by Naima Simone
Labels. Goddamn labels. She was his to keep safe.
Fifteen minutes after pulling into the parking lot, Shane guided the gray Range Rover back onto the interstate with Ciaran headed in the opposite direction toward Boston.
An hour later, Shane drove down a private dirt road and parked in a shell driveway behind a beach house. The two stories of white wood, brick, and glass that soared up above the Cape Cod Bay waterfront was an investment they’d made to bring their wealthier clients. But other than comfort, the secluded location of the home was ideal. The nearest neighbor lived a mile down the road, and the dense border of trees provided more privacy. To the rear stretched a long, remote band of beach with its own stairway and the Atlantic Ocean. Isolation aside, the trees worried him. They provided cover if someone wanted to approach the house undetected. But the other two safe house sites were more populated, offering greater risk of Fallon being discovered. So the beach house it was.
Twenty minutes later, he had their small number of belongings stashed in two of the three bedrooms. Walking through the house with Fallon by his side, he ran through a quick tour. Eight rooms with fireplaces in five of them, a deck and screened porch, a huge kitchen with decorative bricks on the floor… He shot a glance at Fallon, who stood at one of the living room’s floor-to-ceiling windows that granted a view of the light brown shore, endless ocean, and cloudless sky.
This—the luxury and wealth—probably didn’t shock her. As a privileged child of Boston’s social and financial elite, she’d grown up surrounded by affluence. He wouldn’t be surprised to discover her family owned one of the McMansions that colonized the Cape and surrounding islands. Yet another difference between them—their worlds.
Turning away from the tempting and oddly vulnerable sight of her at the window silhouetted by massive sky and ocean, he exited the room. Khalil had driven up the night before to ensure the pantry and kitchen were fully stocked and prepared so they wouldn’t have to venture out too often. Checking their supplies and the security on the home would provide his hands and mind with something to do.
Moments later, Fallon appeared behind him at the front door, his first stop in securing the residence.
“So this is one of your company’s safe houses?” she asked, rubbing her arms. He glanced over his shoulder, strong-arming the urge to replace her hands with his own. Damnit, no. He returned his attention to the double-bolt lock and alarm pad. Touching was strictly prohibited.
Because if he started touching her, he wouldn’t stop. That was the bare, raw truth of it. He wouldn’t stop until she twisted and moaned beneath him.
Yeah. Looking and/or touching her right now? Bad idea.
“Yes.”
“It’s nice,” she continued in spite of his abrupt reply. “Your firm must be doing really well. Addy said in the three years it’s been open, you’ve had a steady clientele.” When he didn’t reply, instead forced himself to focus on his task, she continued. “I meant to ask you. Isn’t there some sort of policy against you guarding me? Because of the personal connection?”
He set the alarm system, then without sparing her a glance, he strode toward the kitchen and back door.
“If I was a police officer, probably. But I’m an owner in the company. And you’re like family,” he said, frowning at the simple knob lock. A well-placed shoulder and enough force would bust the door wide open. He’d have to fortify it. “Your safety and welfare is my top priority.”
Her scent enveloped him right before her arm pressed into his. Like a coward, he retreated and reversed course for the living room. Fortunately, most of the windows had blinds, which he shut. The wall-length windows weren’t ideal, but at least they faced the rear of the property, and he would have a clear view if anyone tried to approach them from the beach.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor and performed a thorough search before returning to the main level where Fallon waited for him.
“I, uh, overheard your conversation with Ciaran this morning,” she hedged.
He arched an eyebrow, assuming her former position by the expansive glass. “You mean you eavesdropped.”
She shrugged. “Semantics,” she said, flicking his accusation off with a wave of her fingers. “Anyway, he mentioned Tristan.” She hesitated, and he almost turned away from the soft, but incisive, scrutiny. The suspicion of Tristan’s duplicity tasted like acrid ashes in his mouth and nose, even as his heart fought against the possibility. “Do you really believe he’s capable of betraying you?”
“No. Yes. Hell, I don’t know,” he murmured. Closing his eyes, he shifted so he no longer remained captive to the aching sympathy in her gaze. It tempted him to drag her close, bury his face in the fragrant haven between her neck and shoulder, and breathe her deep into his lungs. “I don’t want to believe it. We grew up together; we were as close as brothers.”
“Were?”
A pang echoed in his chest, and he rubbed a palm over it. “Things have been…different between us. Especially since Marcus died…” He shook his head. “Tristan distanced himself. Started pursuing his career with a vengeance that seemed to border on obsessive. For a while there, I was worried about him. But then Joy entered his life.” An image of the tall, stunning blonde who loved his best friend and had brought the light back into his face and heart wavered in his head. “For the past two years, he’s returned to being the man I knew. A part of me—the part that played kickball together, snuck our first beer together, cried over a friend’s grave together—can’t accept that Tristan could be the leak. But I can’t ignore the facts either.”
A gentle hand settled on his lower back, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. They stood like that for several long moments, her silent support so needed, but as much as he wanted—craved to—he didn’t grab onto it.
She lifted her head, tilted it back, and he stared down into her beautiful face. All those curls tumbled around her face and shoulders like contained sunshine. The beams from the late-morning sun captured in her skin. Jesus, he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to bask in her heat or lick her smooth flesh and find out if it tasted like the sweet honey it resembled.
He couldn’t do either.
“Shane,” she whispered, cupping his jaw.
“You should go get unpacked while I finish checking the house out.”
Again, that flash of hurt. But this time he ignored it. Walked away from it before he once more did something stupid they would both come to regret. Like surrender to the hunger coursing through his veins and pounding in his cock.
Coming here with her had been a bad idea. He’d been so smug, so damn arrogant he could resist her. That he could manhandle and control his reluctant attraction toward her. That her scent wasn’t as delicious, the need to taste her not as demanding.
If there was a bigger fool alive on this earth, they both should be locked up for their own safety.
Chapter Eleven
Some people enjoyed the quiet. Found it soothing. Comforting.
Fallon had never been one of those people.
On bare feet, she descended the stairs from the second floor, escaping the stifling silence of her bedroom. As a child and even later as a teen, she’d often been accused of being too noisy or rambunctious. Which, okay, had been true. With a neglectful mother and workaholic father, she’d been alone most of the time except for the company of whatever nanny-of-the-month. The quiet had seemed to taunt her, driving home the fact that neither parent thought her special or lovable enough to spend time with. Silence was an indictment on her worthiness.
One she’d had a tough time disputing.
So she’d filled it with music, talking, television—anything.
Years later, old habits died hard.
Yet, the need to fill the vacuum of noise comprised only half the reason she was roaming through the house hours after arriving. Night had fallen, and she and Shane had shared a subdued dinner before Shane had holed himself up in the den, and she’d retired to her ro
om for the evening. The voluntary seclusion had lasted thirty minutes.
From their first meeting when Shane had picked Addisyn up outside the local children’s theater where she and Fallon had been taking lessons, she’d been drawn to him. Then she could chalk it up to a girl’s crush on an older, gorgeous boy. As the years passed, the infatuation had deepened into more, and the pull never decreased in power but intensified. Even the disastrous kiss and their estrangement hadn’t diminished the strength of the tug on her heart when Addisyn mentioned his name or the rare occasions they occupied the same space.
With his abrupt and dramatic reappearance in her life, the draw had converted into a need. A need to be near him, inhale his scent, study his reserved but insanely sexy features. And after this morning…
A shudder rippled through her. She would never forget the sudden explosion of glass, the deadly hum of bullets slicing through the air, his big frame crushing her to the floor, covering her, protecting her…the terror pumping through her veins, strangling her as he hid her in the hall closet before closing the door to face possible death. For her.
Before she’d been shut into darkness, she’d frantically drank in the forbidding lines of his face, the harsh slash of his mouth, the rage darkening his turquoise eyes to that of a roiling, turbulent sea…prayed that same face would greet her when the door opened again.
She’d come so close to losing him. And whether he was avoiding or ignoring her, she’d didn’t care. As long as he still lived and breathed in all his anal glory. She couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.
“Oh shit!”
The bellow thundered from the back of the house in the direction of the kitchen. She froze on the bottom step. Shane. That roar had come from Shane. Oh God, Michaels found us. Fear gripped her, snatching control of her muscles and rendering her motionless. Except for her heart that raced like a runaway horse in her chest. Panic had colored his voice. Reserved, taciturn Shane who remained cool in the face of flying bullets sounded…scared.
It was this thought that melted her deep freeze.
She shot off the step and darted down the hall. Breath harsh in her ears, she skidded to a halt in the kitchen entrance. Shane stood in front of the counter, a living statute with his arms outstretched, his gun clasped in his hands. She scanned the room, searching for the threat that had caused the alarm in his tone and forced him to draw his weapon. Inspecting the entrance that led into the dining room, the corners, and the large, dark picture window, she frowned. Nothing. The room was empty.
Confused, she returned her attention to Shane.
“Shane?”
He didn’t turn to look at her, but shifted back a couple of steps, the movement careful, cautious as if he edged around a land mine.
“Shane?” she repeated, softer this time, worry worming its way through her veins. “What? What’s wrong?”
He cocked his head to the side, but his gaze and gun remained focused on whatever it was she couldn’t see.
“Spider,” he ground out.
Her frown deepened, confusion supplanting the concern. “Um…huh?”
“Spider,” he repeated. “There’s a spider.”
O-kay. She moved farther into the room until she stood next to him, still sweeping the area, certain she’d find an outside threat. But as her gaze passed over the wall in back of the kitchen table and chairs, she did spot a dark brown spider huddled against the white baseboard.
“Yeah, it is,” she agreed, tilting her head. About an inch and a half in size, thick, and hairy, the thing was butt ugly but… She shrugged. “Looks like a wolf spider.”
“I don’t give a damn if it’s a freaking elephant spider,” he growled. “We can’t occupy the same space.” He shot her a glance. “Do spiders bother you?”
She shook her head. “No. Now if a snake came out of that cabinet, I’d blow this place up. But, nah, I’m good with spiders.”
He nodded. “Good. Get rid of it.” A muscle in his jaw flexed. “Or I can just put a bullet in it.”
“For the love of…” She rolled her eyes. “Put the gun down, Rambo.” She placed a hand on the barrel and lowered the weapon and his arms. “I’ll just take it outside—”
“And have it find its way back in?” He shook his head. “Hell no. Kill it.”
“Shane…”
“Kill. It.” A pause. “Please.”
One look at his cold features and stiff frame, and the objection died on her lips. Well damn, he was really afraid of it. “Okay, fine. I got it.”
Turning around, she grabbed the broom and dustpan from the corner. In a matter of minutes the spider was smashed and halfway to the garbage can.
“Wait,” Shane barked. “What are you doing?”
She jerked to a stop. “Uh, throwing it out.”
“You can’t put it in the trash. Flush it down the toilet.”
She nodded slowly. Blinked. Blinked again. “Riiight. Because it can resurrect if it’s in there as opposed to the toilet.”
His eyes narrowed on her, his mouth a grim line. “It happened to a man once; I’m not taking any chances.”
Snorting, she strode past him—and swallowed a snicker as he eased back a step when she passed with the dead insect. Minutes later, after sending the arachnid off for a burial at sea, she returned to the kitchen.
“Funny,” she drawled, hopping up on the marble island, “I don’t remember you being afraid of spiders when we were younger.”
“You’re finding a little too much joy in this,” he said, tucking his weapon in his shoulder holster.
“Oh no.” She widened her eyes. “Of course not. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Nope.” Her mouth twitched, and she struggled to control the uncontrollable quirk.
“Uh-huh.” He arched an eyebrow. “To answer your question, I wasn’t afraid of them before I entered the Army. But over in Afghanistan they have these abominations called camel spiders. Big as fuck with fangs and the fuckers can run up to ten miles per hour. First time I saw one I almost went AWOL. Now I can’t stand any of ’em. Small, big, I don’t care. I hate them. Last week I saw one in the office bathroom, and Ciaran had to kill the thing for me. He hasn’t let me hear the end of it yet.”
At the picture of Ciaran running to Shane’s rescue in the men’s restroom, she lost the battle of holding in the laughter she’d been fighting since killing the wolf spider. Throwing her head back, she hooted, the evil glee of this big alpha male shrinking in the face of a little insect rolling up in her and spilling out in huge, gut-aching belly laughter. She sucked in several breaths, glanced at his wry expression, and dissolved into a bout of hilarity once more.
“I’m so glad I could amuse you,” he snapped.
“I-I’m sorry.” She gasped. “Seriously…”
“Oh yeah,” he drawled. “I got that out of the gasps for breath.” Grunting, he moved to the coffeemaker and hit the power button.
“My bad, Shane,” she wheezed. Inhaling, she wiped the moisture from under her eyes. “Tell you what,” she added, jumping down off the island. “I’ll make the coffee to make it up to you.”
“I got it.” He reached for the cabinet handle above him.
“And if there are more spiders hanging out inside there…?”
His fingers flexed around the knob before he slowly lowered his arm.
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Cups are up there. Thanks. I have some calls to make.”
“No problem,” she said, grinning.
Before long, she had his coffee—black with one spoonful of sugar—in one hand and a cup for herself in the other. Carefully balancing the hot brews, she headed toward the den.
“…already talked to Rafe. He should be sending you a report on Tristan’s finances in the next few hours.”
Tristan? She frowned, drawing to a halt outside the entrance. A peek around the jamb revealed Shane perched on the dark brown leather couch, his cell phone pressed to his ear. Easing back, his previous accusation of eavesdr
opping fresh in her mind, she settled in to listen.
“If he’s been on the take, this case wouldn’t be the first. I have Rafe searching for any deposits or purchases inconsistent with an officer’s salary in the last three years.” Pause and a weary sigh. “Yeah, this will help in either clearing Tristan…or condemning him.” Another pause, this one longer. “Rafe agreed to get right on it. After he contacts you, call me immediately, okay?”
He bid the person on the other end good-bye, and silence permeated the room.
“You can stop lurking in the hall and come in now,” he called out, his voice as dry as an African desert in the height of a summer drought. Pretty damn dry.
She grimaced. Busted. Smoothing out her expression, she pasted on a smile and sauntered into the room.
“Hey,” she greeted brightly, setting the coffee cups on the table before dropping onto the love seat across from him. Shane arched a dark brow in response. “Okay, fine. You caught me.” She shrugged. “Who’s Rafe?”
After a long moment, he shook his head, the barest hint of a smile quirking a corner of his sensual mouth. “He’s a friend and co-owner of Liberty Security Services, a firm we sometimes do contract work for. He’s also a computer genius.”
“Who’s pulling Tristan’s financial records? Isn’t that, oh I don’t know, illegal?”
“Only if he gets caught. And Raphael Marcel is too good to get caught,” he said, his admiration for the other man clear. “Besides, these days Rafe only uses his powers for good. He, more than anyone, understands protecting those you love at whatever cost. It’s why he’s made an exception for us.”
“Have you ever done something ‘at whatever cost’?” she asked, tucking her feet beneath her on the sofa.
He stared at her, and all traces of amusement disappeared behind an aloof mask. “I was in a war, Fallon,” he said, voice devoid of all emotion.
She hated the emptiness…no, the desolation captured in those five words. In that awful closed expression. Intuition hinted he most likely never spoke of his time in Afghanistan. Or the shooting and injury that had brought him back home.
