Unspeakable

by Elisabeth Naughton

  Pushing out of the bed, she rose and held on to the mattress until the room stopped spinning, then crossed to the chair and tugged her phone from the pocket. Four texts popped up on the screen. All of them from Andy, wondering where she was and why she wasn’t answering.

  She thought about responding and telling him what had happened tonight but then decided not to. She didn’t want to have to explain how she’d ended up at a client’s house. Didn’t want to get into the whole scenario with Andy when she still wasn’t sure what had actually happened herself. And even though instinct told her to text someone and let them know where she was—just in case—something in the back of her mind told her she wasn’t in any kind of danger. At least not from McClane.

  “He’s not a threat.”

  The redhead on the street had said that to her about McClane. At the time, she’d dismissed the words as naivety, but glancing toward the closed bedroom door now, thinking about the way McClane hadn’t just gotten her out of that tunnel when she’d been knocked unconscious but stitched her wound, she believed it. The only question left was . . . why? Why had he done those things? Why hadn’t he dropped her at a hospital or even on the street? Why hadn’t he gotten rid of her as soon as he could? And why, especially when it was clear he didn’t trust her, had he brought her to his house?

  Her logical mind told her it was because he was covering his own ass, but that made even less sense. By bringing her here, he’d opened himself to more questions. He had to know that. Unless, of course, he didn’t care about the questions or what she would do with the answers.

  Unable to stay still, she reached for the door and pulled it open. Phone in hand—just in case—she quietly moved out into the dark hall, slowing when her footsteps caused the old hardwood to creak. Three doors were closed in the short hallway. She didn’t know where they led but decided not to look. Moving for the stairs, she headed down to what she realized was the main level of the house and stopped when she reached the living room.

  The room wasn’t big, but it was cozy. A stone fireplace rose to the vaulted ceiling, topped by a thick wood mantel and a large scenic painting of a forest. Bookshelves flanked each side of the fireplace, filled with hardcover tomes of all kinds, from fiction to DIY gardening. The furnishings were oversize and leather, the tables wood and masculine and extremely clean. There wasn’t a lot of clutter, just a single newspaper on the coffee table, a few knickknacks that looked store-bought, not personal, and a handful of pictures in frames she couldn’t stop herself from studying.

  She recognized McClane in some of the group shots of what she assumed must be his family—brothers, sister, parents. There was one of a young girl who looked about five, in a pink dress and holding a balloon. Another of a young couple decked out in bridal attire in front of a church. One of a man and woman in their fifties, the woman smiling, the man pressing a kiss to her cheek. In all of them, the people were happy, warm, friendly looking. In the ones that included McClane, he was standing in the background, never smiling.

  Her hand closed around a framed photograph of five people, and she lifted it from the shelf and studied it closer. It had to be the McClane siblings. Three men—including McClane—one woman, and a teenage boy. McClane was in the middle, flanked by his sister and the teenager, and even though he was surrounded by people who were all smiling and laughing, and even though he had his arms around them as if he were an integral part of the group, his expression was blank. Somber. Almost . . . detached, as if he were haunted by something only the camera could see.

  She studied his features in the photograph, trying to figure out where she’d seen that look before. It was familiar. She ran her fingers over the edge of the frame, trying to remember. And her mouth dropped open when it hit her.

  She’d seen that look in the mirror staring back at her. Not recently, but not that long ago either. In the days and weeks after her father had died.

  A creaking sound drew her head around. She froze and glanced to her right, only to realize the sound had come from a doorway on the other side of the staircase, from a door that was partway open, letting a sliver of light shine into the dark living room.

  Her pulse picked up as she set the photo of McClane and his siblings back down. Common sense told her to go back to bed. That McClane wouldn’t take kindly to her snooping around his house. But she didn’t want to go back to bed. She needed to know what was really going on with the man. Not only for her job, she realized, but for her own sanity.

  Quietly, she moved across the floor in nothing but her socks, belatedly realizing she had no idea where her shoes were or even what had happened to her gun. That might have been something she should have asked McClane: What did you do with my gun?

  Reaching the door, she peered into the two-inch gap where it had been left open. Another set of stairs leading down to a basement. Silently, she tugged the door the rest of the way open and moved down the carpeted staircase, only to draw to a stop when it turned a corner and she discovered she wasn’t alone.

  McClane was seated on another leather couch, his back to her so he didn’t immediately see her, in what was very clearly his man cave. It was some kind of daylight basement, with big wide glass doors that opened onto a patio. Unlike the living room upstairs, which had been uncluttered and fairly spotless, this room looked lived in. A desk stacked with folders and loose papers sat against a wall to the right. A worn recliner was kitty-corner to the couch, angled toward the big-screen TV hanging on the rocks above another fireplace and mantel. A dartboard was set up on the far wall, complete with darts sticking out all over the target, not far from a pool table scattered with pool balls. And just past the bottom three steps, there was even a bar complete with a shiny mahogany surface, three leather stools, and bottles lining the glass-front cabinets above.

  But McClane wasn’t watching the TV. He wasn’t even staring into the fire. From where she stood, it looked as if he was studying a large bulletin board leaning against the hearth, one that was covered in pictures and notes and all kinds of clippings.

  She narrowed her gaze, trying to see what he was looking at. The only image she could make out was that of a teenage girl in the center—what looked to be a school photo—with only the face and hair visible behind newspaper clippings and articles he’d pinned up all around her.

  Ice clinked in his glass as he set his elbow on the armrest of the couch, and her gaze drifted from the dartboard to him as he leaned his head back against the leather cushions and sighed.

  She had no idea if his eyes were open or closed. Had no idea what he was feeling or who he was thinking about. But in the center of her chest, she sensed an emptiness. Not in the room, not in his gaze like in the photos upstairs, but in him. An emptiness she recognized because she lived with it herself. Had most of her life. Not just since she’d lost her father a few years ago but from the day her mom had died when she’d been a kid.

  An overwhelming urge to comfort him enveloped her, compelling her to move forward. But she resisted, easing back a half step instead.

  Her skin grew hot; her hands trembled. Feeling something for a client—for a man she still wasn’t sure was innocent—was not like her. She was rational. Unemotional. Not impulsive. And she knew why she was reacting to McClane this way when normally she wouldn’t even think twice about someone like him.

  Because she was attracted to him. Wildly attracted to the bad boy inside him and whatever dark and dangerous things he’d done to get him to this point in his life. And if she didn’t get away from him, and fast, she was going to do something she’d regret massively in the morning.

  Heart pounding hard, she quickly headed up the stairs and didn’t stop until she was safely back in the guest room where he’d left her. Leaning against the wood door, she drew a deep breath and brushed her damp hands down the front of her dirty jeans, her mind tumbling with thoughts and questions and options.

  It was dangerous for her to stay here, not because of McClane but because of her. Because
it had been so long since she’d been attracted like this to someone, she didn’t trust herself around him. And because she still didn’t know if he was innocent or guilty or how he was linked to Melony Strauss.

  “Find the girl, Harp.”

  Callahan was right. Strauss was the key. The only way she was going to get her answers was to find her. And the only way that was going to happen was if she got out of this house right freakin’ now.

  Before she did something she couldn’t take back.

  Rusty stomped the mud off his boots, wishing like hell the hour he’d spent walking through the vineyard checking the pruning job had improved his mood. It hadn’t. Not only had it started raining—no, pouring—while he’d been out there, but he couldn’t get his mind off that aggravating woman who’d slept in his guest room last night.

  He’d fallen asleep on the couch in his study sometime after four a.m. and had awoken after seven to find her gone. He didn’t know when she’d left. She hadn’t left a note, not even a “thanks for stitching up my head.” But one look in the guest room, and it was as if she’d never been there. She’d even made the bed and tidied up.

  Why that irritated him more than everything else, he didn’t know. Shaking the water off the hood of his jacket, he pushed the door to his portable office open, hoping he could stop thinking about the woman for ten freakin’ minutes so he could get some work done today. He should be focused on the construction schedule, on the supply order he needed to put together, on checking the website to see if that girl had been posted again. But instead all he could think about was Harper Blake and what the hell she’d been thinking last night when she’d stared across the guest room and asked him if he’d been helping the girl.

  He stepped into the main room of the portable, but before he could even close the door, Abby yelled, “Not with the boots! Take those muddy things off before you even think about coming any farther in here!”

  Shooting her a look, Rusty kicked off his boots, leaving cakes of mud on the rug by the front door. He dropped his boots next to the ones Abby had worn in from her truck. “Happy?”

  She grinned and smacked her hand against the stapler on her desk. “Very.” As he rounded her desk, heading for the door to his office, she added, “But you won’t be in about thirty seconds.”

  He stilled with one hand on the front of his door, a sense of foreboding he didn’t like rushing down his spine as he turned back to her. “Why not?”

  She smirked and stapled another set of receipts together. “Because Tweedledee and Tweedledum are in your office, waiting for you.”

  “Shit.” This was not what he needed today. He’d been so lost in his stupid head, thinking about Blake, he hadn’t even seen their cars in the parking lot. “When did they get here?”

  “’Bout twenty minutes ago. I told them you were out. They wanted to wait.”

  He glanced back at the thin wood door, able to hear them chatting now that he knew they were in there. Dammit, he wasn’t in the mood for this.

  “If they’re not gone in ten minutes, come and rescue me. Make up some excuse like one of the construction guys up at the barn put a nail from a nail gun through his eye.”

  Abby chuckled. “Stop fantasizing ways to go. It’s not healthy.”

  Rusty shot her another look. “You have no idea what kind of shit I have to deal with.”

  Her grin only widened as he braced himself for the coming onslaught and pushed his office door open.

  Just as he’d expected, his brothers had made themselves at home and were going through his stuff just like they’d done when they were kids. “Get out of my desk,” he said to Alec, who was currently rifling through the top drawer. “And get out of my chair. I don’t need your stink all over my stuff.”

  Alec harrumphed but shoved the drawer closed and pushed the rolling chair back from Rusty’s desk. As he stood, he held up the Rapunzel key chain he’d dug out of the back of Rusty’s drawer. “Emma’s gonna be really hurt when I tell her you shoved this in your desk and didn’t put it on your key chain. She picked it out special for you at Disney World, you know.”

  “Nice try.” Rusty frowned and dropped down into his desk chair. Emma hadn’t picked the key chain out. Alec had in the hopes it would embarrass him.

  Alec shook his head and sprawled on the couch against the paneled wall. “Breakin’ the heart of a five-year-old. You’ve sunk to new lows, my man.”

  As if Rusty cared. He flipped his laptop open, hoping his brothers would take the hint and leave.

  “You lost your shoes somewhere, you know,” Ethan said from where he stood at the window, his hands in the front pockets of his slacks, his off-white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows.

  “I was in the vineyard. They’re covered in mud.”

  “Ah.” Ethan glanced toward Alec on the couch. “You were right. He’s still in a mood.”

  “Told ya.” Alec threw an arm over the back of the sofa and grinned.

  Rusty glanced from one brother to the other. They couldn’t look more different if they’d tried. Alec was fair, dressed casually in jeans, a navy button-down, and boots, looking every bit the photojournalist that he was, and Ethan was dark and all business, having probably just come from court, where he’d tried to save yet another juvenile delinquent’s future by convincing some judge the kid wasn’t half as bad as he seemed. “Is there a reason you’re both here bugging me? Or should I just start making up asinine excuses for your stupidity?”

  Ethan grinned. Alec chuckled.

  “At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” Ethan said.

  Rusty rolled his eyes and pushed back from his desk, swiveling around to the file cabinet behind him to pull out his last purchase order. “Whatever it is, I really don’t have time. Unlike both of you, some of us have to work.”

  Ethan perched a hip against the side of Rusty’s desk and crossed his arms over his chest as Rusty swiveled back. “We gave you a day. Figured that was enough time.”

  Rusty knew better than to look up. He ran his fingers over his keyboard, feigning disinterest in whatever Ethan was hinting at—even though he knew exactly what he was hinting at. “Yeah? You were wrong.”

  Alec pushed up from the couch and stepped forward, his hands on his hips. “If you’d rather deal with Kelsey, we could go get her, bring her back. Have her grill you. She’s still ticked at the way you went after Hunt last month. Pretty sure she’d love the chance for a little payback.”

  Rusty shot his brother a scathing look, remembering all too well how he’d jumped to conclusions when he’d overheard Hunt and Kelsey in the closet together at his parents’ house, before he’d realized they were an item. “Don’t even joke about that. I already apologized for that. And I’m not in the mood to deal with Kelsey right now.” And he sure as shit didn’t want her knowing what the fuck was happening with him.

  Alec grinned.

  “Then start talking,” Ethan said, “because you’ve got us seriously worried. You’ve got Mom and Dad worried too. And trust me, it was all we could do to keep them from coming down here to grill you. Mom was beside herself when you were arrested the other day, then didn’t even bother to call with an update. Your lawyer had to do that.”

  Growing more agitated by the second, Rusty leaned back in his chair. “I wasn’t arrested. And I sent her a text and told her everything was okay.”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t call,” Alec said. “What the fuck is really going on? A missing stripper? Do you have any idea what kind of things are going through Mom’s head?”

  Rusty blew out a breath and raked a hand through his hair, wishing like hell he’d stayed outside in the downpour so he didn’t have to deal with this conversation. “I hope you told her it wasn’t a big deal. I don’t even know the girl.”

  “Of course I told her that, but it hasn’t stopped her from stressing over what you’re into.”

  “She’s worried about you,” Ethan said calmly, shooting Alec a look that said “tone it d
own,” taking on the role of peacemaker just like he always did during times of crisis in the family. “We all are.” He looked down at Rusty again. “Cops showing up at the house tend to put everyone on edge. Does this have to do with Lily?”

  “Shit.” Rusty clenched his jaw and looked up at the ceiling, really wishing he’d stayed out in the mud and rain now. He’d been through this with his brothers before. As far as they knew, Lily was his biological sister who’d been abducted and was presumed dead before he’d joined the McClane family. What they didn’t know was the truth, and he wasn’t about to tell them any of that twisted shit now. “I’m not answering that again.”

  “Like hell you’re not,” Alec said. “It’s a legitimate question, considering everything else. If you’re looking for her again—”

  Unable to sit still a second longer, Rusty pushed to his feet and crossed to the window to yank the damn thing open, needing air, wishing like hell Abby would get her ass in here about that emergency. “I’m not looking for her, all right? I know she’s”—the word burned in his throat, but he pushed it out—“dead. This has nothing to do with her.”

  “Nothing?” Ethan’s brow lifted. “Are you sure? Hunt told us the stripper who went missing was only fifteen.”

  Rusty glanced over his shoulder at Alec. “Hunt told you?”

  Alec frowned. “His buddy Callahan fed him some info about the case. He told us. And he was right to tell us. This isn’t looking good for you. A missing fifteen-year-old stripper, and you were the last one seen with her? The last time you were in a strip club you were looking for Lily.”

  Pressure built in Rusty’s chest. They didn’t have a clue when he was last in a strip club, and he didn’t want them knowing any of what had gone down last night.

  “Alec’s right,” Ethan said. “If you’ve gotten wrapped up in something you need help getting out of—”

  Nope. No way. He did not need his brothers’ help with this. Rusty held up a hand. “I get it. But trust me, it’s not what you think. I’ve got it handled.”