Текст книги "Twisted Bond"

Автор книги: Emma Hart

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

I stare numbly as Lena’s casket is lowered into the ground. Bekah’s hand is warm in mine, and she lends me her strength with a gentle squeeze of my fingers.

I never knew how hard it would be to watch a friend die. Not to say I’ve never known anyone who’s died. Hasn’t everyone by the time they’re in their late twenties? Hell, I lost more than one or two colleagues when I was in Dallas. I am the reason one of them died. One bad call on my part destroyed their life and changed the course of mine. One bad call I tend not to think about or dwell on.

But to see someone you grew up with, someone you counted amongst your closest friends… For them to die… It’s heart wrenching.

It doesn’t matter that the Lena I thought I knew was a different woman. Maybe her heart lay in Holly Woods while her legacy lived in Houston through her daughter. Who am I to know which one of her was real? Who am I to judge the decisions she made without full disclosure of her reasons?

Just because her life was a lie doesn’t mean the relationships she forged were.

Dr. Gentry and Melly are standing by the priest conducting the ceremony, dressed head to toe in black just like the rest of us are. Melly stares somberly at the casket, silent tears running down her cheeks, and my heart clenches at her bravery.

The poor girl never deserved this. Melly or her mom.

I take a deep breath as the first dirt is scattered across the top of the casket and the little girl leans over to throw a white lily on it. Smoothly, Dr. Gentry draws his daughter into his arms and holds her tight.

“Poor thing,” Bekah whispers, echoing my thoughts as she rests her head on my shoulder.

I nod in response. My throat is too tight to speak, the sadness of the day and lingering fears of last night feeling all too heavy inside me. Add to the fact that, because of last night, I haven’t slept since I was rudely awoken by my intruder at three thirty and I’m goddamn exhausted.

People slowly disperse from around the graveside, including Dr. Gentry and Melly. One figure remains though. I nudge Bekah and she lifts her head, looking in the same direction.

“Ryan came?”

“Apparently,” I mutter, releasing her hand.

His harsh look at the coffin doesn’t go unnoticed by me, and neither does the tense way he holds himself. Shoulders back, fists clenched, jaw tight—all of these things are contradictory to the tears in his eyes. I take a few slow steps toward him, and like he can feel my eyes on him, he glances my way.

“Ms. Bond?” A tall, thin woman blocks my way, her deep Southern twang familiar to my ears. One look at her confirms my suspicions.

“Mrs. Young,” I reply, offering a sincere yet sad smile. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

She takes a deep breath and dabs beneath her eyes as a man several inches taller than she is but much more rotund wraps his arm around her shoulders. Mr. Young, I presume.

“Thank you, darlin’,” Mrs. Young whispers hoarsely. “Sure is hard, sayin’ goodbye to my baby.”

“I can’t begin to imagine.”

“Geoffrey Young,” the man says, sticking his hand out. His eyes are the same startling color as Lena’s were. “Lena’s father.”

“Noelle Bond.” I shake his hand. “Private investigator, unofficially finding the schmuck who did this.”

His lips twitch. Just barely. “Well, Ms. Bond, thank you for your efforts. I assume, given the latest news, that Ryan fired you?”

“Of course. But my daddy didn’t raise me to be a quitter, sir.”

“Then come along to the wake. It’s just a couple of blocks down, at the Dorchester, in the bar. Miss Marcie put on a real nice spread, and we’re payin’ the first round as a thank-you for seein’ our baby on her way to Heaven. I can’t have you workin’ without payment.”

“Oh, please, sir—that isn’t necessary.”

“I insist. Come on down.” He softly pats my arm and squeezes his wife, looking at her lovingly. “We wouldn’t dream of lettin’ you do this for free.”

Mrs. Young nods, her eyes rimmed in red, a handkerchief to her nose.

Aw, damn.

I leave the Dorchester with a check in my purse for half the cost of my usual services. Actually, less than half of it. And that was after they pushed me up from my initial offer of zero dollars.

Turns out Mr. and Mrs. Young have a butt-load of money, and they aren’t afraid to throw that at someone who could find the person who killed their daughter.

I admire their resolve. I do. I just detest the fact that the check was literally tucked into my purse before Mr. Young zipped it up and disappeared into the throng of people with his wife. And believe me, I looked for them. For an hour. While I happily sipped on my free wine and then proceeded to drink two glasses of not-so-free wine.

Some private detective I am. Can’t even find my dang clients in a crowd.

In all honestly, if I hadn’t had a call from Grecia saying that the office had been broken into some time this morning, I would have stayed for a fourth glass.

A glass I could use given the fact that it’s the fucking afternoon and they just notified me.

“You,” I say, pointing at my little Mexican. “Coffee. My hand. Now.” I make a grabby motion at her.

“Two cups,” Bekah mutters, and I wonder if maybe she had a little too much wine to have technically driven across town. She’s a cheap date.

“Two cups!” I yell after Grecia. “Marshall!”

“Boss.” He appears out of nowhere, a head above me, skinny yet muscular. He adjusts his glasses. “Three files are missing. Totally wiped from the server. And the flash drives Grecia keeps are gone.”

“And why the fuck did no one call me before now?”

“You were at the funeral—”

“Which ended two damn hours ago!” I shake my arm, dislodging Bekah’s grip on me. Mike and Dean come into my peripheral, and I glare at them. “Please tell me y’all called the cops.”

Silence rings out.

I take a deep breath and pull my cell out. “I need you.”

“Now there are some words I wasn’t expectin’ you to say,” Drake laughs, his tone husky.

“Cut it, Romeo,” I snap. “My office was broken into.”

“On my way.”

I throw my phone back into my purse and focus on Marshall. “Files?”

“Melissa Hooper, Killan Jefferies, and Rita Owens,” he responds, ticking each one off on his fingers.

“I want financials, medical records, education—the full fucking shebang, Marshall. Now.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Meanwhile,” I say slowly but angrily, staring at each of my employees, taking my coffee from Grecia, “Y’all better come up with a damn good excuse for Detective Nash as to why you didn’t call him.” I turn to Bek. “Deal with him when he gets here. I ain’t in the mood for his shit.”

“And when he starts demanding files?”

“He won’t,” I reply confidently, knowing he already has them on the flash sticks I gave him this morning. “Now, I’m gonna go drink this and take a nap on my chaise.”

I stomp up the stairs and unlock my door with a little too much enthusiasm. I close it with just as much. Too much. Way, way too much, if you consider that the bang from the slam ricochets throughout the building and makes my door jump back open.

One final shove from my heel closes it. I throw my purse on top of my desk and gently set the mug down. Then I flatten my hands on the smooth wooden surface. Taking a deep breath as I lean over, I close my eyes and try to calm the buzz of anger threading through me right now.

My office and my house broken into on the same day, within hours of each other.

And no one fucking told me about the former.

I sigh and beat down the sugar craving taking the place of my anger. Damn, I could use a cupcake or two right about now. Even some candy. Like some Twizzlers or something. Ooh, no—those peanut butter egg things Reese’s do.

Thank God it’s Easter next weekend and they’re still selling them.

I pull my heels off and haphazardly leave them lying next to each other on the floor. Then I clear the papers from my chaise and fluff up the throw pillow before lying down and closing my eyes.

Sleep doesn’t come to me.

My mind works overtime, spinning back and forth and whirring until my thoughts are nothing but white noise ricocheting off each new thought that dares to enter the whirlwind. Nothing makes sense. A murder in a small town where everyone knows everyone else’s business—it should be simple.

Someone has to have seen something. Someone has to have some kind of idea about what happened the night Lena died and Daniel went missing. And that’s what’s truly bugging me—if Daniel had been attacked before he went missing, then surely someone saw something. Sure, at the time he would have been delivering Lena’s salad, it would have been dark, but hell, our shops stay open late. Especially in the summer and during vacations.

Like Spring Break, which is in full swing.

Clearly, thinking myself into insanity isn’t solving this case. But neither is anything else. And now, I have three missing files, and any of them could be the next victim.

In theory, at least. My gut isn’t agreeing. I can’t help but think…

“Knock, knock.”

I open my eyes and turn my head toward the door. It’s wide open, and Drake is filling the empty space. Should have locked that.

“What?”

“Sleepin’ on the job?”

“Supposed to be,” I mutter grumpily, swinging my legs around and sitting up. “Did you make my staff squirm?”

“The correct answer is, I believe, no.” He smiles.

“Not in this case. I’m pissed with them for not calling me or you.” I stand up. “Did you get the security tapes?”

“Disabled,” he replies, sitting down on one of my tub chairs and putting a small box on the desk.

My eyes focus on the white bow on top. “Is that—”

“A cupcake? Yes. Brody stopped by and got it on his way over here.”

“God love him.” I snatch up the box and open it, perching on the edge of my desk. I rest my bare feet on the empty chair and pull the cupcake out. The bright-pink frosting teases me from its home on top of the soft, cakey goodness, and I swipe my finger through the frosting and insert it into my mouth. I sigh happily as I lick it off my finger and repeat.

Sugar.

It feels good. Tastes, I mean. And feels. Oh, hell, who am I kidding? Cupcakes are like sex for stress. Just a lot cleaner and slightly less pleasurable.

Drake clears his throat, and with my finger still in my mouth, I cut my eyes to him. “Can you stop doing that?”

“Doing what?” I say around my finger.

“That,” he replies, his voice much deeper than it was a second ago.

The lusty look in his eyes sends a bolt of heat through me. “Oh,” I squeak, dropping my hand. “Sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t be eating while we talk. That was rude of me.”

He runs his tongue across his top lip, staring at me intently. “It’s not the damn eating that’s bothering me.”

“No?” I scoop some more frosting up on my finger, widening my eyes innocently. “Then what is?”

He stands just as I lick my finger clean. “You enjoy fucking with me, Noelle?”

“It’s quite fun.” I shrug a shoulder, my eyes staying on his despite the fact that he’s towering over me now.

“Fun?” He knocks my feet from the chair, the sharpness in his word making me freeze. My stomach clenches as he flattens his hands either side of my butt on the desk. “You think drivin’ me damn insane is fun?”

My lips tug up. “Are you telling me it ain’t?”

He holds my gaze for a long moment. A long, tension-filled, goose-bump-inducing, blood-thrumming moment. “You know somethin’? I don’t like you very much.” He leans in the barest amount. “In fact, more often than not, I can’t fuckin’ stand bein’ around you. But there happens to be a part of me that likes you a whole fuckin’ lot. And that part of me is real convincing. ”

My legs ache with the desire to open, wrap around his waist, and pull him against me.

Sweet Jesus, I want to know just how much that part likes me.

“Why, Detective, you sure know how to flatter a woman,” I reply, my voice thick but steady. “I don’t much like you either, so I’d prefer you to have a little guy-time with that part of you that likes me and kindly talk some sense into it before I have to disappoint it.”

Drake trails his fingers up my arm, his touch featherlight but strong enough that it sends a shiver down my spine. I fail to mask it, and he smirks. His hand slides over my shoulder and cups the back of my neck just before his fingers knot themselves in the hair at the top of my neck. My heart pounds, and it takes every bit of strength I have not to let my breath out in a quick exhale.

“Trust me when I say I don’t need any guy-time with my cock. It has more than enough girl-time.”

“Then get it some girl-time and have some sensed fucked into it.”

“I hardly have time,” he murmurs into my ear, “when I’m trying to find a murderer.”

“Looks like you’re tryin’ real hard right now.” My words are said through clenched teeth in a bid to calm my erratic breathing. “In fact, you try real hard whenever I’m around, I’ve noticed.”

His thumb brushes my hip. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for the forbidden.”

“Proven by the fact that you’re this close to me.”

“You’re not exactly pushin’ me away, are you?”

I shiver again at his lips touching my ear. “You’re far stronger than I am. There’s no way I’d be able to push you away.”

Drake shifts slightly, and ohsweethell. His erection brushes my thigh. No, that’s no damn brush. That’s a freaking bruising prod.

I clench my fists because just how big is that?

I haven’t been laid in a while. Don’t judge me.

“You should go,” I breathe, not moving.

“I should.”

“So do it.”

“I can’t.”

And just like that, his lips move across my jaw and cover mine. I can’t even squeak a protest. His mouth is hot and demanding, every sweep of his lips something between a promise and a beg. It’s the kind of kiss that gives and takes at the same time, the kind that makes me whimper when a low, growly sound vibrates from his tongue to mine.

I’m alive everywhere as I grab his collar and push myself against him. My skin is on fire with the mixed feelings of anger and helplessness and powerlessness combining with the lusty desire bordering on desperation.

And sweet Jesus, this man can kiss like nobody’s business.

I could drown right here in his kiss and never feel the desire to come up for air again.

“You’re okay?” he asks in a rough voice, one much quieter than I’ve ever heard him use with me.

“Caught off guard,” I mutter.

“No. After this morning. And everything.”

“Are you worried about me?”

“I just told you I don’t like you very much.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t be worried. I don’t like you, but if you got your head slammed by a rock, I’d be marginally worried about your well-being.”

“I’ll make sure to call you should that ever happen.”

“Awesome. But yes. To answer your question. I’m fine.”

“You have your gun on you, don’t you?”

“Possibly two,” I admit with a smile.

He finally lets go of my hair, only to touch my sides by my breasts. I draw in a breath, and his lips curl as he slides his hands down my body to where my guns are hiding at my hips.

“Dress hid them well.”

“I dress for practicality.”

He steps back, bends, and picks up my heels. “Yes. Practicality.”

I snatch them from him, my lips still tingling. “Mostly practicality.” I clear my throat. “Why did you come in here again?”

“To ask you to come to the station and catch us up on what you can remember about the cases where the files have gone missing.”

“Right now?”

“That’s the idea.”

I sigh and slip my shoes back on before grabbing my purse. “Fine. Let’s go.” I reach to the side and grab the cupcake box on a whim.

Drake holds my office door open. “You should probably wipe that lipstick smudge before you go down.”

I look into his smug eyes and dip my finger into the cupcake frosting again. “And you should try not to lie to me when you buy me cupcakes.”

“Touché, Ms. Bond.”

“Always is, Detective.”

I dump my overnight bag on my childhood bed in my parents’ house. I’m trying to be good and understand my father’s need to have me at his side tonight, but after so many years of being independent, it’s hard.

Plus: Nonna.

She needs only her name as an explanation for my incredible lack of desire to be here. In fact, I’m amazed she hasn’t taken the liberty of inviting her own guest for dinner. And by guest, I mean date for her poor zitella granddaughter.

If I don’t have wrinkles, I don’t need to be married. Even if I do, I don’t need to be married. I have three brothers to call when something breaks—if I haven’t already fixed it myself—and a vibrator for orgasms. I don’t understand why I need someone under my feet twenty-four-seven. The likelihood of her finding someone who accepts me, guns and all, is incredibly low anyway.

Her heart is in the right place. Her heart is also in the wrong place. Bless her heart.

I sigh and sit on the corner of my bed. It’s almost exactly the same as it was when I left for college. My brief summer back at home before I joined the police academy in Dallas barely warranted unpacking, let alone a redecorating party. No matter how much my family convinced me to stay.

The far wall is still covered in New Kid on The Block and Backstreet Boys posters, faded with crinkled edges from how many times they were tacked on after they fell down. My dresser top is littered with bangles overflowing from the bracelet arm, and more than one necklace is tangled amongst the photo frames.

I get up and walk to it before picking up a knotted tie of necklaces. The cheap finishes stand out, as do the ones on the bracelets. Now, either I’m a jewelry snob or my teenage self needed to get her ass to a Kendra Scott or Alex and Ani store freaking stat.

“Noella!”

Oh, here we go.

“Nonna?” I poke my head out of my room.

“You help-a me cook!”

“Do I have to?”

“Si!”

“Freakin’ hell,” I sigh, closing the door behind me.

As I make my way downstairs, I hear my mom and the crazy old lady going at each other. It makes me want to run like hell and hide in the attic with the old boxes of Italian photographs Nonna refuses to get rid of.

“Liliana!” Mom yells, running her fingers through her hair the way I do when I’m stressed. “I said I was cooking tonight!”

“No!” Nonna shouts, rolling out some dough. “I cook!”

“I said I would!”

The faint scent of garlic assaults my senses. “Wait. Nonna, are you makin’ garlic bread?”

“I wanted to buy it,” Mom sighs.

“Buy it!” Nonna scoffs, smacking her fist onto the thick pile of dough on the counter. “You no-a buy garlic bread! You bake-a it!”

“So, you’re baking garlic bread?” I ask again.

“It’s time consuming!” Mom slams the fridge shut and pours a glass of wine, splashing some on the counter as she does. “Buy it! I’ll concede to the lasagna, Liliana, but the garlic bread is ridiculous.”

“No! Buying it is-a ridicolo!”

“Hey!” I yell over them both, slamming my hand on the kitchen table.

They both stop and look at me.

“Nonna, are you making garlic bread?”

She blinks heavily mascaraed lashes. “Si, Noella.”

“Mom, let her make the bread. I love that stuff.”

Nonna smiles smugly, cutting the dough and rolling it into baguettes. Mom frowns at me as I pour myself a glass of her wine.

“Noelle, you’ve never complained about store-bought stuff.”

Nonna opens her mouth to, presumably, tear me a new one, but I hold up my hand.

“Mom, don’t drag me into this. After twenty-eight years, I’ve accepted that y’all ain’t ever gonna get along, but don’t use me to point score. I love you the same.”

“Twenty-eight!” Nonna tuts as if I just reminded her how old I am. “Hai un appuntamento con un bel ragazzo cattolico italiano ancora?”

“No, Nonna. I do not have a date with a nice Catholic Italian boy yet. I’m pretty busy finding a murderer, or did you forget that?”

“A marone!” she exclaims, shaking her head. “No wonder you have-a no date!”

“I have no date because there is no one I want to date.” Not least the man who manhandled me on my desk earlier today. Whose kiss I might be replaying a few times in my head.

“You need-a man!” she continues, ignoring my protest. “None of this-a silly gun business! No-a killers! No-a cheaters!” She turns, waving her basting brush at me. “God-a judges you!”

Oh, Nonna. If only you knew.

“Not as much as he judges you for enforcing your will onto me.”

She gasps, clasping her hand to her throat and clawing at her pearls. “Noella! Si prende quella schiena!”

“I ain’t takin’ that back!” My twang kind of stands out when I’m angry. “God is happy for me to shoot Lucifer’s minions. He told me over wine and cupcakes.”

“Noelle,” Mom warns, but I hear the laughter in her voice.

Nonna gasps again and repeats her previous statement.

“Are you gonna stop tryna set me up with your boy toys?” I ask, leaning against the counter and sipping my wine.

“I take-a you to confession on Sunday!” she threatens, slamming the over door with gusto. “You can tell-a Father Luiz about your-a sins!”

“Oh, goodie. You should warn him it’ll need to be a private session.”

Her eyes bug. “You have-a sex outside marriage! I knew-a it!”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, Nonna, seriously. To do that, I’m gonna need a boyfriend. I don’t have one of those. You should talk to Devin about sex before marriage. Not your angelic, single granddaughter.”

She grips her pearls again. “Devin! He have-a sex?”

“He’s been with Amelia for five years. Of course he’s havin’ freakin’ sex!”

Mom puts her fingers in her ears. “La, la, la, la.”

“You should-a be more like-a Trent!” Nonna comes toward me. Brandishing that fucking basting brush. “Married, babies! Settled! No guns!”

“Trent has a gun!” I protest.

“He-a cop!”

“I’m a private investigator. I need a gun.”

“And it got-a your house-a broken into!”

Well, she does kind of a have a point there.

I look at Mom. “Where’s Dad? I can’t take this anymore.”

She smirks. “In his workshop. Cleanin’ his guns.”

“Thanks.” I grab my wine glass and make for the back door.

“I bet you wish you’d sided with me on the garlic bread now, huh?”

“Shut up.”