Текст книги "Storm"

Автор книги: Jo Raven

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Chapter Ten

RAYLIN

My throat aches and is dry like the Mojave, so I unglue myself from Storm’s chest and go in search of water. Probably from taking his cock in so deep, I think, and I almost fall over my feet as the image slams into my brain and rocks me.

Storm guiding his cock to my lips, his face twisted with pleasure, his strong hand holding me in place as he fucks my mouth. Then lying on his back, beckoning.

Ride me, Ray.

Shit. Rubbing at my mouth, I head to the kitchen and drink straight from the tap. My thirst slaked, I decide I should shower and put some clothes on me. I’m back down in record time, wearing the last of my clean clothes, a short denim skirt and a striped tank top. There has to be a washing machine somewhere in the house, right? A laundry room.

Making a mental note to ask Storm when he wakes up, I wander to the sunken living room, but I don’t sit long. The breeze wafting through the windows lures me outside, to the patio. The lit-up pool is beautiful. I sit on the edge and dip my feet in the water, drawing a deep breath of night air.

Cool water from the pool. Some exotic flower from the garden. The sea. A warm note of rotten leaves and earth.

Peaceful. Quiet.

I wonder if he played on a beach like this one when he was little. If he swam and played in the sand and rolled on the lawns.

Probably. I try to imagine him when he was a kid, and I bet he must have been way too cute. Hell, he’s cute now, only in a badass, sexy way.

If that makes any sense.

Nope. No sense whatsoever, and who cares? I swing my feet in and out of the water, splashing softly, and grin.

That’s it, I’m fallen head over heels for this guy. The damage is done.

A flash from my right catches my attention. Is it lightning? My heart booms at the thought of thunder, and I wish for Storm’s arms around me.

I hastily get up and glance at the ocean. It’s dark, the sky overcast. No moon. Could be a storm in the making. I walk to the gate, rubbing my hands over the goosebumps on my arms.

Leaves crunch a few feet away. As I turn around, I think I see someone walking by, a barely-there shape behind the fence stretching along the gate.

Or maybe it’s an animal? What animals do they have here, in Florida? They have coyotes, don’t they?

Calm down, Ray. Even if it’s a person, so what? People live here. It’s not a deserted beach.

My pulse pounding in my ears, I turn back toward the house just in time to see Storm standing at the door, one arm braced on the frame. He’s wearing a pair of surf shorts that reach his knees and hang low on his narrow hips.

“May I interest you in a midnight swim?” He winks, giving me a crooked grin that settles my heart.

Everything’s fine. Relax. Nobody knows you’re here.

“I think I’d rather go to bed. It’s getting chilly.”

“Bed sounds good to me.” If possible, his grin turns more wicked.

I shake my head, laughing. “You’re insatiable.”

“What can I say? You make my hungry.” He waits until I reach him, then takes my hand in his. “Dammit, Ray, you…” He frowns. “You make me want. Things. More. More from life.”

I stare up at him, my pulse skyrocketing again, and wonder what exactly he’s trying to tell me. “That’s good, right?”

“It’s good.” He sighs, rubs his thumb over my knuckles and tugs me inside, closing the door behind us. “It’s new for me, that’s all. I’m trying to figure it out.”

I bite my lip. “Need help with that?”

“I need all the help you can give me,” he says, wagging his brows, and yeah, we aren’t talking about figuring this out anymore—this thing between us, which has my mind in twists, too.

But I guess we won’t be getting much sleep again tonight. And that’s totally fine by me.

***

When I roll out of bed the next morning, the other side of the bed is cold. Storm isn’t there.

We need to synchronize more. I wouldn’t mind waking up in his arms. Maybe we can negotiate something. Cuddling in the morning in exchange for… Well, I can think of a few things we could do.

Face heating as memories flood my brain, I pull on my skirt and tank top and head down to find Storm.

Laundry. Can’t forget laundry. And breakfast. My stomach rumbles. I’m foregoing any underwear today, since I don’t have any clean ones left. Feels kinda weird, but the thought of putting back on the dirty ones makes me shudder.

He’s in the kitchen, pushing a roast into the oven. He closes the oven door and turns to me, his gaze gliding over me, from head to bare toes. I wiggle them on the tiles and smile.

He pushes me back against the fridge, his hands on my cheeks, and kisses me thoroughly, with lips and teeth and tongue until I’m flustered and panting.

“Morning,” he says against my lips, then grabs me, lifts me and settles me on the counter before I can draw enough breath. He stands between my legs and wraps his arms around my back. “Sleep well?”

I hum in response. There’s a pleasant ache between my legs, which reminds me everything we did yesterday. My body wakes up, and I suck a sharp breath between my teeth when my nipples perk up.

“I think you need coffee and sex,” he says, running his lips over my cheekbone. “Not necessarily in that order.”

“Actually, I think I need a shower first.” I sniff at myself and make a face. “And laundry.”

“Bath,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“You need a bath. I know just the thing.”

I let Storm steer me back upstairs. A long, warm soak sounds good, and I’m dying of curiosity to see where he’s taking me. I follow him into a wing of the mansion where I’ve never been.

No idea why he’s so silent, though. His teasing mood seems to have evaporated, leaving behind grimness.

We enter a square, tall-ceilinged room, one side ending in a balcony overlooking the sea. There is an enormous sunken tub, set in a floor made of polished wood. Blue tiles surround it.

A Jacuzzi. A big-ass, pool-size Jacuzzi by the ocean.

Jesus.

Never even been in a Jacuzzi before. As Storm fiddles with the faucet, letting water gush into the tub and lights come on at the bottom, I wander over to the balcony.

A palm tree grows past the rail, and a climber has taken over the wall, covering it in green filigree. It’s warm out here. The sky is leaden. The ocean rumbles a few yards away, crashing on the sand.

A shuffling noise behind me makes me turn. I observe him as he gets up from the floor slowly, his shoulders slightly hunched, his back muscles taut. As he walks to one corner of the room to grab two fluffy white towels from a low table, he limps slightly. The old fracture in his leg has to hurt with the approach of rain. Looks like he could use a warm bath, too.

That urge to ease any pain he might be in, to soothe him, returns. It fills me every time I’m around him, I realize. I want to protect him just as much as he seems determined to protect me. As much as my body wants him, as much as my mind needs him to overpower me and take me, fill me up and mark me, this desire to hold and comfort him is stronger.

The desire to make him happy.

I go back inside. He hisses in surprise when I hug him from behind.

“Give a guy a heart attack,” he mutters, his laughter a soft exhale.

“A penny for your thoughts.”

“Only a penny?”

“Since I don’t even have that to my name, I could give you a kiss for your thoughts. You seem preoccupied.”

He twists around and draws me close. “A kiss sounds good.”

“You have a one-track mind, you know that, right?”

“Only when it comes to you.”

Warmth spreads through me. I kiss his lips, a quick press. “There.”

“Hey, that doesn’t even count as a kiss.”

“Full payment only after you tell me what’s on your mind.”

His mouth quirks. God, I love his smile. “You’re a tough businesswoman. I thought you said you never got involved in your dad’s deals.”

I actually never said that, but I implied it, didn’t I? They’re after me for money, and I don’t have it, that’s for sure. I don’t have it, and I can’t let them have me.

Should be enough.

Drawing back, I grab my blouse and pull it over my head. When I throw it down, his eyes zero in on my breasts as if he’s never seen them before, going almost black with arousal, the topic forgotten.

I should feel ashamed for distracting him on purpose.

Maybe I do.

I turn and step down, into the sunken tub where jets propel warm water against my legs. Five seats are built in, low in the tub, and I slide down into one, looking up at him.

He’s still standing there, fists clenched by his side, a big tent in the front of his shorts. After a moment he moves, pushing his shorts down, and it’s my turn to be distracted when his hard-on springs free, long and heavy. He gives it a stroke or two, absentmindedly, his eyes locked on me, and steps down, into the water.

I reach for him, and he sits down next to me with a soft groan. I stroke a hand down his handsome face, down his neck and chest. His mouth goes slack when I brush over the head of his cock, but I continue south, to his thigh.

I press down, feel the bunched-up muscles, and he grunts. There’s a thin scar there, I realize. Surgery to set the broken bone. I keep pressing, kneading the muscle.

“God, that feels awesome.” His head falls back, on the rim of the tub. He groans when I hit a particularly hard spot, my fingers digging into the muscle. “How the hell are you doing this?”

We escaped from every town after a con job pretty much unscathed, but not always. My dad was beaten up once and his leg was broken. My brother got his ribs busted quite often, and his arm twice. They got all sorts of injuries. I know quite a bit of first aid, and a thing or two about post-injury management.

“Turn around,” I say, and he just stares at me, eyes wide.

I shouldn’t like catching him by surprise so much, but part of me wants to laugh out loud at his stunned expression.

He does turn, though, and just like that he’s turned the tables on me, because my chest goes tight. I run my hands over his muscular back, over the ink that explodes from the base of his spine up to his ribs, hugging his sides. The tangle of briar and snakes on his lower back is stunning, and from it blackbirds emerge.

Only one breaks free, flying up to his shoulder blade, dripping blood. Is that him? The one who survived his family? How old is this tattoo?

It’s a work of art—not only the ink but the perfection of his body, the smooth skin wrapped over sleek muscle and long bone, flaring into those broad shoulders and the vulnerable curve of his neck where his dark hair is so soft it curls a little.

Lifting up on my knees in the swirling water, I kiss the spot between his shoulder blades, and a tremor goes through him. Then I put my hands on his shoulders and knead the hard muscles there. God, they’re like steel, coiled tightly from his spine up to the base of his skull.

He tries to look relaxed and at ease all the time, but his body tells a different story. Always trust the body to tell you what’s going on in a person’s mind. My mom said that.

Obviously she never spent much time studying my dad’s body.

Squashing the thought, I work his upper back with all my strength, searching for the knots and massaging them until they unravel, making my way up his spine to his shoulders and neck. He’s quiet, one hand clutching the rim of the tub. When I bury my fingers in his wet hair, he makes a sound that might have been my name.

When I’m done, I draw him toward me, and he leans back into me, letting me wrap my arms around his torso, to rest on his flat stomach. The warm water pulses out of the jets, soothing, and we lie in the silence together.

I don’t want to break it. Don’t want to ask what he isn’t telling me.

But then he says, “I’ll go make some coffee. We need to talk.”

And the bubble breaks.

With a gunshot.

STORM

Fuck. I launch myself out of the water, my bad leg almost going out under me. My muscles don’t want to cooperate. Where I felt light like I could float a moment ago, the ache in my thigh and back gone, now my body feels heavy and awkward.

Perfect timing, goddammit. I stumble as I get out, barely manage to catch myself before I fall on my face, and grab my shorts to pull them on.

“Storm.” She’s right behind me, reaching for her clothes. “Gun?”

“Not here. Bedroom and bathroom. I’ll get them.”

But she’s already running, pulling on her blouse. “Got it.”

Shit. Move it, Storm.

Shorts still unbuttoned, bare feet slipping on the wet floor, I take off after her. Wondering if they’re here for her or for me.

Wondering how the hell anyone found us out.

The rooms flash by until I reach the bathroom. As I expected, she remembered best where the bedroom was. My SIG winks at me from under the sink. I rip off the tape keeping it glued underneath and check the magazine.

Full. I always have them ready. My uncle taught me that. He taught me a lot of things I didn’t want to learn.

Always be ready for the worst. Never trust anyone. Know you’re always on your own. Fight for your life.

But as I run through the house searching for her, waiting for more shots to ring, my one thought is to make sure she’s safe, that she’s okay. Because she has turned my world upside down, upset my rules, and there’s no going back.

“Ray, where the fuck are you?” Bedroom’s empty, and so are the other rooms on the floor. I grab my cell phone from the closet and keep looking. “Ray!”

A boom rattles the windows, glass shatters.

Downstairs.

Hell. I curse my uncooperative leg as I almost tumble down the stairs in my rush to get down and make sure she’s okay. I shouldn’t have told her where the gun was. No idea what I was thinking. I hope she doesn’t shoot herself in the foot by the time I reach her.

A crash and something whizzes past, slamming into the wall by my head. A bullet. Welcome to the party, Storm. I jump the last two steps and roll on the floor, coming up with my gun pointing at the nearest window. I release the safety of the SIG Sauer, scanning the place.

The broken window is to my left. The dining room. Nothing’s moving. Sunlight spears through the many windows, illuminating the sunken living room and the kitchen to my right. Raylin could be anywhere.

And so could our attackers.

Fuck my luck. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We were supposed to have more time. I still haven’t told her about myself. Man, the timing really sucks ass.

When seconds trickle by and nothing happens, I take a risk and get up, then run into the adjoining room. It’s the TV room where Ray rode my cock to the soundtrack of Spiderman, and fuck if the sight of the sofa doesn’t get me hard, even in a situation like this.

“Ray!” I move on to the study, my uncle’s papers still scattered on the desk. I swear to God, if anything has happened to her I’ll raze this place to the ground until everyone is dead. “Come on, Ray.”

Can’t panic. Not now.

A noise outside has my feet moving. I lift my SIG and inch back into the hallway. A slender silhouette is hiding behind the folded sliding door, the light glancing on a gun.

The gun swings in my direction. Dark eyes flick to me and widen. “Storm.”

Thank God. I struggle to hide my relief as I join her behind the door. “Hey. How are things down here?”

“Two shooters, I think. One in the front, one in the back.”

My assessment exactly. “They don’t know where we are. As long as we don’t shoot…”

She nods. “For now.”

Yeah. Because if we don’t get help soon, we’ll have to show our hand. “I’ll make a call.”

She grins. “Make yourself at home.”

The hell. She looks calm, even though sweat shines on her face and neck. Her hand doesn’t shake on the grip of the gun.

Filing this information away for later inspection, I pull my cell from the pocket of my shorts, about to turn it on, when a male voice rings from outside.

“Step out!” the man shouts, his voice so clear he has to be at the door or one of the windows of the main hall, less than twenty feet away. “Do it now, and we won’t harm your friend.”

Her face goes gray. “They’re here for me.”

“Fuck them.”

“Maybe he’s right.” She swallows hard. “Maybe I should—”

“Screw that. No, Ray, you shouldn’t.”

“But you—”

“I’m where I want to be.” I grip her arm and squeeze. “Stay put.”

I turn on my cell for the first time since I snuck out of the hospital weeks ago. It starts chirping immediately with alerts for messages and missed calls. She glances around the door, lifting the gun like she knows what to do with it. It’s my favorite, a Browning HP, 9mm.

I lift a brow at her and she shakes her head. She can’t see anyone. Damn. I’m about to call nine-one-one, when Hawk’s name flashes on the screen.

I connect the call.

“Fucking asshole,” Hawk’s voice thunders down the line. “Florida, huh? What the fuck? How about turning your phone on and telling people who give a shit about you that you’re still breathing, huh? Motherfucker.”

I hold the phone away from my ear, sorting through the info. One thing sticks out at me. “How the hell do you know where I am?”

“You fucking kidding me? Who doesn’t? It was splashed all over the tabloids this morning. Online, man. Boom. Post went viral. Photos of you with a brunette at the house on the beach. I thought your uncle sold that monstrosity years ago.”

What. The. Fuck. “Hawk, I need you to do something for me.”

“I’m riding over to see you, asshole. Just parked my Harley so see what’s going on—someone’s been firing shots nearby. Hey, I’ll be at your door as soon as we hang up. You’re lucky I was around here—”

“Stay right there,” I hiss. “Someone’s shooting at us.”

“What? You in that paranoid mood again—”

A bullet slams through the folding door, crashes through and strikes the wall a few feet away, leaving a hole.

My blood roars in my ears as I jerk back. I check on Raylin. Her face is white, but she looks okay. I grab her hand and drag her away from the door, expecting any moment now more bullets to tear through. The store room will have to do for now. I pull her inside and we crouch there.

“Holy shit,” Hawk is yelling in the phone. “What the fuck was that?”

“Hawk, shut the fuck up and call the police. Now, dammit.”

I hang up, shove my cell back into my pocket. I stare down into Ray’s pretty eyes, and pray we survive until the cops arrive.

Chapter Eleven

RAYLIN

The storeroom smells musty. The only light comes through the door. No other doors, no windows. We’re trapped here, and the way Storm stands close to the door means he realizes it, too, and doesn’t like it.

We should get out of here. Walls won’t protect us from these bullets. This isn’t like the movies.

I point to the right, and he’s already rising and moving, his hand wrapped around mine, pulling me along. He checks around the corner, the gun in his left hand, thumb on the safety. He seems to know how to use one. I wonder if he brought the guns with him, or if he found them stashed here.

Still haven’t figured out if he broke in here or if he was telling the truth about knowing the people who own the place. Mixed signals there, what with his vague “something like that” answers.

As if that matters anymore.

Storm drags me to the study and releases my hand. We crouch and scoot by the window. Sunlight dapples the rich wood of the floor, bringing out red and yellow streaks. I stare at it, unable to hold on to anything but this one question: how in the world was I found? I was so careful. I thought I was.

I think again of the gardener I saw, then the flash and the figure I thought I saw moving behind the fence. Again it makes no sense. If they’d found me, why wait? What’s going on? And if they’re after Storm…

A shot cracks through the house, and I flinch. My fingers clench around the handle of the Browning. One more shot. Something crashes in the direction of the kitchen.

Then I hear sirens wailing. They’re approaching fast. Several cars, from the sound of it. I glance at Storm. He’s crouched beside me, gun pointing up, his gaze flicking between the door and the window. His jaw is set, his hand on the gun steady.

More shots are fired, and I’m not sure where. Storm grabs my shoulder, squeezes. He’s such a solid presence. Gives me courage. Gives me strength.

The door in the main hall bangs open, and I jerk. Storm’s hand keeps me down as heavy steps sound, nearing us.

“Storm!” a man’s deep voice calls. “Where the hell are you, man? Place is clear, come on out.”

Storm lets out a long breath and stands up, pulling me with him. “In here.”

“Who’s that?” I mutter, my heart still racing.

We step out into the hallway, and a tall, blond guy in a leather jacket, jeans and biker boots is striding toward us.

“This is Hawk,” Storm says and lets go of me to grab the guy in a man-hug, complete with back thumping. “Good friend of mine.”

“Your only friend.” The guy grunts and turns his gaze on me. Light gray, it gives him a fierce air. His pale hair is cropped close to his skull. The dark lines of a tattoo climb up his thick neck. “So this is the girl.”

“The girl?” I glance from one to the other. Storm rubs a hand over his face. “What’s going on? How did they find me?”

“Your photo was all over the internet, sweetheart,” this guy, Hawk, drawls, eyes narrowing. “By the pool, with Storm in the background. How do you think that happened?”

“Reporters,” Storm spits the word out.

“The gardener I saw…”

“… was no gardener,” he finishes for me. “Someone must have seen us on the beach and reported it, then the vultures came around to investigate the rumor. I should have seen it coming.”

Reporters? Why would anyone report seeing us? It’s not like I’m anyone famous or anything. This is so weird.

I want to ask Storm about it, but he looks pissed, mouth a thin line, a smudge of dirt on his jaw, and when he takes a step back, his knee starts to fold beneath him.

Both Hawk and I reach for him.

He lets me wrap my arm around him and stops Hawk with a lifted hand.

A hand that’s still wrapped around the gun.

“Whoa.” Hawk lifts his hands. “Easy there, buddy. Put that down.”

“Maybe we can chat later,” I mutter. “We should be on our way.”

The feel of Storm’s hard body pressed to mine feels ungodly good, steadying me as much as I’m steadying him, and I try to ignore it. To ignore how the mere touch of his skin on mine both calms and excites me.

He clicks the safety on and points his SIG down. “Are you sure the place is clean?”

“The police are sweeping the grounds as we speak. I’ve called a car for you. Safer that way.” Hawk shrugs those broad shoulders. “If you’re ready to head home, that is.”

“That’s fine,” Storm grates out.

“We can drop this little lady anywhere she likes.”

I stiffen, and Storm’s arm tightens around me.

“She’s with me,” he says.

“Come on, man.” Hawk gives a long-suffering sigh and wipes his massive hands down his thighs. He’s taller and wider than Storm, a Viking of a man. “She’s the reason you almost got shot again, isn’t she?”

I hang my head.

“What the hell did those guys want?” Hawk goes on, tilting his head to the side. “The shooters. Shooters, dude. What the hell?” He turns and nails me with those light eyes. “What did you do, girl?”

“That’s none of your business, boy.” Fighting back is my instinctive response, and besides, who the hell does this guy think he is? I’ll be damned before I let over six feet of muscle call me a girl, because he’s taller. And wider. And stronger.

Damn. Storm is all that, too, and he’s never looked down at me like that.

“Let’s go.” Storm starts walking toward the exit, pulling me along. “She didn’t do anything, Hawk. Just got unlucky. Like me.”

“Does that mean you admit it?”

“Admit what?”

“That you’re suffering from delusions of persecution.”

“I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“Course you do.” We step out, into the driveway and the police car parked haphazardly there. “I looked this shit up when you vanished. Come on, Storm.”

“Know what?” Storm turns toward his friend, still holding on to me. “Fuck you. You think I’m delusional? Go to hell.”

Uh-oh.

“Fine. You’re welcome for the rescue, by the way. Don’t be so goddamn grateful, it’s embarrassing.” Hawk sighs and rubs his eyes. “Oh, and if you need to talk to your best friend, you know where to find me. I’m also heading home, tomorrow. I’ll be seeing you around.”

***

I fully expect the police to interrogate us as to what happened and who the shooters were, but Storm takes one of them apart, tells him something and we are free to leave.

Hawk is leaning against a huge black bike, arms folded over his chest, looking bored, while Storm leads me to a shiny limo.

“How did you convince them?” I hiss at him as he opens the car door for me. “And where the hell did you get a car like this?”

“It’s Hawk’s,” Storm says, as if that’s self-evident.

“His?” I glance back once more at the guy who’s now straddling his Harley and pulling on leather gloves. “He looks like a biker.”

Storm snorts. “He does, doesn’t he?”

And doesn’t reply to any of my questions.

The seats inside are soft white leather. There are foldable tables, like in a plane. The driver is separated from us by a dark glass pane. I turn away from the flashing lights of the police cars parked alongside.

Every muscle in my body is tense and on edge. I might be unhurt and the shooters gone, but something’s very wrong.

“Okay, Storm.” I square my shoulders. “What’s going on? Better start talking.”

“Bossy.” He isn’t smiling, though. He’s sitting as stiffly as I am, staring down at the gun that’s still in his hand. “This isn’t how I pictured us talking.”

“Talking about what? About Hawk?”

He glances up, brows arching. “Not about Hawk, no.” He taps the glass partition, and the limo rolls away—away from the mansion, away from the beach where I found refuge for a few days. Where I thought I might be safe for a while.

“Now…” He puts the gun on the seat beside him and rakes a hand through his messy hair. “How about some wine?”

Wine? Is he serious? “How about some answers?” We roll down a long street, flanked by mansions and more mansions. It’s cool inside the limo, and a shiver runs over my skin, raising goosebumps. “Why would anyone be hanging around the house, taking photos? Does it belong to Hawk? Who the hell is he?”

“I said this isn’t about Hawk.” He presses a button on the partition and a door slides back. Lit blue, a cooler appears, filled with wine bottles. “Champagne?”

What is he playing at? I just stare at him, his warm blue eyes, the face I’ve caressed and kissed, and don’t know what to think. He lifts two fluted glasses from the cooler, lowers my table and places them there. Then he grabs a bottle and unscrews the wire, then pops the cork with a soft crack. He fills the glasses with bubbly wine, spilling some outside.

It’s not the movement of the car, which is smooth as if it runs on air. No, for the first time today his hands are shaking. His expression is guarded, closed off.

“I don’t want any,” I whisper, the cold inside me turning to ice.

He gulps his down, then shrugs and lifts the bottle to his lips and drinks some more. “I wish he’d stocked up on some Scotch.”

Christ, I can’t take this anymore. “Say it. Whatever it is.”

He lowers the bottle, which I can’t help noticing is considerably emptier, and grunts. He leans back and scratches at his cheek.

This is bad, I can tell.

“Ray… I haven’t told you everything. I don’t think it changes anything, but you may disagree.”

Really? “You said you’re not a criminal.”

“I’m not.”

Okay. Good. “Then what is it? Did you lie to me about those accidents? Were you the one behind the wheel? The one who hit the other car? Was it—?”

“Whoa, whoa.” His eyes widen. “No. I haven’t lied to you. I just haven’t told you everything.”

“About what?”

“About me.” He rubs his eyes with his fist. “About who I am.”

“Who you are.” What. The. Hell. I wish I could pace around. Instead I grip my hands together. “Your name isn’t Storm, is it? I just knew it. You lied to me all along.”

“Dammit, Ray. I told you, I haven’t lied. This is what everyone calls me. My real name is Troy, but nobody has used it since my parents died.”

“Troy.” I try to contain my anger. I fail. I’m so disappointed—and I set myself up for it. How many times have I told myself I was insane to believe this was true? “Well, nice to meet you, Troy. So awesome that you trust me enough to tell me. I mean, we’ve only been fucking for, what, four days now? Or is it five?”

“Raylin—”

“No.” I’m so done with this. And here I was, thinking I could trust him. I tap on the glass. “Stop the car.”

He grabs my arm. “Hear me out, dammit. My name is Storm. Has been since I was six. But yeah. I was born Troy. Troy Jordan.”

I jerk my arm free and he lets go, his mouth twisting in a grimace.

Troy Jordan. “And why couldn’t you tell me this earlier? Anything special about your name I should know? What’s the frigging big deal?”

His eyes widen again, and it’d be funny if I wasn’t so pissed.

Then it hits me. Like, square in the chest. A roundhouse kick. “Jordan. You said the Jordans own the house.”

He nods, sagging in relief. “Yeah. They do.”

“They’re relatives of yours?”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. Then his lips twitch. “Ray… The house is mine.”

“Yours?” I squint at him. Yeah, he’s still the guy I saw trimming the hedge, tanned and tattooed, his hair too long and his hands callused from manual work. “You’re kidding me.”

“It was my uncle’s. He left it to me in his will when he died.”

No way. “You’re totally shitting me.”

He says nothing. Silence settles over us, filling the car.

Jesus frigging Christ. He’s not joking.

I push my hair out of my face, twist it at the back of my neck. “Okay, you own the house. Your uncle owned a mansion in Boca Raton. Fine. I believe you.”

He’s observing me. Watching me put the pieces together.

“So he was rich. Like, very rich.”

“Something like that,” Storm says, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

“And you think this has to do with the accidents?”

He blinks. “You think someone is trying to kill me to get this house?”

“Man, I’ve known people killed for a cell phone. For that house?” I tsk. “Absolutely.”

He shakes his head, laughs.

“What?”

“I’m telling you my uncle left me a mansion and that’s your first thought?”

I fold my arms over my breasts. “Why, what should have been my first thought? Go on, tell me. I bet you’re dying to.”

“Come on, Ray. I’m rich. I can pay off your dad’s debt. I know that was your first thought.”