Knowing Z for as long as she had, she knew instinctively how hard it had been for him to hand over that money without a fight. She was proud of him for showing restraint. More proud than she could put into words.
The thing that bothered her most is that Z didn’t seem proud of his actions. Instead, he’d seemed bitter and…
Ashamed.
The uncomfortable thought seemed to amplify inside her as she walked toward Z’s house. When she reached the front steps, she heard the sound of the screen door squeaking open. Z walked onto the front porch.
She took one look at his hard, set expression and froze on the steps, dazedly wondering how she stayed fixed in place when it felt as if her world had just dropped away from her.
“Z, don’t.”
Her whisper seemed to hang in the air between them, mingling with the sound of the soft wind rustling the leaves in the trees and the sound of her heartbeat throbbing in her ears.
“You have to go, Ursa.”
“No,” she said fiercely, running up the stairs. She came face to face with him, their bodies just inches apart. He didn’t reach for her, though, a fact that amplified her rising sense of panic. “I knew you were going to say that. But no. I’m not leaving. Why should we let that asshole Emory Martin determine what we do or don’t do?”
“I knew you’d say that. I know that you already know the answer, as too. It’s not a discussion, Ursa. You’re leaving.”
She stared open-mouthed when he turned and walked into the house. Before she could follow him, he walked back out onto the porch, her suitcase in one hand. Tears of frustration burned her eyes.
“I’m not leaving,” she said stubbornly.
“You are. You’re going to drive straight to your mother’s.”
“I’m not. God damn you, I’m not,” she shouted when he walked past her, carrying her suitcase, his boots clomping heavily on the wooden stairs. He continued, unaffected by her yell. She heard her car keys jangling in his hand. He opened her trunk. She jogged after him. “Z, stop it. Don’t you dare put that suitcase in there. Do you hear me?”
His response was to her drop her suitcase in the trunk of her car and slam the lid with force. He turned toward her, his icy gaze slicing right through her.
“You’re not welcome here anymore, Ursa.”
“Z, listen to me,” she said, lowering her voice to a reasonable tone. “I know you’re upset about what happened. It was terrible. We were both scared. Knowing you, you feel responsible, somehow. But it wasn’t anyone’s fault, except for Emory Martin’s. But he got what he wanted, and he’s gone now. We should just get on with living our lives, and let the police handle it.”
“Get on with our lives?” he asked, incredulity breaking through his cold expression. He took a step in her direction, towering over her. She stared up at him, defiant.
Scared out of her mind.
He pointed at the back of his white T-shirt. “Do you know what this is?” He yanked on the shirt furiously, pulling the fabric toward the front. “It’s blood, Ursa. It’s your blood.”
She stared at the crimson streaks on the white shirt, bewildered. “It must have come from my hand, when I hugged you earlier,” she muttered. She met his stare. A shiver passed through her. It struck her in a flash that he wasn’t cold. He was white hot, fueled by pure fury.
And helplessness.
“Z, it wasn’t your fault.”
“It was,” he bellowed, making her jump.
“Do you think Emory Martin would have been in that office if it weren’t for me and the decisions I’ve made in the past? Do you think he would have been shoving that gun into your face, if he hadn’t been looking for me? Do you think you would have bled? I told you before, Ursa, you shouldn’t be around me. But you wouldn’t listen, so I went against my better judgment. This was a mistake. I made a mistake. I’m not going to make that mistake again. It’s not negotiable, do you understand? Next time, I might get you killed. Now get the fuck out of here.” He pointed at her car, his eyes flashing dangerously.
“Z, please—”
“Get in the car and go! Don’t text me. Don’t call. And for Christ’s sake, don’t show up on my doorstep. You’re nothing but trouble, Ursa.”
“I know you don’t really think that,” she shouted when he walked past her toward the house. “I know you’re scared, not just about what happened today, but about how you’re starting to feel about me…about us.”
He stopped dead in his tracks, his back as stiff as a board. He turned around slowly. A feeling of deep dread sunk over her when she saw the sardonic expression on his face.
“Us? There’s no us. I told you from the first, there never would be. I’m sorry if that hurts you. But I also told you straight up, I’d likely do that, as well, if you pushed this thing between us.”
“Don’t. Don’t torch this, Z.”
His eyes burned in the rigid mask of his face. He hitched his chin toward her car. “It’s already ash. Drive home safe to Mama, baby girl.”
She stood there, shock and hurt vibrating in her flesh, and watched as he stalked into the house and slammed the front door after him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
One month later
Erica’s gaze on him as he approached the bar that night looked wary. Z guessed he understood why. He’d been in the worst mood of his life since Emory Martin had robbed him and he’d tossed Ursa out like a smelly bag of garbage. If his employees were starting to get cautious and grumpy in return, he deserved it, and then some. He hadn’t been sleeping well at all, and that was only making him more prone to acting like a testy caveman.
Erica filled a glass with ice and Diet Pepsi and set it in front of him without him having to ask.
“Thanks,” he muttered, taking a swallow.
“It’s going to be hopping tonight,” she said, nodding toward the noisy, crowded restaurant. A band was setting up on the stage.
“July fourth weekend. We should have a couple good nights.”
“Aren’t you from Lake Tahoe?” Erica asked. He glanced up, surprised that she’d asked such a personal question. Erica was an amazing bartender and all around employee, but she usually didn’t get too personal. Not with him, she didn’t. It was one of the reasons he liked her.
“Did I tell you that?”
“No. Ursa did.”
He blinked at hearing Ursa’s name so unexpectedly. He resisted a strong urge to bare his teeth: an automatic response to the flash of pain that went through him. Erica just regarded him calmly, although he was sure there was condemnation somewhere in her gaze.
I did it for her own good, damn it! I might never be able to erase the stain of the criminal element from my past, and I sure as hell can’t live with the idea of seeing another gun pressed to Ursa’s face…or worse.
Much worse.
He winced at the poison thought.
“I’m from Tahoe, yeah. Why do you ask?”
Erica shrugged and started wiping off some glasses she’d just washed. “Tahoe is the place to be for the July Fourth weekend. I thought you might go home.”
“You thought wrong,” he said, straining to keep the irritation out of his voice. “I’ve got the business to consider now.”
“Right.”
Z did a double take. “Are you being sarcastic?” he demanded.
She shook her head, her expression deadpan. “Of course not. I know how important this place is to you. Speaking of which,” she hitched her head subtly to the right of the bar, “I just thought you should know you’ve got a couple illustrious characters here tonight.”
He glanced over his shoulder casually at where she’d indicated. He saw a booth filled with leather-wearing, tattooed bikers. One of them—a gray-haired, bearded guy—met his stare. Z held it for a few seconds before turning away, his expression giving away n
othing of the shock of recognition that had gone through him.
“Dark Psychles,” Erica murmured, barely moving her lips. “I saw the patches on a couple of their jackets. Wasn’t that guy who held you up a Psychle?”
“He was, yeah. But from the Reno chapter. These guys are from San Francisco…the biggest chapter in the nation,” he said quietly before taking a sip of his soda.
“Do you think they’re going to be trouble?”
“They might have been, if their President wasn’t with them. He’s the one with the gray beard.”
Erica went still. “The President of the San Francisco chapter?”
“Of the San Francisco chapter, and the whole nation. The group was founded in San Fran. But don’t worry,” he murmured, even though he was a little concerned. “Contrail Williams is supposedly the modern day version of a biker leader: badass meets Jeff Bezos. Slick. Ruthless. Innovative. Some people even call him respectable, even if the people who say it can’t fathom the meaning of respectability. Everything’s relative.”
“So you don’t think you have any reason to worry in regard to him?” Erica asked very quietly, dipping her head to mask her moving lips.
“No.”
“Good. Because that Contrail guy is coming this way. And he looks like he’s headed straight for you.”
Three Weeks Later
Z spotted her car in the lot, before he parked a couple rows back from Ursa’s end unit.
He saw a light on in her living room. A slim, quick shadow moved on the other side of the pale curtains. For a few seconds, he held his breath, but she’d moved out of range. An annoying mixture of satisfaction and despair went through him when he realized she was home on another Friday night. Part of him felt sad that she was alone. She was young. She should have been out with her friends…or on a date.
Another part—the selfish, possessive, unreasonable part—was glad she was home. She was safe here.
And just the thought of some other guy touching her made his brains feel like they were boiling in his head.
You’re losing it, Beckett. And now, you’ve resorted to stalking.
What the hell had he been thinking, driving up from Columbia to Reno just so that he could glimpse her shadow through the window? And not just tonight, either. He’d made the pointless journey six other times in the past few weeks.
Not entirely pointless, he reminded himself.
After what had happened with Emory Martin, he couldn’t stop thinking about Ursa. Worrying about her. Craving her.
For the first four nights after she’d left, he’d only slept a total of six hours. Her raw, wounded expression when he’d told her there was no us, and there never would be, kept leaping into his mind’s eye.
But worse was the memory of Martin pushing the barrel of his gun against her cheek. He saw it when he finally slept at night. He relived the moment regularly when he was awake.
He doubted that nightmare would ever go away. But it faded some, when he sat here in the parking lot of her apartment complex, and saw her elusive shadow pass the window.
He had good reason to hope that he’d never have any problems again from the Dark Psychles. He’d received the president of the gang’s word on that. From everything he’d learned about Contrail Williams, his promise was golden. Williams was trying to improve his public image, and the image of the Psychles, after all.
Still, Williams was the head of a criminal organization. There was always a chance he’d go back on his word, even if there was no logical reason for him to do so, given their equitable trade. But until Z delivered his end of the bargain, and Williams was satisfied with the result, Z couldn’t rest entirely easy.
That was part of the reason Z had started driving to Reno a few nights a week, just to catch a glimpse of Ursa’s shadow. He was 99.9 percent certain she was completely safe from the mistakes of his past.
But for now—for a little while, anyway—he’d rather observe the evidence of her safety firsthand.
He saw a light blink on in a room that he’d determined was her bedroom—the same room where he’d laid her down on that bed the first time, and ravished her like a madman.
Against his will, his body responded to the erotic, forbidden memory. He grunted irritably and shoved back the driver’s seat, stretching out his long legs.
He watched the bedroom window fixedly for another half hour or so, catching Ursa’s fleeting, graceful shadow twice more.
By the time she shut out the light in the living room, and the one in her bedroom a few minutes later, his eyelids had grown heavy.
Night, baby girl. Sleep well.
He tilted back his seat, finally letting his eyelids drop. He yawned so widely his jaw cracked.
This was the other undeniable draw in driving to Reno, besides assuring himself of Ursa’s safety. He didn’t like to admit it to himself. But the truth was, impossible as it seemed, somehow during those few nights Ursa had spent with him in Columbia, Z had lost the ability to sleep without being near her.
Labor Day Weekend
Esme was waiting for Ursa on the front steps when she pulled up in the circular drive in front of their childhood home. Her older sister did a little dance, making a funny face. Ursa laughed in a way she hadn’t all summer long.
“God, it’s so good to see you,” she told Esme a few seconds later as they separated from a tight sister-hug. She adored Esme, deeply admiring her talent as a clothing designer and her fun-loving, rebel-spirit. No one told Esme what to do. She danced to her own beat. Always.
Esme smoothed Ursa’s hair and cupped the side of her head. “Well I would be flattered, if there weren’t tears in your eyes while you’re telling me how great it is to see me,” she said, appearing bemused and a little alarmed. Her big sister’s large hazel eyes narrowed. “Are you okay, baby bear? You’ve lost weight, haven’t you?”
Ursa rolled her eyes and blinked back the annoying tears. Would her family’s worries in regard to her health ever stop? It didn’t matter that she hadn’t had so much as a sniffle in five years. They still saw a fragile, sickly girl whenever they looked at Ursa. Same as Z did, even if his hot glances at her toward the end of their affair had made her feel one hundred percent healthy, red-blooded woman.
Not that the memory could erase the cold, dismissive way he’d looked at her at the end. That cruel memory still had the power to make Ursa’s heart freeze, even as she stood there today in the warm, late summer sun.
“I’m as healthy as a horse, Es. Probably healthier than you. I know how much chocolate and coffee you put away while you’re working on your designs.”
Esme laughed, completely unoffended. “Not to mention all the wine. Come on. Sadie and Mom are making Älplermagronen, and we’re going to pig out on the patio.”
“Älplermagronen at this time of year?” Ursa asked, even though her stomach rumbled a little at the mention of her mother’s famous dish. It was nice to feel hungry, for once.
“Eh, we’ll get our fill of barbecue and corn on the cob over the weekend. We decided tonight, we required major comfort food, and what’s more comforting then Älplermagronen and cinnamon applesauce?”
Ursa squeezed Esme’s hand as they headed for the front door. A soothing feeling crept over her, like a gentle balm on a wounded heart. She could think of only one thing more comforting then the decadently rich Alpine dish: the company of her mom and sisters.
An hour and a half later, Sadie spooned the last portion of layered potato, macaroni, Gruyere cheese, cream, and caramelized onion onto Ursa’s plate.
“We all agree you need it the most,” Sadie said.
Ursa groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m so stuffed, I’m sweating. Get the defibrillator ready.”
“Shovel it in there. Baby bear needs the fat,” Esme said before grimacing and clutching at her stomach. “Seriously though. I t
hink I’m gonna puke. How the hell am I going to fit into a bikini tomorrow?”
“Not exactly the praise a cook wants to hear,” Ilsa Esterbrook said with a little grin. Ursa noticed that her mom’s smile faded as she studied her. “Ursa, honey, you are thin and pale. I haven’t seen you in months. Are you sure everything is okay?”
Ursa sighed and stuck her fork into a tender potato slice. Despite being stuffed to the gills, she took another bite. That’s how good her mom’s Älplermagronen was. “I told you, I’m perfectly healthy. I just had a check up. I just haven’t had much of an appetite lately. Nothing this hasn’t cured,” she said, raising her fork in a little toast.
“If you aren’t sick, why are you losing weight?” her mom mused.
“Yeah, and why did you cancel on Memorial Day?” Esme piped up.
“And for the Fourth?” Sadie added.
Ursa set down her fork with a loud clatter. “What is this? Twenty questions?”
Esme snapped her fingers and sat forward, a smug look on her delicate, beautiful face. “I’ve got it. You’re in love. That’s why you’ve been canceling for family stuff and getting so skinny.”
“Esme,” Sadie mumbled repressively. Ursa realized she must have looked odd when Esme made her prediction, because Sadie and her mom exchanged a quick worried glance.
“Honey, is that true?” Ilsa asked hesitantly. “Are you seeing someone?”
Ursa shook her head in disgust and rising anger. She tossed down her napkin. “Why would the idea of me dating someone warrant the looks on your faces? Esme treats men like they’re disposable joy sticks, and Sadie gets naked for a billion people—”
“Disposable joy sticks,” Esme chortled.
“I don’t do nude scenes! I told you I have a body double.”
“And yet the idea of me going on a date fills you all with disbelief…and dread, apparently.”
Ilsa appeared shocked by her outburst. Ursa understood why. She wasn’t known for having a temper.
Wild, Wounded Hearts Page 21
