No White Knight

by Snow, Nicole

  There’s so much suggestion in those two words, it makes me shiver.

  I’m left staring after him, frozen, as he turns and walks away.

  My face hits my hands again the instant the door slams shut.

  I let out a despairing little moan.

  I’m not gonna fall for this demon that’s possessed me with his sexy voodoo.

  I’m not.

  Only trouble is, now that I’ve tasted him—the real him, not just his slick act and polished smiles, I’m worried.

  If I’ve already fallen, I’ll never get up again.

  14

  From the Horse’s Mouth (Holt)

  My custom heated king-sized bed in my penthouse apartment in NYC was luxurious.

  The cozy, plush beds at the Charming Inn are nice—soft, if not particularly high-end.

  Tonight, I’ve never been more comfortable, sprawled out on Libby’s lumpy, misshapen old couch with a quilt draped over my hips, listening to the soft sounds of her sleeping upstairs.

  I’m staying up all night.

  I’ve even got a book to keep me awake—an old read I used to love as a kid called A Canticle for Leibowitz. I wasn’t surprised to find it tucked away in all the fantasy and sci-fi novels left behind on Dr. Potter’s shelves.

  I barely make it past the second chapter before I’m out like a light.

  So much for all night.

  It’s been a long week, and I’m no good to anyone half dead.

  If anything happens, I’ll hear it, though—and spring up like a watchdog, ready to lunge.

  Thankfully, it’s a quiet night.

  This is the best rest I’ve gotten since I moved to Heart’s Edge.

  Amazing because I can’t even see her.

  I just feel Libby, up in her room, picturing her cozy little sleeping area with a tight body tucked in and a hint of gold hair splashed across her pillow.

  It’s even better in the morning with slender arms draped around my neck. Soft curves press against my chest, her tits plush against me, a round hip fitting into my waist.

  A slow, shy kiss flutters over my lips.

  Talk about one fuck of a wake-up call.

  All it takes to get me up in more ways than one, too.

  I open my eyes to Libby’s mouth teasing mine with full lush lips and a touch that makes every bit of me throb.

  The second she realizes I’m awake, she stops.

  Then pushes herself up with a hand braced against my chest. Hot damn if I’m not aware of her naked skin on mine, her palm pressed between my pecs, her fingers flat against my chest.

  There’s a curious smile on her lips.

  She watches me with those blue witchfire eyes stirring.

  “So that’s what it takes to get you up,” she drawls, quiet laughter in every word, before she leans away to pick up a steaming coffee mug. “Thought the smell of this would do it, but you just kept snoring away.”

  “I don’t snore,” I mumble drowsily, yawning around a huge smile.

  Shit, yeah.

  I could get used to waking up like this.

  Maybe do one better, waking up next to her.

  And if she’s waking me up like this with those sweet-as-pie lips and that bonbon body, maybe, just maybe, Libby might be interested in getting used to it, too.

  Can a man go from uneasy truce to claiming her as hard as every inch of me wants?

  Right now, she’s giving me her skeptical look that says I’m walking a mighty thin line between making her laugh and stepping in horseshit.

  “Okay, sleepy. And I’m sure you’ve had a couple dozen ladies verify your snoring habits, huh, cowboy?”

  I grin and sit up, plucking the mug out of her hand and setting it back down on the coffee table—before hooking an arm around her waist, reeling her in, daring her to just try that kiss again.

  She’ll see what happens.

  “Little early to start calling me cowboy. I haven’t done much riding in years.”

  “Probably,” she teases, leaning in closer, her nose brushing mine, “because any time you try, you’d get bucked off. Plath’s just a softie,” she says with a wink.

  “Just like her owner, honey.” I tilt my head, ghosting my lips across hers, feeling how they curve into a warm smile with every word. “You never really forget how to ride. Just gotta fall off a few times before you remember how to stay on.”

  She chuckles, walking two fingers down my chest. “You’d better be talking about horses.”

  “And if I’m not?”

  “You’re setting yourself up to get laughed at. I don’t know if I’m ready to be your practice ride if you’re just gonna end up on your ass.”

  “Sweetheart,” I say, leaning in to nip her lower lip, “if anyone’s bucking and riding around here, it better be you riding me.”

  While she gasps, her eyes widening and oh god damn—there’s that perfect rosy blush on her high, gorgeous cheekbones—I tease my lips against hers in a light kiss.

  “See? Now we’re even again,” I growl.

  Her startled look tells me she’s not quite as experienced as her brash little mouth suggests.

  With a huff, she pulls back and shoves the mug of coffee at my chest so hard it comes one tiny splash away from spilling all over me.

  “Oh, we’re counting kisses now?” she asks.

  “That, and possible third-degree burns.” I can’t stop grinning, though, as I clasp the mug and take a sip. It’s a nice rich brew that shocks the senses awake. “I might owe you another kiss just for this. Damn good coffee.”

  “It’s Felicity’s Arabica. She wouldn’t let me buy it until she taught me the right way to make it.” With a snort, Libby pushes herself up from kneeling next to the couch and settles in on the cushions next to my feet, watching me with her arms folded over her stomach. “I haven’t started breakfast yet. Don’t know what you like—and don’t get any notions about me trying to please you, mister. I just don’t like wasting food if you’re gonna refuse to eat my grub with that finicky big city palate.”

  I burst out laughing, shifting to sit up and swinging my legs over the side to the floor, stretching them out.

  “I’m hardly picky. Hell, I missed good home cooking. Beats paying fifty bucks a plate for an inch-wide square of tuna drizzled in some sauce on a fifteen-inch wide plate.”

  She blinks at me. “You’re kidding...right? I’d slug the waiter.”

  “Not the waiter’s fault, honey.” I smirk. “You’d be better off punching the chef.”

  “Damn right I would.”

  There’s something off about her. The more we talk, the more I sense it.

  She’s preoccupied, and I can’t help giving her a careful once-over. Can’t see her bruises under her cute pajama top or the little shorts that go with it.

  At least Little Miss Stubborn’s actually awake after insisting on going to sleep with a possible concussion. Her lower lip’s still red and plump, even if a lot of the swelling’s gone down, and it doesn’t look as bad as it did last night.

  Still.

  “Something’s wrong.” I lean forward and set my coffee cup down. “What’s on your mind, Libby?”

  She bites at her lip.

  With an irritated look, she mutters, “I think we have to go to the cops, Holt.”

  I tilt my head. “Last I checked, we were on the same page about involving Langley being a bad idea, what with Gerald Bostrom’s dead body and everything.”

  “Yeah, um...that was before somebody, probably Declan’s cronies, broke in here and assaulted me last night.” She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t like it, but this is getting to the point where if I have to shoot someone, I want documentation. Proof I’ve been threatened and assaulted, and anything else is definitely self-defense.”

  “Smart,” I say. “But that still leaves a dead body to explain.”

  “And the fact that we’re dealing with Sheriff Langley,” she groans, rubbing at her cheek. “He’s not exactly a crack CSI team. Th
en again...it wouldn’t be hard to keep him around the crime scene and nowhere near Nowhere Lane.”

  “He does keep the Mayberry in Heart’s Edge.” I prop my elbow on my knee, resting my chin in my hand and watching her. “You sure about this? I agree, it’s gotta be Declan. Those guys were incompetent, too. I’m guessing they’re the latest crew he’s scraped together, and he’s talked them into the noble task of roughing up a lonely lady for a shakedown to get their money back. I’d love to see him cuffed for it, but it’s still a risk.”

  “What’s life without risks?” she asks, though she looks a little pale.

  I hold my hand out. “You’ve got me for backup.”

  “What’re you gonna do?” She slips her hand into mine, curling those calloused fingers that I admire so much against my palm. “Put on a clown suit and dance a jig?”

  “If I have to.” I chuckle, squeezing her hand tight, hoping I can offer reassurance.

  Shit. I’m not used to being in this position.

  The women I’ve been with just wanted hot nights but were always afraid of showing me their anger, their vulnerable side, their needs.

  Fuck that.

  I want real.

  I want to protect.

  I want to own what’s right in front of me.

  Libby’s not afraid to need me, and I love it, especially if I can bring her comfort.

  I just hope I can truly sort her shit.

  “I’ve got a few other ways to distract the sheriff besides calling the circus into town. Like my own case with the fire out at my site. If I tell him I think Declan’s linked to both, that’ll get his head so knotted up he won’t think about anything else like a trip out to Ursa.”

  Libby frowns. “You really think Declan set that fire?”

  “Who else would?” I ask. “I made it pretty clear I’m playing for the wrong team now. Burn all my shit, leave me in debt and desperate for money, and he’s hoping I’ll change sides again and get you to flip so I don’t lose my business.”

  Libby goes pale. “Holy crap, I didn’t—Holt, are you gonna go under? Because I’m being stubborn and won’t sell on top of him wrecking your stuff?”

  “No.” I hold her hand firm, reassuring, and look at her steadily. “Libby, I’ll be just fine. I’m a brawler and I don’t quit. Hell, when I die they’ll have to bury me face down or I’ll dig my way out, even if I’m a hundred and too decrepit to move.”

  That actually gets a faint smile out of her, but I hate how she looks guilty, her eyes dark with worry.

  Libby’s a fighter, too.

  I don’t even want her thinking about surrender because she feels bad for me.

  “I’m already taking care of things,” I say. “I sold the Benz. Needed to anyway; truck’s better for hauling construction supplies. That deal gave me enough liquid cash to cover pay for my crew, and I’ve put in for a loan at the bank. I leased my equipment to own once. I can do it again. Once I’ve got my gear and supplies back, I’m good to go.”

  She stares at me. “You went to that bank for help?”

  “Didn’t have a choice. After everything that went down in this town lately, they’re the only game in town. A bigger bank wouldn’t take a gamble on me, either. You can bet on that.” I shake my head. “They can’t do much to me over a small loan. And I’m glad I did, because talking to Cherish is how I found out Declan doesn’t work there.”

  “Yeah, you mentioned that.” Libby presses her lips together in a disapproving line. “I still don’t like it. You’ll be in trouble without the mall contract, won’t you?”

  “I wasn’t getting that contract either way, but now no one is. They need your land, and we’re going to keep that out of anybody’s hands but yours.” I grin real wide and give her hand another squeeze. “Now c’mon. Let me help you with breakfast, and then we can call old Langley and do what needs doing.”

  * * *

  It’s been a long time since I worked in a country home kitchen, but it’s surprisingly easy to fall back into it.

  Years ago, it was helping Blake and Ma make dinner every night after school. Later it was nights off base, roughing it on deployment and cooking over propane ranges. Can’t say I ever fully settled into New York’s fine dining scene, either.

  Nah.

  Give me a griddle full of hash browns and cheese, enough bacon to make a whole pig, gooey dripping cheesy scrambled eggs, and a pretty girl any day.

  I still don’t know what I’m doing here with Libby.

  In one breath we went from screaming insults to screaming desire.

  Right alongside this sort of quiet thing where we’re partners in crime.

  I’m here to keep her safe, no question.

  It means I get to enjoy the way her body brushes against mine while we move through the kitchen together.

  The way the sunlight falls through the window over the range lights her up and turns her into gold with sparks of blue-eyed mischief.

  The way she smiles like it’s a secret when I almost burn myself grabbing at a cast-iron skillet without a pot holder. All because I got too used to fancy stuff with no-heat handles.

  I can damn well tell she’s biting back a snarky comment about city boys being useless or something like that.

  It’s almost like she enjoys having me here, and that’s got me seeing the world flipped upside down.

  Breakfast is quiet. We go over what we remember from last night—what I saw that she couldn’t with those bastards swarming her, what happened before I showed up. We also agree to be careful firing guns in the air. Those bullets could’ve landed anywhere, including punching through the roof of the barn.

  Being heroic is always harder than it looks in the movies.

  By the time Sheriff Wentworth Langley shows up, I’ve got a pretty clear picture of what happened.

  Libby heard noises outside. She found the lights on and Plath missing from her stall because they’d probably let her out just to draw Libby outside and jump her.

  Then they all ganged up on her, and she fought good, but with that many on her, she didn’t have a chance. They threw her up against the wall, started threatening her about the ghost town, the “treasure,” the dead man.

  That’s the part we’ll leave out for Barney Fife.

  We’ll say they didn’t get the chance to talk because I showed up, but we’re assuming it’s something related to the land dispute. Probably thanks to that prick Declan pretending to be a bank employee so he can pull one over on Libby and Sierra both.

  Sierra might be in on it, too.

  Libby’s gone quiet. I can get not wanting to turn her sister in to the police, no matter what she might’ve done.

  That’s the point where I showed up and chased them off, and possibly shot out one of their tires.

  That’s the story we tell Langley.

  Close enough to the truth without being absolutely true. At least it covers the parts that matter.

  He strokes his mustache gravely as he listens to us, writing a few things down in that notepad he always carries around in his breast pocket.

  “Sounds like a right mess, Miss Potter,” he says, putting an extra-gravelly oomph in his voice so we know he’s taking this right serious. “Why didn’t you call it in last night?”

  “I just...” Libby wraps her arms around herself. “I was dizzy and freaked out. I just wanted to be safe, and I had Holt here.”

  That makes something hot course through me, knowing she trusts me to protect her.

  We follow Langley as he does a walk-through around the house and the barn, and then the driveway outside. Signs of a scuffle linger everywhere, dirt torn up, tire tracks. Libby said the guys were wearing gloves, so no hope for prints.

  There’s a little spatter of blood we hadn’t noticed before, out in the dirt by the barn.

  Could be hers, sure. But considering how she smacked those fucks up hard, I hope it belongs to one of her attackers.

  It’s a little weird, if I’m telling the truth, to
see Langley being a real cop for once and kneeling down to study the bits of blood caked into the dirt.

  He uses the edge of a piece of paper to lift them carefully into a small plastic evidence bag without contaminating anything with skin-to-skin contact.

  Wonder if he learned that trick on TV.

  Sure, I’m being a little unfair.

  He’s a good guy. It’s not his fault that all the weirdness that keeps coming to Heart’s Edge is far beyond a small-town sheriff’s skill set.

  Maybe I’m still a little sore he locked me up in the drunk tank after people thought I was the idiot setting fires last winter.

  Then again, if he’d been a better cop, I wouldn’t have been able to break out in less than half an hour.

  He’s taking this seriously, though, and promises he’ll put out an APB for a semi with a blown-out tire, though that lead’s gonna go cold fast.

  There’s no way in hell that asshole wouldn’t change his tire ASAP.

  Langley promises to keep an eye out for Declan Eckhard, too, and says he’ll run Declan’s plates and see if he can pull up any warrants and past criminal records.

  “Since y’all didn’t see any faces and can’t ID vehicles,” he says, adjusting his hat brim, “I can’t keep him long, but I can at least bring him in for questioning.”

  “It’s something,” Libby says with a smile. “Thank you, Sheriff. Maybe if we can be there to watch the interrogation, we might catch something he says that’ll incriminate him?”

  “Well...” Langley rocks on the heels of his cowboy boots, moving his mouth like he’s chewing on a mouthful of his own mustache. “We don’t have those kind of fancy interrogation rooms here, you know. The ones with the one-sided mirrors, where you can see in? Maybe you can stand in the other room and listen through the door.”

  Fuck me.

  This is one thing I don’t miss about small-town life.

  Even after Galentron, a drug ring, and a serial arsonist, Langley’s boys still aren’t prepared for worse than someone stealing ice cream from a kid or the odd drunken brawl at Brody’s.

  If we’re looking for competent help, I don’t think we’ll get it here.