The Colton Marine

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The Colton Marine Page 17

by Lisa Childs


  “You shouldn’t have called him,” River admonished her.

  “Why not?” she asked. Had he been doing something down there or discovered something down there that he didn’t want the sheriff to see?

  “Because he feels the same way about the Coltons that your boss does,” River replied. “He hates us.”

  She saw that the moment the sheriff descended the stairs and joined them in the basement.

  “I thought you were missing, River,” Sheriff Jeffries remarked as if he was disappointed he wasn’t. With his thinning blond hair, the man looked older than River, so she doubted they had any kind of personal rivalry going back to when River had lived in Shadow Creek before joining the Marines.

  Was his animosity only because River’s last name was Colton? Anger coursed through her at the injustice of that prejudice. But then she remembered that it was one Declan shared—one she had shared before she’d grown up and realized she had no reason to resent them. It wasn’t their fault she had wound up in foster care.

  “He’s been hurt,” she said. “You need to call for an ambulance.”

  The sheriff stepped closer to River, but he was shorter and had to peer up at his wound. “Doesn’t look that serious. You hit your head on something?”

  River touched his fingers to the bump and replied, “I don’t know what happened.”

  And Edith believed him—while the sheriff narrowed his dark eyes as if skeptical.

  “How the hell could you miss it?” he asked. “Looks like you walked right into it.” Then his thin lips curved into a slight, almost mocking grin. “Oh, that’s right. You’re half-blind now.”

  Edith gasped at his remark. It went beyond insensitive to almost cruel. “Sheriff,” she said, bristling with anger. “I called you here to help—”

  River chuckled now. “Told you that was a mistake,” he murmured.

  She completely understood and agreed now.

  “Why did you call?” the sheriff asked. “You were hearing noises?” He sounded as if he was mocking her now.

  Did he know about her mother? About the things she’d heard that weren’t there?

  River slid his arm around her shoulders. He was either offering his support or using her for support as he leaned against her slightly.

  The sheriff’s already beady eyes narrowed as he took in the familiarity between her and River. “Miss Emmie said you two are friends?”

  Edith’s anger grew at his obvious insinuation that they were more than friends. But she wasn’t certain why she was so upset. Was it because they weren’t? And that was her fault. She was the one who kept sending River away.

  “River has been working with me on getting the house inhabitable again,” Edith explained.

  “You’re not the new owner,” he said dismissively.

  “Who is?” Jeffries asked with his dispatcher’s nosiness.

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” she said.

  “Then how can I be certain you’re authorized to be inside the house?” Jeffries asked. “Maybe you and Colton here are the intruders.”

  River was more right than she’d realized. She shouldn’t have called the sheriff. Instead of helping her and River, he was probably going to arrest them.

  * * *

  Knox snorted. “You’re kidding, right? Jeffries threatened to take you and Edith to jail?” The sheriff was even more inept than Knox had previously thought. Something had to be done. He had to do something. Everybody was right; it was time he threw his hat in the ring for the sheriff’s job.

  He glanced over at his younger brother as the two searched the new secret room River had found behind the other one off the wine cellar. A small bandage covered the wound on River’s forehead.

  “Probably would have if Edith hadn’t shown him some paperwork she had in her briefcase,” River said.

  “Did you see it?” Knox asked. Like everyone else, he was curious about the new owner of La Bonne Vie. The person had been careful to conceal their identity. What was the need for secrecy?

  River was searching the room more thoroughly than Knox was. Knox was looking for a person—for whoever might have wielded the crowbar the sheriff had left lying on the floor. He hadn’t even brought it in for evidence.

  The guy was beyond incompetent.

  River shrugged. “I didn’t try to see it,” he said, as if he didn’t care for whom Edith worked.

  Knox suspected the opposite—that River cared a lot. About Edith...

  He had insisted she stay safely upstairs while he and Knox searched the basement again. He must not have believed the sheriff had done a thorough job.

  Knox doubted that Bud Jeffries had searched the place at all. But he could see no sign of anyone else inside this room. It wasn’t as dusty as the wine cellar had been. But then, it had less stuff in it.

  “You didn’t see anyone?” Knox asked him again—like he had when he’d joined River and Edith in the ER of Shadow Creek Memorial. She’d brought him there because she’d insisted River get a CT scan.

  Edith cared about River, too.

  But they were both keeping secrets. She—about her boss. And River...

  He was keeping more secret than just what had happened to him during his last deployment. He had another reason for hanging around La Bonne Vie—a reason other than Edith Beaulieu, although Knox suspected she was a big part of it now. Was he just hiding out here while he continued to heal?

  River sighed. “Like I told Jeffries, I don’t know what the hell happened. I woke up lying on the floor down here next to the crowbar.”

  “So you don’t remember?” The doctor had said he had a concussion but just a slight one. Concussions, however slight, could cause memory loss, though.

  “There’s nothing to remember,” River said. “I opened the door and something hit me.”

  It had knocked his hat back into the other room, where Edith had found it behind the wine racks. She had shared that with Knox. She hadn’t said anything about her fear, but it had been apparent in her big brown eyes. She’d been worried about River—very worried—when she’d found only the hat and not him.

  “The sheriff thinks I just walked into something,” River bitterly remarked. “Seeing as how I’m half-blind and all...”

  “Yeah, you walked into a crowbar,” Knox said as he noticed the smear of blood on the metal. “Can’t believe he didn’t take this for evidence.”

  “He thinks I fell on it when I walked into the room,” River explained. “That I tripped over it or something.”

  “He doesn’t think anyone else was in the house?” Knox asked.

  River shook his head and flinched. “There isn’t any sign that there was.”

  “But Edith heard noises...” As she and Knox had waited for River to get the CT scan, she’d filled him in about what had happened.

  “Jeffries wrote it off as the wind.”

  Knox snorted again. Of course the sheriff didn’t want any crime in Shadow Creek. Then he might actually have to do his job.

  “What do you think it is?” River asked him. “Do you think it’s her?”

  “Edith?” When Thorne and Mac had showed up at the hospital, they’d exchanged a glance that had reminded Knox of Mac’s sister’s psychiatric history. They’d seemed more concerned about their young relative than they had even been about River.

  “No,” River replied and his brow furrowed with confusion. “She didn’t hit me with that crowbar. She was upstairs.”

  “So who do you think hit you?” Knox asked. But his stomach plummeted as he realized who his brother suspected. Of course he had probably put that thought in his head when he’d given him the heads-up the other day. But they’d searched the basement then. Of course they hadn’t found the room that River had just found. But he shook his head. “No,
she wouldn’t risk coming back here.”

  River had convinced him of that—that it was too risky even for her.

  “She’s not in Florida,” River reminded him.

  “Of course not,” Knox said. “She’s probably in some country with no extradition.”

  River released a ragged sigh and nodded. “Of course. That makes sense. But then who...”

  “Hit you?” Knox asked. He shrugged. “Maybe some reporter snuck in here and didn’t want to be arrested for trespassing.” He realized the explanation sounded hollow even as he uttered it. But what was the alternative?

  That it had been Livia—that she’d knocked out her own son?

  He wasn’t surprised that she would hurt River. He was surprised that she would risk her freedom by returning to Shadow Creek.

  But if she had, she had to be desperate—desperate enough to do anything to remain undetected—even kill. Again.

  Chapter 18

  Edith Beaulieu was stubborn. River knew that well. He had experienced it firsthand when she’d insisted on bringing him to Shadow Creek Memorial’s ER. And when she wouldn’t let him help her around the house even after Knox had left and she’d been working.

  But this was ridiculous.

  “You can’t stay here,” he said. “It isn’t safe.”

  “Why not?” she asked. “The sheriff searched the house. You and your brother searched the house. Nobody’s here.”

  He touched the bandage on his forehead. “Somebody was...”

  She shook her head, and her long hair tumbled around her shoulders. She wore a tank top with shorts, as if she were about to go for a run. But she had taken one earlier while he and Knox had been searching the house.

  Still, he didn’t believe they’d searched it thoroughly enough. There had to be more secret rooms. They’d found nothing of interest in the new one—at least nothing of interest to River. No papers. No journals...

  Livia had kept records. When the FBI had searched the house ten years ago, they’d found some of them, enough evidence to send her to prison. River had already gone through the court transcripts of that evidence, searching for the information he wanted.

  But there had been no personal journal among the court exhibits. Surely, Livia would have kept one of those, too. Her personal life had been even more illustrious than her professional one. She would have wanted a record of it, as well.

  “Your brother was probably right,” Edith said. “That it was a reporter. They’ve been swarming around the estate.”

  River doubted it, though. A reporter would have hurled questions at him or shoved a camera in his face, not a crowbar. “It doesn’t matter who it was,” he said. “It’s not safe for you to be here alone.”

  He stood in the foyer where she’d walked him to the door, insisting he go home to rest. “Come with me,” he urged her. “You can stay at Mac’s.” Or with him in the room above the stables...

  In his bed, in his arms...

  She shook her head again. “I don’t want to stay at Mac’s.”

  He suspected he knew why—that she was worried her uncle thought she was taking after her mother. He’d seen the glance Mac and Thorne had exchanged. But then, they also seemed to believe the sheriff’s explanation of his wound—that he’d walked into something.

  Maybe that was what Edith believed, too.

  “Then get a room in town,” he persisted.

  “And leave the house empty for that reporter to return?” she asked. “No. I need to stay here.”

  “Who gives a damn about the house or about the crap left inside?” River asked.

  “My boss.”

  “You would put your life at risk for this guy?” he asked, feeling sick. But his nausea had nothing to do with his concussion and everything to do with jealousy.

  She sighed. “You don’t understand...”

  “Then tell me,” he urged her. “Tell me what he means to you.” He wanted her to say “nothing.” That he meant nothing and River meant everything.

  But he had never meant everything to anyone. Not even his own damn mother.

  Could it have been she who’d struck him? He would sooner believe it was Livia than that some reporter had figured out a way to sneak inside. But if it was her, there was no way he could leave Edith here alone.

  * * *

  River was too big—too strong—too stubborn—for Edith to be able to throw him out of La Bonne Vie. And if she were honest with herself, she didn’t want him to leave.

  But once she started being honest with herself, she had to admit something else. That she wanted him.

  “Fine,” she said, and she slammed shut the door she’d been holding open for him to leave. Then she locked it. Sliding her hand into his, she tugged him across the foyer toward the stairs.

  He was strong—too strong for her to pull up the stairs. He stopped at the bottom of them and twirled her around to face him. His brow was furrowed and he stared down at her in confusion. “What’s fine?”

  He was fine. Too fine for her to ignore any longer.

  “You don’t want me to stay here alone,” she said. “So you’re staying with me.”

  His long, muscular body tensed, and heat flared in his eye. The pupil dilated, swallowing the clear green. “Edith, there’s only one bedroom ready and no couch for me to sleep on...”

  He was asking what she expected from this evening. She expected danger—far more than she’d faced the night before on her own. Because now it wasn’t her life or even her sanity in danger; it was her heart. She was falling for him.

  When he’d been missing, she had to face that fact and the disappointment over never having been with him. If he’d stayed missing, she would have lost her chance. And knowing that made her brave enough to take a risk.

  “I’m not asking you to sleep on the floor,” she told him.

  His lips curved into a slight grin. But he must have needed to hear the words because he asked, “Where are you expecting me to sleep?”

  She sucked in a breath as her pulse raced away from her. “With me...”

  He swung her up in his arms then. And proving that strength, he easily carried her up the stairs and down the hall toward the open doors of the master suite. His steps slowed as he stepped across the threshold and into the room.

  Had he changed his mind? Didn’t he want her like she wanted him? Or was his concussion bothering him?

  She squirmed away from him to slide down his body and regain her feet.

  He groaned. But she suspected he was in another kind of physical pain when she felt his erection straining against the fly of his jeans. His hands shook slightly as he cupped her face in his palms and tipped her chin up to meet his gaze. “Are you sure about this?” he asked.

  And she understood his hesitation. He was waiting for her to change her mind—as she had too many times before. She stepped back, and she saw the disappointment on his face as he flinched.

  Then she tugged her tank top over her head and tossed it onto the floor. Next she shimmied out of her shorts so she stood before him in only her lace bra and panties.

  He groaned again. But this time it was her name that left his lips.

  He reached for her, skimming his hands over her shoulders, then down her sides to her waist. He pulled her close again as he lowered his head. His mouth covered hers in a passionate kiss that stole away her breath and—just as she’d feared—her sanity.

  She lost her mind to desire. And as it overwhelmed her, she clutched at his T-shirt, hauling it up and over his head. He wasn’t wearing his hat. Maybe because it would have fit too tightly against the bump on his head, or maybe because of the blood smeared on it. She ran her fingers over his short hair; it tickled her palms.

  Then she skimmed her hands down to his shoulders.
They were so broad. Muscles rippled in them and his arms as he lifted her again. He carried her to bed. And as he laid her on it, he followed her down. The dog tags dangled from around his neck, the metal warm from his body, bumping against her breasts. He reached up to pull them off.

  But she caught them in her hand and slid them around to his back. She didn’t want him to take them off; she instinctively knew that they were too important to him. And because they were important to him, they were to her, as well.

  He stared at her for a moment as if unable to believe that she was real. Then he kissed her, his lips nibbling before his tongue stroked across hers. He deepened the kiss, making love to her mouth like she wanted him to make love to her body.

  She wriggled beneath him as the ache intensified inside her.

  He pulled back, but only enough to unclasp her bra and toss it aside. Then his mouth moved to her breasts. He teased one nipple with his tongue while his fingers toyed with the other.

  She moaned and raked her nails over his shoulders. She tried tugging him up her body. But she didn’t want just his kiss again. She wanted all of him. She stretched, trying to reach his belt buckle. And her fingers skimmed over his fly.

  He groaned against her breast. Then he pulled away and stood up.

  Had he changed his mind?

  Was this—was she—not what he wanted?

  But before she could protest, he reached for his belt buckle. He unclasped it and unzipped his jeans before pushing them down his legs along with his boxers. Then he stood naked before her.

  And she gasped as desire overwhelmed her. He was so big—everywhere. His erection jutted toward her. She reached out a trembling hand for it, but before she could close her fingers around him, he jerked back and shook his head.

  “No,” he told her, his voice gruff. “It’s been a long time for me...”

  So that should make him want to hurry. It was why she wanted to hurry. Because it had been so long and maybe because she was afraid that she would come to her senses.

  But he refused to hurry. Even as he rejoined her on the bed, he took his time. He kissed and caressed every inch of her skin before finally moving down to the core of her desire for him. Her body ached and throbbed.

 

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