The Trouble with Temptation

by Shiloh Walker

  “It’s something, though. I can feel it in my gut. Good job, Cordell.” Then, because he was still bruised over Moira, he grabbed her by the back of the neck. “You asked for it.”

  He planted a quick kiss on her mouth, loud and smacking.

  As he strode away, Cordell pressed her fingers to her mouth. A little dazed, she murmured, “Wow.”

  The word was lost to the rain and to the chief’s booming voice as he shouted for the crew to get their asses over there—now.

  * * *

  Dreams chased her. Mocked her. Tormented her.

  Struggling to get away, she twisted in her sleep, grabbing the blanket and wrenching at it as she curled into a tight, tiny ball. Or tried.

  Something stopped her.

  Or somebody.

  It was a big somebody and in the small bed, as he shifted around, he caught her in the back.

  She muttered, grumbled in her sleep. His low, muttered apology only vaguely came to her ears. Sorry, Hannah.

  Her subconscious recognized that it was Brannon.

  And that made her shiver even more.

  Sorry …

  The dreams were back.

  Darker.

  Angrier.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry I hurt you. I just…”

  Hurt me? “I’m fine, Brannon.”

  “Then what’s wrong? You haven’t … how insane will you think I sound if I tell you I’ve kinda missed seeing you on your balcony?”

  “What? You miss me playing peeping Tom? Although, FYI, you could always just close your damn curtains.”

  “Then I wouldn’t see you.”

  Don’t touch me, don’t touch … “I find it hard to believe that it would bother you much. You go out of your way to avoid me.”

  “Because I didn’t want … this.”

  “This.” He wouldn’t even look at her.

  “I … look, Hannah. I’ve known you too long. In my head, I’ve had you about a hundred ways to Sunday and every time I see you, I want to try at least one of those ways out. But I…”

  “You what?” It hurt already. Why did it hurt?

  “I’m not looking for any sort of relationship. Sex is all well and good, but I don’t want anything else. That’s not … I just don’t want it. Especially not now. I’ve got too much going on as it is and somehow, I get the feeling casual sex isn’t really your speed.”

  Hannah understood agony then. This was what they meant when they talked about having your heart shattered. Not just broken, but shattered. She went to turn away, but stopped. “I’ve been in love with you since I was in high school.”

  He stared. She should be humiliated. Should hide. But she just looked at him, numb, cold. “No, Brannon. Casual sex isn’t my speed.”

  “Hannah, I…”

  “You don’t need to say anything.” Now she knew how it felt to die inside. She didn’t want to hope anymore. “You just need to leave.”

  “Hannah, wait…”

  “No! Go away, Brannon.”

  “Hannah, come on.”

  “Are you fucking deaf? I want you gone!”

  Then he was gone.

  She was in the forest. Running. Running from him. Running from the pain.

  Both. Maybe. She didn’t know.

  She was running.

  And then, she stumbled.

  Confused, Hannah looked down.

  A scream tore out of her.

  It was a hand.

  Outstretched.

  Following the hand, she found herself staring at Shayla.

  Shayla was dead.

  Dead—

  Hannah blinked and all over again, she found herself in the forest and she knew.

  She knew—she was remembering.

  It might be a dream, but it was more than that. Like she was standing outside herself, she stared at everything all around her. She’d shoved her fist into her mouth in an effort not to scream.

  Shayla had been jerked up against somebody. A man.

  Hannah hadn’t seen much. He’d worn something over his face.

  Not a mask, but … a hood? Glasses?

  In the dark, all she could see were shadows.

  Feet kicked, jerked.

  And Hannah just sat there, struggling not to make a sound.

  Terrified.

  He dumped Shayla.

  And Hannah ran.

  She ran and she ran, chased by the choking, gagging noises Shayla made as she died.

  And by Brannon’s voice, those words.

  His cool, dispassionate voice.

  I don’t want anything else. I just don’t want it.

  * * *

  She came awake hearing that echo in her voice. Lying on her side, she fought not to sob.

  The man behind her would hear.

  He would wake up.

  Then he would tell her more lies.

  She was tired of lies.

  Shaking, she drew her knees to her chest and shivered.

  The thin blanket that was usually perfectly adequate for her—in the summer—was doing a piss poor job of covering both her and Brannon.

  Unable to keep lying there, she slid out of the bed.

  He didn’t stir.

  She left the small bedroom and grabbed the throw off the back of the chair near the window, wrapping it around herself.

  I don’t want anything else.

  Those were the words he’d said to her. He’d said them to her.

  Hours ago, he’d called her his.

  Days ago, he’d told her he loved her.

  She’d believed him.

  She was a fool. A fool. Misery wrenched at her gut and she brought her hands to her face, tempted to give into the misery and cry, wail … scream. Instead, she sucked in a few deep breaths, smashing her pain down and bottling it up.

  She’d deal with all of the hurt later.

  There was something more awful to deal with. Shayla’s death. Because she’d remembered that, too.

  She hadn’t seen anything that would help identify Shayla’s killer.

  She had her memory back, or most of it. She could tell Gideon a few details.

  She’d do that.

  Then she’d …

  She didn’t know what, but whatever it was, it wouldn’t include Brannon McKay. Whatever the past few months had been about, one thing was clear.

  It had all been a lie.

  She’d been out running that night to clear her head and make herself accept the truth.

  She and Brannon were nothing but a kid’s dreams.

  He hadn’t been in love with her, the way she’d wanted to think.

  The way he’d made her think.

  Slowly, she slipped inside the bedroom and gathered up her clothes. He was still sleeping.

  She swallowed back tears as she moved back into the tiny box of a living room and dressed. She had two hours to kill before her work shift started. She’d push herself through work and later, when it hurt a little less, she’d figure out what to do.

  Oh, and at some point, she’d call Gideon. Give him an update.

  The one thing she wasn’t going to do was think about Brannon.

  Not right now.

  Not yet.

  Maybe not ever.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Did you hear?”

  Hannah looked up from the decaf coffee J.P. had given her.

  Decaf. Who the hell thought decaf was anything worth drinking? She didn’t know. Although she’d already had one cup of real coffee. She had one every day. Just the one. She’d drink more but she’d feel too guilty. Her mother drank three cups of coffee every day from the time she’d been sixteen and Hannah was fairly certain the caffeine hadn’t destroyed her brain.

  Still, she stuck to the one cup.

  But she really needed a hit of the real stuff. Cradling a protective hand over the swollen curve of her belly, she looked over at J.P. “Hear what?”

  He jerked his knee back and forth, his gaze nervous, locked
on the knee of his uniform, which was faded and worn. Finally, after a moment, he put his coffee down and opened the door of the ambulance, hopping out.

  She followed, moving around the front of the truck and leaning against the front next to him.

  “You need to move in with Brannon or something, Hannah.”

  She laughed, tipping her head back up to stare at the sky. “Ah, yeah. That ain’t happening.”

  “Look, I don’t care if you think you’re rushing it. Just make it clear it’s temporary or some shit—”

  “I’m not going to be seeing Brannon anymore.” She shoved away from the truck and paced over to stare down the river. An early morning mist clung to it. The long, pounding rain had passed and it was warmer than it had been in a few days. The sun would burn the mist away soon enough but for now, that mist gave the river, and the surrounding area, a surreal look.

  Gravel crunched behind her and she turned to look at J.P.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Reality.” She shrugged and tried to give him a casual smile. It wobbled and fell. “I…”

  Tears burned her eyes and she lifted her face to the sky. “Hell. I remembered what happened, okay? All of it. The past few months, they’ve all been a lie. I thought he was … I thought he cared. He doesn’t. He just feels guilty.”

  She went to go around him, but J.P. caught her arm. “That’s bullshit, Hannah,” he said brusquely. “Anybody with eyes can see that he’s tied up in knots about you.”

  “Yeah. It’s called guilt.”

  “No.” J.P. shook his head. “Men don’t get that hook in their mouth look over guilt.”

  Bitter laughter filled the air. “Maybe you should explain to him that he’s hooked then. Because he outright told me that he’s not in the mood for a relationship. Sadly, I ended up pregnant, hurt, and you know Brannon. He’s everybody’s hero. Had to step up and save the day.” She shrugged and gave her partner a bitter smile. “But I don’t need a hero. I can take of myself just fine. When the baby gets here…”

  She hesitated and then cleared her throat. “When the baby gets here, he can be involved in her life. But I don’t need him in mine.”

  She strode to the waiting ambulance, almost desperate for a call.

  But the radio stayed silent.

  She was opening the door when J.P. said, “Roger Hardee is dead, Hannah.”

  * * *

  “Daddy Warbucks is here.”

  Brannon eyed J.P. narrowly, saw the man give him a kiss-ass look, followed closely by a what did you do, you dumb schmuck look.

  Erring on the side of caution, he tucked his hands into his pockets and said nothing.

  It had already been a lousy fucking day, starting with the fact that he’d woken alone when he’d hoped to wake up wrapped around Hannah.

  He couldn’t even rectify the problem and make love to her because she wasn’t anywhere on the houseboat. She hadn’t answered her phone earlier. Before he’d even tracked her down, he’d gotten two panicked calls—one from Marc and another from two of the guys who helped Marc out.

  One of his damn crops was probably ruined—he’d been planning to try his hand at Chardonnay, but Marc and his crew had found an infection, probably Pierce’s Disease. It would kill the whole damn crop—Marc had been panicking over the fungus thing for a reason after all.

  But just then Brannon didn’t give a flying fuck.

  He would. Later.

  Right then, though, he wanted to talk to Hannah.

  He needed to talk to Hannah.

  Roger Hardee had been found murdered that morning. Okay, it hadn’t been confirmed as murder, but Gideon had called him, barked out a demand to know where he’d been last night, so if the jackass was barking demands, then that must mean he had a reason.

  Hannah slid out of the ambulance and gave him a cool look.

  He resisted the urge to cuss a blue streak, but just barely. Sometime in the past twelve hours, the world had gone straight to hell. It had only been twelve hours, too. It was noon and at midnight, he’d been buried balls-deep inside the woman now staring at him like he was something she’d scraped off the bottom of her boots.

  “You weren’t there when I woke up,” he said, uncertain what else to say, uncertain just what had caused the drastic change in her attitude.

  She was dressed in the serviceable blue uniform the county paramedics wore. It shouldn’t look sexy as hell on her, but just about anything she wore struck him as crazy sexy, so he was okay with it. She could make sackcloth and tar sexy.

  Even the distant, cold look on her face was sexy.

  But it also scared him.

  “I had to work,” she said, nodding her head to the ambulance at her back. Her partner ducked behind her and climbed inside, handing her a clipboard.

  From inside, he started calling things off and Brannon stood there as she checked things off and fired questions back.

  When there was a lull, he went to ask her a question.

  But she just started talking to J.P. again.

  It was like he didn’t exist in her world anymore.

  He didn’t know what to make of it and it pissed him off. That also scared him. Scared him and made him want to grab her and haul her against him.

  He cleared his throat and managed a tight smile. “I was up pretty early.”

  “Not as early as I was. I needed to shower, get some breakfast.” She shrugged and flipped her long braid over her shoulder. “Not everybody lives in the lap of luxury, Brannon. Some of us work. That means we take our jobs seriously. I had to shower and get ready, get to work on time.”

  He took each pointed jab in silence and when she was done, he asked, “Maybe we can get together for lunch.”

  “I already ate.”

  “Dinner?” Dread was now twisting him into knots.

  “I don’t think so.” She turned back to the ambulance and he watched as she checked something else off on the clipboard. “Anything else we need to check, J.P?”

  You’re dismissed.

  Everything about her posture screamed it.

  I don’t think so.

  He caught her arm. “Fine,” he bit off. “We’ll talk now.”

  She jerked away. “I don’t care to be manhandled, Brannon McKay.”

  “And I don’t care to be totally shoved out without you telling me what the hell the problem is!” he shouted.

  “Shoved out?” She stared at him and then, she started to laugh. It was a cold, brittle sound and it hurt his ears, his heart, to hear it. “Shoved out? Oh, honey. But that gives the implication you even wanted in.”

  Time slowed to a pause as she leaned in. She pressed her lips closed to his ear. “I’m not looking for any sort of relationship. Sex is all well and good, but I don’t want anything else.” She settled back in front of him, one brow cocked. “Those words sound familiar, Brannon?”

  Fuck.

  “Hannah—”

  “Hey.” She held up her hands, palm out. “It’s all cool, Brannon. I told you that last day, I’d find a way to stop loving you. I guess I should thank you. Lying to me the way you’ve done? You helped me figure it out—I think I can stop loving you now, Brannon.”

  “I didn’t lie to you!”

  “Didn’t you?”

  She stared at him, her eyes empty.

  He swore and shoved a hand through his hair.

  “Look, Hannah—”

  The radio on her collar squawked.

  She jumped, the sound startling them both.

  J.P. hopped out of the back. “Gotta roll, sweets!” he called.

  He gave Brannon a grim look as Hannah ran around to the front. “You better fix this, you dumb shit,” J.P. said in a low voice.

  Fix it?

  He was still standing there in dull, dazed shock as the ambulance screeched away, sirens wailing.

  * * *

  “Any chance you’re being too hard on the guy?” J.P. asked.

  It was nearly three hours
later and both of them were exhausted.

  Of course, anybody would be exhausted.

  They’d been called out to Doris Waverly’s house and although they’d hoped that it would just be another false alarm, it had been an empty hope.

  Doris Waverly was one of the sweetest ladies in town, with a heart the size of the entire state of Mississippi. Sadly, her body seemed to think it was supposed to keep up. She weighed nearly four hundred pounds and that great, massive heart of hers had given out.

  She’d called in numerous times, claiming she was having a heart attack and this time, she’d been right.

  They’d been able to get her heart started and now it was up to the doctors to keep her alive—and Doris herself, of course. If she didn’t get her weight under control, sooner or later, the heart attacks would kill her.

  Hannah’s back was killing her.

  Her thighs were killing her.

  Everything seemed to be killing her.

  Giving J.P. a baleful look, she warned, “Don’t.”

  “I can’t help it.” He shook his head. “Hannah, look … I can’t claim to know the guy well, but I know what a dumbass in love looks like. And he’s got all the symptoms.”

  * * *

  It was elbow to elbow inside Treasure Island and he all but had to shove his way through to get a seat by the window.

  A couple of people hailed him.

  One woman slid her hand along his back and smiled at him.

  His ex-wife nodded at him and went back to her discussion with several other women.

  He’d planned to be here to keep an eye on Hannah’s place. He knew she was working today and he’d wanted to see what she thought of what he’d left for her, but that was no longer his primary concern.

  “Did you hear the news?” He glanced up to see Toot Fink look at him expectantly.

  “The news?” He shrugged. “Hard not to hear it. Unless you’re in a coma.”

  He was most certainly not in a coma.

  Roger Hardee was dead.

  Roger wasn’t supposed to be dead.

  He certainly hadn’t left him dead.

  Toot leaned in and whispered, “Doc Shaw found him. You know about her and her … problems, right?”

  Because it was considered polite, he waited a moment before he nodded.