Bishop's Pawn

by Suzanne Halliday

  “Sit before you fall down.”

  With pursed lips she reacted slowly, moving hesitantly to the chair he politely pulled out, annoyed as shit that she was secretly relieved he recognized how close to the edge she was.

  “Thank you.” A waving arm and harsh gasp followed the perfunctory words as she painfully fell into the chair. She was exhausted.

  “Easy does it, Carina. You’ve got nothing to prove.”

  His last words were murmured close by her head when he leaned over to push the mug closer to her hand. A sharp, biting put-down clung to the tip of her tongue, but she said nothing.

  In the seat across from her, he took up all the space. The effect of his brawny, solid presence filling her field of vision gave her the willies. Feeling small next to his overwhelming superiority rattled her cage.

  “What does that mean?” she asked. “Carina? Is it a name?”

  His slow smile made her tummy flutter. “Some of the guys I knew in the military will tell you it essentially means I’m fucked.”

  Her brows bumped together. Sipping the tea, she studied his face. What the hell did that mean?

  “But in this instance I believe my intention was observational rather than biographical. Carina. It’s Italian. My grandfather loved the word. In the lexicon of my family, it means sweet and pretty. Cute with a nod to size.”

  She almost aspirated the hot tea, slammed the mug on the wood table and reflexively started spouting. “Are you calling me dinky? ‘Cause let me tell you something buster, five feet almost five is enough to kick your six one any day.”

  “Two,” he smirked with a chuckle. “Six two. Two and a half if you want to split hairs.”

  That was the moment all the oomph left her. She wasn’t sure which was worse; the rifle she’d been forced to abandon after sliding off the ice and snow covered path or dropping like a stone in front of a moving vehicle.

  She inwardly groused. The specifics didn’t matter. What did was the unavoidable fact that she was banged up and out of her comfort zone, plus a total stranger was treating her like a little girl.

  Dammit. If her lip started to wobble, that would be it. Hoping that a biting retort would restore her equilibrium, she gave him a snark-filled glare and said, “Only an idiot would compare being short to having a sweet disposition. And you don’t come off as an idiot Mr. Bishop.”

  He laughed. “And you, Carina, do not have a sweet disposition.”

  She sputtered and made about a dozen different faces, then sat back slowly and regarded the amused stranger with a critical eye.

  In a purely physical way, he reminded her of a football player. Big and strong. It was hard to tell from what he had on, but she was sure the beefy arms were hard muscle.

  His face had a rugged quality softened somewhat by an air of sophistication that didn’t merge believably with his just-another-guy act. There was a hint of mystery and intrigue about him that she found hard to ignore.

  It was his eyes though that made her the most nervous—almost twitchy. Dark grey-green in color, she was sure from time to time she saw flecks of gold. They were extraordinary. Like him.

  The conservative haircut and square jaw chiseled from granite covered by a week or more of beard gave him a commanding look. She stared at his neck, saw the movement of his Adam’s apple when he swallowed, and hastily glanced away.

  When he spoke next, his tone was almost tender, and she had to wonder if the bone he threw her was because he knew she was at her limit.

  “Drink your tea, and I’ll answer your question about who I work for.”

  Her heart was pounding as the mug lifted to her mouth. She supposed her hand was trembling when she noticed the hot liquid splashing against the sides. That first sip was always her favorite. She drank coffee for fuel. Her tea time, though, represented something else. To her, the entire ritual offered a renewal in every cup. A chance to be who she was—not who circumstance forced her to be.

  Fortune cookie babble? Yeah, probably.

  The sweetened warmth slid into her throat and spread throughout her body. Without thinking, she yanked the elastic from her hair and shook the messy mane sending the long dark strands dancing around her shoulders. She needed the protective shield.

  Her eyes met his. The same expression when she caught him checking out her ass matched the one he wore now, only with a bit more surprise on display. She bit her lip and silently willed her nerves to settle. Then she waited to see what he brought.

  “Without a hint of patronization,” he began with a determined expression, “You really can trust me. I’m not here to cause you any harm, Kelly.”

  The battle of restraint raging inside her made appearing impassive a challenge, but she hung on and stayed a blank slate.

  “I work for somebody who,” he hesitated just a fraction, “knew of your mother’s unusual…situation.”

  Well, that was saying a lot of nothing.

  “Mmm hmm,” she growled. “This no-name somebody that knew of my mother’s sit-u-ation? How is it this know it all wasn’t aware that she’s dead? Hmm?”

  He grunted and sat back in his chair, holding her eyes with his.

  “He lost track of her.”

  She gave him nothing. Nope. He was being a dick with his one-sentence non-answers. He could pound sand. The funny thing was, he didn’t seem to know what to do with her silence. Dammit. Biting down on her tongue wasn’t enough to keep a smug grin from tugging on her mouth.

  He might be all big and bad physically, but fancy pants didn’t know shit and was totally off his game when someone else was in control.

  Ahahahahahaaaaa!

  All of a sudden he grabbed at the back of his neck and laughed. “Jesus Carina. Do you play poker ‘cause with that blank shit eating stare you’d clean the fuck up.”

  A deflection with humor. Nice try, buddy. She calmly volleyed back.

  “When they tell our tale in song, I’ll be Poker Face, and you’ll be Teflon.” She delivered this wisecrack with a straight face and a dry tone. He got her message and snickered.

  Relaxing in his chair, a leg extended to the side, he dropped a hand onto the table. Tapping his fingers, he cocked his head and looked at her. “One of my dubious learned skills is interrogation.” He shrugged like the insider information was no big deal, but she suspected this particular bread crumb led somewhere dark and probably dangerous.

  “But nothing I learned prepared me for attempting an information transaction with a stubborn female. You seem to have a superpower.”

  “Information transaction?” Okay. The laugh wouldn’t stay quiet. Did he have any idea whatsoever how absurd he sounded?

  He reacted warmly to the crack in her reserve. “Hey.” His scoff was real and charming as all get out. “Don’t be hatin’. There are whole rooms of smarty pants people who sit around and think this shit up. Operation Cobra Strike? Operation Dragon Hammer? Huh? That crap doesn’t happen by itself.”

  Charming as this break in tension was, she had enough on her plate at the moment.

  “Mr. Bishop. I’m tired. My arm is killing me. I don’t have time for whatever this is. I’ve got to get ready for tomorrow. All that snow doesn’t signal a day off. And since you’ll be leaving in the morning…” her face emphasized the point she was making. “I suggest you get some sleep. You’ll be glad when you’re digging your way out.”

  She stood up and marched to the sofa. “You can sleep here. I’ll get some blankets. Keep an eye on the fire, please. I’m kind of surprised there’s still power, but luck might not be on my side.”

  He stalked after her and boxed her in with surprising ease. The impulse to shove him away almost got the better of her when he asked a direct question.

  “Aren’t you even a little bit curious, Carina?”

  Was she? No. No, she wasn’t. The past can’t be changed, and the future belonged to those who take the challenge. There wasn’t a single thing this man or anyone could say that would change one simple fact. All she
and Matty had was each other and a secret stash of cash courtesy of their dysfunctional mom. They were a team. A damn good one.

  Whatever or whoever Roman Bishop represented meant nothing to her. Not really.

  “Nope. Can’t say that I am. Sorry fancy man but your trip to the woods is wasted time. Matty and I aren’t interested.”

  She marched away with a dismissive wave and nearly stumbled onto her face when she heard him quietly ask, “Even if there’s a real good chance you could end up a very wealthy woman?”

  What the fuck?

  She turned slowly and glared at him.

  What. The. FUCK. Oh my god was he ever barking up the wrong tree.

  “Mr. Bishop. Let me make myself perfectly clear. I want you and the foul stench you brought off my property at daybreak. You are not welcome here, and no amount of money will change that.”

  “Kelly…”

  “No,” she snapped. “I’m not my mother. You can’t buy me. Go away.”

  She was down the hallway and slamming her door with a vengeance before he could speak. Let him figure out the blanket situation. She didn’t care.

  Filled with a blind rage, she pressed a fist against her mouth to stifle the angry, wounded bellow building in her core.

  This was about her father, wasn’t it? Hers and Matty’s. Had to be. Nothing could infuriate her more. Dangling dollars as if she was a trained animal or a pet up for sale made her physically sick. Being ignored and denied for almost twenty-four years had a way of fucking with a person’s head. So did the fact that the miserable piece of garbage who worked Roman Bishop’s strings was who destroyed her mother’s life.

  She already viewed the bonus cash her mom squirreled away as a form of hush money. That was bad enough, but to suggest she’d be susceptible to the suggestion of more? Who were these people that they held such a dim view of others?

  Pacing back and forth between the fireplace and the end of the hallway to her bedroom, Roman logged a solid mile while his mind worked overtime.

  Kelly Anne James was an uncommon female, that was for damn sure. Feisty, ferociously independent, and possessing more complicated and complex layers than a double batch of his much-loved baklava, she didn’t just meet him head on. He’d never seen anyone be quite so consistently in-your-face. In a lot of ways, she called the shots from the second they met. It put him in an unusual position and made him question if he relinquished control or if she just took it.

  What was he supposed to make of her immoveable dismissal? “Jesus,” he quietly groaned aloud. “What the hell had she been through to make her so hard?”

  The answering silence chafed his nuts. Figuring her out wasn’t going to be easy. It should be. Considering who the fuck I am, he thought, this whole thing should have been a piece of cake.

  He stopped pacing and stared down the short hallway. Despite the closed bedroom door, he sensed her presence. Her agitated presence.

  Dammit. He wanted her.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose on a long deep inhale he closed his eyes and commanded his usually well-mannered libido to settle down. Letting his feelings muddy the waters wasn’t helping.

  Stepping away from the temptation of the hallway, he pushed down the urge to kick open her fucking door and force the issue. Now wasn’t the time to go cave man.

  Kelly Anne James was at the top of the hands-off list.

  “Think, ya’ dumb shit,” he muttered.

  He’d made a mess of everything. Instead of playing it cool and laying believable groundwork, he jumped in right away. The hair-brained decision to venture into the hills while a snowstorm loomed wasn’t his best move. Add to that the fact that they had the compatibility of oil and water. Or maybe thunder and lightning. He wasn’t sure, but one of those was probably accurate.

  And it wasn’t helping his frame of mind that a twenty-something little girl had him entertaining a whole host of salacious possibilities—the kind that would definitely float his boat but most likely send a youngling like Kelly straight to the exit.

  He needed to get his shit together.

  A hard glance around the small room brought the flat screen television into clear focus. Earlier, he’d thought it looked out of place.

  “Fuck,” he muttered. The first clue had been there from the start, but he was too distracted by other things.

  His eyes darted around the every inch of the cluttered interior. The lighthouse picture above the fireplace wasn’t anywhere near as old as everything else. Walking right up to the painted canvas he inspected the bottom corners until he found what he was looking for.

  “K-A-J.” Hmph. Kelly Anne James?

  Nothing else looked like it came from this century. The furniture was old. A quilt tossed across the back of the sofa was something from another era. Only the painting and the surprising TV were anywhere near new.

  He walked into the kitchen. No microwave. Really? How had he not noticed that right away? An old school toaster sat on the counter. Besides that one small appliance, there were no kitchen toys anywhere in sight. Three bins sat side by side along the wall between the kitchen and the table. One held cans and bottles. Another was full of paper. The third was for trash.

  Not a single paper towel or box of tissues was evident. The stack of cloth napkins on the table, all the kitchen towels looked like they’d seen better days.

  He peered into every cabinet and checked out the pantry. The dishes and equipment screamed 80’s yard sale, and the food supply consisted of generic items, and a lot of home jarred things.

  How the hell did someone who more or less existed off the grid and didn’t waste money on throw away items have a satellite dish and a flat screen?

  Things weren’t adding up. His gaze swung to the painting once more.

  For reassurance, he stuck his head in the mudroom where a washer and dryer were tucked into a corner and found what he expected. Older model appliances with a pair of pliers next to a missing control knob.

  Marching quietly into the hallway he stopped in the bathroom and shut the door firmly behind him. Pink and black tiles from the 1950s livened up the tiny room. The polka dot shower curtain seemed new, but everything else down to the products on the tub ledge left a dollar store impression.

  Making use of the immaculate porcelain, he relieved himself and was washing his hands at the sink when a battle broke out in his head.

  Don’t be a wuss. It’s your job to check out everything. That was the rational, highly trained snotbag at the center of his personality weighing in.

  He frowned at his reflection in the mirror.

  Don’t do it, man, a different side to his conscience warned. Haven’t you trampled on her privacy enough?

  He grimaced at the reflection mouthing “Fuck,” and then opened the medicine cabinet behind the mirror.

  First aid supplies caught his eye first. He grunted when he saw the little box of powder ampules for pouring on an open wound to stop bleeding. That shit stung and burned like a motherfucker, something he found out first hand on many occasions during his war zone days. It bothered the hell out of him to see it in her supplies.

  There wasn’t a single prescription, although he did find a small brown envelope with two capsules inside and a ripped sticker on the back. Antibiotics. The kind they handed out at the free clinics.

  The toothbrush holder held two. One adult and one child sized.

  Also missing from this non-treasure trove of clues was anything male. No razors, shaving cream, deodorant. Nothing. There also wasn’t evidence of contraception. No pill pack, diaphragm container, or condoms.

  The weird satisfaction he felt did not sit well. He had to wonder what his reaction might have been if he found lube and a butt plug. Jesus. He was losing it.

  Switching off the overhead, he peeked into the hallway. Her door remained shut, but a light was evident around the edges. Practically tip-toeing like a cartoon character up to no good, he carefully opened the second bedroom door and slid into the room.
>
  Using his cellphone flashlight, he swept the room and smiled. Posters and pictures taken from magazines covered the walls—mostly of dinosaurs with the occasional appearance of Mickey Mouse.

  The bedspread was somewhat new. Prehistoric scenery of course. On the bedside stand was a framed picture. He leaned close for a better look. It was Kelly with a happy kid hoisted on her shoulders. They both wore big smiles. He wondered where they were and who took the picture.

  A book on the end of the bed caught his eye. Sammy and the Dinosaurs. A pleasant warmth spread slowly in his chest. He bet she read to the kid every night.

  Creeping silently from the room, he eyed her closed door one more time and returned to the living room. Crouched at the fire, he stirred the embers and added two hefty logs. Brushing ash off the hearth, he adjusted the safety screen and sat back on his heels.

  What had he learned so far? Her truck was older than he was. For a woman with no discernible income except the meager amount her booth at the farmers’ market brought, she managed a satellite dish and a TV. The result of her pool sharking efforts? He doubted it. The painting pointed to a creative streak.

  The kid was still a mystery, but nothing he’d seen so far indicated their situation was anything more than a young mother pulling a single parent gig. Hell. These days that sort of thing wasn’t even unusual.

  She was definitely Liam’s blood sister. The eyes weren’t an accidental coincidence.

  He pulled out his phone one more time and silently begged the gods of technology to grant him a little signal. Talking to Liam was imperative. He’d make him see that being overly cautious wasn’t what this situation needed. The sooner they brought her up to speed and got her and the kid under the protective wing he and Liam offered, the better.

  Still no signal.

  Balls.

  As if on cue, the tiny house vibrated from the loud, jangling ring of a wall phone. His mouth dropped open. When was the last time he heard the ringing of a land line?