Infamous: (A Bad Boy Romantic Suspense) (8 page)

When Taylor got back to her car, she’d been distracted by everything Powell had said to her. He’d revealed as much by what he hadn’t told her as what he had. She wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the information she now had; it wasn’t enough to prove anything, especially since it was off the record, but it definitely pointed to what she’d already suspected about at least the initial “accidents.” He’d also made some allusions to the deaths back in high school. They’d jogged something in Taylor’s memory but she couldn’t grab it. She hadn’t known either of the girls or the boy. But something kept nagging her, the way it nagged Powell that people still wouldn’t talk about de Marco.

Although Powell was respected, liked, and even trusted in town, there were some things people still kept close and he knew it.

She’d gotten into her car and had trouble getting it to start. She assumed it was because it was getting colder and it was a rental, after all. But then it started making a strange sound, and when she pumped the brakes, they acted very oddly. She managed to stop, but it felt too difficult. She thumbed her phone on to check for the nearest gas station or repair shop. When she saw which one it was, she almost considered not going. But car trouble was nothing to mess around with.

She pulled into Quinn’s parking lot, hoping he wasn’t there and she’d be able to avoid him. No such luck. As the car began its creaky braking, she saw the man himself come out.

He was sweaty, just wearing a tee and jeans stained with dirt and car whatevers. Living in NYC, she hadn’t had to worry about car issues before. It might be clichéd, but the subway or walking had always been her mode of transport. Hopefully the car was just being a little difficult and it wasn’t anything serious.

She was trying very hard not to notice how good Anton looked. It had only been a day but she’d forgotten how beautiful he was. Rugged but still pretty, soft lips and dark brows. That gorgeous hair. And in this element he was particularly…manly. All muscles and strength, and the kind of dirty that made you wonder about other, dirtier things he might do.

Taylor sighed and got herself ready to get out of the car. Best to get it over with.

After some banter, Anton and his team took the car in while she sat in the waiting room. She checked her email, which had like fifty messages from her editor asking for updates. She closed it, not ready to give her what info she had yet. So she went over her notes from talking to Powell.

What she mostly had from him were leads to check out so she could hopefully get the info without having to rely on “anonymous police sources,” which would put him in an awkward spot. She didn’t want that. He’d been kind to tell her anything. Especially about the Coulson “accident” and his suspicions about the role of the Saints, de Marco in particular.

Between Powell and the former librarian, it was looking a lot like the Saints had deliberately covered up whatever it was that had happened to a couple who had only moved to Sweethollow a few months before. Which meant they were definitely involved. It made no sense to cover up anything about it otherwise, just like it was odd that most of the information about her classmates who had died years ago had been scrubbed. Since the Coulsons had apparently died in a car accident, Taylor had a feeling she knew or could make a pretty good guess about what had happened. But was there any proof to be found?

And what did that have to do with so many of the Saints getting killed now? Did someone else know? Who? And why would they want to punish them? Sure, a lot of people in Sweethollow had been victimized by the Saints at some point. But enough to hurt them? Enough to commit murder? Especially murders that included beheadings?

She was lost in thought when she heard Anton clear his throat.

“Taylor?”

“What?”

“You need to see this,” he said. Something in his voice made her look up. Anton’s face was hard, frowning, almost angry looking.

“Great, that bad, huh? Well, it’s a rental. As long as they don’t blame me for whatever they didn’t get fixed before, they’ll have to take care of it,” she said. He shook his head.

“That’s not it.”

“Um, okay. What is it, then?” She didn’t like how cryptic he was being.

“You have to come and look for yourself,” he said and walked away, back rigid. She followed, feeling like there was some unnecessary drama going on she didn’t understand. She saw the hood of her car was up and she came over and looked in. Then she stared.

“Those wires…that’s…just something the rental company messed up. Right?” she said hopefully. Anton turned to her, his men looking concerned. His eyes were dark, his face was set in that hard, frowning, mask.

“No. Someone did this. And they messed with your brakes, too. It’s a good thing they did a shit job,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Wait, wait. That doesn’t make sense. Why would someone—?”

“Fuck with your car? Nearly sever your brake lines? Do some seriously fucked-up things to your engine? I don’t know. But whoever it was could have killed you,” he said, hands in fists.

“But no one knows I’m here. Except you and Mrs. Keeper and Officer Powell. I haven’t even been back to Grams’,” she said. Then she recalled what Powell had said, how he known for two days she was there.

“Someone knows. Someone with an incredibly nasty turn of mind. I don’t know what the fuck you’re working on, but you should stop. Now. And get the hell out of here,” he said angrily, turning on her.

“What? No way. It’s just a fluff piece about the festival!” Taylor said, not sure why she was lying.

“Don’t be stupid. This isn’t someone playing a joke like egging your car. This person wanted you dead. They just fucked up because they messed with some of the wrong wires. So you caught on too fast. You can’t stay here,” he said. Taylor’s face was flushed. She was scared and angry, and she didn’t like Quinn trying to tell her what to do.

“I can handle myself,” she ground out.

“Yeah, I’m sure a city girl like you has pepper spray for the fucking creeps, but you can’t defend yourself from someone who would do this. They’re sneaky,” he said.

“All the more reason to stay. Find out who it is. Something really bad is going on here, Anton. I think you know that,” she said, standing her ground.

“Maybe. But if this is just some festival story, why bother? Unless it’s really about something else,” he said. His shop guys had all quietly left, and it was just the two of them in the garage now, facing off like two alpha dogs.

“That’s none of your concern. If you want out of dinner on Friday so badly, just say so,” she said.

“What the fuck are you talking about? I’m worried about you!” he said, face flushing.

“I think you’re just afraid to have to face me. Whatever the car thing is about, I’ll be fine. I’ll walk around town,” she said.

“You have got to be the most stubborn, idiotic, contentious woman I have ever met,” Anton said. She smiled, a little meanly.

“Big vocab words for you, Anton. You taken to reading actual books these days?” she asked.

“Fuck you,” he said.

“Ah, there’s the Anton I know! Maybe we should call off Friday.” Taylor laughed. He walked towards her, but she stood her ground. He wasn’t going to intimidate her. He wasn’t his father, even if he didn’t know it. She wasn’t afraid of him.

“Now you’re just trying to back out. Afraid you might find your version of ‘bad’ Anton Quinn, Ruiner of Lives, won’t hold up after ten years?” he asked.

“Not really. The only thing I’m afraid of is your enormous ego,” she said, voice shaking a little.

“I’ve earned it,” he said. He was standing very close now, towering over her like an angry cloud. She stood defiant. And suddenly the air around them was electric, full of something other than anger. There was heat. Passion. His lips were drawn in a tight line; his body was close and she could feel its warmth. And suddenly she wanted him to grab her, kiss her, and take her right there on the dirty, stained floor.

Shit, Taylor thought. I have to get out of here before I do something really stupid. She waved a hand and laughed.

“Yeah, you probably have. Look, I’m not leaving town. My story deserves better and I’m not the kind of journalist who gives up at the first sign of trouble. I’ll just be more careful from here on out. You’ll just have to live with it,” she said. His jaw tightened.

“Then we’re still on for Friday?” he asked.

“Yeah, why not? I like to live dangerously. Clearly,” she said. Then she grabbed her bag and walked out, heading back up the main drag of town to find a cab.

Anton watched her go until she turned the corner. Then he sighed, wondering if there was any way to get Taylor Harlow to listen to reason. Or into his bed. Whichever came first.

Taylor sat in the common area at the inn and forced herself to think about what had happened with Anton and the car. It was absolutely absurd that someone would try to hurt her. She hadn’t exactly advertised why she was in town. And yet, she believed him. Someone had done something to her car that could have gotten her killed.

It was like something out of a movie. The kind of movie Taylor most definitely did not want to be in. They rarely ended well for the girl involved. Generally she became a body that was found in a ditch.

She’d gotten some tea and pumpkin cakes, which weren’t half bad. The common area wasn’t packed. Only a few other folks were sitting, reading the paper or having coffee. But now she was suspicious of everyone. Was someone in the room watching her? Who would want to sabotage her car? She’d barely talked to anyone in town. How could anyone know what she was doing there?

She sighed and looked out the window. She was going to have to be a lot more careful, and not just about her resurfacing crush on Anton. She’d come ridiculously close to launching herself at him today. What kind of a woman lusted after the man who had ruined her teen life? Was she deranged? It didn’t make any sense.

Taylor ate another cake and tapped her pen on her pad. She still had a lot of investigating to do, too. She was getting distracted by a pretty face and, it had to be said, spectacular abs. Was she a hard-nosed reporter or a slave to her hormones? At that precise moment, the latter was definitely more appealing. It wouldn’t cost her her life. Probably. Just her sanity.

She went back up to her room and got in the shower. Maybe hot water and a little girly pampering would clear her head. She stood under the stream of water, turned up to just shy of scalding, and let it pour over her. She imagined her feelings for Anton washing away down the drain.

Except that got her thinking about how hot he’d looked at the shop, especially when he’d been angry and trying to tell her what to do. He’d been downright delicious.

She shook her head, water droplets flying everywhere. The sound of the water against the tiles, tub, and curtain were like a roar. Why did anger and passion have to go so well together? Why did being pissed (or afraid) lead so inevitably to being incredibly turned on? Her whole body felt sensitive. She wanted to be touched. But no one else was around. So…

Taylor finally indulged in the fantasies she’d been having since she got to town.

She touched herself the way she thought Anton would, firmly, with confidence. Teasing. She cupped her full breasts, rubbing the nipples roughly. He would be impatient, eager to get to it. And she wouldn’t fight it.

Her hands slid to her round belly, then swiftly down between her legs. She was even hotter than the water down there, wetter. She pressed and groaned a little; she was more than ready. The sound of the water was loud in her ears, like a heartbeat.

Taylor bent forward in the shower, imagining Anton’s hands on her hips, pressing her back against him where he was hard and thick and ready. She started making circles around her bud and had to steady herself with her other hand against the shower wall. She imagined him gliding into her, fast and deep, and she came, harder than she ever had. She almost fell over with the force of her orgasm rushing at her, muscles tight, wanting more.

So she did. Instead of stopping she kept rubbing, kneeling on the tub floor. She slid her other hand along her buttocks, into the cleft, then to her opening. She slipped one finger inside, then two. She went slow this time, imagining Anton’s lips on the back of her neck, biting her, claiming her, riding her.

This time her climax soared higher, making her cry out, something she rarely did on her own. She shuddered and came again, gasping.

Finally done, she lay down in the tub and collected herself. Her body felt a little more satisfied but it still wanted him. She sighed, water falling all around her. Would Anton Quinn ever be out of her system? Did she need to actually sleep with him to get him out of her head?

She had a bad feeling she knew the answer to that.

Taylor dried off and came out into her room…and stopped. Her bag had been upended, contents everywhere. Her laptop was open, her bag’s contents scattered. The door to her room was hanging open; someone had used a key. She stared for a minute, trying to process it.

She went to her laptop and checked; it was still on the load screen. They hadn’t been able to figure out her password. That was a relief. They must have come in while she was showering. Her knees were suddenly weak, and she had to sit on the floor. Someone had been in her room while she was there, had gone through her things. They could have hurt her.

The contents of her bag were a wreck, but they hadn’t gotten her notes. She’d taken them into the bathroom with her phone because sometimes she had ideas when she was in the bath and liked to be able to write them down. She’d gotten so lucky, she felt a little like someone was looking out for her.

She dressed, went downstairs, and asked to have her room switched. Gave a vague excuse about the bed. The desk person, the most bored-looking teenage boy she’d ever seen, hadn’t questioned it. He’d barely looked at her. Which explained how someone had gotten in.

After, she lay in her new bed, dressed in sweats with her shoes right by the bed and her pepper spray within reach on the nightstand. The new room was down the hall from the other, and this time she locked the deadbolt. It helped a little.

Taylor was staring at the ceiling in the dark, unable to sleep. She missed the city and the lack of complications her life there had. She worked, she went home and pleasantly ignored her roommates, repeat. No emotional pitfalls. No hot-as-hell but also dangerous-as-fuck bikers. And definitely no one trying to kill her or breaking into her room. The irony that she felt safer in NYC was not lost on her. And yet somehow, she was ultimately more scared by her feelings for Anton.

She could hear her grams laughing at her, chiding her for trying to keep her life simple and free of emotions, good or bad. Grams had loved feelings, the intensity of them. She’d been a big fan of love, with a stack of romance novels always by her bedside. She’d often told Taylor life just wasn’t worth living without love, pain, and a good pie crust recipe.

And maybe she’d been right. Her life in the city might be easy, but it was lonely. And it was practically celibate. Which, quite frankly, she was tired of. Sure, self-love worked for your average distraction. But it wasn’t a warm body to curl up to. And there were some things another person added to the experience she just couldn’t manage on her own.

She hated to admit it, but Anton had been right. She was being stubborn. This story, her big break, was not worth her life. She didn’t want it that badly. Someone messing with her car was terrifying; someone getting into her room was beyond. She just didn’t want to be a coward. Someone should expose whatever was happening in Sweethollow, and if she didn’t, no one else would. Things would just keep on as they always had. Some of the people who had died, liked the Coulsons, deserved better. So she needed to “woman up” and get this right.

But she also needed to make sure she didn’t get killed in the process.

And here she’d thought the toughest thing about coming back to Sweethollow were the shitty memories.