Headed for Trouble (The McKay Family #1) (12 page)

“He found you.”

Flatly, she said, “He never lost me.” She had to finish the next part quickly, get it done in a rush or she wouldn’t do it at all. Closing her hands into fists, she turned and met Gideon’s eyes. “I went home one night after work—it was late. I always worked until midnight or so. The pub owner would have his son walk me out, even offered to drive me home instead of having me drive myself. They … they worried. Sometimes I wish I would have listened. William was in my room. He’d convinced the lady who’d owned the cottage where I was staying that he was my husband, that we’d separated after a fight, but he was sorry, was going to make it up to me. She let him in, went back to her house across the road. Her son lived with her—a big, burly guy—he always freaked me out. He watched me all the time. But when I screamed … I screamed and he broke down the door. He grabbed William and threw him into a wall so hard, William had a concussion from how hard he was hit. Maybe if William hadn’t lied, if he hadn’t cut me—”

The moment she said it, she wished she could have taken it back.

But the words hung there and she froze, her hands curled into fists, nails biting into her palms, while Gideon’s gaze bore into the top of her bowed head.

“Cut you.” The words were soft. She heard the anger beneath the softness, though, and she had a bad, bad feeling that he might not keep this conversation quiet.
Fuck
—

Haltingly, she nodded. The slim scars under her shirt burned hotter now, but she felt cold all over. Cold, sick, humiliated. “Yeah. It … he did it to scare me. That’s all he wanted to do. He’d hit me hard enough to knock me down—then he dragged me to the bed.”

Memory flashed. The green silk, wrapping around her wrists, her arms jerked overhead. “He … um. He tied my hands, gagged me. The gag was loose, though. He cut my shirt off—cut me. I’d rubbed the gag off and screamed—I barely remember what happened. Angus was there before I could even blink and there were police everywhere and my landlady was there, wringing her hands and crying about it—he was my husband and what was going on…” She laughed a little, the sound watery, drawing a narrow look from Gideon. “Angus pats his mother on the back. He’s this big giant and she’s like a china doll and he hugs her and tells her never to let a person in without talking to the tenant again. Turns out he was a private consultant for security out of Glasgow. He’d done a background check on me the day I moved in—knew all about William. He’d been heading to bed when his mother mentioned that she might need a new tenant, because my husband had come to fetch me. He was already across the road when he heard me scream.”

She looked up. “And yes, I remember his last name if you’re ever in Carrbridge. I just called him a little while ago—he made me promise to call him every week or so to let him know I’m safe, otherwise he said he’d have my ass.”

It felt …
good
to get that out there, she realized. Unbelievably good. Freeing, she realized. Some of the weight she’d carried dropped from her shoulders and she thought she’d wilt from the relaxation that flooded through her. Slumping back against the seat, she settled into the surprisingly comfortable cushions and closed her eyes.

“If you want to wait until another time to finish…”

Neve opened one eye, stared at Gideon for a moment, then closed it. “There’s not much left. I pressed charges—finally. William was sentenced, actually had to do time, but he was let out early for
good behavior
,” she said mockingly. “I stayed in Carrbridge for a while—I felt safe there. But once I heard he was getting out, I thought I’d leave, go back to New York City. I had friends there and he didn’t have his family name to fall back on. But after a while, he showed up. And I left. I went to Boston. Was there for four months … I’d been volunteering at a women’s shelter and somebody called me, told me a guy was there asking questions. I never went back. Every damn place I went, I’d either see him, or he’d call, or I’d be informed somebody had been asking about me—or I’d just get a feeling…”

“How long has he been after you?”

“Nearly a year.” She opened both eyes now and sat up slowly, staring at him. “I don’t stay in hotels—I either go to cities where I had friends from New York or people I knew through what little modeling I did. Or … where there are shelters where you can stay. I work there, donate money…” She shrugged. “It’s not ideal, but it makes it harder for him to track me down.”

“Why didn’t you come home?”

“I didn’t feel like they wanted me,” she said starkly. “I wrote them. So many times. Once I got stateside, I was writing every week, and the letters just came back—
return to sender
—every damn time. I figured they’d been doing the same thing all along, but…”

Gideon started to shake his head, slowly.

She rose from the seat, the hurt hitting her hard.

She was
tired
of people not believing her. It hadn’t stopped when she’d left the UK, either. One of the reasons she’d preferred to stay at women’s shelters was because
they
did believe her—when a box of roses would arrive for her at a friend’s house, none of them had understood why she would freak out, why she’d get scared. Two of the friends she
had
told about William hadn’t believed the man who’d been such a
stud
—so
amazing
and so
romantic
—could be such a monster.
Did you do something? Did you cheat?
Cops wouldn’t take her seriously because she hadn’t
seen
him.

She was
tired
of not being believed.

Her hand had already closed around the doorknob before Gideon managed to slam his hand against the door. “Hey, hey—where are you going?” he asked softly.

“I’m
tired
of people not believing me,” she said, her voice trembling. It echoed how she felt inside. She felt like
she
was trembling—all over, inside, outside. “I’m
tired
of it. I get it—I was trouble when I was a kid. I lied. I stole shit. I got in trouble and I made trouble and I had fun with it. But I was a
fucking
kid. Do people not have a chance to—”

“Neve.” Gideon cupped his hand over her shoulder. “I never said I didn’t believe you.”

*   *   *

Gideon
did
believe her.

If she said she’d been writing home, then she’d been writing home.

Where the letters had been going was a mystery that would have to be solved at a later time.

She stopped mid-sentence, watching him through narrow, distrustful eyes.

“I believe you,” he said again. “It never made sense to me that you’d go that long without writing
anybody
. It just didn’t. We’ll try to figure that out later—because I also don’t see your brother and sister just sending the letters back.” She opened her mouth but he shook his head. “They waited. Neve, they had gifts waiting for you at Christmas. Every year. They waited. I know, I saw it.”

Her face crumpled and he braced himself for the tears. Tears were like a raging storm with her. She held them back, fought them like a soldier at war, but when she lost the battle—

But she closed her eyes, sucked in a deep breath.

Then another.

He watched as her face went blank, as her brow smoothed. When she looked back at him, the tears were gone and her eyes were clear. For some reason, that bothered him even more than it would have if she’d given in to the raging sea of misery he knew lay inside.

“Neve…” He brushed her hair back.

“The letters were in my backpack, Gideon. Those were the personal items I mentioned.” She looked away now, her green eyes falling to the floor. “I … I’m a mess inside, probably have been all my life. I started to figure it out when I was at the shelter the first time. I figured the only way to fix myself was to start by fixing all the problems I’d caused and that had to happen by fixing things with Brannon and Moira—I started by just apologizing, but then … I started to write about … everything. It was like … I had to. Shit, it’s probably best that the letters came back. Nobody needed to read that shit. But I had to write them.”

*   *   *

Thirty minutes later, Neve stood in front of the pub.

She wanted to go in there about as much as she wanted to face Brannon, but she’d stopped running away from her problems. It seemed like every problem she’d ever faced in her adult life had started because she’d run from the problems here at home.

Gideon stood at her side and his expression was as troubled now as it had been when she finished telling him.

“I’ll have to tell my people to watch for him, you know,” he said softly.

Neve sighed. “Yeah.”

“I can’t control their curiosity. I can tell them not to be concerned with it, just to keep an eye out, but you know how this place is. Sooner or later, somebody will figure out why we’re keeping an eye out, what he did. And word will get out.”

The idea of that made her feel, once again, like she had that day in the shelter, like curling up in a ball, hiding away. Forever. Squaring her shoulders, she told herself what she did every damn day when she looked in the mirror.
You didn’t do anything
.

Sometimes, it took on a double meaning—no, she hadn’t
done
anything. Not when he hit her. Not when he slowly took control of her life. But she hadn’t asked to be abused. She hadn’t made him hurt her. He was the one who’d done that, and she’d been the one to walk away.

She’d done nothing wrong.

Nodding, she said quietly, “I know. It won’t be the first time. I’ll…”—she took a deep breath and then forced herself to smile—“I’ll deal.”

Then she rose up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be okay, Gideon. And … thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He passed a hand down her hair. “I’m here, whenever you need me.”

She nodded and then headed for the door. She didn’t even make it five feet before she turned back.

Because it was Gideon, she was able to ask.

“Hey, if you really mean that … there’s a family dinner tonight.” She winced and then asked, “I feel terrible putting you on the spot, but I’ll probably tell them some of it. I could … um…”

“Just tell me what time, Trouble.”

CHAPTER SIX

Ian told himself it was none of his business, none of his concern, the way the two of them looked at each other.

So the fuck what if Gideon Marshall was at least a good ten years older than Neve McKay—and so the fuck what if he looked too … brusque for her. Neve needed somebody who’d cuddle her a bit.

Especially after what he’d listened to earlier.

Even if she was somewhat spoiled. Wasn’t like it didn’t make sense, what with how her life had gone. Gideon Marshall wouldn’t put up with it—Ian knew the man was patient, but he wouldn’t be a fit for Neve. Ian could see
himself
being a fit, though.

What are you doing?
The mental question had him wanting to shake himself, kick himself.

He’d already gone through this, decided that even if maybe he’d been off base, or at least hasty in his judgment, giving in to an attraction to Neve McKay was just a complication he didn’t need.

And now he stood, ready to leap over the bar, storm outside, and wallop a bloody cop, all because he was talking to Neve. When she gave him a slow smile, Ian thought his head would explode off his shoulders. She hadn’t given
him
that smile.

What the fuck was this?

“She’ll be fucking him within a week, just to get out of speeding tickets.” Joel Fletcher dumped the load of dishes he’d been carting into the kitchen on a stool and looked out the window, studying the quiet, intimate conversation between Neve and Gideon. “What do you think?”

Even if Ian’s blood boiled at the thought of Neve naked with Gideon—or
anybody
—it boiled even hotter at the smug way Joel spoke of her. Ian had been ready to set him on his arse even before he came into work, thanks to his display from last night.

Slowly, methodically, Ian put down the glass he’d been drying, then the towel. He came out from behind the bar in silence. Grasping the tray of dishes, he shoved it at Joel. “Want to know what I think?” he asked, waiting until Joel had taken it. “I’m thinking you should be minding your own business, doing the fucking job you were hired to do—not worrying about anybody else.”

Joel thumped the dishes back down, his eyes narrowed. “My
fookin
’ job?” he said, a sneer on his face as he mocked Ian’s thick accent. “Why don’t you learn to speak English?”

Ian smiled at him. “English … is it?” Arms crossed over his chest, he leaned in. “Now do tell me, exactly what is it am I speaking, if not English?”

“Not English,” Joel snapped.

Ian rolled his eyes. “You do realize that
English
originated in
England
, don’t ya? The
English
speak it. So do Scots. What
you
speak is
American
English. It’s not my fault you’re too bloody stupid to understand
my
English, you blithering idiot.”

Joel sputtered for a minute and finally said, “You’re a
fooking
dumb ass.”

“
I’m
the dumb ass? At least I understand that the language you’re speaking didn’t originate here,” Ian pointed out.

As Joel went red, Ian grabbed the dishes and shoved them at him. “Now do your
fucking
job,” he took care to enunciate it the same way Joel probably would, once he was in the kitchen and doing what he was paid to do. “Or you can just take your sorry
ass
home.”

Joel’s lips peeled back and Ian braced himself.

“Easy there, guys.”

Gideon shoved between them.

Ian hadn’t even noticed he’d come in—nor had he noticed Neve, although he had now and, as though she’d reached out and touched him, he felt the brush of her gaze drift over him.

Ian moved back behind the bar, suddenly in need of the physical barrier. As Gideon rattled the dishes Joel still held, Ian studied her from his lashes. Neve busied herself with looking at anything
but
him.