Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4) Page 5

  Not because he was hung up on her.

  That was so not the case.

  As the dust churned up beneath his sneakers, his mind flashed back to his ex-girlfriend Katrina’s comments from a year ago. He’d been with her for ten solid months—so long Colin had placed bets on him getting down on one knee. Funny that the proposal possibility had crossed Colin’s mind but never Michael’s. Katrina was a massage therapist, and he’d met her working out at his gym, his home away from home. They’d had a good time together. At least, it had felt that way to him.

  They’d done dinners and movies, and had fun trading gym playlists. Their favorite activity after a late-night gym visit was getting sweaty in another way. They’d fucked well, and often. But apparently that hadn’t been enough for Katrina.

  When she’d ended it, she simply shook her head in frustration and said, “You’re in love with the past.”

  He’d scoffed, doubtful. “What does that mean?”

  “Ask yourself. I’m done trying to figure you out.”

  “There’s nothing to figure out. What you see is what you get.”

  “Well, what I’m getting isn’t enough. You’re stuck someplace else, Michael.”

  His quads burned from the fast pace on the dusty trail. Stuck. Ha. He was fine. Work and family were all he needed. Besides, he had too much going on. Business was booming, and the investigation into his father’s death had gotten its first big break in ages last month when the police had arrested the getaway driver.

  Michael was stuck on absolutely nothing.

  Seeing Annalise had proved that, hadn’t it? He wanted her, but he wasn’t caught up in her. He’d be a stone-cold idiot to be hung up on someone who’d moved on more than a decade ago.

  That kiss had proved it, he reasoned, as he neared the trailhead.

  That was enough to get her out of his system.

  Except he couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss.

  That intoxicating kiss.

  That fucking kiss, which had ignited all his fantasies last night. She’d felt like fire in his arms, and just as hard to contain. But he’d craved the danger, the risk of touching her. Of what it might do to him to have her.

  It would either free him or wreck him.

  Those thoughts powered him the final feet to the end of the trail, where he caught up quickly to Ryan’s four-legged best friend. Johnny Cash panted hard, tongue lolling from his snout. Michael’s heart beat furiously as he pressed the spigot on the water fountain. “Here boy,” he called, giving the dog first dibs on the water as Colin’s relentless pace boomed closer.

  “You bastard. You on the juice now?” he shouted as he caught up.

  “No. Ryan is. That’s the only way he can manage to finish within a minute of us,” Michael said, panting.

  Colin laughed as Michael took a drink of the water, then stepped away from the fountain for Colin to get his shot. When Ryan arrived, wiping his palm across his brow, Michael adopted a look of feigned disgust. “I see your almost-married life is slowing you down,” he said, teasing his brother, who’d recently gotten engaged.

  “Nothing slows me down. Not ever,” Ryan said. “I let you win.”

  “You wish.”

  Michael wandered over to the wooden fence that edged the lot, parking his foot on a post to stretch. Colin and Ryan joined him, and Johnny Cash trotted behind, slumping in a furry black-and-white heap at Ryan’s feet.

  “Listen. We’ve got some things to figure out,” Michael said, diving into a conversation he’d told his brothers they needed to have on their run today. “I was thinking we need to take care of Marcus when shit starts going down. Probably even sooner.”

  Colin nodded, shoving a hand through his dark hair. “Definitely. I’ve been talking to him about what to expect.”

  “What does he say? What does John say?” Ryan asked, his blue eyes shifting from Colin to Michael. Ryan was engaged to Detective John Winston’s sister Sophie, but John kept most of the details of the reopened investigation into their father’s murder two decades ago close to the vest, understandably. However, with their half-brother Marcus spending more time at Colin’s home, and acting as an informant in some ways for the detective, the three of them had a sense that matters might heat up soon.

  One of the accomplices in the murder had been arrested several weeks ago. Kenny Nelson, the getaway driver, was behind bars for several smaller crimes, and was likely going to be tried for accessory to murder, too. With the revelation that by night Marcus’s father was the leader of the notorious street gang the Royal Sinners, John and his colleagues were even busier. Presumably, the cops were working to devise the best way to dismantle the gang and connect Luke to the murder. Michael reasoned that any sort of sting operation to take down the group’s head, who’d successfully operated as the clandestine leader for more than two decades, would put Luke’s son Marcus square in the face of danger.

  “He’s already working on transferring to another college out of state,” Colin said, breathing hard as he stretched his quads after their five-mile run. “That way he has a real reason to get out of town without his dad knowing he’s been giving key details to the detectives. He’s looking to go to school in Florida.”

  “Smart kid. And that’s where we come in,” Michael said. “We need to pay for his school, his new home, and make sure he’s got round-the-clock security for a while, even if he’s clear on the other side of the country.”

  “Absolutely,” Ryan quickly agreed.

  “No question about it.” Colin nodded.

  Michael pointed at Colin. “You see him the most. You let him know we got his back on this, all right? He’s our brother, and we’ll take care of him. Without him, we might not have a chance at taking down the other men who killed our father. I want them all behind bars. Every last one of them.”

  One man—the gunman—was already in prison and had been for eighteen years. So was their mother, who’d plotted the murder. Now, Kenny Nelson was likely on his way to the big house, but Michael wouldn’t rest until T.J. Nelson, the alleged mastermind of the gunman’s hits, joined him there, along with the head of the gang. Michael had a hunch that Luke had been pulling the strings all along, hiding behind his harmless piano-teacher persona as he operated a gang of thieves, thugs, and murderers. The brothers were sure he was part of it, and that was why Michael had hired the private detective, with Mindy’s help, to conduct his own recon, do his part to push things along.

  “I’ve got to hit the road. Lots to do in the office,” Michael said, then turned to Ryan. “I’m taking the afternoon off.”

  Ryan stopped in his tracks. “Whoa. You never take off. You prepping for your New York trip?”

  Michael was slated to meet with some clients in Manhattan at the end of the week. “Nope. Just a meeting locally.”

  “With who?” Ryan asked, and the question was perfectly reasonable because he and Ryan ran Sloan Protection Resources together.

  Michael didn’t answer. He didn’t like lying, but he didn’t want to get into the details. He reached for his door handle, trying to ignore the question.

  “Wait.” Colin’s hand came down on his shoulder. “You’re seeing her.”

  He spun around. “What?”

  Colin wagged his finger and grinned like he’d caught Michael red-handed. “Yep. I knew it. You told me she wrote to you, and I fucking knew you were going to see her.”

  Michael shrugged, trying to make light of it. “Big deal. So I saw her.”

  “And now you’re playing hooky to see her again,” Ryan teased, wiggling his eyebrows.

  Michael waved him off. “Not playing hooky. I’ll be working late tonight.”

  “Or working late on Annalise,” Ryan called out as Michael shut the door.

  Michael flipped him the bird, and his brothers laughed. There wasn’t much that got past them. They knew how over the moon he’d been for Annalise back in high school. Hell, they knew her. Everyone knew her—his grandma, his sister, ev
en his father.

  His father had thought she was perfect for him.

  Michael flashed back to the note in his wallet. The one he kept with him at all times. His father’s last written words to him were about Annalise. As he peeled away from the hills and drove back to his home on the Strip, he replayed the thirty-six hours before his father had been killed. The breakfast with his father the day before was a blur; the next morning with Annalise at the airport as he said good-bye was a smudge in his memory, too.

  The one starkly clear event had happened after midnight.

  A snapshot blazed before his eyes. He swallowed hard, jammed the brakes, and pulled over to the side of the road.

  The image was too powerful to drive through.

  He’d been in his bed, trying to sleep. He’d bolted upright, remembering he’d left something in the car that day. He’d barely been sleeping anyway. He got out of bed, padded to the front door, and unlocked it. His father’s car was in the driveway. He’d been driving the limo that night, taking some teens to the prom, and after returning the limo to work, he drove his own car home.

  Michael headed for the car door then nearly tripped.

  On his father.

  His veins ran cold with fear, then denial, then a soul-ripping agony as he fell to his knees, grabbing, holding, clutching the lifeless body in the driveway. Soaked in blood. Heart no longer beating. Wallet open, ID and photos spilled everywhere along with, he’d learn later, a note his father had likely written to him earlier that day.

  The black of night cloaked Michael as he held his father, and he began to know the true meaning of the word horror.

  Pressing two fingers against the bridge of his nose, he let the memory recede, like a wave rolling out to sea. It would crash into him again, but for now that image sent him back to the investigation. To the role his mother’s lover had played in the murder.

  The question remained—did Luke want Thomas Paige dead because he was in love with Thomas’s wife? Or was there some other motive at stake?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Coffee or tea? Tea, right?”

  Becky hadn’t answered her. She was hunched over her menu, studying it intently.

  “Tea with sugar, right?” Annalise said, speaking louder, trying to get her attention. The waitress had stopped by to ask if they wanted drinks, and Becky hadn’t noticed the woman or Annalise’s gentle prod.

  Becky startled then looked up. They’d met at a hip little breakfast café not far from the Strip, since Annalise was due at today’s shoot in an hour for set-up.

  Becky’s gray-blue eyes looked weary. “Sorry, dear. Tea is fine,” she said to the waitress, as her fingers fiddled with the edge of her menu. Becky hadn’t seemed like herself this morning. True, Annalise had only spent a quarter of an hour with her so far, and the first few minutes after she’d arrived at the restaurant had consisted of one of the biggest hugs Annalise had ever experienced.

  Annalise hadn’t expected the intensity of the older woman’s reaction. Yes, she liked Becky. Well, she loved her in the way you love an aunt or uncle. Becky and her husband had been her family in America the year she’d lived here, and through them she had gotten to know Michael. Sanders hadn’t made it to breakfast today, even though he’d said he would be here. Busy with “some things” Becky had said. “Appointments…you know,” she’d added.

  Annalise turned to the waitress. “Some sugar for the tea please. And a coffee for me. Black.”

  The waitress nodded and swiveled on her heels.

  “Do you know what you want to eat?” Annalise asked, and Becky shook her head.

  “Can’t decide.” Becky absently ran her finger across her fork.

  “Maybe the special, then? I saw it on the chalkboard. Eggs and chives with homemade sourdough bread.”

  “Sure, fine,” Becky said.

  After they ordered, Becky continued on like that through breakfast—scattered, distracted, patting her purse, sneaking peeks at her phone as they caught up on the highlights of the last eighteen years. There were highs and lows—awards Annalise had won in journalism, meeting Julien, losing Julien to an early and not unexpected death—all the way through to her work now. Becky shared the latest on her sons and her husband. But every time she mentioned Sanders, something hitched in her voice.

  “Is everything okay?” Annalise asked, reaching out a hand and resting it on top of Becky’s.

  “Yes,” she said quickly.

  “Are you sure?”

  The older woman nodded and then clasped Annalise’s hand. She gulped, then fixed on a smile.

  “Becky,” Annalise said in a soft voice. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Becky’s eyes floated closed, as if pained. When she opened them, she wiped her finger under her lashes, erasing the threat of tears. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually like this.”

  “Is it Sanders?”

  Becky’s face looked pinched, and the color seemed to slip away. She sighed heavily. “I’m trying to keep it all together. I really am.”

  “Are you guys okay? Is he sick? Is that the appointment?” But then, if he were ill, surely Becky would be with him.

  Her old friend shook her head. “Oh no. He’s fit as can be. Well, he has that bad back. But he’s all good otherwise. It’s just…”

  “You’re not separating, are you? Divorcing?” Annalise continued, since she’d never been one to tiptoe around a tough situation. Best to be direct. Ask the questions. Most people wanted to talk. Most people were looking for an opening to share their woes. If Becky was, Annalise wanted to be the person to listen.

  Becky scoffed and shook her head. “I wouldn’t let him out of my grasp. Same for him,” she said, her tone chased by a light laugh. “It’s just been a tense few months. I haven’t really said much to anyone.”

  “I’m here if you want to talk. Or if you just want me to listen,” Annalise offered. Sometimes people shared more with someone they didn’t see regularly. Knowing the person across from you was leaving soon could make it easier to say the hard things. If you knew you didn’t have to see him or her in the near future, you could open up. Your secrets would be tucked safely away in their luggage on the return trip home.

  Becky’s shoulders rose as she inhaled deeply. “Ever since the investigation…” she began, then trailed off. “I shouldn’t say anything. I can’t say anything.”

  Annalise squeezed her hand. “I understand.”

  Clearly, Becky had said all she was able to say. Annalise reached for the sugar, poured some into her coffee, and shifted gears. “So…is the big cruise still happening after Sanders retires?”

  “I hope so,” Becky said, twisting her index and middle fingers together. “Fingers are crossed it doesn’t get put off.”

  As they talked more about little things, the wheels in Annalise’s head started to turn, and she wondered what would defer Sanders’s retirement, and why Becky was so tense from the investigation. What on earth would they have to be worried about from an inquiry into an incident that happened eighteen years ago? Sanders was Thomas’s best friend back then. They’d worked together.

  The wheels picked up speed. Wait a second. Did Sanders know something? Was he talking to the cops?

  Her heart squeezed.

  Oh.

  The appointment.

  Was it over the case? Did Sanders have something to hide? Did Becky? As the possibilities took shape, she cycled back eighteen years ago to a night when she’d slipped into the house late, lips bee-stung and bruised, hair a wild tumble, heart racing from being with Michael. Becky had been reading, waiting up for her, and they’d talked briefly in the living room.

  “So, the young Michael Paige-Prince. You sure do like him. Is it serious?”

  Annalise had nodded with a grin she couldn’t contain. “How do you say it? I am crazy for him.”

  “Yes, that’s how we say it here. And I can see why. Smart, kind, and a handsome young man.”

  “He is,” Annalise had e
choed, feeling dreamy, the way she always felt when she thought of the boy she was falling in love with.

  Becky had smiled dopily. “He gets his good looks from his father.”

  At age sixteen, she’d barely registered the comment.

  Now, years later, she lingered on the remark. He gets his good looks from his father. Surely that was nothing, right? There had been no secret affair between Becky and Thomas, no long-simmering desire? It was just a comment, wasn’t it? Hell, Annalise herself could tell at that age that Michael was “like father, like son” in the looks department. And she didn’t have any weird daddy issues or attraction to her boyfriend’s father, but empirically, Becky was right. Michael was handsome, and so was his father. That was all. Case closed.

  Annalise quieted her skeptical side, telling herself that Becky’s comments from years ago couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her odd behavior today.

  As Annalise said her good-bye at the end of the meal and slid into the backseat of a Nissan, her Uber ride waiting to whisk her to her shoot, she replayed last night.

  The bar, the kiss, Michael’s hands. His mouth, teeth, tongue.

  His name on her lips.

  Her fingers between her legs.

  Hot sparks rained down on her, and she shivered. She’d be seeing him this afternoon. The first man she’d ever loved, back when she hardly knew what that butterfly feeling was in her chest—flutters, wings and all.

  First love was like that. Enchanting and light, stitched from an endless thread of hopes and dreams. It made you feel invincible and hungry for more all at once. She’d wanted to be with Michael so much when she returned to France. She’d tried so hard to fight the distance through letters. They’d attempted to stay together through the end of high school and on into college.