by Nina Lane
“One of the reasons.” He filled the coffee grinder and watched as the blades pulverized the beans.
“What are the other reasons?”
He didn’t respond, his expression set. A sudden trepidation rolled through me.
“Dean, what—”
I stopped when Dean glanced to the doorway. The sound of heavy footsteps preceded Richard West’s entry into the kitchen.
“Morning.” Richard strode in dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt, smelling like cologne. “Liv. Dean. Coffee ready?”
“Couple of minutes.” Dean filled the pot with water. “Dad, Archer is back.”
Richard frowned. “Where is he?”
“Upstairs. He said he’d traveled most of the night.”
“If your mother gives him anything, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“He comes to me because she won’t.”
“She’d better not. You make sure of it, you hear?” Richard picked up the paper and snapped it open.
Animosity radiated from both men. Dean glanced at me, the lines in his face easing into a forced smile.
“What do you want for breakfast, Liv?”
“Just toast, thanks.”
“Happy Thanksgiving.” Joanna West entered the kitchen, dressed in a straight linen skirt and blue silk blouse, her hair and makeup done perfectly. “It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day out.”
She paused to kiss Richard’s forehead. He ignored her.
“So much to do before our big dinner.” Joanna went to the coffeepot. “I told Alma to make both pumpkin pie and pecan this year. Oh, and those maple-syrup carrots you like so much, Richard.”
I looked at Dean. He was watching his mother. A sudden pain filled his eyes, one that seemed both ancient and weary. My chest constricted.
Dean lowered his gaze to his cup. In that instant, I saw him as a child reading books about knights and stories of a boy detective who solved mysteries and made things right. I knew that Dean had been trying to do the same thing for years.
But to no avail.
“Oh, it’s lovely, Joanna! So delicious.”
The West home buzzed with women’s melodious voices and men’s liquor-enhanced laughter. A crowd of at least forty people—friends, relatives, neighbors—milled around the house and terrace. An elaborate Thanksgiving buffet stretched across the dining room. Richard West manned the bar, while Joanna fluttered around ensuring everyone had enough to eat and drink.
I made an effort to socialize, watching with amusement as matronly and not-so-matronly women fawned over Dean and batted their eyelashes at him. I caught snippets of conversation about Archer West, faint murmurs of disapproval.
Archer sat out on the terrace, his feet up on a wooden chair, chatting amiably with anyone who stopped to greet him. Paige West, stunning in a clingy, tie-dye print dress and dangly silver earrings, basked in the glow of attention from several young men.
The afternoon sun shone bright and cool, shimmering on the grass. An orange tree swayed in the light wind. Laughter floated. The aromas of herbed turkey, roasted apples, fresh-baked rolls, and pumpkin pie drifted in the air.
Dean maneuvered through the crowd with the ease of a blade cutting through silk. He’d spent the first hour beside me, introducing me to guests and being attentive, until I insisted I’d be fine on my own. Still, his gaze met mine every so often, as if he were keeping an eye on me while he joined conversations and asked if he could get anyone anything.
As an observer, I saw it in full force—the ideal West family with the successful, wealthy parents and attractive children. The flaw of Archer’s rebelliousness marred the perfection just enough to make them even more intriguing.
After most of the food had been devoured, the men gathered in the den to watch football while the women gossiped and fixed coffee.
“You ever been to California before, Olivia?” Archer West pushed a chair away from the patio table and sat down beside me. Too close.
“It’s Liv,” I said, edging away a little. “And yes.”
“Yeah? Where?” His voice was friendly, conversational, unlike the sly tone he’d used earlier that morning.
“LA,” I said. “And Santa Cruz.”
Santa Cruz was just over the mountain, less than forty-five minutes away. My heart clenched at the thought of Twelve Oaks, of North.
Archer lifted a hand to shield the glare of the sun. “Otherwise you’re from Wisconsin?”
I nodded. “Where do you live?”
“Wherever the wind takes me.” He gave me an engaging grin, his teeth flashing white.
“Do you work?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Doing what?”
“Wow.” He leaned forward, studying me with a gaze that was unnervingly like Dean’s. “Third degree, huh? You majoring in law?”
“Literature and library sciences.”
Archer laughed. “Good lord. No wonder you like big brother.”
I got the dynamic. Archer was the baby of the family, the messed-up dropout who couldn’t hold a job and tried to mooch money off his mother. And eldest brother Dean was the responsible overachiever who excelled at everything.
“Hell of a starched shirt, though, isn’t he?” Archer continued. “He was like that as a kid. No surprise. Got all his weekend homework done on Friday night. Took AP courses. Was always on time. Class president. Football hero. You name it, big brother succeeded at it. He could do no wrong.” He shook his head. “Jesus, the fawning that went on over him…”
“Resent it much?” I asked, unable to prevent the challenging note in my voice.
“Nah.” He shrugged. “No one has any expectations for the screw-up.”
No one had had any expectations for me either, but that was exactly the reason I’d had to create them for myself.
A rush of animosity filled me. Archer West came from a wealthy family who’d likely tried to give him everything, and for some reason he’d thrown it all in their faces. Dean had had the same upbringing and hadn’t made a mess of his life. Just the opposite.
I shaded my eyes from the sun as Richard West crossed the lawn and climbed the terrace steps.
“Hey, old man.” Archer tilted his head toward me. “I was just chatting with Dean’s new girlfriend. Nice that he brought someone home, isn’t it?”
“I want you out of here by tomorrow morning,” Richard told him.
“Hey, did I tell you I’m looking for an investor for my new bar?” Archer examined his fingers, digging a ring of dirt out from beneath his thumbnail. “If I find one, I could be on the road in half an hour. If not—”
Richard moved forward so fast that I flinched at the blur of motion. If there hadn’t been people milling around nearby, I swear he would have hit his son. Instead he stopped right in front of Archer, his voice lowering. “Don’t you threaten me.”
“Dad.” Dean’s voice cut into the sudden fury. He pushed himself between his father and brother. “Back off, both of you.”
Richard held up his hands, his eyes shooting daggers at his younger son before he stalked inside.
“Have a seat, bro.” Archer recovered his composure as he slouched back into his chair. “Liv was telling me all about her studies. You got yourself a girl who’s both smart and pretty. Nice work. Better than that cold fish Helen.”
“Shut up, Archer.” Dean took my arm and tugged me to my feet. “Come on, Liv.”
“Dean doesn’t like cold fishes,” Archer continued. “And you don’t look like one to me, Liv, I can tell you that.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dean snapped.
The instant Archer looked from Dean to me, I saw a realization click in his brain. Apprehension filled my chest.
“Stay away from him,” Dean told m
e as he pulled me away from his brother, back toward the house. “He’ll be gone tomorrow morning.”
Dean didn’t leave my side for the next couple of hours. By late afternoon, several of the guests had gone home while the others sat out on the terrace with the last of the coffee and pie to watch a pickup football game between neighbors.
The Coleman brothers were three athletic-looking men in their late twenties and early thirties who had greeted Archer and Dean like long-lost friends. I learned they’d all grown up on the same street and had known each other since they were kids. Two cousins joined the game, along with the Coleman patriarch Brian to even out the teams.
I sat to the side on the terrace as the players haggled back and forth about the teams, where the goal lines would be, and which trees would serve as sidelines. I was glad everyone else was worn out from food and conversation because it meant there were no distractions as I sat watching Dean in motion.
A thing of beauty, if ever there was one.
He had changed into frayed jeans and a T-shirt, and his lean, muscular body arched with natural grace as he leapt to catch the ball and run. The sight of him was enough to get my pulse racing—his thighs flexing beneath his jeans, the way his T-shirt rode up to expose the flat, hard muscles of his abdomen, the wind ruffling his thick hair. He was playing quarterback and threw an interception.
“Still got that rag arm, big brother,” Archer called as he dashed just past Dean’s outstretched arm and beyond for a touchdown.
After Dean’s team got the ball back, he threw a long pass down the sideline to Matthew Coleman. Matthew turned to run upfield. Archer was right beside him, thrusting out his arm to knock the ball from Matthew’s hands.
With eight testosterone-and-turkey-fueled men playing, the game soon took on a hard, competitive edge. Archer had a more hotheaded style than Dean, which didn’t surprise me. Whereas Dean’s power was coiled, contained, Archer moved and reacted with a barely leashed energy, as if he were about to explode at any moment.
It also became clear that Archer and Dean brought their personal stuff into the game. Dean eyed his brother every time they lined up, and Archer made a point of going after Dean whenever he had the ball, several times tackling him with what seemed like unnecessary force.
The game progressed with lots of running, shouts, taunting. Archer’s team led by a touchdown. Dean gripped the ball with both hands and dropped it, his right foot connecting with it several feet from the ground.
The ball sailed forty yards into the crisp breeze, and it looked like the other team might let it bounce through the end zone. At the last moment Archer lunged and grabbed the ball, turning upfield in one smooth motion. James Coleman brought him down with a thud that made Joanna West stand up.
“Is he all right?” she asked as Brian helped Archer back to his feet.
“He’s fine, Mom.” Paige sounded bored.
The men lined up. Archer got the ball and ran for the goal line. Dean closed in on him. Archer thrust out an arm, slamming his elbow into his brother’s chest. Dean grunted. He stumbled backward, but managed to strip the ball loose from Archer’s hands and fall on it as he was going down.
The players lined up again. Dean’s mouth set into a hard slash. Grass stained his jeans and shirt, and there was a scrape on his jaw. Matthew snapped the ball. Dean caught it and backed up, looking downfield for an open receiver.
“Go deep!” he yelled at James.
“Hey, Dean, that’s what your hot girlfriend said to me last night!” Archer shouted gleefully from the other end of the field.
My heart lurched.
Joanna West gasped.
Dean froze. For half a second.
Then his anger exploded. He slammed the ball to the ground and raced toward his brother. He was a blur of movement as he passed the terrace, but I saw his face—a mask of rage and hatred.
Oh, no. No…
Dean lunged at Archer so hard that the thud of their bodies hitting the ground shook the earth. Shock paralyzed everyone. Dean wrestled his brother to his back, then threw a leg over him and straddled him. He drew a fist back, his whole body unleashing in a series of fast blows.
Archer yelped. He had no time to counterattack. His legs kicked out, his torso twisting as he struggled to escape the relentless punches. Dean’s fists flew, striking him again and again. His muscles bunched beneath his shirt, his jaw clenched. He slammed a fist into Archer’s nose. Blood spurted.
“Do something!” Joanna screamed.
The sound spurred the other men into action. Richard West was not one of them. He stood at the sidelines, watching his younger son get pummeled.
Matthew and James grabbed Dean’s arms and tried to pull him off. A growl tore from Dean’s throat as he shoved them away and kept thrashing his brother. Another punch. Another strike. More blood.
Holy Christ…
I ran before I could think, my shoes slamming against the grass. I heard someone shout my name. Wind whistled past my ears. Dean’s fists were a blur, rage firing with every sharp movement. Another Coleman brother tried to yank Dean away.
Beneath him, Archer tried to curl up defensively, his hands over his face. Dean punched through every opening, refusing to stop.
“Dean!”
Not knowing what else to do, I tackled him, bracing myself against his flying fists. His knuckle caught me under the jaw. Stars burst behind my eyes. Pain lanced through me.
I threw my arms around him from behind and held on, praying he would listen. He was rigid, rock-hard with fury, his breath sawing through the air. He seized Archer’s collar and pulled back for another blow.
“Stop,” I gasped. “Dean, stop. Please, please stop!”
He stopped in mid-motion. The instant was long enough for me to shove him to the side. We tumbled to the grass. I landed on top of him and grasped his wrists, pinning him to the ground. His chest heaved beneath mine.
I stared into his rage-dark eyes.
“Stop,” I whispered. “Stop.”
He stared back at me, his breath rasping against my neck. I released one of his wrists and put my hand on his cheek.
“It’s okay.” My voice shook. I brushed my palm over his hair. “It’s okay.”
Some of the rigidity drained from his muscles. One of his arms clamped around my waist, locking our bodies together. I lowered my forehead to his chest. His heart pounded.
“Dean! Are you all right?” Paige shoved at my shoulder. “Get off him, Liv.”
“Don’t touch her,” Dean growled.
I closed my eyes. I absorbed the feeling of him beneath me, the gradual slackening of his body, the subduing anger. My thoughts and emotions tangled in a knotted mess I couldn’t even begin to unravel.
Slowly I lifted my head and opened my eyes to meet Dean’s unreadable gaze. A bruise marked his jaw, and blood was smeared beneath his nose.
A fraught tension coiled through the air. I was struck by the sense that something was about to break wide open, like an egg dropped from a vast height.
Voices rose in a pitch of agitation. I turned to find the Coleman brothers surrounding Archer, who was struggling against their restraining arms, his face bruised and bloody and hard with anger.
“You asshole!” Archer yelled at Dean, trying to dart forward. The Colemans fought him back.
“Archer, come inside,” Joanna pleaded.
I pushed myself to a sitting position. Dean climbed to his feet and scraped his hands through his hair. Strain lined his body, but at least now he appeared in control of his rage. His face was scratched and bleeding from where Archer had gotten a few punches in. He took my hand and pulled me up.
“Dean!” Paige hurried toward her brother. “Dean, how could you—”
He held up a hand to stop her.
“We’ll�
��” My voice broke. I tightened my grip on Dean. “We’ll go clean up.” I gave him a gentle tug. “Come on.”
I managed to get him into the house without another confrontation. Voices came from the kitchen, where I assumed the rest of the group was tending to Archer. I heard the word hospital and winced.
Before I could turn toward the stairs, Dean pushed me into the library. He slammed and locked the door behind him. Dim light and silence descended.
I pressed my palms to my face. My jaw ached from both the blow and trying to restrain my tears.
I felt Dean’s gaze. He latched a hand around my wrist.
“What the hell?” He cupped my chin with his other hand and turned me toward him, brushing his fingers beneath my jaw where a bruise must have formed. “Did I do that?”
“It was an accident. It doesn’t hurt.”
“Goddammit, Liv.” Self-directed anger speared his expression.
Oh, Dean.
“Don’t.” Tears burned my eyes. “I’m okay.”
A ripple of anger coursed through him. Blackness concealed the gold flecks in his eyes. I stepped back, my heart thudding.
“Dean?”
He advanced, coiled with leashed energy, his fists bunching at his sides. “I want you.”
“I’m… I’m yours.”
“I want to fuck you. Hard.”
Shock jolted me. My hips hit the big oak desk. “You—”
He grabbed my shoulders, his fingers digging in almost painfully. Tension knotted his muscles. His eyes blazed with heat.
“I need to know you’re mine. That you’re all mine.”
“I am.” A dark, thrilling arousal spiraled through me at the anger-edged lust emanating from him. “Of course I am.”
“Let me.”
“Yes. Yes.”
He hauled me against him, his lips crashing down on mine. He pushed his tongue into my mouth with a sharp, possessive gesture, as if he wanted to mark me, claim me. The length of my body pressed against his, every one of his muscles still locked tight. I could feel the adrenaline coursing through him, the burn of his blood.
Heat rocketed through me. I grasped his biceps, stunned by the flood of excitement. He dug his fingers into my hips and hauled me up onto the edge of the desk, his mouth never ceasing its plundering of mine. He kissed me, licked me, bit my lower lip, dragged his mouth down to nip the throbbing vein at the side of my neck.
