Eric stared down at her hand like he couldn’t believe it was there.
“For Christ’s sake,” her father muttered under his breath. “Just look at you. You never learn. I cannot watch this.”
“So go home, Dad,” she said. “It would be better.”
Dad set down his wine glass on the buffet table and shoved his way through the crowd. People made way for him and then swiftly closed ranks, too intent upon the spectacle she and Eric were making to bother watching her father storm out the door.
Insane. She was actually touching him. Voluntarily. After everything that had happened. Everything he’d done to her. Breaking her heart. Trashing her life.
His body beneath the suit coat felt dense. Taut. Hot.
He covered her hand with his own. It was deliciously warm, the contact zinging through her body. He just kept it there. A deliberate, insistent pressure.
Sexual awareness rushed through her. Irrational, baseless pleasure, based on nothing but his eyes on her, the warmth and pressure of his hand. The back of her hand had never been an erogenous zone before, but now the contact pulsed and glowed and shimmered inside her, spreading out from that point as if he were touching her between her legs, like only he could do. His immense skill at touching her. Natural as breathing.
She jerked back her hand and Eric rocked back slightly. His cheeks were flushed.
“Thank you,” he said. “For helping Otis. And bringing him pie.”
“Sure.” She brushed away sudden tears. “Wish I could have helped more.”
“I’ll be back for the chalkboard picture after the reception,” Eric said. “Before I leave town. Probably tomorrow. Day after, at the latest.”
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll tell Elisa to expect you.”
Demi stared after his broad back, his tapered waist, his incredibly fine, tight ass as he walked out the restaurant door. He walked the length of the picture windows, turned the corner and was lost to sight.
She shook with the urge to run to the door. Poke her head out and follow him, at least with her gaze. Her eyes felt hungry. She didn’t want to waste a single instant.
Like she hadn’t had enough of being poor dumped Demi, humiliated and abandoned. An object of pity and scorn. Fuck that.
She’d be dignified if it killed her.
3
Eric slowed down on the sidewalk on his way to the car when he spotted Benedict Vaughan on the sidewalk, about a block ahead of him. Vaughan stopped, appalled, to stare at Eric’s gleaming black Porsche 991 GT3.
Vaughan’s bellowed profanity could be heard all the way down the block. He punctuated his outburst by kicking one of the tires.
In the meantime, Eric ducked into the recesses of the brick entryway to the old brewery, which had been transformed into a trendy, steam-punk themed pub. He waited there, well out of sight. Not hiding, just avoiding drama. Like a fucking grown-up.
Vaughan was drunk, hostile and riled up. Talking to him would inevitably end in conflict. What could it help, or change? Both of them knew the truth. There were no revelations to be had. Ben Vaughan would never admit to wrongdoing. Why should he? He’d won that round and Eric had lost. End of story. He had to let it go, and lurking in an entryway to avoid conflict was what letting go looked like today.
In and out, no drama. And maybe, just maybe, he and his brothers could get the hell of this town before the Prophet’s Curse had time to wind itself up and start fucking with them again.
He hoped Vaughan wouldn’t key the Porsche. Though it would serve Eric right if he did. Driving that particular car into this town was a direct eye-jab to the guy. Blatant provocation. The car said everything Eric felt about what had happened seven years ago. How badly he still wanted to punish that lying, scheming asshole.
Breathe. Wait. Don’t be a dick. Walk away. Live your goddamn life. Don’t fuck it up again.
Up ahead, he heard the hollow thud of a car door closing. A motor started up. He heard the grind and squeal of tires against asphalt. Vaughan was driving away. Angrily.
Free and clear. He let himself exhale, and was about to step out onto the sidewalk to head toward his own car when he heard the hushed voices approaching.
“...having a shit fit, right out on the street. Fuckin’ alkie asshole. He could get wasted and start blabbing and blow everything.” A man’s voice, deep and rough.
“Can’t really blame him for freaking out.” This voice was soft and oily. “Gotta hand it to that fuckface. He’s got some balls, driving into town in that fuckin’ Porsche. Like he’s spitting right into Benny’s fat face.”
“Yeah. Dumb fuck had it coming.” The two chuckled together.
“Did you see that look he gave the girl back in the restaurant? I’m-gonna-fuck-you-and-you’re-gonna-like-it. It was beautiful. Made the dumb bitch all quivery and wet right in front of her dickhead dad. And then the Porsche. Poor Benny’s probably bustin’ a blood vessel right about now.”
Eric eased out of the shadows of the entryway, peering past the wall. Just an instant was enough to confirm his suspicion. The men speaking were the funeral freeloaders. Widow’s Peak and his buddy, the slab-faced bearded guy with no neck.
No-Neck went on talking. “Can’t blame the guy. I was lookin’ at her, too. I wouldn’t mind givin’ some to that girl myself.”
“Take a number and get in line.” Widow’s Peak’s voice was sharp. “Anybody hits that, it’s gonna be me. I got seniority. But the boss won’t sign off on that yet, so put it out of your head. We’re lying low for now.”
“For now,” No-Neck said. “When the time comes, I don’t care if you go first. I don’t mind sharing…long as I get to watch.”
The two men snorted in ugly laughter.
“The boss’ll be pissed that those assholes are back in town,” No-Neck said.
“I know,” Widow’s Peak said. “Lucky for us, he’ll come down on Benny first. Here, you drive. I gotta text the boss.”
Keys jingled as they were tossed from hand to hand. “Where to?” No-Neck asked.
“Where do you think? We rattle old Benny’s chain. He needs a pep talk.”
The car doors shut and the engine roared. From his spot behind the brick pillar, he saw a big black SUV pulling away.
Eric’s body buzzed with alarm. No time to think this through or figure out what it meant. They’d been talking about Demi and he had to know more. Right fucking now.
He stepped out onto the sidewalk, catching the taillights of the SUV before they turned, on their way to shake down Benedict Vaughan.
Back away slowly, meathead. Do not fucking touch it. Don’t you dare.
There it was, the voice of reason in his head. But those guys had slimed Demi. Fantasized out loud about gang-raping her as soon as their boss gave them free rein. What in the fuck had he just heard?
One thing was sure. Demi was in danger, because her prick loser of a dad had put her there. Wow, what a shocker.
And now—move. He sprinted to his car, regretting the self-destructive impulse that had made him drive here in the Porsche. He liked to think he had nothing to prove to anyone in this town, but the Porsche gave him the lie. It was too damn noticeable. Even to the people who didn’t know the whole fucking tragic saga of his life.
Too late for regrets. He knew how to get to the Vaughan mansion, but even if he hadn’t, he could see that black SUV heading up Osborn Grade toward the heights.
He followed it, driving right past the turn-off for Cedar Crest Drive, then parking off the street on a little utility road that led off to nowhere in the woods. The car was visible from the street if you were looking on purpose, but he hoped that no one would have reason to look. It was right where he’d parked his old car, the Monster, on that fateful night seven years ago. Not a thought to be dwelling on right now.
But he couldn’t avoid thinking it as he cut through the woods. He’d memorized all the vantage points of the Vaughan house’s security cameras on the screens he’d seen, that night h
e’d spent in that house while her folks were gone.
The night he’d been trapped, framed. Almost killed.
Don’t think about it, he reminded himself grimly. This wasn’t about that. This was about Demi’s safety and the assholes who meant her harm. That was all he was considering here.
His own history, his issues with Vaughan, all of that was completely off the table.
He skirted the back yards of three other luxury homes before coming up behind the Vaughan lot. The largest house, the biggest lawn, the stateliest shade trees.
Demi had showed him the best route to stay out of the camera’s view. It came back to him, as clear as crystal. After all these years of trying so hard to forget.
The goons’ black SUV was parked right in front of the house. The two men had been banging on the front door, and were now coming around to the side porch.
“Hey! Benny!” Widow’s Peak was calling. “We know you’re in there. We saw you heading home, and we see your car in the garage. Come out and talk to us. Or else we’ll just come on in. You decide.”
Widow’s Peak wasn’t even trying to be discreet. The neighbors could probably hear every word he said at that volume.
The door to the side porch opened. Eric crouched down, the young fir boughs screening his face, edging forward until he saw Benedict Vaughan framed in the doorway. His mouth was drawn downward, like a man in chronic pain.
“Keep your goddamn voices down,” he hissed. “I told you to park around the block and cut through the back if you have to talk to me!”
“Benny, my man. Nice to see you, too,” Widow’s Peak said. “Nice buffet at that reception, huh? I was sure hungry after all that burying. That sexy girl of yours can lay a spread like a fucking boss. Besides being hotter than hell. Can I marry her?”
Benedict just scowled. “What do you want from me?”
“Aw, Benny. Be nice. I’m asking to join your family!”
“You shouldn’t be here,” Benedict insisted. “Anyone driving by could see you!”
“What, are you ashamed of us, Benny?” It was No-Neck speaking. “Felix, I think that Benny’s ashamed of us.”
“I think you’re right, Rocco,” Felix said, his voice mock-sad. “Aw, Benny. You cut us to the quick. After all these years. All we’ve been through together.”
“Stop fucking around with me and tell me what he wants,” Benedict growled.
There was an ominous silence as Felix and Rocco looked at each other.
“What he’s always wanted. From the beginning.” The mock friendliness was gone from Felix’s voice. “What he bought and paid for when he bailed you out of that mess in Tacoma. You know your job description. You ensure us the privacy we need, by any means necessary. You’re not delivering on your promises. The boss isn’t pleased.”
“There’s no way I can control the situation completely.” Benedict sounded hunted. “I tried for years to buy that place. The property is worthless, even for grazing. That stubborn bastard said no just to spite me.”
“Yes, we know. You tried to get sneaky, but he was on to you.”
“I don’t know why he was so fucking pig-headed about it—”
“Because he smelled a rat, Benny. Because that’s what you are. A rat. You fucked it up. All this loss and suffering, it’s all on you. Loser.”
“It’s not my fault that I—”
“No one is interested in your fucking excuses. The boss least of all. You’re a fuck-up. If you can’t do your job, you’re a liability.”
Benedict shuffled back a step, shrinking back toward the shelter of his house. “Are you threatening me?”
Felix and Rocco exchanged evil smiles.
“I don’t know, Benny,” Felix said softly. “Do we need to?”
Benedict’s hands went up in a swift, placating gesture. “No. No, you don’t need to do anything. I’ll fix it. I’ll take care of it.”
“You do that. Or else we will. In ways you will not enjoy.”
The two men took their time strolling away. Benedict waited, supporting himself by the door frame, until he heard their engine start up. He emerged onto the porch, peering out to make sure the car was really pulling away.
Then he lurched forward and vomited over the porch railing into the rosebushes.
He draped over the railing like a limp rag, spitting and coughing. Finally he pushed himself up, wiping his mouth and cursing as he went inside.
Eric was unable to move. His body hummed with combat readiness, but he had no one to fight. No place to put the adrenaline. It made him feel like his brain was on fire.
Benedict Vaughan was in over his head and getting squeezed. Well and good. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. Eric wouldn’t give a shit, if not for Demi.
Any threat to her, anything at all, was unacceptable.
He wondered what Vaughan was supposed to do for these assholes, but dismissed the thought. Who cared. The details were none of Eric’s business. Properties, privacy, whatever. Let the guy drown in his own shit. He’d done it to himself.
But Eric couldn’t let him pull Demi down with him.
Problem was, Eric was the last person she would ever believe, convinced as she was that he was a thief, a liar, and a user. Plus, he had every reason in the world to nurse a grudge against her father. His credibility was for shit. On every possible level.
Also, having been here at all, at Vaughan’s house, spying on him from the bushes—that looked bad in and of itself. Like, restraining-order bad.
But even if she didn’t believe him, he had to say something. At least the information would be registered in her mind, even if she dismissed it. She’d be on her guard.
He had to tell her what he’d seen. Then run like hell before she ripped his head right off his neck. Or had him arrested. Again.
On the bright side, she couldn’t possibly think any worse of him than she already did.
4
“Sorry, sir, but we’re closed today for a private event.” It was Tasha speaking, after the bell over the restaurant door tinkled. Demi pricked up her ears from the kitchen.
“I know. I’m here to talk to Demi.”
Eric’s voice. Deep, scratchy and resonant. Beautiful. Inappropriate excitement exploded through her body. She took a second to chill it down before she emerged from the kitchen, where she’d been packing up takeaway trays of buffet leftovers.
Eric stood by the door, waiting. Tasha gave her a questioning look.
“Hi, Eric. It’s okay, Tasha. You can go ahead and take off. Do you have the delivery list straight? And the addresses?” She piled the last of the cardboard trays into the box and carried it out into the restaurant floor.
“Right here on my phone,” Tasha assured her. “Dorothy Pilcher, Rodrigo Santiago, Georgia Visser, Rodney Bellows, Anne Fogarty and Betty Trumball. Right?”
“Exactly.” She passed the box to Tasha. “And the last two trays in the box are for you and your folks. Make sure to give the one with the big blue sticker to Betty. She and her daughter are both diabetic, so there are no sweets in that one.”
“Got it. Blue sticker for Betty. Thanks for the goodies for Mom and Susan.”
“Can I carry that out to your car for you?” Eric asked Tasha.
“No, that’s cool. I got it. Thanks, though. I’m off.” Tasha gave Demi a speculative look, then gave Eric a longer, more appreciative one as she bumped the door open with her hip and maneuvered the box through it.
The two of them watched Tasha stow the box in the back of the Mazda that was parked right outside. Tasha got in, beeped a farewell and drove off.
Eric was the first to break the silence. “I recognize those names,” he said. “All the people on that list are senior citizens. With limited means. Is this like Otis’s pie?”
Demi felt oddly defensive. “They’re all people who I’m sure would have liked to come to the funeral or reception or both, but couldn’t for whatever reason. I wanted to include them. So what brings you back so s
oon? I expected you tomorrow or the day after for the chalk portrait.”
“Decided to take care of it now,” Eric said. “If I can.”
“I see. Wait a sec. Elisa!” she called out.
Elisa came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. “Yes?” She saw Eric and gave him a smile.
“Could you spray that fixative onto the portrait now?” Demi asked. “Is it a quick thing, or is it a process that takes time?”
“Oh, it’s quick,” Elisa assured her. “Let me run it upstairs and I’ll do it for you right now. Hang on. I’ll be right back.”
She disappeared out the side door that led to a breezeway through the building, leaving the two of them alone in the front of the restaurant. Locked in a breathless silence.
Eric dug into his pocket and put a wad of cash down onto the counter. “I stopped at the bank machine,” he said. “Got some cash for her.”
“She’ll refuse it,” Demi said.
“She can give it away. Or donate it to anyone she wants. Not my problem.”
“You are one stubborn guy,” Demi observed.
“Yes, I am.”
More silence. It took fortitude to short-circuit her natural instinct to fill the silence with pleasant, face-saving chit-chat, like her mother had taught her to do. Let him fidget and squirm. Let him be exactly as uncomfortable as he deserved to be.
“It’s nice of you to send those trays of food to the shut-ins,” he said finally.
“Just good business,” she said crisply.
“If you say so.”
“Speaking of trays of leftovers, I can make one up for you and Anton and Mace, too. Seems appropriate, don’t you think?”
“No, please don’t worry about it,” he said quickly.
“Hah. Too bad. Joke’s on you. Protest all you want.” Demi pulled out one of the big, wide paper cartons and set to work with the slices of pepper roasted beef. “Give it away or donate it to anyone you want, but you have to take it. That’s my passive aggressive way of guilting Anton and Mace for not dropping by the reception.”
“You can’t guilt those two,” Eric said. “They’re impervious.”
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