Justice Mine: a Base Branch Novel (4 page)

A
s far as
tactics went it wasn’t the nicest approach, but it seemed to have the desired effect. Magdalena’s body stiffened like she’d been hit with a low voltage Taser. She’d label him an ass in fifty different ways, but that he could handle. What he could not manage was her attention. Her body.

The sweet way her shapely contours had melded into him knocked Law with a blow rivaling his HELO crash in Nanyuki, and another hit he couldn’t think about. His reaction to the impact of her gaze and the lusty intent that twinkled in her eyes had been a testament to his wherewithal. He should still be laid out ass-over-elbows from it, but the need to get her the hell away from him broke rank over his raging hard-on.

Thank holy hell.

Magdalena rallied, plucking up a duffel. She rushed for the door. Her sloppy mane brushed over her back and shoulders. It cascaded down her front and the memory of her peek-a-boo cleavage assailed him then combined with his imagination. He pictured Magdalena’s sand-blonde locks teasing the ample swell of her breasts, revealing only hints of her tight little nipples underneath. Law swallowed hard against the dryness of his throat and cursed himself for the unnecessary torture.

When they exited the house and the moonlight caught on her perfect apple-round bottom as it swayed from side to side in her effort to outrun him, Law’s heart skipped a beat.

“How long are you planning to stay?” The nonchalance of his tone disguised the desperation for her speedy exodus.

Her delicate hands choked at her sides and she swung them like tiny battering rams on her way across the gravel to the main house. She slowed at his question, cocking her chin to the sky. “Judging by the moon, I’d say three or four hours tops.”

Law’s perception had been correct. She had some kind of trouble on her hands, but he dismissed the urge to help her. No, urge wasn't the right word for the hulking, primal need to protect the woman before him. The sassy sway of curves screwed with his already chaotic state. He banded the hunger in solid restraints to save himself guaranteed heartache.

With two swift strides Law beat her to the rear entrance and opened the door. “After you.”

Magdalena skirted him warily, slipping as closely as possible along the frame and as far away from him as she could get.

“I won’t bite you, Magdalena.”

Her head snapped toward him and her emerald gaze pinned him to the door. Her expression was meant to rebuke, but the soft sea-green drew him. As did the moue of her already pouty lips.

“I might bite
you
,” she warned.

And I’d like it way too much.

Law compressed his lips together to keep a smile at bay, and her glower seemed to intensify. She slung the bag in her grasp up her arm and settled it onto a shoulder. With an exaggerated kick of her hip, Magdalena settled a hand at the small of her waist and thrust her other hand at him.

“Give me my bag.”

Since it was best for them both to retreat to their separate corners, he kicked the door shut with his boot and complied, handing over the luggage. When Magdalena accepted the weight she swayed slightly, but maintained her lick-my-boot posture.

“Now, where’s your room?”

Both of Law’s brows stood at attention—along with his dick—while her brows couldn’t possibly go any lower without her entire body falling forward.

“I’m not trying to crawl in bed with you,” she shot off. “In fact, I want to know so I can stay as far away from you as possible.”

Law nodded and fancied a good palm to his forehead. He didn’t want her upset. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s late and we’re both a bit crabby.”

“Crabby?” She yelled the question then turned on her heels and hobbled, lugging the oversized travel bag through the kitchen toward the grand staircase.

“Any one of the rooms on Baine’s wing are ready for guests,” he called.

She didn’t respond, only kept lurching until she disappeared behind the kitchen partition. Law braced his hands against the counter and exhaled roughly.

It’s going to be a long damn night.

M
agdalena jerked awake
, her entire body tense. Her eyes opened then blinked into uncomfortable clarity the rays of daylight filtering through the windows. The room greeted her with familiar warmth and she slumped back into the fluffy down. Tiny dust motes launched into the air and wafted through the streaks of day in no hurry to see the yet discovered world. She smiled. If her dad knew there was the slightest form of dust in the house he would have a shit fit.
Then again, maybe not.
Ruth seemed to occupy a swell chunk of the old bird’s time these days. Her smile widened.
Good for him. He deserves happiness.
And the stupid grin he had on his face when he finally introduced them yesterday showed her how happy the silver haired beauty made him.

The windowpanes rattled in their old, perfectly manicured frames and Mags’ heart revved with the growling engine passing outside. She scrubbed a hand over her face at the passing motorist and groaned at the slick of slobber covering her jaw. “Disgusting.” When the roaring engine refused to dissipate, Mags shrieked in annoyance. “For the love of all that’s holy.”

Using the back of her hand she wiped away the evidence of her sleep coma. Well, she rid it from her face anyway. Since it already had slobber spots, she rubbed the moisture from her hand onto the pillow. The bloody racket continued to repel the sacred morning quiet.

By damn, enough already.

Magdalena threw back the covering. The anger she’d not slept off roiled to the surface and mixed with new rage at the audacity of some people. This was a rural neighborhood. Not a drag strip, for the love. She launched from the bed. Her bare feet met an antique Persian rug that should be hung in a museum, not stomped over by indignant feet. She stomped over it all the same, making her way to the closest of two floor-to-ceiling dormer windows in the space.

“I just got to sleep, damn you,” she hollered at the offending motorist and no one at all. No one could hear a damn thing above the din of some ridiculous number of horses in a blasted engine.

As she closed in on the window she realized she faced the back of the property. The green grass and blossom covered garden stretched out before her and her mind took a side street to a forbidden destination. Law Pierce’s green-god eyes. Enraged at herself now, as well as the noise, Magdalena beat her fist against the window.

“Belt up, would you? It’s too bloody early for all that prattle.”

Miracle of miracles, the engine died down and she was suddenly the loudest thing in a ten-block radius. Mags gave the glass one more whack, but her clutched hand stalled like the roar of the fat black and silver motorcycle Law squatted beside. Apparently the man had a problem with clothing. He rose from the beastly machine, showcasing the most adulterating display of masculinity she’d ever seen in real life. Magazines and fashion week didn’t count. Even if they did, they’d lose to this package of sexy man-ness.

His thick shoulders were wrapped with layer upon bulging layer of corded muscle, and it didn’t stop there. They coursed down his arms, laying a beautiful palate of peaks and valleys. As wide as he was up top, his torso tapered in a perfectly sculpted V from his ample pecs, across his abdomen, straight into the faded blues that hung low on the Y of his hips. The—
why am I not tracing that thing with my greedy fingers
—muscles had her flattening her hand against the glass for support.

If he were just a body, he’d be easier to look away from. But his face sucked her in with its mischievous smirk. As he cocked his head, his gaze drank her in, so much so he dropped the blue, oil-stained cloth on the ground and gripped the wrench in his hand so hard Mags swore she could see the veins mapping his muscles bulge. He raised a brow at her, and she didn't understand why he looked at her like she was the only item on a buffet at a deserted island.

Magdalena's hand flew to her throat in surprise, but one much larger caught her attention. “Fuck.” She screamed and jumped back from the window. She slapped both hands to her face in total embarrassment, when she should use those hands to cover as much of her naked body as she could. She’d had it all on display, honking breasts with her pepperoni sized areolas and an untamed patch covering her mons.

Would the hits ever stop? At this rate, she didn’t think so. Mags shuffled backward until her thighs hit the bed and sat. How in the hell had she forgotten about her lack of clothes? It had been a year since she’d slept in the buff, but it had been the only way she was able to fall asleep what only seemed like ten whole minutes ago—well, getting naked and rubbin’ one out.

And now she paid a hefty price for the measly hours of sleep. Public humiliation. “Ahhh,” she groaned, uncovering her face and reaching for her phone on the nightstand. Only the sleek black thing wasn’t there. Leaning down, she scanned the floor then sat up and scanned the bed. She tossed blankets and sheets about, but came up broke.
Story of your life.

A knock reverberated through the room and Mags hugged a pillow to her front. “Go away. The show’s over.”

“Open the door, Magdalena.”

She hated the effect his rich, scratchy voice had on her. Ignorant of her disdain, her toes curled at the sound. “You may be hard of hearing from that damned machine of yours, so I’ll repeat. Go. Away.”

“Do you fancy your phone?”

“What?”

“Open the door,” he repeated in the same demanding, yet even, voice as before.

“Mad. Every flipping person in my life has gone mad,” she mumbled. Magdalena threw the pillow with such force it hit the bed, bounced, then tumbled to the floor off the opposite side. She eyed her luggage, but didn’t bother. Instead she yanked the sheet from the already disheveled bed and wound it around her body.

If one thing in the whole of the last forty-eight hours had worked in her favor, it was the shirt-covered torso staring back at her when she opened the door. Had he been shirtless as he’d been five minutes ago, nothing could have stopped her from dropping the sheet and tossing herself at him like a chit. But even the sweat-dampened fabric did little to calm the rush of awareness plumping her nipples and other girly bits. To offset the thoughts bounding like fucking rabbits in her mind, Mags crossed her arms and tried for pissed, which wasn’t a stretch.

Before she could open her mouth to berate him, Law produced a phone from his pocket and foisted it into her hands. “I took your phone because the bloody thing chirped every five minutes for an hour and a half, and you didn’t seem inclined to shut it off.” Mags inhaled to speak, but he didn’t stop. “Before you let me have it, I didn’t break into the cursed thing to turn it off. I put it in a drawer in the kitchen, under some towels, so I wouldn’t have to listen to it.”

He raked one hand over his stubbled head before shoving both hands into his front pockets. The innocent gesture looked all wrong on the innately predatory, sexually scrumptious man. Yet, it added a layer of sweetness to his disposition and a hint of vulnerability. Magdalena’s heart dunked into her belly in appreciation.

“Wow,” he whispered.

“Wow, what?”

Law’s thick lips spread wide over a set of straight bright teeth, and her belly plunged to her big toe.

“Just surprised. You didn’t beat me to death with those little fists of yours.”

Mags glanced down at her folded arms and white knuckles then loosened her balled hands. Law had seen her sleep. Knowing that wound her up, but she hadn’t realized how tightly until he pointed it out. She didn’t give two flippin’ cents about the phone, but the act of watching someone sleep came with a sense of intimacy. A person was never more exposed than when they slept. And she couldn’t bear any more nakedness where he was concerned.

Literal or otherwise.

In defense, she changed tracks. “My alarm went off for more than an hour. Why didn't you wake me?”

“You needed the sleep.”

Guy-speak for ‘you look like shit.’

“Is my dad’s car here or did he take it to Ruth’s?”

“Ruth’s,” he said with a shrug. “But I can drop you.”

Yeah, flat on her head. That’s where he would drop her, and she didn’t have the emotional means to deal. The phone peeped and vibrated her hand, sending another shot of adrenaline through her veins.
I’m awake already.
Mags pressed the snooze and went bug-eyed at the time readout. “Two o’clock in the sodded afternoon?”

“It’s certainly not one in the morning. We were just there, remember?”

“Fuck it all,” she huffed. With a barring arm she shoved Law from the threshold out into the corridor. “I needed to be at Cardiff six hours ago. Thanks for the offer, but there’s no way in hell I’m slinging a leg over that thing in the drive. I’ll call a cab.”

She slammed the door in his gorgeous face and ran for the loo, snatching her bag as she went.

S
o good
.
Magdalena closed her lips against a moan. It wouldn’t do to draw the cabbie’s attention, because she wasn’t sharing. She swallowed and warmth slid down her throat. Satisfaction pooled in her belly, but greed and the mouthwatering aroma called her back for more. After licking the crumbs from her mouth, Mags sank her teeth into the last portion of her toasted egg and sausage.

Why did he have to be so hot and so nice…in that gruff, rude kind of way?

The brown bag crackled as she returned the sandwich’s plastic wrapper to its depths and peeked inside. Two Glamorgan sausages snuggled in their wrapper. An apple, banana, and another napkin canoodled with them. When she’d come downstairs the classy remise had been waiting, door opened, with her big luggage loaded and this bag of goodies on the seat. She hadn’t touched it for a while, thinking the previous tenant had forgotten their lunch. The poor sod. But Ralph, the driver, said, “If you’re not going to eat that, you can pass it my way, and if you’re not head over heels for your man, I know my daughter could make use of a top bloke like that. The man she’s with now isn’t worth the air he breathes.”

She hadn’t seen Law again before she left and it was for the best.

“Most aren’t,” she agreed.

The hackney jarred, riding over a nice dip in the old highway. Unable to eat another bite, Mags abandoned the bag for the view outside the window. Her sleep deprived face reflected in all its dark circled glory, but she looked beyond it at the passing greenery. Fields edged with leaf-bowed limbs carved the horizon as she bemoaned her unceremonious welcome home. Her stomach shimmied. A nervous energy had her flipping the sandal on her foot in irritating time with the flitting past of each tiny car and occasional delivery truck.

Mags still had a few usable hours in the day and, sitting up straight with both feet on the floorboard, she vowed to make the most of them. First, she needed to get in touch with her thesis advisor, apologize for bungling their meeting this morning, and beg for another chunk of her time. Second, she had to talk to Willow and get a read on her friend’s emotional state before she started flat shopping. The incessant clapping of leather to heel started again just before the car pulled to a stop. The driver hopped out, opened her door, and set her belongings on the curb.

By the gods, she didn’t want to move out. She also didn’t want to think about Law Pierce ever again. After thanking the driver, since Law had already paid the man, she grabbed her bags and trudged to her flat. The letter she found on the middle of her kitchen table and the lingering image of Law’s stirring gaze said both were inevitable.

Mags,

I’ll treasure our friendship always, but we’ve outgrown one another. I’m going to stay at my father’s for the week. This should give you time and space to move.

- Will

Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her view of the trendy furnishings. They all belonged to Willow. After all, she had a gallery job that paid her well, a budding career as an artist, and a mother and father who lavished her with everything she desired. Mags had student loans, a never-ending college career, and no mother.

Negative Nancy.

Mags blinked away the moisture.

You have a loving father, devoted brother, and finally you have some direction about you. So, don’t get in a tizzy about a change of address.

But the tears were about more than that. They seeped from her eyes for the certain death of a friendship.
Strap a toe tag on that shit, ‘cause it’s only a matter of time before the rigor sets in.
Magdalena slumped onto a kitchen chair and let the grief take hold. Disappointment. Regrets. Uncertainty. They fell like raindrops on the painted surface. Her stomach burned, a deep sear of anguish.

When the drips slowed, Mags raised her head toward the sky and squeezed her eyes shut.
Enough.
She stood with a huff and marched into her room. On the bright side, she didn’t have much to move. The few valuables she possessed stayed in her room at her dad’s house. In fact, most of her things were in London. She’d moved everything home during their flat transition since she’d already scheduled the internship with the UN. She only brought the essentials and decor stuff to the new place.

Mags grabbed her phone and dialed Mrs. Fry’s office, ready to beg for a reschedule. Again plans didn’t go her way. The line only
rang
and
rang
in her ear.

“Screw it.” She tossed the phone onto the bed and propped her hands on her hips. The warmth of the room taunted her. Its billowy white curtains and soft violet bedding, even the collection of smiling faces above her bed, seemed caustic. Two steps brought her even with the masks of happiness the people wore in the photos. She started by the door, pulling the thickly laminated paper from the wall. Some ripped, the staples refusing to vacate the premises, like she should. But nothing good would come from staying in a place she was no longer wanted.

The stack grew in her hand.

Wide grins and drinks in the air. A string of girls hooked arm-in-arm in front of a stage. Skirts short and tops low. Heels high. A couple in an embrace. Sultry party face in place. He blew a kiss. He held her hand. He dipped her in a kiss. His hands covered her breasts, the playful look of surprise stretching his mouth. He hugged her. He spun her. His arm draped over her.

All the he’s were interchangeable. None of them special other than they’d made her feel that way. She hadn’t been alone and for that she’d loved them. For a moment.

Mags dislodged another faceless guy and stared at him, struggling to recall one unique thing about him and found none. Except the chap standing behind him. Her hand began to shake.

It was the weasel that beat the shit out of her Willow.

C
lick
. Click. Click.
Magdalena’s fingers flew across the keyboard. She searched her Facebook page for the picture matching the one from her wall. And par for the fucking course, she came up empty. She’d tried Twitter because her friends used it more often, but people didn’t load as many pictures there. Mags rolled her shoulders and kept typing. Instinct kicked in and she followed it like a starved zombie chasing Doyle in Twenty Eight Weeks Later.
Why the bloody hell’d you even watch that movie?
She hadn’t slept well for a week after.

After searching Willow’s page and turning up nothing, Mags hunched over the computer, dejected. She only allowed the feeling to hang for a moment before she straightened and typed some more. Next she tried the faceless bloke’s Facebook page. Thank goodness they’d split on good terms and she could remember his name. Roy Russell. She didn’t expect him to have as many pictures as she and Willow had, but surprise, surprise. The bloke liked photos, especially if he was the subject.

For two hours she searched in a sea of narcissism. Her vision blurred. Dull pain joined forces behind her left eyebrow and turned to an ache.

“Bollocks,” she moaned.

Ozzy’s eerie voice jerked her from the depth of her tiny personal tragedy.
Was it the end of the beginning or the beginning of the end? Was she losing control? Because she certainly wasn’t winning. Was it real life or all pretend?

“Good questions, chap,” she said.

Mags muted the ring tone and peered at the unrecognizable number on the display. The song had always been her favorite. She’d chosen it as her ringer for a shot of perspective throughout the day. Now the lyrics just wrinkled her socks. She scraped a hand over her face before answering.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Wells?” a deep voice asked.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Mr. Davis. I’m calling on behalf of Mrs. Fry.”

The man didn’t sound particularly young or old. For some reason Magdalena pictured a middle-aged man of average height with a mediocre face and slightly pudgy middle on the other end of the line. Mrs. F had younger students work as her assistants, but maybe this guy just had a mature voice.

“Please, pass on my regret for missing our meeting this morning. Jet lag and some other unforeseen circumstances tripped me up. I’m awfully sorry for wasting her time. I know she’s busy.”

“She was confused by your absence, but is willing to reschedule, if you can come around six forty-five.”

“Absolutely. Thank you. Please thank her for me. I won’t miss it.”

They disconnected and she sighed.
Finally a break.

Mags placed the picture on the stack and reached for her thumb drive. What good was a photo of the man without a name? None at all. If Willow wasn’t concerned with her own drama, why should she worry? She shouldn’t. She would, still, but she could worry while she prepared for her meeting.