FIFTEEN

Something had changed, Lyrica thought two days later as she awoke. Lying in Graham’s bed, awaking alone, was beginning to bother her. No matter how long she lay there, he didn’t check to see if she was awake. When she went to bed at night, he did join her. But the only proof she had that he slept in the bed was the indent in the pillow each morning and the mussed blankets.

His day was filled with meetings with Elijah, calls to contacts, and hours spent on his laptop searching down “leads.” She was starting to think the leads were no more than an excuse to ensure he didn’t have time to touch her.

If it weren’t for the way he watched her, she’d believe she’d imagined the hours she’d spent with him buried inside her. Because he sure as hell wasn’t doing anything to touch her now.

Whatever the shadow she’d sometimes glimpsed in his gaze over the past year was, it seemed to have grown in the past two days. His expression was remote, his mood dark, and only his eyes betrayed the lust that still lingered between them.

Confused and uncertain, she forced herself from the bed and into the shower, the change in Graham still plaguing her even as she dressed for another day behind closed curtains, hiding from whatever threat existed outside.

She was getting tired of hiding.

She’d known she would. If she had known what was going on to begin with, she would have demanded her brother and cousins come up with a plan that would draw the threat out into the open rather than piecing everything together the way they were now.

Had she been given a chance to consider it the other night, she might have demanded it then. One thing was for certain, she couldn’t continue like this. She was already going stir-crazy.

Her life wasn’t one of idle days and lazy nights. She worked three jobs in any given week: Dawg’s lumber store, the marina, and the restaurant Natches and his sister ran in Somerset, simply named Mackay’s.

She worked wherever she was needed most at the time or wherever her interest drew her on any given day. She didn’t just sit around, unless it was in front of her laptop writing. And writing wasn’t a vocation for her. It was an outlet for the hopes, dreams, and pains that she often found herself too sensitive to.

Freshly showered, her long black hair blow-dried to ribbon straightness and falling to the middle of her shoulders, Lyrica hurriedly dressed.

A white lace bra and matching panties, a fluttery chiffon skirt in soft pastel waves of color, and a white cotton camisole tank that fit over her breasts with snug appreciation for her curves before skimming over her stomach and disappearing into the thin band of the skirt. Pushing her feet into a pair of tan brown leather sandals, she left Graham’s bedroom and headed to the kitchen.

They had twenty-four more hours, she decided, to at least come up with a reasonable lead. After that, they were going to have to revise their plans just a little bit, because living like this . . . there was no way she could continue to do it for long.

Her heart wouldn’t survive it.

Stepping into the kitchen, she was surprised to see Graham sitting at the small breakfast table with his laptop, a steaming coffee sitting at his elbow.

His head lifted as she stepped into the kitchen, his golden brown eyes narrowing on her, the flecks of gold firing instantly as she paused at the doorway.

“You’re not in the office,” she observed as she moved to the coffeepot.

“Don’t appear to be, do I?” His tone was carefully modulated. Not a hint of mockery or sarcasm was to be found in his voice or his expression.

But she still felt it.

Tensing, she poured the coffee before cradling the cup in her hands and turning back to him.

“Do you have a problem with me being here all of a sudden?” she asked curiously, hiding the flash of pain that struck her at the thought.

“Did I say I had a problem with you being here?” A dark blond brow arched questioningly, and still there was no sign of the dark anger she could feel just beneath the surface.

“You wouldn’t say, whether you had one or not,” she felt the need to point out. “Other than sleeping with me, you’d take care of me the same way you’d expect my family to take care of Kye. I know you that well at least.”

Something flickered in his gaze then. An acknowledgment of her point, perhaps?

Lifting the cup to her lips to ensure she gave away as little of the pain the thought caused her as possible, Lyrica sipped at the coffee slowly.

“If I had a problem with you being here, then trust me, you wouldn’t be here,” he promised, his expression tightening as he turned his attention back to the laptop.

“You have me for twenty-four more hours,” she stated, her resolve hardening. “Then I’m calling Dawg.”

With that, she set the coffee cup on the counter and turned and walked from the room.

“Like hell.” He caught up with her before she cleared the kitchen doorway. Catching her arm in a firm grip, he had her swung around before she realized he’d even moved from the table. “What the fuck do you mean by that?” The gleam of gold in his gaze seemed to intensify as he pulled her to him, his powerful body tense, tight, and hard against her.

“Stop with the he-man bullshit, Graham,” she snapped, pulling away from his touch as quickly as possible. Even angry and hurt, she felt nothing but pleasure when his skin touched hers. “I don’t have time for it, and I don’t want to deal with it. Dawg has twenty-four hours to figure out what the hell is going on and how to fix it, or I’m leaving.”

His expression became so tight, so fierce, it bordered on savage. Lips thinning, the muscles at his jaw clenched tight, he glowered down at her with such dominant force that she almost backed down. It was as though some preprogrammed female part of her DNA instinctively reacted to the demand for submission.

“The hell you are. Do you think I’m busting my ass to figure this out so you can give me a deadline before waltzing out of here and making yourself a target? I don’t think so, sweetheart.”

She smiled back at him, making damned certain her smirk was identical to the one Natches was known for.

His eyes narrowed.

“Twenty-four hours,” she said again, calmly. “Then I’m leaving.”

“I’ll lock you in the fucking basement.” It was a promise.

“You could have been a Mackay,” she stated, her voice heavy with derision. “How long do you think it will take before Dawg finds out?”

“As long as it takes me to call him and tell him you’re trying to leave. About five minutes after I lock the door.”

She had to laugh. “You have to come back in at some point, Graham. Do you think I’ll actually let you leave alive?”

A frown jerked between his brows, outrage glittered in his eyes, and he was so tense, so prepared to lock her in that damned basement, that the power pumping into his muscles actually seemed to make his biceps appear larger.

“I’ll send Elijah in first,” he said.

The back door opened at that moment and Elijah stepped in, a questioning grin tugging at his handsome lips as he arched a dark brow over humor-filled blue eyes. “Send me where?”

In the same instant, he seemed to sense the tension filling the room as it whipped from both of them.

The door closed slowly behind him. “Should I leave?” His throat cleared uncomfortably as he remained by the door.

“Of course not, Elijah.” Lyrica grinned, stepping away from Graham and moving to the coffeepot. “I was just getting ready to make some fresh coffee before going upstairs and working on a new sales program I promised Dawg. Would you like a cup?”

Elijah’s gaze moved to Graham as the other man stomped back to the table and the open laptop.

“Is it safe?” he asked, the barest hint of mockery tugging at his lips.

“Unless she throws it at you,” Graham stated, his voice low as he threw another glare her way.

“She wouldn’t throw it at me.” Elijah gave a confident laugh. “She likes me. Don’tcha, Lyrica?”

“All the girls like you, Elijah,” she laughed as she threw him a smile over her shoulder. “Some much better than others.”

He winked. The charmer. “Yeah, they like my redneck charm,” he drawled. “Works every time.”

Lyrica only snorted before starting on making fresh coffee. Rinsing out her cup, she set it beside the coffeepot before turning back to the two men. Both were watching her closely.

Propping her hands on the counter behind her, she tilted her head inquiringly. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Graham murmured. “Not for a good twenty-four hours at least.”

“Not on my end.” Elijah grinned. “I just stepped in to let the boss know about his cows since he couldn’t get out there today. He’s particular about bovines, ya know?” He turned to Graham then. “What happens in twenty-four hours?”

“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?” Graham answered tightly. “Now, tell me about my damned bovines.”

Bovine his ass, Graham thought in irritation. The cows were fine; he’d checked on them himself no more than two hours before. Elijah’s only job was monitoring those cameras and tracking anyone who came too close to the lake house.

Graham owned over five hundred acres, with the western corner butting against the lake and no neighbors for several miles. If anyone was out there, then it was Elijah’s job to identify and track them.

“You had a few strays.” Turning to Graham, Elijah’s gaze hardened while his voice remained easy, almost teasing. “This one little shit slipped away from me on the upper end of the lake, though. I’ll go out later and see if I can’t pick its trail up again.”

As he spoke he tapped an icon on his phone and pulled up a picture.

There was no way to tell much about the watcher, except the fact that it sure as hell wasn’t a poacher, hunter, or lone fisherman. The figure was dressed in black, with a black military face hood in place and dark glasses. Male or female, who the hell knew?

“Was it off the farm when you caught sight of it?” Graham asked.

“Naw, I saw the little critter just ahead of that outcropping of boulders up the ways a bit.” Elijah tapped the phone again to point out the fifth of a dozen cameras spread around the house. Five was just above the back of the house, the same side Graham’s bedroom was on.

“I’m confident you’ll track it down,” he murmured, glancing over at Lyrica.

Leaning against the counter, she watched them in amused interest, though the expression on her face was frankly skeptical. The last gurgle of the coffeemaker indicated the brew’s completion, prompting her to turn, fill three cups, then slide the pot back into place.

“Here, you two drink your coffee and talk about your ‘bovines’ in peace,” she said. “I figure they’re kind of like Dawg’s ‘cows’ when he doesn’t want Christa to know he and Natches are out checking for trespassers. The two-legged variety.”

“Huh?” Elijah turned back to her, frowning as though confused.

Lyrica only laughed. “Natches uses a similar expression whenever he’s lying through those disgustingly healthy teeth of his, Eli. Save it.”

“Those are his teeth?” Poor Elijah, she distracted him so easily, Graham thought in disgust. “He’s too old for teeth like that.”

“He’s forty-three, not fifty-three,” Lyrica laughed. “Now, Rowdy just hit forty-five. And those are indeed his natural teeth as well.”

Graham frowned. Elijah’s gaze flicked to those pretty, sun-kissed legs as she set the two cups on the table.

“Hell, none of them look forty,” Elijah said with a grunt as she moved back. “They’re aging well at least.”

“Let’s see if I let them live to see their next birthdays,” Lyrica suggested, her smile tight as she turned away from them, collected her own coffee, and moved for the doorway.

“Lyrica.” Graham watched as she tensed at the doorway before turning back to him.

“Yes, Graham?” The saccharine sweetness of her smile didn’t fool him in the least.

“We’ll finish our discussion, soon.”

“Of course we will.” She shrugged as though not in the least concerned. “Until then, you have twenty-three hours.” Then she flashed Elijah a bright smile. “See you later, Eli. Tell Timothy and Dawg I said hey when you see them later.”

She left the room, the little skirt flirting just below her thighs as she turned the corner and headed back through the house.

As Elijah turned, his arched brows and the grin on his lips assured Graham that the other man found the situation immensely funny.

“Poor Graham,” he murmured.

Bracing his elbows on the table, Graham directed a focused, narrow-eyed look on the younger man. “You have something to say?”

“An observation, perhaps,” Elijah murmured.

“And that would be?” Graham doubted he really wanted to hear it.

“You obviously have twenty-three hours to fix the situation or she’s leaving.” Leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, Elijah watched him knowingly.

“So?”

He shook his head pityingly. “Or twenty-three hours to give her a reason to hope it takes her brother a while to figure this mess out.” Dropping his arms, he rose to his feet, his gaze flashing with something more than pity as the amusement dropped away. “If you don’t want her, Graham, let her go—give someone else a chance to make her happy. Or finish what you started and see what you’ll be throwing away when it’s over. If you let her go now, she might have a chance of finding happiness later. That would be the humane way to handle this.”

Graham rose slowly to his feet. “Interested, Elijah?” he asked softly, his fingers curling into fists at his sides at the very thought of the bastard touching her.

“Not me.” His smile was hard, cold then. “I like living too much. But I’m sure there’s a nice, safe accountant, manager, or, hell, landscaper who could be. Give one of them a chance.”

Pulling the door open with a jerk, Elijah left the kitchen, the door closing just a little too loudly behind him.

Graham cursed.

The bastard.

Elijah had worked undercover in all three areas before coming to Somerset. Accountant, manager, or landscaper his ass. Graham would shoot him first.

But he had a point. Maybe the deadline wasn’t a deadline for her brother, but one for him.

Lyrica Mackay wasn’t nearly as maneuverable as she let her brother and cousins believe she was, he thought with a heavy sigh. Nor was she willing to give him time to find the self-control he needed to make sure her heart wasn’t shattered when this was over.

She was nothing like Betts.

The thought caught him so completely off guard that for a moment he was back there. The sun beating down on his desert helmet, attacking the dark sunglasses he wore as the military convoy dropped into base.

The four-man unit he was scheduled to take into the mountains above Kabul was in that convoy, he knew. His men were assembled, their gear ready for a week-long trek into territory sure to test the luck they’d held on to for months when it came to serious wounds or fatalities.

Then his third man turned and reached into the vehicle, and a second later Graham had kissed that lucky streak good-bye as the soldier helped a lone female from the truck.

Betts Laren. Delicate and black haired, though the shining cap was cut to frame her pixieish face rather than falling down her back. Her lashes weren’t as thick and lush as Lyrica’s, her slender body more compact than fragile, her eyes a softer green. But she’d relieved the lust he couldn’t seem to get a handle on where thoughts of the third Mackay sister were concerned.

The army intelligence officer was fearless and charming, and she’d fooled him in ways he’d never believed a woman could fool him.

Shaking his head, he stalked to the door and opened it, stepping out to the shaded porch to draw in the scent of Kentucky warmth as the memory of the smell of death began to fill his head.

He’d kept from touching Lyrica for two fucking days. Hellish days. He was so damned hard, so ready to fuck, it was all he could do to keep from throwing her over the table when Elijah flirted with her outrageously.

He’d known he wasn’t going to last much longer when he’d forced himself from the bed that morning. But he’d managed to get a handle on it, to push back the extremity of his lust. If he could detach himself from his need just a little more, then he could take her again and trust his ability to still think straight.

He would be able to still the hunger just a little while; keeping her heart from becoming more involved, perhaps. He didn’t want to hurt Lyrica.

There was no doubt he already trusted her. Lyrica didn’t balk at telling him exactly what was on her mind at any given time. And when she did, he always sensed it.

But he wasn’t a safe bet for her. He wasn’t a safe bet for any woman. His secrets were dangerous, and the chances of their resurrection far too probable. The only question was when.

He frowned, wondering . . .

Not possible; he shook the thought away. That particular secret still lay in a coma in a French hospital. He knew. He checked daily. And he lived with the knowledge that he’d jeopardized his own future when he hadn’t killed the man when he had the chance.

—

Breathing out a sigh of relief that Graham had left the kitchen, Lyrica stepped back inside to refresh her coffee and snag one of the prepared sandwiches Graham and Kye usually kept in the fridge for lunch.

Neither of them was big on cooking, Kye had laughed as she’d looked over the selection of sandwiches. So twice a week, one of them would put together the sandwiches, wrap them, and place them in the crisper.

They were always damned good, too.

Not too big, no condiments or additions. Just thick hoagie rolls and a variety of thinly sliced meats. Who needed tomato and lettuce, she thought as she bit into one of the meaty selections.

Finishing the sandwich and her coffee, she wandered into the sunroom, the memory of lying on that nearest chaise lounge with Graham between her thighs sending a flush racing over her body.

Damn him. Threaten to lock her in the basement, would he? Oh, just let him try. She’d make damned sure he regretted it.

And of course, threatening to lock her away was far better than touching her, wasn’t it?

God, had she really wasted the past six years of her life? Because if he thought for one damned minute that he’d made up for six years of tortured arousal, then he’d best think again.

Yeah, she had wasted those years.

She was wasting her time now, she thought as she heard the back door open. She would have let him know she was there if she’d had a chance—she was turning to head back into the kitchen when Elijah’s comment stopped her in her tracks.

“She’s not Betts, Graham.” Elijah’s voice was heavy, filled with regret.

“I didn’t say she was,” Graham answered and Lyrica heard the sound of the fridge opening and closing.

“You should have stayed the hell away from her,” Elijah growled then, his voice harder, colder than she could have imagined possible. “Let her love—”

“An accountant, manager, or landscaper?” Graham gave a short, mocking bark of laughter. “Fuck you, Elijah. I told you this subject was finished. Now let it go.”

“Let Lyrica go, then,” the other man snapped back at him. “Stop hanging around her like some dark, tortured warrior. You’ve done just enough to keep that girl hanging on without giving her any part of yourself. Where’s the fairness in that?”

“Drop it, Elijah.” Graham’s voice was dangerously soft now.

“She’s . . . no more than a stand-in for her . . .” Elijah’s accusation sent a wave of agony ripping through Lyrica’s heart as she heard something heavy thump into the wall.

Probably Elijah.

Stepping to the doorway silently, she saw Elijah shoved into the wall, Graham’s forearm braced against his throat, his back tense, every muscle defined as he held the younger man firmly in place.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” Grating, rasping with fury, Graham’s voice carried clearly to her.

“Don’t I?” Elijah bit out fiercely, doing nothing to fight back. “I might not know what happened or how it happened, but what I do know is that she and Lyrica resemble each other enough that it’d be damned easy for you to pretend—”

“Don’t make me kill you, Elijah. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about and repeating that crap will only hurt Lyrica.”

“Why do you care?” Elijah’s lips drew back furiously, though still he did nothing to fight back. “You don’t intend to keep her. You just intend to fuck a little pain out of your system before you send her back home to her brother. Tell me, Graham, did you call her name when you were—”

“No!” Lyrica jumped forward as Graham’s fist drew back, the power bunching in his shoulder and arm a clear indication that Elijah was about to be on the receiving end of something Graham would never be able to take back.

“Let him go,” she whispered as the two men froze.

Elijah’s gaze was filled with regret, but purpose. Jerking his head around, Graham’s gaze was so razor sharp it sliced into her soul as it locked onto hers.

Endless, bitter fury seemed to reflect in his eyes now. For the first time she was seeing the soul of the man, and the bleak misery there had her flinching at the pain of it.

His pain.

And now hers. Because now she knew she truly was no more than his latest “flavor,” and she couldn’t even hate him for it, because she’d known. She’d known all along that she would never be more than that.

Slowly, Graham moved back, his fingers flexing as the muscles at his jaw clenched violently.

“Get out!” He snarled, turning on Elijah with the promise of certain violence. “Now!”

Elijah gave a hard, disgusted twist of his lips before turning, gripping the door, and slamming out of the kitchen and onto the back porch.

Graham swung back around, the gold in his eyes brilliant now as he watched her for several long, tense moments.

“Eavesdropping doesn’t become you, Lyrica,” he stated furiously.

“Yeah, and it’s true what they say, eavesdroppers hear nothing good of themselves, right?”

“Fuck!” A hard grimace tightened his face as he raked his fingers furiously through his hair. “I would have never let you hear that bullshit.” He glared back at her as his arms dropped to his sides once again. “And that’s what it was, fucking bullshit.”

It was more. She could see it in his eyes, in the furious pain burning in the golden depths.

“I didn’t mean to overhear.” She swallowed tightly. “It all happened so fast.”

Lifting her hand, she dropped it to her side again helplessly.

If it was bullshit, he would explain, right?

She waited, watching him, knowing with every shuddering beat of her heart that he wasn’t going to explain a damned thing. Because to explain it would mean admitting it wasn’t bullshit, she thought painfully. Admitting that she was no more than a stand-in for another woman.

What was she supposed to do now? What was she supposed to say?

She looked away for a long moment, the shadows that filled the room from the tightly closed windows and the curtains pulled over them sinking into her heart.

When she turned back to him, she couldn’t help the trembling of her lips or the pain that lashed at her heart.

“Did you think of her when you were with me?” she whispered, unable to stop the words before they escaped. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I asked that.” She tried to laugh, but the sound was bitter and filled with self-disgust as she held up a hand in a staying motion as he started to speak. “I don’t even want to know. I don’t even think I can bear to know either fucking way.”

He shook his head, breathing out roughly, but he refused to say anything, refused to explain a damned thing.

“Does Kye know?” she asked painfully, her heart racing so hard, pounding in agony at her chest.

“There’s nothing to fucking know, Lyrica,” he bit out, his voice rough. “For god’s sake, what you heard was Elijah’s perception of one fucking comment made long before this summer. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about and he has no idea how close he is to getting his fucking ass kicked for hurting you like this.”

Hurt? This wasn’t hurt. It was agony. Because what he was saying felt true, but she could also feel the lie.

“Who is Betts?”

He flinched as though she’d struck him.

That was all the truth she needed to see.

She rushed past him, unable to stand there any longer, unable to face him or the tears she could feel burning in her chest.

Even as she ran, she expected him to stop her. She expected to feel his arms coming around her and pulling her back into the heat of his hard body. She didn’t. As she rushed out the door, she paused long enough to glance back at him. He stood where he had been before she moved, appearing to stare at the spot where she’d stood. Still, silent, and just as alone as he wanted to be.