Ready To Burn (Due South Book 3)

by Tracey Alvarez

  Del raised an eyebrow. “That old cougar still alive?”

  “That old cougar is alive and kicking, and she’d say yes to you in a heartbeat.” Noah stood and slid his chair under the table. “Anyone want a lift back to town? Shaye?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’ll stay for the clean-up.”

  Ben and Ford also rose, collecting their winnings and jackets. After a quick round of goodbyes, they left.

  Del and West collapsed the card table and manhandled it down to the garage, while Shaye and Piper tidied the family room and loaded the dishwasher.

  Piper continued to slip sidelong glances in Shaye’s direction as they worked in silence—a well-oiled team effort, polished through years of sibling practice. Piper collected dirty dishes, Shaye rinsed and stacked them. If Ben had stayed, he would’ve been all big brother, giving orders until either she or Piper squirted him with the sink spray hose. At last, they were a family again, and for that, she’d put up with Ryan Westlake and his irritating younger brother.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” Shaye said after receiving yet another glance.

  “Nope, I don’t think you do.”

  Shaye slotted a glass into the dishwasher. “You’re thinking I’m too hard on Del. That I should quit giving him hell and play nice.”

  Piper snickered and tossed another two beer bottles into the recycling bin. “You may’ve convinced half the town that sugar wouldn’t melt in your mouth, but I know you. You’ve got a little mean streak once someone gets under your skin.” Piper shut the laundry door on the recycling bin and leaned against a counter. “And for some reason, Del’s gotten under your skin.”

  “He’s in my kitchen, being a pain in the butt.”

  “Short term, as you pointed out earlier. Plus, you said you worked well together.”

  “I hate it when you remind me of stuff I said earlier.”

  “I know. But big sisters are good at that sort of thing.” Piper pressed her lips shut and popped them open a couple of times. “Just be careful, okay? Don’t burn any bridges.”

  Shaye huffed out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding and unscrewed the lid on the dishwasher powder. “This coming from a woman who doesn’t just burn bridges but annihilates them with nuclear bombs.”

  Piper grinned and wrapped her arm around Shaye’s shoulder. “Yeah, but you’re only a baby ass-kicker. I’m a pro.”

  “Well, this baby ass-kicker made forty bucks tonight and found a slave to do all the hard labor for the kids’ Halloween party.”

  “Make that a big mean streak.” Piper’s laugh sobered quickly. “Del doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who’s into the whole family and kids scene.”

  “That’s my impression, too.”

  Piper flicked a glance over her shoulder at the footsteps clomping back up the stairs. “I hope the anti-family thing is mostly an act. West and Claire are pinning their hopes on Del being a kidney donor.”

  Shaye’s stomach plummeted to the toes of her boots. “I hope so, too.”

  But Del being a match was the least of the Westlakes’ problems. Even if Del proved to be compatible, would he agree to such a huge step? Would the boy she’d seen hiding in the corner of their garden crying thirteen years ago turn around and give the father who sent him away a kidney?

  She’d no idea, because she still didn’t know what kind of man the boy had become.

  ***

  Shaye turned down West’s offer of a ride home. Clambering on the back of his motorbike for the short trip into town was fun—but tonight, she needed the solitude of walking under a quarter moon.

  Del had disappeared downstairs ten minutes earlier with a curt, “Night.”

  Shaye hugged her sister at the door. “I can’t wait until the dress-fitting in Invers.”

  Piper’s nose crinkled. “You know, I’m having second thoughts—”

  “You rock the dress.”

  “I do. I could rock a cute pantsuit, too.”

  Shaye laughed and stepped outside. “You’re not getting married in a pantsuit.”

  “Fine.” Piper huffed, crossing her arms. “But I get to pick the shoes.”

  “Yes. You may pick the shoes that go under the gorgeous dress we spent many, many insufferable hours finding.”

  “It’s not too late to change the bridesmaids’ dresses to candy-floss pink with ruffles, you know.”

  Shaye swatted her sister’s arm. “Oh, go play hide the salami with your man, you vengeful cow.”

  “Love you, Shaye-Shaye,” Piper called as she shut the door. She whipped it open again. “And don’t forget you promised your special macaroons for my bridal shower. Sweet dreams.”

  Shaye continued to smile as she followed the thin beam of her little pocket flashlight down the driveway. Fresh, salty air with a hint of smoke from the many coal and wood fires ruffled her hair. Electricity was expensive on Stewart Island, since they relied on four diesel generators to provide for their needs. Without a honey to keep you warm on icy winter nights, coal or wood wouldn’t bankrupt you like electric heaters would.

  She buttoned up her vintage, Kelly-green wool coat and drew the collar higher around her neck.

  Lights still glowed in a few homes nestled in the bush-covered hills above Oban. Some nights, her own company became too much, and she’d take her little flashlight and walk through the town. Sometimes, a shadow moved past a window in one of those homes as the drapes were tugged shut, the person snugly enclosed by the warmth of family inside.

  One day, she’d tell herself. One day a man who loves me will close the drapes against the world and take me to bed.

  Footsteps thudded on the road behind her. Shaye whirled, a beam of light blinding her. She threw up a hand to shield her eyes.

  “Sorry,” a male voice said.

  Not West and probably not sorry in the slightest.

  Del, dressed in long black shorts and a long-sleeve running shirt, flicked off his headlamp. She took half a step to the side, since he didn’t move past her.

  City people—they had no idea of personal boundaries.

  “No problem.” She waved a hand in the direction of the main road. “Ride like the wind, Bullseye.”

  “Huh?”

  Not a Toy Story fan. She wasn’t surprised. “Never mind. I’ll get out of your way.”

  Moving a little farther to the side, because—damn her nose—he still smelled like something begging to be bitten, Shaye flicked her fingers and mimicked a southern accent. “Run Forrest, run.”

  In case he hadn’t gotten the subtle context of run far, far from her.

  “Are we playing guess the movie?”

  “We’re not playing anything. You’re off for a run; I’m going home.” Pointlessly rolling her eyes in the dark, Shaye walked down the hill.

  Men. Always so obtuse when it suited them.

  Del switched on his headlamp and followed. “Thought I’d walk with you. At least as far as Due South.”

  Her scalp prickled. “That’s not necessary.”

  Ick. That sounded uber-bitchy. Especially since Del pitched his voice in a can’t we get along tone.

  Her mum raised her to have manners. “But thank you.”

  She walked faster, though because of his height advantage, he kept up, as if he were taking a midnight stroll.

  “It’s no problem. This’ll be my warm up.”

  “Wouldn’t want you to strain anything.” Like his giant ego.

  He chuckled, and she slanted a glance at him.

  The giant ego was packed into a rangy yet muscled frame. The black top clung to his upper body, but with the lack of light, she couldn’t see much except the breadth of his chest and the width of his shoulders. Not that she paid attention to the lean muscles flexing in his calves as they turned onto the main road. Not if she didn’t want to trip over her boots and tumble head first onto the beach.

  “You’re not a runner?”

  She snickered. “Only if there’s someone ch
asing me with a knife.”

  “That happen much?”

  “Not on my shifts.”

  Since Del appeared determined to ruin her quiet stroll, she kept a wide gap between them. It wasn’t wide enough. Even through the layers of wool and satin lining, through her merino sweater and thermal top, she reacted to his nearness with goosebumps rising on her skin.

  This was the first time she’d been alone with him. Alone and not in Due South’s kitchen—as God knows, a speedo-wearing Joe Manganiello could arrange himself on her workspace during dinner service and she wouldn’t stop for a lick.

  “Maybe they do things differently in LA?” she asked.

  “Can’t say I’ve ever been chased by a knife-wielding maniac.”

  She didn’t need light to see him smile.

  “I did have a line cook threaten to cut my dick off and feed it to her pet snake once.”

  “Do you make a habit of pissing off your staff?” Or only his female staff?

  Her shoulders hunched. Be civil, Shaye-Shaye. Pretend he’s some summer guy here for a long weekend, making chit-chat in the pub while shouting over the dull roar of a dozen other conversations.

  “Tempers flare in the weeds. All sorts of shit gets said. Doesn’t mean anything.”

  Maybe she’d been a little sheltered working at Due South. Bill, sometimes crankier than a goat with a burr up his bum, treated her like a daughter. But as a substitute daughter, she didn’t get an ounce of leniency that a simple employee got. If she screwed up, she heard about it. At volume. Then they’d work through the issue and make sure it didn’t happen again. There were no personal insults or threats of dicks being cut off. They were family.

  Still, on days when Bill patted her hand and rejected yet another of her suggestions, Shaye wondered about the dark side. Could she leave everything and everyone behind for an opportunity of a lifetime?

  Like that would ever happen.

  She sighed as they rounded a bend, their footsteps crunching on gravel. Oban’s few streetlamps and the ferry wharf’s outside lights to their left cast enough shadows aside to allow her to switch off her flashlight.

  “So, what’s it like, working at Cosset?”

  “Hard—back-breaking hard. You’re pushed to your limits each night, but it’s an electrifying atmosphere to work in.” Del switched off his headlamp and stuffed it into his pocket.

  Their steps slowed to a stroll while their eyes adjusted to the sliver of moonlight and the spread of stars overhead. He definitely wasn’t telling her everything.

  “Sounds like the abridged version.”

  “It is.”

  “You’re not going to tell me what it’s really like?”

  “Why? Thinking of moving to LA?”

  Chef training in Invercargill had been challenge enough for the scared, twenty-one year old she’d been almost four years ago. “I don’t think Hollywood’s quite my scene.”

  “There’s always New York, London, Paris. I’ve heard cruise ships are great if you’ve the urge to visit lots of different places.”

  Cruise ships? Nuh, uh. “Boats are not my thing.”

  She shrugged, glancing past him to the slow wash of white water surging over the sandy beach. In summer, she swam in the shallows close to shore, which didn’t bother her too badly. And not using the ferry as a means of transport was silly—and costly. So what if she avoided most outings on Ben’s boat, and she’d scuba-dive with her siblings when imps ice-skated in hell?

  Farther along the road running alongside the arc of Halfmoon Bay, Due South’s outside lights glowed like beacons in the velvet darkness. Nearly there. Just another five minutes of small talk.

  “You think I could work in New York or London?” she asked.

  “I haven’t seen you pushed to your limits, so I’ll reserve judgment.”

  “I work well under pressure.”

  “Due South is a fucking cakewalk compared to Cosset and kitchens like it. No offence.”

  If he predicted her reaction would be denying and defensive, he’d be disappointed.

  “None taken,” she said.

  His footfalls slowed, and then stopped. He leaned his forearms on the foreshore railing and gazed out over the bay. She could’ve kept walking. Could’ve said a quick goodnight and scurried away to the safety of her room. But Del had some serious gravity, and he drew her to his side to lean where he leaned, to stare where he stared. Pewter moonlight dancing over the moored boats and the shifting tide was one view she’d never tire of.

  “Sometimes, those bright city lights show up a whole cesspool you gotta learn to stay afloat in.” The toe of his running shoe scuffed at a pile of sand blown onto the road. “You think you’ve learned to swim, when really you’ve just been keeping your head above the shit.”

  A vast emptiness hollowed his voice, a weariness she’d expect from a much older man. Del was three years her senior. Right now, the difference in their ages felt more like three decades.

  “Was it hard deciding to leave LA and come here?”

  “Yes and no.”

  One lazy wave after another hissed ashore. She swiveled toward him, but his features were a blank mask. “You want to expand on that a little?”

  The white sliver of his teeth flashed. “Now that would mean having a heartfelt conversation. I didn’t think you were interested in socializing with me outside of the kitchen.”

  “Hmmph.”

  Being with Del anywhere was like taking a supposedly harmless party pill—the buzz seemed innocent at first, then suddenly you were dancing naked on a table top, shaking your tail feather.

  Shaye turned her back on the beach and leaned on the railing. She should go—return to her DVD collection and Kindle, and just forget about standing in the moonlight with Del Westlake.

  Instead, she blurted, “Why was being your wedding date part of the bet?”

  He huffed out a laugh. “It doesn’t matter; you cleaned the floor with me. Lesson learned.”

  She shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets, ran her thumb around and around the grooved flashlight handle. “It matters. Saying something like that in front of my family and friends means they’ll never forget it.”

  “Maybe I want you as my date.”

  She snorted. “You don’t even like me.”

  “Not particularly. You’re a bit of a princess.”

  Of all the—“I should roast your balls and feed them to West’s dog. I’m not a princess.”

  “However, I like you much better when you talk dirty.”

  “God. You’re such a…such a…” She reined in a long list of colorful phrases and settled for, “Jerk.”

  “Guilty.”

  She gritted her teeth. “You asked me because we’re both part of the wedding. It’s sensible.”

  “I don’t do things just because they’re sensible.”

  “What’s your reason?”

  One second Del stood beside her all moody and mysterious, and the next, his hands gripped the railing on either side of her hips. He moved fast—fast enough that she made an embarrassing little eep-ish squawk. Nowhere to go unless she became flexible enough to do a flip over the wooden railing.

  Shaye yanked her hands from her pockets and gave his chest a shove. “Back off.”

  Even after she added her sous chef do it now or die glare, he stayed, big and bad and way too close. He continued watching her with dark and unreadable eyes, his nostrils flaring slightly as he breathed.

  Her hands didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t put them back on those two hard pecs, since every single nerve-ending had soaked up the heat burning through Del’s shirt and transmitted swoony, oh yeah sighs into her brain.

  Stupid nerve-endings. Stupid brain.

  She wriggled her bottom, so she half sat on the railing, arching away from him. “What are you doing?”

  “Showing you the reason.”

  The rough timbre of his voice stroked over her. Wickedly dark, decadently rich, scarily addictiv
e. Like chocolate, the quality stuff made of eighty percent pure cacao.

  He leaned forward, his face level with hers. “It’s a compelling reason.”

  Shaye’s hand shot out to grip his biceps—that or topple backward—but God, he felt amazing. All hard, sinewy muscle and why the hell couldn’t she unhook her fingers?

  Her breathing hitched, high and ragged. “My sister’s a cop, and I know how to defend myself.”

  “So, show me your ninja moves.”

  “Daring a cornered woman to hurt you isn’t very bright.”

  One of his hands rasped off the wooden railing and touched the end of her ponytail. He selected a strand and stroked it down her jaw. Shaye licked her lips, unable to suck her gaze from his mouth, which angled closer. Close enough that she could tell the flavor of the last handful of potato chips he’d eaten.

  Salt and vinegar. Her favorite.

  She strained upward to see if he tasted as good as he smelled…Freaking hell—

  Shaye reared back a little, hair slipping from his fingers, her chin narrowly missing his. “Are you going to kiss me?”

  Her heart gave a little bunny-hop at the thought and leaped around her ribs.

  “Not unless you ask real nice.”

  “Ask you?” There was that damn smirk of his again. She should’ve guessed he was playing with her. “When pigs fly.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw, but the smile didn’t falter. “Now you’ll have to say, ‘Please, Del. With a cherry on top.’”

  “I’d jam that cherry up your nose before I’d kiss you, Hollywood. Get outta my face.”

  His gaze dipped once to her mouth then flicked up. “I can’t go anywhere while you’re grabbing onto me.”

  “Fine.”

  She pried her hand off his arm, and he obligingly stepped back.

  What was she supposed to say now? Her brain had disintegrated to mush and her knee joints appeared to have transformed into Jello.

  Del stood, hands shoved in the pockets of his running shorts—calm, unruffled, unreadable. They could’ve been discussing the next day’s menu or the weather forecast.

  He’d been teasing. So, get it together, girlfriend. She blew out a slow breath and dredged up her most reasonable peace-making voice.