“Bullshit.”
The word came from Neve, low and hard.
It spiked the temper Moira had been struggling to hold on to.
Slamming the glass down, she spun around and glared at her sister. “Enough!” she shouted. “You don’t get it! Okay? You just don’t get it.”
“Then why don’t you tell me?” Neve shoved back and stormed around the table, her temper clearly up now.
Hannah leaned back, brows arched as she sat back to watch the show.
“Tell me, Moira, why you’re going to settle back to be miserable, and why you think Gideon should settle, and why in the hell you think Maris will be happy knowing she came in second place?” Neve drew herself up to her full height, nearly six willowy feet, and glared down at her sister.
But Moira was used to be the smaller one. Thirty-eight years old and five foot four in her bare feet, she was the head of a family dynasty with a net worth in the billions. She regularly had men tower over her in an attempt to intimidate her. It didn’t work with them—it sure as hell wouldn’t work with Neve. Curling her lip, she crossed her arms. “Don’t loom over me, honey. I changed your diapers, remember?”
Neve propped her hands on her hips. “I’m out of diapers, Moira. And don’t try to distract me.”
Moira flicked her hand. “As if anybody could. Neve…” She blew out a breath. “It’s over. He waited. For eighteen years, he waited. Even after I dumped him right—” She stopped, because that was one thing she’d never shared. Gideon had been about ready to propose when she pushed him away. Her twentieth birthday, him on bent knee, and she’d been eaten up with guilt for too long. She hadn’t been able to handle it—the ring he’d talked about, the promises they’d made each other, all of that stretching out. But her reality was locked in McKay’s Ferry, her whole world, and all of it was mired in guilt.
“I pushed him away. I never gave him a reason to…”
Her words trailed off and the ache inside her swelled, and in that moment she thought it might choke her.
“You wanted him to wait.”
She jerked her head up and saw the knowledge in Neve’s eyes.
“No.” But she lied.
They both knew it.
“You didn’t want him with anybody else, did you?”
Moira tipped her head back, staring up at the ceiling, fighting the tears. “I didn’t…” The gate broke and she started to cry. Falling back against the window seat, she started to rock, burying her face in her hands. Neve’s arms came around her.
“No,” she whispered. “No.”
A moment later, Hannah eased down to join them.
“It’s not too late,” Neve said. “He still loves you.”
“He doesn’t want me. Not anymore.”
* * *
There was no moon tonight.
In the past week, Moira had taken to keeping a flashlight near her bed, near the kitchen, and even one tucked in the storage cum table out on the deck.
Snuggling deep into her light coat, she had her arms crossed over her chest and tried not to think.
Gideon wasn’t around this weekend.
They had gone down to the cabin in Biloxi. Not only had Bellina been happy to dig that knife in, others had too. Okay, maybe Bellina hadn’t been trying to dig a knife in. She was younger, probably didn’t even know much about how Moira had thrown Gideon’s love to the floor—
Stop it! She mentally shrieked.
But it did no good. She was hearing it from everybody. To be fair, most of them just watched her curiously, like Mrs. Mouton who’d just casually mentioned it. Or it had seemed casual. With Mrs. Mouton, it was hard to tell. Moira didn’t think the eager old gossip had been out to cause any hurt, but there had been a questioning look in her eyes.
Moira had been getting that look a lot lately.
It was like people were asking her, Come on … what are you waiting for?
Now that half the town knew that Gideon and Maris were spending the weekend together, maybe they’d get the point. She wasn’t waiting for anything.
She was done. It was over.
She kept her head up, even as she swung the flashlight around, checking to make sure she didn’t trip on a root … again.
Her knee still ached from the fall she’d taken two nights ago. Throbbed actually, like a son of a bitch.
It was a welcome respite though, because her mind kept straying back to Gideon and nothing save pain managed to block those memories out.
So many memories. She could look at the back door and think about how often he’d come inside and sent her that slow smile. I’m still here, that smile seemed to say. I’m still waiting.
There had been so many parties over the years and she could picture him, sometimes dressed in the laid-back casual dress he considered a uniform, other times in jeans. She thought about the low, easy way he laughed … and the raw, demanding passion in his touch when they’d made love weeks ago. A few stolen moments. In eighteen years, the only time she’d really felt alive had been then.
Instead of grabbing onto him, instead of holding on, what had she done?
She’d gotten afraid and pushed him away, the same way she’d done so subtly ever since he’d come back to Treasure.
She came to a halt and buried her face in her hands, the metal of the flashlight cold against her face.
Misery burned inside but she kept it locked down, refusing to give into it. She’d made her damn bed, right? She’d have to lie in it. “It is what it is, right?”
She sucked in a breath, steeled herself to continue on her walk—and froze.
Eyes pricked across her skin. She could feel it. Somebody was watching her …
Forcing herself to move normally, she pretended to sniffle. It didn’t take much. She was in such a mood anymore that crying was only a few thoughts away. She could have cried at any given time, really.
The scuffle was so quiet, she barely heard it over the sound of her own breath.
It wasn’t a sound that struck her as out of place. She made it all the time, walking around in the woods. Especially at night, when the world was quiet and still, and she tried be the same quiet, not adding any extra noise to the odd peace that stole over the earth in the darkness.
But that’s what was out of place.
Because she wasn’t moving … and there was nobody else out here at Ferry.
Or least there shouldn’t be.
Instinct had her turning, the flashlight lifted like a club.
She brought it down hard and felt it connect, heard it connect. There was a low, muffled grunt, followed by an angry voice, swearing. But the words were already growing fainter, because as soon as she’d hit him, she’d taken off running, still holding the flashlight.
She’d almost broken past the tree line when the weight plowed into her, taking her facedown into the hard-packed earth of winter. She screamed and swung backward with the flashlight, only to have it wrenched out of her hand.
A moment later, she froze.
The weight of the flashlight, heavy, hard, and solid, pressed menacingly against the side of her neck, shoving straight down like he intended to just crush her throat and her airway and be done with it. “Where is it?”
He let up enough for her to answer and Moira lay there, cheek pressed hard to the dirt. She struggled to breathe past the terror and the pain, struggled to think. “I’ve got … money … in the house…”
“I don’t want money.” The words were delivered calmly and in a whisper that made it impossible to tell if she knew the speaker or not. Her head was pounding and the pressure of the flashlight was brutal. It felt like it was crushing her neck and throat. She could hardly draw a breath in.
“What … do…”
“He left a treasure here. Patrick McKay. Where is it?”
Her mind went blank.
He shoved the bar of the flashlight harder, until it was pressing painfully into her flesh and she could feel everything graying out. “It’s
…” Panic grabbed her and she clawed at his wrist with her right hand. With her left, she scrambled for … something. She needed it. What was it?
Oh. Yes. She’d put it in her pocket … there! “Please … I can’t…”
The strength drained out of her body.
Gideon’s face flashed through her mind.
Is this really how it all ends …
* * *
He paused to check her pulse. He’d let his temper get the better of him, had let his fury at her attack overwhelm him. Fury at the attack, at her stubbornness—at her, simply for being. For being Moira, for being a fucking McKay.
The cold bitch.
He didn’t want her dead.
He wanted her to suffer.
But he didn’t want her dead. Especially not without getting the information he needed. If she was dead, she couldn’t help him.
Her pulse was steady under his fingers, though. Steady and strong. He probably shouldn’t have worried. She was such a stubborn woman, it would take far more than his hands wringing her fool neck to kill her. It might work on other women, but Moira wouldn’t be felled so easily.
“The fucking McKays,” he muttered as he looked around, frustrated. A wasted night.
This was all like looking for a needle in a haystack and he knew it. He’d thought perhaps something would be revealed with the vaunted museum, but no. It was all about that fool Paddy and his whore Madeleine and steamboats and pirates.
All this time, wasted. He’d have to make them talk, or he’d just keep digging around for that needle in the haystack.
Beneath him on the ground, Moira made a low sort of gasping noise as she started to come to. Then she twisted and rolled over. He crouched down next to her, watched as her lids fluttered up.
When her eyes locked on the black, blank mask that was his face, he reached out and stroked a hand down her cheek. She flinched and when she would have screamed, he placed his finger over her lips. “Please don’t,” he said, keeping his voice low and quiet.
Moira McKay had lovely eyes and even in the moonlight, washed of all their color, he could still see their beauty. Thick lashes fluttered and then, slowly, she nodded.
But he knew her acquiescence was only temporary.
Moira McKay might have lovely eyes—lovely everything—but she wasn’t a submissive woman.
“I want to know where it’s hidden, this treasure.”
“There is no treasure,” she said, her voice ragged and raw. “It’s a legend.”
He closed his hand around her throat, tightening it ever so slightly. “He had a treasure, Moira. We both know that.”
Her eyes widened and there, in that faint flicker of her gaze, he saw it.
The truth.
“Now … tell me where it is?”
But in the next second, he heard a car engine. Looking up, he saw the spill of lights.
“Police,” she said, her voice raspy. Then she revealed something she’d held hidden in her palm.
A key fob.
The kind one might use to unlock a car … or to disarm a security system. Or to activate such a system’s panic feature.
He surged to his feet and took off running.
Moira remained where she was.
A moment later, he heard her voice, faint and ragged. When he dared to look back, she was waving her flashlight around like a banner.
Damn the bitch. She’d almost gotten him caught.
But, he should have expected it. Moira McKay was a fighter.
* * *
Gideon lay in the darkness, eyes wide open, while Maris lay against his side.
He’d just had what most men would probably consider a sexual fantasy come to life.
Maris Cordell was a hungry, easily satisfied woman, and she was just as willing to give as she was to receive.
And yet, while she slept on, he could think of only one thing.
The first night he’d met Moira in the pool house. The night they’d fumbled through losing their virginity together.
He still wanted her and he hated himself for it.
The quiet of the night pressed in around him and he eased out of the bed, moving to the French doors that opened out to the deck. The moonlight glinted over the rolling waters of the Gulf off in the distance.
They’d taken their weekend in Biloxi.
He still felt a nagging tug of guilt. He had unsolved cases and enough loose ends to trip an entire platoon. But he’d thought it might be a good idea to clear his head.
There was no sign of the person who’d stalked Hannah—and most likely killed Shayla and Roger Hardee. But after more than six weeks, he had come to the conclusion that until the person made another move—if the person made another move—they were stuck.
Kind of like me. Brooding, he stared outside. The lights of the gaily decorated Christmas tree shone behind him. He’d gone to unplug it before they went to bed and Maris had teased him, fussed about how uptight he was, said she enjoyed the lights. He hadn’t cared enough to argue and that was pretty much his state of mind lately.
He just didn’t care enough.
Which explained why he was in Biloxi in a rental cabin with Maris instead of back home.
Because he didn’t care enough.
The one woman who might break him out of that apathy was probably tucked up snug in her bed, blocking out the world, the same way he was slowly starting to do. In a few years, he’d be the same as she was, unwilling to let anybody or anything in.
Maybe he should turn in his badge now, while he still had something in him that could care—at least enough to know that he was falling away from himself.
Yeah, he thought. Maybe he should just do that. Turn in his notice, empty out of his 401k, and leave. Wander until something seemed to fit.
Which meant he’d spent the rest of his miserable life bouncing around because nothing was ever going to fit, save for Moira. But if he was away from her, it would hurt less.
The phone rang.
His eyes cut to it.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Sorry, Chief.”
Gideon stared hard through the open doorway at the pale, still form on the bed.
He couldn’t even pretend it wasn’t her. The deep, rich red of her hair lay in a messy tangle down to her shoulders. That would aggravate the hell out of her. Moira wasn’t particularly vain, but she had a thing about her hair.
When his second-in-command, Deputy Chief Hoyt Pendleton, looked over at him, Gideon dragged his gaze away from Moira’s motionless body. “What?”
“I said, I’m sorry. This is the first time you’ve taken personal time in two years, but…” Hoyt was built like a Mack truck and when he crossed his arms over his thick chest, his biceps bunched up, like they were trying to tear their way out of his shirt sleeves. A solid six foot five, the big black man stood there like a stone wall, unyielding and unbending. Sharp cheekbones made slashes against his cheeks. He had an ageless face and to somebody who didn’t know him, he could have been anywhere from his mid-twenties up to the tail end of forty. Gideon knew for a fact that he and Hoyt were of the same age. They’d graduated together, had even gone off to serve in the military, although Hoyt had left a year earlier and come back two tours later.
“You said somebody was out there looking for treasure,” Gideon said quietly. It made him uneasy. “Moira woke up enough to tell you that?”
Hoyt nodded and then glanced over at him. “All that’s just legend, isn’t it?”
“Far as I know.”
But as he stood there staring at Moira’s still body, he was already planning the questions he’d put to her when she was up to them. He had questions for the other two McKay siblings, and he wouldn’t be waiting very long to ask those two, either.
There couldn’t be much he didn’t already know about the family. But he wasn’t about to take a chance he was missing something.
Not when it came to Moira.
And you’re getting over her … right?
But it didn’t matter if he was “getting over her” and he would argue that point unto death. Because his job was to protect the citizens of McKay’s Treasure. That included Moira McKay. Whether or not he was over her, he’d sworn an oath and he’d watch over her.
Deep inside, though, in the very heart of him where he couldn’t lie or be fooled by his own idiocy, Gideon knew the truth.
He might try to ignore it, but the truth wouldn’t change.
If there ever came a day when he’d be able to count all the stars in the sky, or a day when he knew the answers to all the questions, maybe that would be the day he’d be over her.
But he wasn’t betting on it.
* * *
Her throat hurt.
Actually, Moira thought maybe that was the understatement of the century. Her face hurt, from where that man had smashed her head into the ground, one palm against the side of her skull, shoving down with brute force while the other tried to push the flashlight through her larynx.
Her throat, though … no. It didn’t hurt. Hurt didn’t touch it. She thought maybe it would feel like this after she’d been force-fed broken glass, followed by a chaser of pure moonshine.
She’d been advised not to talk for a minimum of forty-eight hours. The IV bag dripping next to her held a cocktail of painkillers and steroids. No, that wasn’t right. She’d had the painkillers pumped in. The steroids were dripping in along with the fluids.
She wouldn’t be eating anything solid for a few days—she felt like she’d never want to eat anything again, ever—and that made swallowing pills out of the question, but they wanted her on steroids to cut down on the inflammation.
Apparently the damage to her throat had the doctors concerned.
While she was aggravated by the pain, she was more concerned by what in the hell had happened last night.
Brannon sat sleeping in the chair next to her bed.
Neve had finally gone home with Hannah, Ian promising to watch over both the women, and now that she had a few hours of sleep, Moira figured this was her best chance to interrogate her brother.
There was only one problem.
The Right Kind of Trouble Page 3