by Kym Roberts
Red Lace
A Hard Men of the Rockies Novella
Kym Roberts
The entire Hard Men of the Rockies novella series:
Red Lace by Kym Roberts
Tango & Lace by Misty Dietz
Leather & Lace by Brynley Bush
Beyond Lace by Mia London
Blackmail & Lace by Tracy A. Ward
Please visit www.chickswagger.com
Titles by Kym Roberts
Red Lace, A Hard Men of the Rockies Novella
Flirting with the Devil, A Noble Pass Affaire Novella
Handled By Officer, Women Behind the Badge #1
Dead On Arrival, A Malia Fern Mystery
Dead Man’s Carve, A Tickled to Death Mystery
**Coming Soon**
Dead Right There, A Malia Fern Mystery
Fatal Fiction, A Book Barn Mystery December 2016
Red Lace
COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Kym Roberts
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
September 2016
ISBN # 978-0-9905506-8-6 Electronic
ISBN # 978-0-9905506-9-3 Print
Cover illustrator: www.sweetnspicydesigns.com
Edited by: Pam Dougherty, www.TheWriteActor.com
and www.Top-PublishingServices.com
Interior Design by: www.PolgarusStudio.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
Thanks you to the Chicks of Chick Swagger, an awesome group of writers who are my backbone and shoulder to cry on when the words just won’t come. To the Chick Swagger Sirens who feed us full of hunky men to inspire our imaginations—you are my ROCK!
To my husband who reads my scenes and lets me know they work when he wants to explore the possibilities, only to have me return to my lonely writer’s cave. I love you for your patience and understanding, and your incredible imagination!
For Kas
Thank you for having his back and guarding the gates of Heaven
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Sample: Tango and Lace
Sample: Flirting with the Devil
Sample: Handled By Officer
Other Titles by Kym Roberts
About the Author Kym Roberts
Chapter One
Son-of-a-fucking-bitch.
Ty tried to open his eyes, but the pain drove into him. Smothered him. Made him want to let go—sleep. Disappear into oblivion. Heal…or die.
His pulse stirred. His muscles contracted. No, he wouldn’t put a smile on the face of the Grim Reaper—not yet. He had too much to do. He reached for his ribs—but a blinding pain tore a guttural growl from his chest.
F.U.C.K. M.E.
His jaw clamped as he forced air through his nose and turned the scream that wanted to flow from his mouth into something more feral…and wild.
Moments passed. Maybe hours. Maybe months. He wasn’t sure and didn’t care. He had to move.
He pushed on the wound that tore him apart, a bestial noise growing…filling his ears. His head. The room he didn’t recognize.
None of it made sense.
Obviously, he’d done something to cause this mother-fucking-balls-in-his-throat pain. But what? He couldn’t remember beyond the darkness, and he honestly wasn’t sure he cared. He leaned on his elbow and tried to control the excruciating pain—but failed.
All he wanted to do was scream. Or sleep. His head felt heavy, his thoughts fogged. From the constant ache or the endless fatigue, it didn’t matter…he couldn’t stop his head from swaying and he was powerless to stop it. If he gave into it…slept…then maybe…hopefully…when he woke up the next time—he wouldn’t hurt so damn-fucking bad.
He’d still hurt, there was no chance in holy hell he wouldn’t, but he might wake without this fuck-me-I’m-too-old-for-this-shit pain.
Or he wouldn’t wake at all, and the devil would win.
NEVER.
Ty counted three long slow breaths.
Focused on…The. In. And. The. Out.
The. Rise. And. The. Fall…of his chest.
He opened his eyes. Raised his head. But shiii…it…the burn in his ribs reached through his chest for his soul. Up through his neck for his mind. Air seeped through his lips like a balloon slowly deflating. He extinguished the searing blaze and turned his thoughts to…why?
What had caused this…this agony? He couldn’t imagine what he’d done to make his body feel the pits of hell encroaching.
He pushed back.
Pushed harder on his waist and found that despite his thick coat, (which didn’t make sense, why was he wearing a fucking parka indoors?) his hand came away sticky and warm. The fluid was thicker than water, but not as dense as pudding. Not that he made a habit of sleeping in water or pudding, or on a strange floor, or any floor period. But he could think of ways to use chocolate syrup that would be highly entertaining if it was—
Sammie!
His eyes shot open. No longer half-closed or fluttering. He scanned the room and suddenly recognized the hole-in-the-wall cabin that belonged in a 48 Hours television special about the Unabomber and his victims. Only this show would feature the death of a federal prosecutor…and her husband, that Ty failed to protect.
Ty wasn’t aching from a strenuous workout or even falling down a flight of steps. No, he was home in fucking Colorado. The very definition of Hell, since it wasn’t a beach with sun. And yes, there were things he could appreciate about the snow bunnies who gathered at the lodge with their flirtatious looks and rocking bods. But he’d come here to keep Sammie safe, shielded from a mob hit. Sammie and her husband Wade were in danger.
And he was a fucking loser, laying on the floor of a wooden shed in the dead of night while some maniac planned to kill her and the love of her life. All because he’d been caught up in his own emotions and didn’t see the threat coming from a friendly face.
But Ty had shot the loser son-of-a-bitch. He remembered it. Saw the bullet tear through his clothing. Saw his body jerk backward as his eyes rounded in fear. Fear of what waited for him on the other side.
Ty had no fear of dying. When his time came, he’d greet the devil’s come-hither grin with one of his own. But he wasn’t ready to meet him…yet.
Pushing against his injury—God, it felt like the motherfucker was jumping up and down on his chest, wearing spiked combat boots—he sucked wind, and looked around the room. Sure as shit, there was another body. The hit man hired to kill Sammie was lying on the floor with his pasty dead-ass face almost glowing like a freaking zombie. But the man who hired him—was gone.
The body h
e’d expected to find…wasn’t there. And fuck him ’til Sunday, Sammie and her husband Wade still needed his help…unless he was too late.
He had to get to the cabin. The cabin he’d stupidly pointed out to a killer wearing a mask of friendship, right before he’d realized the man was not a friend, but the real fucking foe he should have killed…and obviously didn’t.
Fuck.
Ty pushed up slowly, painstakingly, and pulled his legs out in front of him. He shoved his other hand to the wound on his side, grunting harshly as the pain radiated through his body. The floor was filthy, the table near his feet—broken. The cot that had sat next to the wall with a nasty-ass mattress on top, toppled over.
He looked around for his gun. It was gone. No doubt, taken when the son of a bitch crawled his sorry ass out of the cabin. But, thank you Jesus, Ty had hit the man with one round. It wasn’t a dream or wishful thinking if the trail of blood leading to the door was any indication. Which meant he’d probably taken Ty’s snowmobile and headed for Sammie and Wade’s cabin with not just one fucking gun, but two.
All because Ty had passed his wussy ass out.
Ty had no doubt what was planned. The fuckwad was going to use Ty’s gun to kill Sammie and her husband Wade—unless Ty’s lousy-ass shot had maybe, just maybe, slowed the motherfucker down enough for Ty to get to the cabin in time to save them…
He couldn’t have been unconscious that long.
His clothing had absorbed most of his blood, his head spun uncontrollably, and his stomach wanted to hurl the Eggs Benedict he’d had for breakfast. A manic laugh escaped through his lips. That breakfast was a big-as-shit omen for the type of day he had in store for him—he should have listened to whatever power in the universe tried to warn him.
Fine. He had screwed the fuck up, but he was going to get to that cabin and save Sammie—even if it killed him. He’d make sure Sammie was going to live. To enjoy her wonderful happily-fucking-ever-after.
He just needed to get off his ass and get down to their cabin.
Ty scooted over to the cot. Feeling every inch, every foot, every second it took, despite his inability to know just how much time had actually passed. He would get to her—die trying was not an option. Because if he used words like try, which actually meant he didn’t think he had the fucking balls to get it done, then he would fail. So okay, he would die doing.
Period. Good riddance to a miserable fucking existence.
Because Samantha Bennett-Evans was a good woman. A valuable federal prosecutor who put ethics and justice before popular opinion and politics. And despite the fact that he’d lost any chance of winning her heart, he would see to it that she got her fairy tale ending—without him.
He grabbed the broken table leg to use as a cane, and he pushed and pulled, yelled and grunted until he made it to his feet, where he took a moment to catch his breath and looked around the room for something to stop the bleeding. Although it had slowed down to a speed slower than a stuck pig, there was definitely more than a trickle escaping the bullet hole in his side.
Yesterday…hell, just that morning, he would have never thought it possible, that the bespectacled nerd who stared at a computer all day every day—would have a gun, let alone know how to use it and get one over on him. But he had, and Ty’s failure to recognize the threat was more than enough for one day.
Ty spotted something dark laying under the corner of the mattress and headed toward it, hoping that it was something he could use. And, yes. Angels walked the earth. Because one of the two assholes had actually worn a scarf. He grimaced at the absurdity of it all. He was in a shack in the woods on a mountain in the middle of a whiteout blizzard, grateful to angels for providing a red and black wool scarf.
Afraid to sit, lest he never get up again, Ty leaned against the wobbling wall as he grabbed the scarf and unzipped his coat. He shivered with the cold, the bullet hole in his gut causing his forehead to break out in a sweat, and lifted his shirt.
Son-of-a-fucking-bitch, it hurt to lift his arms. But he wasn’t about to quit, because a little pain now was nothing compared to what he was going to inflict on that asswipe.
He pulled the sweaty-ass cap off his head and waded it up against the hole in his side. At least it looked like it missed all his vital organs. Those angels were definitely working overtime. He tied the scarf snugly around his waist, and the room swayed like a funhouse mirror, so he pulled it even tighter to make sure all those freaky walls went back where they belonged. It didn’t exactly work, but they did straighten a fraction. He zipped his coat, took a semi-deep chest-crushing breath, grabbed his makeshift cane and—
“Motherfucker!”
—pushed away from the wall. His fingers wrapped around the sniper rifle, left behind for the police to find. And whether it was part of the setup or a screw-up, Ty swore it would backfire on the motherfucker as he growled through the pain, slung the weapon over his shoulder and pocketed the box of ammo that had been earmarked for Sammie’s beautiful head.
The walk to the back door nearly killed him—every step an exercise in mind-blowing pain. Leaning heavily on his cane, Ty flung open the rickety wooden door, and as a cold blast of winter in the Rockies froze the sweat on his face, he actually heard the angels of death singing their song.
His eyes narrowed toward the sky. “Fuck you…and your song."
His words gurgled. He should have looked toward hell. Either way, he had a date with a man who’d end up singing soprano in that choir.
A second snowmobile, covered with a white blanket of snow, the keys thankfully still in the ignition, waited for him to ride in and save Sammie.
Without looking back at the dead guy, he hobbled over to the snowmobile and plopped down on the seat, almost falling off the other side. The jolt was so blinding, even the white snow couldn’t compete. He growled again through the pain and made sure his guts hadn’t squirted out the hole the son of a bitch had so generously given him. The only thing that kept Ty from passing out, was the snow swirling around his face, whipping his skin with ice crystals.
He turned the ignition and thanked the angel sitting on the seat behind him. Because despite his refusal to sing, her arms were wrapped firmly around his middle, as the engine started and he headed around to the front of the shack. Because of her, he could race down the mountainside and make sure that motherfucking traitor never saw the light of day again.
She shouldn’t have tried to make the trek in this weather. Yes, it was good training. Yes, she knew where she was, thanks to the compass in her pocket. And yes, this was exactly the type of weather she needed to train in…
But she should have gone with a buddy.
She had ignored the number one safety rule, and now the stupid snow fairies were laughing at her. Jack Frost had a serious hard-on to make her suffer. She let out a mirthless snort and tilted her head down against the driving wind, but the snow still pelted the uncovered sections of her skin. She mentally tried to put a face on Jack, thinking maybe that would warm her from the inside out.
It didn’t. It just made her delusional. Everyone knew Jack was a faceless devil.
So. It was time to face the truth. She wasn’t going to make it home. Not tonight, and maybe not tomorrow. And that had been the plan. Make it home tonight and enjoy a book by a warm fire tomorrow.
Instead, she was going to have to switch to plan B—which involved admitting defeat and finding a place to hunker down for the night, hopefully at the resort over the ridge. Then try again at dawn. Plan B stank like a three-day old tuna fish sandwich left in a sauna.
Admitting defeat wasn’t easy. She had clients who endured crippling pain on a daily basis. They didn’t give up. She wouldn’t let them give up. She pushed and pushed and pushed until they learned to work through it.
Yet, she’d failed to make the trip she’d promised herself she’d make this year. Allowed a little mistake (okay, losing her gear had been a huge mistake), a little weather, (blizzards weren’t a huge obstacle), and
a tiny bit of swelling (having to cut off her boot would stink) to force her to give up her three day, cross country ski trip. Now she’d have to wait until next year, and try again.
“Ahhhhhh!” The sound of her voice was swallowed in the wind.
Fine.
Decision made, Faith adjusted her pack and turned north, toward the trees and hopefully Castle Alainn. It would take a good couple hours, but that was better than the four hours it would take to reach home. All thanks to her tumble in the snow a half an hour ago, which caused her to lose one of her packs containing her cell phone, food, water bottle and skis over an embankment.
She was lucky it wasn’t her body that tumbled end over end.
The water bottle would have been no big deal. She’d already put snow in a baggy inside her coat to melt for drinking water, but the tightness of the ski boot on her left ankle was starting to become overwhelming and the pain was giving her fits.
Once again she thought about that tuna sandwich. Only this time it was out of hunger, and she started thinking about all the food she was going to snarf down once she got to the resort. Including a pound of seven-wonder fudge from Chrissy’s Creamery. She’d pass on the ice cream and leave it for people who hadn’t turned into popsicles in Noble Pass.
In-between her none-too-lady-like-grunts and the imaginary engine she kept hearing, Faith continued the painful ascent up the stupid mountain. Stupid, because she was hurt, and she certainly wouldn’t refer to herself as less than intelligent.
Just Foolish with a capital F.
She paused again to catch her breath, knowing it’d been only a few minutes since her last break. Her focus was slipping, and if she wasn’t careful, she’d be in trouble.