by Nika Rhone
But in order for any of that to be true, it would mean Roman would have to first admit he wasn’t as good as he thought he was, and that Lillian didn’t think was possible. Roman sold himself so well because he believed his own hype. In his mind, he was the consummate art dealer.
“I would check with all of your vendors.” Unlike his wife, Doyle did not tend to think the best of people. “Make sure they know no one can change anything without your direct authorization. And by direct I mean they have to talk to you, or better yet, see you in person. No emailed instructions, no texts, nothing that can’t be verified. It’ll make things a little more complicated for you if you do need to change something, but it’s the one sure way to be certain no one can screw around with your deliveries.”
“No, it’s perfect. Thanks, Doyle.” After having called him by his surname for so many years, it was proving next to impossible to change and call him Brennan. Even Thea still called him Doyle most of the time. On the occasions when she did use his given name, there seemed such a sense of intimacy involved that it made Lillian more than a little uncomfortable using it herself.
“Why don’t we finish our wine in the den,” Thea suggested. “I’ll clear the dessert dishes later.”
“Why don’t I clear the table,” Doyle said as they stood. “That way the two of you can have your girl-time without me being in the way.”
Thea smiled as she leaned over to kiss him. “Thanks, sweetie.”
“You can thank me properly later,” he murmured against her lips.
Lillian didn’t think she was supposed to have heard that, so she pretended she hadn’t, while also trying to pretend she was someplace else as their little kiss turned into a lot of kiss with a little bit of tongue and, if she wasn’t mistaken, a small grope of Doyle’s very fine ass. She loved her friend, honest to God she did, but if the honeymoon phase lasted much longer for these two, Lillian would need to turn a hose on them.
Not that she was jealous. Well, yeah, okay, maybe she was jealous. A little. Not so much of the marriage, but of the fact Thea had fought for and won both her dreams. She’d married the man she’d loved for what seemed like forever, and she worked for a prestigious interior design firm where she was already one of their most sought-after designers. Despite having a family net worth larger than some small countries, the Fordhams weren’t the idle rich. Mr. Fordham had started his company from nothing, succeeding on merit and sheer determination, and Thea was following in his footsteps along her own career path.
If only her own father would be quite so supportive about out-of-the-box career choices. Lillian sighed as she topped off her wine. Of course, finding someone who looked at her the way Doyle did Thea wouldn’t be a bad thing, either. She’d dated a lot of guys over the years. Most were casual; some were semi-serious. But she’d never once had that feeling deep in her gut that this was the one. Her brothers said she was too capricious to settle into any kind of stable, permanent relationship.
She was beginning to worry they might be right.
The image of her sexy, hunkalicious downstairs neighbor with his bedroom eyes and yummy Latin looks pushed into her thoughts, and she pushed it right back out again. Sure, he got her motor purring, but he’d made it more than clear he wasn’t interested. Hell, half the time she wasn’t sure he even liked her. What little she knew about him she’d had to all but pry out of her twin, Peter. Rafael Delgado was as stingy with information about himself as he was with his smiles. Which was a crying shame, because those smiles were of the highest panty-wetting caliber.
When God created that man, he hadn’t skimped on the good stuff.
As she broke away from her husband, whose heated gaze promised later retribution for the butt-squeeze, Thea asked Lillian, “Will you be okay to drive home after a third glass?”
Contemplating the rather large wineglass, Lillian replied, “Probably not. But since I’m not driving, I think I can walk a little on the wild side tonight.” Not enough to get drunk, because going to work with a wine hangover would suck in oh-so many ways, but maybe enough to fuzz the edges of her very rotten day a little.
“Why aren’t you…oh, no, not your car again!”
“Oh yes, my car. Again.” Lillian took a healthy swallow of the mellow Merlot. How bad was it when everyone she talked to had the same reaction? “I had a flat. Two flats, actually. They took it to the garage, but I won’t be able to pick it up until Monday, so I took a cab here.”
“Oh Lil, that sucks.”
“Yeah, but silver lining, it was why I went back into the gallery. If I hadn’t, I never would have caught Roman red-handed like I did.” The timing of her going upstairs and Roman’s fast exit from the office clicked, and she let out an annoyed gasp. “Bernice must have buzzed up and told him I was coming. That’s why he didn’t have time to put everything back the way he found it. That traitor!”
Doyle paused in collecting the dishes from the table. “This isn’t the first problem you’ve had with your car?”
Still distracted by her epiphany about the conspiracy that had taken place, Lillian said, “What? Oh, no, some jerk keyed it a couple of weeks ago. And I got backed into. That’s why I parked all the way in the corner, so nothing else would happen to it. I can’t believe that two-faced bitch acted all concerned about my car when I came back in, when all she was doing was trying to delay me so Roman wouldn’t get caught.”
“What garage did you have it towed to?”
“I treated her to a day at the spa for her birthday last month.”
“Lillian—”
“I mean, where’s the loyalty?”
“Lil!” Thea’s sharp tone cut into Lillian’s building sense of outrage where Doyle’s calmer attempts had failed.
“What?”
“What garage?” Doyle repeated.
“Oh. Um, Milo’s, on Pine.” She watched in bemusement as Doyle nodded and walked out of the dining room with the stack of dirty dishes in one hand and the remains of the chocolate cake they’d all but demolished in the other. “That was weird.”
Thea was also staring after her husband. She hummed a small agreement to Lillian’s observation and led the way to the comfortable den at the back of the house. Lillian snagged the bottle of wine and followed. While Thea curled up in one of the oversized chairs that could fit another person plus one more on the massive ottoman, Lillian prowled the room, too filled with aggravated energy to sit still.
She didn’t know why it bothered her so much Bernice might be in cahoots with Roman. They’d hung out together a few times outside of work, but they weren’t actual friends. Not yet, anyway. And now probably not ever. Still, the betrayal stung. It meant she had more than one direction she needed to watch her back from at work.
“Is it me?” Lillian asked, trying to swallow the hurt swamping her.
“Is what you?”
“Am I just being a bitch about this thing with Roman? Should I let it go?”
“Absolutely not,” Thea said, with utmost certainty. “What does your gut tell you?”
“That he’s a two-bit con man up to no good and I need to take him down like the mangy dog he is.” She bit her lip to hide a grin. “Too melodramatic?”
Thea pinched her thumb and forefinger together with a laugh. “Just a little.”
Lillian sat as she laughed with her, but there wasn’t a whole lot of humor in it. She loved her job at the gallery. No, she needed her job at the gallery. Not for the money, of course. The stock she owned in her father’s company kept her bank accounts fat and happy without the meager paycheck she drew from Felix. No, she needed it because without it, she’d have no cover for what she was actually doing. Something her father would no doubt disapprove of should he find out.
Rupert Beaumont was a tolerant man, but he was also one of very strong opinion. He’d expected all of his children to take up their places in the investment firm he built from modest success into a Fortune 500 listing, with the four of them taking over when he retired. H
is eldest two sons had complied without a whimper of protest.
It was his younger offspring who had balked at toeing the line.
First Peter had chosen to join the Boulder police department, which had just about thrown their mother into hysterics. Then Lillian had taken her shiny new business degree and gone to work at a series of random jobs: retail, receptionist, even a short stint as a bartender. Anything that would keep her from accepting the job her father kept dangling in front of her like a toxic carrot.
As it always did, the mere thought of being chained to an office, no matter how plush and executive it might be, filled her lungs with claustrophobic tightness. She swallowed a large gulp of wine to try and wash it away. God, as much as she wanted to please her father, she just couldn’t do it. She might be able to fake her way through it for a while, but eventually, it would kill something inside of her.
No, she just had to resist the endless prodding and cajoling for a little while longer. She was almost ready to put everything into motion. That was why her position at the gallery was so important, and why she wasn’t about to let Roman freaking Reynolds screw it up for her. Whatever he was up to, she was going to figure it out and stop him.
Somehow.
“I heard from Mellie earlier today,” Thea said, dragging Lillian’s thoughts away from murder and mayhem and onto the absent member of the Royal Court. “She said she’d call you tomorrow.”
Lillian mood immediately lightened. “So, how’s she doing up there in Hayseed?”
“Hayden,” Thea said with a roll of her eyes, “and she’s loving it. She spent almost as long talking about the kids in her class as she did about Daryl, which was already pretty long. Now I know how I must have sounded to you guys when I was going on and on about Doyle,” she added with a rueful grin.
“Yeah, you were pretty nauseating.” Lillian’s agreement earned her a mock scowl. “Is she still stringing Daryl along, or is she finally going to make an honest man out of him?”
“Hard to believe, but she’s still leading him on a merry chase. He keeps asking her to marry him, and she keeps saying not yet. But I think he’s wearing her down.”
“Well, my money’s on Daryl.” Lillian would have never pictured her fairytale princess friend falling in love with the strong, silent cowboy who had once been one of Thea’s bodyguards. But seeing the two of them together at Thea’s wedding convinced her they were perfect for each other. The fact that Amelia had moved up to the small town in South Dakota where Daryl’s family owned a horse ranch to take a job teaching first grade was a pretty good indication she was serious about their relationship. “He knows what he’s up against. She’s just a little gun-shy after last time.”
“Last time” being the engagement from hell to the biggest loser on the face of the planet, Charles I’m-a-douche Davenport. Amelia had escaped marriage to that butthole by the skin of her teeth, and it was taking her a while to regain her confidence in her own judgment. But Lillian didn’t doubt for a minute she’d end up with her hunky cowboy and get the same happy-ever ending Thea had gotten.
Not that Lillian begrudged her friends their happiness. Not at all. She was beyond thrilled they’d each found the perfect someone who was their other half. It was just that she was feeling somehow…left behind.
Alone.
“Pathetic,” Lillian muttered into her glass, draining the last of the wine.
“What?”
“I said I’m pathetic.” Whoops. She hadn’t meant to say that. “And a little drunk, maybe.” Which could be a dangerous thing, given that alcohol tended to erode her filters, which were ridiculously thin to begin with.
She set the empty glass down with careful precision and stood, waiting while her head caught up with the rest of her body. Yup. Definitely buzzed. “I think maybe I should call for a ride and head home.”
“Don’t be silly.” Thea uncurled her long legs and got up. “I’ll drive you home.”
“I’ll be driving you home,” Doyle said, from the arched opening between den and dining room. “But first, we need to talk about something.”
Buzzed she might be, but Lillian recognized Doyle’s game-face when she saw it. Feeling a warning clench in her stomach, she sank back down onto the couch. “Okay. About what?”
“The vandalism to your car. I just got off the phone with the mechanic.”
It was way after closing time at the garage. But Lillian didn’t doubt for a second Doyle had used some of his clout as head of Praetorian Security to get poor Milo’s personal number. “Well, the keying was vandalism for sure, but the bashed-in taillight was just a bad driver who didn’t bother to leave a note.” Wasn’t it? The very serious look on Doyle’s face had her beginning to question that assumption. “What’s going on, Doyle?”
“Bren?” Thea asked when he didn’t answer right away.
Looking grim, he replied, “Your tires weren’t just flat. They were slashed.”
Lillian stared at him, the words not making any sense. “Slashed?” She shook her head even as Doyle nodded. “But, why? What does that mean?”
“It means that your problem with Roman Reynolds just got a whole lot more serious.”
****
Pain.
It tore through Rafe’s body, stealing his breath, coiling through his gut until he wanted to scream for somebody, anybody, to make it stop.
Hot, burning knives piercing his skin.
He flailed out to knock away the hands that were doing this to him, that were killing him. Instead, he found himself tied down, unable to defend himself as the pain went on, and on, and on.
Agony.
He wrenched himself away, and suddenly he was falling, dropping through the sky toward a ground that never seemed to come.
With a hard gasp, Rafe bolted upright in his bed. The sticky strands of the too-familiar dream clung to him for a few long seconds before reality reasserted itself. Breathing hard, he shuddered as the sweat coating his body met the cool air of his bedroom, the covers he’d gone to sleep under now a tangled knot on the floor.
There were no hands. No restraints. No one trying to kill him. It had all been a dream. Bits and pieces of reality swirled together, made worse by the damn painkiller he’d taken before bed despite his better judgment. Twisted remnants of what had happened over a year ago, when he’d made the biggest mistake of his career and cost a woman her life. And almost his own. But the pain…
The pain was real. It shot in hot, angry pulses from his leg, radiating into his hip and all the way down to his foot in undulating waves of fire.
With a curse, Rafe pressed his thumbs into the thick scar tissue on his left thigh, trying to massage out the cramp that wanted to twist his leg right off his body. So much for the meds helping him sleep. He hated taking the fucking things, but Cris had been right, he’d overdone it at physical therapy. Instead of speeding up his recovery, he’d probably set himself back at least a week.
Fucking wonderful.
The sensation of having a red-hot poker shoved into his leg wasn’t any fun, but it also wasn’t anything new. From the moment he’d awoken in the hospital after surgery, he’d been in pain. Sometimes he had trouble remembering a time when he hadn’t been. It ebbed and flowed, throbbed or stabbed, but no matter how good a day he was having, it was always there, a constant background ache that had become an enemy he couldn’t seem to defeat, no matter how hard he tried.
One of them, anyway.
Standing under a pounding hot shower might help ease the cramp sooner, but at—he squinted at the clock on his nightstand—three o’clock in the ever-fucking morning, the sound might wake up Cris, whose bedroom was on the other side of the bathroom. Sometimes Rafe missed the privacy of living alone he’d enjoyed before. Before the accident. Before he’d wondered if he’d be able to walk again. Before his entire existence as a police officer had been thrown into question.
But he couldn’t be sorry about having Cris around, either. Rafe was used to always going and d
oing. Sitting around while he worked through physical therapy and waited for the department to decide he was fit enough to return to duty was a slow road to insanity. His brother might get on his last nerve sometimes, but being alone in this apartment with nothing but his own rotten temper for company would have been a hundred times worse.
Rafe snorted as he hobbled down the hall to the bathroom. Even if Cris hadn’t jumped at the chance to move in with him like a man desperate for a gasp of fresh air, being alone still would have been better than recuperating in his parents’ house another day. His brother wasn’t the only one feeling the need for freedom. By the time Pete had told him about the apartment, Rafe had been ready to gnaw his own leg off to escape his family’s tender loving care. Between his mother and his sisters, he’d been coddled, pampered, and waited on to within an inch of his sanity. Which was why Rafe found himself renting a place in the same building as the tempting witch sleeping fifteen feet above his head.
Desperation made for strange bedfellows.
He let out a low groan at that aberrant thought. Having the bedroom right below hers might be the closest he would ever get to her bed, but that didn’t stop the horny little fucker in his head from coming up with some very erotic images. Ones that actually managed to drag his attention away from his leg for more than a few seconds. If it had been anyone else, he would have just enjoyed the fantasy and maybe even given himself a happy ending to finish the job. But using Lillian Beaumont as wank material was a low he would not allow himself to sink to.
No matter what his frustrated dick thought otherwise.
Grabbing the heating pad from under the bathroom sink, Rafe continued his slow, limping journey to the living room, plugged it in, and lowered himself onto the sofa with a sound that was half relief, half pain. After wrapping the pad around his thigh, it only took a minute for the heat to start working its magic. Tight muscles eased, and he drew his first breath not through clenched teeth since he’d awoken. His head fell back against the cushion. God, he hated this. Hated not having control over his body, and worse, not knowing if he ever would again.