Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) (33 page)

Not a chance.
She lifted her chin to him in the mirror. "I—"

"We're done, Bren." He spun her around, gripping her shoulders. Her breath caught. "I almost went nuts when I couldn't find you. We let this thing go before it kills us."

They were a pair, the two of them. Both exhausted, dirty, and still smarting from their near escape. But she couldn't agree. Not about this. Unlike Tom's death, she had verifiable proof. Wes
was
guilty. She might never prove he'd killed Tom, but she wasn't walking away from Smiley's murder. Putting him behind bars, even for a week or a month, would at least give her some satisfaction.

"I can't." She wanted to elaborate, but any more than one- or two-word sentences were beyond her. And even if she possessed the ability to lodge a stronger complaint, Rafe's severe expression and the distress in his voice outweighed any harsh reply.

Her teeth chattered anew. God, she wanted to be warm, and his body, which took up an ample portion of the tiny space, gave off the most wonderful heat. She trembled right down to her toes and moved closer. But even his strength and nearness couldn't extinguish the horror of tonight. And it flooded her senses with overwhelming alarm.

"Don't you understand?" She reached for him, tugging on his arm. "It's always there. I can't let it go.
It won't let me go!"
Her voice cracked.

Not going to lose it. Not now.

But every ounce of suck-it-up-and-deal dwindled, leaving her with the awful image of that body. "I-it swung..." Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh
my God, Rafe.
T-they cut off his head!"

His hands slid down her sides, and he hoisted her onto the edge of the vanity and kept a firm hold on her waist. "It wasn't Tom, Bren. He was a nameless face—a drug dealer. He got what he deserved." His eyes narrowed in on her. "Jesus." He took a deep breath, and his fierce gaze softened. "What you saw..." He hesitated and reached to caress her face. His voice gentling, his eyes still incisive, determined. "I should have said no to you. No to this savage border town."

But she had seen it, heard it—way before tonight. The awful sound. It played back with frightening intensity, and she clenched her hands to keep them from covering her ears. "The creaking was just like before." Her head fell back, and she closed her eyes.

Rough fingers gently kneaded the back of her neck. "No, honey, it wasn't."

She opened her eyes and shook her head. "I couldn't save him." Toms' lifeless body took shape in her mind. "His face was the most frightful shade of purple," she whispered.

Rafe tilted her chin up. "You've got to let it go."

She swallowed hard. "I've never experienced that kind of panic." Her teeth began to chatter again. "U-until tonight. T-then I thought I'd be n-next."

He raked his fingers through his hair and cursed. "You and me. That's what's important here. I'm not willing to take any more risks. Not with you."

"But I can't—"

"Damn it, Bren!" He gripped her by the shoulders. "Listen to what I'm telling you. We're done. This thing between you and Wes ends tonight." He yanked the towel off his shoulder and balled it in his hands and tossed it on the vanity. "I'm dead serious here." He cupped her chin, his eyes glinting a warning to let him finish. "We've turned up zilch. Even your buddy Kevin couldn't prove Wes killed Tom. I was all for helping you. I don't scare easy, darlin'. But tonight, when I thought I'd lost you, it just about killed me."

"I'm sorry." She slumped against the mirror and turned away from him. For once she had nothing to say. Everything he said was true.

"Hey." He knelt down in front of her. His hands slipping under her bottom, and he nudged her to him.

If she so much as peeked at him, she'd be tempted to give in.

"Look at me." His voice was gruff and demanding, yet when she engaged him, met his eyes, they belied the tough guy she'd come to know as Rafe Langston and hinted at the pain she, too, had felt when they had been separated tonight.

"It's not your fault, darlin'. I should have never let go." He hugged her legs and laid his head on her thighs.

Her heart caught at his expression of tenderness for her, and she reached out, twining shaky fingers through his thick, unruly black locks. Pulling gently, she directed him up. He was handsome and strong and curiously sensitive, and it touched her deeply. "I caused all this, not you. I think God was just giving me a
what for!"

He shook her lightly. "It doesn't matter." He searched her eyes. "Did you mean what you said the other night... about your heart?"

The roughness of his voice made her go all shivery. Yes, she'd meant it—fallen for him when she shouldn't, lost her heart in degrees starting the night in the hayloft of her barn.

Don't make me love you.

"I'll only hurt you, Rafe."

"I'm hurting already." He kissed her mouth. "I knew I should have stayed clear of you." His hands slid under her bottom, and he pulled her still closer. "I told myself you were trouble."

She smiled at that, but she wasn't getting a reprieve. For the most part, her covert activities were benign. Her schemes were only meant to save lives, not end them—except for one. "Tom is dead because of me, Rafe."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Don't be nice to me." Tears stung her eyes, and her throat ached to tell him the truth.

His hands moved under her sweatshirt and pressed lightly against her spine, his eyes softened. "What is it, Red?"

She held his face between her hands, the dark whiskers along his cheeks prickly. She hadn't meant to get close to him. If anything, in the beginning, he was an irritant. Or maybe
she
was just irritated. "You're the only one who believed me—would help me. You're my best friend, Rafe."Those damn tears she tried valiantly to keep from spilling over betrayed her.

His fingers tensed along her back. "Hey, don't cry." He frowned and slipped a hand out from her shirt, brushing away a tear from her cheek. "Want to know a secret?" He cocked a brow up and grinned. The exaggerated gesture lightened her mood and coaxed a half smile from her lips. "You're mine, too."

And there it was. This stranger she'd wanted no part of had broken through her walls, and the awareness that she'd known him all her life—at least bits and pieces of him—was stronger than ever.

She couldn't explain it. Simply, there was no explanation, and she'd given up trying.

Still shivering, she scooted closer, her knees bumping up against his solid chest. She brought her hands down to rest on his shoulders, the resilience of firm muscle tensed, and his reaction left her no doubt he was bracing himself.

"You need to know the truth, Rafe. About me." The words were there. She only needed to say them, and she would be free.

Tell him.

"I lied when I told you that night in the barn I had nothing to do with Tom's death." Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. "I'd still have Tom and Smiley if I hadn't gone after Wes. I should have let those damn horses go." Her throat went dry, and she whispered, "I didn't, Rafe." She held fast to him. "All the stories around town are true. I stole back the horses we lost at auction to Wes—slipped out at night while Tom slept, crossed the fence onto Connelly land, and stole them out from under him. I had help, but it was my idea."

He remained quiet for a moment, only reaching up to press back a strand of her hair. "I already guessed that."

"You did?"

"We think alike. I would have done the same."

She let go of his shoulders, her hands on her hips, and pinned him with her eyes. "And that's exactly
why
, cowboy, we're filthy dirty, pouring out our souls to each other, holed up in some hotel, surrounded by lawlessness."

His lips quirked. "Scary, you and me."

"Very." She shivered again.
Guess confessions are only as good as the confessional box.
She'd hoped for relief from the chill that kept her in its grip.

"You're still cold." He stood and slid her off the vanity and rubbed her arms.

The tiniest of heat moved along her skin. His hand moved to cradle the back of her head, his rough fingertips pressing into her scalp, radiating warmth, and she moved closer.

He tipped her chin up. "You didn't cause Tom's death. Whether you took the horses or not, that's no reason to kill."

"No. But I should have thought it through—weighed the consequences. Tom would be alive."

Something in the depths of his eyes hardened, and he bent his head, his lips grazing hers, and whispered, "He's not."

The quiet rasp of his voice, the mere touch of his lips ignited a desire she hadn't had in a long time, and instead of giving in to it, she stiffened. But the usual feeling of betrayal eluded her, attempts to recall Tom's face—difficult. The only face she saw was Rafe's. The only touch she felt—his. Her heart raced.

Oh God.

The memories of tonight swamped her. He was right. Vengeance didn't spell victory—
try misery.
She'd lost the love of her life. How many more had to suffer? How many more could she afford to lose?

Her hands moved up, putting some space between them. Still keeping her hands on his expansive chest, she concentrated on him. Rough and tumble, dark and dangerously handsome, he made her senses reel. The solid warmth of him was intoxicating. It made her woozy with the kind of need a woman could only have for a man.

And then there was that damn feeling that she had missed connecting a dot somewhere. Was it an expression? Or maybe his eyes, so familiar, sharp and piercing at times, but mostly devastatingly warm and caressing.

Whatever it was about Rafe Langston, the thought of losing him hurt with such intensity she felt as if she would die. Her fingers gripped his army jacket. "You jerk." This time his eyes were alert and questioning. "I thought I'd lost you, too."

His arms went around her, and she snuggled so close, the drum of his heartbeat was one with hers.

"Not gonna happen, darlin'." He kissed her, his mouth experienced, sure, and firm with such undeniable possessiveness she trembled.

She'd never been kissed like that before. Not by Tom. Not by anyone. It was hungry, hard, and explosive. Yet, that nagging sense of knowing him poked her subconscious—the reasoning close enough to grasp but the understanding of it beyond her.

He touched his tongue to hers, and that tingle of unexplored newness, replacing any conscious thought, spread through her like liquid fire, and she sighed into his mouth.

Blessed heat had returned, and it warmed her clear through.

C
onfessions being what they were, it would have behooved Rafe—considering their admitted status of best friends and all—to ante up and put his cards where Bren could see them. But the truth of it was, his only concern was getting her naked. He was too far gone over her to think about the days ahead, to pull back and reassess.

Her lips were soft and pliant and moving beneath his in a seductive dance. Suddenly his heart beat faster, and then Tom Ryan's ghost nudged him, a little. He opened his eyes. Hers were closed. Amazing as it was, Ryan didn't seem to be on her mind. Good. He wasn't interested in taking a cold shower.

What he wanted was what could have been his all along—he wanted her.

Rafe slipped his hand under her sweatshirt, its thickness hampering him as he tried to touch more skin. "How about we lose this?" he ground out against her lips and tugged on the edge of her sweatshirt.

She lifted her arms, and he pulled it over her head, the band of her ponytail slipping off with it. He tossed her shirt to the tile floor.

She shook her head. The weight of her hair dusted her shoulders and her back. The contrast, reminding him of alabaster and rose petals, couldn't have been more erotic.

He twined his fingers through the dark-cherry waves cascading over her shoulder. Motionless, their eyes connected, and then they both stared at his other hand caressing the curve of her waist.

When their gazes locked again, her eyes were big and brown and...

Shit.
Was she frightened?

Her legs trembled against his thighs, and she held fast to the folds of his jacket, tugging. "Take it off." Her soft, impatient demand gave him his answer. At least for now, she was willing.

He shimmied out of it and tossed it to the floor. Going for her jeans, he struggled with the button and zipper until her jeans hung loose around her waist, allowing his hands to cup her bare, curvaceous bottom. He pulled her tight to him. "I wanted to take your clothes off the first night I took you home." It was a guttural growl—an admission of weakness. He'd been angry at her stupidity, using herself as bait with a jackass like Skidmore. But mostly because he'd realized that night he had the hots for Ryan's widow.

It had been his first warning to walk away, and the last reason he would have considered it. He hadn't found a woman yet who could hold his interest, much less put a dent in his heart—she'd scored on both.

They struggled with each other's clothes, tugging, lifting, and touching skin. Down to next to naked, she reached behind her back to unclasp her bra.

"Whoa, darlin'." He pressed her up against the vanity. "You were holding out on me. Let me see." He eyed her approvingly. "And here I thought my farm girl would be wearing cotton briefs."

"Cute." She lifted her chin, blushing. "I like the feel of silk better."

He nodded. "Silky and see-through, Red." He cupped both breasts and brushed a thumb over each nipple and watched with interest as they poked steadily against the white lace of her bra, her areolas shrunk and darkened against its sheerness. His mouth came down and covered her nipple, his tongue barely touching it.

She writhed up against him and sank her fingers into his scalp, holding his head against her. "Don't tease me, Rafe."

He suckled her and lifted his head. "Not true, honey. You're teasing me."

He kissed her, their tongues touching, stroking, and his body responded. "You're making me hard, darlin'." The quiet rasp of his voice surprised him. He'd had his fair share of women. Even rocked their worlds—at least that was his impression. But none had ever rocked his.