He dried his hands with a paper towel and fought a smile. She always had been a bossy little thing. But he knew the truth. Underneath all that tight control was a woman who, at least when he’d known her, loved handing over the reins. He swallowed hard, tamping down memories he didn’t need to rehash at the moment.
He dropped into one of the chairs, and Brynn sat across from him, her knees bumping against his. He widened his legs, and after the briefest of hesitations, she scooted forward, allowing his thighs to frame the outsides of hers as she reached for his injured hand. She circled her fingers around his right wrist, his pulse jumping at her touch, and brought his hand up to her face to examine it. His fingers itched to reach out and trace the bow of her lips.
Dammit. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his desire to touch her in check, but the citrus scent of her shampoo drifted to his nose and sent a bolt of carnal need straight to his groin.
He stared down at her. One quick grasp of her waist and he could lift her to straddle his lap, bunch up that dress, and slide his cock right into her sweet heat—kiss away all the tension furrowing her brow, drive her to that place of wild abandon he knew she could reach.
Without thinking, he lifted his other hand and twined her broken dress strap between his fingers, brushing the backs of his sore knuckles across her collarbone in the process. The small catch of breath in the back of her throat made his balls tighten. Such a feminine sound, so close to the noise she would make as he entered her.
But she didn’t raise her eyes to him and beg him to take her like he secretly hoped she would. She simply took the slip of material from him and tucked it under her bra strap to hold it in place, sending her message loud and clear. Not yours.
Not anymore.
“This may hurt a little,” she said, her voice tighter than it had been. She laid his hand on the table, moved her chair back a notch, and dampened a cotton ball with disinfectant.
He winced when the cotton touched his open skin, the sting helping to drag his mind back from the depths. He shifted in his seat. “So where is your sister anyway? Isn’t she the whole reason you rushed out here?”Author: Roni Loren
She glanced up, her green eyes glinting with worry before she dropped her focus back to her task. “She wasn’t here when I arrived, and I can’t get her on her phone.”
He frowned. “Is it standard MO for her?”
She shrugged, but the motion seemed tense instead of casual.
“Is she still…” He paused, not knowing how to phrase it politely.
Brynn smirked at him. “Fucked up?”
Looking at this refined blonde in her elegant outfit, he’d forgotten where Brynn had come from. She’d never been one to mince words. He nodded.
She rose and returned to the adjoining kitchen, turning her back to him as she opened the freezer. “After the murder, she
really took a turn for the worse, blamed herself. And she was still convinced the asshole you defended was innocent.”
The muscles in his neck bunched. Hank Caldwell was innocent—is innocent. Unfortunately, Reid had failed to prove that to the jury, which was the first in the trifecta of lost cases that had led to his demotion from lead attorney. Now Hank sat rotting away in prison with a life sentence, waiting for Reid to pull a miracle out of his ass for an appeal.
However, he knew better than to preach Hank’s innocence to Brynn and throw a match on that powder keg. The one time he’d approached her during the trial to see if he could interview Kelsey for the defense, Brynn had jumped his shit like he was the devil asking for her soul. She’d wanted him to drop the case entirely, but of course he couldn’t do that. Not when he knew in his gut that Hank wasn’t the guy.
The stark betrayal that had flashed in Brynn’s eyes that day had sliced right through him. He’d seen the switch flip—the look of total dismissal. You no longer exist to me. So if she had any clue he was actively working on Hank’s appeal now, she’d probably shove him out of Kelsey’s third-floor window.
Luckily, Brynn continued on without waiting for his input. “But the last few months, she’s been making some progress. I got her to go to a detox program and a few therapy sessions. And she’s been sober—at least she was the last couple of times I saw her. But tonight, she sounded a little freaked out, paranoid.”
He flexed his fingers, which were quickly stiffening. “Any idea where she could be?”
“Here, this will help with the swelling.” She handed him a plastic baggy full of ice. “I honestly have no clue. It’s not like her to ignore her phone. I was headed over to the club where she works to see if anyone knew anything when that asshole attacked me.”
“Speaking of which, we need to put in a call to the police.” He dug in his pocket, but she waved him off.
“I got it. I saw him up close and personal. I’ll be able to give a better description.” She walked into the tiny living room and pulled out her phone, putting as much distance between the two of them as possible.
Her voice didn’t waver as she relayed the information to the police, but she paced around the room, wearing a track into the already threadbare carpet. Occasionally, she would stop to peek through the blinds of the front window as if to will her sister to appear.
Reid stood and tossed the bag of ice onto the counter, Brynn’s nerves setting him on edge. Why would her sister drag her out here then bail without even calling her back? He eyed the boxes on the dining room table, then flicked a quick glance at Brynn to make sure she was sufficiently absorbed in the conversation. He hooked a finger into one of the boxes and slid it closer so he could peek at the contents.
Papers, envelopes, a small notebook—all shoved in there in no apparent order. He rifled through some of the papers, then picked up the notebook and flipped through a few pages. There were a couple of initials and random phone numbers, one of which was for Cowgirls, the strip club down the street. He set the notebook to the side and rifled through another stack of papers.
As he reached the bottom, he froze, a familiar company name catching his eye. Grant Waters, Inc. To the rest of Dallas—the wealthy vineyard owner and producer of Water’s Edge Wines. But to those in the know—someone completely different. The yellow paper was the carbon copy of a background check form Kelsey had filled out.
A sinking feeling settled in his stomach. Last he’d checked, Kelsey was no farmhand. He set the form aside and grabbed the notebook again, flipping back to the number for Cowgirls. Maybe the strip club would have some information. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed the number.