Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1)

by P. J. O'Dwyer

  Crap—except for the damn key. She'd work on that. It was in his back pocket.

  He slid off the table and pulled her to him. His head bent slightly; he had every intention of kissing her. It was the only chance she had at retrieving the key.

  His lips came down tentatively. Bren held still. He could search for her tonsils before she'd respond. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore his soft lips, wide and clumsy, tasting her mouth. She wrapped her arms around his waist and touched his butt cheeks, rubbing for the key. The hard shape of it rested in the right rear pocket of his pants, and she began to work it out under the pretense of groping his ass.

  He moaned into her mouth, his tongue pushing its way inside. It took every ounce of resolve not to bite him. She continued her manipulation of the key until she pushed it out and into her hand.

  Bren pulled away. "You kiss like you mean it." She rolled her lips in. They were swollen and wet.

  "I want you. Enough petting, Bren." He grabbed her arm and tugged her toward the bed.

  She ran her hand along the table and snagged the scissors. Raising it, she jabbed it hard into him aiming for his heart, but he dodged to the right.

  It was like cutting into a tender chicken breast, the give of flesh, and Bren let go, the scissors falling. It hit the table with a resounding clatter, then a light thud onto the floor.

  Robert groaned in pain, his grip falling away. "What the hell?" He gave her a confused look and grabbed his arm. "Bren?"

  Not good. He shouldn't still be standing... or talking. She glanced up. His eyes were wide with shock, and then they pierced her with understanding. "You bitch."

  Shit. No one died from an injury to the shoulder unless a major artery was hit. There was blood, but not enough to suggest he was going to bleed out. God, she sucked with her aim, but he was off balance and she had the key. She ran to the door. He stumbled behind her. Things fell to the floor, and she didn't look back. She concentrated on the lock and the key. Her fingers shook with fear, and she cursed.

  Dear God, help me find the hole, or he's going to kill me.

  As though God had heard her prayer, the key slipped in the lock and clicked. She yanked opened the door. The scent of pine greeted her, a chorus of spring peepers beckoned, and she took her first step toward freedom—when an arm reached out and hauled her back. She screamed. The sharp point of the scissors, coated in Robert's blood, pressed into her stomach, and she clamped her lips shut and swallowed a whimper.

  He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her face against his smooth cheek. "I'm going to take you now as your punishment." The engaging voice of a new lover disappeared, replaced with the edge of reprisal. He yanked her off her feet and dragged her to the bed and pushed her down.

  Sitting on top of her, pinning her arms under his thighs, he pressed the scissors to her throat with one hand and with the other unbuckled his belt and worked the button and zipper of his pants.

  Bren squirmed beneath him, screaming her head off. If someone was out there, she prayed they'd hear her.

  "Don't fight me." He pressed the scissors into the soft hollow of her throat. "It can go the hard way or the easy way."

  Oh God, he was going to rape her! He was going to keep her captive. And he was going to punish her again and again for deceiving him.

  He moved down to her thighs, and grabbed for her hands at the same time, still keeping her pinned beneath him. His lips came down hard, his tongue relentless. He tore at her mouth until she unclenched her teeth. Bren choked out a cry when his tongue darted into her mouth. Tears, hot and wet, ran down her cheeks. Consumed with taking what was not his, he had left the scissors on her chest, leaving its sharp point between their bodies to graze her neck and throat repeatedly with their movements.

  Bren moaned into his mouth to stop. The point pierced her skin, and she gulped down a cry. Her eyes flew open and locked into his. They were wild and intent on conquering.

  "Please, Robert, stop!"

  He pulled away suddenly, the scissors falling into the crack between the wall and the mattress. Robert studied her intently. His brows furrowed, and he touched the hollow of her neck. "Sweetheart, you're bleeding."

  No shit.

  He brought his finger up. Bren's dark, red blood covered his fingertip, and he tasted it, smiling pleasantly like a vampire after a meal.

  Bren wanted to gag. All that she knew of Robert Connelly became distorted. His attractive patrician features twisted with anger, and she didn't recognize the childhood friend or the man who had been so compassionate toward her.

  His hand came down on her breast. Roughly, he pinched her nipple through her shirt.

  Bren gasped in pain. "Don't, Robert. You're hurting me."

  "Like you hurt me." He glanced at his shoulder. His pale skin oozed with blood. Robert's lips thinned. "Our first time could have been sweet... sensual." His eyes hardened, and he reached under her shirt and tugged on her panties.

  "God no. Please don't." She'd die before she'd let him invade her. She reared up and screamed.

  "You son of a bitch." The deep drawl filled the room accompanied by the racking of a shotgun.

  Robert's eyes grew large and his hand stilled, clenched around the satin of her panties.

  Bren couldn't see him, but she recognized the slow, pissed-off tone of Rafe's voice with utter relief.

  His powerful hand gripped Robert's arm—the difference in strength between the two men evident when Rafe's fingers wrapped around Robert's bicep and plucked him off her. He flew back into the metal table and fell to the ground.

  Tall and angry, Rafe loomed over him, a shotgun shoved against Robert's skull. "I should kill your miserable ass."

  Robert remained still, his eyes closed.

  The tightness in Bren's chest eased.

  Rafe glanced at Bren. "He hurt you?"

  She shook her head, her hand instinctively going up to her throat.

  "Jesus. You're bleeding!" He lowered the shotgun to his side and moved toward her.

  Bren scrambled to the far corner of the bed and tucked herself into a small ball.

  Rafe's face tensed. "What'd he do to you?"

  Bren's heart sped up. She couldn't speak. She felt dirty. She wanted to go home. Bren shook her head. "Not now," she whispered and bit down on her lip, helpless to stop the tears welling in her eyes.

  A hand grabbed for the table, and Bren gasped. Robert hoisted himself up.

  "Rafe!"

  Rafe flinched and raised the shotgun.

  Robert grabbed for the barrel. "I'm going to fuck you up, Langston." His language, sharp and vulgar, made Bren recoil deeper into the corner. Sweat beaded Robert's forehead, his usual pale complexion now a flush of repressed rage as he wrestled Rafe for the shotgun.

  Rafe's dark brows knit, and he beaded in on Robert. "It's over, Connelly. Sheriff's right outside the door."

  "You're lying."

  Rafe forced Robert back against the table. He motioned with his head to Bren. "Get out of here."

  She wanted to. But she wouldn't leave him. If Kevin were right outside, why wasn't he drawing down on Robert? No. She wasn't leaving Rafe.

  "Move it, Red," Rafe growled, the gun slipping from his hands.

  "Rafe!" Bren screamed.

  "Connelly." The gruff voice seemed to stop time—and Robert.

  Paddy stood in the small doorway, hunched over, holding a pistol at the ready.

  Cursing, Rafe shot Paddy an irritated gaze. "Old man, I got this."

  Bren moved to the bed and struggled to get to her feet. Rafe glanced over his shoulder. "God, Bren. Stay—" Rafe swung his head back toward Robert. "Shit."

  Robert twisted the gun away from Rafe and pointed it at him. "Rafe!" Bren held her breath.

  Paddy's heavy boots clomped down the wooden steps. "God damn it!" He kept his gun trained on Robert. "I'm not losing another son."

  Robert sneered and took aim at Rafe's chest. Rafe backed up and struggled for balance when his leg hit the end of t
he bed. A single gunshot exploded, echoing inside the stone walls of the cellar.

  Bren glanced at Robert still holding the shotgun now aimed at her. Glued to Robert's menacing eyes, she prepared to die. But his look changed slowly to one of terror, and the shotgun slipped from his hand and hit the floor as he clutched the grisly hole in his chest.

  Blood trickled through his fingers, and he collapsed.

  Bren's body trembled, and her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my God."

  Rafe grabbed the shotgun from the floor and knelt down to check Robert's pulse. "He's dead." He stood and came to her, pulling her quivering body to him.

  "He killed Tom," she managed to whisper.

  "I know, honey." He held her at arm's length, doing an inventory of her when his eyes landed on her throat. "He cut you."

  She didn't miss the edge to his words. "It doesn't hurt."

  He probed her throat gingerly with his finger. "It's a flesh wound," he said, relief in his voice. Their gazes met. His eyes swept her as though he was unsure she was real. "You're wearing my shirt."

  His matter-of-fact tone made her laugh. "I couldn't fall asleep."

  Rafe's lips quirked. "I love you." His voice was hoarse.

  Bren caressed his dark, bristly cheek. "I love you, too."

  His warm, firm lips kissed her mouth. She kissed him back.

  He set her away from him and dug into the front of his rain jacket, pulling out something soft and familiar. "You're near to naked, darlin'. This should warm you up."

  "My pajamas?"

  "Thought we'd give that hound a test run."

  "We?"

  She remembered Paddy then. He remained in the doorway, his face ashen under the glow of the glaring single bulb. His eyes were lost. He still held the pistol, shaking in his trembling hand.

  She squeezed Rafe's hand, nodding behind him. "He needs you."

  Rafe glanced over his shoulder. "I got him." He stepped over Robert's body and Bren wanted to gag. The sooner they got out of here the better.

  Rafe moved to Paddy's side and pried the gun from his arthritic fingers then shoved it in his waistband.

  Paddy grabbed Rafe's shoulder. "I had to, son."

  He was his son. If or when Rafe chose to recognize it, the man she'd known most of her life would be waiting to receive him.

  Rafe moved him to the bed and sat him down. "Don't keel over on me now, old man." Rafe crouched down in front of him, then grinned at Bren. "We've been at each other since we left Grace." He squeezed Paddy's jean-clad leg, feeling forgiveness creep in whether he wanted it to or not. "It's just going to take some getting used to. I don't even know what to call you."

  Paddy placed his hand over Rafe's. "Anything but old man."

  Rafe laughed. "You don't like it?"

  "Hell, no," Paddy grumped. "When you say it, you're always scowling at me."

  Rafe gave a deep-throated chuckle. "Then I'll try not to scowl."

  They were like two thunderheads clashing. If it wasn't for the smell of blood and death around her, Bren might have laughed. But her humor faded with the commotion coming from the doorway.

  Kevin with his Stetson poked his head through the door. "Ryan, you're the biggest pain in the ass." She recognized his mock anger and crooked smile.

  "Mom!" Aiden's head, slicked back and wet from rain, emerged from under the hood of a rain poncho.

  Rafe nodded to Bren, and then grabbed Paddy's arm, pulling him up. He hooked his chin toward the door. "Let's take this outside."

  Fat ran drops hit Bren's face the moment she emerged from underground. Aiden had been pulled back, a sheriff's deputy standing next to him. Rafe came up behind her and reached for Aiden's arm. "I'm proud of you."

  Aiden smiled.

  One of the deputies threw a yellow raincoat over Bren's shoulders. Barefoot but safe, she headed toward her son.

  Aiden swooped in on Bren, his poncho reminding her of a bat's wingspan. He wrapped his arms around her waist.

  Ignoring the water seeping through her shirt from his poncho, Bren hugged him back and gave Rafe a quizzical look over Aiden's cold, wet hair.

  "Your boy found you."

  Aiden squirmed, and she let him go.

  So much for their loving embrace.

  He angled his head toward Rafe and Paddy, but in particular his grandfather. "I heard Kevin talking. He said when Aunt Jo was able to talk, she told him Rafe was your son. Is he?"

  Paddy looked to Rafe, his expression more of a question.

  "It's a long story, Aiden." Rafe grimaced. "It's confusing."

  "Holy shit!" He looked from Bren to Rafe to Paddy. "Rafe's my uncle." The awe in which he said it left Bren in a quandary as to how he truly felt about it. Almost like he was trying the title on for size to see how it fit or sounded coming off his lips.

  "That's cool." Aiden shook his head in an I'm-down-with-that kind of motion, which Bren was fairly sure was a good thing.

  She'd leave it to father and son to explain details because she was done with convoluted issues. Cold but relieved, tired although she wouldn't be able to sleep, Bren Ryan was officially off the clock trying to save the world.

  She smiled to herself. Well... at least my world.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Bren stepped into Jo's bedroom. The shades were open, allowing a gray afternoon light to spill in across the king-sized bed where Jo sat propped up by pillows. Swallowed up by a bulky floral comforter, she seemed small and vulnerable.

  Bren moved closer and frowned at the dark circles ringing Jo's eyes.

  She should have been recuperating in the hospital. But she had checked herself out within twenty-four hours saying all she had was a killer headache.

  "Who was that at the door?" A shapely dark brow rose over Jo's eye. As a pair her eyes were tired and fluttering toward sleep. Only Jo was obstinately holding them open.

  "Why aren't you asleep?" Bren narrowed in on her. "You did take those pills I gave you?"

  "Answer the question, Ryan."

  "Kevin." Bren sat down on the bed next to her. The big, pillow-topped mattress hugged her bottom.

  "What did he want?"

  She slumped against Jo's legs under the plaid comforter and toyed with the stitching. "You know Wes is friends with the judge."

  "Yeah."

  "Being friends with the judge gets you privileges most prisoners don't get."

  "So?"

  "When they told Wes the news about Robert, he fell apart. Cried like a baby. When they came back to check on him an hour later, he'd hung himself."

  "Bren!" Jo's hand flew to her mouth. She slid it down. "I don't understand. What could he possibly use? He should have been wearing a jumpsuit and slip-on tennis shoes."

  "Seems Wes is used to sleeping in satin sheets."

  "That's awful."

  "Unfair is more like it. Wes gets his sheets, and I get screwed. I wanted that bastard to suffer."

  "He's dead, Bren. I wouldn't take death lightly."

  Bren could attest to that. Jo had been lucky she'd gone down with one blow. Had she struggled with Robert or been able to unmask him, he would have killed her. As it was, she looked exhausted, her head taped up like a busted pinata.

  Bren squeezed her hand. "I don't care about Wes. He got what he deserved. I'm worried about you. I can't believe you signed yourself out."

  "I hate hospitals. Plus I have work."

  "You can't be serious." Bren eyed her and then the lump next to her under the comforter. "Is that what I think it is?" She grabbed the covers and pulled it back. "What the hell do you need a briefcase for?" Bren went to grab for it.

  Jo slammed her hand on the black leather case. "Leave it. It's important."

  "The PI business picking up?"

  "You know I can't discuss it." She frowned at Bren.

  Since when? Maybe she shouldn't have, but she had, on numerous occasions. Why the secrecy now?

  Jo's hand remained glued to the case, her expression tense.

&
nbsp; "Okay." Bren moved off the bed. "Keep your briefcase." She walked to the window and peered out. It was cloudy and chilly—the norm for an afternoon day in March. "You know he doesn't like being away from you."

  "Jeremy." She spoke his name with little feeling.

  "What 's wrong?"

  "All he does is travel lately."

  "For his job, Jo."

  "Nice he could find the time to fly back and check on me."

  "Be fair. He'd been out all night on an emergency call."

  "He called you this morning—not me."

  Where was all the hostility coming from? He'd called just as soon as he got word. He'd tried her hospital bed, but she'd already checked herself out. She had no cell phone—only her stupid penguin pajamas when the cab dropped her off.

  "You know why."

  Jo shrugged. "I'm tired, Bren."

  Bren shut the shade. "I didn't mean to upset you, honey. Take a nap. I'll be downstairs." Bren started to walk away.

  "Bren." Jo grabbed her wrist. "I'm sorry. We've both been through a lot. You don't have to stay with me. Jeremy will be home soon."

  "I'm not leaving you alone."

  "What about Rafe and the boys?"

  Bren smiled. "You mean Uncle Rafe. He's over at Paddy's replacing a belt on his tractor. And the boys are with him."

  "So he's forgiven Paddy?"

  "He's trying."

  "And the boys... they've taken to their Uncle Rafe?" Jo gave her a tired smile.

  "They've been inseparable. I don't think the three of them have stopped smiling."

  "And you?"

  "I love him, Jo."

  "You deserve to be happy, honey."

  "I am." Bren turned off the light on the nightstand. "Get some rest."

  Bren grabbed the phone on the first ring. "Breakstone residence."

  "Please tell me you take out the trash and cut the grass, too."

  "Funny. Why are you calling? You should be getting ready to land."