Did you fall for this guy?
Did you fall for this guy?
Swallowing the knot in my throat, I stared at Casper’s face on the canvas, those high, carved cheekbones, perfect brows arching over intense eyes of green. The portrait was monochromatic, but my imagination filled in the color perfectly. His mouth, so brutally, powerfully sensual.
A face that could be beautifully cruel.
A face that could be cruelly beautiful.
Mine, my heart whispered as I stared at the canvas.
No, I thought dully. Because he wouldn’t let himself be. The rage that lived under the surface tore through me and I slammed my hand down, scooping my fingers through the thick black oil paint, smearing it across his face, ruining the image.
Hand still coated with the viscous color, I picked up the canvas and threw it.
“Tia.”
At Mac’s gentle voice, I whirled on him. Hands clenched into fists, I glared at him. “I don’t want to talk about this!”
He came to me.
In her place by my desk, Valkyrie stirred, looking at Mac with wary eyes. He gave her an annoyed look before continuing toward me, not stopping even when she sat up, ears pricking forward.
As my brother pulled me into his arms, I shoved him back. I didn’t want comfort. I didn’t want anything—
Liar.
Abruptly, I collapsed against him, crying.
“I don’t even know if he’s alive,” I choked out through the tears. “I don’t know how to call him. He didn’t leave an email address or text and it’s not like I can skywrite a message...”
Mac hugged me close, the rough material of his cast scratchy through the thin weave of my light sweater. With his good hand, he rubbed my upper back.
He didn’t speak, though.
The recriminations, the disbelief, the baffled dismay, everything I’d expected to hear—there was none of it.
When he picked me up, I shoved at his chest, still fighting tears, and losing the battle.
“Stop being so stubborn, little sis,” he said sourly. “There hasn’t been much I could do over the past few weeks, but from what I’ve heard, comforting you while you deal with a broken heart is sort of a brotherly prerogative.”
He sat down and I was so tired, I gave up fighting, letting my head fall onto his shoulder.
“Okay.”
He put a finger under my chin and tilted my head up. Now he looked dismayed. “Okay?”
“I’m too tired to argue with you.” Tugging free of his hand, I dropped my head back onto his shoulder. I hadn’t had more than a few hours sleep at a time since he’d left me.
Even then, my dreams were haunted by him.
Us, together on his mountain.
Us, here in my mountains.
Him, alone, on his mountain.
Him, alone, dying in a pool of blood.
Him, alone.
“I guess I got my answer,” Mac murmured, pressing a kiss to my cheek before easing me off his lap.
He left me sitting there on the beanbag chair I kept in the corner of my studio and started scrounging around. Too disinterested to care what he was doing, I looked up through the skylight at the blue sky, dotted with fat, fluffy clouds.
Mac’s shadow fell over me and I shifted my gaze to him as he knelt in front of me. He took my hands, both of which were smeared with the darkness of Mars Black, and rubbed the excess paint away with a wet, stained towel. He went back to the deep sink and rinsed it out before returning and repeating the process a second time.
On his third trip back, he carried a trash can, a clear bottle and a roll of paper towels under his arm.
“You have a girlfriend who paints with oils?” I asked as he folded a square of paper towels and doused it with baby oil.
“No. Somebody closer than that.” He glanced at me through the thick fringe of red hair that had fallen into his eyes. “It’s not like I’ve never seen you paint before, Tia.”
The sad smile on his face made me hurt inside.
“You notice everything about me,” I said softly. “I don’t think I do the same with you.”
“You notice what matters.” He shrugged and kept at the job until he’d cleared away all the oil except what had gotten under my nails. “I can’t help with that. I’m not going to play manicurist.”
“I’ll survive.” I took one of the leftover paper towels and dabbed it with the baby oil before going to work on my nails.
Mac stood by, watching, although I had little doubt it was because he was fascinated by the method I used to clean out the lingering oil paint.
“You know about what happened in Boston?”
Despite my desire not to react, I froze.
“Yes,” I said.
“It was him.”
“Is that a question? Cuz if it is, I can’t help you. I already told the FBI agents, the guys with the Massachusetts Bureau of Intelligence and the Tennessee intelligence guys that keep hassling me, I don’t know anything about that shit.” Jutting my chin up at him, I put as much attitude into my voice as I could. I’d gotten a lot of practice lately and I think I did just fine.
Mac hunkered down in front of me and his gray eyes, normally glinting with laughter or amusement, were dark. “No, it wasn’t a question, Tia. It was a flat-out statement. It was him.”
The certainty in his voice sent a shiver down my spine.
Judging by the way his eyes narrowed to slits, he saw my reaction, too. “That bother you?”
“Bother me?” Bending, I got to work on the paint still splattering my lower legs and feet. It was better not to look at Mac head-on. He saw the lies too easily. And the half-truths just as easily. “I don’t know, Mac. The guy who wanted me dead is dead, and it sounds like the people who might have taken over and carried out the job out for him are also dead. I think I’m more bothered by the fact that people wanted me dead than I am by knowing that they are dead. But I can get why my cop brother isn’t too happy that somebody blew them all up.”
“If you think for one second that I’m not happy they’re all in hell, vying to be Satan’s righthand men, then you don’t know me at all.”
The hardness in his tone had me glancing up. Emotion, running far too close to the surface, had the knot swelling in my throat again. “Sorry,” I mumbled.
“Fuck.” He sighed and looked away.
I took advantage of it and did the same, busying myself with the few remaining traces of Sennelier’s exquisite oil color staining my skin. Unable to waste any more time on it, I straightened. From the corner of my eye, I saw Mac and my heart froze when I saw what he held.
Aw, hell.
“This was a good piece,” he said, facing away from me, holding the now-ruined portrait. With a shrug, he added, “Hell, you could still make it work. The swipes of yours could almost look like scars. Not that he has any.”
My breath escaped me in a strangled sound. In the quiet studio, it was far, far too loud. Surging upright, I paced away from the beanbag chair and my brother, staring out into the late afternoon with a desperate urge to take off running. Valkyrie came over to me, whining low in her throat. Sinking my fingers into the thick fur of her neck, I clung to her.
He knew what Casper looked like.
Another one of those weird noises left me, and my petrified expression, blurred but recognizable, seemed to mock me from the window. Spinning away, I could see Mac now.
He’d turned to face me and watched me, a faint curve to his lips. “What’s the matter, Tia? Cat got your tongue?”
I didn’t bother wasting time asking how he knew what Casper looked like. There was only one of two ways, as far as I could figure. There hadn’t been anything in the news, but there was all sorts of shit that didn’t ever make it into the news, so that didn’t mean much.
“Is he dead?” I asked, the fear I’d carried inside me the past three weeks making my voice quaver no matter how hard I tried to steady it.
Mac lowered the portrait to the floor, pro
pping it against one of the shelves. “That’s the second time you’ve made mention of that. Why do you think he’s dead?”
“He’s either dead or in jail if you know what he looks like.” That familiar numbness started to seep through me again and I looked at the portrait, angry at myself now for damaging it. He’d looked that way the last day as we sat on the porch. Beautiful, fearless...mine.
My chest tightened and it got hard to breathe, each inhalation becoming more erratic and labored.
Dead. No...he couldn’t be...
“Tia!”
I jerked when Mac closed his hands over my shoulders, shaking me.
“Look at me, sis,” he murmured.
“No.” I don’t want to... I was terrified of what I’d see in his eyes, what he’d see in mine.
“Sweetheart.” He cupped my chin and lifted, his grip gentle but unyielding. Once we were looking at each other, he pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Tia, if your reaction to my question didn’t tell me that you have feelings for him, then looking at that portrait definitely would have. Do you really think I’d plunge into a conversation like this knowing you cared about this fucker if I knew he was dead?”
The band around my chest loosened, but only slightly.
“If he’s not dead, then he’s in jail. Is that why you’re here? I am not testifying—”
“Good grief.” He clamped his hand over my mouth and glared at me. “Stop jumping to conclusions, and please don’t say shit that’s going to make this harder on me, okay? I’m already questioning my sanity as it is.” With that, he lifted his hand, but only a little. Brow arched, he said, “Are you going to pipe down and let me actually talk?”
“What are you going to talk about?” I asked, suspiciously.
“This guy...” He paused. “Fuck, I don’t even know what to call him.”
A knot in my chest eased. They couldn’t have arrested him and not have a name, right?
“Casper.”
Mac’s brows shot up. “The guy who kidnapped you is really named Casper? I was convinced you were making that up.”
“That’s what I called him.” With a shrug, I backed up, forcing my balled-up fists to relax. Valkyrie nudged her way up under my hand and a bit more tension faded. “I had to call him something, right?”
Mac’s jaw bunched, then relaxed, conflicting emotions racing over his face. A hard sigh escaped him and he rubbed his hands over his face—or started to, the cast on his right hand impeding him. He gave it a disgusted look and lowered it to his side while scraping his stubbled jaw with the short nails of his left hand.
“Okay. Casper. You started feeling something for him. You know, there’s a psychological reason behind—”
“Do you know what sic ’em means?” I asked, looking down at Valkyrie.
Her ears perked and she tipped her head back to meet my gaze, her big, brown doggie eyes connecting with mine. I couldn’t say there was blind adoration there—yet. But we were definitely connecting.
“Sic ’em?”
She wagged her tail.
“Gee, Tia. Thanks,” Mac said in a sardonic voice. “Nice to know my concern for you warrants a dog attack.”
“I didn’t think she knew what it meant.” Shrugging, I curled my fingers in Valkyrie’s thick fur. “But don’t tell me that what I’m feeling is a psychological side effect.”
Mac, looking like he wanted to argue, stood there, tongue pushing against the inner part of his right cheek while frustration darkened his eyes to near black. “I’m not going to tell you it is,” he finally said, one hand up, palm toward me. “But how do you know it isn’t?”
“Because I didn’t want to fall for him. Because after the first few hours, I wasn’t even afraid of him. I wasn’t worried he’d harm me.” A trucker, maybe, and yeah, that still unnerved me. The pervy old racist at the gas station? Yeah, I could see Casper planting a fist, or a boot, in that asshole’s face. As far as the people in Boston? I wasn’t going to cry over them being dead, either.
“You weren’t?” Mac gave me a look so filled with skepticism, I burst out laughing.
It was the first time in weeks that I’d laughed, too. The sounds of mirth faded fast and left me feeling drained. Sinking back against the window seat where I often sat just to look out over the mountains, I thought back to those first, early hours with Casper, turning them over in my mind for what felt like the hundredth time. Or the thousandth.
“No,” I said softly. Looking back at my brother, I hitched up my shoulder. “I wasn’t afraid.”
“He’s dangerous,” Mac bit out.
“Oh, I know that. You can be dangerous, Mac.” Stroking my hand down Valkyrie’s neck, I added, “She can be dangerous. Bianca could be, if she was pissed off enough.”
He ground his teeth again. “I’m a cop. Hell, Tia, I’m a detective in Atlanta, Georgia! It’s one of the worst cities in the country due to the high crime rate! You think I’m supposed to be a teddy bear?”
“Considering what Casper does, is he?”
“He’s a fucking assassin!”
Shoving off the window seat, I stormed over to him and jabbed my finger into his chest. “He didn’t kill me. In fact, he went out of his way to protect me—and you.”
Mac jerked his head back.
“Yes, you. And Bianca. He had somebody watching this place the day people opened fire on my house, Mac. That is why you’re both still alive.”
Face going carefully blank, Mac gripped my wrist and eased my hand back. My finger was still digging a hole in his chest, which clearly annoyed him. I almost used my left hand, because he couldn’t do much with a broken right hand. But it would be childish to stand around skewering him with my index finger, right?
“You know about that.” Voice carefully neutral, Mac took a step back, then another.
Happy to see somebody else backing away this time, I said, “Yes. Casper told me not too long after it happened. He had...somebody there to watch my house because he was worried Tommy O’Holloran would send somebody back to my house and watch.” My voice thickened and I looked away.
“Watch for...what?”
“For anything,” I whispered. “For you, for Bianca. For anybody who might mean something to me.”
“I’m not following,” he said, shaking his head.
“What kind of detective are you?” Grumbling, I headed for the door, making a beeline for the living room and my nice, comfy couch, only to stop when the sticky feeling of residual oil through my leggings reminded me I’d have a mess—a permanent one—if I sat on my couch like this. Turning, I stared at Mac. He wore a white button-down, his standard clothing choice, apparently, and jeans. The jeans looked fine, but the shirt was trashed. “You’ve got clothes here. Get out of that shirt. I don’t want oils on my furniture.”
He muttered something but it was too low for me to hear and since he moved around me to head toward the room I kept for him, I didn’t see the point in pushing. He was changing. That was all that mattered.
I headed up the steps to my bedroom, Valkyrie’s nails clicking on the floor in a reassuring pattern that had already grown familiar.
In my room, I stripped off my ruined sweater and the leggings I’d bought mostly because the color made me think of Casper’s eyes.
Not able to handle the emotional upheaval of yet more green, I settled on a pair of black cotton pajamas. Before going back downstairs, I wadded the ruined clothes up and threw them in the trash can in my bathroom. I’d deal with them later.
Back in the living room, I sank into the big, overstuffed armchair where I did most of my TV watching, my reading and lately...almost all of my sleeping. The big bed upstairs felt too empty with just me and my dog.
Mac was already there, crouched in front of the wood-burning fireplace I’d insisted on when I’d had the house built.
“You okay if I light a fire?” he asked, slanting a look at me.
“Yeah.” I managed to smile. “Fires don’t freak me much the
se days. Probably helps that I wasn’t here when the big one tore through town.”
He didn’t respond to that, just went about laying the fire, then lighting it. Once it was blazing, he settled on his butt a few feet away from the hearth, staring into the dancing flames.
“If you knew your...friend, Casper, had somebody watching the house, then I have to guess he told you.”
Mac didn’t look at me, but I could tell from his profile that he still wasn’t all that happy with whatever was going on inside his head.
“He told me not long after it happened.”
“And that was...?” Mac slanted a look at me, the dancing flames casting his face half in shadow.
Twilight had settled. The living room was on the eastern side of the house, so most of the room was dark, the best illumination coming from the fire. The flames played over the lines of my brother’s face and highlighted the rigid set to his shoulders.
The answer mattered to him. A lot. Swallowing the nerves, I told him.
Mac looked back at the fire, his head slumping.
I started to ask why, but he was talking again.
“And you were never afraid of him...not after the first few hours? Why the hell not?”
Valkyrie poked her nose against my thigh and I looked down at her, remembering the way I’d felt, seeing Casper bent over my dog. It hadn’t been fear, not then. Even when we fought—or when I’d tried to fight—I hadn’t felt fear. That had just been rage.
“He didn’t hurt my dog,” I said softly, staring into those big eyes.
Mac snorted.
I shifted my attention to him. “He didn’t. And he didn’t just leave her here where she’d go hungry. He took her with us—her food, her water bowl...her leash. And when I was...” Unconscious. “Asleep, he’d still stop so she could pee. Valkyrie liked him, too.”
Mac blew out a hard breath. “Fuck.”
“Why are you asking this?”
Getting to his feet, Mac braced his good hand on the mantle of the fireplace, his shoulders impossibly rigid. “What would it have done to you if I had come here and told you I’d killed him?”
A strangled cry ripped out of me.
No!
I launched myself at my brother, fists slamming into him. He took the first couple of blows, but then I found myself pinned, his casted arm securing mine, while he used his good arm to hold me still. “I already told you he wasn’t dead. I asked you what it would do to you!”
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