Tormented by Darkness Read online

  He quirked an eyebrow. “You aren’t going to ditch me at the last minute are you?”

  Her laugh was quick and bright. She shook her head and leaned sideways to brush a kiss across his cheek. “No. My word is good.”

  The matter decided, Mick straightened. As she tucked the loose papers inside his stepfather’s journal, he extended a hand. “You’ll have to let me read that later, you know.”

  “Absolutely. I’ll give it back, when I’m finished reading. This is something you’ll want to keep.”

  He already did, but getting her to agree had meant more.

  She slid her palm into his, her skin slightly roughened from the years of working with her hands. Strangely, that scrape appealed. It gave him more room to convince himself she wasn’t as fragile and delicate as he knew she was.

  Mick led her down the stairs, to his front hall, and opened the door. Leaning one shoulder against the painted white frame, he let his smile spread. A wisp of loose red hair had escaped her neat braid, and he reached between them to tuck it behind her ear. “See you in a little bit?”

  “Yeah.” She nodded nervously. “I’ll hurry.”

  Following pure impulse, Mick grabbed her wrist and pulled her in to indulge once more in the softness of her full lips. She yielded without a fight, and he took his time, sliding his tongue slowly across hers, drinking in the rich, exotic flavor. As desire hummed to life, ratcheting his heartbeat up by several notches, he willed himself into temperance and eased away. “See you soon, Rhiannon,” he whispered.

  As he watched her walk away, thoughts collided. What the hell was he doing? And why the hell couldn’t he stop?

  Chapter Five

  Dáire was waiting in their living room, his gaze fixed firmly on the door and landing squarely on Rhiannon as she stepped inside. She faltered, the journal in her hands nearly tumbling to the floor under his intense perusal.

  Lounging in their sparse living room, his long legs stretched out before him, boots resting atop their coffee table. Unruly auburn waves tumbled over his shoulders and across his forehead giving him a youthful arrogance that defied his two thousand years of existence.

  He cocked a rapscallion eyebrow.

  Rhiannon ignored the silent demand for an answer. Likely he still wanted to know about the camping trip. And while she now intended to go, she didn’t want to discuss rituals, birthdays, and their father’s wrath when she had less than forty-five minutes to get back to Mick’s. Mick himself was a subject she didn’t want to broach.

  Not now, when she hadn’t had time to make sense of it all for herself.

  As Rhiannon wandered toward the stairs that led up to her room, Dáire arched his hips and fished in his front jeans pocket. When he withdrew his hand, he held a crushed pack of cigarettes. He plucked one out, stuck the butt between his teeth, and grabbed the lighter off the table. “Well?” he asked as the flame burst to life.

  She eyed the cigarette. “I thought you quit.”

  “Eh.” Dáire shrugged as he took a deep drag. “Why bother? It’s not like the damn things can kill me.”

  Rhiannon rolled her eyes. “I’m starting to agree with Cian—you sound more and more like Taran every day.”

  “Maybe I wouldn’t feel the need to settle my nerves if your emotions weren’t all over the place.” The low, flat ring of his voice matched the suddenly somber way he stared at her. “What in the name of the goddess did you get yourself into over there? And why do you refuse to get a phone?”

  Flinching, she set the journal down on the wide newel post. Much as she cherished Dáire, some days she despised the way they could read each other. It was like having another person in her head. She couldn’t keep a secret from him to save her life.

  “In the last hour you’ve hit the full spectrum, Rhi. We’re not talking small beans here either.” He took another puff, gave the cigarette a disgusted look, then snubbed it out in the ashtray. “What gives?”

  “It’s…” She shook her head. “I can’t right now. I’ve got to get back to Mick’s. I promised him I wouldn’t be late.”

  That damnable grin danced on Dáire’s mouth. “Now I understand—you’ve been with him the whole time. Taking him camping with us too? Do I need to get a separate tent?”

  Maybe.

  Rhiannon rolled her eyes. “His stepfather’s funeral is tomorrow. I don’t see that happening.”

  “You never know. Grief can be a powerful motivator. All that emotion’s gotta get out somehow.” He shrugged again. “You know how it is. Death requires life. Negative requires positive—there’s one surefire way to make a man remember he’s alive.”

  The suggestion in Dáire’s twinkling blue eyes made Rhiannon’s heart skip several dozen beats. Mick’s gravely whisper rasped in her ears. You’re so alive. I need that, need you. She turned away from Dáire before he could observe the heat that rushed to her cheeks.

  But she couldn’t hide. Not from the brother who was like a twin.

  He let out a low whistle. “Damn, Rhi. Remind me to stay out of your head.”

  “I wish you would.”

  “Touché.”

  As he arched his hips again and fished out another cigarette, he chuckled. “There’s just one thing I don’t understand. I mean, I get the joy, the excitement, even the nervousness. But why fear?”

  Rhiannon turned around and tossed him an exasperated look. “I don’t really need to spell this out for you, and I don’t have the time. I’ve got to change.” With a flick of her wrist, she sent the journal sliding across the tabletop. It stopped when it met the soles of his hiking boots. “Here. Late night entertainment.”

  That ought to shut him up for a while. He loved war. Loved the natural balance that came with clashes of power. He’d find Steve’s notes on ’Nam fascinating, but when he stumbled onto the loose pages of their mother’s spell book that she’d stuffed in the middle of the journal, he’d be awed. By the time she returned tonight, he’d know every nuance of the ritual, and she could pick his mind about how to get Taran to cooperate.

  Before her brother could grill her for details, Rhiannon hurried up the stairs. If she waited too long, he’d find the excerpt and she’d never get out of here in time to make it back for Steve’s wake.

  Inside her tiny room, she plucked the only solid black dress she owned out of her closet. She said a prayer that Mick wouldn’t notice the linen was made for warmer weather, or that the back plunged just a little too low and the hem a tad too high, to be wholly suitable for a wake. But despite the dresses inadequacies, she took it into the bathroom. Lacking the time to deal with wet hair, she washed with a cloth and a bar of soap, and gave her face a quick once-over as well. Makeup she kept to a minimum—a touch of mascara, an even lighter dusting of blush, and an earthen shade of glossy lipstick. She ran a brush through her hair until it cloaked her in shining, loose waves, then slipped the dress over her head.

  Not a date. This is not a date.

  The mantra did little to ease her rapidly snapping nerves. The next several hours would be torture. But she’d given her word, and somehow she had to find the strength to ignore how handsomely Mick filled out a suit. An impossible task given how she’d taken one look at him in the attic and been swamped with the overwhelming, irrational urge to peel that jacket off and become familiar with the hard contours of his body.

  Temptation her darker side reveled in. It would like for nothing more than to have her give in to desire and lose herself to Mick. It won, if she did.

  Damn. Never before had she felt so out of sorts, so conflicted.

  She took a deep breath, exhaled as she counted to twenty, then hurried downstairs. “I’m off.”

  Dáire glanced up from the open journal and threw her a wink. “Heal him good, Rhi. Even if it takes all night.”

  Though he teased, sincerity flashed behind his laughing blue eyes, reminding Rhiannon of all the reasons she adored her brother. He might be a little rough around the edges, might drive her crazy now and
then, but he genuinely wanted her to be happy. More than any of their siblings, he understood how it cut her to pieces to witness another human being’s suffering.

  He also understood the deep rooted, agonizing conflict that came with Mick.

  She gave Dáire a thankful smile and raced out the door.

  ****

  Bookended by his current partner and a former buddy from Augusta’s police force, Mick glanced at his watch, certain Rhiannon had changed her mind. Ten after—already his house was full of strangers, and he’d forced one too many smiles. Steve’s urn sat beneath the bright mantel light, a beacon that cut gaping holes into Mick’s hardened heart. He itched to be free of this pomp and circumstance. Longed to be just another guest who could depart when grief got the better of him.

  And he had depended on Rhiannon being here to make all this tolerable.

  “Hot damn,” his partner, Andrew, murmured beneath his breath. “Tell me that’s not your golddigger step-sister.”

  Mick’s head snapped up, his gaze following Andrew’s to the living room doorway. It landed on Rhiannon, and his heart kicked into his ribs. Loose and free, her long hair cascaded down the length of her slender body to the tops of her thighs. Strands of spun gold glinted in the warm lighting, and as she tentatively entered the room, those thick silken lengths swayed, calling out to his fingers. Countless times he’d wondered what she would look like with her hair unbound. Now, he couldn’t imagine ever imprisoning those spellbinding locks in that intricate braid.

  “No,” Mick managed to answer.

  Standing taller, as if he hoped Rhiannon might notice him, Brad commented, “Those tattoos took guts.”

  “She wears them well.” Andrew chuckled. “Wears that dress well too. She a friend of Steve’s, Mick?”

  Mick’s gaze skimmed over the short black dress and Rhiannon’s long legs. Her heels accented the shape of her calves, and as he slowly took her in, he observed concealed strength in the rest of her body. Her lithe frame disguised it well, but the tasteful dress showed off assets he hadn’t expected—and those he already appreciated all too well. Curves accented, the high tight press of her breasts against the fabric, the trimness of her waist—yeah… He could enjoy those for a long damn time.

  Andrew shrugged. “Guess I’ll find out for myself.”

  As his partner took a step forward, Mick clamped a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “She’s a friend of mine.”

  He might as well have barked “Hands off” for all the possessiveness that filled his voice. The way Andrew’s eyes widened, and the glance he exchanged with Brad, warned Mick that his slip hadn’t gone unnoticed. Later, they’d flip him shit. Right now, Mick didn’t care.

  He shouldered out from between his friends and started across the crowded room. Halfway to her, she turned her head. Blue eyes froze him to the floor. For one embarrassing heartbeat, he couldn’t do anything but stand in place, trapped by the mesmerizing light in her gaze and the unexplainable warmth that flooded through his body. Then, as her smile slowly spread, animating those intricate tattoos, his pulse jumped into double-time, and he found the ability to move his feet. He closed the remaining distance between them, caught both her hands in his, and bent his head to dust a kiss across her cheek. “I thought you’d changed your mind.”

  “I gave you my word. Not very trusting, are you?” Squeezing his fingers, she let out a soft laugh.

  Chagrined, he gave her a sheepish look. “Sorry. Comes with the job.”

  “Yes.” Rhiannon nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose it does. You can’t very well convict someone if you believe everyone who swears innocence.”

  Put that way, he couldn’t argue. Though the fact she understood caught him off guard. Most women accused him of being jaded, or of having preconceived notions when he hauled in the creeps on the street. Once or twice, he’d even been called heartless—of course, when he’d slammed a perp’s head into the interrogation room’s wall that might have been appropriate.

  In Mick’s defense, the bastard had raped and murdered a homeless, thirteen year old girl, and had tried to lie his way out of the crime. He’d deserved a hard, cold, reality check full of the same heartlessness he’d shown that poor girl.

  At a sudden loss for an appropriate response, Mick twined one hand with Rhiannon’s and turned toward the long table of food. Two steps in that direction, however, Andrew intercepted their path.

  “Hi, I’m Andrew Dodson. Mick’s partner.” He thrust out his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” He eyed Rhiannon with blatant appreciation that set Mick’s sixth sense on red alert. He’d shared a lot of things with Andrew. His past, his dreams, even his women at times. But Rhiannon wasn’t something Mick intended to share.

  He blinked. Where had that come from? He didn’t have any claim to Rhiannon. Didn’t want one. Not in a long-term, forever, sort of way. They couldn’t have that. She was here tonight because he’d asked. Tomorrow, she’d be back in her shop, and he’d go on like he had always done. Single. No ties to anyone. No way for him to ever feel the pain of loss.

  Just like he preferred.

  “Rhiannon McLaine,” she answered as she slid an elegant palm into Andrew’s. Her gaze shifted sideways as Brad appeared at Andrew’s left.

  “Brad Coulter.” He grinned at Mick. “Don’t give her yellow. Go for red.”

  At the reference to his well-known habit of ordering flowers in a benign color for his dates, Mick nearly groaned aloud. Of all the people to make that reference in front of—right there, he wanted to kick Brad.

  Rhiannon’s laugh only furthered Mick’s growing shame. She tipped her gaze to him, blue eyes teasing before she nodded to Brad. “Why thank you, Brad. I’ll remember you have good taste.”

  Before his friends could inadvertently humiliate him further, metal pinged against glass, and a hush descended on the room. Near the mantel, beside his stepfather’s urn, a gray-haired man lifted a glass of wine.

  Henry Tuppinger—Steve’s best friend. Oh, dear Lord, the wake had officially begun.

  Chapter Six

  As people milled together, sampling the catered food and drinks, occasional low laughter interrupting the somber atmosphere, Rhiannon observed Mick from the corner she inhabited with Andrew and Brad. A group of Steve’s former Army buddies had drawn him aside some time ago, and after he excused himself, another mourner sought to offer condolences. The pattern repeated each time he attempted to cross the room.

  The longer she watched, the more she became aware of his shifting energy and the pained look he struggled to conceal behind his tight, polite smile. The man who’d always seemed larger than life each time he came into her shop, whose eyes always danced with warmth, wasn’t handling this wake well at all.

  She fidgeted with her glass, trying to keep one ear on the conversation surrounding her. But it was impossible—she couldn’t tune out Mick and pretend she didn’t notice the way he was rapidly falling apart.

  That his partners didn’t notice surprised her.

  “I’m going for a refill. You want another glass of wine, Rhiannon?” Andrew asked

  She glanced up, her thoughts drawn away from Mick. “I’m sorry—what?”

  Andrew gestured at her glass. “You want some more wine?” His megawatt grin left no doubt he knew she’d been watching Mick.

  “No thanks.” She set the empty glass on an end table, and her stare drifted back to Mick. Better to keep her wits about her so she could control the dark yearnings of her soul. At some point tonight, she’d have to be alone with Mick. When that time came, she needed the strength to fight back the call of forbidden desire.

  “Cake? Chips?” Andrew prodded as he exited their tight circle.

  At that moment, Mick broke from the trio of senior women and strode from the room, his steps brusque, his shoulders rigid.

  “Excuse me.” Rhiannon ducked around Brad, hurried across the room, and through the arched entryway that led into the hall. She glanced up and down the bright corridor, sea
rching for a sign of Mick’s direction.

  The clink of glass drifted over the dull murmur of conversation behind her. Brow furrowed, she approached a partly open door, nudged the slight crack open further, and peeked into the richly masculine room. Mick stood beside a mahogany table, a descanter of scotch in one hand. He tossed back a drink and poured another liberal shot into a crystal snifter.

  Something deep down inside Rhiannon rolled over at the sight of Mick’s slumped shoulders, the way his jaw worked to contain unspent emotion. Tempering a rush of sympathy with a deep breath, she pushed the door open wide enough she could step inside, and entered, pulling it shut behind her.

  “Hey, you,” she murmured. “Got one for me?”

  Mick whipped around like a firecracker had gone off behind him. Startled eyes gave way to recognition as his gaze landed on her, and for a passing moment, Rhiannon would have sworn relief registered in his expression before pain once again pulled his features tight.

  “Got half a bottle. How much do you want?”

  She joined him at the table, picked up the matching snifter and filled it a third of the way full. Holding the glass in both hands, she sat on the edge of an overstuffed, leather armchair. Mick’s gaze flicked to her, then to the glass doors leading to an outside balcony. He turned slightly, barring her view of his handsome face. “It seems I’m not very good company tonight, after all.”

  “You don’t have to be.” Rhiannon took a sip, swirled the oaken flavor around on her tongue, then swallowed. She savored the slow burn that spread through her stomach. Good scotch was a rare treat, and whoever had purchased this single malt knew his liquor.

  Mick let out a heavy sigh and moved closer to the door. He stared out at something she couldn’t see, but he remained silent, offering no further insight to whatever thoughts plagued his mind.

  After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he flipped the latch on the door and rolled the heavy glass open. He wandered onto the deck where he braced his hands on the railing that overlooked a line of trees beyond the yard.