"Take your shower. I’ll meet you down there." She reemerged with sneakers on, her eyebrow arched in confrontation should he pursue a debate.
Brett raised his hands and muttered, "Okay, okay."
Pretending to shrug, he ambled past her, but at the last second reached for her arm, and tried for an impish grin. "A parting kiss perhaps?"
Serena’s frown deepened, but a chuckle erupted from her throat before she leaned into his embrace. She was staggered by the sweep of Brett’s mouth and the texture of his naked flesh. Hot flesh. Hot man.
It was impossible to draw away. His teeth were teasing her bottom lip and his hands were under her flannel shirt, touching her through the thin cotton tank top. He caressed the lace rim of her bra and then growled and hauled her against him.
"I’m too old to react like this," he murmured. "What are you doing to me, woman?"
Eyelashes fluttered coyly, but her slight pant betrayed the act. She traced her finger down his collarbone.
"Mmmm, I have plenty of things in mind," she wrenched from his grip and gasped from withdrawal, "which I will do after I have cleaned up downstairs and started serving the lunch crowd."
Before Brett could stop her, she made for the door. Her hand was on the knob.
"Serena,"
Something in his tone halted her as she peered over her shoulder and met those eyes—turbulent and alluring. She stood rooted by that gaze, aware that her knees trembled.
"Last night," A haunting quality mixed with the deep timbre of Brett’s voice. "We didn’t use anything. I could have gotten you pregnant."
Serena’s knees threatened to give way completely, her stomach prepared to stage a mutiny. Condemning herself for being so reckless, she was ready to assure Brett that she would not hold him responsible for—
"If that happened," he whispered hoarsely, "I would be so damned happy."
A sob wrenched from her throat. Her eyes watered, although she was oblivious. Holding his gaze for a second, or an eternity, she yanked the door open and launched into the raw Maine sunrise.
Brett started to go after her, but drew up. Instead, he leaned against the kitchen counter, glaring into his coffee. Recalling Serena’s agonizing wince, he wished desperately he could take the moment back. Of course she would be appalled. She had just lost her child less than a year ago.
He would give her some time alone downstairs. Until Serena’s ghosts were finally put to rest, he could only stand by and do his best to help her withstand the storm. And if his best was to silently love her, well, he’d been doing that since the moment he got here.
He wasn’t about to stop.
Serena slammed the tavern door and leaned her forehead against the frosted pane, unsure which was colder, the glass surface, or her own skin. Her breath clouded the window as she reached up and traced a finger through the mist—a single line spiraling slowly downward until it landed on the splintered frame. With a sigh, she retreated.
Serena surveyed the murky interior of O’Flanagans and grabbed the remote, aiming it at the television. A winter storm warning flashed across the bottom of the screen. It cautioned that gusting winds could cause coastal flooding and near blizzard conditions. Distracted, she stared at the blue glow from the television reflecting off the lacquered counter, and rolled her head atop her shoulders to loosen tensed muscles.
Later. She had to force herself to think about Brett later. Right now she had to concentrate on work.
Serena cast a glare at the residual mess from yesterday’s festivities.
No, dammit, don’t think about Brett cornering you behind the bar. Don’t think about his hot kisses. Dammit, Serena.
Shuddering as she heard the door open behind her, Serena spun around and choked back a gasp. "Oh—Simon." Her hand settled on her heart, but the beat was uneven.
"Mornin’." Simon un-wrapped an ivory scarf from around his neck. He glanced around the establishment, whistling softly. "Well, it looks like you didn’t stick around much longer after I left."
"I was tired."
"Quite an evening, wasn’t it? I spoke to Rebecca. She’s stopping by to pick up some stuff."
"Money?"
"There’s that I imagine, but she made it sound like she had some personal items lying around here."
Kneeling into one of the booths, Serena yanked out a pile of torn streamers and stooped completely under the table to reach a gravy-stained napkin lying on the floor. When she emerged her cheeks were flushed.
"There might still be some of her clothes in the kitchen closet." Now that quick change of clothes Rebecca left here made more sense.
Disgusted by the thought, Serena ignored Simon and slammed through the oscillating kitchen door. Determined to make Rebecca’s visit as brief as possible, she delved through the metal utility closet and systematically pitched the woman’s eclectic wardrobe into a potato sack. Careful not to draw in the scent of perfume as she touched the diverse material, Serena exhausted the closet as a source and moved on to the shelves that lined the wall.
Combing ledges lined by contact paper, she eyed the cupboards that were tucked inaccessibly behind a squat metal boiler. Serena considered these as potential hiding spots for more of Rebecca’s diverse wardrobe and pried herself into the confined space.
Brett stepped into the tavern, his glance seeking, but not finding what he wanted. His first instinct was that Serena was in danger. He started towards the kitchen, but was drawn up short as Simon rose from behind the bar, mechanically patting down a swath of blond hair. The maitre de stared at him, his long fingers splayed across the counter, tapping listlessly.
"Well, well, and how was your evening?"
Uncomfortable under the amused scrutiny, Brett managed a grim smirk. "Unique."
"I bet. Rebecca said she’d be in around ten." Simon peered over his shoulder at both the clock, which read ten minutes before the hour, and at the door to the kitchen where Serena could be heard rummaging. He cocked an eyebrow. "But I bet you knew that already. I bet that’s why you’re here."
Not in the mood for Simon’s coy games, needing to find Serena, Brett moved towards the kitchen. Again the maitre de’s voice arrested him.
"I wouldn’t go in there if I were you. She’s in quite a mood."
Convinced her mood was his own doing; Brett ran a frustrated hand behind his neck. He hesitated at the juncture of the bar, and listened to Serena’s movements. The obvious slam of a cabinet door, even at this distance, made his head throb.
"Perhaps you should have a seat and wait this one out." Simon suggested.
Brett slanted a glare at the sneering maitre de and grudgingly agreed. He hooked his heel onto the brass rail and rested his elbow on the counter in an outward display of indifference. But his gaze kept drifting towards the kitchen.
Already unnerved, Brett muttered an oath as the front door banged open and Rebecca entered in a flourish of scarlet hair and winding hands.
"My God, that’s one hell of a storm brewing out there!"
Rebecca flounced down on a stool near Brett and eyed him sulkily. "I don’t appreciate being stood up."
Glancing at Rebecca first in the mirror, Brett then shifted idly to meet her pouting gaze. "I don’t recall making any promises."
"Typical Murphy," she huffed. "Promises aren’t big on their list."
Brett’s hand clenched around the mug, oblivious to the scalding surface. He would have relished some deprecating reply, but in watching the small whirlwind of provocation, he was reminded that Rebecca was out of a job and most likely pining away over his two-timing brother.
Simon’s hand thudded on the lacquered counter, drawing both sets of eyes his way. "I hate to break up Breakfast at Tiffany’s here, but I’ve got to get going."
Addressing Rebecca, he said. "Look, I need to get my gym bag from the kitchen so I’ll probably slip out the back door, but if you want me to grab your stuff out of there for you—"
"Is she back there?" Rebecca sulked.
&
nbsp; "Umm hmm, it’s why I offered."
"And why are you suddenly so chummy with me?" Her cool voice drawled. "Last night I was no better than a two-bit whore."
"Becky, honey, I would never consider you a two bit whore—" Pale eyes rolled in dramatic innocence. "I know you’re raking in at least ten bucks a pop these days."
"Ugggg!" She would have launched over the bar, her red nails extended like talons, but Brett’s hand restrained her.
"Let go of me, goddamnit."
"Cool down." Brett waited until Simon disappeared behind the swivel door and the tension poured out of her before he released her.
Rebecca sighed in frustration and laid her head on the bar, atop her crooked arms.
The zeal of anger fled as Serena sagged against the wall and blew her bangs out of her eyes. Her crazed search produced two fake cashmere sweaters, a pair of jeans, several lipstick containers and a silk negligee, which she disdainfully dunked into the potato sack. Along with these feminine items, she was surprised to locate one of Alan’s college yearbooks, and even more astonished to discover it stuffed with bank statements between the rigid pages. Recognizing their account number, and cringing at the withdrawal figures, she was reminded how close he could have come to putting her into bankruptcy. Through the years, her focus had been on the O’Flanagans account, which fortunately Alan couldn’t touch. But damn, she should have paid more attention.
Just another slap of reality.
Serena lifted her hair off her shoulders, feeling the heat emanating from the boiler as she eyed the last cabinet tucked deep in the corner. She glanced behind her and tried to listen over the low drone of the furnace. Should she forego this remaining cupboard for another day when there wasn’t so much to attend to out in the dining room? Mulling over the small panel, she speculated that it held more clues to Alan’s treachery.
In order to reach into the tight space, she squatted on her knees and yanked open the cabinet door. At first she was disappointed to discover it empty. Determined, she thrust her hand inside the dark confines and rummaged to the back end, her fingers seizing around a hefty envelope standing on its side. Drawing it out, while sweeping her fingers one last time for any remaining objects, she stood up and back-stepped hastily to get away from the furnace that now made her skin glisten.
Serena turned over the slim unmarked canary envelope and unwound the string, drawing out a stack of official documents stamped with the State of Maine insignia. Initially she was baffled as to what she was even looking at. Knowing Alan, she expected it was some deed to land that he did not own. She read on and discovered a government contract approving Class III gaming for the county adjacent to theirs. Puzzled, she read more, learning that the National Indian Gaming Commission had petitioned to engage in Class III gaming, a category that allowed all forms of gambling, including slot machines and table games. As she continued to scour the legal jargon, she realized that they had consistently been rejected. Flipping the stapled page over, Serena discovered a signed testimony from the District Court permitting the Class III status. The third page was a duplicate of the second, yet the signature of the judge was left blank, making page two extremely suspect.
Hah. If she were a gambling woman, she would bet the signature was a fraud.
"Oh, Alan, what did you get yourself into this time?"
Had he played with fire—been burned?
Folding the letters back up, Serena tucked them into the envelope and planned to review them later with Brett.
Thinking about Brett set her heart racing again as she reached out to grab the counter, suddenly feeling lightheaded. For a moment she had panicked when he pointed out their lack of discretion. If she were to become pregnant, she would do everything possible to protect the infant, no matter how wrong the circumstances of its creation.
But when Brett opened his mouth, it was not condemnation that he expressed; it was a heartfelt need to share with her. The pain and love in his eyes had overwhelmed her to the point that she needed to run.
Perhaps too many years with Alan had made her a masochist.
Brett made her believe in the impossible, but Alan’s ghost made her believe she wasn’t worth it.
Serena scowled at the papers in her hand, and the potato sack of clothes on the tiled floor.
She was worth it. And she was going to prove it to Brett.
Lodging the envelope under her arm, she nudged the sack with the tip of her boot.
Her deliberation was interrupted.
Pain, fast and intense at the base of her skull launched her into a bleak world where ghosts reigned.
CHAPTER XXIII
The ornate hand of the cuckoo clock crept towards its apex as Brett shifted his foot off the pedestal. Anxious, he eyed the kitchen door. Rebecca was immersed in her depression, be it theatrical or real, and he figured at this juncture she was inconsolable.
Determined to have it out with Serena and eliminate the anguish in her eyes, Brett launched towards the kitchen, but a billow of wind from the main entrance made him waver.
As murky as the light was outside, it was bright enough to eclipse the figure in the open doorway. The door slammed shut and John Morse’s lanky form sauntered forward.
Morse’s loose ponytail released errant locks of black hair that trickled down his brooding face. He glanced indifferently at the glum female who barely lifted her head to acknowledge him, and then he advanced, heedless of the challenge in Brett’s glare.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Brett asked roughly.
"It’s a bar. I want a drink."
"The bar is closed." Brett challenged as Morse settled down on a stool at the far end.
Morse extracted five singles from the back pocket of grease-stained jeans and thrust the money towards Rebecca’s outstretched hand. "Get me some whisky."
An amber eye squinted open, peering at the money. She grabbed it with a vindictive "hmmmph" and rounded the bar to pour his shot.
"He’s not staying." Brett threatened, pressing in on the man.
Morse skewed him a spiteful glance. With a shrug, he tossed back the shot glass and slammed down the tumbler, nodding at Rebecca. "Another."
"You better start talking, Morse."
Something in the undercurrent of Brett’s voice seemed to rouse the man from his indifference. He swiveled in his seat.
"Ms. Murphy has something that belongs to me."
Muscles tensed in rage as Brett barely resisted the urge to attack Serena’s stalker. He had to keep Morse talking, if only to find the rationale behind his actions.
"And what might that be? An unlimited supply of Ole Grand Dad?"
"Cute." Morse snorted into the bottom of his shot glass. "Seeing as you have spent so much time with your grieving sister in-law, you might have come across some paperwork her husband has for me."
Unable to feign composure any longer, Brett stepped away from the bar, bearing down on Morse.
"Sorry, can’t help you. For that fact, neither can Serena, but if you want to let me know what it is you’re looking for, I’ll be sure to keep my eyes open."
"Yeah, right." Morse’s pockmarked face stared disdainfully at Brett’s reflection in the mirror.
"Were you into a little extortion maybe?" Brett goaded, dimly aware that this man was responsible for his throbbing headache.
"Hah, that’s funny coming from a Murphy."
Impatient and angered to the point of losing his cool, Brett grabbed the collar of the man’s denim jacket and hauled him off the barstool.
"Don’t confuse me with my brother," he paused, but his grip did not relent. "Now let me ask you again, what is it that you think Mrs. Murphy has in her possession? What gives you the right to torment her every night?"
Wrenching out of the vise-like grip, Morse muttered some healthy oaths and sailed the shot glass down the bar. He growled at Rebecca who was watching with unabashed curiosity.
"That damn well better be on the house." He shifted his attention back t
o Brett.
"I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about," he continued, "but you’re goddamn brother has caused enough damage between the Pasamaquoddy and the Penobscot, that if I don’t get that altered document before it falls into the wrong hands—there could very well be bloodshed over this."
"It seems to me there already has been." Brett’s voice was ice. "If you hadn’t of killed him, maybe you could just ask Alan for the damn thing." His eyes narrowed. "Or was it that he didn’t cooperate?"
"Jesus Christ." Morse swiped a hand over his face, perspiration glossing his wide forehead. "You got it all wrong. But hey, I don’t have to defend myself with you."
"There you would be wrong."
Hanging on their every word, Rebecca moved a step closer to the phone mounted on the wall. The motion drew Brett’s attention, concerned that Serena picked this moment to emerge from the kitchen.
Preoccupied, he followed Rebecca’s red nails to the receiver. The piece of paper taped to the wall beside the handset was the focus of his attention. Staring at it, he felt a lick of the Atlantic breeze invade the Inn.
"Go to hell, Murphy." Morse challenged.
Distracted enough to ignore the man, yet aware enough to be primed should he attack, Brett strained to see across the bar. Reading what seemed to be a grocery list, he grimly realized that the writing was an exact replica of the love note in Alan’s desk.
"Rebecca," Brett’s voice was hoarse, "is that your list?"
Puzzled that he was not concentrating on the imminent battle, Rebecca glanced at the sheet on the wall, and heaved a sigh.
"No, that’s Simon’s. He better friggin pick that stuff up today for the Black Friday rush." Shrugging her shoulders, she continued. "What the hell do I care anyway, I don’t work here anymore."
Her words were lost to Brett as he felt the vise of panic cinch around his stomach. "Serena," he whispered in desperation.
Brett launched through the oscillating door, into the empty kitchen where he saw the back door banging restlessly in the wind. For a moment he stood rooted, captivated by sporadic glimpses of the frigid hell outside.
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