Accidental Protector: A Marriage Mistake Romance Read online

  He’s even younger in the others, standing with two women. An older one and a younger one, almost a kid, a teenager. In one of the photos, they're both just children.

  I set my coffee cup on the mantle and pick up one of the pictures with the three of them. Looks like it was taken at some sort of lake or campground. Water glistens in the sun behind them and all three of them are wearing swimsuits.

  They look so happy. So carefree, their arms wrapped around each other in most of the pics.

  A taller, older Noah stands proudly between the two women, relaxing against the back of an old Harley. Whoever took the picture even captured the shine in their eyes. All three of them share the same mystic blue. It makes me want to know this younger, happier man.

  “Good morning.”

  Lost in the photo, I jump slightly at the sound of his voice. I hold up the picture, turning, biting my lip. “Is this your family? Mother and sister, maybe?”

  My heart thuds uncontrollably as he shakes his head and steps closer. He smells amazing. Fresh. Clean. Divine.

  “No. That's my Aunt Judy and Jessica.”

  Jess. Holy crap.

  I set the picture on the mantle and though I want to ask about her, why he thinks she's dead, now isn’t the time. “You were in the Army?”

  “Yep.”

  “How long?”

  “Eight years. I joined up shortly after graduating high school and did a few deployments. Iraq, mostly.” There's a darkness in his eyes I know not to probe, having been around plenty of older military men while growing up.

  “Did you like it? The discipline, I mean? Anything you learned?”

  He shrugs. “As much as anyone enjoys harsh conditions and adjusting to having life, death, and regimen drilled into them. That was taken around Baghdad, and those are some of the best men I’ll ever know.” He starts walking toward the kitchen.

  I follow. “Do you stay in touch?”

  “Not enough. Mostly, my old buds, Eli and Brad Perez. Some guys are still serving. Others, like me, went back to their hometowns and...” He stops, shrugs again, and opens the fridge door. “Like eggs?”

  Considering a carton of eggs is the only thing sitting on the top shelf of the fridge, I nod.

  “Scrambled or a cheese omelet?”

  “Either.” More interested in learning more, I ask, “Did you go home, too?”

  He puts the egg carton on the counter and pulls a frying pan out of a bottom cupboard. “Yeah.”

  “Here? Reno?”

  “No. Only showed up here when I had to recently.”

  I climb onto a stool at the kitchen island. “Where, then?”

  “Redding, California. That's home.”

  His back is to me as he’s whipping up eggs at the counter. It’s a long moment before I can pull my eyes away from the way his black t-shirt molds to his body long enough to ask, “That’s where you grew up?”

  “From the time I was ten. Before that, I grew up all over. Old man moved around a lot.”

  “Was your dad in the army, too?”

  “No, he job-hopped. Never much liked settling down.” He turns, leveling a somewhat serious gaze at me before saying, “Actually, he just hopped. There weren’t many jobs, but a hell of a lot of girlfriends. He chased all kinds of tail, and sometimes it got him into trouble. Even hit on a Grizzlies' old lady once, some Prez or something of one of their motorcycle clubs, and we had to leave town.”

  “What about your mother?” He’s still looking at me. I shrug. “Hey, I told you all about Charlie. The whole truth. Cross my heart. Remember?”

  “Hope to die,” he says, rolling his bright blue eyes.

  It's so unexpectedly sarcastic, a laugh bursts out of me.

  He nods and spins around, using a spatula to stir the butter he’d dropped in the pan. “Nothing to tell there, Lucky. She died when I was too little to remember. Real young.”

  I don't know why it hits me, but it does. A wave of sadness washes in. Compassion for his loss.

  Sometimes, people forget how lucky they've been in life, growing up in a stable home, even if it was less than ideal. It’s one of those times for me. Having two parents, still married to each other, isn’t the norm for many. “Is that when your dad started jumping around?”

  “I don’t know. Real young, darlin', like I said. Can't remember.” His tone tells me there might be snatches he does remember, but I don't press it.

  The eggs sizzle as he pours them into the pan. “Maybe. I don’t recall anything about her, and not much about him. Except that the jackoff never came back to pick me up,” he growls, looking up.

  “What do you mean? Pick you up from where?”

  “Another girlfriend’s house. There'd been a long string of them, and they all had their own kids, so the last thing they wanted, or needed, was another one, if my old man moved in.” He puts bread in the toaster and pushes down the lever. “When he didn’t come back, the last girl called child services. I heard her. Freaked. Begged her to call my aunt instead. She lived in Redding, which was a distance away, but I hoped she’d come get me before somebody else did. Hoped like hell. Dad and I had stopped by her place a couple of times, but he’d never leave me there. I wish to fuck he had.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s what Aunt Judy wanted him to do. He wanted to prove he was a big man, had to stand up to his older sis. He'd always buy shit like he was father of the year when we went over there, dinners and toys for me, her, and Jess.” He adds some salt and pepper to the eggs he’s scrambling and then sprinkles some shredded cheese over the top.

  I climb off the stool and open the cupboard door where I’d seen plates while looking for a cup earlier. Taking two down, I set them near the stove and open a drawer for silverware.

  “What happened then?” I ask. “Your aunt came and got you?”

  “Yes.”

  The toaster pops so I walk around him and grab the delicately browned bread, then cover both slices with butter while he’s scooping the eggs on the plates.

  “Did you live with her from then on?”

  “Yeah. Better life then. I'll always be grateful.”

  “And your cousin, the girl who's missing, that's her daughter?”

  “Now you're catching on.” He sets both plates on the island. “Eat up while it’s hot.”

  I also easily catch that he’s ready for the conversation to end.

  I’m not, of course, but I know I won’t get much more out of him. Better to get a taste at a time than try to force everything down at once.

  I see the pinprick light fading in his eyes, too. They’d dimmed when I'd mentioned Jess and his jaw stiffened. I’ll have to tread carefully to get the full story out of him, but it'll happen sooner or later.

  The whole truth.

  However ugly, scary, or hurtful.

  I just need to know. I need him to trust me.

  I put a slice of toast on each plate and then climb up on the stool next to him. He’s already eating, so I tuck in.

  The first bite? Oh my God.

  I didn't know eggs this fluffy and buttery were even possible. I’m almost jealous of his cooking skills. They're perfectly seasoned, too.

  He smiles, looking over. “Taste something you like, darlin'?”

  “Okay, new round of ask and tell: what'd you put in these eggs?”

  He grins. “Little bit of fresh garlic and some onion powder. I could tell you the rest, but, ya know.”

  “Nope. I just might die from these first before you could kill me.”

  “Or they're just awesome because you're hungry after a hard night.”

  The faintest hint of red in his cheeks accompanying his grin tells me he’s not used to compliments. Not for his cooking, anyway.

  I can relate. Mainly because my eggs never turn out this good “That could be,” I say, scooping up another forkful.

  “So, music. Teaching,” he says, gently stabbing at his plate again. “What's your favorite? Rock? Gospel? Coun
try?”

  “Yes, yes, and yes,” I answer, smiling at how he blinks in surprise. I'm also letting him know I play fair. He answered my questions, so I’ll answer his. “I love all different kinds. Especially opera.”

  His face falls, the amusement gone.

  I’ve seen so many versions of that look, I silently laugh. “Disappointed? I’ve never understood why so many people have an aversion to it.”

  “Yeah, just like I'll never understand why anyone subjects themselves to that torture,” he says playfully.

  This time, I laugh out loud. “You're ridiculous. Given a chance, most people discover how beautiful it is. How passionate. How it can fill your soul if you’ll let it.”

  He nods. Then shakes his head and grins. “I'm not most people, Lucky, but I’ll take your word.”

  “I could make you love opera, Noah Bernard. Not even lying.”

  “Bull.” His fork clatters on the plate, his arms folded, a dead-eyed look entering his eyes.

  It takes me half a second to realize he's totally joking. Then more laughter rolls out of me.

  “I'm not a wine sipping highbrow kinda guy,” he growls, staring into me.

  “Come on. You'd look pretty decent in a suit, I think.” I really shouldn't let that make me think about our Not Wedding again, but naturally, it does.

  God, I think the only way any kiss we've had might have been better is if he was dressed to the nines.

  He takes his final bite of eggs and a long pull of coffee, then swallows before saying, “Haven’t you heard the old adage, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?”

  I finish my toast and then twist my stool enough so I can look straight at him. “Given enough time, and the right teacher, old dogs learn all sorts of new tricks. I should know. I had a part-time summer job walking pups for rich people.”

  Noah smiles. Adorably sexy. My heart pinches.

  Our eyes lock and so do my lungs. I have no idea why I’m so drawn to him, but can’t deny it.

  There isn’t a single part of my body that isn’t tingling right now, and I can’t pull my eyes off his lips. Or my mind off how amazing kissing him was. Or how absolutely incredible it would be again.

  Again.

  I feel myself leaning closer, like I'm a magnet being pulled, and don’t do a thing about it. His lips against mine are what I want, what I crave.

  Then he moves. Jumping off his stool so fast, I almost fall off mine. Grasping the counter, I give myself a second to get over the numbing, kiss-less disappointment.

  “You can take a shower while I clean this up,” he says. “Towels are in the cupboard under the sink.”

  He’s already across the room, dropping egg shells into the trash under the sink.

  The sigh that leaves my chest burns as hot as my disappointment. A bout of determination strikes as I step off the stool. He'll find out soon he can’t avoid me – or my questions – for long.

  I’ll make sure of that. This is New Mindy, turned loose, without fear or second-guessing or regrets.

  “Shower does sound nice,” I say. “Thanks. And thanks for breakfast, too. It was really good.”

  He nods, casting another heavy glance my way with those impenetrable blues.

  I smile to myself while walking to the bedroom, secretly discovering how much I like New Mindy.

  This woman knows what she wants.

  Maybe she'll get it, too.

  10

  Thunder, Perfect Storm (Noah)

  The plates damn near break as I shove them into the bottom rack of the dishwasher.

  I can’t believe I told her about my old man. I’ve never told anyone about how he hopped from woman to woman. How he left me in his wake till they’d finally track him down and force him to come pick me up.

  Long ago, I realized his fuckery left a chip on my shoulder. Those memories are all I’ve ever needed to remind myself not to get close to anyone. For the most part, I’d held true, only exceptions being Aunt Judy and Jess.

  They're my real family, a thousand times truer and kinder than the reckless prick who gave me life.

  The only family I'll ever have.

  That’s how I'll keep it, too. No opera-loving firecracker is changing that. No matter how pretty she is, or how many times she puts lightning in my dick.

  Fucking sexy. That’s what Lucky is. No denying it.

  I’m strung tighter than a pull-start recoil. It's a strange, unexpected torture. Just sitting next to her, having her here, up in my space. A few short paces away from a nice flat surface where I could throw her down under me and fuck this itch right out of my skin.

  But I can't. I won't.

  I'm the asshole who brought her a burden she doesn't deserve, and the last thing I'll do is pile on more.

  Walking into the living room before breakfast, seeing her standing next to the fireplace with her hair still tousled from sleep, the sun shining in through the windows...it was like a goddamn painting. A Rembrandt people would pay millions to own. The hard-on I'd been fighting since the instant I stepped out of the shower just got harder to suppress.

  Her temptation is my punishment. Playing house with a woman I don't dare own seems fitting. And it's not just her sweet gravity pulling at my mind.

  For a split second, when I was standing there, looking at her, I pondered the things I don’t have, the impossible things I claim I don’t want, in a different way.

  A wife. A real wife. Kids, even.

  The desire to walk up to her and wrap my arms around her shoulders was intense. Painful.

  Same desire that lingered all the way through our meal.

  I couldn’t act on it.

  Hell, my life isn't even my own. Not now. I can't have it back till Cesare only exists behind bars or six feet under, one less demon left walking freely.

  I finish cleaning up the kitchen, then grab my laptop off the desk in the living room and carry it out onto the balcony. It’s warm outside today, a balmy, dry ninety degrees, but the shade of the awning makes it comfortable. I sit down at the cool glass table and power up the machine.

  First thing's first: I click on the email icon and Eli’s address.

  I have no idea exactly where Charlie is, but Aruba isn’t that big, and as luck has it, Eli lives there. My old buddy invited me to visit the resort he bought shortly after we left the army several times.

  He’d needed my help not so long ago with a little issue here in the States. I know he'll pay me back without a moment’s hesitation. That’s how it is with men who've faced hellfire, bullets, blood, and death.

  Comrades for life. Together. Through thick and thin.

  The fact that we all went through military baptism together is a plus. Several of us are now using that experience in private sector jobs or government gigs. Or self-employment like me.

  I type out the small amount of intel I have on Charlie boy. It’ll be enough for Eli. Everybody called him 'ferret' in Iraq for good reason.

  I keep my request simple: just a few pictures. Proof that Charlie boy is two-timing Lucky. It's not for her, she already knows.

  They're for everybody else still trying to twist her arm. A few select pics sent to the right people will show her family real quick how much better off she is without him. Showing those pictures to Charlie should also deter him from stirring up more trouble, too.

  If he’s already gone and done it, he’s truly too stupid to live.

  Once the email's sent, I open a new one and punch in Fred Wilson’s address. He’s the lawyer who helped me obtain my Nevada PI license. I make the email sound like I’m asking for a client, how they should go about getting a divorce after a mistaken late-night wedding at an Elvis chapel.

  I'll have to come clean sooner or later, tell him the dumbass I'm asking about is me, but it's not time yet.

  After I hit send, I pull up the files I’ve made on Lucient and begin a familiar ritual. Going through them line by line, picture by picture, atrocity by atrocity.

  I’ve missed s
omething along the way. I've been missing something since that fucked up night at the casino, and the pressure's on to find out what and why.

  Things have gotten way too screwed up. Out of control.

  I open another file, the one I’d created months ago, when I first heard Lucient’s name.

  That was before Aunt Judy called. Before the day she told me she was concerned about a man Jess was hanging around. Jess had already mentioned his name then, and once was enough to concern me.

  I’d applied for and received a Private Eye license in Nevada to go along with the one I already had in California. Cost me a pretty penny, too, upping my liability insurance, but I never gave the money a second thought.

  I’d have spent ten times that amount for Jess. Still will.

  Fuck, if all Cesare had done was ransom her...

  It’s hard even now, believing she's really gone. That I’ll never see her again. That a monster took my sister in cold blood, and that if I'd just been faster, harsher, more willing to get up in her life where she didn't want me, I could have saved her.

  Jess wanted to be like me too fucking much, especially after she dropped out of nursing school.

  She wanted to be hard. Wanted to find herself in life's fire like I did in war. Wanted to prove some shit I'll never understand, because me and her ma always saw her soul as it really was, tender and innocent, and we loved her.

  Too bad this nightmare fate had other plans.

  The world devoured a beautiful woman. A beautiful life. The last person I’d have ever believed would've gotten mixed up with the likes of Lucient.

  No matter how many hours I waste away wracking my brain, I can't figure out where she went wrong. Or where I did, either.

  She was smart. Not just academically, but street smart. I’d taught her that.

  Originally to help her out as an awkward kid getting hounded by boys she wanted nothing to do with. It stuck, after I came home from the Army, and she was a young woman building her business.

  Selling real estate, meeting people at all times of day, flipping homes to first time buyers. She said it was mainly young families and I had nothing to worry about. Not at first.