Reckless Kiss: A forbidden, billionaire romance (stand-alone)

by Tia Louise

“I’ve told you all you need to know about that guy.”

  “You actually told me very little. According to Valeria, you repeated a story that might not even be true. And it has nothing to do with him. We can’t control our grandparents.”

  He takes another hit off his tumbler, and his white teeth catch the light. I’m not sure if he’s smiling or grimacing at me.

  “Our father went to his grave a broken man. A poor man.” Beto’s voice simmers. “His biggest regret was not avenging his father’s murder.”

  I can’t answer this.

  Mamá talked about the hate here. She talked about shadows drowning out the light—it’s why she took me away from this place, away from the anger and bitterness, to her family’s estate in Mexico.

  She said it was why she made the deep blue and black crosses. She had abandoned the idea of God, but she believed in the symbolism of the cross. She said the vertical was our spiritual relationship and the horizontal was our earthly. She said if our relationship with the vertical was out of balance, our horizontal relationships would not work.

  I was so little, I didn’t understand. Now I can’t help noticing how much my brother’s anger sounds like Winnie’s bitterness. They’re two ends of the same horizontal.

  “You don’t believe me.” He misinterprets my silence.

  I don’t know Beto well enough to tell him our mother’s philosophy, but I’m pretty sure if I mention the cross, he’ll get pissed.

  My voice is quiet. “I’m very tired. Can we talk about this another time?”

  He exhales and stands roughly, shoving his chair back. “You’re my sister. It’s my job to protect you. That’s what I intend to do.”

  “Even if I don’t need protection?”

  “Even if you’re wrong.” He stubs out his cigarette and goes into the house.

  I exhale slowly, my eyes warm with tears. I’m tired and I miss Deacon.

  Mamá said to love my family more than anything, to be loyal. I wish she were here, because I have so many questions about how to love people who won’t give anyone a chance, who won’t listen, who are determined to hold onto their wrong assumptions no matter what.

  I just really need some wisdom, because I don’t believe. And I’m starting not to care.

  15

  Deacon

  Vandella Landry is a petite woman with small black glasses perched on the end of her nose. Her skin is smooth, and I would think she was in her early forties, if I didn’t know how old her mother was and if her black hair wasn’t streaked with grey.

  “Those were hard times.” She shakes her head, looking at the letter I handed her. “People disappeared, people were killed… and the perpetrators walked around in broad daylight.”

  My stomach tightens, and I’m picking at an old wound. “Do you know what happened to my grandmother?” I need to know this, as much for my family as for Angel’s.

  “I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. “I’ve never seen her name in my records.”

  My shoulders fall, and I bite back a swear. These last three days have shown me detective work is not my forte. In fact, it’s safe to say I would never want to investigate anything.

  Vandella leans in, glancing around. “But I know someone who might know.”

  That’s how I ended up at an old dogtrot shack deep in the woods off Louisiana Highway 528. Vandella gave me directions I almost didn’t believe could be real.

  Drive out past the old apostolic church, then take a right at the Miller’s house the county hauled away last year. Keep going until the pavement ends then go two miles and take a right. When you pass a row of four dumpsters, you’re almost there. The dogs will let you know you’ve arrived.

  The only wild card was the house the county hauled away. If it weren’t for a mailbox still standing in front of a concrete foundation and a partial brick chimney, I might’ve missed it.

  Now, I’m in my car facing the low house standing in a clearing surrounded by pine trees. It’s built of weathered gray wood with a wide opening between the two sides. The tin roof is rusted. It smells like pine needles and wet ground, and at the sound of my vehicle, all five of the dogs hanging around the place start barking. Two are little, a Yorkie and a chihuahua. Another looks like a lab mix, and the other two don’t even get up from the porch, a bloodhound and a Rottweiler. I’ve got my eye on those guys.

  Opening the door, I stand out of my car and call across the weedy yard. “Odessa Graves?”

  All of the dogs start barking again, but the bigger ones don’t move. It almost feels like a joke. After a minute they start to quiet down, and I call again, louder.

  The smaller dogs dance around, barking so hard, I’m worried they’re going to pop out an eyeball.

  I’m trying to decide if I should risk going to the door when a craggily voice breaks through behind me. “Stop that racket!”

  Stepping back, I see the hunched figure of an old woman with wild hair. Her pale skin is riddled with lines, and she’s wearing a faded dress as gray as her hair. A polished wooden cane is in her hand, and I can’t tell if she uses it to walk or as a weapon.

  She makes good time to where I’m standing, shading her eyes with a bony hand. “Who are you?”

  It’s not your usual Southern hospitality greeting. This is old-school, deep woods, get off my land.

  “Does Odessa Graves still live here?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m Deacon Dring… from Texas.” She doesn’t have a gun as far as I can tell, but I still hold up both hands. “I’m trying to find some information on my grandmother. I hope Ms. Graves might be able to help me.”

  Her brow pulls together, and she shakes her head. “Don’t know any Drings.”

  “Her name was Kimberly Allen. She would’ve been here about seventy years ago… pregnant? Vandella Landry thought you might know her.”

  The old woman starts for the house, and all the dogs flock to her, tails wagging. “I don’t know about any pregnant women.”

  “Please Ms. Graves. It’s really important I find out what happened to her. If you know anything—”

  She stops and looks over her shoulder at me. “You a lawyer?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You work for the TV station?”

  “No.”

  “You makin’ a movie?”

  “No… None of that.” I step away from the car, one careful step towards her. “I’m trying to find a missing uncle or aunt… it’s for my family.”

  Her eyes narrow, and she studies my face for what feels like a very long five seconds. I do my best to show her my sincerity.

  “You’re too rich to be a policeman.”

  “I’m just… a businessman.” Close enough.

  She starts walking again. “Come in the house, and I’ll see what I can find.”

  I follow her up the steps to the covered porch. The broad, open passage down the middle serves as a sort of wind tunnel, it attracts a breeze even though the air is pretty still in this part of the country. The right side of the house appears to be her sleeping quarters. She leads me into the left side. The front half is a living room with a few pieces of threadbare furniture, a table, an upright piano, and a door leads to a small kitchen.

  It’s all weathered wood with dull pine floors, and it all seems to be covered in a film of dust.

  “My great grandfather built this house.” Odessa walks over to the mantle and takes down a small wooden box. “My mother lived here with her sister after they passed. Then I was born, and my aunt moved to Vidalia.”

  I’m not sure where she’s going with all this, but I don’t interrupt her. I watch as she takes a small, polished wood pipe out of the box and stuffs it with tobacco. The stick she was carrying leans against the hearth, and after spending a few minutes lighting her pipe, she walks to a bookcase in the corner.

  “My mamma learned to be a nurse in the war.” I have no idea which war she’s talking about. This woman looks like she could be one hundred ye
ars old, judging by the lines in her face. “When she was young, she cared for the wounded soldiers. When she got older, the hospital didn’t want her because she had no formal training.”

  Her voice hasn’t changed in tone, so it’s hard to know if she’s carrying a grudge about this. It’s more like she’s reciting a history lesson.

  “I’m sorry.” Just in case.

  “No need to apologize. You weren’t even a twinkle in your daddy’s eye when it happened.” She takes a long, narrow book from the shelf and walks over to where I’m standing near the door. “Come out here to the kitchen and take a seat.”

  I follow her through the passage to an even smaller room with a metal stove against one wall and a large sink across from it. She puts the book on the table and opens it, and I see it’s a log with rows and columns. Names and dates are down one side, and some of the columns have entries beside them.

  “Folks still managed to find her.” Her lips tighten. “I was a teenager when Mamma passed, but I held onto her book. It seemed important somehow, even though most of these people are gone.”

  Swallowing the knot from my throat, I look closer at the entries. The listings are a mix of male and female names, but the problems all seem to be about the same topic. My eyes flicker to her face.

  She studies the entries with a solemn face, and I realize she’s the keeper of secrets. Dark secrets. Choices forced upon people by hate or made out of fear or desperation.

  I think about my grandmother’s desperation, and my chest sinks. “Did she do abortions?”

  Odessa shakes her head. “She delivered a lot of babies for people who couldn’t go to the hospital for whatever reason. And she helped women who had tried… other ways. She didn’t ask questions.”

  “Would my grandmother have come here to have a baby?”

  She shrugs. “It’s possible. How much do you know?”

  “I have this letter.” I hand over the letter Miss Jessica gave me.

  The old woman takes it carefully, reading the envelope. “Was this Winona Priddy?”

  “I think so?” Hell, I don’t know Miss Jessica’s last name.

  “I remember Miss Winona. I thought her name was Pretty, and I wondered what it would be like to have everyone call you that. A real confidence booster.” It’s the first time she hasn’t frowned since I arrived.

  “You remember her coming here?”

  “She came here alone first, then she came again with a woman so beautiful… so afraid.” Her eyes travel around my face, up to my hair, down to my chin. “It was your grandmother.”

  “Kimberly Allen.”

  Odessa’s eyes travel out the window into the trees behind the house. Sadness washes over her features.

  Reaching out, I clutch her arm a little too hard. “What happened to her?”

  “I didn’t know that pretty woman’s name. I was just a teenager. Still, I could see how sad she was.”

  “And the baby?”

  The old woman turns a page in the ledger, sliding her finger down the rows of names. She turns another and does the same, then another. Her brow is furrowed, and her expression grim. The noise of cicadas is loud in the absence of barking dogs, and it intensifies the isolation of this place.

  Finally, she stops, holding her finger on a row, a line in a book. “It’s here.”

  Turning the log to me, she waits until it’s in my hands before releasing it and picking up her pipe. She goes to the door and leaves me alone in the kitchen to read the words. My chest is tight, and it takes a moment for my eyes to register the ancient script, faded with the passage of time.

  It’s here, or at least half of it is. One half of the answer to the question we’ve been asking. Not the complete story, but an important piece of the puzzle. A sad piece. A piece that makes me want to say this has nothing to do with me, go home, and leave this story hidden deep in the piney woods.

  If only I could.

  “Do you know what happened next?” I look over to where she stands in the doorway, gazing into the forest, perhaps into the past.

  “I know.” Ancient eyes, full of compassion, meet mine. “I’ll take you there.”

  16

  Angel

  Lying on my bed, I smile at the ceiling thinking about my guy. Soft music plays, and I picture threading my fingers in his hair, gazing into his blue eyes flecked with gold, kissing his soft lips. Closing my eyes, I allow the dream of him to sweep away the frustrations of the week.

  An hour ago, he texted he was stopping for gas in Marshall, and he wants to see me tonight. I’m ready to meet him anywhere. My body hums with desire. I want his lips on me, his hands. I want to be skin against skin.

  Maybe it’s my brother’s hatred. Maybe it’s Deacon’s aunt’s. Maybe it’s simply knowing we’re so close to a life together that has me desperate and anxious, missing him more than I ever did in the years we’d been apart.

  Today, once again, Winnie decided to sit in a chair and “read” while I worked on her portrait. She criticized everything, and I was starting to think she was laying the groundwork to say she was going in a different direction.

  Thanks to my insistence on a contract, she put it in writing that she had the right to refuse payment or fire me if my work didn’t meet her satisfaction.

  “Is Boots really necessary for the portrait?” She sneered at the cat curled in her lap.

  I showed her Renaissance portraits featuring pets, and assured her it was a common practice among the very wealthy to include a family pet, especially a unique one like Boots. Her own brother Brandt had his favorite horse in his portrait.

  She seemed to accept this. Then her musing drifted to Deacon, which I felt was a direct test of my ability to keep my mouth shut. When she wondered aloud why he “never dated,” I had to excuse myself and go to the restroom.

  This evening I finished her portion of the portrait, and after walking around frowning at it from every angle, she finally conceded I’d “captured something”—her words.

  A stack of cash totaling $750 was placed in a brown envelope on the small table by the door, five percent of the final payment—confirmation I was hired at least. I took it gladly and left, thanking God it’s almost Friday.

  Since our chat about honor in the middle of the night, my brother has been MIA. Naturally, I’ve had a million great comebacks to his “prejudice and protection” speech. Isn’t that how it always works? Once I’m out of the situation, I’m a master of snappy comebacks.

  Exhaling a slow breath, I lift my phone, wishing it would light up, thinking about my hero… Lourdes called him Prince Eric. That makes me smile. It’s been an empty week without Sofia and her little opinions. I miss her. Maybe I’ll pick her up after I finish at Ursula’s mansion tomorrow… I’m grinning, ready to send a text to Valeria when tapping starts on my window.

  My heart leaps to my throat, and I’m off the bed, rushing to the double glass doors to fling them apart. “Deacon?”

  Strong arms surround me so fast, and I press my face to his neck, holding him with all my strength, inhaling his intoxicating scent of citrus and soap. My breath hitches, and my stomach is so tight. “I’m so happy to see you.”

  “I came straight here.” His voice is rough, and my body warms with desire.

  Large hands smooth down the sides of my hair, cupping my cheeks, and our eyes meet, blue and gold like the sunrise. Stretching higher, I seal my lips to his, hungry for his kiss, his touch. His fingers tighten in my hair as our mouths open and our tongues curl together.

  A little noise slips from my throat, and I want him to lift me and carry me to the bed. I want him to fill me, groaning with the same need surging in my veins. Instead he pulls me close, hugging me tightly against his chest. My arms are around his waist, and I’m firm against his body, breathing fast.

  “I won’t stay.” My heart sinks at his words. He kisses the top of my head, my brow. “I just needed to see you, to touch you.”

  He’s pulling back, but I hold him t
ighter, feeling the tension in his body. “Wait… What’s wrong?”

  The muscle in his jaw moves, and he looks at our clasped hands, our twined fingers. “So much happened this week.”

  “Tell me.” Tightening my grip, I draw him to the bed, to sit beside me. I know if he stayed so many extra days, it must have been important.

  We’re sitting, facing each other, and his beautiful eyes focus on our hands, our connection. He hesitates, and his brows pull together. “My father always loved going to Harristown so much… I never knew it was because of his mom… my grandmother.”

  Now I frown. “What happened?”

  He exhales quietly. “She lost a baby there. It was stillborn.”

  “Oh, Deacon.” My heart sinks. “I’m so sorry… Are you okay?”

  “I didn’t want to come back until I knew everything. I spent the last few days following her trail. It was pretty twisted.”

  Reaching out, I slide my hand down his arm. “Tell me what happened.”

  Blue eyes meet mine, and he’s not smiling. “My grandmother was a beautiful woman. People who knew her said she was the most beautiful woman they’d ever seen.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “Two men loved her… best friends. She married the rich one, my grandfather.” He blinks over my shoulder, and my heart beats faster. “But after seven or so years, she had an affair. She got pregnant and went to her friend in Harristown to give birth.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “She was afraid my grandfather would see the baby and know what she’d done.”

  My voice is quiet, my insides trembling. “How would he know?”

  “The baby’s father was Manuel Treviño.”

  My grandfather. My throat knots, and I stand, walking slowly around my room, thinking about this, about what he just told me. “You mean… your grandmother had an affair with my grandfather? How is it possible?”

  “Apparently, they knew each other. Our grandfathers were friends.”

  “And your grandmother…”

  “It explains the bad blood between our families.” He’s sitting on the foot of my bed watching me. “My grandfather must have found out.”