Busted (Barnes Brothers #3)

by Shiloh Walker

  “You’re not a timid woman, Ressa. What gives?”

  Unable to explain, she displayed the book to Farrah. “Did you read these as a kid?”

  “Boxcar Children.” Farrah smiled. “Oh, yeah. That was more my speed than the crazy psycho bunny you love so much.”

  “I’ll have you know that the psycho bunny is very popular with a lot of readers.”

  “Yeah.” Farrah picked up a few books. “The weird ones. And you’re in dodge-mode, girl.”

  “No. I’m in I don’t know what’s up mode. There’s a difference. But since I haven’t been able to find it in me to make a move, then I’m not going to push it.” She slid the first two books in the series up on the shelf. They were probably only going to go out another few times before they had to be replaced. They were getting pretty worn. “If it ever feels right, I’ll know.”

  “If you say so.” Farrah heaved out a sigh. “I’ve been wondering . . . Mr. Hot and Sexy—”

  “Mr. Hot and Sexy?” Ressa cut in, amused.

  “He’s gotta have a name,” Farrah said, a smile curving her lips. She wore bronze lipstick today—a bronze that almost perfectly matched her silk shirt, and the color glowed warmly against toffee brown skin. “Tell me, does he look at all familiar to you?”

  Ressa stopped and stared at Farrah. “You, too?”

  Arching a black brow, Farrah pursed her lips. Then she nodded. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Yeah. That’s a yes.” She huffed out a breath and grabbed another book, slid it on the shelf below the Boxcar books. “I just can’t figure out why. You?”

  “Nope. I was kind of hoping you’d tell me he reminded you of some hot football player or something.”

  “As if.” Ressa snorted out a laugh. “Like I know the Cowboys from the Orioles.”

  “You moron.” Farrah bumped her with her hip. “The Orioles play baseball.”

  “See? That’s just what I mean!”

  “Hopeless. You’re hopeless.” Farrah sighed. Then she pushed away from the cart. “So . . . anyway. The main reason I came here?”

  Ressa glanced over at her and then turned, recognizing that glint in her friend’s eyes. “Yeah?”

  “I just got this, right when I was getting ready to head to lunch.” Farrah brandished her phone.

  The name practically leaped from the screen. It was a book cover—she knew that because she recognized the author’s name.

  The cover was pale green. The woman on it was mostly naked, save for the miniscule panties that covered the important bits, and her breasts were covered by her arm.

  She also wore a tie. One incongruously patterned with bright pink smile faces that matched the bright pink font of the author’s name.

  Exposing the Geek Billionaire.

  Muffling a squeal, she tapped on it.

  Nothing.

  “What?”

  Farrah chortled as she nabbed the phone back.

  “It’s just the cover . . . there was a big reveal on one of the romance blogs, Ress. It’s due out in early fall. But I thought you’d wanna know. So you have something to check out on your lunch break. Maybe it will distract you from Mr. Tall, Dark, and Tattooed.”

  Ressa barely acknowledged the change in names, just giving Farrah a cursory scowl. Mr. Hot, Sexy, and Tattooed might work.

  “You gotta call him something.”

  Ressa already did call him something. But she wasn’t sharing her mental nickname for him with her boss.

  Chapter Three

  Week Twenty-six

  “You look tired.”

  Trey jerked up his head, realizing he’d been this close to falling sleep. With his laptop open in his lap. In the middle of the children’s area.

  Ressa Bliss stood in front of him, Clayton holding her hand and swinging it back and forth.

  “Did you bring it in, Dad? Did you bring it in?” He let go of her hand to launch himself toward Trey.

  Habit had him catching the boy easily even as he looked up at Ressa through dark lenses. “Yeah,” he said, wishing he had about a gallon of coffee to guzzle. “Have had a few late nights . . . trying to catch up on work before we fly out to California later this week.”

  “We’re gonna see Grandma for Mother’s Day!” Clayton chirped. Then he grabbed Trey’s messenger bag and hauled it up, dumping it onto the low table. “Where is it, Dad? Where is it?”

  It was a gift.

  Mother’s Day was on Sunday. It had been one rough week.

  She said we were making presents for our moms . . . Daddy, I don’t have a mommy anymore and I was making it for Grandma and she said I wasn’t listening, but I didn’t want to tell her what happened and she kept trying to make me start all over . . .

  Well, she sure as hell had listened to Trey. Sometimes he wondered what was wrong with people. It was very clearly marked in Clayton’s records that his mother had passed away—if they weren’t going to look at those records, why did they ask?

  They’d finished up their crafts with Clayton working on his project that he’d give to Denise, his grandmother. He’d been so pleased with it, they’d hit one of the local craft stores and bought kits to make little clay paperweights for all of his grandparents, but he’d wanted to make something special for Ressa, too.

  When Trey had pushed him on why, Clayton had just shrugged.

  Everybody has a mommy who smells good and is pretty and tells them stories . . .

  I tell you stories, man. Are you saying I stink?

  Clayton had laughed. But then that sad look came back into his eyes. Miss Ressa read a book about a little girl who’d lost her mama. There was a lady who lived next door who the girl was friends with. Miss Ressa told us that sometimes people don’t have mamas . . . or daddies . . . but they still have people who love them. Maybe . . . You think maybe she loves me?

  The kid could cut his heart out sometimes.

  So there was another clay paperweight.

  Trey rubbed the back of his neck as Clayton turned, clutching it in small hands as he looked up at Ressa. He opened his mouth, nervous, then shut it. Then he shoved it out at her. “Here!” he blurted. “I made it for you. I . . . I wanted you to have it.”

  Ressa looked down, puzzled.

  And then, as her face softened, Trey felt something wrench inside his heart.

  “Oh . . .”

  She sank to her knees. A smile curved up her lips and he was struck, straight to the heart, by how beautiful she was. Something came over him and it wasn’t that gut-twisting lust. It wasn’t that blood-boiling need that would never end in anything but frustration and humiliation.

  It was something . . . more.

  Something maybe even better.

  A weight he hadn’t realized he still carried lifted inside him and he found he was smiling himself as she reached out, but instead of taking it from Clayton, she cupped her hands under his, steadying the oddly shaped heart the child had molded himself. “Wow,” she said, her voice husky. “You made this, didn’t you, handsome?”

  Clayton nodded, chin tucked.

  “My goodness.” She bit her lip and then leaned in, angling her head until she caught Clayton’s gaze. “Can I maybe hold it?”

  “It’s yours.” Clayton dumped it into her hands and she caught it, handling it with the same care she might have shown had he just presented her with a Waterford crystal vase.

  Judging by the light in her eyes, he might as well have done just that. “Clayton, that was really sweet of you,” she said, stroking her thumb over the overly bright, glass “jewels” they’d found to push into the clay. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a paperweight quite so beautiful in my life. But . . .” She looked up at him. “It’s not my birthday or anything. Why’d you give me something so nice?”

  “Cuz . . .” Clayton shrugged his skinny shoulders. “You are nice. And I can’t give nothing to my mama.”

  He didn’t say anything else, just turned and flung himself toward Trey, his face jammed agains
t his thigh. “I wanna go. Daddy, can we go now?”

  “Clayton—”

  Trey looked at her and shook his head. “It’s okay. He’s okay.” Or he would be. Scooping Clayton up, he went to scoop his laptop into his bag.

  “Here.” Ressa moved in. “Let me help.”

  He got a headful of her scent, felt her curls brush his cheek. All the while Clayton clung to his neck like a monkey. “Thanks,” he said, his voice brusque. Things were coming to attention now—of course, and here he was juggling his son, her concerned gaze, his bag.

  “I’m sorry if I—”

  “You didn’t.” Trey shot her a look, almost explained then, but the last thing Clayton needed was to hear the blunt hard facts laid out just then. He lived with them every day of his life. “He’s just had a rough week, haven’t you, buddy?”

  He gave her a smile—the practiced one he’d used when reporters had hunted him down over the years, whether it was because of his writing, his wife’s death, or his connection to two famous actors. It was a blank smile, one that could say everything and nothing, one that could hide a million secrets or be as open as one could hope. “He needs a nap and maybe some pizza. In a few days, we hop on a plane and he’ll be seeing all his cousins and his uncles. He’s been looking forward to that. Don’t worry, he’s fine, aren’t you, buddy?”

  Voice muffled against his neck, Clayton said, “I’m gonna see ’Bastian this time, Daddy?”

  “You bet.” He rubbed his cheek against Clayton’s curls. “Uncle Sebastian wouldn’t dare miss Mother’s Day.”

  “Is Aunt Abby making cake?”

  Chuckling, he said, “I certainly hope so.” Giving Clayton a light squeeze, Trey murmured, “Why don’t you tell Miss Ressa bye? I think she’s upset and thinks she hurt your feelings?”

  Clayton rolled his head on his shoulders. “Bye, Miss Ressa.”

  * * *

  The memory of Clayton’s smile lingered, hours after he’d left.

  It lingered even after they closed up and she was sitting at the computer, debating.

  Debating hard, because she was about to do something she had no right to do.

  Or she was tempted. She wasn’t really about to do it, but she was closer to it than she was comfortable. Shit. How often did she get pissed when people tried to—or did—meddle in her background? She had plenty of things that she’d rather not have dragged out right in the open.

  Actually, pissed didn’t even touch on how she felt when people started meddling. There were some secrets she had that she’d just as soon take to her grave.

  Besides, what was she going to do—general search for kids with the name Clayton . . . five years old . . . hey, she knew he had a birthday in September. That would really narrow the focus.

  “What’s up?”

  Guiltily, she jerked her hands away.

  One of her coworkers, Alex, stood on the other side of the desk, eying her.

  “Nothing.” Guiltily, she powered down the computer. “Is everybody pretty much done?”

  “A few more wrapping up downstairs.”

  With a nod, Ressa picked up the little paperweight, carefully cradling it in her hand.

  “Did somebody bring you a gift?”

  “Yep.” She displayed it, feeling as pleased as if she’d received chocolate and flowers.

  “Who is it from?” Alex eyed it, his head cocked.

  With a smile, she said, “Clayton . . . the little doll who shows up at reading hour.”

  “Ahhh . . . your shadow.” He grinned knowingly. “That kid has a major crush on you, Ressa.”

  She grimaced. “Geez. That’s great to hear.”

  “You’re going to break his heart when you transfer out this summer.” He tsked and shook his head. “You might want to break the news sooner, rather than later.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Not much you can do about it.” Alex gave her a sympathetic look. “You need the transfer so you can be closer to school—these are the chores of being a parent . . . or a guardian as it were. Your cousin needs you.”

  Ressa nodded, her thoughts drifting to the child she’d been taking care of for so many years. “I know. Neeci is why I’m doing it.”

  Still, a heavy ache settled in her chest as she looked down at the molded heart she held. Funny . . . she was just now realizing how fragile it was.

  Chapter Four

  Week Thirty

  Sheets twisted around him.

  Dream and reality blurred together in that surreal way they did in that short time just before waking.

  The twisted ropes of cotton weren’t really cotton. They were long limbs, warm and golden brown. That mouth, always slicked with colors that made him think of sinful wines or lush fruits, moved against his. It was a seductive red today and as he fisted his hand in her hair, she sank her teeth into his lower lip.

  “Trey . . .”

  That was when he knew he was dreaming.

  She’d never called him by name.

  With a groan, he rolled them, putting her body under his, determined to enjoy it as much as he could, for as long as he could. She laughed against his lips, a husky sound that tripped down his spine. Who knew that a woman’s laugh could be so erotic?

  She might as well have reached between his legs and cupped his balls.

  And then she was reaching down, one hand closing around his cock.

  “Don’t,” he muttered, tearing his mouth away. “I . . . fuck, I can’t.”

  “You can’t what?” Ressa smiled up at him, dragged her hand up, then down.

  “I can’t . . . this. I just . . .” He shoved away from her, but she followed. Her hand milked him and he groaned, because the pleasure was there, leaving him hovering on an edge between pleasure and pain.

  “I think you can.” She sat up and he found himself staring up at her. Her breasts—or least the image his dreaming mind had conjured up—were full, her nipples a deep, deep brown. While she continued to pump her hand up and down his cock, she used her other hand to reach out, grab his wrist and bring it to her breast. “Touch me . . . you know you want to.”

  Want? “You think that covers it?”

  “You never have done it.” She lifted a brow. “Why is that?”

  Any answer he might have given was lost, because she gave a slow, thorough twist of her wrist as she dragged it back up. Then she caught the fluid leaking out of his cock, smoothed it around the swollen crown.

  He hissed out a breath.

  She did the same and he didn’t realize it was because he’d plucked at her nipple. “I’m sorry . . . fuck, I hurt you—”

  “No.” She shoved her breast into his hand. “Do it again.”

  Instead, he shoved upright and caught the tip in his mouth.

  That warm, soft laugh echoed around him before fading into a moan. He settled between her hips and then the dream . . . shifted. Rolled.

  IcantIcantIcant!

  Her hands cupped his face and she rolled up against him. “Make love to me!”

  He was buried inside her.

  He went to pull out. Felt the smooth, sweet glide of her pussy against him and he shuddered.

  “Sweet fucking hell,” he breathed out. Then he drove deep inside her.

  She cried out his name.

  He might have sobbed out hers.

  And moments later, he came awake just as he climaxed, one hand wrapped around his cock while the other twisted in the sheets.

  Shuddering, Trey lay there, half-stunned.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  He’d just orgasmed for the first time in more than six years.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  * * *

  “Are you just going to bite the bullet and ask her out?”

  He glared at the phone on the bathroom counter. Razor in hand, he leaned forward. “Travis? I’ll listen to your advice on my love life when you listen to mine.”

  “I don’t have a love life.”

  “Exactly my poi
nt.” He finished one pass down his jaw, rinsed the razor off, started another. “Look, it’s just . . .”

  He stopped, because there was only so much he was willing to tell. Even his twin. He sure as hell wasn’t about to share certain humiliating details.

  Unaware of the thoughts circling through Trey’s mind, Travis pushed on. “Just nothing. It’s been almost six years since Aliesha died. I know you’re moving past that—or have moved past it. So it’s not her.”

  “Don’t.” Even he heard the biting warning in his voice.

  Travis’s sigh came over the line. “I just worry about you, man.”

  “Same goes. And hey, I’m not the one who’s working myself into an early grave, right?” He could still remember how Travis had looked in San Francisco when they all met up for their annual get-together. Mom insisted it wasn’t necessary, but she still had that light of complete delight in her eyes when they all descended en masse, ringing the doorbell to the house their parents had lived in for years.

  Travis had looked like somebody had dragged him, sopping wet and close to drowning, out of the Pacific.

  “I’m not working myself into a grave,” Travis said, his voice grim. “I refuse to die doing this shit work.”

  There was an edge to his twin’s voice, one Trey hadn’t heard before. “Everything okay with you?”

  For a moment, there was just a taut, heavy silence. Then Travis sighed. “Yeah. I’m just . . . tired. I need a vacation. I’ll take care of that. Soon. But let’s talk about this librarian. Who is she? What does she look like? Fess up.”

  “We’re not in high school anymore, Trav.”

  “Too bad, because then I’d be able to figure this out on my own. Come on, I’ll just work it out of Clay.” There was a sly note in Travis’s voice.

  “Bastard.” Trey finished up shaving and rinsed the foam from his face, using a towel to dry off. His hair hung in his face, too long, desperately in need of a trim. “How about I give you something else to hassle me over?”