The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) (25 page)

              “And now,” Walsh said quietly, smug smile pulling at his mouth, “you live in the big house, and it’s half yours.”

              She sat up straight. “I thought the club bought it.”

              He rolled his eyes. “Well, yeah. But Ghost ain’t gonna live out here and muck stalls for you. Far as the club is concerned, this place is yours and mine, to do what we want with, so long as it turns a profit.”

              “You’re not serious.”

              “Completely.”

              Emmie took a deep breath. It was the sort of dream she’d never allowed herself, because it had been too big, too far-fetched.

              “Em.” Walsh leaned toward her. “You’re not
just
the manager, love. Not anymore.”

              No, she was the mistress of this place she’d poured her life into. She was married to the owner. The sweet owner, who’d shown her more affection and care than anyone related to her, than anyone she’d worked for, than…anyone.

              She lunged forward and threw her arms around his neck.

Twenty-Seven

“You don’t need to keep walking me out,” Tango said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not going to get mugged.”

              “Don’t think me too practical, darling,” Ian said beside him, reaching up to play with the row of hoops going down Tango’s ear. “It’s just that I’m never quite done with you.”

              Tango bit down hard on his lip as deft fingertips tugged at one piercing and then the next, moving down to the sensitive lobe. He wanted to tell Ian to stop, but he knew that if he turned to face him, the words would never get a chance to leave his mouth.

              So he turned his head, and the kiss was consuming. Ian could be utterly soft and feminine in his manner, or he could be dominating, and this kiss was of the latter variety, his tongue shoving roughly into Tango’s mouth, his hands gripping the sides of his head.

              The elevator reached the parking garage level with a soft ding, and Tango shoved away, breathing ragged.

              Ian smiled rather smugly, wiped the moisture off his bottom lip with a quick flick of his thumb. “One last taste,” he said, and turned to face the frosted stainless doors as they slid open.

              Tango took a huge breath and tried to tidy his hair. He didn’t say goodbye; words always seemed to evade him at this moment. He stepped out into the chilly underground garage and made it about five steps toward his bike when Ian caught up to him, his slippers silent on the concrete, long-fingered hand curling around Tango’s wrist.

              “Wait,” he whispered, stilling, his breath halting as he scanned the rows of cars around them. “We’re being watched,” he said.

              “What?”

              Ian ignored him, reached over his shoulder and made a fast hand gesture that made no sense.

              “Ian–”

              “Shh. Kiss me again.”

              Tango frowned. “What in the–”

              Ian grabbed his head, brought their mouths together, and kissed the hell out of him. When he pulled back, Tango heard a scramble of feet on the tarmac, assorted shouts, grunts, and a loud, “Get your hands off me!”

              He shook away from Ian completely and saw that two of the Englishman’s no-necked security thugs were pulling a man out a black Explorer across the way. Tango was good with faces, and he recognized this one immediately. “Oh shit.”

              “Go,” Ian told him with a little pat on the shoulder. He turned toward the captive, squalling man and straightened the lapels of his robe. “Go on, darling. I’ve got this.”

              Like he’d always been so good at doing, Tango followed orders, and left.

~*~

They were going to have to make a serious furniture run, Walsh decided as he moved around the kitchen the next morning. He’d never been much of one for material aesthetics, but he’d awakened that morning with a deep sense of purpose in his gut, one that was personal and had nothing to do with the club. He’d decided some things, in the dark, with his woman curled against him. And for starters, he needed to make this place comfortable. He didn’t want them going into winter with one sofa and a floor mattress. This needed to be a home.

              “This house is going to spoil me,” Emmie said with a dreamy sigh as she came into the room, twisting her hair up into a curly blonde knot. “Did you know the tile floor in the bathroom is heated?”

              “It is?”

              “And it’s divine.” She wiggled her bare toes against the kitchen tiles in demonstration, smiling.

              She was dressed to ride and she was…well, bugger it, she was cute. She was beautiful and she was sexy and all those things, but she was cute too, and that was the thought that struck him as he stepped to her and dropped a kiss on her lips.

              “You okay?” he asked as he pulled back.

              Her smile took on a softer, almost embarrassed cast. Like she was remembering the way they’d tested out the Jacuzzi tub last night and found that it was a perfect fit for two. “I’m fine.” Her eyes dropped to his mouth, like maybe she wanted another kiss.

              His phone chimed with a text alert, breaking the moment. She turned away, going to the coffee pot.

              “Hey, there’s something I’ve been thinking about,” he said as he checked his phone.

              Ghost:
Come in to the clubhouse
.

              “Yeah?” she asked as she poured. They were using Styrofoam cups, and that was another thing to remedy.

              “Two things, actually.” He turned around to face her, hands braced back on the counter. “One, we need furniture.”

              “I’ve got a few things in the loft.”

              “Real furniture. Enough to fill this place up.”

              Her brows popped in surprise. “Okay.”

              “And the other thing is…” He winced. “My mum.”

              Interest sparked in her eyes. “You’re thinking of bringing her here, aren’t you?”

              He’d told her about his mother’s poor decisions when it came to Devin Green, the way he couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t get hurt again. “Yeah. There’s plenty of room for her here. If you’re okay with it.”

              She smiled and it did things to his insides. The simple act of giving her a say pleased her so much, and he loved that he could do that, include her and make her happy. “Yeah. To be honest, it’s super adorable to hear you say ‘mum,’ so I’m totally on board.”

              He had to grin. “Just to warn you, though. She’s going to love you to death.”

              Her eyes crinkled up she smiled so wide.

              His phone chimed again. “I gotta go check in with the boss. You’re teaching this morning?”

              “Yep.”

              “I’ll be back in a bit.”

              “No rush.”

              It felt like some suburban cliché, both of them off to work, the smell of coffee swirling around their expensive kitchen.

              He grinned, suddenly, at the absurdity of it. The way life had taken such unusual turns to get to such a commonplace moment.

              “I know,” she said, nose scrunching up. “Let me call you ‘honey’ and they can slap us in a Rockwell calendar.”

~*~

When he pulled up to the clubhouse at Dartmoor, he caught the bright gleam of sunlight on a black Jag XF. Black luxury sedans were kingpin-required. But a Jaguar? That could only belong to one person.

              “Shit,” he muttered, hustling off his bike.

              Inside, his brothers were scattered at the tables, a few at the bar, Ghost lounged back on a sofa with deceptive calmness, squared off from Shaman, who was seated in a deep leather chair across from the president.

              The man was in a tailored suit, his hair smooth and shiny, like he used a straightener on the damn stuff. His shoes were square-toed, saddle-colored things that cost more than the chair in which he sat.

              Fancy bugger.

              “Alright, VP’s in the house,” Ghost said with a sigh. “We’re all here. You gonna tell me what this is about?”

              The Englishman had a tumbler of what looked to be Scotch and he held it up to the light, highlighting a dozen water marks on the glass that hadn’t come off in the dishwasher. He frowned. “Well that’s not very hospitable.”

              “You’re in my house. I don’t have to be hospitable for shit.”

              Shaman sighed, set the glass down, and took in the room with a fast flick of his eyes. Everyone listening? Everyone paying attention to me? Self-absorbed prick.

              Walsh stole a glance at Tango, to get a read on the guy, but he was staring at the toes of his boots, hands knotted together.

              “Your club’s under FBI surveillance,” Shaman said, and a round of disbelieving curses rippled through the room.

              “How do you know?” Walsh asked, and Shaman smiled, like he’d been hoping for that question.

              “Because I caught him outside my building this morning surveilling
me
. He had a camera, and I looked through it while Bruce had him…detained.” He motioned toward the hulking black-garbed bodyguard standing behind his chair. “There were photographs of all of you, at your homes, with your families.” He held up a hand and Bruce pulled a folder from inside his jacket and handed it over.

              Shaman sat forward and laid out the glossy photos on the coffee table in front of him. There was Maggie standing at her kitchen sink. Holly watering the azaleas. Rottie having dinner at the table with Mina and the boys. Ava and Mercy in bed together, and Ghost flipped that one face-down with a disgusted sound.

              Then Walsh spotted Emmie, and a chill skittered up his back. It was her standing at his side, the night they’d discovered the graffiti, illuminated by his bike’s headlamp. The camera was an expensive one, because it was a surprisingly clear shot to have been taken at night, without a flash.

              “Jesus Christ,” Rottie murmured, as all the guys crowded over the table.

              “Oh, he’s dead,” Mercy said. “He’s fucking dead.”

              “Also, you need to get some blinds,” Dublin told him.

              Ghost picked up the photo of Maggie, face a mask of contained rage. “How do I know you didn’t take these?”

              Shaman sighed, rolled his eyes and reached inside his gray suit coat. He came out with a man’s wallet, and tossed it onto the table. “I didn’t just fall off a cartel truck. Give me some credit, Teague.”

              Ghost snatched up the wallet.

              “Harlan Grey’s your man,” Shaman said. “You’ve had dealings with him before, yes?”

              “Yeah.” Ghost ground his jaw as he studied the driver’s license.

              “I checked with my contacts,” Shaman said, casually, “and he’s not on assignment in Knoxville. So what he’s doing is completely off the books with the Bureau.”

              “You have FBI contacts?” Ratchet asked wistfully. “Dude. Respect.”

              “He’s gone rogue?” Walsh asked, gut tightening.

              “It would seem so.”

              Walsh glanced at his prez and they shared a fast, silent communication. If the guy wasn’t acting as a fed, he was fair game.

~*~

The sight of a squad car pulling up to the barn went a long way toward dampening Emmie’s mood. It was easy to forget, when she was alone with Walsh, talking and tangling together in bed, that the only reason any of this was happening was because Davis Richards was dead.

              She felt a fast stab of guilt for her deceased boss – here she’d been enjoying his deep tub last night – as she climbed over the arena fence and walked to meet Sergeant Fielding.

              “Emmie, hi,” he greeted with a smile and an awkward half-wave. Thanks to Brett’s constant shenanigans, she’d encountered the sergeant a lot over the last few years, when he was dropping Brett off and unhooking his cuffs. Fielding had always been a likeable, serious sort.

              “Morning, Sergeant. How’s the investigation going?”

              “Well,” he said with a sigh, hands going on his gun belt, “we talked to Brett, and there’s no doubt in my mind he did it. Unfortunately, he’s got an alibi and we don’t have the incident on tape.” He shrugged and made an apologetic face. “That’s how these kinds of things go, I’m afraid. We rarely charge anyone.”

              “Oh, well that stinks. But I meant about Davis. The…” Should she say it? “Murder.”

              His brows twitched. “I’m sorry, but you know I can’t talk to you about that.”

              “I know.” She nodded.

              “But since you brought it up, how’ve things been around here?”

              “Except for spray paint and cat guts?” she asked with a dry chuckle.

              Fielding was serious. “You seen anything that was off? Anyone been by? Found anything up in that house?”

              She frowned, thinking of the night a noise in the barn had awakened her and Walsh, thinking about the door being ajar the night she found Davis. “It’s nothing concrete.”

              “Tell me anyway.”

              “I…” How to put it? “I get the impression, just this feeling – and there have been some sounds in the barn – that something’s not right. Like there’s somebody skulking around after dark.” After she said it, she realized just how strongly she believed it. She’d been pushing it down, in hopes it was her imagination, but now she felt a new rush of fear. “I guess I sound paranoid.”

              “Not at all. When people get that kind of gut feeling, they’re usually right. Listen to it,” he said, “and please be careful. Call if you feel like you’re in danger, okay?”