He watched her from the porch of the house, tiny all the way down in the center of the arena as a bouncy kid trotted in circles around her on one of the plodding old lesson horses.
He knew where she was coming from – had been in the place where he realized that the only thing getting him up in the morning was the idea that one thing would change for the better. That those dreams would get just a little easier to reach. And then when all possibility was taken away, you wound up broken on the floor. That’s where she was now: the phantom family, the killer career, all her ephemeral maybe-somedays had been dashed to bits. And then he’d stomped on them.
Really made a man feel like a man.
The sound of bikes startled him, and he cursed. When in the hell had he not wanted to hear that sound?
The frightening truth was that he hated the sight of two Harleys pulling up at the barn, because he wanted to spare Emmie dealing with his brothers.
Bring her into the family? Ha!
He hustled down the driveway until he was in sight of them, and then he slowed, played casual, hands in his pockets.
It was Ghost and Michael who’d come, the former shooting him a dark grin, the latter being his usual stone-faced Terminator self.
“Here for the reception?” Walsh asked dryly. “’Fraid we’re all out of champagne.”
“Just well-wishing is all,” Ghost said, still grinning. “Where’s the blushing bride?”
“Teaching lessons.”
Michael reached into his cut and withdrew something wrapped in white tissue paper and tied off with pink ribbon. He shoved it toward Walsh without ceremony. “Here. Hol got you a present.”
He bit down on a sudden, impulsive smile as he accepted it. “That was sweet of her.”
“She’s sweet,” Michael said, like he was daring an argument.
Ghost’s brows jumped: this guy over here… He sobered. “Actually, I need you at the compound. New York’s in the house with our Texas shipment.”
“Ah.” Which meant he’d spend the next six-some-odd hours cataloguing each barrel, scope, and magazine, creating a total inventory of the product they would move as initial payback for their giant loan. “Just let me…” He gestured to the barn, not sure what he meant to do.
Ghost nodded. “We’ll wait.”
Walsh entered the cool interior of the building, and ground to a halt. What was he going to do? Walk out to the arena and say, “Darling, I’ll be home late tonight?” What would she do? Besides give him another of those you ruined my life looks.
He stepped into her office instead, set Holly’s present down and found a notepad and pen. It took him longer than it should have to leave a note. And as he left, for the first time since he’d patched in, he felt a pull stronger than the club.
The useless tug of responsibility toward a woman who would never love him. An old habit that hadn’t died after all.
~*~
“Should I stay?” Fred asked.
Emmie shook her head and massaged her lower back. “No, go on. I’m just gonna go up and crash.” The horses were all bedded down for the night and the last lesson had just left. “Dinner’s probably waiting on you anyway.” She gave him a tired smile.
Fred nodded, but lingered a moment, watching her.
“I’m fine. I swear.”
He left with obvious reluctance, and then she was blessedly alone, the barn full of soft sounds around her, the cool of evening lifting in through the doors on a light breeze.
In the office, she collapsed into her chair with plans to jot down notes on the day’s lessons. Two things caught her eye: a white-wrapped package, and the sticky note pressed to the blotter beside it.
The note was from Walsh:
Em,
Had to go into work. Will be late getting home. Am at Dartmoor if you need me.
Two phone numbers were listed, one labeled mobile, the other clubhouse.
If she needed him. She didn’t want to think about any possible meaning behind those words, so she turned to the package, sliding the pink ribbon off and opening the paper at the corners. It wasn’t a gift from Walsh – the handwriting on the note that fell out was tidy and feminine.
Dear Emmie,
Congratulations on your wedding! Walsh is very kind and always polite to me; I hope the two of you will be very happy together. I can’t wait to meet you, but I know from experience how intimidating it is to walk into this great big family of ours. I wanted to send you a photo – list of names included! Looking forward to getting to know you.
Holly McCall (Michael’s wife)
Emmie had no idea which one Michael was, but this was a point in his wife’s favor. For whatever it was worth.
She looked at the silver-framed photo. It was a portrait, all of them standing grouped together, the ones in the back obviously standing on chairs. All the guys in their black cuts, the women prettier and happier than she’d expected.
And there was Walsh, in the front row because he was short, his expression tight and guarded, nothing like that wide-eyed look he’d given her outside the courthouse, when he’d told her to breathe.
The question was, which Walsh was the real one? The attentive lover, the caring new husband?
Or the man who’d tackled her in an open field, while his friends buried a body?
Twenty-Four
Too many people in too small a space, smoking too many cigarettes, and laughing at too many stupid jokes. That’s how it always was when an out of town chapter was in the house, but tonight it bothered Walsh more than normal.
All the back slaps, congratulations, and innuendos didn’t help. Most of his brothers thought he was some kind of monk, because he didn’t play with the groupies and because he didn’t bring girlfriends around. They were delighted by this sudden turn of events, the bastards.
It was a relief to turn off the crowded roads and hit the rural routes outside the city. He felt his stomach unclench when he turned in at the stone entrance to the farm. Emmie wouldn’t be happy to see him, would no doubt be in her loft. They’d have to move her into the main house for the sake of the charade, but that could wait. Tonight wasn’t about consummating or working past their hurdles. All he wanted was his mattress.
But something was wrong.
He saw the graffiti on the face of the barn as he started past it and pulled up short, killed the engine and left the headlamp on.
BURN IN HELL STUPID JUNKIE BITCH
“Shit.” He started into the barn, and nearly stepped on a small black pile just inside the entrance. The stink told him what it was, but he didn’t stop to look, just stepped over it and kept moving, taking the steps to the loft two at a time.
He banged on the door with the side of his hand, not caring if she was asleep, only worried she was something worse than that. “Em? Emmie!”
A seam of light appeared beneath the door and then it unlatched, gapped open. Her eyes were puffy with sleep, hair a mess down on her shoulders. “What?” She squinted at him.
He was breathing like he’d just run a footrace. “You’ve been sleeping?”
Her face said duh.
“You didn’t hear anything?”
“Hear what?” She sounded annoyed, and he didn’t blame her.
But he wanted to show her, not because she needed to see it – God, he wanted to spare her that – but because he needed her input.
“Come with me.” He grabbed for her hand. “Someone left you a message outside.”
Her eyes flew wide, instantly alert, and he saw the tremor move through her. “Oh God, what?” She was already stepping into her clogs, grabbing a hoodie off the rack by the door.
He put an arm around her waist when they reached the bottom of the stairs and she didn’t resist; he felt her trembling.
“What the hell–” she started, and he steered her around the little pile and out the door. “Okay, seriously, what is…” She gasped. Both hands came up to her face as she stared up at the spray-painted words above the do
uble doors.
Walsh tightened his arm, gave her hip a squeeze. “I saw it when I drove up just now.”
She let out a deep, shaky breath. “Brett. This was Brett.”
“I was afraid of that.”
Her eyes dropped to the doorway. “What’s that?”
“Something you don’t want to see.”
She turned to him, expression hardening. “I saw a dead body. How much worse could it be than that?”
Walsh sighed. “I think we ought to call this in. Let Fielding’s people come take some pictures and go pick up the little wanker for questioning.”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“You comfortable talking to the cops?”
“Absolutely.”
~*~
She was brilliant with the police, his Emmie. The responding officers were a pair of thick-necked former footballers gone soft, nothing but buzz cuts and beer guts, and she handled them deftly. “Thank you for coming, officers. Emmie Walsh,” she said, with only a slight hiccup on the name. She shook their hands, used her flashlight to point out the graffiti.
“The previous owner’s grandson isn’t stable,” she told them, “and he’s having trouble accepting the fact that this is my husband’s farm now.”
Both cops had given him the usual contemptuous looks when they spotted his cut, but Emmie hadn’t let them get stuck on that, insisting in her polite, firm little way that she wanted the perp charged, that this was a respectable place of business, and she wasn’t going to tolerate any illegal activity of this sort. She suggested animal cruelty charges be applied considering there was the digestive tract of something piled up in the entryway to the barn.
The cops called in a lab guy, thanked her, and dismissed both of them, saying they needed room to work, paint scraping samples or some such.
“Come on, lovey.” Walsh put an arm around her again, steered her up toward the house. “Let’s leave ‘em to it.”
She didn’t argue but fell into step alongside him, arms folded against the night chill, head down as she chewed her lip and stayed rooted in her thoughts.
It gave him a moment to appreciate the warm smallness of her tucked up against him, the way she was little enough to be his perfect fit, the way the moon played across her hair and turned it silver. She smelled faintly of soap and something floral. Her clogs made clomping sounds on the asphalt.
“I’m sorry,” he told her, and it felt like insufficient compensation for not just tonight, but everything she’d been through.
She didn’t respond.
The emptiness of the house was an acute reflection of the two of them, he noted as they entered and he locked the door behind them. Empty vessels, wanting to be filled, yearning for small comforts.
Emmie lifted her head and stared out the big picture window down at the dancing flashlight beams at the barn. “It’s funny,” she said in a low, reflective voice. “I was eleven when I started working here. Not on the books, no, but Amy asked if I wanted to walk her horse for a little tip – he’d bowed his tendon – and I jumped at the chance. And then I was scrubbing water buckets. Carrying cold water bottles to the older girls during their lessons. I cleaned tack, and then stalls, and then exercised horses. I worked, year after year after year, and then Amy asked me if I wanted to run the place. I never asked for any of it.” She glanced toward him, eyes full of a deep sadness. “I just worked, and I used to think working hard paid off. But now everyone hates me, and everything’s wrong, and all that work was for absolutely nothing.”
“Em.” He stepped toward her. “Don’t say that. Nobody hates you.”
She turned her face away and it pulled at the deep center of his chest, propelled him toward her. She made him restless with inaction, desperate to right her wrongs. But most of them were emotional, and he had no tools for that, no methods or plans. All he had was himself, and that had never been good enough for anyone.
“I’m so tired,” she whispered to the glass in front of her. “I’m exhausted.”
Walsh touched her shoulders first, and when she reluctantly turned toward him, a rejection on her lips, he reached to her throat, her face, cupped her warm cheeks in his hands and tipped her chin up, so her eyes were on his.
“I know you are, baby,” he said, and felt her shiver again, a low surge of energy under her skin. Even if she loathed everything about him and this situation, he held a physical sway over her, their bodies communicating of their own accord. “And I can’t change anything that’s already happened. But it doesn’t have to be cold and lonely between us. We can be a comfort to each other.”
Or more, so much more, he thought, if you’ll just open the door to it.
Her hands lifted and closed over his wrists, but there was no resistance to them. He felt the liquid give of her neck as she relaxed into his hold.
“I can’t love you,” she whispered. “All you’d ever do is hurt me.”
“Not on purpose.”
She closed her eyes and tried to turn away from him.
He held her fast and kissed her.
She stilled, but she didn’t pull away.
He teased at her lips with his tongue, a gentle sweep. Asking. Encouraging. She trembled against him, drawn tight, resisting in her silent, unresponsive –
Her mouth opened, and something a lot like joy surged in his chest. It was like she fell into the kiss, sighing deeply, melting against him, hands curling around the back of his neck as her lips welcomed him.
He was almost forty, and he was a detail guy; it wasn’t just about the race to the finish with him. He liked every part of the sex, liked taking the time to wind a woman up and listen to all the little pleased sounds she made.
And this was not simply a woman, but his new wife, who he’d frightened and damaged. So he kissed her for long moments, thumbs stroking gently across her cheeks, gentle and careful, but hotly focused on tasting every inch of her mouth.
And she slowly came undone. Her nails bit into his neck; her breasts pressed against his chest. She gasped between kisses. Mrs. Walsh? She wanted him. And that was the single hottest thought to ever enter his mind.
He walked her backward until she hit one of so many blank stretches of wall. Slid his knee between her legs, let his thigh ride against the seam of her flimsy shorts.
A deeper sound, a wordless murmur as she shifted her hips and rubbed herself against him.
Walsh turned loose of her face, because he had to touch the rest of her. He unzipped her hoodie in a fast sweep, pushed it off her shoulders, and she was helping him, ditching it in a hurry. He whipped her shirt off her head, sent her shorts to the floor.
She was beautifully curved, and golden, and naked, and she was all his, and only his.
Comfort, he’d said. This had nothing to do with comfort.
He picked her up, hands latched on her thighs, and pinned her back against the wall with his hips. Her legs wrapped around him, and tightened on a fast squeeze when he took her budded nipple into his mouth.
It was a moan that left her lips this time, a full-throated feminine sound that went straight to his cock.
Emmie was the one who reached between them to open his belt. He managed to snag a condom out of his back pocket and gave it to her, let her do the honors.
Sliding into her was exquisite. He fought to hold to a thorough, grinding rhythm, breaking out in a full-body sweat under his clothes from the effort. All he wanted was to finish, the urge urgent and painful at this point he was so excited by her. But she was watching him, her head kicked back against the wall, the breath heaving in and out of her, her eyes heavy-lidded and drugged with arousal.
She wasn’t pretending he was someone else, wasn’t kidding herself. She wanted him. Him. Even if she hated him and even if he was her husband.
He worked her until she came with a high, breathy gasp, her sex tightening around him like a fist.
She was his. He knew it, and the way she arched against him – she knew it too.
~*~
“I had a dream about you,” she whispered. She felt cracked open like an egg, every emotion emptied out of her, so nothing was real save the mattress beneath her in the moon-silvered room and his naked warmth beside her. She lay on her side, resting against his shoulder, his arm a comfort around her waist. “Right after we met. A sex dream.”
He chuckled. “Did you now? That’s the best kind to have.”
“Hmm. It was nice.”
“That’s encouraging. Tell me: do you normally fantasize about your bosses?”
She was playing with his chest hair and gave it a sharp tug. “You know I’m not that kind of girl.”
Another low laugh moved through his chest. “All I know is, you were enjoying yourself downstairs a bit ago.”
Yes, she’d been enjoying herself, because God, it was just so good between them. Thinking about it heated her skin, but it was easier now to remember all the reasons it should have never happened.
“I shouldn’t be–” she started, trying to roll away from him.
His arm tightened, and he caught her loosely by the hair with his other hand. “None of that now,” he said softly, drawing her face to his. “It’s my wedding night, and I married this lovely, lovely girl, and I really need to hear her come again.”
The words propelled her heart up her throat for so many reasons. She had to wet her lips. “If I try to leave the bed, will you let me go?”
He sighed and it ruffled her hair. “I’ll always let you go, love. I won’t make you be my wife. But I want you to be.”
He was a smart man, wasn’t he? Force would never have worked, but his earnest admission left her with melted knees and a throbbing pulse.
“It’s my wedding night too,” she reminded, and pressed her lips to his.
It might be her only wedding night, she reflected, because even if he let her go, who would want a biker’s cast-off old lady?
The sudden bloom of sadness made the kiss all the sweeter. She gave herself over to it completely, leaning into the stroke of his hands, shifting onto her stomach at his gentle urging. She arched her back when he entered her from behind, and curled her fingers tight in the sheet as he rode her.
The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) Page 20