by Jo Raven
“Reporters,” Storm spits the word out.
“The gardener I saw…”
“… was no gardener,” he finishes for me. “Someone must have seen us on the beach and reported it, then the vultures came around to investigate the rumor. I should have seen it coming.”
Reporters? Why would anyone report seeing us? It’s not like I’m anyone famous or anything. This is so weird.
I want to ask Storm about it, but he looks pissed, mouth a thin line, a smudge of dirt on his jaw, and when he takes a step back, his knee starts to fold beneath him.
Both Hawk and I reach for him.
He lets me wrap my arm around him and stops Hawk with a lifted hand.
A hand that’s still wrapped around the gun.
“Whoa.” Hawk lifts his hands. “Easy there, buddy. Put that down.”
“Maybe we can chat later,” I mutter. “We should be on our way.”
The feel of Storm’s hard body pressed to mine feels ungodly good, steadying me as much as I’m steadying him, and I try to ignore it. To ignore how the mere touch of his skin on mine both calms and excites me.
He clicks the safety on and points his SIG down. “Are you sure the place is clean?”
“The police are sweeping the grounds as we speak. I’ve called a car for you. Safer that way.” Hawk shrugs those broad shoulders. “If you’re ready to head home, that is.”
“That’s fine,” Storm grates out.
“We can drop this little lady anywhere she likes.”
I stiffen, and Storm’s arm tightens around me.
“She’s with me,” he says.
“Come on, man.” Hawk gives a long-suffering sigh and wipes his massive hands down his thighs. He’s taller and wider than Storm, a Viking of a man. “She’s the reason you almost got shot again, isn’t she?”
I hang my head.
“What the hell did those guys want?” Hawk goes on, tilting his head to the side. “The shooters. Shooters, dude. What the hell?” He turns and nails me with those light eyes. “What did you do, girl?”
“That’s none of your business, boy.” Fighting back is my instinctive response, and besides, who the hell does this guy think he is? I’ll be damned before I let over six feet of muscle call me a girl, because he’s taller. And wider. And stronger.
Damn. Storm is all that, too, and he’s never looked down at me like that.
“Let’s go.” Storm starts walking toward the exit, pulling me along. “She didn’t do anything, Hawk. Just got unlucky. Like me.”
“Does that mean you admit it?”
“Admit what?”
“That you’re suffering from delusions of persecution.”
“I’ve no idea what you mean.”
“Course you do.” We step out, into the driveway and the police car parked haphazardly there. “I looked this shit up when you vanished. Come on, Storm.”
“Know what?” Storm turns toward his friend, still holding on to me. “Fuck you. You think I’m delusional? Go to hell.”
Uh-oh.
“Fine. You’re welcome for the rescue, by the way. Don’t be so goddamn grateful, it’s embarrassing.” Hawk sighs and rubs his eyes. “Oh, and if you need to talk to your best friend, you know where to find me. I’m also heading home, tomorrow. I’ll be seeing you around.”
***
I fully expect the police to interrogate us as to what happened and who the shooters were, but Storm takes one of them apart, tells him something and we are free to leave.
Hawk is leaning against a huge black bike, arms folded over his chest, looking bored, while Storm leads me to a shiny limo.
“How did you convince them?” I hiss at him as he opens the car door for me. “And where the hell did you get a car like this?”
“It’s Hawk’s,” Storm says, as if that’s self-evident.
“His?” I glance back once more at the guy who’s now straddling his Harley and pulling on leather gloves. “He looks like a biker.”
Storm snorts. “He does, doesn’t he?”
And doesn’t reply to any of my questions.
The seats inside are soft white leather. There are foldable tables, like in a plane. The driver is separated from us by a dark glass pane. I turn away from the flashing lights of the police cars parked alongside.
Every muscle in my body is tense and on edge. I might be unhurt and the shooters gone, but something’s very wrong.
“Okay, Storm.” I square my shoulders. “What’s going on? Better start talking.”
“Bossy.” He isn’t smiling, though. He’s sitting as stiffly as I am, staring down at the gun that’s still in his hand. “This isn’t how I pictured us talking.”
“Talking about what? About Hawk?”
He glances up, brows arching. “Not about Hawk, no.” He taps the glass partition, and the limo rolls away—away from the mansion, away from the beach where I found refuge for a few days. Where I thought I might be safe for a while.
“Now…” He puts the gun on the seat beside him and rakes a hand through his messy hair. “How about some wine?”
Wine? Is he serious? “How about some answers?” We roll down a long street, flanked by mansions and more mansions. It’s cool inside the limo, and a shiver runs over my skin, raising goosebumps. “Why would anyone be hanging around the house, taking photos? Does it belong to Hawk? Who the hell is he?”
“I said this isn’t about Hawk.” He presses a button on the partition and a door slides back. Lit blue, a cooler appears, filled with wine bottles. “Champagne?”
What is he playing at? I just stare at him, his warm blue eyes, the face I’ve caressed and kissed, and don’t know what to think. He lifts two fluted glasses from the cooler, lowers my table and places them there. Then he grabs a bottle and unscrews the wire, then pops the cork with a soft crack. He fills the glasses with bubbly wine, spilling some outside.
It’s not the movement of the car, which is smooth as if it runs on air. No, for the first time today his hands are shaking. His expression is guarded, closed off.
“I don’t want any,” I whisper, the cold inside me turning to ice.
He gulps his down, then shrugs and lifts the bottle to his lips and drinks some more. “I wish he’d stocked up on some Scotch.”
Christ, I can’t take this anymore. “Say it. Whatever it is.”
He lowers the bottle, which I can’t help noticing is considerably emptier, and grunts. He leans back and scratches at his cheek.
This is bad, I can tell.
“Ray… I haven’t told you everything. I don’t think it changes anything, but you may disagree.”
Really? “You said you’re not a criminal.”
“I’m not.”
Okay. Good. “Then what is it? Did you lie to me about those accidents? Were you the one behind the wheel? The one who hit the other car? Was it—?”
“Whoa, whoa.” His eyes widen. “No. I haven’t lied to you. I just haven’t told you everything.”
“About what?”
“About me.” He rubs his eyes with his fist. “About who I am.”
“Who you are.” What. The. Hell. I wish I could pace around. Instead I grip my hands together. “Your name isn’t Storm, is it? I just knew it. You lied to me all along.”
“Dammit, Ray. I told you, I haven’t lied. This is what everyone calls me. My real name is Troy, but nobody has used it since my parents died.”
“Troy.” I try to contain my anger. I fail. I’m so disappointed—and I set myself up for it. How many times have I told myself I was insane to believe this was true? “Well, nice to meet you, Troy. So awesome that you trust me enough to tell me. I mean, we’ve only been fucking for, what, four days now? Or is it five?”
“Raylin—”
“No.” I’m so done with this. And here I was, thinking I could trust him. I tap on the glass. “Stop the car.”
He grabs my arm. “Hear me out, dammit. My name is Storm. Has been since I was six. But yeah. I was born
Troy. Troy Jordan.”
I jerk my arm free and he lets go, his mouth twisting in a grimace.
Troy Jordan. “And why couldn’t you tell me this earlier? Anything special about your name I should know? What’s the frigging big deal?”
His eyes widen again, and it’d be funny if I wasn’t so pissed.
Then it hits me. Like, square in the chest. A roundhouse kick. “Jordan. You said the Jordans own the house.”
He nods, sagging in relief. “Yeah. They do.”
“They’re relatives of yours?”
He opens his mouth, closes it again. Then his lips twitch. “Ray… The house is mine.”
“Yours?” I squint at him. Yeah, he’s still the guy I saw trimming the hedge, tanned and tattooed, his hair too long and his hands callused from manual work. “You’re kidding me.”
“It was my uncle’s. He left it to me in his will when he died.”
No way. “You’re totally shitting me.”
He says nothing. Silence settles over us, filling the car.
Jesus frigging Christ. He’s not joking.
I push my hair out of my face, twist it at the back of my neck. “Okay, you own the house. Your uncle owned a mansion in Boca Raton. Fine. I believe you.”
He’s observing me. Watching me put the pieces together.
“So he was rich. Like, very rich.”
“Something like that,” Storm says, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
“And you think this has to do with the accidents?”
He blinks. “You think someone is trying to kill me to get this house?”
“Man, I’ve known people killed for a cell phone. For that house?” I tsk. “Absolutely.”
He shakes his head, laughs.
“What?”
“I’m telling you my uncle left me a mansion and that’s your first thought?”
I fold my arms over my breasts. “Why, what should have been my first thought? Go on, tell me. I bet you’re dying to.”
“Come on, Ray. I’m rich. I can pay off your dad’s debt. I know that was your first thought.”
“Fuck you.”
He shrugs, his mouth twisting. “It would have been my first thought, too.”
“You’re a bastard.” My heart thumps hard. “I wouldn’t ask this of you. It’s your house.”
“Ray.” His voice is low and flat. “You think a fucking house is more important to me than your life?”
I have no answer to this. Because if my family thinks money is more important than me, why would Storm, perfect Storm whom I barely know, do that for me? I look away, press my forehead to the window.
My anger is gone, pushed aside by sadness. There’s only so much space inside my heart.
“Your life matters,” he whispers, and his voice softens. “You matter. To me.”
I bow my head, my eyes burning. He takes my chin in his hand, turns my face toward him.
“I’d never ask you for this,” I say. “I wouldn’t want you to—”
“Shh.” His thumb caresses my cheek. “I’d give all I have for you. But don’t you see, Ray? Haven’t you connected the dots?”
My head aches so badly. “No.”
He stares at me, eyes narrowing. “Baltimore. Jordans.” He waits for something, but I have nothing to say. “Ray. I’m the Jordan heir. Don’t you know who the Jordans are?”
I swallow. “… Rich people? Sorry, I stay offline to avoid leaving tracks, and I rarely buy magazines.”
He chuckles, and for the first time in what feels like days, a real smile spreads on his handsome face. “Very rich. Jordan Enterprises. Developers and Investors.”
That definitely rings a bell.
“You’re their son?” I remember a scandal some years back. The only son and heir to the Jordan Enterprises seen in seedy bar. Bad boy Troy skips town.
Troy Jordan. Heir to millions.
Holy shit.
“When my parents died, my uncle took over until I turned twenty-one. He died before I reached that age, but now I’m twenty-one, as of last week, and I can claim my inheritance.” He pauses. “I can pay your father’s debt. And I will. Because I want you to be safe.”
“This is nuts,” I mutter, my breath hitching, my brain aching as it tries to wrap around this. “Totally nuts.”
“Sorry I didn’t tell you from the start,” he says. “I guess my trust issues are bigger than yours. But this is the truth.”
“If you’re telling the truth, then...” Jesus Christ on a pogo stick. “Why say you’ll help me out? You can have anything and anyone you wish for. You don’t need me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” He leans in, his breath caressing the shell of my ear. “I need you, Raylin O’Brien. You’re my one bright light, the only person I can trust in the whole world right now. Even more than myself.”
PART II: BULLETS
Chapter Twelve
STORM
We’re flying back to Baltimore. My private jet, a Gulfstream G450, is waiting for us at the Boca Raton airport, notified by Hawk to come pick us up.
I get out of the limo and go around to open Raylin’s door. She climbs out and stands on the tarmac, in her torn shorts and blouse, her long dark hair whipping in the wind.
Alive. Unharmed. Unbearably beautiful.
“You okay, Ray?”
She nods. She hasn’t spoken a word to me since our little talk. I think she’s in shock. I take her hand, and she lets me guide her to the plane. A flight attendant is standing on the ground, waiting for us, dressed in a formal skirt and jacket.
Going back home.
Swallowing my reluctance, I help Raylin up into the dimness of the plane. We take our seats around a table, and the attendant comes to see what we would like to have a drink. Raylin just shakes her head, so I ask for juice. Despite drinking a whole bottle of champagne in the car, I’m parched.
And famished.
The attendant—Sondra, according to her name tag—brings us blueberry juice and a tray of warm prosciutto-and-fig sandwiches and lobster rolls with fresh chives and tarragon. She has barely set it down when I’m stuffing my face with everything, barely tasting it.
Takes me a while to realize Raylin is just staring at the tray, frowning.
I sigh and swallow the rest of my sandwich. “Come on, Ray. Eat. It’s good. I’m sure you’re hungry.”
She picks a roll, sniffs it. “I’m not…”
I wait, but she never finishes what she was about to say. She looks… nervous.
No, scared. She’s fucking scared.
“Hey.” I pat the empty seat by my side. “Come here.”
For a moment I think she will refuse, and I prepare to go around and get her, push her until she tells me what is wrong.
But she gets up and pads over to me. She’s still barefoot. We both are. In the rush of adrenaline, I didn’t even notice. I’m still only in my surfing shorts.
Shit, Baltimore will be a lot cooler.
Making a mental note to tell the flight attendant to call for clothes before we arrive, I wait until Raylin has sat down, and then I drag her to my side, wrapping an arm around her. She feels so slight and fragile pressed to me. I’d do anything for her.
I don’t think she realizes it.
“Is this a private jet?” she whispers.
“Yeah.”
“Yours?”
“Yes.”
“How is this…? I don’t…” She never finishes her questions.
“Eat first. Try this.” I take a lobster roll and lift it to her mouth. She makes a grab for it, but I lift it higher. “Uh-uh. You had your chance to eat on your own. Now I’m gonna feed you.”
She glares up at me, but opens her mouth when I offer her the roll and bites. Ignoring the way she makes me go hard just by sinking her small, white teeth into the damn roll, I feed her more. Something inside me relaxes as I make sure she’s okay. We’re entering my domain now, my world, and she’ll need my help and reassurance.
I need to show her nothing between us has changed, in spite of the private jet and lobster rolls. Truth is, I was so much happier eating frozen lasagna and microwave popcorn, but going back is necessary, and not only because the beach house now has some extra ventilation holes. Which, by the way, I should have someone fix and set up the alarms before the house is cleaned out.
Already the pressure returns, stress tightening my chest. Not because of the beach house, but because of everything my return implies.
That I accept my place as the heir of the empire my grandparents and my parents built. That I’ll take the bloody throne and become just like them. Live, and die, like them.
“Troy…” Raylin nudges me in the ribs. “Storm.”
I blink and find myself clutching the glass of juice so hard it’s a miracle the glass hasn’t cracked. I put it back down. “Yeah?”
Her mouth twitches, like she’s holding back a smile. “You okay?”
Tension seeps out of my shoulders. “Yeah. I am.” Now I am, seeing her smile. “And you?”
“Better.”
She presses her small body closer to mine, and I tuck her head under my chin, closing my eyes, suddenly exhausted. “I’ll keep you safe, baby. Trust me.”
“I do,” she whispers against my chest, sounding as tired as I feel. “I trust you.”
And that’s enough for me right now. More than enough. That’s everything, and the beginning of more.
***
She wakes up when we land, tensing in my arms, and I stroke her face until she relaxes again.
“Have you ever been to Baltimore?”
She shakes her head minutely, her pretty mouth pursed.
“You’ll like it.” Hell, I’ll make sure. I’ll give her everything she wants. Take her anywhere she likes. And, first of all, I’ll pay off that fucking debt that’s putting her life in danger. “You’ll see.”
She gives me a sleepy smile, and I kiss it off her lips, lick it off like crystal sugar. She tastes like that, sweet and addictive.
We roll to a stop and the plane’s engines wind down. “I asked for clothes,” I tell her, unwilling to move and let her go even for a minute. “We can change here. A car will be waiting for us.”
