Headlong: The Hellbound Brotherhood Book Two

by Shannon McKenna

  Then her gaze landed on those funeral crashers she’d seen at the interment, who were currently stuffing their faces with bacon wrapped asparagus and salmon pastries. One of the men, the bigger one with heavy cheeks and the beard, caught her eye and gave her a big, unpleasant smile before his gaze dropped to her breasts and stuck there.

  Those two needed to be told to leave, and her father needed to back off. She knew better than to defend Eric to him. But she just couldn’t smile and nod anymore.

  “What?” Her father’s voice sharpened. “What’s that look on your face?”

  “It’s just my face, Dad,” she said evenly. “It’s just me having my own opinion whether you’re interested in it or not. You should recognize that look by now.”

  “Do not let him near you.” Dad’s voice was dangerously loud. “You know better.”

  “I’m fine. Don’t worry. And now, if you’ll excuse me...”

  “Hey! Where do you think you’re—hey! What the hell?” Her father caught up with her and grabbed her arm. “Do not go and talk to him! Are you crazy?”

  “I’m giving him my condolences.” His fingers bit deep into her forearm. “It’s customary after a death in the family, remember? Mom taught me that.”

  She wrenched her arm free and made her way through the crowd toward Eric, uncomfortably aware that her father was following close behind. No way to get rid of him.

  But the closer she got to Eric, the more her awareness of Dad’s presence faded away. The hot vital energy emanating from him blotted out everything else.

  Eric Trask made her restaurant look so much smaller. His size, his grace, that controlled, subtly predatory vibe. He seemed out of place. Too powerful and charged with energy for his environment. A sleek panther prowling through a henhouse.

  He’d always been gorgeous. He’d been stunning in high school, and he’d been even more stunning seven years ago when he was twenty-four.

  Now he was all that, but times ten. Leaner. Honed. The crinkles in the corners of his eyes were deeper, as were the sexy grooves carved around his mouth.

  Eric seemed even taller than she remembered. His thick, dark blond hair was shorter, sleeker. No longer the shaggy, grown-out buzz cut she remembered.

  Too bad she hadn’t caught up a little in the height department. He was a head taller than…no, a head and probably some neck. Her eyes were on level with his collarbone.

  Sometimes it sucked to be short.

  His shoulders were massive. The shape of his powerful thighs made his suit pants look incredibly good. The elegant suit fit him perfectly. She could spot a costly, well-cut suit from a distance, but it was the lithe, hard body inside that made the magic happen.

  His bright, silvery gray eyes burned into hers. She held herself as tall as she could, which wasn’t very, and refused to allow herself to look away. Dad was hissing something unpleasant behind her, but she couldn’t be bothered to understand him.

  No one could expect her to. Not while walking straight into the force field of seething sexual readiness that had always surrounded Eric Trask.

  She’d gotten off on that dangerous vibe back in her wild and foolish youth. Not anymore. Eric Trask had put a huge dent in her life. She’d learned her lesson well.

  No one, but no one, would ever fuck her over like that again.

  She had to make sure he understood that. She’d need a few well-chosen words for that purpose. She had no idea where the hell she was going to find them, or how she was going to string them together when she did.

  Demi stopped far enough away to avoid any social confusion about a potential handshake, or God forbid, a hug or a kiss. She gave him a stiff nod.

  “Hello, Eric.” Her voice was little too high, but she got the words out.

  “Demi.” His voice was still so deep and rough, a little scratchy, like she remembered. It brushed over her. Sensual friction against the secret nerves inside her.

  She shivered. Oh stop it, Demi. Just stop. You can’t.

  His throat worked. He was swallowing nervously. Good. She was glad he wasn’t completely unaffected by this encounter. He should be ashamed of himself. Falling-through-the-floor ashamed.

  “My condolences,” she said. “Otis was a great man, and a good friend to me. He’ll be missed around here.”

  He acknowledged that with a nod. “Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”

  The silence that followed was made even more uncomfortable by the fact that everyone else in the room had gone deathly quiet in an attempt to listen in.

  “Have something to eat,” she told him. “There’s wine in the ice bucket over there, and beer and soft drinks in the cold case. Please, help yourself.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Eric said. “About that. Wade told me you paid for the reception.”

  “It was my idea, and it was a pleasure,” she said. “I was glad to do it. In Otis’s honor.”

  “Let me cover the expense,” Eric said. “Whatever you would have charged someone else to organize something like this. I’ll write you a check right now.”

  “No, thank you,” she said.

  “I insist.” Eric’s voice was obdurate.

  Her spine extended to its utmost, chin rising up. “You can insist all you want. It won’t change a thing. Otis was my friend, and one of my best customers. This was my idea, and it’ll be my expense.”

  Eric’s brows furrowed. “Let us at least contribute. Me and my brothers.”

  “No, but thanks for asking. Do your brothers intend to stop by?”

  Eric hesitated. “They’re pretty broken up about Otis. They didn’t feel up to company.”

  She nodded. “I understand. Please pass my condolences on to them, too.”

  “Will do,” Eric said.

  More silence. People edged closer, nibbling their tidbits, eyes averted.

  Eric didn’t seem aware of the intense interest surrounding them. He just studied her face with his narrowed silver eyes, and looked around, subjecting her restaurant to the calm analysis. Drawing his own inscrutable conclusions. Not that she cared. He could think what he liked. His opinion meant nothing to her.

  His gaze stopped on the portrait of Otis she had set on an easel next to a flower arrangement in the center of the room. It had been rendered in colored chalk on one of her menu boards, and it was an excellent likeness. Otis was unsmiling, gazing thoughtfully off into the distance. Elisa, the woman who had drawn it, had real talent. With minimal, economic strokes, she’d captured Otis’s essence. His spare, craggy face and hook nose, his flat, uncompromising mouth. The toughness. The strength.

  But his eyes were kind. The portrait caught it all.

  Eric gazed at it for several minutes. “Who did the portrait?” he asked finally.

  “One of my employees did that,” she said. “Elisa Rinaldi. Isn’t it awesome? I had no idea until this morning. Bruce Whitehorse found the photo for me in the archives of the Shaw’s Crossing Chronicle and brought it over yesterday. I was just going to put that up on the easel. Then Elisa stayed up all night drawing that from the photo.”

  “It’s excellent,” he said.

  Demi beckoned to Elisa, who was just emerging from the kitchen with a tray of savories. Elisa deposited her tray on one of the tables, brushed her hands on her apron and approached with a smile. She was a pretty girl, tall and slender with a thick braid of heavy dark hair hanging down her back and large golden brown eyes.

  Elisa was a lucky find. She hadn’t been at the restaurant long, barely three months. She’d stopped at the café one day and offered to draw decorations on Demi’s chalkboard menus in exchange for some lunch. The drawings had proven to be gorgeous so Demi had offered her dinner and asked for more.

  In the end, Elisa had stayed. She bunked in the little studio apartment Demi owned above the restaurant. Aside from the chalkboard art, she helped out with everything else that needed doing, from waiting tables to bookkeeping. The only thing Demi didn’t like about having Elisa around was when she changed up the me
nus and had to erase the beautiful chalk drawings. That always hurt.

  “Elisa, this is Eric Trask, Otis’s son,” she said. “Eric, this is Elisa Rinaldi, the artist who did Otis’s portrait, as well as the other art work you see here. We keep her busy.”

  Eric shook Elisa’s hand. “My compliments. It’s excellent. Did you know Otis?”

  “Only a little,” Elisa said. “I haven’t been working here long, but he came in here quite a bit. He was a wonderful man. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Eric turned back to the portrait. “You can’t erase that picture.”

  Demi and Elisa looked at each other, taken aback. “Ah, okay,” Demi said. “I hadn’t really thought about it, but we certainly don’t have to. I probably wouldn’t be capable of erasing that picture if I tried.”

  “I want to buy it,” Eric said. “Is it for sale? Can I put some kind of fixative on it?”

  “Sure. I’ll take care of that for you,” Elisa said quickly. “And no, it’s not for sale. It’s yours, free of charge. Get Demi a new chalkboard for her soup menu and we’re good.”

  “Please, don’t worry about it,” Demi said. “You’re right, the picture is special and should be preserved.”

  “Thanks.” Elisa’s smile was brief and shy. “I’m pleased you like it, and that you want to keep it. Now excuse me. I have to put more ice in the wine buckets.”

  The two of them watched her weave through the crowded room, with an air of relief at escaping from their focused attention. Elisa was polite and friendly, but skittish and elusive. Demi was still waiting for the right moment to ask Elisa what her story was, but she was afraid that questioning her might startle the other woman away.

  So she watched and waited. And wondered.

  Eric watched Elisa emerge from the kitchen with bucket of ice. “Some cash would help out her emergency getaway fund,” he commented. “Hiding out is expensive.”

  “Hiding?” Demi gave him a sharp look. “You don’t know a thing about her. That’s a big leap. She hasn’t said word one to me about hiding.”

  “No one who’s hiding would advertise it. She doesn’t have to say it. It’s written all over her. Whatever social security number she gave you, it’s not hers.”

  She just blinked at him. “And is that any of your goddamn business?”

  “Not at all. My apologies. Does five hundred bucks sound fair for the picture?”

  “Eric, she just gave it to you. Didn’t you hear her say it?”

  “Right. Like you just gave the reception. At your own expense.” He sounded irritated. “I want to pay for something, so I’ll pay for this.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Work it out with Elisa. It’s none of my business.”

  “Wade told me it was you who found him,” he said. “At his house.”

  Demi’s throat tightened as she nodded.

  “Otis’s property is six miles out Vensel Road,” Eric said. “What brought you out that far? There’s nothing past his house. That road turns into a logging track less than a mile after you go past the house, until it hooks up with Long Prairie.”

  “I was bringing him pie,” Demi admitted.

  The grooves between his brows deepened. “Pie?”

  “He had a sweet tooth. He liked my Dutch apple pie. It reminded him of something his wife used to make when she was alive. So I brought him a couple of pieces that morning. No one came to the door when I knocked, so I peeked through the window. Saw his legs stretched out on the floor. I broke the glass. Let myself in. Called the ambulance.”

  “Six miles on that old dirt road? Just to bring him some pie?”

  Demi folded her arms over her chest. “Yes.”

  Let him wonder. She didn’t justify herself to anybody anymore. Least of all him.

  Truth was, she brought pastry to quite a few of her elderly ex-customers. She’d gotten into the habit a couple years ago, when old Georgia Visser, who lived down at the Kettle River Trailer Park, got macular degeneration and lost her driver’s license. Georgia had used to come into the Corner Café twice a week to indulge in a slice of Demi’s cream pies, so Demi made sure that some pieces of her cream pies came to Georgia, at regular intervals. It was a good excuse to check in, have a chat, connect. Georgia loved the visits, and the pie.

  This experience at Otis’s house reminded her too much of when she’d found Mom in her bedroom after her heart attack, three years before. She’d been sleeping badly ever since. “I wish I’d come earlier.” Her voice had gotten thick.

  Their eyes met. She felt a peculiar flash of emotion go through her, as if she’d tuned into some frequency that he was producing, and could feel what he was feeling. The pain he tried so hard to bury. He was an expert at hiding it, but she saw the dark and the cold, the howling emptiness in his eyes. She felt it intensely.

  It took her breath away. Her ears rang. Heart thudding hard and fast…

  The moment passed. She started to breathe again. God, that had been awful.

  Eric looked cautiously alarmed. He knew something had happened, but didn’t understand exactly what.

  Oh. Yes. Of course he looked alarmed now. He was looking over her shoulder at Dad, who loomed behind her, shooting daggers with his eyes.

  Eric’s gaze swept the room with a puzzled frown. “Hey, where’s your mom?”

  Her father inhaled sharply, but Demi cut in before he could speak. “She died about three years ago. Unexpected heart attack.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

  Another tense, awkward pause as Eric looked straight back into her father’s face.

  That was remarkable. Staring down the guy whose luxury car he had stolen and run off a cliff. With that hard, unflinching gaze. That must take steely nerve.

  Eric looked back at her. “So you run a restaurant now,” he said. “Last I heard, you were working for the family business out in Spokane. Cooking is what you always dreamed of, right? I’m glad for you. You finally broke the chains that bound you.”

  “Get out.” Her father’s voice was choked with rage. “Get the hell out of here.”

  “No, Dad.” Demi made her voice stern. “This is my place, and you don’t have the right to throw anyone out. And speaking of throwing people out, would you gentlemen excuse me? I have to go tell those funeral-crashing freeloaders over there to get lost.” She seized her father’s arm, tugging him. “Dad, come along and give me moral support.”

  “No! Stay away from them!”

  She dropped his arm, startled by the panic in his voice. “Dad? What the hell?”

  “Don’t talk to them here.” Dad’s face was shiny with sweat. “It’s inappropriate for the occasion. I’m not in the mood for ugly scenes.”

  The lines around Eric’s eyes crinkled with silent amusement. “Could’ve fooled me,” he said. “I’ll remove them from the restaurant for you, if you want. My pleasure.”

  “This is no place for a brawl,” her father snapped. “It’s out of the question.”

  Eric shrugged. “A brawl is when both sides get in some licks and stuff gets smashed. It wouldn’t be that way. They’d just find themselves lying in the gutter with a bump on their heads and no clear memory of what happened.” He looked into her eyes. “I wouldn’t mind blowing off some steam. Say the word, and enjoy the show.”

  She opened her mouth. Then words wouldn’t come out of it, because he was smiling at her now, and oh, God. Those beautiful grooves around his mouth turned her totally nonverbal. Damn the man. She couldn’t react to him that way. Could. Not.

  “Demetra.” Dad’s scolding voice jolted her out of it. “You’re not considering this, right? Tell me you’re not.”

  “Butt out, Dad,” she said. “No, Eric. Thank you, but I don’t need any help managing my business. And I don’t need to be rescued.”

  Eric’s smile faded. “I didn’t mean to make trouble for you,” he said. “I just wanted to thank you for throwing the reception. You’re sure you won’t let me help? The reception, the free
loaders. Anything.”

  “I’m sure,” she said. “But thank you.”

  But Eric kept standing there, ignoring her father’s muttering and gazing into her eyes. To her dismay, she started to feel it again. Tuning in to him. The grief, that sharp, aching clutch in her throat. Tears rushing into her eyes. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Not now.

  She reached out and placed her hand awkwardly on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry about Otis.” Her voice vibrated so oddly, it hardly felt like her own. “I know how important he was to you.”

  Eric stared down at her hand like he couldn’t believe it was there.

  “For Christ’s sake,” her father muttered under his breath. “Just look at you. You never learn. I cannot watch this.”

  “So go home, Dad,” she said. “It would be better.”

  Dad set down his wine glass on the buffet table and shoved his way through the crowd. People made way for him and then swiftly closed ranks, too intent upon the spectacle she and Eric were making to bother watching her father storm out the door.

  Insane. She was actually touching him. Voluntarily. After everything that had happened. Everything he’d done to her. Breaking her heart. Trashing her life.

  His body beneath the suit coat felt dense. Taut. Hot.

  He covered her hand with his own. It was deliciously warm, the contact zinging through her body. He just kept it there. A deliberate, insistent pressure.

  Sexual awareness rushed through her. Irrational, baseless pleasure, based on nothing but his eyes on her, the warmth and pressure of his hand. The back of her hand had never been an erogenous zone before, but now the contact pulsed and glowed and shimmered inside her, spreading out from that point as if he were touching her between her legs, like only he could do. His immense skill at touching her. Natural as breathing.

  She jerked back her hand and Eric rocked back slightly. His cheeks were flushed.

  “Thank you,” he said. “For helping Otis. And bringing him pie.”

  “Sure.” She brushed away sudden tears. “Wish I could have helped more.”

  “I’ll be back for the chalkboard picture after the reception,” Eric said. “Before I leave town. Probably tomorrow. Day after, at the latest.”