THAT MYSTERIOUS TEXAS BRAND MAN

by Maggie Shayne

  "I'm not the one who got blown across a parking lot."

  "No," she said. "But it shook you, didn't it, Marcus?"

  He nodded. "I'd hate like hell to see anything happen to you."

  "I know." Her eyes held his for the longest time, and she could see the flames leaping to fife in them. She got to her feet. But sleep was the last thing on her mind.

  He should have been worried when Casey went upstairs with no more than a token argument. Especially after that blazing-hot parting glance. But he wasn't exactly clearheaded and analytical. He wasn't sure what made him tell her his deepest secrets. Oh, he'd told himself that knowing the truth would put a damper on her feelings for him—would convince her once and for all that he was incapable of returning those feelings.

  It hadn't worked. That much was obvious. But talking to her had been cathartic for him. He'd never done it, relived that day out loud to another living soul. It felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from him. As if just getting it out had somehow eased the burden.

  And he wanted her more now than he ever had.

  Soft footsteps made him turn. Then his throat went dry.

  She stood at the foot of the stairs, and for a second he thought he was dreaming. She wore a white nightgown, as sheer as a breeze. Her flesh beneath it was perfectly visible, and he caught glimpses of rose and peach, curves and silken curls. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, and her eyes were wide and hungry.

  She looked like an angel … a dangerous angel. He could only stare as she came closer. Lick his lips, try to clear his throat. "Casey…"

  "Don't talk. Don't think, either. Not about the past … or the future. Nothing, Marcus. Nothing but tonight." She stopped, standing close to him, and slowly slipped her hands up the front of his shirt. Warm fingers on his flesh, gentle pressure. Insistence. She wouldn't be denied.

  His heart pounded in reaction to her simple touch. "I can't love you, Casey." It sounded more like a plea than a statement of fact.

  "But I can love you," she whispered. "Let me, Marcus. Let me love you tonight."

  Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her mouth to his. He shivered but didn't resist her. He didn't want to resist her. He needed this, craved it. And he gently slipped his arms around her waist, careful not to hurt her. Pulling her close, bowing over her, he kissed her deeply.

  Her lips parted, eager, inviting. So soft. Marcus tasted her mouth with his tongue, and she tipped her head back farther, sighing softly. He buried his hands in her hair, held her head to him as he fed from her mouth. His hips arched against her, and she returned the pressure.

  When he broke the kiss, her eyes fluttered open, and he saw the need in them. Hot and desperate, it matched his own. He ran his hands down the slender column of her neck to her shoulders. She stood motionless as he drew his hands lower, covering her breasts, and she sucked in a sudden gasp and let her head fall backward. Squeezing, kneading her, he closed his fingers on her nipples and felt them harden as he applied pressure. She made a pleading sound in her throat, so he pinched harder.

  Then he took his hands away. They were shaking.

  She met his eyes.

  "Take it off." His voice was hoarse, a bare whisper.

  She stood in front of him, only a step away, and lifted the nightgown over her head, then dropped it to the floor. She stood there, naked, vulnerable. But bold, uninhibited. She didn't cringe or try to hide. She stood and let him devour her body with his eyes. He could barely draw a breath as he looked at her perfect breasts, her pale skin, her waist, her thighs and the haven between them. Even her bruised, scraped knees were beautiful to him.

  "I … you're … incredible," he told her.

  His hands shook when he reached for her again. He cupped her breasts, naked to him now, lifted them and bent to feed, to suckle and nip and tug at their tender crests. Casey shuddered, gasped, but stood for him. As if she'd let him do anything he liked tonight. As if she only sought his pleasure. But it was hers he wanted to see … to feel.

  He pulled her close, kissed her and gently tumbled to the floor without letting go.

  She landed on top of him, her hands working the buttons of his shirt free, pushing it away from his chest. Then running slowly over his skin. She pressed her mouth to his chest and muttered that he was the most beautiful man she'd ever known. When her teeth grazed his nipple, he jolted in pleasure. Then her lips trailed lower, over his belly, and she undid his jeans and pushed them away, too. And then she mouthed him, and he clung to her and gasped for air.

  Could he die of passion? Was it possible?

  She slithered up his body once more, settled herself over him, sheathed him inside her, expelling all her breath at once. Marcus closed his hands on her hips to pull her closer, push himself deeper. Her head tipped backward, and she began to move. A fleeting embrace, a dancing rhythm. He felt more than passion now. This wasn't something so simple as that. It was more. It was deeper. It was psychic—a soul kiss. She seemed to read him, to know what he needed even before he did. She moved, caressed, kissed him, slowed her pace and quickened it by some uncanny instinct. She pulled him like a magnet, drawing something from the center of him, the core. Pulling it into her soft body and cradling it there like something precious.

  He responded by touching her, the pressure of his thumbs at the place where they were joined, circling, rubbing, knowing each time she shivered that he was doing it right. He caught one breast in his mouth and held to it. When she reached the brink of madness he knew, because she pulled him over the edge, and he tumbled with her into a quagmire of sensation. He could have drowned in feeling. In release. In … emotion. In pumping the very essence of himself into her, and feeling her body grip and pull in search of more.

  She screamed his name and then went limp, her body collapsing atop his and going still.

  His arms were around her waist, holding her gently. Her hair tickled his face, and her body was soft upon his. He felt enveloped in warmth, safety—utterly protected from the darkness in his soul, the darkness where he'd lived for so long. From the past. From the pain.

  He stroked her hair. He had thought she looked like an angel. Now he wondered if that was more accurate than he could have imagined. He'd never felt so light. So … complete.

  Or so bewildered.

  He should say something, he realized. She was lying atop him, still, waiting. Wondering, maybe, what he was thinking. He should say … something. But what?

  "Casey?"

  She didn't answer.

  Marcus gently pushed her hair away from her face and tipped his head up. Her eyes were closed, her breath coming evenly, slowly. She was asleep.

  And her cheeks were damp.

  Marcus's stomach tightened. But he didn't move, didn't want to wake her. Instead he reached the blanket on the sofa and pulled it over her. And he lay there beneath a sleeping, weeping angel. All night.

  Laura's stalker never showed. In the morning, Casey stirred, looked down into his eyes, smiled a little self-consciously.

  He touched a bruise on her cheek. It had been red and slightly puffy last night. Now it was pale blue and purple. "Does it hurt?"

  "Nothing could hurt today," she told him.

  He looked away. "Last night—"

  "Didn't mean anything?" She touched his chin, turning him to face her. "I was here, remember?"

  "Casey—"

  "It meant something to me. That's enough for now. It's not like you didn't warn me. So … what's for breakfast?"

  "I don't want to hurt you," he told her.

  "I'm a big girl, Marcus. Let me worry about myself, okay?"

  He only shook his head. He never should have given in to the temptation last night. She was going to be hurt when he left, there was no getting around that. He could have kicked himself.

  "So, you cooking or what?"

  "It's your turn," he told her, trying to keep the grim certainty from his voice.

  "Okay, cold cereal it is. Right after I call the Brand ranc
h to check in on my sister. If the phone is working, that is."

  "That's not a good idea. Suppose the phone's bugged."

  She frowned at him. About that time the telephone rang, and she damn near jumped out of her luscious skin. He reached for it as she got up and wrapped herself in the blanket, leaving him utterly naked on the floor.

  "How is Ms. Jones this morning?" Graham asked.

  "Better. Almost as good as new, in fact. What have you got for me, Graham?"

  "Straight to the point as always. And I can't tell a thing from your voice."

  "That's because it's none of your business."

  Graham cleared his throat. "That tells me all I wanted to know," he said. "I finished the trace on the plate number you gave me. It's a rental. A man calling himself Remington signed for it, paid cash."

  Marcus nodded. "Remington. Is that an alias?"

  "Yes, but fortunately a known one. A.K. Remington is one of several aliases used by one of the Silver City underworld's most notorious players. He's spent the last twenty years in prison on a racketeering conviction, but he's guilty of far worse things. There's just never been any proof. His other names are Alexander James Mancini, AJ Mancini, Captain Mancini—seems he liked to use his old Air Force title as often as—"

  "Captain Mancini…" Marcus's grip on the phone faltered. His knees shook. In his mind, he heard it again. His mother's final scream, her choked, terrified voice. No, Captain Mancini. No … please … don't…

  And then the rat-a-tat of the automatic weapon … the dull thud of bullets ripping into flesh. The soft sound of his mother's body sinking to the floor. The smells of blood and sulfur and hot lead.

  The phone hit the floor hard. Graham's tinny voice shouted his name from the receiver, but Marcus only stood there.

  "Marcus?" Casey came to him, touched him, searched his face. Then she picked up the phone. "Graham?"

  "Is everything all right, dear?"

  "Yes, I think so. He'll … he'll call you back, okay?" She hung up the phone, anchored the blanket underneath her arms and gripped Marcus's shoulders. "Talk to me, Marcus. What is it?"

  Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes against the memory. Pressed his palms to the sides of his head. "The car you saw…"

  "Yes?"

  Slowly, he opened his eyes, his head spinning as he faced her. "It belongs to the man who murdered my family twenty-two years ago, Casey."

  She blinked, opened her mouth, closed it again.

  "The name … I remember the name my mother screamed. It's the same name—"

  "Okay. Okay, let's just think this through. It makes no sense, you realize that. So … so maybe—"

  "How many mobsters named Captain Mancini do you suppose there are?"

  Casey shook her head. "But, Marcus, why would that same man be after my sister? What in the world could—"

  "I don't know. I just … I don't…"

  "All right. All right, just take it slow. We'll figure it out, Marcus. We'll get to the bottom of this … together. Okay?"

  He closed his eyes, nodded. But no matter what she did or said, he couldn't get the sound of his mother's voice to stop ringing in his ears.

  "I'm going to get that son of a bitch, Casey. I'm going to kill him for what he did."

  "I know," she whispered. "I know."

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  « ^ »

  Casey had a gut feeling. She never ignored her gut feelings, but this one wasn't full-blown just yet. Or maybe it was, and she was choosing not to see it.

  But it was right there, like a name you couldn't quite remember hovering on the tip of your tongue. She couldn't grab hold of it, couldn't touch it or identify it. But it was there, gnawing at her soul and scaring the hell out of her for some reason.

  She had to talk to Laura. Now.

  "I need to go into the office, Marcus," she told him later that afternoon, after she'd spent too much time pacing and worrying. "Just for an hour. Will you be okay?"

  He stared at her for a long moment. "What's going on, Casey?"

  "Nothing." She said it too quickly. Saw the suspicion in his eyes. God, he still didn't trust her, not fully, even after last night and the things she'd said to him. The feelings he'd shared. "I just … want to get out of here for a little while, and I have some work there. The drive will do me good. I'll bring the work home. To distract me. This waiting for some bastard to show up and take a shot at us is driving me nuts."

  He nodded. "You're forgetting, you don't have a car."

  She pursed her lips. "I could take yours…?"

  Looking slightly more at ease, but still wary, he tossed her the keys. "I'll check under the hood first."

  "I wouldn't leave if you didn't."

  His sigh was heavy. Final. As if he sensed somehow that there was something she was keeping from him.

  She'd tell him, once she knew herself for sure. It was only the barest kernel of a hunch, one she couldn't even put her finger on just yet. "I'll be back soon."

  "Be careful, Casey."

  She was up to something. He knew it, but he wasn't sure what, and he figured the only way he'd ever know would be to give her enough rope to hang herself. He had a feeling that whatever her plan was, it would blow up in his face soon enough.

  "Who are you kidding?"

  He went very still, surprised at the words coming from his own lips. Talking to himself was not a habit of his, no matter how solitary his life-style.

  Was he kidding himself? Looking for any excuse to distrust her, to suspect her? Maybe because that way it would be easier to deny his…

  His what? His feelings for her? But he didn't have any feelings for her.

  He watched her go, closed his eyes. "She's up to something. I know it, and since when did I let a pretty face make me doubt my own instincts?"

  Closing the door, he turned to face the empty house. He had yet to take a thorough look around the place. He'd asked Graham to do so, but Graham had let him down. For the first time ever.

  And maybe that should tell you something, Marcus.

  No. There was no reason to treat this case any differently than any other. He stepped forward and started looking. And he wasn't even certain what for.

  She didn't use her office phone. Instead, she used one in a co-worker's office, keeping Marcus's words about bugs in mind.

  One of the countless Brands answered on the third ring. Casey heard Christmas music coming from a radio, drowned out by the chatter of voices, all of them happy.

  God, Laura must be hating it there.

  Finally, her sister's voice came on the phone. And Casey didn't waste any time with preamble.

  "Do you love me, Laura?"

  There was a brief moment of silence on the other end. "Well, what kind of a question is that? You know I do."

  Nodding, Casey twisted the phone cord around her finger, untwisted it again. "I need you to tell me what happened to you before you came to us, Laura."

  "Casey, I—"

  "No. No, this is important. This involves me now, and it looks like Marcus is all wrapped up in it, too." She bit her lip. "Laura, I've never asked you for anything as important to me as this is. Please…"

  "What's going on with you, Casey? What—has something happened? Between you and Marcus?"

  "Besides my falling head over heels in love with him, you mean?"

  "Oh, Casey…"

  "I know. Stupid, hopeless and self-destructive. I know."

  There was another silence. Then Laura said, "I like him. He fits in our little family, you know? It feels like he's a part of it already."

  "We'll have a hard time convincing him of that."

  "I sort of got that feeling. He's a real loner, isn't he, Case?"

  "I'm working on that. Meanwhile, I need to know—"

  "If I tell you, you end up being a target. It's because I love you so much that I can't—"

  "I'm already a target."

  Laura gasped. "What are you saying? Casey, has so
mething happened? Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine. The bastard put a bomb in my car, but I wasn't in it when it went off."

  "Oh, my God!"

  "So you see, nothing you tell me can make matters any worse. There's nothing to lose. Talk to me, Laura. For the love of God, if you ever cared about me, talk to me now."

  "This is my fault. It's all my fault, Casey. And to think I've brought all this down on you—"

  "Dammit, Laura, tell me!"

  Laura went silent, stunned perhaps. Casey had never raised her voice to her sister before. "Okay," she whispered. "Okay. I'll tell you what I know. But it isn't much."

  "What do you mean, it isn't much?"

  "I was four years old, Casey. I don't remember. Hell, I only know that … that my family was murdered, and that I was there when it happened."

  Casey whispered an expletive. Her mouth went dry and her eyes wide. Every cell in her body tuned in to her sister's words. "What else?"

  "Nothing. The police found me hiding in a kitchen cabinet. They put me into the witness protection program. They felt that if the killer could find me, I'd be in danger. That he'd probably believe I could identify him and try to get rid of me."

  "And could you?"

  Laura sighed heavily into the mouthpiece. "No. Not now. But back then I guess I could. I don't know. It's all so vague. I just remember them telling me not to tell anyone, ever."

  "What about your family? Do you remember them?"

  "No … not really. Except…"

  "Except?"

  "I had an older brother. Marcus. Remember I said I liked your Marcus right away because of his name? That was why. It was my brother's name. I … I kept his picture."

  Casey closed her eyes. It was almost enough … almost, but not quite.

  "Your name isn't really Laura, is it, sweetie?"

  "It is … now."

  "And what was it before?"

  "Sara," she whispered. "It was Sara … something. I— God, Casey, I can't talk about this anymore. Please…"

  She heard the tears in her sister's voice. "Okay, honey. Okay, calm down. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to dredge all this up. I swear it." Laura sniffled. "Don't cry, sis."