Every Deep Desire

by Sharon Wray

  Thunder rolled in the distance, storm clouds approached, and the air hummed with static. He studied the dense veil of kudzu a half mile from the trailer. The border between Capel land and Montfort property. Close enough for a well-trained sniper. A Fianna sniper.

  “Rafe?” Pops called from the back deck. “You coming, Son?”

  “Yes.” Rafe wanted to pray that his deal with the devil hadn’t followed him home. Except he no longer believed in prayers, and the churning in his gut told him the devil hadn’t just hitched a ride. The devil was driving. “I’m coming.”

  * * *

  Juliet stopped in the middle of her store, pressed the phone against her ear, and stared at the marble archangel’s smug face. Gabriel stood in the corner, over six feet tall, with his wings folded behind his back. He held a sword against his muscled thigh, and he was naked. “Are you sure, Detective?”

  “I am,” Detective Garza said with an accent she guessed was from New York or Connecticut or someplace else up north. “I reviewed the security footage. Yesterday’s vandalism attack on your shop—”

  “The sixth in nine months.”

  “Wasn’t captured on your cameras.”

  “How’s that possible?” Her shop’s doorbell jingled, and her friend Philip came in with a sympathetic smile and two takeaway cups. She nodded as he handed her a coffee, hot and sweet, just as she liked it.

  “We’re looking into that,” Detective Garza said. “According to the security company, your cameras have been turned off before each event and turned back on after.”

  “The security company has no idea how their system was breached, and then fixed, six times?”

  Philip raised an eyebrow, and she shook her head in exasperation. She had little faith in the SPD and less in Detective Garza, the new detective who wasn’t even from Savannah.

  “No, ma’am. But I’ll call back when I have more information.”

  “Thank you.” Once she hung up, she sipped her coffee, listening to the sounds of her foreman, Bob, and the men who worked with him outside fixing her broken windows.

  “I got your message,” Philip said. “Why are they changing the terms of your business loan?”

  Once the warmth hit her stomach, she sighed. Time to move on to her next problem. “My lawyer says my bank—including my loan—was sold to a bigger bank that wants more collateral and a higher interest rate.”

  “And they can do that?”

  She shrugged. “Apparently.”

  Philip took her free hand and squeezed. “I’m sorry.” The morning sun backlit the impeccable tailoring of his gray wool suit and white silk shirt, which matched his perfectly cut blond hair and Italian leather loafers. He reminded her of a Ken doll. With her own pink linen sleeveless shift and long hair twisted into a complicated knot, she had to admit to a vintage Barbie vibe. So different from the children they’d been on the Isle.

  She dropped his hand and inhaled. Lavender was the signature scent of the store, but today the smell made her queasy. “I own a landscape architecture firm with a storefront catering to high-end clients, and I always pay on time.” Something about this didn’t make any sense.

  “You can still design without a store.”

  “My clients—from people renovating mansions, to family members planning elaborate funerals, to brides getting married in the city’s squares—like to come for consultations where they can peruse my design books in a beautiful, air-conditioned space, look at the statuary I keep outside in the courtyard, and even have a glass of champagne while I sketch their ideas. My store sets me apart from the other design firms in the city that just drive around in a van dropping off reference sheets and photocopies of previous projects.”

  She moved behind the gothic altar she used as her counter and shut the cash drawer of her antique register. After everything she’d worked for, the years struggling alone, she was about to lose her dream because of a bank decision?

  No. Which meant she needed a plan. Now.

  Philip steadied a silver bowl that threatened to fall off a stack of horticulture books on the counter. “Could this have anything to do with Senator Wilkins’s death on Capel land?”

  “I doubt it. That happened months ago.”

  A loud dirrrg, dirrrg, dirrrg made her switch problems, and her foreman came in the front door. “What’s wrong, Bob?”

  “Sorry about the racket, ma’am.” Bob took off his Georgia Tech baseball cap and scratched his head. “The vandals broke the window frame this time. I need to use a masonry bit. Damn kids.”

  Philip moved behind her and held her shoulders. “Have the police caught them yet?”

  “Not yet,” Bob said. “That’s why we’re installing bulletproof glass and hand-painting Miss Juliet’s gold lily logo.”

  “It’s all outrageously expensive.” She pulled away from Philip as thunder rolled. Another storm, for the fifth day in a row, during the hottest summer in years.

  “Don’t worry, ma’am,” Bob said. “We’ll have your shop tight and dry before it rains.” With a nod, he headed outside to his white tool van and extension ladders.

  She grabbed the loan folder and opened it on the altar.

  “How much do you need?” Philip asked.

  “At least twenty thousand.” The numbers and legalese blurred. She reached for her mechanical pencil and her glasses. Tears were not an option. Lord knew she’d cried enough for all the women in Savannah. “I’m barely staying open now.”

  “How about your antiques? Can you sell them?”

  “I’ve already sold a few.” Besides the twelfth-century altar that had been transformed into her counter, a fifteenth-century round table sat in the center of the room. She’d pushed her worktable from Provence against one of the broken windows. The rest of the shop was filled with horticulture and gardening books, fresh floral arrangements, photos of her current projects, and the botanical prints she sold on commission. The back room held her workspace and floral refrigerators. Sometimes, to make her rent, she subcontracted large, freestanding arrangements for special events.

  It’d taken her five years before she’d saved enough to make a down payment on a business loan to open the store. That didn’t include the school loans she was still paying off.

  Philip nodded toward the angel in the corner. “You could sell Gabriel.”

  “Gabriel and I have a long history together. He stays.” Not to mention he was the only man who’d never left her. “I’d like to sell Capel land, but it’s tied up in centuries-old real estate trusts.” Unfortunately, old, boring, and complicated legal matters meant one thing: expensive billable hours. “Because my daddy put Rafe’s name on the deeds, I can’t use the property as collateral for the new loan.”

  Philip rested a hip against the altar and crossed his arms. “I’d love to know what Gerald was thinking when he added Rafe’s name to the Capel land deeds.”

  She would too. Especially since, at the time her daddy had made the changes, Rafe had just been transferred from a prison in St. Petersburg to Leavenworth. She threw her pencil and it bounced off a book and onto the floor. “Hell.”

  Philip picked up her pencil and handed it to her. “Where are you going to get the money? And with Senator Prioleau’s birthday event coming up? You have a huge up-front cost for her party.”

  “No idea.” Which wasn’t quite true. She could call Deke. She swallowed, the disgusting thought burning her throat. After all, Deke was how she’d managed to survive while in school and save for the original business loan.

  Being homeless and without any family left a young woman with few options. Which was why she couldn’t lose her business. She didn’t want to be dependent on anyone ever again. Philip knew that. She’d told him enough times, anyway. The steel-reinforced employee entrance at the back of the hallway opened, and a woman with long, reddish-blond curls came in, letting the do
or slam shut behind her.

  “Rain’s coming.” Samantha’s voice rang out as she appeared in a floral dress, combat boots, and black tulle petticoat. She was all emo all the time. After placing her white bakery bag on the counter, she handed her purse to Juliet.

  Juliet locked it in her desk drawer. There’d been too much vandalism to take any chances. Even Juliet’s antique iron doorknocker, wrought into a lily, had been stolen the first night her windows had been broken. There was also the new heroin epidemic to worry about. All this violence in the city she loved made her sad.

  Bob came inside and handed her a folded paper. Philip read over her shoulder while she proofed the work order sketch of the store’s logo, Juliet’s Lily, she wanted painted on her new windows. The unusual eight-petaled lily formed the apostrophe between the t and the s.

  Philip changed the subject. “What about that new client buying Prideaux House?”

  “Mr. Delacroix is hot, hot, hot.” Samantha took a bite of her bagel, using a tissue as a napkin.

  “Mr. Delacroix is a potential client, if he can make a deal with the Habersham sisters to sell him the house.” Juliet signed off on the work order. “I’m hoping he’ll hire me for a complete garden redesign.”

  Philip headed for the door. “You’ll figure this out, Juliet.”

  “You could get a second job.” Samantha threw out her bakery bag and headed for the back room. “I have three.”

  Juliet wished she could fix that. She’d met Samantha while dancing for Deke at Rage of Angels nightclub. Samantha still worked there as a waitress, but Juliet left after opening her store. It’d been the happiest day of her life since returning to Savannah. “I’m meeting Mr. Delacroix later. And Calum agreed to install a new alarm system.”

  On his way out, Philip said, “How about asking him for a loan? Calum Prioleau isn’t only the richest man in town, he’s your landlord, and he adores you.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  The door closed as Samantha brought in a vase of yellow roses and white hydrangeas and placed it on the table in the center of the store. “Juliet, you shouldn’t lead Philip on or lie to him.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Not intentionally, but it’s clear he’d like more from you.”

  “Philip knows how I feel. He’d never ask for more than I’m willing to give.” Juliet went to the pile of paperwork on her desk in the hallway between her shop and the back room. Her head pounded with the promise of another stress headache. She had to figure out this loan mess. And she had to do it quickly.

  She found her cell and left a message for Calum. She hoped he’d call soon because her only other choice was Deke.

  Her phone hummed with a text from a blocked ID.

  Juliet of the lily? Remember me?

  She reread the message from the man who texted in odd language. The man who’d been her last link with the ex-husband who’d lied to her, betrayed her, and left her penniless.

  What do u want?

  Take heed, my lady. Thou art wedded to calamity.

  She’d always hated these cryptic messages.

  Meaning?

  Your husband has returned.

  Chapter 2

  Water pounded Rafe’s back, and he ran his hands over his face, feeling three days’ worth of stubble. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such privacy or unlimited hot water. For the first time in eight years, he allowed himself to believe the lie that he hadn’t ruined his life.

  He soaped his body, letting the rivulets run over the hard muscles that hadn’t been there when he’d left home. Five years training with the Prince’s men and three years in prison had left him stronger than he’d ever been in his adult life. What would Juliet think of me now?

  With his guard down, memories slipped in. Juliet curling against his back on a winter’s night, her hair trailing over her naked breasts, her hands reaching for what made him a man.

  His body responded, and he washed his lower half, letting the pressure of the hot water take some of the tension away. But he welcomed the deep contractions in his lower stomach. He could almost smell her lavender scent, feel the softness of her skin when his fingers skimmed over her breasts, across her stomach, down her thighs. His rough skin would catch on hers like sand over silk. When she straddled him, her hair fell down her back while his mouth found the rosy tips of her breasts.

  What wouldn’t I give to taste her again?

  His chest hurt, and his body tightened. He punched the shower wall and leaned his forehead against the tile while the water eased from hot to cold. Visions of Juliet were a pleasure he’d forbidden himself since he’d joined the Prince. From the moment he tithed, all he’d done was survive. And memories of Juliet only led to two things: longing and self-disgust. Living without her had become a pain he’d learned to endure. Just another form of self-mortification. Escalus would be proud.

  Rafe turned the shower off. After realizing there was no escape from the Prince’s Fianna army, he’d had no choice but to become like Escalus. If Rafe broke his vows to the Prince, Juliet would be killed. Not in triumph or as a sign of power but as a message: once you tithe, you belong to the Prince. Forever and always.

  Her life meant nothing to the soulless men Rafe had worked with, the type of man he’d become. Now he had to find out who’d paid for his freedom, figure out what was going on, and come up with a plan to protect Juliet. Before Escalus acted.

  After drying and shaving, Rafe pulled on jeans and socks he’d dug out of his duffel, boots, and a black T-shirt he’d found in the bedroom he’d shared with his younger brother. When he shoved the dresser drawer in, something shiny shifted beneath the clothes. A blue satin ribbon.

  The silky fabric slid through his fingers. He didn’t know how it’d gotten there, but he knew to whom it belonged. Memories of the night he’d tied Juliet’s hands with the satin made sweat bead on his forehead. He wrapped the ribbon around his left wrist and tightened it. Then threw on his leather jacket. Once ready, he followed the sounds of his father’s cooking in the kitchen.

  Would he stay? Would he go? That decision, like all his others, would be determined by what was best for Juliet. Since he hadn’t heard from his contact, lack of a plan left him hot and restless. A familiar ache he used to work off with intense physical training and pounding rounds at the range. The pain fueled his aggression, the aggression caused more suffering, and the sick cycle of punishment helped dull the reality of the man he’d become.

  Helped him forget the people—his father, his A-team, his woman—he’d left behind.

  Pops turned, a knife in his good hand, an iron fry pan on the stove. “You up for eating?” He dropped a battered catfish into the pan of hot oil. “Went fishin’ this morning.”

  Rafe’s stomach growled. Eight years was a long time to go without lots of things, and his father’s fried fish was one of them. “Sounds great.”

  “Got something for you.” Pops pointed the spatula toward the kitchen table.

  Rafe remembered the chipped gray Formica that once held his momma’s brownies. Except now, on top, lay his father’s cell phone, an iron key chain, and a Glock 19.

  He held the gun, testing the weight, feeling the cold metal. “It’s military issue. Special Forces.” He turned over the weapon he remembered well. “You knew I was coming home.”

  “Heard you were free. Didn’t know if you were coming home.” Pops went back to battering. “Ammo is in the Walmart bag on the counter.”

  Rafe aimed the weapon out the window, testing the sight. “You bought this at Walmart?”

  “Just the ammo,” Pops said over the splattering sizzle of more cold fish hitting the hot grease. “The nine-mil showed up a day ago with a note saying you were out and the weapon was yours. No idea who sent it. But whoever got you released has a hell of a lot of pull.” Pops flipped the fish in the pan.
“He’ll want something in return.”

  No kidding. Rafe’s stomach roared at the smell of fried catfish. He grabbed the bag, sat at the table, and dug out the ammo. When he’d been with the Prince, they’d carried H&K nine-mils. He hadn’t held a Glock since leaving his unit. But the heft felt familiar. “Question is, did the same person who got me out of jail send me the weapon?”

  With a flourish, Pops dressed the fish with his special blend of spices. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  Pops’s phone on the table buzzed with another blocked ID text from Escalus, and Rafe read it.

  Heaven is here where Juliet lives.

  “Pops? When did you last see Juliet?”

  His father placed the plates on the table. “A week ago.”

  “Does she still live in Savannah?”

  Pops didn’t say anything and sat across from him.

  So Rafe pushed the limits. “Her trailer’s gone. Is her daddy living at Capel Manor?”

  “Her daddy’s dead.”

  Rafe took a bite, and then another, savoring the flavor and processing the news. He’d had no idea that Gerald had died, and Rafe was surprised he felt…sad. Gerald had been a troubled man known for his temper and strike-first mentality. The only things Rafe and Gerald had ever had in common were Juliet’s happiness and the fact that they’d both failed her miserably. “Does Juliet live at the manor?”

  “No. Ça suffit. Enough.”

  He had a ton of Q’s that needed A’s, but he kept quiet and went for the pepper. His heart hurt on his wife’s behalf. Although she and her daddy had had a strained relationship, his death meant she was even more alone in the world. If she wasn’t living at the manor, she wouldn’t have gone far. Rafe picked up the iron loop that held the keys to crypts in the old cemetery on Capel land. She was tied to her people as surely as he was bound to her. “Why do you have the keys to the Cemetery of Lost Children?”

  “Juliet gave them to me after her daddy died. Grady and I’ve been hunting on Capel land, keeping down the wild boars in the back meadow. In return for hunting rights, we’re maintaining the property. Roads, docks, and such. It’s why I got the boost cell tower. Gives us reach to the cemetery. Less than one-twentieth of her land, but better than nothing.”