Protecting His Brother's Bride

“Not part of your plan?”

“No. Why would I blow up a rental?” Inhaling a shaky breath, she swiped at pieces of glass stuck to her palms.

“Maybe you should have put more thought into your plan, whatever that may be.” Sparks ignited the dry grass around the truck. His anger with the woman slid to a nonpriority. Alerting the fire department was his first.

Dalton crossed the room, collected the remainder of his cell and disgustedly tossed it aside. “Where’s your phone?”

“I don’t have one.” She remained seated on the floor.

“Empty your pockets.” He didn’t believe a word she spoke.

After wiping a spattering of blood on her jeans, she shifted to her knees and dug her hand into her pockets. A handful of change clattered to the floor along with a lip balm, a few dollars and a piece of gum.

“I told you the truth.”

“I doubt it.” Now what was he supposed to do with her? From the corner of his eye he noticed movement beyond the tree line. Another armed trespasser?

“Who else is out there?” He held the gun on the woman and watched her accomplice making his way to the back of the barn.

“How would I know?” Her eyes darted to the doorway and then returned to the weapon in his hand. “I want my gun.”

He flat out laughed at the request. Smoke from the explosion reached his nostrils, reminding him of the urgent need to control the fire.

“Get up,” he ordered, wordlessly promising to drag her off the floor if she didn’t comply. He reached for the simple wooden chair that had survived more than a century of abuse at the hands of his family.

“You can’t keep me here. What if the fire spreads?” Was that genuine fear or insolence lacing every word?

“Wanna bet?” He dropped the chair at her feet and shoved the weapon into the back of his jeans. He pulled out his pocketknife and cut through a section of sheet, quickly ripping it in half. A second later her shoe sailed through the air and bounced off his cheek, before she bolted for the door. He chased her into the hallway, catching her around the waist and pulling her back into his bedroom.

“Let me go,” she hollered. Her elbows and feet connected with various parts of his body as she tried ineffectually to get free. “Ouch, you’re hurting me.”

“And you’re really pissing me off, cupcake.” He dropped her onto the chair. Pulling her arms together in back, he slipped a wide section of sheet around her wrists and tied a double knot. Then he moved in front of her to secure her legs to the chair.

“You’re going to be sorry you messed with me,” she threatened, already trying to work her way free.

“What’s your friend’s name?” Dalton demanded. Her immediate silence surprised him. He should’ve been grateful for the reprieve.

He glanced out the window once more. The blonde bomber’s cohort was skirting the shed with a gun clutched in his hand. Armed paparazzi or kidnappers hoping to extract a big ransom? It didn’t make sense for them to blow up their own getaway vehicle.

Dalton may have briefly forgotten the Coast Guard’s motto, Semper Paratus, Latin for Always Ready, but having a gun in his hand again brought his training to the forefront. His muscles twitched in anticipation, not unlike the first time he’d boarded a vessel in the Gulf of Mexico and helped his team seize a shipment of cocaine bound for the United States.

He slipped off the safety and approached the open doorway. Glancing once more at the troublesome woman, he stifled a brief flicker of guilt over leaving her without a way to protect herself. But she’d already burned through his goodwill. Judging her an enemy instead of an ally was self-preservation in its simplest form. As jaded as it sounded, it was easy to slip back into the role that had shaped his early life.

Chair legs scraped across the floor, but he didn’t have any more time to waste on her. He needed the landline downstairs and it would take a minute to push his way to it. Phone, firemen and, unfortunately, another round with the police. Maybe it was time to hire some private security and stop depleting the sheriff department’s resources. Then again, his donations had already funded two new patrol vehicles and trained a K-9 dog. What next?

* * *

Smoke billowed in an upward spiral close to the house, tainting the breeze, which had earlier carried the scent of autumn. Kira’s head pounded an irregular rhythm, and she squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to overcome the nausea bubbling in her stomach. Convincing herself that being sick wasn’t an option, she tried piecing together a plan. This was the place, she was almost certain. That shed outside hadn’t been here before, but there was something familiar about this room.

Why hadn’t she blurted out the question she wanted answered? Do you know Joshua Kincaid? That’s what normal people did—they asked questions. She was terrified the man would say no, because she’d run out of options, chances and luck.

Nothing to lose. She wiggled in the chair. The tiny thumb drive wedged in her bra beneath her left breast pinched, confirming it was still in place. Considering her jarring fall to the floor and being manhandled by the impatient ogre in a lumberjack shirt, it was a miracle. Maybe ogre was an exaggeration, but he looked and felt solid enough to play the man in the Brawny commercials.

Most people backed up their computer files. But some people, like Kira, went a little crazy. She had an external hard drive for her home computer and several flash drives she rotated through. The FBI thought they’d confiscated everything, but they didn’t know about the online backup site she used. Some secrets would always be safe as long as they didn’t fall out of her bra.

Straining her neck to the right, she shifted enough to see past the valance hanging lopsided from one of the two front windows. A six-inch pane of glass remained intact, but the rest was reduced to various sized pellets littering the hardwood floor.

Nearly four years had passed since she and Josh had spent the weekend here and he’d proposed. If Kira thought too much about how she’d arrived back here, she’d never dig herself out of the darkness.

Josh had effectively fallen into a black hole. She had no idea where he’d gone after their separation, and she had to find him. Her desperation had led her to the obituaries, numerous social networking sites and every phone number for every Kincaid in the Midwest. No one knew him or was related to him. Josh couldn’t have disappeared without a trace. Okay, she’d found a trace in the form of a joint tax return he’d filed, managing to collect a refund.

He had also worked for one of Griffin’s shell companies. The entire time Josh and Kira had been together he hadn’t been the struggling artist he’d portrayed. He had earned nearly twenty thousand dollars and hadn’t shared a dime with her. Not only were the Feds breathing down her neck, but since her arrest five weeks ago she’d acquired a shadow. If there were two feelings she’d never quite grown used to, they were being watched and being alone.

What had Josh gotten mixed up in? And why had she worked twelve-hour days to put food on the table while he’d spent their extra money on studio time? She’d seen only one of his paintings, and it hadn’t inspired confidence that he’d ever support their expanding family.

Learning he had money and yet hadn’t offered to do more shouldn’t have surprised Kira. He’d never been a college student, either, at least not in Kansas City. The number of lies he’d told her expanded into double digits. When she finally tracked him down, she’d be armed with plenty of persuasive evidence to encourage some honesty. And a quick divorce.

Kira rocked the chair from side to side, determined to free herself. Tight bindings cut into her wrists. Swallowing a groan, she fought against the material holding her hands and legs in place.

Her truck was gone. Technically, it wasn’t hers, but she assumed the obnoxious rental car manager wouldn’t mind garnishing her wages for the next decade.

What did it matter? She’d be in prison, anyway... Which was negative thinking. She was supposed to send good vibes out into the universe and be rewarded for her efforts. Obviously the ogre wasn’t a fan of Dr. Phil.

“I can absolutely, positively free myself,” she chanted. Her fingers found an opening in the bindings, and on the third try, the knot was gone and she was free. She heard noises downstairs and hurried to detach the bindings from her legs.

She stood and grabbed the chair, steadying herself while her head spun with troubling theories of escape. She couldn’t stay here. The Brawny guy was determined to call the fire department, and probably the sheriff’s office to charge her with trespassing. If she was arrested, they’d ship her back to Kansas City to face all the original charges, plus bail jumping.

A rush of adrenaline forced her awareness to strict survival skills. She needed a weapon.

Feathers from a down-filled pillow covered most of the floor and the box springs clung precariously to one side of the metal bed frame. Kira stepped closer and yanked at the center support bar underneath. It popped loose and one end dropped to the floor with a resounding clunk. She froze.

What if Brawny heard?

Seconds passed. No footsteps.

The four-foot piece of metal she held was heavy, awkward and difficult to grip. But she managed to swing it a couple times and pictured herself landing a blow to Brawny’s kneecaps. Then she could retrieve her gun. She hated guns, but after the explosion, she needed all the help she could get.

A board squeaked and she scampered to a side wall. Her heart hammered as she tried breathing without making any sound. She needed the element of surprise on her side. A partial shadow crept across the floor. She swung, aiming low, pouring every ounce of her strength into connecting with his kneecaps.

But the man who came through the door wasn’t Brawny.

And she hadn’t hit his kneecaps.

The new man howled as he doubled over, firing off three quick shots before collapsing to his knees. Kira swung at his shoulders, hoping to knock him out of the game. His gun skidded across the floor.

She dropped the metal bar and dived for it. Shards of glass and wood splinters bit into her arms and legs. Feathers scattered in her wake. As her fingers gripped the weapon, she rolled onto her back, pointing the barrel toward the newcomer’s balding head.

Could she shoot him? Would it guarantee no more attempts to kill her? The man on the floor didn’t move and relief engulfed her.

She’d never thought herself capable of killing anyone, so this was testament to how far she’d fallen on the sanity scale. Kira struggled to a sitting position, exhausted and swiping at the blood mixed with sweat dripping down her cheeks—battle scars from her earlier tumble.

“Guess your friend found you.” Brawny stopped short in the doorway, holding her gun as if he planned to use it.

“You mean your friend. Put my gun down or I’ll shoot.” Okay, maybe she’d shoot. She’d never fired at a real person before.

Brawny was tall, probably over six feet, with a stance that said he expected compliance. A faint hint of stubble ran across his jaw. His dark brown hair held a few blond highlights, showing a bit of length in the back, leading her to believe he’d missed a haircut or two.

“Shoot your friend first, since he’s the one trying to kill you.”

A very rational request. “Maybe I should shoot you both.” The gun wobbled in her hands. It was heavier than hers and she really shouldn’t point it at anyone. What if it went off?

“Good luck with that. You know live ammunition does more than go boom, right?”

Was he mocking her? “Of course I know.”

Brawny fired at the wall above her head and she ducked. When she glanced up again, he was dumping the shells into his palm before tossing the gun at her feet. “Your gun is loaded with blanks and I’m dying to hear why.”

“I tried telling you, but you wouldn’t listen.” How would she explain that she didn’t want to shoot anyone? To her they were practice bullets, meant to help her get used to the sound of gunfire without flinching.

“Why use a gun without real bullets?” Brawny rubbed his chin, drawing her attention to the five o’clock shadow that was much too sexy for his own good.

“I’m holding a real gun with real bullets now.”

“If you shoot me, who’s going to help you with these?” He held out a set of handcuffs, nodded toward the man on the floor. Then he unwisely took a step closer.

“Stay back,” she ordered, visualizing herself handcuffed to another chair. “I don’t want any more of your help.”

He flashed a perfect smile, which under any other circumstances would have made her weak in the knees. He shrugged. “You destroyed half my house.”

“I didn’t destroy anything.” She needed to hold on to the anger, make him think twice about laying another hand on her.

“And I know this isn’t your house.” She hated that her voice shook.

“Really? Then whose house is it?”

“I’ll ask the questions.” Her eyes darted to the man on the floor and then to Brawny. “How do I know you didn’t send him up here to kill me?”

“You don’t.”

Not at all what she’d expected. “No song and dance about why I should trust you?”

“You shouldn’t.”

Well, good. At least they were on the same page. He took a lazy step forward and she adjusted her sights. She slid a few inches to the left and connected with a wall. “Don’t move any closer.”

“Shooting me is a waste of bullets.” He dropped the handcuffs and kicked them across the floor to her. “Put those on.”

“A frequent fantasy of yours?” She’d been aiming for a sarcastic tone, and instead the words came out breathy. Like an invitation.

“Definitely.” His raised eyebrow spoke volumes and she balanced on the thin line between anger and appreciation. He was good. Scratch that. He was very bad, and he knew it.

“I meant, use them on your friend. We need to get out of here before the fire closes in.”

“And if I refuse?” She swiped her forearm across her cheek and stifled a groan when her skin burned from the action.

“Then you deserve each other,” he drawled. Brawny’s warped sense of humor added to his raw appeal. Laughter and looks were a dangerous combination.

She lowered her gun a smidgen. Was she really going to shoot either of the men? And if she had to trust one, it would be Brawny. His silky brown eyes slid down her body and then to the gun in her hand.

“You’re making me nervous. How about a truce?”

“How long until the police arrive?” she countered. The burst of adrenaline was quickly fading from her bloodstream, causing her hands to shake.

“Twenty minutes.” His critical eyes swept her again. “Do you need an ambulance?”

Did she? The thoughts were getting jumbled in her head. She couldn’t stay here, but didn’t know how to leave. The man on the floor shifted, distracting her long enough for Brawny to pry the gun from her fingers.

He pointed the weapon at the man she’d temporarily sidelined. “I will shoot.” He kicked the balding man’s outstretched arm for emphasis, earning a grunt in return.

“Hand me the cuffs,” Brawny said.

Kira reached for the handcuffs, stifling the urge to ask where he’d gotten them. Pressing her back against the wall, she struggled to stand, one bare foot crunching on broken glass. She winced, throwing all her weight onto her other leg while trying to extend the cuffs to Brawny.

“You ain’t cuffing me,” the other man bellowed.

“Shut up,” Brawny said.

An obnoxious noise filled the room. Belching, maybe? But the man’s lips weren’t moving.

“Oh, that’s classy,” Brawny said. “Where’s the phone?” He pressed the barrel of the gun against the balding man’s head when he didn’t reply. “Last chance.”

“All right, all right, it’s in my pocket.”

As Brawny squatted to search the denim pockets, Kira stood holding the cuffs. She should do something to help, right? Maybe slip one of the silver bracelets onto the man’s wrist while Brawny subdued him.

She took a step closer as Brawny located the phone and silenced the annoying ringtone. In a flash, the balding man wrapped his fingers around her ankle and yanked her off balance as he threw his elbow toward Brawny’s face. Her bare foot was already unsteady as she tried kicking free.

Kira tumbled, her arms windmilling as she tried to catch herself. Hot pain hammered the back of her head as she fought to remain conscious. Her eyes slid closed against a backdrop of grunts and punches. She rolled to her side, unable to do more than lie there and listen.

Another punch, another curse, another gunshot, then silence. She felt more than heard the vibration against the floor. Sensed someone moving nearby. Her heart hammered in her chest, but she couldn’t breathe.

“Tell me she’s dead.” An unfamiliar voice crackled through the phone.

Another gunshot exploded and Kira grabbed her head. The sound echoed in her ears, reverberated through her skull. Then silence.

Chapter 2

“She’s dead.” Dalton mimicked the thug’s voice to perfection, a skill he and his brother, Josh, had honed as kids. At the same time he was grinding his heel into the intruder’s face for emphasis.

“Clean it up and get here by morning.” Whoever Rico was, he disconnected before Dalton uttered another word.

He shoved the phone into his pocket. The surreal activities of the past twenty-odd minutes came into clear focus. The blonde bomber had told at least one truth: she didn’t have a partner. She also didn’t have a prayer of walking away without sharing the full, unabridged version of why she’d ended up at his door, and how she planned to stay alive.

For a moment, he allowed his gaze to roam her body, lingering on the cleavage exposed when her shirt had slipped off one shoulder. The thickening smoke reminded him they had to get out of here.

Dalton could consider himself every kind of fool for not letting the woman suffer alone, but she needed a doctor. A man with any functioning brain cells would’ve found out her name when she’d first opened her eyes. There had been an explosion, so maybe he should cut himself some slack.

The sound of rain splattering against the house, along with the crack of thunder that followed, had him breathing easier. The small fire would be out in no time. “At least something is going right.”

He should have expected that the man would put up quite a fight. The bastard had gone after Blondie again, leaving no doubt he wanted her dead. Dalton had stopped short of killing him, but the thought still flickered in the back of his mind.

It would be self-defense, plain and simple. But he didn’t want an ounce of scandal to touch his family’s name ever again. His mom couldn’t take another and would never forgive him. First Lauren, and the personal attacks that had seeped into his mom’s life, then Dalton lying his way through his brother’s death. The tabloids insinuated Josh had gotten what he deserved, and although Dalton felt the same way, he had to deflect their claims.

Josh had always been their mother’s favorite. Maybe because he was the baby of the family, or maybe because his mother coveted his free and easy nature. He could do no wrong in her eyes. And since they’d fought the day before his death, his mother was convinced she’d played a role in sending him over that cliff.

Dalton grabbed the man’s shirt collar and dragged him into the bathroom, anchoring him with duct tape to the cast-iron bathtub while he writhed in agony.

“Who are you and why do you want her dead?”

The portly man pressed his lips together, trying to look cocky. “You’re a wrinkle in the plan,” he said. “They want this place gone, burned to the ground. I’ll be out of jail and back in a couple hours to finish the job.”

“I’m shaking with fright.” The man might have been intimidating to anyone else, but to Dalton, he was simply a bully. “Behave yourself and I’ll call the cops tomorrow.”

He returned to the bedroom and dialed the emergency services number again. He couldn’t second-guess his decision to help the unconscious woman. Commitment was his middle name. “This is Dalton Matthews. I need to cancel the call for a grass fire. Looks like the rain put it out.”

“I’ll remove it from our list,” the dispatcher replied.

“I’m heading out of town for a few days. Could I get an extra patrol to swing past tomorrow and make sure everything’s in order?”

“We can do that.”

The man in the next room gathered enough energy to bellow a string of curse words.

“Sorry. Forgot to mute the television before I called.”

“No problem, sir. I’ve heard worse.”

“Now that I think about it, switch the patrol to the day after tomorrow.” Dalton grinned to himself. “Nothing exciting ever happens around here.”

“Right. I’ve got you down. Have a safe trip.”

He disconnected the call and stared at Blondie. She was out for the count and his ruse might have bought her a short reprieve. Getting her to a doctor or hospital would cover his culpability regarding her injuries. He dropped his bloodstained flannel shirt and pulled on the first available T-shirt.

“Now for sleeping Blondie.”

All his efforts while he’d been in hiding the past several months would be wasted by tomorrow. There was no time to cover all the windows and prevent any further damage to the house. He released another, longer sigh and with it some of the anger kindling his blood.

He tossed an old afghan onto Blondie and secured her close to his body. He settled her in the front passenger seat of his vehicle, clicked the seat belt in place and climbed into the driver’s side. He backed out of the garage and refused to look at the damage.

The rain had arrived in time to stop the fire. He adjusted the wipers and pulled onto the darkening county road with one final glance in his rearview mirror. No second thoughts.

Right or wrong, he was committed to securing Blondie’s health and safety. She needed a hospital. She’d get a hospital. If she woke up before that, he’d get answers.

Dalton rubbed his knuckles, thinking of the bastard who’d taken a hit to the groin. The man’s curse-filled tirade had confirmed that someone wanted more than death for Blondie. What did she want from Dalton? More than a few things didn’t add up.

Dalton spotted the bright pink nails grasping the edge of the damp afghan he’d thrown over her. He caught himself reaching for her fingers, the familiar color causing his gut to clench. Instead, he anchored his hands on the steering wheel.

How many times had he seen such a color? Visiting the nail salon had been a ritual for Lauren. Until the day she’d taken her life. It was almost impossible not to think of his wife, and every time he did, he couldn’t get past the circumstances framing her death or the blame levied at him.

“How many media exclusives can you people want?” An unlimited supply, when every person Lauren had known, past and present, collected a fee for their sorrow. Too bad they hadn’t been half as involved in her life when her fame had started tearing her apart.

But paparazzi don’t normally carry guns or have thugs blowing up their cars.

The woman beside him was too pale. Too fragile looking, as though she’d endured more than her fair share of pain. She moistened her lips and wiped her hand across her eyes before wincing and bolting upright in the seat.

“Let me out!” She tugged at her seat belt.

He glanced at the highway. “Out where?”

She pushed a strand of hair off her face and glared at him. “Just pull over and let me out.”

Dalton hit the brakes and steered the sedan onto the shoulder, sending gravel flying against the undercarriage of the car and abruptly stopping them with enough force the airbags could have deployed.

She braced a hand against the dashboard before throwing off the afghan and releasing the seat belt. She yanked on the door handle and then beat her fist against the cherrywood trim in frustration. “Why won’t this door open?”