Ciaran (Bourbon & Blood) Read online

  Ciaran hung his head, and a heavy sigh escaped him. “For the record, I’m not doing this for the farm. Whatever happens, the two have nothing to do with one another… Now, drive me to the damn hospital. I’m too drunk for it.”

  2

  Loralei opened her eyes through the haze of pain medication. Something felt very wrong. With her arm in a sling and a heavy bandage on her forehead, she struggled to recall everything that had happened. When the memories did come, it wasn’t a trickle but a flood. Disjointed images of an angry man, the gleaming arc of the knife as glass shattered around them. Everything was there but jumbled and out of sync.

  Reaching out, she grasped the bedrail, attempted to pull herself up. She had no destination, no notion of where she was going. But panic had her in its grip, and she could only think of one thing—run.

  The machine beside her beeped as the sensor pulled loose from her fingers. The IV line tangled between her fingers. She felt trapped, and the breath caught in her lungs.

  “Settle down, milish. You’re safe here.”

  The soft brogue could only belong to one man. Even in her present state, it cut through the panic, through the violence and ugliness of her day. It stilled everything inside her but the beating of her heart. Even that was different when he was present. “What are you doing here, Ciaran?”

  He leaned forward from the shadowy corner where he’d perched. “I’m here to watch over you while you sleep.”

  She snorted then. “You’re no guardian angel.”

  “Even Lucifer had wings once upon a time. Sleep, love. You’ve nothing to fear.”

  Except for you. She didn’t say it, but it hovered on the tip of her tongue. Ciaran would never harm her physically, but there was no one on earth who could do more damage to her emotionally. “You should go. I’d rather take my chances.”

  “It’s not really up to you. I’ll be watching over you, whether I do it from in here, out in the hallway, or with a rifle and a scope from the parking garage across the street. You’re in over your head, mavourneen.”

  “I always am with you,” she said. Her eyes had adjusted enough that she could see him clearly. His jaw was dark with several days’ growth of beard, and the curly hair that never seemed to tame for more than a minute at a time was wild and disheveled. He had dirt on his clothes, and she was pretty sure she could smell the whiskey on him. “You look like hell.”

  “You’ll turn my head with such sweet talk,” he said with a quick grin.

  God, that grin hurt her to her soul. As her aunt would have said, that man could have sold coal to the devil. Charming, too handsome for his own good, and with just enough darkness in him to set every good girl’s heart beating a bit faster, he lured her, seduced her, made her yearn for things that could never be, and he could do it all without even a touch.

  He rose and moved toward the bed, coming to stand over her. Loralei looked up at him and felt herself slipping, falling back into the same desperation that had plagued her during the few short months when she’d thought he might possibly love her back. His hand closed over hers, gently guiding it toward him.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  With his other hand, he pressed the call button on her bedrail. “Making sure you can’t cancel the request. You need pain medication…and possibly a sedative.”

  “I do not!”

  He shook his head. “You’ve white lines around your mouth, a sure sign you’re hurting. And I can smell your fear, Loralei. Tomorrow is soon enough to face it all. Trust me on that.”

  “I can’t trust you on anything!” she snapped. “Just leave. Please!”

  “I can’t. I won’t. I made a promise,” he said.

  “Like those mean so much to you?”

  “I never promised you anything, Loralei. Not once. Maybe I should have.”

  He was right. She knew that. It was her own foolish hopes and expectations that had broken her heart. “If I take the drugs from the nurse, will you go?”

  “No. But you won’t even know I’m here. So take them anyway and escape it all for a bit…even me.”

  It didn’t matter anyway. He was on her mind all the time whether he was present or not. Her friends had pressured her into dating again because she’d become a hermit since things had gone south with Ciaran. It clearly had not gone as planned. Now he was not only on her mind but back in her life, and there wasn’t a hope in hell she’d come out of it unscathed, even if he did manage to save her life. “I’ll know,” she said softly.

  The nurse entered then, a hypodermic needle in her hand. She fiddled with the IV a bit, but before she’d even finished, Loralei felt the wave take her. Her vision blurred, and the last thing she saw before the blackness claimed her again was Ciaran’s face.

  Ciaran watched her sleep, the pain medication having eased some of the tension from her face. She looked like hell. A dark and ugly bruise had taken shape on the crest of her cheekbone. He’d taken enough punches to know that the bastard had landed one or two on her. Her hands were torn up, scraped and bloody. He knew from the nurse that she had three knife wounds, one in her shoulder that was serious enough to require monitoring, and two minor wounds at her ankle and thigh respectively.

  Everything he saw told him one thing and one thing alone. She’d fought like a demon when the bastard cornered her. He might have gotten in a few good licks, but he was fairly certain Loralei had gotten in a few of her own. That appeased him somewhat. It wouldn’t stop him from gutting the bastard, but it helped.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Even banged up, bruised, and bloodied, she was perfect to him. Just looking at her was like a punch in the gut. He leaned forward and, with only one finger, gently traced one of the scrapes that ran from her wrist up her arm, nearly to her elbow. It wasn’t right that she had to fight so hard. It wasn’t right that he hadn’t been there to protect her.

  That thought had come unbidden to his mind. He’d been running since the day he walked out of her house. Even before then, he’d been revving the engine and looking for an exit.

  It wasn’t just that he didn’t want a relationship. It wasn’t even that he was terrified of commitment, though that was probably true. The intensity of what he felt for her had rocked him to the core and left him shaking like a scared boy. She made him yearn for things a man like him shouldn’t want, and she’d given him just enough hope to make it utterly terrifying. So he’d picked a fight. He’d behaved like a jealous prick and then he’d walked out on her because it was better, he’d reasoned, to at least have it end on his terms rather than have her reject him when she finally figured out what he was really worth.

  He’d made a mess of it all. A dozen times—hell, a hundred times—he’d picked up the phone to call her, to try to explain. Every time, he’d hung it up before even letting it ring. That ugly voice inside his head would rear up and tell him all the ways he wasn’t good enough, all the ways she deserved better. Looking at her, he realized he didn’t care. No one else would love her as well or fight for her as hard, and no one else would protect her the way he would. He’d just have to convince her of it.

  The door opened, but he didn’t bother to get up. He knew who it was.

  “What the fuck are you doing in here?”

  Ciaran didn’t take umbrage at the rude tone. Matt had a right to be suspicious. He was Loralei’s brother after all, and being confronted with the sight of the man who’d broken his sister’s heart, or at the very least, taken a healthy chunk out of her pride, was enough to put any man on edge. “I’m looking after her…or didn’t Grant bloody Ashworth share that bit of info with you?”

  “He did,” Matt agreed, depositing a takeout bag and his laptop on the bedside table. Empty handed, he turned to glare at Ciaran. “I just didn’t expect you to be hovering over her like some tragic hero…which you’re not, by the way. Neither tragic nor heroic.”

  Ciaran grinned. “I never claimed to be either.”

  Matt shrugged out of his ja
cket, and his tie followed. “What about a lying asshole? Did you ever claim to be that? You might have a case there.”

  “I never lied to her,” Ciaran said. “I won’t deny being an asshole, but I never lied.”

  Matt studied him for a moment. “So what happens now? You come in, play the hero, fuck with her head again, and then you’re out the door?”

  Ciaran looked up at the other man but didn’t answer immediately. He paused long enough that the silence grew taut and uncomfortable before stating emphatically, “That’s not a discussion I mean to have with you. Any discussions about what’s to happen between Loralei and myself will take place between Loralei and myself. You’re entitled to have any opinion on it you wish, but you’re not entitled to participate.”

  Matt shook his head. “Get out. I’ve got her for tonight, and maybe by tomorrow I won’t feel quite as shitty about sticking her with you But I warn you, Darcy, you hurt her again, you bring one more tear to her eye, and I swear to God, I will end you.”

  “You’re welcome to try,” Ciaran said easily as he rose from the hard plastic chair and headed for the door. He’d come back the following day when Loralei was released. It’d be best to get rested up and prepared for whatever might be coming their way.

  “You’re an asshole,” Matt said.

  “Yes. I am,” Ciaran agreed as the door closed softly behind him.

  The following afternoon, Loralei sat perched on the edge of her hospital bed, dressed in black leggings and a flowing tunic. In deference to her stitches, bandages, and the fact that she felt like she’d been hit by a truck, her fashionista status had been forfeited for the time being.

  Kaitlyn, Grant’s gorgeous wife who had somehow taken on the role of her best friend when no one was looking, had done her makeup, which meant she was wearing far more of the stuff than she was comfortable with, though to be fair, she looked like she’d thrown a fight and probably needed it. Since Kaitlyn’s go-to method of dealing with long hair was to simply whack it all off, Loralei had eschewed her assistance there. With a great deal of difficulty, she’d managed to pull it back into a low and messy bun. It was a look, overall, but not necessarily a good one. Of course, she reasoned, she’d been stabbed and beaten. She was entitled to look like hell.

  Matt paced the length of her hospital room as they waited for the doctor to come and discharge her. “You have to, Loralei,” he finally said. “I don’t like it either, but it’s the best option.”

  “The hell I do,” Loralei responded sharply. “I’m not bringing him into my house!”

  “No,” Matt agreed. “You’re not. Your house is too difficult to secure. Small backyard with lots of bushes and shrubs for people to hide in; too many windows and doors to be effectively secured. It’s a goddamn logistical nightmare.”

  Loralei would have rolled her eyes, but her head already hurt badly enough without fueling that fire. Instead, she leveled a baleful stare at him. “Stop being so damned literal. You know what I meant!”

  Matt stared back at her, unflinching. There was no give in him, no softness. This wasn’t one of those times when she could bat her eyelashes and soften up her big brother.

  “You’ll go to the farm with Darcy,” he said firmly. “And for the record, I don’t like it and I don’t like him. But I looked at his service history, Lor, or at least the part of it that I could see. He’s got skills you need.”

  Ciaran had a lot of skills, and most of them meant trouble for her. Of course, that was the last thing Matt would want to hear from her. But she knew about Ciaran’s service record, or at least had some vague notion. He had never been especially forthcoming about his background, but he had told her he spent almost a decade in the Irish Special Forces.

  Memories of their first meeting in the darkened dive bar just a mile from Grant and Kaitlyn’s home swept through her. The brawl had broken out near the pool tables but had soon swept up every patron. Some man three times his size had sent Ciaran tumbling halfway across the barroom where he’d landed face down in her lap. He’d gotten up with a cheeky grin and a filthy comment and had jumped right back into the fray. When it was all over and done, he’d bought her a drink, put her in a taxi, and somehow charmed her phone number from her. His aim had clearly been more than a phone number, but he’d settled for that graciously enough.

  She’d like to blame it on the whiskey she’d been drinking that night, but the simple fact of the matter was, she would probably have given it to him anyway. Ciaran was beautiful in the way that only Black Irish could be. With his charming accent, perfect smile, and his body which was utter perfection, it would have taken a stronger woman than her to resist him.

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re all overreacting to this anyway. The attacker won’t come back,” she insisted. Even to her own ears, it rang false, but it was the version of the story she preferred.

  Matt glanced at her, his expression firm. The worry and stress had left its mark on him. Matt had been blessed with a baby face, but for the first time in their lives, he looked older than his years. “Don’t be stupid. We both know that’s not the case. Men like this don’t just go away. He’s former Russian mafia, for fuck’s sake! If he’s been ordered to see you dead, he will kill you or will die trying.”

  “He said he had a message to deliver. It’s delivered. It’s done!”

  “The hell it is!” Matt shouted. “They did this to you to get to me…as long as I’m working this case, they know you’re my weakness. I can’t do my job and protect you! And in case you didn’t stop to think about it, let me sum it up for you, these fuckers are cruel…vicious, brutal, and colder than anything you can imagine. There are things worse than dying, Loralei, and they’ll put you through every damn one of them!”

  That scared her. Terrified her actually. Matt was always one to gloss over details and tell her things would be fine. The fact that he actually wanted her to be fearful was a new and truly terrifying experience. “Fine. But does it have to be him? Can’t you put me in protective custody in a safe house with a couple of cute, uniformed officers at the door?”

  He didn’t bat an eye. “There’s no money in the budget for a protective detail for you. For once in your damn life, just listen to me and let me keep you safe.”

  “This is Lexington! We don’t have Russian mafia!”

  Matt sat down in the same ugly chair Ciaran had occupied for most of the night. “No. We’ve got the assholes they didn’t want…a bunch of fucking mafia rejects who would rather shoot you, stab you, and rape you and—quite possibly in that order—than look at you. This is big, Loralei, and if I don’t stop it now, this city is going straight to hell.”

  “What is this really about, Matt?” she demanded.

  “You’ve heard of Krokodile?”

  “It’s a drug, but I didn’t think we had it here,” she answered.

  “We do now. Drug dealers are ambitious, Lor, and they’re always looking for new territory. I busted one two days ago, and not small time, either. He was carrying enough of this to supply the city for a month. He’s also selling out his friends like it’s a damn auction. Good for me, but bad for you. Less than twenty-four hours later, one of them was at your door. They want to make an example of me. This, everything that happened to you, is my damn fault.”

  She could see how worried he was, and she could see the guilt that was eating at him over it. “It isn’t your fault.”

  “When I booked this guy, he told me they’d be coming after mine, and I just blew it off,” Matt added. “Please, Loralei, I have to nail these guys, and I can’t do that until I know that you’re safe.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t like it. I don’t want him back in my life, Matt. I was finally getting over it…over him. I can’t do this again.” It humbled her to admit it, made her feel weak and needy.

  “I know he hurt you…and he’s not a long-haul kinda guy. But right now, if I have to choose between having you alive and brokenhearted or tortured and killed because of me, it
’s a damned easy choice,” Matt stated. “Besides, he’s on his way here now.”

  Loralei rolled her eyes heavenward. “So asking me if I’d be willing to let Ciaran look after me was really just to humor me? Once again, my life choices were made via royal Crawford decree!”

  Matt ran his hand over his face in an expression of frustration. “It’s not like that…this isn’t Mom monitoring your calories and bitching about your weight! You are the only family I have, or at least the only family I claim. If keeping you safe means stepping on your toes a little, well tough shit.”

  “I can come back after you’ve resolved your family crisis.” The charm of the Irish accent was overshadowed by sarcasm.

  Loralei looked up to see Ciaran standing in the doorway, holding a pet carrier that rattled with familiar snores. Her heart melted a little at the sight of Churchill and at the sight of the man carrying her precious and somewhat challenged pug. But she had to admit Ciaran didn’t look much better than Matt. He had dark circles under his eyes, he was unshaven, and his curly hair was wild. But his jeans were clean and well fitting. Lord, did they fit well! The white T-shirt with a plaid shirt open over it was his standard uniform, as were the battered cowboy boots on his feet.

  “The truck is out front if you’ve been sprung,” he said, depositing the pet carrier on the bed beside her. Immediately, she unzipped it and reached inside for Churchill. His squirmy little body torpedoed into her as he began his enthusiastic, happy dance all over her thighs. She winced when his paws came down on her fresh stitches. Immediately, Ciaran swooped him up. The damn traitor collapsed in his arms in a boneless and ecstatic heap, tongue lolling out and panting.

  “Not yet,” Matt answered for her. “Waiting on the doctor. Should be any minute.”

  Ciaran nodded. “You think you could give us a minute, here?”

  Matt narrowed his eyes at him. “That depends on what you’re going to do with it.”