by Naima Simone
She swallowed, glanced away. “Oh, so you’re Richard Castle now?”
Gabriel grunted. “Hardly.” A pause. “But if I ever decide to write a book featuring a hot detective as my heroine, she’ll have black hair, fairy eyes, and an attitude that’ll make a man cup his balls.”
She laughed, and the abrupt bark bounced off the elevator walls. Grinning, she exited onto the second level. She grabbed onto the rare display of humor and ignored the wild flip of her heart.
It’d been forever since he’d described her eyes in that manner or called her Fairy Eyes, his special nickname for her. Not since before the accident. As a child, the affectionate teasing had annoyed her, but as she’d grown older, she had come to cherish the moniker; it meant he found something lovely about her. As pathetic and small as it seemed, she held the sentiment close to her heart. Oh, yeah. She grimaced. Pathetic.
They approached her truck, and as she pressed the unlock button on the key fob, a disconcerting thought struck her right between the shoulder blades. Slowly, she turned to face Gabriel.
“Hold on,” she said calmly. “This sudden change of heart wouldn’t have anything to do with yesterday, would it?” Gabriel frowned but not quick enough to mask the flicker of surprise—and guilt—in his eyes. “Oh, damn. Really, Gabe?”
She frowned, caught between telling him to beat it and thanking God for stirring enough concern in him that he’d emerged from his dark cave of an apartment. This overprotective streak poked at the sore spot called her pride, but he loved her…even if it was just a noogie-and-slap-on-the-back love and not the consuming passion he’d given to only one woman in his life.
Hell. She propped her fists on her hips, waiting for his response.
“You asked for my insight, and I want to help. Do I hope you won’t encounter any more dead bodies? Yes. But does it mean I’m babysitting? No.” He grazed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, stealing her breath away. “Weren’t you the one who said you can’t stop worrying about me? Well, don’t ask me not to do the same for you.”
His hand fell away, and she barely controlled the impulse to cover the spot pulsing with warmth. She yearned to lock the sweet sensation of his touch in a box to remove later, analyze, and cherish.
“Okay.” She turned and opened the car door.
Who was she kidding? She’d been a goner at “hot detective” and “fairy eyes.”
Chapter Eight
His nose should be the length of the Mass Pike, considering the lies he’d uttered in the last hour. Gabriel grimaced, drumming his fingers restlessly on his thigh as he stared out Leah’s passenger window. Earlier that morning, he, Mal, Rafe, and Chay had discussed the ramifications of their discoveries yesterday. And now the untruths—both said and unsaid—didn’t sit well with him. Which was ironic, considering the deception he’d zealously guarded for the last twenty years.
The tempo on his leg increased.
Ride-along. Research for missing-persons plot. His mouth twisted in disgust. The lies had tasted like ashes on his tongue. Still did. But the complete truth wasn’t an option. Not with Leah who was like Cujo on the attack when she scented a lead. If anyone could uncover the mystery surrounding Richard Pierce, Leah could. Yet the truth would devastate her…and make her hate Gabriel. Both outcomes terrified him.
So the lies had been necessary in order to get his ass in this truck and into the middle of her investigation into Richard Pierce’s disappearance.
He closed his eyes briefly. Only for a moment though. Her attention may have been on the road, but it wouldn’t stop her from noticing his rigid body or clenched jaw. It seemed nothing about him escaped her sharp scrutiny. As if those ethereal eyes really did possess some fantastical power allowing her to peer beneath his skin.
With effort, he shoved aside the grief and shame. Upon waking this morning with the imprint of Leah’s slim body on the blankets next to him, she had become his priority. Two years ago, his family had been killed in a car accident. And the day before Darion’s body had been found in his home. Only a coin—that fucking coin—connected the deaths; if it weren’t for that, the incidents, though tragic, would appear random. The idea of the deaths being related seemed grandiose, surreal—relegated to his crime novels or grainy video footage on the six o’clock news. But as tenuous as the link was, it was enough to have him on guard and vigilant. There could be a killer targeting his loved ones. And if even the smallest possibility existed that someone else could be hurt—or worse—he couldn’t afford to give in to the void he’d fallen into for the past two years.
Part of him wanted to scoff at this whole conspiracy theory. Chalk it up to way too many late nights spent at his computer, immersed in his stories. To pass it off as him allowing fiction to bleed over into reality. But…but what if he was wrong? What if there was a twisted son of a bitch out there with his murderous rage directed at him, Mal, Rafe, and Chay? The cold, undeniable, and irreversible facts remained that Maura, Ian, and Darion were dead. And the arrival of a letter had dragged Leah into an investigation that would stir old ghosts, unearth ancient hurts, resurrect secrets better left buried. God. He sounded so damn cloak-and-dagger. Still…Why couldn’t he shake the feeling that they were all fumbling players in a production scripted and directed by a revenge-seeking troublemaker at best…and a killer, at worst.
Gabriel inhaled, careful to release the deep breath silently, steadily. Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve. If this really was a deadly game of cat and mouse, it should be centered around the four of them. If Gabriel could, he’d strangle the life out of the person who’d devastated his life and hurt so many others. If he ever got his hands on this fucker, he would do just that.
But until then—until he was damn certain an invisible danger wasn’t stalking them—he’d lie and scheme to protect the woman who would gladly rip him a new one if she discovered his true agenda. And the agenda included keeping her safe and preventing her from stumbling onto the truth about Richard’s disappearance.
Both reasons were daunting, but damn crucial—crucial to the lives of men he loved like brothers. Crucial to guarding the light in Leah’s eyes when she looked at him.
He swallowed hard. God. Witnessing the affectionate flame extinguished might push him right over the tenuous edge he’d been clinging to for the past twenty-four months.
“You and Nathan Whelan,” he said abruptly. “You two fucking?”
The truck jerked sharply to the left, the front end swerving over the centerline. Swearing, Leah yanked the steering wheel to the right. Once the vehicle returned to the correct lane, she hurled a glare at him that should’ve left him with a third-degree burn.
“What the hell are you talking about?” she snapped.
He shrugged, staring at the rigid line of her jaw and the irritated set of her mouth.
“You seem close.” He fought down his own surge of annoyance as he recalled the familiarity of the pair in Leah’s office. “He was touching you.”
“Touching me?” She scoffed. “He was holding my elbow for God’s sake. He was being polite.” Leah shook her head. “I know you’re not very familiar with the concept.”
He stared out the passenger window. “So, is that a yes or no?” he persisted.
Hell, why didn’t he let this line of questioning go? Pushing it was ludicrous. In all the years he’d known Leah, she had been the cute little girl who insisted on hanging out with him, Mal, Rafe, and Chay when they met at her father’s home. Later, she’d become one of his best friends. He damn sure wasn’t Stevie Wonder, so he’d always noticed her exotic loveliness, but at first she’d been too young and then…well, she was Leah.
And yet, imagining her pressed against her employer, his hands and mouth on her, had him itching to go Rambo on something…or someone. Yeah, he should let the subject of the nature of their relationship drop; it wasn’t his business. But he wanted—needed—to hear her answer.
“And exactly when would I have time for a sizzling love affair
with my boss?” She sneered. “Would it be before I followed spoiled mama’s boys too afraid of losing their inheritance to come out of the closet to their mothers? Or maybe it would be after a late-night surveillance sitting outside a rent-by-the-hour motel snapping photos of a rat-bastard husband who has a thing for call girls with Adam’s apples and big hands. Oh, I know”—she smacked a palm to her forehead—“maybe it would be after I scrape you from that cave you call an office and prove that going outside into the sunlight really won’t cause you to burst into a ball of flames.”
A beat of silence passed. He snickered. She snorted. They glanced at one another, then their chuckles grew into hoots of unrestrained laughter. By the time their hilarity calmed, she swiped a finger under her eye, and Gabriel leaned his head against the window. Jesus. He wheezed, scrubbing a hand down his face. Maybe she should’ve been the writer.
“I’ve missed your laugh,” she said softly.
The warmth drained from him as if a plug had been pulled. Reasons why he’d been laughter-challenged rolled in like a mist, surrounding him.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I haven’t had much to laugh or smile about lately.” He returned his attention to the pretty, autumn-painted scenery outside the window. “Nathan’s changed, hasn’t he? Isn’t at all what I expected.”
Leah didn’t immediately reply. Maybe weighing whether or not to go with his not-so-subtle subject change. When she sighed, the breath he’d been holding whistled from between his lips.
“How would you know? You just met him today.”
Gabriel shook his head. “No. Maybe he doesn’t remember me, but we’ve met before this afternoon.”
She shot him a surprised look. “Where?”
“When,” he corrected. “A couple of times when Chay couldn’t wiggle his way out of attending some party or dinner with Richard and his mother, he’d drag me, Mal, and Rafe along. I remember Nathan from those get-togethers. He was a quiet, intense kid, didn’t socialize much. Mal knew him and explained that Nathan’s father had abandoned the family, and his mother wasn’t…well.”
“A raging alcoholic” had been Mal’s exact words.
“Yes,” Leah said, her voice subdued. “He and I shared hard-knock stories—losing a parent and having the other check out mentally. Fortunately, Dad eventually returned to me, even if it was years later. I don’t think Nathan’s mother ever fully recovered. When she died a couple of years ago, I felt so horrible for him, but—” She hesitated. “I hate to admit this, but I was a little relieved on his behalf. He was finally…free.”
Gabriel glanced at her, that particular word choice catching him by surprise. She didn’t expound any further, though. Instead, she slowed the speed of the truck as they entered the Weston town limits.
Welcome to the Town of Weston, Massachusetts, Incorporated 1713.
As she coasted past the white sign with the elegant scroll top that greeted visitors as they entered the affluent town of Weston, he straightened in the seat. The towering trees with their burnt orange, red, and gold leaves painted a beauty that no artist could translate to canvas. Driving past the old brick town hall with its towering white columns and soaring spire, he could easily imagine a rider flying past on his steed, tricorne hat perched on his head, brown coat tails flapping in the wind.
The wealthy paid dearly in taxes to maintain the stately affluence and prosperity displayed by manicured estates and illusions of community and privacy. But nothing was ever as perfect as it appeared on the surface. Maybe his distrust explained why the seedy underbelly of deceit and murder in his books often took place in towns like Weston.
Or maybe, he concluded with a smirk, he was just a jealous, resentful asshole.
Funny. He slanted a glance at the woman behind the wheel. That resentment had never colored his opinion of Leah.
“Thank you.” The words rumbled out of him.
She shot him a surprised look across her shoulder. “For what?” she asked, returning her gaze to the road. With admirable ease, she’d navigated the winding, picturesque streets that offered flashes of homes nestled among the autumn foliage.
“Last night.” His throat closed around the lump of emotion squatting in his air passage. “Thank you for…staying.” Staying. Holding him. Comforting him. Not leaving him alone to the darkness that seemed to wait for him on all sides, ready to shred him to fleshy ribbons with its razor-sharp teeth. Fuck. So many things. And he could say none of them except “staying.”
She didn’t respond immediately, but her full, sensual lips flattened for an instant before twisting into a rueful smile.
“Wow,” she murmured. “A thank-you from Gabriel Devlin? Did Jesus come back and nobody told me? I need to start praying right now.”
He called her a smart-ass, and her laughter sprinkled over him like a light, cleansing rain. Yet as she drew the truck to a halt in front of an elegant, two-story, colonial-style house, he wondered at the flash of sadness he’d detected in her expression seconds before her flippant response.
Maybe someone else was guarding untruths she wasn’t ready to reveal.
…
Leah climbed down out of her truck and regarded the white home with its black shutters, and time seemed to roll back like flipping pages. From one moment to the next she was once again eight years old, sitting in the backseat of her father’s Lincoln, excited about visiting her Uncle Richard. It had been ages since she’d been here, walking up the paved sidewalk and pressing the white doorbell next to the tall, wide, midnight-dark front door. Those had been happier times, unsullied by loss, murder, and sorrow.
And she hadn’t been standing shoulder to shoulder with Gabriel Devlin.
Even in the crisp autumn air redolent with the tangy aroma from the surrounding oak and maple trees, his clean, no-frills soap scent tantalized her more than Mother Nature’s offerings. Last night she’d wrapped herself in it. When he’d finally fallen into an exhausted sleep, she’d pressed her nose to the back of his neck and inhaled his unique fragrance until her every breath carried him on it.
Madness. You’re letting loose the madness.
The door swung open to reveal a conservatively dressed woman, her graying hair scraped back from her face into a bun that displayed austere, yet surprisingly lovely, features.
“May I help you?” she asked in a modulated tone.
“Yes, thank you.” Leah smiled, realizing if she intended to see Catherine, she must first get past the dragon at the door. “We’re here to speak with Catherine Pierce. Could you let her know Leah Bannon would like to see her?”
A flash of recognition sparked in the woman’s eyes. She nodded and stepped aside, silently allowing them entrance. “I’ll let her know.”
They waited quietly while the housekeeper disappeared down a hall. Moments later, she returned and, with a nod of her head, led them through a hushed corridor toward the rear of the house.
“Mrs. Pierce is in the study.” The woman paused before oak double doors and grasped the ornate, gold handle of the left panel. With a slight push, it swung noiselessly open and Leah, followed closely by Gabriel, entered the brightly lit room.
Several lamps around the study were aglow, but most of the illumination could be attributed to the sunlight spilling into the room from the large bay windows nearly encompassing one wall. The light odor of lemon-scented Pledge teased her nose, and for a whimsical instant, she imagined she’d walked into the Beast’s drawing room in Beauty and the Beast, complete with a crystal chandelier, heavy antique furniture, and two delicate chairs in front of the wide desk from which Catherine Pierce ruled.
Richard’s mother rose from her chair, and with a graceful wave, beckoned Leah closer. Her handsome, stern face softened into a welcoming smile. Gabriel lingered near the study entrance as she moved forward. The other woman clasped Leah’s hands and brushed her cheek with her own—one of the few women of Leah’s acquaintance tall enough to accomplish the gesture without perching on their tiptoes. The delicate scent
of Catherine’s perfume roused wonderful childhood memories like dust motes dancing in a sunbeam.
“Leah.” Catherine’s dulcet tone was as cultured as her appearance. With her sleek, silver bob that brushed the shoulders of a white cashmere sweater, the woman embodied elegance, sophistication, and old money. “It is wonderful to see you again after all this time.”
“Yes, it is. I’m sorry it’s been so long,” Leah said. “I should not have let so much time pass before coming to see you.”
Catherine squeezed her hands and released them. “I understand.”
Her dark gaze—so reminiscent of Richard’s it clenched Leah’s heart in a pinching grip—flicked over her shoulder. The smile chilled a fraction; Catherine’s mouth stiffened and lost a bit of its previous warmth. Unease skated down Leah’s spine.
“Catherine, I’d like you to meet Gabriel Devlin,” Leah said, and shifting to the side, held a hand out toward her silent friend. “Gabriel, this is Catherine Pierce, Richard’s mother.”
Gabriel nodded in acknowledgment of the introduction.
“Yes, I know of Mr. Devlin,” Richard’s mother murmured. Her cold gaze narrowed on Gabriel for another long moment before returning to Leah. “Please have a seat.” A pause. “Both of you.”
“Thank you.” Leah lowered to a beautifully upholstered settee while Gabriel sank down onto a chair some distance away, almost as if he preferred to remain invisible. An observer. But of what?
Catherine focused on Leah. “I saw your father several weeks ago at Jordan Hall for the Voices of Hope auction and gala. He looks well.”
Leah smiled. “I remember Dad mentioning attending, but he didn’t say he saw you. How are Rachel and Riley?” Rachel Sheridan, formerly Pierce, was Catherine’s daughter and Richard’s twin sister, and Riley, Rachel’s daughter, was Catherine’s only grandchild.
“They are fine,” Catherine replied, straightening the flawless cuff of her sweater. “Though I am delighted you’ve come by, dear, what brings you to my home?”
Leah reached out, covered Catherine’s hand. “I know this is going to come as a shock, but I need to talk with you about Richard’s disappearance.”