Enemies on Tap (15 page)

The pronouncement stopped Natalie in mid-diatribe. Her face blanched. “Carl? From the brewery?”

She nodded her head. “I was about to call you to get his address out of his personnel file so the sheriff’s deputies could interview him. Do you think Sean’s still there? He could get it.”

“Of course Sean’s there. I don’t think that stubborn beast leaves the brewery, but we don’t need him.” Natalie pulled her phone out of the tan messenger bag slung across one shoulder and began clicking away at the keypad. “I upgraded the system so that all the files are in high-security, password-protected Cloud storage. It’s accessible anywhere that has an Internet hookup or cell signal. Really, it’s just basic business continuity planning. I’m sure you would have thought of it eventually.”

“If you say so.”

“Here it is. Carl Brennan, 5528 Fourth Street, Salvation, Virginia.” Natalie glanced up and absentmindedly hooked a finger around her pearl necklace. “Do you need phone numbers?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The deputy scribbled into his notepad.

“It’s 241-5622.” Natalie scrolled down the tiny screen. “I don’t see another number, so I’m not sure if that’s home or a cell.”

“Thanks. I’ll be sure to follow up with him.” The deputy closed his notepad and slid it into an inner pocket on his standard-issue brown jacket. “In the meantime, stay alert.”

Miranda rubbed her palms against her upper arms. Being hyperaware was not going to be a problem. Not freaking out once the adrenaline stopped pumping through her system? Now that could get iffy.

Chapter
Fifteen

Logan’s fingers drummed an impatient beat on his steering wheel while he waited for the red light to turn green and tried to process the news Hud had just delivered. He was going to wring Carl’s neck like a wet dishtowel. As soon as he found him, which—considering how frickin’ long the light was—could be another decade. No other cars were traveling the opposite
direction, but here he was cooling his jets on the corner of Main Street and First Avenue like a no-nuts asshole. He yanked the staid red and blue striped banker’s tie from around his neck and tossed it onto his suit jacket lying in a crumpled heap in the passenger’s seat.

His gaze dropped down to the Bluetooth display on his dashboard showing Hud’s cellphone number. “Are you sure about this?”

“Based on what she said to the deputy, I don’t see how it could be anyone else.” His best friend’s voice boomed over the truck’s speakers.

The light finally changed, and Logan sped through the intersection toward Salvation’s busiest road, Route One, which was littered with fast food restaurants, gas stations, shopping centers and bars. “And you didn’t see any paint scraped onto her car?”

“I gave it a good go-over before leaving it at the impound. Her bumper is shot, her grill is dented, but I didn’t see anything. Now, maybe, if they go all CSI, they’ll find something, but let’s be realistic. This is Hamilton County, not Harbor City. No one was hurt. And the county is squeezing every penny possible out of each tax dollar as it is.”

Logan punched the gas. “And the sheriff has arrested half her family at one time or another, so he’s got no reason to waste resources on a Sweet.” He hooked a right onto Route One, his tires squealing against the pavement. “So it will be her word against Carl’s.”

“Bingo.” Hud paused. “So, what’s the deal?”

He switched to the left lane and passed a mini-van going the speed limit. “What do you mean?”

“With you and Miranda.”

Everything. Nothing. Not nearly as much as he wanted. “There is no Miranda and me.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

Shame prickled his skin as he remembered the way he’d treated Miranda when she walked into his office a few weeks ago, how condescending he’d been when she’d burst into the investors meeting at The Kitchen Sink. She hadn’t been a person, just an adversary fucking up his plan. Now she was more than that. She was Miranda.

“My family and the rest of this town have treated her family for shit for generations. I’ve been right with them, acting like a complete ass.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“What makes you think I’m going to do anything?” Logan pulled into the Spotted Pig’s parking lot. It was half full, but dusk was falling fast. It wouldn’t be long before vehicles filled every available spot.

“Well, whatever you’re not doing, make sure it’s nothing stupid. And if it is…call me. It’s been a while since I knocked heads together.”

“You got it.” Logan ended the call and backed into a spot in the corner. The position gave him an unobstructed view of the bar’s tinted glass doors framed by two ten-feet-tall hogs dressed in cowboy hats and silver belt buckles.

Nothing would feel as good as pounding Carl’s face in right about now, but that wouldn’t help Miranda in the long run. Carl’s family had a long history in Salvation. If the sheriff’s deputies even believed Miranda’s story, the gossips would say she’d driven Carl to act out. If Logan smashed the shithead’s nose into a bloody mess, they’d blame his action on a Sweet’s bad influence. Either way, Tyrell would use it to get more county council votes to outlaw alcohol manufacturing at the next meeting.

That couldn’t happen. Like it or not, he had to keep his fists back for this one. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a
friendly
word with Carl.

He scanned the lot, looking for Carl’s distinctive truck. There were other camouflaged vehicles, including one puke green subcompact, which made his head hurt with its ugliness, but none were Carl’s. He could wait for his prey inside the bar, but that would start talk about why a Martin would be hanging out in a honky-tonk on the other side of town from the country club. So he opted to sit and wait in the oppressive silence of his truck.

An hour ticked by, and his frustration grew while he watched a line of vehicles pull into the parking lot. None of them were the right one. The longer he waited, the less his plan made sense. He was about to turn the key in the ignition when Carl’s truck pulled in with its oversized tires and undersized driver. The truck circled the parking lot before backing into the last spot near the door.

Logan pushed open his door and was halfway across the parking lot by the time Carl had gotten out of his truck.

“Hey, Brennan,” he hollered.

Carl swiveled around. A snide smirk formed when he spotted Logan. “I was wondering how long it would take you to show up here.”

Logan stopped and slid a sideways glance at the front of Carl’s truck, noting the small scratches on the mud-covered grill. “Let’s say it took me a while to see your side of things.”

“Welcome to the light.”

“Can we talk?” He covertly pressed the record button on his phone and slipped it into the front pocket of his shirt.

Carl nodded toward the Spotted Pig’s entrance. “Come on in, I’ll let you buy the first round.”

A couple stumbled out the front door of the bar, the blaring sound of the jukebox following them out. There was no way he’d be able to get a clear recording on his phone. “I’d rather talk out here.”

“Too good for a brew when it’s not served at the golf course?” A thread of contempt weaved into the other man’s tone, matching the snarl curling his lip.

Rather than deny the man’s assumption, Logan played into the whole lord of the manor stereotype, brushing a speck of dirt from his sleeve. “Does it matter?”

“Guess not.” Carl eyeballed him for a minute, then spit a stream of tobacco onto the pavement. “So talk.”

He had to play this carefully if he wanted the state troopers to accept the covert confession. “I wanted to follow up on that offer you made me at the brewery.”

“So you got your little piece of Sweet goodness and now you’re ready to send her packing, huh?”

Heat blazed its way up his spine, and his hands curled into fists, but he couldn’t give into the urge to pummel the man who’d run Miranda off the road. First, he had to get the bastard to spill his guts. Pulling from his reserve of Martin family control, he uncurled his fingers and forced his body into a casual stance.

“Something like that.”

“Well, like I said, there are a million things that can go wrong at the brewery.” He shrugged. “All it takes is a little loosening here or a little too much tightening there.”

Logan’s gut clenched. A few years ago, an employee at the nearby Gulch City Breweries had been seriously burned while cleaning the beer kegs. One of the kegs hadn’t been purged of the internal pressure, and when the man had opened the valve from the hot water heater, the boiling water had overflowed the tank and showered down on him, leaving third degree burns covering 25 percent of his body. The idea of that happening to Miranda—or anyone else at Sweet Salvation Brewery—sent a cold rush of fear through Logan.

“Would anyone get hurt?”

“Depends.” He paused. “Do you want them to?”

Logan shoved his hands into his pockets before he ruined everything by turning the shithead’s face into hamburger meat. “Speaking of which, I hear Miranda had a car accident this afternoon.”

Carl rocked back on his heels and tilted his head skyward. “You don’t say.”

God, he couldn’t wait to smack the
Who, me?
look right off the other man’s face. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?”

Rolling slowly back to the balls of his feet, Carl shot him a look with dead eyes that sent ice down Logan’s spine. “Sometimes folks are in the right place at the right time.”

“And you were?”

“You’re asking a lot of questions about shit that ain’t none of your business.”

“Just making sure we’re on the same page. Man willing to pull that off is the kind I need” Just saying the words left an ugly taste in Logan’s mouth, like a skunk had died on the back of his tongue. “I’m not sure you’re that kind of man, unless you can convince me you have the balls to really see something like this through.”

“Oh, I have the cajones.” He puffed up his scrawny chest and glanced around. “I was out at her uncle’s place, figuring on scaring some sense into that little bitch, when who do I see tooling up that long-ass driveway. Figured I could give her car a couple of love taps and get my message through without ever having to get out of my truck.” He hocked a brown loogie. “Like I said, right place at the right time.”

“So you did.” Logan firmed up his stance and fisted his hands.

One punch. That’s all it would take, and he’d have Carl kissing pavement. God knew he deserved it. Tyrell. Carl. Hell, he’d been a total asshole to Miranda, too. It was past time it ended.

Another blast of country music filled the parking lot, jerking both their attention toward the door and a bearded man striding out of the Spotted Pig. Logan recognized him from the brewery. Sam? Stan? Sean? Carl glanced over his shoulder—

And it seemed like his whole body tensed. The other man slowed his stroll but didn’t stop. He climbed into his SUV, the engine roared to life, and the SUV pulled out of the parking lot.

“What a chicken shit asshole,” Carl muttered before turning back to face Logan. “We done here? There’s a pitcher of beer with my name on it in there.”

“Not quite.” Logan shifted his stance. “I’ll give you the first punch.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m going to flatten you like a pancake for what you did to Miranda, but unlike your mother, mine taught me to fight like a man, not a scared little asshole who hides behind a one-ton truck.”

“You’re fuckin’ nuts.” Carl turned away and took a half step before spinning around and planting a sucker punch against the corner of Logan’s mouth.

Blood trickled down from his busted lip, and he reached up to wipe it away with his thumb. “My turn.”

He connected with a right jab to Carl’s nose. Blood squirted down the other man’s face, soaking his gray Harley Davidson T-shirt. Logan followed up with a left upper cut to the jaw that snapped back Carl’s head with vicious efficiency. A sock to the gut sent the other man staggering back until he banged into the driver’s side door of his truck.

The need to keep hitting until there was no mistake about his message thundered through Logan, carried by adrenaline and pent up fury. He cocked his fist back, ready to clock Carl right in the eye.

“Stop.” Carl wheezed out the single world and held up his hand. “Please.”

He hesitated, calculating the damage he’d already done. Blood, snot, and spit mixed together on Carl’s mangled face. “She’s worth more than a dozen of you, and it’s about time this town realized that. About fucking time I did.” He loomed over Carl. “You don’t come at Miranda again. You don’t drive near her. You don’t go to the brewery. You don’t talk about her. You don’t even fucking think about her or I will find you and pound you into the ground. Got it?”

Carl whipped the back of his hand across his nose and winced. “I got it.”

Adrenaline leaching from his bloodstream, Logan turned toward his truck. He needed to hand over his evidence to the cops. Then, he’d go see Miranda and make sure she really was okay.

“That girl must have one magic pussy to get you all worked up over a little fender bender.” Bitterness, heavy as bricks, weighed down Carl’s words.

Fury exploded in Logan and he whipped around, blood rushing in his ears. He didn’t think. He didn’t breathe. He just found his target and smashed his fist into the disrespectful weasel’s face. At that moment, a chorus of angels couldn’t have sounded as good as the crack of Carl’s nose breaking against his knuckles. The other man slid down the truck’s door, landing in a heap on the pavement.

“You won’t get another warning, asshole.” Logan crossed the parking lot and got into his truck.

After dropping off the recording, he had only one destination in mind and only one person who mattered: Miranda.

Chapter
Sixteen

The night was made for yoga pants and her favorite threadbare “Jake Ryan is My Boyfriend” T-shirt, but not—apparently—for sleep.

Never one to stay up past ten, Natalie had staggered off to bed an hour ago. Miranda had downed the Natalie-prescribed cup of soothing chamomile tea, which had done nothing to suck the tension out of her muscles or ease the need to constantly be in motion. Prowling around Uncle Julian’s house, her way illuminated by dim light over the
kitchen sink, Miranda stopped in front of the refrigerator and contemplated the stainless steel behemoth.

Julian had been a confirmed bachelor and non-hunter, yet his fridge was the biggest they made with double doors and a pull-out freezer in the bottom. Just another Sweet family quirk, she figured. The thought gave her pause. A few weeks ago, it would have been another sign that her blood was contaminated with order-defying crazy. But today, she chalked it up to a little silly eccentricity. God, she really had drunk the Kool-aid.

Shaking her head, she swung open one of the refrigerator doors and immediately wished she hadn’t. Since she’d been practically living at the brewery for the past few weeks, she hadn’t bothered with grocery shopping beyond instant oatmeal and frozen dinners. Whatever the green mush ball in the crisper drawer had been in a previous life, it was a nasty-smelling science experiment now.

She yanked the crisper drawer out of the fridge and dumped the contents into the kitchen garbage, squirted a healthy dose of dishwashing soap into the now empty, but still reeking, drawer and filled it with water. A quick scrub in the morning and it would be as good as new. The kitchen, however, would smell like a toxic dumpsite if she didn’t get the trash bag into the outdoor container.

Bracing herself for the October night’s chill, she dashed out the back door and made a beeline for the outdoor garbage bin next to the house. In one fluid motion, she tossed the plastic bag in and swiveled to head back to the house. A truck sat parked at the end of the driveway, blocking in Natalie’s rental car. The front porch light was off, obscuring all but the outline of the vehicle. Heart in her throat, her mind went blank except for one word. One
name
.

Carl.

She scanned the shadowy wraparound porch for signs of movement, but even the wind had stilled. Weak light spilled out from the back door she’d left open.

Open!

Like an idiot, she’d left the house vulnerable. And Natalie was inside, asleep and alone. Pushed forward by the terror nipping at her heels, she sprinted the last few feet and bounded onto the porch. She grabbed the screen door’s handle with one hand and with the other grabbed a hollow, ceramic garden gnome sitting on the railing.

“Miranda.”

She whirled around and brought the gnome down against her attacker’s head. It shattered against his skull, and he dropped to his knees.

Taking advantage of his incapacity, Miranda ran into the house, slammed the door shut, and flipped the deadbolt.

The front door. Was it locked?

She tore through the kitchen, whacking her thigh against the corner of the table and not giving a damn. The living room was located on the other side of the dining room and beyond that, like a lone sentinel on a faraway battlefield, stood the front door.

Running as if her sister’s life depended on it, she slapped her palms against the front door in record time.

The deadbolt was already locked. Still, she ran her hands over it to confirm her what she saw. Her clammy palm slid off the cool metal and she sunk down to her knees, sucking in lung-fulls of air.

She rolled back onto her haunches and listened for the truck’s motor to turn and for Carl to get the hell off their property. The only sound she heard was her own blood thundering through her ears.

She had to call the police. Hauling herself up, she tried to mentally pull herself together. The old farmhouse was solid. Natalie and she were safe. All she needed to do was get to the kitchen and call 911. Ignoring as best she could the pain in her thigh, Miranda limped into the kitchen and grabbed the phone with shaking hands.

“Miranda.” The muffled voice coming through the back door struck a chord.

Was that…
Her fingers faltered on the phone’s number pad. “Logan?”

“It’s me,” he said. “
I’m bleeding. Please let me in.”

The phone hit the hardwood floor with a
bang
. She hurried to the back door and flung it open. Logan stood with his right palm pressed against his temple, blood dribbling down his cheek.

“Oh, my God. I thought you were Carl.” She grabbed his free hand and pulled him inside the kitchen.

“Yeah.” He gave her a shaky smile. “I would have called first, but had to leave my phone at the station.”

Logan sank down into a chair at the oak table. His jaw tightened and blood traveled a crooked path down his cheek, making the skin around it ashen in comparison to the bright red.

A wave of dizziness hit her. “I’m so sorry. It’s bleeding like a stuck pig, but I don’t think it’s very deep.” He paused and inhaled a deep breath before letting it out with a groan.

Miranda sprang up from her seat and grabbed a clean dishtowel out of the drawer by the sink and dampened it. Knowing she had a job to do calmed her jangly nerves and gave her something to focus on beyond her own panicked reaction. “Okay, let me take a look at my handiwork.”

He dropped his hand, revealing his blood-covered temple. Bile rose in Miranda’s throat, and her knees wobbled. There was a reason why someone with her grades in organic chemistry bypassed medical school and went straight into the finance program. Clenching her jaw against the upcoming tide, she wiped away the blood to reveal a two-inch-long gash that, while bloody, didn’t look to be all that deep.

She gritted her teeth and surveyed the cleaner surface. “It’s not awful, but you should probably still get it checked out. You might need stitches.”

“You’re looking a little green there, Sweetling.” He flashed her a grin that sent panties dropping six counties away. “It’s nothing. Head wounds always bleed like crazy.”

Whether or not he meant to distract her, it sure as hell was working. Her heart skipped a beat or twelve, and heat pooled in her belly.

Leaning in closer, she wiped away the blood already drying on his skin. His woodsy scent reminded her of warm summer evenings and soft kisses that turned into so much more. Damn, the man was like potato chips. She could not stop with just one night of hot sex with him.

“Oh yeah, you have plenty of experience with head wounds, huh? Are you leading some kind of double life?”

“Hud split open my skull in middle school while we were swinging horseshoes at each other. One nicked me in the back of my head. It was like the Red Sea was parting my hair.”

Determined to resist the pull of attraction, she devoted her attention to cleaning along his hairline. Turning to get a better angle, she bobbled. His arm shot out to her waist, steadying her balance but throwing everything else out of whack. Suddenly, her lack of bra became more noticeable as her breasts grew heavy with want and her nipples tightened. The threadbare T-shirt left little protection from the lust licking its way across her skin.

“I probably could have used stitches that time, but I skipped it and survived. This isn’t nearly as much blood.” Logan circled his thumbs against her hips, neither pushing nor pulling, instead taunting with careful control.

“Why were you and Hud fighting?” The bleeding had slowed to barely a dribble, but she wasn’t ready to step out of his arms just yet. Truth be told, she wanted to sit astride him and see if the bulge in his pants felt as good as it looked.

“Who said we were fighting?” His brown eyes turned as dark as espresso, the irises expanding. “It was just good…” His hands slid higher on her hips, sneaking underneath her T-shirt’s hem. “…clean…” Stopping just above her yoga pants’ low waistline, his fingers caressed her lower back. “…fun.”

Her breath caught, and her body ached for his touch with such an overwhelming force that it scared her.
Get ahold of yourself. He’s a Martin, and he’s sitting in your kitchen bleeding because you whacked him with a garden gnome.
She needed space. Now.

“You hold this.” She pressed the cloth to his cut, slapping his hand on top of it and backing away from his touch. The knuckles on his right hand were bruised and swollen, but she didn’t have the fortitude to stick around to find out why. “I’ll go get the first aid kit.”

In the bathroom, she gave her flush-cheeked reflection a long, hard look. For the love of Pete, the man was injured and all she could think about was jumping his bones and riding him like a rented pony.

She hadn’t just drunk the Salvation Kool-Aid—she’d started to brew her own.

That was not good.

Not good at all.

She needed to bandage him up and get him the hell out before she forgot who he was—again. She grabbed the kit from under the sink and hurried back into the kitchen.

“Okay, I got the—what are you doing?”

A barefoot Logan stood at the sink, holding a yellow and green
I heart NORML
glass in one hand, the stained dishtowel tossed aside on the granite counter. “Getting a drink of water.”

“You should be sitting down.” The last thing he needed was to pass out, or whatever it was that people did after getting conked on the head with a garden gnome.

“It’s not that bad.” He put the glass under the running water. “It’s barely bleeding anymore.”

She threw out one arm and pointed toward the table. “Sit.”

He shut off the water and walked over to the chair facing out toward the rest of the kitchen.

She should run. Lock herself in the bathroom. But she didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

With exquisite slowness, he unbuttoned his light blue shirt, which had a small reddish-brown stain on the collar. Inch by inch, he revealed his broad chest and the happy trail that disappeared beneath his waistband.

The sight made Miranda’s tongue stick to the roof of her mouth, and her thighs quivered. Desperate to stick to the plan, she leaned against the doorframe to anchor herself to the here and now instead of the if and when and why nots.

He never lost eye contact as he shucked off the shirt and laid it across one of the empty chairs. God, he shouldn’t but he looked perfectly at home in the farmhouse kitchen. Big and brawny and sexy as all hell with his mahogany hair ruffled and the fuck-me-now pheromones coming off him in waves. She tried to remember he was an injured man. A very sexy injured man.

He sat down in a chair and spread his legs, drawing her gaze to the outline of his hard cock pressing against his pants. “I’m all yours.”

She pushed away from the doorway, holding the first aid kit in front of her like a shield. “Saying something like that is just the sort of thing to get our ancestors turning over in their graves.”

She sat down next to him, her leg so close to his that it brushed against his knee, sending a delicious shiver up her thigh that hit home in her core. She opened up the kit and laid out the rubbing alcohol, cotton pads, and butterfly bandage. She doused the pads with rubbing alcohol. “This is going to hurt.”

God, wasn’t that always the case when a Martin and a Sweet mixed company? Still, she was starting to believe the pain would be worth it—worth him.

Logan flinched once when the pad touched his skin, but he managed to stay still after that. “When did our families begin feuding?”

After one last swipe, she dropped the pad to the table and grabbed the bandage. “Right about the dawn of time.”

As she moved between his legs, his hands wrapped around her hips, his touch burning through her yoga pants. Her thoughts scattered, but the yearning for him in her core centered and grew. Hot and hungry, desire threaded its way through her body. So bad, yet so good. And there was more. A need for him that couldn’t be satisfied with only sex. Damn her greedy soul, she wanted more.

“All because your how-ever-many greats grandfather broke into the family homestead and stole my how-ever-many greats grandfather’s fiancée, Elizabeth, out of there on the night before the wedding?”

He pulled the bandage from her grasp and peeled away the waxed paper over the adhesive before handing it back. This time, he kept his hands to himself, making it easier for Miranda to form coherent thoughts and complete her nurse duties. Sort of.

Her fingers trembled as she centered the bandage above his wound. “That’s not how it happened. They’d planned her escape together. She chose to go with Matthew Sweet for love. “

With as soft a touch as possible, she sealed the bandage and took a step back, but Logan tugged her back between his legs. Unlike before, his touch wasn’t playful or teasing. It didn’t make her thighs quiver or her breath quicken. Instead, his fingers dug into her skin, skating the line between hard enough to bruise and exquisite pleasure. His flirtatious, easy smile slipped, replaced by pursed lips, clamped so tight a white line formed around them
. “I’m sorry.”

Her entire body clenched. “For what?”

He dropped his gaze to the ground, and Miranda’s heart plunged along with it. Even though she shouldn’t give a damn, his answer mattered, really mattered. More than the fight over the brewery land. More than the past hurts. More than their families’ history. Finally, she admitted it to herself. Her heart hung in the balance. Fear blew a cold breeze across her skin.

Logan took a deep breath and looked up. “How we—
how I
—have treated you and your family. It was wrong. I’m sorry.”

Head swimming with the effort of understanding her tumbled emotions, she tried to tear free of his grasp, but he wouldn’t relent. “Why are you telling me this?” She pried his fingers from her hips, but he grabbed her wrist before she could escape his overwhelming closeness.

“Because I know how Elizabeth felt.” His voice broke with emotion, and he let go of her wrist, letting it fall limp to her side as if her closeness burned him. “It’s hell to be pushed into following a certain plan because of someone else’s expectations of you, especially when the one person you want so badly that your whole body hurts is the person you can’t ever have. I fucked up before. I wasn’t man enough to stand up for you then. I am now, and I’m hoping like hell that you’ll let me prove it.”