Got it Bad

by Christi Barth

  The wrong reason? So maybe she had read Kellan right. Maybe there was no rejection. Maybe he did still want her, want to have things progress between them. He’d just changed gears away from the personal into an official capacity, and she hadn’t kept up. Delaney wiped her hands down her thighs. “I won’t even fall back this time and say it’s habit. It’s because I’m nervous. You make me nervous.”

  “You’re the one with the gun strapped to your thigh, Marshal. How could I make you nervous?”

  Swallowing hard, she forced the honesty from deep in her heart. “Because you make me want to break all the rules.” The U.S. Marshals Service rules. And her own.

  “You mean the one you already did—the first time we kissed?”

  “Yes.”

  His mouth opened, as if to either rebut or kiss her again. And then, with a twitch of his lips that looked a lot like a wince, he said, “There’s an opening for a deputy here in the Bandon sheriff’s department.”

  Yes. Compartmentalize. Get the official stuff out of the way. Then his words sank in, and Delaney’s eyes popped wide. “You want to be a deputy?”

  “Yes.” Kellan held up long, strong fingers to tick off points. Fingers that she could still feel a sensory echo of along her ribs from their embrace . . . “I’ll get to enforce the law, be on the side of might and right, help people, and make a difference.”

  “That’s one heck of a mission statement.”

  “It’s one heck of a job. I meet the basic qualifications, and then some. The sheriff knows we’re in WITSEC, but he’ll probably want some guarantee on your part that I’m not a criminal in hiding before he’ll even let me interview.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Just like that? I had a whole statement prepared.”

  This was the kind of emotional win that a marshal had maybe once a year, at best. A protectee not just going along with the new life he’d been handed. Not just accepting. But striving for more. Working toward a better new life. Delaney was proud of him. No coercion necessary. It’d be a natural fit.

  “I think it’s a great idea. You clearly have a proclivity toward justice, you’re smart, strong, good with people.” The list wasn’t just why he’d make a good deputy. It also happened to be a list of all the reasons why she wanted Kellan so darned much. “I’ll talk to Mateo and give you a recommendation. This is the kind of thinking we encourage all our protectees to do when it comes to starting a new career. Well done.”

  And, God help her, it couldn’t be overlooked how smoking hot Kellan Maguire would be in a uniform . . .

  “Thank you.”

  Kellan stepped forward, trapping her against the bars. He grabbed her hands, pulled them overhead, behind the bars, and interlaced their fingers to hold her there. “Now stop being a marshal. Slam the door on that compartment and say why you wanted to call me.”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” Because Delaney didn’t have it figured out at all. How they could be together. Where they’d even meet. How she’d flip-flopped so many times, refusing to admit the desire that had been there from day one. Or feeling it but ignoring it. Heck, she had whiplash just from how her thoughts had snapped back and forth since arriving at the jail.

  “I’m damn sure that you do.” His lips were right there, taunting here, a breath away and yet not coming any closer.

  “Because our kiss wasn’t enough,” Delaney blurted out.

  “Agreed. We need to do something about that.” Then he kissed her. Kellan’s hips ground against hers. His muscled thighs pressed tight against the outsides of hers. And his magical, sensual, talented lips ravaged her mouth.

  Kellan took nips along the very edge. Swiped his tongue along the inner edge of her lower lip as though he were licking cream off her. He thrust and swirled and danced his tongue around hers, along her cheeks, in a constant, driving motion that suddenly matched the thrust of his hips. Heat bloomed in every cell of her body.

  “Come on a date with me,” he whispered into her ear. The hot breath chased tingles down her neck, straight into her nipples. When he bit the rim of her lobe, those tingles went even lower. “A real date. We’ll talk, we’ll have dinner, we’ll try like crazy to keep our hands off each other.”

  It sounded intriguing. It sounded inevitable. All of Kellan’s nonstop flirting, all of Delaney’s secret fantasies, all their fighting that barely balanced on the microthin line between frustration and passion—all these months had to have been leading up to this. It had been sheer lunacy to try and fight it for so long.

  “It’d have to be a secret,” Delaney cautioned. “Because of the whole completely-against-the-rules thing.”

  “Of course.” Kellan’s easy acceptance pushed her resolve over the edge. He hadn’t offered a quickie behind the station. He wanted to talk to her.

  Wasn’t that just the hottest thing ever?

  So she’d go. Have fun. Nobody would ever need to know. They’d work it out of their systems with some casual sex, nobody would be the wiser about the utter disregard for regulations, and nobody would get hurt.

  In fact, they’d probably clear the air of all this tension that had been building between them since last November. Then taking the Maguire brothers back to Chicago would go much more smoothly.

  Put that way, going on a date with Kellan was the smartest move she could make.

  “Okay.”

  Chapter Four

  Two nights later, Kellan was grateful as hell for the distraction of the big poker game. It gave him something to do instead of counting the hours until his date with Delaney tomorrow. Action helped. So rather than kicking back counting his winnings, he was helping to clean up.

  Kellan looked under the counter for a trash bag. And then under the cash register shelf. And in the row of low cabinets that held nothing but boxes of golf balls and tees. Granted, it was the clubhouse of Sunset Shoals Golf Resort, but even the über-wealthy had to throw things out, right?

  “Here.” Mike pulled a bag out of his backpack. “We’re like the national parks. We bring in what we need, and don’t leave anything behind. That’s how we’ve kept this poker game off management’s radar for so many years.”

  Pasquale grabbed it before Kellan could. “No trash duty for this guy. Not tonight. Not after winning the way he did.”

  “I made you a promise. The only way to stop a cheater is to make sure he doesn’t win.” The modesty wasn’t false. It hadn’t even taken that many hands before Kellan had turned the tables on the guy who’d been fleecing his friends.

  One man—early thirties, athletic, and with a fucking attitude that said he’d gotten his way from the day he slid out of the womb—got noticeably ticked off as hands kept falling to Kellan. Then super quiet, while he tried to figure out what the hell was going on. Then, belligerent. Especially when he got up to get more pretzels, go the bathroom—obvious ploys to sneak a good card into his hand—and he still didn’t win.

  Not just a cheat. A bad one. Kellan smirked, thinking of how Delaney would be tempted to arrest the guy for pure stupidity. If she played poker. With her sharp mind, he’d love to see her in a game. Or go up against her one-on-one. Chess, maybe.

  Strip chess.

  Yeah, probably not the best idea for their first date. Save that for date three. Because they’d get there, he’d make sure of it. Getting Delaney to agree to a date at all was the big hurdle. Everything else would be easy after that.

  Hopefully.

  “Dude. Did you see his face when Mr. Yamada told him it was time to leave?” Mike laughed and slapped his thigh.

  Kellan almost rolled his eyes. Everyone’s money was the same color green at this game, but the plant workers and resort employees called the club members by their last names. Like their shit didn’t stink just because their homes had heated toilet seats. He’d said hell, no, to that tradition. Pointedly asked for first names until they were given, and kept using them. Cheating wasn’t the only bad habit he intended to fix at this game.

  “Hey.
” A group of three guys across the room lifted the collapsed table, turning it sideways and heading for the door. “We’re taking off. See you next week.”

  “Hang on.” Kellan jogged across the wide tan carpet with the club’s logo of a sunburst dipping into the ocean. He didn’t need or deserve the money. He had his victory. And not the victory of winning two-thirds of the hands. No, Kellan’s victory was in setting the score straight. Defending the wronged. It might not technically be heroic, but it felt damn good to make a difference. He fished out the handfuls of cash he’d stuffed into his cargo shorts. “Here.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I came here to stop a cheater. Means I didn’t exactly play on the up-and-up. This money’s not mine to keep. You guys split it between all the regulars.”

  Shockingly, Pasquale stepped in front of everyone else and shook his head. “We can’t do that. You did us a favor. Mr. Jackson got the message, loud and clear. He won’t mess with us again. You deserve to keep the money.”

  Wow. An asshole he might be, but an honorable one. Which made him okay in Kellan’s book. “Nah. It was too much fun. And this’ll go a little ways to replacing all the money he took from you over the last few weeks.”

  Pasquale took the money out of one of Kellan’s hands, but pushed the other back toward him. “We’ll split it. You keep half. Keep our secret, too.”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  Predictably, Pasquale’s lip rolled down into a sneer. “Boy Scout? With the sissy rolled up handkerchief around your neck and merit badges for washing your hands after you pee?”

  Kellan stuffed his money back into his pocket. Wished—for a split second—that he was in the mob like his brothers and could just pop the guy in the nose for being a jerk. He should’ve known Pasquale’s honorable streak wouldn’t supersede his already well-established douchebaggery.

  “Yeah. I was a Boy Scout.” It was cool to be able to share one fact—however small—about his first life, back in Chicago. “But my first aid badge means I can save your life if you lose a finger at the plant. The emergency preparedness badge means I can save your life in a zombie attack. I’d say that’s worth having to wear a stupid uniform.”

  The table-bearing crew clapped him on the back and murmured thanks as Kellan left the room. If he stayed he’d just go another round with Pasquale, and that would flatten the high of his victory.

  Kellan didn’t want to fight with the guy, but he didn’t want to put up with his small-minded insults, either.

  He’d bitched the least about settling into small-town life. But it took some getting used to. Living in a city the size of Chicago intrinsically gave people broader perspectives, a bigger worldview. Some of the men he worked with at the plant were third generation employees and hadn’t gone any farther than Portland their entire lives. They were loyal, hardworking, good guys.

  But guys who thought a neckerchief was “sissy.”

  Kellan trailed his fingers against the grass cloth wallpaper lining the hallway to the back offices and parking lot. Aw, who was he kidding? The very word neckerchief was ridiculous. He should’ve just laughed it off. Let Pasquale’s dig roll off him like fog rolling off the ocean right outside the clubhouse.

  Delaney would poke at him for rising to the bait. Then he’d poke back. Then she’d get that spark in her eyes that always kindled when they sniped at each other. That same spark that he now knew came to life when he kissed her . . .

  Blue boat shoes came into his line of vision, and Kellan jolted into the wall to avoid walking into a man rounding the corner.

  Not just any man. Lucien Dumont, the heir apparent to the Sunset Shoals Golf Resort empire. Best friend to Mollie. Which probably explained why he’d given Rafe an arcticly cold shoulder from day one. Guess being a girl’s best friend pulled out a protective streak almost as strong as being her father or brother—neither of which the Doc had, so Lucien took his duty to look out for her seriously.

  Since Kellan wasn’t in Mollie’s pants, however, Lucien had always been decent to him. He was a funny guy who didn’t walk around with a silver spoon up his ass even though he could buy and sell half the town.

  But someone who would—rightly so—want to know why Kellan was wandering around his clubhouse late on a Wednesday night. Sure enough, one of those surfer-blond eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Maguire. Surprised to see you here.”

  “Not as surprised as I am to see you,” Kellan muttered.

  Shit. He wasn’t a member. And given that Lucien knew he worked at the cranberry plant, “interested prospective member” didn’t fly as an excuse for his presence here, either. There was no amount of fast-talking that would explain it away without getting his friends in trouble.

  Or without getting him charged with trespassing. Which was almost tempting, if it meant a late night visit from Delaney . . . Not that even his well-developed charm could get her in a kissing mood after a two-hour drive down from Eugene at 10:00 p.m. to keep her protectee out of jail. Balancing on this tightrope between being her responsibility and trying to also be her man was already harder than he’d anticipated.

  Lucien cocked his head. Then he took a couple of steps back and opened the door behind him. “Come into my office.”

  Great. A private smackdown.

  Lucien shut the door as Kellan sat on a couch the color of the Chicago River when it swelled after a rainfall. The couch was the only comfortable touch in what was clearly a working office. Not as big as Kellan would’ve expected for the owner’s son. Three file cabinets crowded one wall. The opposite one was a row of long cardboard boxes full of golf clubs. Drivers, from the drawings on the sides. Double monitors dominated the desk, along with an iPad, Mac, and a walkie-talkie.

  From the bottom drawer of the file cabinet, Lucien retrieved a bottle of Four Roses Bourbon—nice!—and two rocks glasses. “Join me in a drink?”

  “Sure.” The bourbon probably indicated Lucien wouldn’t call the cops on him. And if Kellan had to sit through a lecture, it’d go a hell of a lot better under the filter of good booze.

  “Sorry there’s no ice. But I can’t let anyone know I’ve got my own nineteenth hole bar beneath the members’ files.”

  This was . . . odd. Lucien didn’t seem pissed about Kellan trespassing in his über-pricey clubhouse. He did, however, seem relaxed and happy to have somebody to knock back a drink with at the end of the day. “I’ll rough it.”

  They clinked glasses. Took a swallow. Lucien sat on the edge of his desk, feet crossed at the ankles. “Did you by any chance just beat the pants off Ron Jackson in the secret poker game?”

  Thanks to months of practice in mock trials, Kellan kept his face deadpan and responded swiftly with “What secret poker game?”

  “Let me rephrase.” He cocked his head again, clearly taking measure of Kellan’s relaxed pose, one ankle crossed over his knee. “You know, Maguire, it’d be a huge favor to me if somebody stopped Ron Jackson from cheating my hardworking employees and their friends out of their money.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. I’d be grateful as fuck if someone took care of that unofficially. So that I didn’t have to step in and do something officially. Since an official step on my part would require yanking his membership—thus losing my family his considerable monthly restaurant fees. Providing a reason for canceling that cheating cocksucker’s membership would also mean acknowledging the existence of a secret poker game. That game would have to be shut down as a result.”

  “That’d be a shame.” Kellan took another slow sip. Tried to decide exactly how much to let slip to a man who was definitely more savvy than his laid-back attitude indicated.

  “Agreed. The game’s a harmless way to let off steam. Why let one person ruin everyone’s fun?”

  So Lucien knew everything. Kind of a relief that somebody who was almost running the place had his finger on the pulse enough to see between the cracks. “Any chance that game’s why you’re hanging around so late?
Keeping an eye out to be sure assholes like Jackson don’t get angry and trash the place?”

  “Wednesdays are a good night to catch up on paperwork. Tonight had the added bonus of a show when Todd Yamada pretty much kicked his sorry ass all the way out.” And a very satisfied smile broke across Lucien’s cheeks.

  Kellan decided to trust him. Hell, he was Mollie’s best friend. That meant there must be more to Lucien than the just the glad-handing, smooth-talking walking billboard for the club. “The game’s fine. Jackson was the only problem. But he won’t be after tonight. I took care of him.”

  “Thank you. Sincerely.”

  “It was my pleasure. Sincerely. Winning’s fun. Turning the tables on a fucking cheat’s even more fun.”

  Lucien threw back his head and laughed. Hard. A big rolling belly laugh that doubled him over for almost a minute. “Nice to hear somebody have the balls to not put all our members up on a pedestal.”

  “I call ’em like I see ’em.” Kellan had always believed that being truthful was one hundred and ten percent the smartest choice.

  Until he was forced to lie every god-damned day about who he was . . .

  “That’s a nice change of pace.” Lucien pushed off the desk to straddle a chair. “Still, I owe you. Jackson would’ve been a complicated bitch of a problem to solve officially. Mollie mentioned that you golf. How about we hit the links together?”

  “I don’t have clubs. Anymore.” The thought of some low-level FBI schmuck using his sweet set of Calloway clubs pissed Kellan off. Officially, they’d been seized by the government. Put in a storage locker containing all belongings that wouldn’t give away their real identities. But Delaney had unofficially warned them that the agents with the crap duty of boxing it all up might’ve cherry-picked a few good items. “They, ah, got lost when we moved out here.”

  Laughing again, Lucien gestured to the row of boxes along the wall. “We’re a golf resort. One thing we’ve got in spades is clubs. I’ll hook you up with a loaner pair from the pro shop.”