Red Lace (The Hard Men of the Rockies)

by Kym Roberts

  “Because a man knows better than to kiss and tell, grandma. You taught us that.”

  Ty looked over at the kid standing in the doorway, the one who got the panty-dropping-good-looks in the family. He couldn’t help but relax the scowl he normally gave his kid brother. His lips might have even curved toward the bright lights above his hospital bed. Pride and fear for the kid—too young and too successful too soon—filled his gut.

  Ty might have smiled…if the stupid son-of-a-bitch would stop racing down a path of recklessness at every fucking opportunity. He’d warned him not to follow in his footsteps—footsteps filled with knee-deep shit. But his little brother wouldn't listen. His head was thicker than Rosie’s, and his level of common sense ranked right down there with Ty’s.

  Knox ignored his tightened jaw and refused to give up his mission to make Ty laugh no matter how long it took. It was tradition. If his presence wouldn’t earn a smile, then he’d move on to making ridiculous facial expressions. Like the current dip of his chin and the rollercoaster waggle of his eyebrows. He puckered his lower lip in a way that would have embarrassed Jim Carey.

  Ty’s happiness slipped just a tad.

  And Rosie’s breath hitched. Her eyes filled as she watched her youngest grandson slouch into the room like he owned it. From the trail of nurses giggling in the hallway, Ty had no doubt Knox Beckinsale would have the entire surgical floor begging for autographs within the hour.

  And the media would be right behind the football star. Fuck.

  “Kid, you are more trouble than you’re worth. Get over here and hug your grandma before she up and dies from shock.”

  Rosie’s feet never hit the floor. Knox had her out of the chair and turned Ty’s hospital room into a ballroom reserved for toddlers, grandmas, and men who would never grow up. The squeals of happiness from Rosie and Knox as she spun around in his arms belonged on a playground.

  “I wasn’t giving you permission to kill her,” Ty warned and his smile finally slipped into something real.

  Chapter Four

  “Your records have been sealed, and you’re registered with an alias in the hospital. If anyone checks, especially if that someone happens to be a reporter, you’re a domestic violence victim named Brad Williams with broken ribs.”

  Ty breathed a sigh of relief that stabbed between his eighth and ninth rib. “Thank you, I appreciate your help. I really didn’t want my family exposed to my past. Again.”

  “I didn’t do it for you. Or your family. The Service doesn’t need your history repeated in the media. It’s bad for our reputation.”

  Ty nodded. He would have said the same thing. But knowing that didn’t stop the pressure on his chest from feeling like the rib-plating surgery protecting his hearts and lungs…had failed.

  “And while you’re in the hospital, tell your big shot little brother to stay away.”

  Ty nodded again. Bit his tongue. Because Go fuck yourself, you little prick would have lacked kinship and honor. No gentleman in a dark suit would ever be that crass or vulgar. Unless it was used to camouflage the acts of another…

  No, Ty didn’t say a word. His face remained bland and bored as he held the gaze of the Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the Denver Secret Service Office. His left fist, out of sight under the sheet, clenched in a tight ball.

  But the man in front of him wasn’t stupid. With the honed skill of a seasoned agent, his eyes located the tension. Ty felt, rather than saw the slight turn of his body. The move of a warrior preparing for battle in the air, his posture and the I’m-not-backing-the-fuck-down glint in his eyes.

  Ty wanted to laugh, but it would hurt, and ASAC Artino wasn’t worth the pain.

  With one last look, Artino turned toward the door. “I trust you’ll keep your hands to yourself while you’re in town.”

  Artino’s bait almost caught. Almost. Ty clenched his teeth and left the enticement on the line to rot. He knew his reputation, and couldn’t blame Artino for believing the worst…he was the worst. Almost.

  Yet he should acknowledge the code of trust, shouldn’t he?

  “I’m at a loss for words. Trust isn’t something I expected you to extend.” Without warning, the worst in him rose…reared its raunchy head and shredded the agent’s last lure. “There is this one scrap of red lace, however…naughty as hell…”

  Artino stopped, his back stiffened. If he could get taller, he did, like a dog raising his hair to let its opponent know he was the alpha in the room. His voice a low, deadly growl.

  Barely audible—clearly heard. “Touch it, Beckinsale, and I’ll bury you. One dead woman by your hands, is enough.”

  The door closed softly, as if completely unaware of the thick violence stirring between patient and visitor. Ty starred at the closed door, daring the agent to return. He inhaled through his nose. Made his lungs fill and his chest rise, then enjoyed the nine knives stabbing and twisting in between each one of his ribs. The exercise—necessary. The pain—deserving.

  “Fuuuck…” he exhaled and closed his eyes. Then did the exercise ten more times until his mind calmed, his heart slowed, and his blood pressure fell.

  A knock at the door, pushed everything back to fight mode but the head that stuck in the opening didn’t belong to Agent Artino; it belonged to his cousin Adam.

  “If your favorite cousin receives that kind of greeting when he comes bearing gifts,” Adam pulled a bottle of whiskey out of his jacket, “how ugly is your expression when you’re facing a guy with a gun?”

  Ty grinned. “Pretty fucking ugly.”

  “Hmmm. I thought as much.” His cousin’s smile grew as he walked into the room with the bottle in one hand and a carryon suitcase in the other.

  Ty dumped the water out of his Styrofoam cup into the flowers on his tray table and held it out for his cousin to fill, then winced when his ribs made him remember his range of motion sucked. He set the cup down and waited. A shot of whiskey was exactly what he needed.

  Adam Holder was just one of several cousins who had looks to match his success. Ty didn’t care about the looks. Women somehow liked his rough and tumble appeal. And, well, his shot at success had come and gone. He’d walked his path, knowing his own bad choices created it. Now he just hoped he was the only cousin to get the dumb-fuck gene. One dumb-fuck per generation, that’s what Rosie always said. Except her version was more along the lines of, ‘one stupid-gene per generation.’

  Adam began pouring the amber liquor into the cup. “That scowl wouldn’t have anything to do with Agent Artino, would it?”

  Ty’s jaw tightened, locking harder than the screws holding the titanium plates to his bones. He should have killed the son-of-a-bitch. “What’d he do, warn you about the sadist behind the door?”

  Adam looked up from the cup and screwed the lid back onto the bottle. “Easy, killer. Artino and I played football together at Colorado State.”

  “Fuck.”

  “That’s what he said, when I told him you were my cousin.”

  “I’ll bet he did.”

  “He doesn’t know the truth about Mexico, does he?”

  Ty scoffed, the noise sounding high and hollow. He wasn’t sure he knew the truth. “Artino knows what the media reported and the office gossip fueled.”

  “So, he doesn’t know shit.”

  Ty smiled and nodded. Then held out his hand for the drink he could almost taste.

  Adam pulled back the bottle, and the cup. Held them tight against his chest as he made a tsk, tsk, tsk noise that sounded dangerously close to the beginning of a childhood scolding from Rosie when she caught them stealing cigars out of their grandfather’s dresser drawer.

  Adam’s voice even had Rosie’s singsong tone. “I couldn’t possibly give alcohol to a medicated man. It might have dangerous side effects.”

  “Then what the fuck kind of gifts are you bearing?” Ty asked.

  Adam’s head fell back as he swallowed the alcohol in Ty’s cup with one swift shot. His eyes closed as he sav
ored the smooth burn, his satisfaction evident on his smartass face and heaven sent sigh. “My cheerful smile…” He tossed the empty cup in the trash and put the bottle under his arm.

  Ty shook his head, vowing payback as soon as his ribs healed. “Thanks. That’s all I need.”

  “Actually,” Adam’s eyes flickered as something calculated formed in his all-too-intelligent mind. “I’m supposed to tell you about a discreet place to rehab. It’s out of the way, exclusive, and it’s near Rosie.”

  Ty shook his head, “My income isn’t exactly in your pay scale—”

  “You don’t really have a choice. Agent Artino set it up.”

  “Excuse me?” There was no way that SOB did anything for Ty.

  “Yup, he told me it was the only place you could go that they could keep your name out of the media.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to pay for an exclusive rehab facility?”

  “Oh, it’s covered by the victim’s assistance program. But you’re supposed to keep Artino’s name out of it.”

  Ty figured as much, but something felt off. “If it’s exclusive, who’s name am I supposed to give?”

  “Mine. Just tell the manager I sent you. She’ll take care of you.” Adam’s cell phone rang before Ty could ask any more questions and he watched his cousin’s mood changed from light and teasing, to seriously not happy.

  “Hang on a second,” Adam pushed mute on his phone. “I gotta go. The name of the rehab facility is Achilles’ HeAl with an ‘A’. It’s right outside Fort Collins. They’ll be waiting for you as soon as you get released.” Adam reached out and gripped Ty’s hand, taking sadistic pleasure in pulling it away from his chest and shaking it twice.

  Ty’s lips pressed together in a toothless grin, enjoying the pain he would return at the family football game in December. “Christmas?” He asked.

  “Wouldn’t miss it. Give Rosie my love, I’m going to have to take a cab back to the airport before I get to see anyone else. There’s a new case…”

  The door silently closed once again. But this time, Ty didn’t want to pull it off its hinges. No, this time he looked forward to payback being a bitch.

  Chapter Five

  Just a sprain. A sprain and a pain in her butt. Except it wasn’t the injury causing her panties to bunch uncomfortably. Sports related injuries were her game. She lived for them, granted it was normally on other people, but she excelled in the business of rehabbing injuries of the rich. The jocks, the actors, the models, even the business moguls. Too much success equaled little privacy. And little privacy didn’t equate to a speedy recovery of the pampered variety.

  Only Faith didn’t pamper, nor did any of her physical therapists at Achilles’ HeAl. She worked her clients hard and got them back on the court, the field, the set, the office and even the runway. The fashion runway was probably the hardest. The ultra-beautiful didn’t want to follow her diet. They didn’t want muscle. And they certainly didn’t want to wear wraps over ankles, knees or elbows.

  Aerobics, they embraced. Rest and massages they absorbed. Diets of liquid grass and vitamins they inhaled. They were her hard-core, most difficult patients.

  Until eight days ago.

  That’s when Faith found her worst client ever—looking at her in the mirror. She’d dutifully spent a week on crutches and laying low, (when everyone was looking) but she had to get back to work. Two weeks early. Doctor’s orders be damned.

  Because her manager had up and quit. Just like that. No notice, no thanks for taking a chance on me…again. Just I’m sorry, I fell in love with a client and I’m leaving Achilles’ HeAl. Scribbled in a note taped to the front door with the electronic card key card for the parking garage in an envelope.

  Poof, he was gone.

  Men were totally un-re-lie-able.

  Luckily for Faith, Achilles’ HeAl was home. So when the doorbell rang at the business with the melodic tones of the bells from an ancient cathedral, it also rang in her section of the nine thousand square foot home that was proving to be a major pain in her foot. Her lead trainer, Alena Kaye, stood in the doorway with her eyebrows raised, her breath fogging in the cold February air, waving that piece of information Faith really didn’t want to see.

  “I think I might be the bearer of bad news.”

  “I don’t think I want to see your bad news.”

  “You’re more than likely going to have to accept the bad news.” The envelope made a slapping noise against Faith’s hand and Alena walked in, rearranging two bags of groceries in her arms.

  “Your hair looks especially nice this morning. Going for a new look?”

  “Funny.” Faith wrinkled her nose at her best friend and closed the door and tore open the letter. She leaned on her crutches, not bothering to smooth out the rat’s nest forming on the top of her head from a fitful night of no sleep.

  She read the letter out-loud in her best imitation of her former manager’s lover-of-the-year voice:

  “I regret to inform you that I will no longer be able to manage Achilles HeAl. I have found that I cannot, can not stay in Colorado since my love has returned to California. I will text with my forwarding address. Thank you for everything.

  Truly yours,

  Phillipe

  Alena snickered, a sound that said they’d been here, done this before—many times.

  Faith’s shoulders dropped as she scrubbed her face with the palm of her hand.

  “Who’s he in love with this week?” Alena was trying to hide her amusement as she raised the back of her hand to her face to scratch her nose and blocked her grin with a bag of groceries. She didn’t succeed. Her smile showed through like a Hollywood spotlight.

  “Sara Wilde.”

  That got her attention. “The singer?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Wasn’t she a client—”

  “Yes, she was a client. Isn’t that who he always falls in love with despite all the rules I have in place?”

  “Yet you keep taking him back, every time he falls out of love.” Alena turned and headed toward the kitchen.

  “I’ve never seen someone be able to fall in love, fall out of love and maintain amicable relations with every former lover the way Phillipe does. You wouldn’t believe the return clientele I have from his past lovers, and the recommendations. It truly is miraculous.”

  “He’s kind of leaving you high and dry at a really bad time.” She turned in the doorway. “I’m sor—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “But it’s my faul—”

  “It was my decision every time. I didn’t have to listen to your spiel and take him back the first time…or the fifth time. I created this mess, not you.” Faith stuck the letter in her hoodie pocket and clunked her way over to the front desk to look at the bookings for the day. Each squeak of her crutches on the marble tile reminding her of stupid mistakes. Squeak one—she shouldn’t have taken Phillipe back. Squeak two—she should have hired a new manager last time. Squeak three—she should have never saved that thug in the woods.

  She really needed to stop counting.

  “I’m going to put the groceries away. I’ve got five appointments today. Rafe sent me a text. He’s got the flu and he had a couple people lined up.”

  Of course he did.

  “Okay. I’ll see what the book says.” Faith rounded behind the deep rich olive wood counter, and leaned her crutches against the veined Carrara marble desktop. Then she ceremoniously plopped down in the leather chair she’d ordered at the direct request of Phillipe.

  The rat.

  Flipping open the leather-bound appointment book, she looked at the day’s schedule. And of course her absentee-sure-to-be-back-in-a-month manager had booked a new client without giving her any insight about his needs. Brad Williams was scheduled as Rafe’s last client of the day. He had a local address listed but no phone number. In the note section it read:

  Faith: Adam Holder paid for client through June.

  He said hi &
to take good care of the guy.

  Adam Holder? Seriously? This day could not get any worse. Faith knew about Adam’s clientele. Adam Holder was a criminal defense attorney who represented the rich and famously stupid. His clientele was dirty and used their money to get off, at least that’s what the media reported. And why would she doubt the reports? His latest defendant was all over the news with a mocking grin that belonged on the big screen for a modern day version of Catch Me if You Can.

  Faith’s clients were the exact opposite—hard working, butt-busting type-A personality clients who had to get back to work. Not because they needed the money. Oh, no. The people walking through Faith’s doors were driven by a refused-to-quit-til-I’m-beyond-dead attitude. Their wealth did not come from money laundering, like Adam’s current case. Faith’s clientele paid for her physical rehab services through earnings made from hard work and entrepreneurial minds. All above board.

  This Brad Williams was not famous. Or rich. Or registered locally for any social media accounts.

  He reeked of trouble—the kind of trouble Faith avoided at all possible costs. Until last week of course, but that didn’t count.

  Chapter Six

  A cab. It was either that or have Rosie drive him to rehab in her 1990 Jeep.

  Not in this lifetime.

  The Jeep would have been fine—if his ribs were intact. Their current state, however, called for something a little smoother, much to Rosie’s disappointment. She wanted to see the world renowned Achilles’ HeAl, rehab facility for the richy riches of the world.

  “Maybe in a couple weeks, Grandma,” he’d said as he kissed her cheek and hightailed it out of her house at breakneck speed. Of course he was talking about his neck, not hers. She could beat him to the bathroom at his current rate.

  He loved the feisty old lady who’d convinced his parents not to risk flying, driving or skiing across the country to be at his side. She’d also kept his secret. As far as anyone else in the family knew, Ty had broken his ribs skiing.