Fyre, Raven - Blind Man's Bluff (Siren Publishing Classic)

by Raven Fyre

  But she’d been the one deceived. Big time. And that made it wrong on so many levels.

  When had he lost his morals?

  Ah, yes, that’s right, the day he’d looked at her lovely face, looked into those compelling eyes and been drawn in by the emotions they’d held had done it. She’d touched off something in him he’d had no name for. Or at least not right then and there. Now, he could say that it had been like flipping on a switch. He simply came alive when they were together.

  The passion between them was equally consuming.

  And he’d wondered—so many nights, he’d wondered—if she thought of him. If she imagined his touch, his kisses while her phantom Master made love to her. When she’d whimpered his name during the onslaught of that last momentous orgasm, he’d barely believed his ears.

  There had been no holding back after that. He’d desperately needed to unburden his heart and tell her how he felt. Like a fool, he’d dreamed of her shouting that love in return. Instead, she’d reacted as if he’d sucker punched her in the gut. Then she’d just walked out on him—on them.

  God, he could use a stiff drink.

  A night away from this place might do him good, too. A night away from asshole customers intent on causing trouble, like the one Mick needed help booting out of the double doors.

  The high-and-tight haircut, burly, leaning toward a beer belly paunch—Jackson pegged the guy as no older than his late twenties. Thirty, tops. His attire screamed good old boy, with the ink-blue Wranglers, the scuffed Timberlands, and the requisite camo T-shirt. Really, the only missing piece of the redneck puzzle was the John Deere gimme cap complete with the gold “get-er-done” fishhook clipped to the bill.

  Jackson glanced from the rouser to Mick and back. “What seems to be the problem?”

  Mick hooked a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the angry customer. “Guy here’s threatening to tear the place up, looking for Rachel.”

  “I’m sorry, but she’s serving one of our private parties,” Jackson lied through his pearly whites. He wasn’t about to give this asshole the rundown on any employee’s whereabouts. “The bar’s open, and we have plenty of other waitresses. Why don’t we—”

  “Clint?” All three males turned at the sound of Chloe’s startled voice. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  This was the POS she’d married?

  Jackson’s hands itched, recalling his vow to feed the guy his lone, miniature testicle. Ignoring the vicious endeavor, he focused instead on Chloe. She looked good enough to eat in a pair of khaki capris, a silky, sheer yellow top layered over a matching tank, and a pair of sexy, slinky, short-heeled sandals that did wonderful things to the muscles of her beautifully toned legs—but that was nothing new. Having tasted her, having been inside her, he knew he’d crave this woman and only this woman for the rest of his days.

  Shame, really, that he’d screwed up the best thing to ever happen to him.

  Clint’s hand snaked out, but Chloe’s reaction was faster. She sidestepped before he could grab her arm. “Hey, sugar. Just the woman I was looking for. I went by Gram’s, but no one was home.”

  Her hands were perched on her shapely hips, and her nostrils flared while those turquoise eyes blazed fire. She was full of piss and vinegar and was poised to wipe the floor with this cretin’s ass. God, she was exquisite. Jackson had never been more aroused, never wanted her more.

  And he had never been more grateful that this time, at least, the poison-tipped arrows of her temper weren’t aimed at him.

  Small favors.

  “Don’t sugar me, you swine,” Chloe demanded, her tone dripping disdain. “If you’re here, you’re up to no good. And I’m in no mood for your games. So, what do you want?”

  The man’s face turned beet red, and the veins in his wide neck stood taut. Mr. POS was, obviously, also pissed. “Now, honey, that’s no way for a woman to talk to her hubby.”

  Chloe tersely reminded, “Ex-husband. And the reasons should be glaringly obvious to everyone currently glued to this little display why that is. You’re making a spectacle of yourself, and you’re too dense to care.”

  This time, when his hand snaked out, his beefy fist met Jackson’s palm. The smack crackled in the room of slack-jawed, gawking patrons.

  There was a very pregnant pause. Every breath in the room seemed to be suspended as the men faced off.

  “It would be wise for you to leave now, Mr. Rezner.”

  A flash of understanding glittered in Clint’s eyes. “You fucking piece of shit. You’ve had your hands on her.” He snarled. Then those eyes glared daggers at Chloe. “And you…you whore.” The crude slur came out on a hiss of sheer, undeniable hatred.

  Jackson’s reaction was so spontaneous, so deeply primal, it shocked even him. Before anyone could blink, Jackson’s fist connected with the man’s chin, effectively knocking him to his knees. Mick and one of the club’s bouncers appeared, each taking an arm and wrestling the guy back to his feet. They practically dragged him out back and dumped him in the parking lot near the dumpster.

  “If you ever step foot in here again, I’ll call the cops. Got it?”

  Cursing, holding his chin, Clint managed a snapped, “Fuck you.”

  Proving himself the bigger man, Jackson refused to comment on the crude, unappealing offer and simply closed then bolted the door shut in the man’s bruised, hopefully aching face.

  Upstairs, holed up in the club’s private office, Chloe clucked and held a quickly thrown-together ice pack to Jackson’s throbbing knuckles. “You hit him. I can’t believe you really hit him.”

  “I have the feeling no one’s ever stood up to him.”

  “Hell, no. Prime reason he’s a bully.”

  Shrugging out of his lightweight linen suit jacket, Jackson murmured his thanks when she took it from him and hung it over the back of his chair. He was half sitting, half leaning a hip against the edge of his desk. “Did you know he was here?”

  “At the club? No. I wasn’t even aware he’d come into town.”

  “Then why did you come here tonight, Chloe?” Icy fingers of dread gripped the organ in his chest, holding hope hostage.

  She took a deep breath, exhaled a shaky sigh. “To see you, Jackson. To talk to you, if you’d let me.”

  “Let you? I’ve been trying to get you to return my calls for days.”

  “And I needed time,” she explained and splayed a hand over his heart. “When you…when you said how you felt—”

  “When I told you I love you.”

  “Yes. You also started telling me all the things you wanted from me. That bully down there? He demanded things from me, Jackson, telling me what and how I was to do things. Without ever bothering to ask me what it was I wanted.”

  He tipped her chin up with a finger so that their gazes locked. “I never demanded anything from you, sweetheart.”

  She smiled thinly. “No, you really didn’t. My fault—my mind started running wild, looking five miles down the road.”

  Cupping her face in his hands, he lightly kissed her lips. God, how he’d dreamed of having her in his arms and doing just this—such a simple kiss, a brief connection—in the full light of day. Dreamed of having the right. “I want you five miles down the road. And ten, and however many more you’re willing to give me. If this is about money or you finishing college, I would never deny you a single blessed thing. I want a partner, Chloe, not a slave. Well, outside of the bedroom, that is,” he added with a devilish smirk. “All I’ve ever wanted was to give you your heart’s desire.”

  Tears slipped free, glistening like tiny diamonds on her cheeks, as she brushed her lips over his. “I won’t drag you into the middle of whatever this is with Clint. You’ve already hurt yourself. I couldn’t stand it if anything else happened to you.”

  “Who says I’m giving you a choice? This is non-negotiable.”

  Her mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. Her chin lifted defiantly, and still, she h
eld her tongue.

  Speechless. He’d truly rendered her speechless.

  Write.

  It.

  Down.

  “Clint won’t slink off to lick his wounds for long,” she finally protested. “He’ll be back. And more pissed off than before he showed up. He sensed our intimacy and feels cheated. Ironically arrogant son of a bitch, considering he’s the one who cheated on me when we were married.”

  Jackson swiped his thumbs under her eyes, taking note of the faint bruise-like circles she’d tried to hide with cosmetics. Misery did love company—despite loving her and not wishing her sorrow, he felt mildly appeased that she’d suffered these last few days just as restless as he.

  She’d said nothing of loving him in return, but she was here. She wasn’t pushing him away, and she was worried about his welfare. That said enough, for now.

  “We’ll give Rachel a heads-up in case he’s headed to your Gram’s.” Going to the phone on his desk, he set it to speaker mode and punched in her cell number. By now, he had hers, Chloe’s, and their Gram’s home number ingrained in his brain for eternity.

  When the voice mail kicked in, Chloe left a brief message. “Damn it, I wish I had Paul’s cell number. At least they should be together. They were going to a movie.”

  The solution to easing her mind was simple. Jackson insisted on driving her home and waiting with her until Rachel and Paul showed up or they could get her on her cell.

  While he drove, Chloe kept trying the numbers.

  By the time they pulled in the drive, Jackson could’ve repeated Rachel’s voice mail greeting word for word. The house was dark but for a couple of lamps in the living room, and the carport was empty. Rachel’s compact car was parked near the side of the driveway. They must’ve taken Paul’s truck.

  “I’m not letting you sleep here tonight. Or at least not alone.” Shifting to face her, he added, “Either you come home with me, or I sleep here. Even if it’s on the couch.”

  “So much for you not bossing me around.”

  The relief that washed over her features overshadowed her flippant tone. “Get used to it,” he quipped. “When your safety is threatened, I don’t play.”

  Conceding to his possessive nature, for now, at least, she unlocked the side door, entering the house through the kitchen. She checked the answering machine, but the only messages were the dozen or so she’d left in the last half hour. “You’ll have to stay. I won’t leave Rachel to deal with this alone. Our parents, now Gram. She’s all the family I have left, and I will not abandon her.”

  “I never imagined you would. You want coffee or something stronger while we wait?”

  “My frazzled nerves could use a glass of wine.”

  She got down crystal stems while he scouted out a corkscrew and the dwindling bottle of white zinfandel from the fridge.

  They carried the drinks into the den, and Jackson sat in a corner of the sofa, pulling her down to sit between his thighs with her back to his chest. He thought of Chloe’s comment, thought of himself and the bond he had with Tyler and their parents. It wasn’t intentional, but it was human nature, he supposed, that he took it for granted they’d always be around for him. And he for them. What must it be like, knowing that she and Rachel were all that was left? He admired her strength. He wanted to share the burden, to ease it in some way, if possible.

  “Tell me what happened, sweetheart. How did you lose your parents?”

  * * * *

  After a few silent minutes and a deep drink of wine, Chloe began to open up. “They’d been out, celebrating Dad’s new promotion. I don’t remember all the details so much as I can recall Gram’s voice, her expressions, when she told it to me much later. See, I was only six at the time. Rachel was just a baby. Gram was watching us for the night. There was a terrible storm, and the roads were slick. Visibility was nil to none. Someone ran a red light and plowed into their car. Daddy was killed instantly, but Momma made it to the emergency room. She’d lost a lot of blood, though.

  “The doctors let us in to see her when they knew there was nothing else to be done. Gram took us in…to see her…” She shivered, and he tightened his arms around her. “I remember how pale and scared Momma looked, lying there in the hospital bed with the tubes and the machines. And how she tried to squeeze my hand. She was weak as a wet noodle. She made me promise that I’d always look after my baby sister. No matter what.”

  “A huge burden for a child.”

  “But,” she reminded, “Gram shouldered the bulk of it until recently. Our grandfather died when I was still fairly young, before Rachel was born. I don’t remember much about him, either. Maybe…maybe I gravitated to Clint because he was so willing to take care of me, and I’d never really had a steady man in my life. But his idea of caring for me ended up smothering me. He had to be the man of the house, the breadwinner. And his antiquated mind couldn’t wrap itself around the modern notion of a wife who wanted a life outside of making a home and spitting out babies.”

  Talk of children brought to mind the miscarriage she’d mentioned. He wanted children. With her. If she didn’t want to try again or couldn’t for whatever reason, then they’d cross that bridge later.

  “I don’t get it,” she told him, shoving a hand through her hair. “Clint showing up like this, the way he acted like I was still his possession and scolded me as if I were a child when I didn’t fall to the ground and kiss his feet. And the jealousy. Him calling me a whore. He’s always had a bit of a tempter, but he’s never been this nasty.”

  “Did he ever hurt you?”

  “N–no, not really. His…lovemaking…was brutish at best and, again, all about what he wanted or needed. But he never hit me, if that’s what you mean. Of course, he could be cold and demeaning. Emotional, verbal abuse is as damaging to the psyche as physical abuse.”

  Jackson had a weird feeling hovering in the pit of his stomach. One that had nothing to do with the wave of nausea he experienced when faced with the idea of that prick having his hands—and everything else—on Chloe’s body. Of course she’d been with other men. Of course she’d been intimate with her husband. He’d had other lovers as well. But he’d never felt for them a tenth of what he felt for her. She was his, damn it. And he planned to keep it that way.

  Jealousy and protection stemmed from this new, amazing wealth of love. He would never treat her the way Clint had and did, but she would have to decide to trust him on that in her own good time.

  Jackson didn’t believe in coincidence. The timing of her ex’s appearance smelled fishy. “What if this has something to do with your Gram selling her necklace and taking out the loan? Money, the root of all evil. What else would motivate him to come looking for you?”

  “Gram wouldn’t give him money. Trust me. She smelled the rat lurking behind his charms long ago. And yes, he used to have them. He was also in great shape, once upon a lifetime ago. And in possession of a decent sense of humor, unbelievable as that may seem. Gram tried to talk me out of marrying him, but I wouldn’t listen.”

  The beam of headlights sliced through the front window, drawing their attention.

  “Rachel.” Chloe shot up off the couch and rushed to the door.

  But it wasn’t Paul’s truck.

  It was Clint’s two-ton, one-ball-compensating, big-ass Chevy, complete with a wide, gleaming, silver front grill that reminded Jackson of a sick, sadistic grin. Fitting.

  There was a towing wench centered on the grill, and clearly he’d installed a lift kit. The body of the vehicle perched high over massive tires with wide, deep treads that looked perfectly capable of devouring any and all rugged terrain they came in contact with. Apparently, those surfaces had included a great deal of mud recently, judging by the dried red clay streaking over the denim blue paint job.

  And Clint resembled a snorting bull, ready to charge, as he climbed down from the extended cab and made his way toward the house.

  * * * *

  This wasn’t going to be pre
tty. Chloe could feel it down to her marrow. No big, shocking news flash. Clint was spoiling for a fight. Probably drunker than Cooter Brown, too. She recognized the angry flare of his nostrils, the glare of revenge in his eyes. His ego was bruised as well as his chops, and the humiliation he’d suffered at the club had only added fuel to his fiery temper. Now, he looked like a freaking steam-powered bulldozer on a mission to take out everything in his path.

  Or everyone.

  Oh, joy. Where was a freaking grenade when you needed one?

  Jackson pulled her back from the doorway, putting his body between her and her raging ex, urging, “Call the cops.”

  Since she had the ominous feeling this was going to escalate at warp speed, she didn’t waste time arguing over his tone or the hard look that dared her to disobey. Oddly, Jackson’s demand didn’t crawl over her skin in the same way Clint’s always did, possibly because she knew that while one man meant to intimidate, the other was only after protecting the woman he’d recently professed to love.

  She grabbed her cell and started dialing.

  “Get out of my way, pretty boy,” Clint warned, showing his teeth. “I’m gonna have a word with my wife, and I’ll be damned if I’m going through you to get it.”

  “I’m not your wife!” Chloe shouted over Jackson’s protective, outstretched arm, which was wrapped around her side, holding her firmly behind him. “I want you off my property! If you know what’s good for you, Clint Rezner, you’ll be gone before the law gets here.”

  “Damn it, woman!” Sneering at the two of them, he accused, “You’re no better than your momma. I knew the two of you would be here, all cozied up. Fucking whore!”

  “Goddamn you.” Jackson’s fist clipped Clint’s bruised chin, sending him back three feet in a spiraling motion. And causing Jackson to curse and cradle his hand for the second time in less than two hours. “Shit. I think I might’ve broken something that time.”

  Chloe shrieked and cupped her hands around his. “You need more ice.”

  “Later.” He locked and bolted the front door. “That guy is fucking deranged. If he calls you a whore one more time, I’m going to feed him his teeth.”