them off, along with her own dire warnings and threats. It had been something akin to peeling his testicles like a grape. He hadn’t said much in return. She was Loralei’s friend, and given what a shit he’d been, she was entitled to hate him. Not a one of them could loathe him as much as h
e loathed himself. Hurting Loralei out of his own stupid pride and petty insecurity had been one of the lowest things he’d ever done.
No changing the past, he reminded himself as he took the keys from the ignition. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. The place hadn’t changed much since she’d been there last, but he’d managed to add a bit in the way of furnishings. He’d bought a bed, mostly because he couldn’t bear to sleep in the one he’d shared with her.
“It’s never been the lap of luxury, but it’ll do for the time being,” he said.
“I liked your house, Ciaran. I liked it then, I like it now. The house was never the problem.”
He tried to see it through her eyes. Compared to her home, it wasn’t just modest but poor. Loralei had inherited her house from an aunt, and it was prime real estate in the downtown area and reflected the difference in their social status like nothing else. “Don’t lie. It’s a shit hole.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “No. I don’t say things I don’t mean, Ciaran.”
It was a direct hit, piercing the skin and digging deep. He’d meant everything he said to her except for the hateful words that had escaped him during their last argument. But those were the words she’d always remember. The minute he’d uttered them, he’d seen the hurt in her. He’d wanted to stop, to apologize then and try to repair the damage, but that ugly voice had been whispering in his head: end it now, walk out on your own terms before she dumps you for someone else, you’re not good enough. It wasn’t the first time those thoughts had pushed him into acting like a total shite.
“Come inside, then. I did at least shovel the dirty clothes out of your way,” he said, his voice gruff with things he couldn’t quite bring himself to express. Loralei had no idea just how special she was, and the worst part of it was, he’d done nothing to show her. If she doubted where she stood with him, he had no one but himself to blame.
It was mid-afternoon, and the bar was nearly deserted. Only a few patrons nursed their drinks, heads bowed over them. A few women danced on the stage, none of them making much effort. The people who were there wouldn’t tip anyway. No one made eye contact with anyone else.
Sergei entered and immediately moved toward the only occupied table. In the back corner, two men sat at the table watching him approach. Their partner had instructed him not to kill the cop’s sister, but he was not the only man Sergei answered to. Others had said she should die, and he feared them much more than the dirty cop.
Nervous, he touched the claw marks on his face and neck, courtesy of the fat bitch of a sister. Eliminate the woman, make it ugly enough to shift the cop’s focus and teach him a lesson. Now, not only was the sister not dead, she was a witness who could tie it all together.
“I hope that dead bitch is lying in the morgue without her fingers,” Ivanko said. “DNA evidence fucks everything up.”
“She’s not dead,” Sergei admitted, taking the last remaining chair at the table.
Before he could seat himself fully, it was kicked from beneath him, and he sprawled on the floor. “Bastard!” Ivanko shouted.
Dimitri spoke then. “Enough from both of you! We did not come to this town to make spectacles of ourselves and act like fools for the locals. We brought our product here because it is an untapped market. All this is still true, even with the minor obstacle we have encountered. You have twenty-four hours, Sergei, to make this right. That is all our policeman can provide us. Twenty-five thousand does not buy loyalty, only rents it.”
Sergei righted the chair and took his seat. “I will get her, Dimitri. I promise.”
“I know you will. Now go and get yourself cleaned up.”
Sergei rose and walked away. As he left, Ivanko looked at Dimitri. “That’s it? You’re going to just let him walk away? This could fuck us, Dimitri!”
Dimitri sipped his drink and paused thoughtfully. “No. Sergei is a threat now. He must be eliminated. I know where the girl is. Our rented policeman has been thorough. You will go with him, you will be certain the job is done. When you drive him out to the country, you do not drive him back. Understood?”
“And the girl?” Invanko asked.
Dimitri shook his head. “We don’t have time for dramatics. Make it quick. Just put a bullet in her with Sergei’s gun. We’ll let Crawford stew in his grief and guilt because he failed to protect his sister.”
Ivanko smiled. “It has been too long since you got your own hands dirty. You could come with us.”
Dimitri took another sip. “I take no pleasure in the killing, only the spoils. Get it done, Ivanko.”
3
Hours later, settled in Ciaran’s small house with a John Hughes marathon running on the television, Loralei glared at him from the couch. “I don’t understand why we couldn’t stay at my house! I have a business to run. I still need to go to the shop and try to put everything back together,” she protested.
“And if your customers get shot while they’re trying to buy one of your pretty dresses, you won’t have a business left. As for your house—no security, no protection from the street, too many entrances and exits, and impossible for one man to secure,” he replied, checking the windows and drawing the blinds. There was no point in advertising their presence.
“I don’t think I can do this…I can’t be locked up in here with you for days. Not without killing you or going crazy.”
Ciaran smiled, but not in humor. The truth of the matter was, he felt the same. Loralei had gotten under his skin in a way no woman ever had. She thought he’d walked away because he didn’t care, but it was just the opposite. He’d walked away because he cared too much, because she made him feel things and want things that he wasn’t ready for. “You wouldn’t be the first to try and put an end to me, but if you could manage it in your condition, I’d damn well deserve it.”
She muttered something that sounded like “asshole” and then, with some difficulty, managed to stretch out on the couch. He didn’t offer to help her. She’d made it abundantly clear that she didn’t want him touching her. That hadn’t always been the case. Memories of her overly feminine bedroom, draped in ruffles and lace, of Loralei stretched out on the bed, purring like a cat beneath his questing hands, clamored in his mind. But always, he’d left her alone, sneaking out into the night while she slept.
She’d never stayed overnight at his house simply because he never let anyone do that. The nightmares made him dangerous. Waking up in the darkness with another human being close to him wasn’t a good idea. Having her in his home, guarding her twenty-four seven was a kind of enforced intimacy that could only lead to complications. But maybe it was time to complicate his life a little. Walking away from Loralei hadn’t done a damn thing to erase her from his mind.
“You need to take your pills or you’ll wake up hurting,” he reminded her gently.
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t need you to tell me what to do!”
“Yes, you fucking do. You’re only being hardheaded about this because I’m the one who said it. Good advice is good advice, Loralei, regardless of where it comes from. I’ll get the pills, and I’ll get you a drink, and you’ll bloody well take them!”
As if she hadn’t protested, he retrieved a Diet Coke from the fridge, knowing it was her beverage of choice, and placed it next to her elbow along with the pill bottle. Churchill, a noble name for an ignoble beast, was snuggled on the back of the couch, panting as if he’d run a marathon. “I’ll make us some dinner,” he said. “Take the damn pill.”
He walked away, headed for the kitchen. Her muttered curse followed him along with the sound of the rattling pill bottle. She might put up a fight for appearances sake, but at the end of the day, she was nobody’s fool.
Loralei, in spite of her silver-spoon upbringing, was a practical woman. Of course, the silver spoon had been yanked from her mouth fairly early on in life because her controlling bitch of a mother thought poverty would inspire Loralei to lose weight. He shook his head thinking about it. Hi
s own family, at least on his mother’s side, had been fucked up. As for his father’s family, they were an unknown quantity.
It was hard to imagine any family being as massively screwed up as the Crawfords and not have them imploding on daytime television. Matt was difficult to take and Loralei had her share of issues, but as they’d been birthed and raised by a bloody iceberg, it was a miracle they weren’t both locked up in the nuthouse.
The time he spent in the kitchen helped to calm his temper and give him back a bit of his hard-won control. She was in his head and under his skin. It wouldn’t go well for either of them. But cooking, as always, helped. It reminded him of growing up on the small farm just outside Quin.
His grandmother hadn’t held to the notion that a man shouldn’t cook and clean after his self. She’d put him to work, and he’d discovered he had an affinity and a knack for cooking. It calmed his mind, soothed his ragged peace, and by the time the meal was done, he felt like he could face her again.
Filling two plates, he carried them into the living room. It was simple fair, roast chicken with potatoes and carrots, tasty without being too heavy for her. Given the amount of pain medication she was on, that was important. As he walked in, Churchill opened one eye, yawned loudly, and then promptly went back to snoring.
“Damned lazy beast,” he muttered.
“An old Irish recipe?”
He laughed. “No. I think this might have been the Barefoot Contessa…or Martha Stewart. I can’t recall for certain.”
She frowned. “I just don’t see you as the type to sit around watching cooking shows all day.”
“I like to cook. My grandmother taught me the basics…but the fancier stuff I picked up while I was recuperating from a bullet. I was at this hospital in Germany, and one of the nurses was a fan of American cooking shows. She brought me what she had on tape while I was stuck there.”
He'd never told her those kinds of things before, he realized. Every word out of his mouth had been guarded, every secret held close and tight. The fear that she'd reject him if she really knew him had created a chasm between them. No, he corrected. He had created a chasm between them. Looking at her, bruised and battered, but alive and once again within reach, he'd tell her anything she wanted to know if it meant he could just keep her. ~
Ciaran (Bourbon & Blood) Page 3
