Headed for Trouble (The McKay Family #1) (33 page)

“Sex,” he muttered. “It was sex.”

So, yeah. They’d had sex—the best sex of his life—four times last night and all he could think about was having her again. When that was the
last
thing he needed to be doing.

He’d steered clear of Hannah for a reason.

He’d always known he’d get in over his head with her.

And now, when the last thing he needed was a distraction, she was filling his thoughts.
One
night.

He opened his eyes and stared back out the window, all but willing her to come outside, to sit down on the balcony like she so often did.

A flicker of movement caught his eyes and he turned his head, saw the woman pass in front of a window. She was clad in a robe, her hair hanging in a damp, tangled skein down her back. As he watched, Hannah reached up and swiped at her face.

Was she—

She turned her head and through the glass, she met his eyes.

His heart ramped up, slamming hard against his ribs as she moved to the window. Brannon curled one hand into a fist. He’d call her. Or go over there.

She continued to stare at him.

And then, she jerked the curtains closed.

Brannon felt the rejection straight to his soul.

“Son of…”

He scowled as a familiar car, lights flashing, pulled up to the curb.

When Gideon Marshall climbed out, he almost turned away. But then he saw the other car—another cruiser.

Something held him there and the heart that had felt so hollow just moments ago started to race.

Neve—

He took off down the stairs, trying to find the rational voice that would tell him that he was panicking over nothing. The voice was silent though, and just a few minutes later, he understood why.

*   *   *

“You’re sure it’s the same scarf.”

Gideon stared at her like she was a bug under a microscope. It was beyond unnerving. Not that she had many nerves
left
at this point.

William was in McKay’s Treasure. He’d followed her straight here, to her home.

Swallowing the knot in her throat, she forced herself to speak. “Yes. It’s the same one.” She held out a hand and Gideon put it in the evidence bag. One of the uniformed officers had been the first to arrive, a man with familiar blue eyes. He seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place him—his name tag read
Parker
and she’d briefly wondered if he was related to Hannah, an old friend from school.

Now, all she could think about was the scarf. She turned it over, studying it, her fingers trembling. “He had it personalized. See?”

The
N
and
M
were stylized, embroidered into the silk with silvery threads.

“Okay.” Gideon took the scarf back and passed it off to Parker. The uniform had been studying Ian’s bike—Ian’s
trashed
bike. The damage was all superficial, but that wasn’t the point. It was the outright ugliness of the act.

Neve tried really hard not to stare at the bike.

Not that it made any difference. She could still see the slashed tires, the ugly green that sprawled across the bike’s gas tank. The word
whore
was emblazoned on her mind.

He had to have been watching her.

“What’s going on?”

At the sound of her brother’s voice, she groaned and lowered her head.

Fortunately, she was saved from answering when Brannon caught sight of Ian’s bike. “Man, your bike. What the hell happened?”

“I think Sammy’s hit town.” Ian’s voice was almost coldly polite.

Neve suppressed a shiver but not well enough. Ian moved up and stroked a hand up and down her spine. She could feel the warmth of his hand, but it did nothing to penetrate the chill.

The strained silence threatened to shatter her nerves. Curling her hands into fists, she focused on the small pain of her nails biting into her flesh. She looked up at the sound of boots crunching on the rock and rubble on the ground.

“Neve?” Brannon said softly.

She nodded jerkily toward the scarf Gideon had just passed over to Griffin. “The scarf.” Her voice was terribly thin and she cleared her throat and tried again. “William gave me the scarf a few months after we’d started dating.”

“We came down,” Ian said, taking over when she couldn’t find anything else to say. “Saw the bike. The scarf was tied to the handlebars. Like a soddin’ flag.”

“You haven’t seen him,” Gideon said.

“No.” She said reaching up, worrying the necklace she wore with her fingertips. “Hell, no. If I’d seen him, I would have said something.”

“Okay, then.”

It all passed in a blur, Ian and Gideon speaking, Brannon standing there brooding. A few times, Gideon directed a question her way. She answered each one as best as she could, although she’d be hard-pressed to say just what the questions, or even her answers, were.

All the while, she stared at the scarf.

*   *   *

She was so pale.

Ian wanted to punch something. No. He wanted to grab that bit of green, hunt down William Clyde, and twist it around his pathetic neck. Then rip his balls off and feed them to him. The impotent fury had him closing his hands into tight, useless fists, the rage bubbling inside him.

When her eyes tracked back to the young officer—and the scarf—yet again, Ian moved in front of her, blocking her view. “You should sit,” he said.

Neve lifted her pale face to his. The pretty green of her eyes had gone glassy and when he curled one hand around her elbow, she didn’t resist. But when he tried to guide her to the narrow bit of porch, she broke away. “No. No, I can’t sit. I need…” She sucked in a great breath of air as if she were starved for oxygen. “I need to walk.”

She turned to Gideon. “Can I … are we done?”

Gideon studied her for a moment. “I need some time.”

Ian was about ready to shove the scarf down Gideon’s throat now. But before either he or Brannon had a chance to tell the cop to let Neve breathe, Gideon looked at him. “Why don’t the two of you take a few minutes? I need to go over the scene again anyway.”

Neve didn’t say anything, just turned and blindly walked up the narrow alley that ran between the pub and the building where he lived, his flat on the second floor. Ian fell into step behind her with one last look at the men still gathered near the bike.

He should say something.

He opened his mouth, staring at the back of her head, but the words just wouldn’t come.

Words were
easy
for him. He knew how to stroke and cuddle and comfort. He’d never been the sort of man to shy away from a woman’s pain—or even her tears—but here, when it seemed to matter the most, Ian couldn’t find a single thing to say.

Neve passed through the mouth of the alley without a single glance backward and began to pace on the sidewalk, oblivious to the curious glances coming from those in the area closest to them. Ian went to jam his hands into the pockets of his jeans only to scowl as he remembered he had to work—and he was wearing that idiot kilt.

Neve still wore her pretty dress from last night. Earlier, she’d looked all sexily mussed and it had tempted him to muss her up more, but now she looked forlorn and bedraggled and that just added fuel to the flames of his anger.

His hands felt too big and too empty and too useless. Folding his arms over his chest, he settled against the brick wall at his back and waited.

But he had no idea what he waited for.

When she passed by him for easily the tenth time in under five minutes, he reached out and caught her arm. Her gaze swept up to his and he still had no words.

So don’t use them
.

He tugged her closer, keeping his grip on her arm loose. When she didn’t pull away, he caught her up against him. Her entire body trembled and Ian felt his heart twist in his chest.

He smoothed his hand up the long, delicate line of her spine as he pressed his chin to the top of her crown.

A harsh, shuddering breath escaped her lungs. “He’s here,” she said, the words harsh and jagged, as though they were bits and pieces of broken glass. “He’s
here,
Ian.”

“I know.” Hooking one arm over her neck, he wrapped his other arm snug around her waist. “He won’t hurt you, Neve. I’ll cut off my arm before I let him near you again.” He pressed a kiss to her brow. “But I’d really rather cut off
his
arms. Then his balls. Then his legs.”

A weak, watery laugh escaped her, the sound perilously close to sobs.

“He won’t hurt you,” he whispered.

“How can you stop him? I can’t live in your back pocket, Ian. I can’t trap myself up in Ferry for the rest of my life. And he
won’t stop
. He came all this way and he won’t
stop
.”

“Then we’ll just have to make him stop.” She felt terribly fragile against him, her hair silken, her slim form trembling.

“How?”

He just shook his head.

He hadn’t quite gotten that far yet, but he hoped the plan, whatever it was, involved a lot of pain for the dickhead who’d dare to terrify his woman.

His
woman.

Mine,
Ian thought, acknowledging the truth of it.
Mine
. She’d felt like his almost from the start—just like he knew she already owned him.

They stood like that a few moments and perhaps it was just his wishful thinking, but he thought the tremors were easing, thought perhaps her breathing wasn’t quite so ragged.

“Ian.”

He looked up at the sound of his name, saw Brannon standing a few feet away.

There was a look on his face that made Ian think his old friend had been watching them for some time. Neve lifted her head and Ian tightened his arm when she would have pulled away. She resisted for less than a heartbeat and then sank back against him as if the very presence of his body made it easier for her to stand there.

“Aye?”

Brannon’s gaze tracked back and forth between them, but the irritation he’d half expected to see on Brannon’s face wasn’t there. Brannon was no longer
irritated
by the idea that Ian and Neve had spent the night together. Sheer fury had replaced that weak emotion, and Ian had no doubt who the target of all the anger was.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Ian sighed and this time, when Neve pulled back, he let her, giving her arm a lingering caress before he shoved off the wall.

“Are you…” He stopped before he could finish. He’d been ready to ask her if she was well, but how could she be
well
? Not even an hour ago, the two of them had been half drunk from the night they’d had and now … Fury ate at Ian. Their night together had been tarnished by this. Yet another thing that William would answer for. Touching Neve’s cheek, he said softly, “I’ll be right here.”

She nodded and turned away.

When he looked back at Brannon, he saw fire burning in those green eyes.

Let’s find him then,
he thought, moving across the sidewalk.
You and me, Bran. Find him and deal with this.

*   *   *

“Hey.”

Neve jerked her head up at the sound of that voice, one that was vaguely familiar. Squinting against the bright light shining down around the woman in front of her, she tried to make the voice match the face.

“Hannah.” The other woman smiled as she said it. “It’s Hannah Parker.”

For a few brief seconds, surprise and pleasure replaced the fear and uncertainty. “Wow,” Neve said, shaking her head. “You look…”

Hannah shrugged. “Like shit. I didn’t sleep much last night.”

“That was so not what I was going to say.” Neve managed a smile. “You look amazing. You lost weight.”

“Yeah. Fifty-something pounds.” She jerked her shoulder up again and settled against the wall next to Neve. “Normally, I’d be all over you, hugging you, fussing at you for not calling me as soon as you hit town, but…”

Hannah’s blue eyes moved to the cop cars and then she looked back at Neve. “Not that it’s not fantastic to see you and FYI, we
are
having dinner soon. For now, though, what the hell is going on?”

“Where do I start?” Neve asked, her voice shaking despite her best attempts to keep it level.

Hannah cocked her head, lips pursed in a thoughtful frown. “How about with you telling me your Prince Charming wasn’t such a prince?”

Neve blinked.

Hannah waited.

“If you’re talking about William…”

Hannah nodded, her gaze moving past her to linger on the two men still by the alley. “Definitely not talking about our local sexy Scotsman, although …
day-yum,
Nevie. He’s yummy. I’ll tell you what—perhaps that boy is no Prince Charming, but who the hell cares? Although I bet he could charm a nun out of her panties.”

Neve blushed but couldn’t stop from looking over at Ian.
Yummy
didn’t touch him. “Ah … um…” She had to clear her throat.

Hannah laughed. “You’re not a nun, are you, Nevie?”

“Hannah. Shut up. And by the way, if you’re not a nun, I don’t want to know.”

“Relax.” Hannah patted her knee. “A hundred women around here wish
they
weren’t nuns, too.”

Neve rolled her eyes. “Fine.” It felt good to smile, even over something so silly. But her heart wrenched a little as she thought back over the night they’d had—a night that had been tarnished now.
William, why can’t you just leave me
alone
?

“So?” Hannah swayed closer, using her shoulder to bump Neve’s.

“So what?” Neve asked, pretending ignorance.

“Prince Charming.”

Neve grimaced. “No. He wasn’t a prince.” She almost choked holding back the bitter laugh that tried to escape.
Prince Charming
. “How come you’re so sure about that, though?”

“Instinct.” Face almost carefully blank, Hannah stared out over the road, ignoring the speculative glances, the lingering looks that came their way. “I know his type, Neve.”

“You never even met him.”

Hannah turned her head and stared at Neve. Hard. “Didn’t I?” She shrugged. “Granted, when my mom remarried … well, that guy might not have actually
been
William, but they were cut from the same cloth. He swept her up like she was Cinderella—the same way William did with you. Once she was so totally wrapped up in him, he cut the rest of her world away until
he
was all that was left. He became her world—
our
world.”