Lovely Alice: (White Rabbit, Book Two)

By J. D. Sloane

When they finally escaped the city together, Brooke and Ronan were already being reported dead, written off as two more casualties in the all-out drug war they’d helped to ignite. While Connor used the news to strengthen his own position in the city, Brooke secretly hoped that they could just disappear. That she and Ronan could carve out some sort of a life together, and find solace in one of the only places in the world she had ever felt safe.

Ronan, of course, had plans of his own…

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483566887

Book preview

Eighteen

Chapter One

Dennis Parker entered Champion’s Family Restaurant and glanced around quickly, his flat dark eyes sizing up the busy mid-morning crowd. At the counter the head cook flipped pancakes like a sleepwalker while customers jostled for space at the door, hoping to bypass the gridlock. Parker frowned slightly as he waved off the hostess and walked towards Connor’s usual booth near the window. He hated crowded restaurants, always had. Why anyone would want to clutter up the simple sanctity of eating with pointless conversation and shrieking children was beyond him. But then, Emergency Manager Pat Connor did love a crowd, and over time Parker had learned to keep his opinions to himself.

He approached Connor’s booth, pausing politely while some woman with a baby shook Connor’s hand and thanked him for all his good work in the city. Connor smiled, his thin, ferrety face on full-tilt politician, and then waved his hand towards the opposite side of the booth, his pale blue eyes hardening almost imperceptibly as Parker slid into the vinyl seat across from him.

The woman with the baby made her goodbyes, her eyes widening as she caught a flash of Parker’s holster. She shuffled down the narrow corridor towards the bathroom and Connor watched her retreat for a moment as his expression dropped. He glanced up at Parker with a kind of low running irritation, his face pale beneath the uniform glow on of his tan. And who knew that the last two panels of windows, the ones that Connor had eaten in front of every Thursday morning for the past fifteen months, had been replaced with bulletproof glass courtesy of the city taxpayers one month after Connor took office? Why, no one but us chickens, Parker thought. And thank you very much.

Parker set down a yellow envelope on the table and flipped over his coffee cup as the waitress swung past, filling it automatically as she handed him a menu.

You have something for me? Connor asked, cutting into his pancakes without glancing up. Parker opened his menu, looking it over with slow consideration as some toddler behind him screamed bloody murder.

Early Christmas present, Parker said, taking a sip of his coffee. I didn’t have time to wrap it.

Connor glanced at the envelope, his eyes narrowing.

Do you expect me to read that?

Thought you might, given the surroundings.

Connor pointed his knife towards a family at the neighboring table, howling at one another in a language that was plainly not English.

Do you see that?

Russian? Parker asked, raising his brows.

Connor wiped his mouth with a napkin, pushing his plate away from him as he sat back in the booth.

Polish. And that family over there? Armenian. First generation. Telling a secret here is like a tree dropping in that proverbial empty forest. Even if it makes a sound, no one’s around to understand it.

Parker shrugged and pulled back the envelope, glancing out the window as Connor stirred his coffee.

Okay. Have it your way. She comes from money. You guessed that.

Serious money?

Serious enough, I guess. A condo in Royal Oak. Fancy schooling. The whole nine yards.

I see. From her parents, I’d imagine.

Well, that’s the interesting part. And that’s where things start to get a little ah- convoluted.

What do you mean convoluted?

Parker pulled out a stack of legal looking documents and shifted through them before handing them across the table.

Brooke Avery was actually born Brooke Allison Donovan. She became an Avery at the age of fourteen when she was adopted out of foster care by a nice, wealthy couple in their early sixties. Toney address. Politically connected. The whole bit.

Connor looked over one of the copied sheets closely and glanced at Parker over the top, his blue eyes sharp and speculative.

I don’t suppose you got this out of her employee background check?

Parker leaned back in his seat and adjusted his glasses, his thick, angular face flat and expressionless.

That file’s sealed. Along with her juvenile record. Her parents, her adopted parents, made sure of that before they died.

Connor raised his brows.

They’re dead?

They are. Funny thing. They died in a one-car traffic accident a few months after Brooke turned seventeen.

So?

Parker shrugged and glanced out the bulletproof glass, watching the early morning shuffle as he cleared his throat.

She- ah- became the sole beneficiary of their estate on her seventeenth birthday.

Connor set down the papers in his hand and glanced in the direction of the waitress who picked up his plate without stopping.

Lucky girl. Are you suggesting she had something to do with it?

No. Just speculating. And it was lucky. Strangely lucky. To the tune of 14 million dollars. In various accounts here and abroad. Give or take.

You have to be shitting me.

There’s more.

Parker dropped a dark faxed copy on top of the pile of papers and pointed to it.

If she did do it, and I’m not saying she did, it wouldn’t be the first time. Do you want to know why she ended up in custody?

Connor held up his hand.

Brooke Donovan ended up in police custody because while she and her older brother were on a camping trip, they stabbed their stepfather seven times with a hunting knife and left him for dead in the forest. Took off with his car. His money. The only reason the poor bastard made it out of there alive at all was because some hunters heard him screaming and called the police. It took the police two days to track them down, and when they did find them, they were- very well acquainted. She was thirteen.

Jesus.

Connor rubbed his thumb over his lips in quiet agitation, his brows knit together in a hard dark line.

What about the brother?

He was seventeen. Sent to Luther Psychiatric. He hung himself six months later. There’s a picture of him in there. A mug shot.

Connor flipped through the pages and pulled out a glossy black and white mug shot of a teenager, his clean jaw hard and set.

Look like anyone we know? Parker said quietly.

Connor squinted at the photo, a shock of recognition running up his spine. Connor pulled out another photo, this one of a young girl, and set them side by side, his fingers moving from one picture to another as he held his breath.

How did Hart and Cooper miss this?

I told you. It was buried. Deeply. And just in case you think we’re dealing with just some fucked up schoolgirl, before Brooke finished her law degree she was an MP in the United States Army.

Connor glanced up and then pulled out a small black and white photo of a girl in uniform, her wide green eyes calm and serious beneath the flat, low brim of her cap.

She joined up before law school?

No. Before college. She was granted a general discharge two years later when her husband, Dean, was killed in the line of duty. Car bombing.

She was married?

For a little less than a year, Parker cleared his throat and shook his head as the waitress approached, watching Connor closely as he folded his hands on the table. He was her commanding officer. She served under him during her tour in Iraq. And the fact that she was an MP means she has weapons training. A lot of very specialized weapons training.

Connor’s eyes snapped back to the stack of papers in front of him and ran his hand over his face, a thrill of nasty premonition spreading through his veins like a virus. And after everything else, he thought, that miserable little junkie hacker was right. He shuddered as he thought of the way Ronan had left Donnie in the vineyard, his head nearly severed from his body and left swimming in a pool of his own blood. She’s the real problem. Why couldn’t they just blow that bitch up when they had the chance and call it a night?

When she got stateside she entered a treatment program for veterans and attended on a pretty regular basis for several months. She started counseling there part-time after law school. Which is how she became acquainted with the illustrious Liam O’Doyle.

Connor’s brow furrowed briefly and then cleared, his thin face tightening into a rigid, humorless smile.

Liam O’Doyle. Who worked off the books with the illustrious Donnie Bates. And the very, very illustrious Ronan White.

That’s right.

Connor’s eyes rolled to Parker’s and he ran his hands through the back of his graying hair in distraction, glancing around the restaurant before shoving the mound of documents away from him.

So what exactly are we saying here?

Parker tented his hands in front of him and gave Connor a long, careful look.

I think, sir, that what I’m saying is that this situation might be more trouble than we bargained for. With White’s connections and her training, it might take a while to hunt them down. Weeks, maybe months. Why not let them stay gone? They left the drugs. As far as anyone knows, Brooke Avery died in that apartment fire. And the news is reporting exactly what we want them to about White. That he drowned trying to escape.

Yeah, I heard that. They’re dragging the river for his body.

They won’t find it, but so what? They’ll call off the search in a few days and the public will lose interest. Which leaves you exactly where you want to be. With or without White.

Connor rolled his jaw, his narrow face struggling to find a balance between anger and polite pretense.

So that’s what you’re recommending? he asked lightly. Letting White roll over and play dead with his AWOL army girlfriend and three million dollars of my money?

Connor stared at Parker over the rim of his coffee cup, his pale eyes leaping with malice.

Forget the campaign for a moment. Don’t even let that enter the equation. Assume my career, my reputation, my own, personal finances aren’t at stake here. Assume that if Ronan White gets away the worst thing that can happen, to anyone, is that I don’t become Mayor. Deals don’t go down, casinos don’t go up. The entire criminal underworld gets a little bit poorer, and a whole lot less organized. Are you imagining it? Good.

Connor leaned towards Parker and shrugged, dropping his voice below the din of the restaurant.

Now. Imagine what’ll happen to this delicate house of cards we’re building when White decides to come out of hiding and starts tearing through this city like the four horses of the Apocalypse. Not if. When. You think this is a guy who’s going to stay dead? Thank his lucky stars? Raise a nice, quiet family somewhere?

Parker sighed, raising his brows.

Okay. I take your point. Why draw out the inevitable?

And it has to be now. The sooner the better. I want this part of it wrapped up as neatly as possible before the end of the month. Plus, there’s always a chance this girlfriend of his will wise up and try to leave him. And I don’t think it takes a lot of imagination to figure out what she might say if she does.

Connor tapped the photo of Brooke in uniform with his fingertips, his face moving with a wave of disgust.

Fucking Army MP, Connor said laughing shortly. Can you believe the luck on this son of a bitch?

Parker held up his hand and sat back in his chair, adjusting the lapel of his jacket with one hand. He moved his coffee cup to the edge of the table as the waitress made her rounds.

You know, where I grew up in the U.P. there were always a lot of stray dogs around. Most of them were harmless, you know. Animals don’t bother with people much if there’s a steady food supply. And that’s one thing about the wilderness, there’s always a steady food supply.

Connor’s face shifted with impatience as he stirred his coffee.

That’s fascinating, Parker. Really. Does this story have a larger context or should I share some boring boyhood secret with you?

Parker shrugged, scratching his chin mildly as he glanced out the window.

There was this one stray that used to come around sometimes. She had this long white coat, really beautiful animal. And tame, too. Never growled, never bit. Would eat right out of your hand. Until, one summer, this wolf showed up in town.

A wolf.

Yeah. A wolf. It’s not as uncommon as people think. Dogs are still only three or four generations removed from biological wolves. So anyway, he shows up in town and all of a sudden the two of them are raising hell all over. Breaking into chicken coops, killing cats. Towards the end of summer, this wolf ends up biting this five-year-old boy, and the parents are beside themselves. So a group of us got together and went looking for him. But no matter how many traps we put down, or how many men we brought with us, we could never catch either one of them. Not together.

So? Did you ever catch him?

No, Parker said, smirking slightly beneath the flat pool of his eyes. We caught her. Put her in a cage in the middle of the forest and waited. And when he came for her, which he did, we shot them both. Took about seventy-two hours.

Connor looked over Parker’s face and then grinned, his pale eyes snapping oddly in the hard early morning sunlight.

Do you have something in mind?

Parker pulled out a long sheet of highlighted numbers from his jacket and snapped it open briskly with one hand.

Funny you should mention that, he said.

I take it there’s no cable in this doomsday camp of yours.

Brooke turned around as Ronan rounded the corner, his dark eyes wide and faintly electric. His long blond-brown hair was damp and combed away from his face, and Brooke felt a strange thrill of foreboding wash through her as she realized he was wearing a pair of Dean’s old khaki fatigues, his wide shoulders filling out the worn gray t-shirt in a way that was at once familiar and off-putting.

He’s as big as Dean was, she thought, her eyes flying over him quickly. And it’s a lot more noticeable when he’s not in a suit. Ronan rolled his jaw from side to side with one hand, cracking it sharply as if working out a kink. Brooke looked him over, trying not to be obvious about it, and realized with a sudden jolt of insight that in the few short weeks they had known each other, she and Ronan had never spent more than a handful of nights together- something which the constant tangle of people around them had always managed to blunt.

God, is that right? She thought, glancing down at the counter as Ronan’s eyes ran over her body. He paused at the hem of her black shorts, his expression just short of a sneer, and then cleared his throat as he pushed his hair out of his eyes, his face so bright and beautiful that Brooke bit the inside of her lip. Less than a week. We’ve spent less than seven days together, at his apartment or mine. And we don’t really know anything about each other. Nothing at all.

Ronan leaned over the counter, his wide muscled shoulders rolling with annoyance as he started rummaging through the cabinets. She felt the weight of their isolation hit her for the first time since they’d landed and glanced out the window over the sink, trying not to dwell on how little she actually knew about him. Or how unreadable Ronan could be whenever he felt like it.

It’s not a doomsday camp.

Oh no? What else would you call it?

Brooke stepped aside as he knocked cans around with a casual flick of his wrist.

Tomatoes, canned beets, vegetable soup, Ronan said, his low, gravelly voice crisp and irritated. Looks like your husband planned for every part of the Apocalypse except his own last meal.

He walked over to the sink and tried the faucet, glancing at Brooke out of the corner of his eye.

And no water yet either, I take it. How pleasant.

I told you it would take a few hours to get the well up and running, Brooke said, trying not to stumble over her words as Ronan glared at her. And it won’t be safe to drink for at least twenty-four hours after that. I went to the store earlier. When you were sleeping. Do you want some orange juice?

Yes, I know. I saw you pull up.

Brooke watched him look around the room, his eyes moving restlessly from object to object as if cataloging everything for future use. She watched him look over the birchwood chandelier for several seconds, turning it over in his mind the way other people might pick something up and turn it over in their hand, and then noticed her watching and glanced away, smoothing his expression out into one of polite boredom.

She pulled a plastic container off the shelf and slid it onto the island behind her, her eyes running up and down his body as she reached for a knife. She watched him as he examined the sunk-in living room like some kind of discriminating hotel guest and then wandered over to the built-in liquor cabinet next to the fireplace, rearranging bottles in a brisk flourish of energy.

Brooke sliced off the plastic top of the juice container with a sharp hook of her wrist as Ronan crouched down in front of the fireplace, his muscular shoulders doing a quick little dance below his shirt as he picked up the iron poker and inspected it leisurely for a moment. She thought of the way he had looked when she woke up, his pale, sensuous face almost peaceful-looking in the soft haze of morning and then sighed, her mind reeling with regret. I should’ve waited, she thought, looking away abruptly as Ronan glanced back at her. I should’ve stayed in bed with him until he woke up. That would’ve uncomplicated things. And even if it didn’t, it would’ve been a much nicer way to spend the morning.

Brooke grabbed two plates off of the counter and walked them over to the dining room table, tucking her hair behind one ear as she struggled not to give into her sudden rush of nerves. Ronan paused as Brooke set down the plates at the table, searching her face as if she’d done something to surprise him. He stood up slowly and whistled under his breath as he replaced the poker.

Hope you don’t mind, Ronan said, his voice low and ironic as he looked down at his khaki pants and worn gray t-shirt. There wasn’t much of a selection. Your other guests must have had a very limited taste in clothing.

No, Brooke said flushing, thinking about how much younger he looked. Younger and restless and infinitely more lethal. Of course not. They- they suit you. I’ve never really seen you in street clothes before.

I’d hardly call these street clothes, Ronan said, his dark eyes shifting with something like humor. Is there something wrong with the way I dress?

No, not at all. It’s just nice seeing you dressed down once in a while. That’s all.

When. In. Rome.

Ronan flashed her a smile, the expression inching his face into a beauty so relaxed and unexpected that Brooke blushed and cleared her throat, her heart doing a painful little leap in her chest.

You were right, Ronan said, walking over to the table. This place is private. Ever come here with anyone else?

Brooke cleared her throat as Ronan picked up one of the plastic containers of rations and turned it over to read it, his eyes never quite leaving her face.

Just- my husband. When we were first married.

Ronan rolled his jaw slightly, his eyes snapping.

Your late husband you mean, he said, setting it down. And no one since then?

No. Tony did fly me up once, but he’s never been to the grounds. Not as far as I know. Dean was a little paranoid about this place.

Yes, I kind of gathered that. Afraid the war would get started without him?

Brooke bit back a grin and shrugged, making a gesture around the room.

I guess. You see this place. It was always like this, even before I got here. He never stopped making preparations. He was kind of like you in that way.

In what way?

You know. Always planning, planning, planning. And I never knew what for.

Brooke nodded in the direction of the garage door as she bent over to light the burner.

If you can start the fire, I can do this. I bought some bacon and eggs to go with the rations. Dean stored tons of them up here. At some point.

Army rations, Ronan muttered, his low voice clipped and annoyed.

Ronan crossed the room to the door leading down to the garage and tapped on the lights, glancing around before he jogged to the bottom of the steps. He passed the long windows that ran down both sides of the garage door and realized that the sky was clear enough to actually see down to the lake, the land around them green and untouched. Ronan squinted towards the place in the distance where Brooke had said there was an arsenal. He was itching to see how many weapons they had on hand, but couldn’t make it out below the dip in the field.

These were probably nice grounds once, Ronan thought as he noticed a large pallet of wood stacked neatly in the far left corner of the garage. It looks like a lot of money came through here. Her husband’s family must’ve had some serious mob connections. And it only took them two generations to shake the trail. Nothing succeeds like success.

Ronan ran his hand over the roof of a partially restored Thunderbird parked against the back wall and kicked the tires curiously, glancing in the windows. He followed the fender of a stripped down black Jeep around to the side of the pallet and then pulled an armful of planks off the top of the stack, adding some bound-up newspapers to the pile. When he had it balanced against his chest, he walked to the top of the stairs, kicking the door ajar as he stepped into the great room.

Ronan walked over to the fireplace and looked around the wide, rustic space, the exposed wood beams arching above him like a cathedral. He set the wood down in front of the stone fireplace and then knelt down in front of the mantle as he yanked open the flue with one hand.

He swiped his long hair away from his forehead and snapped his fingers in Brooke’s direction.

Give me your lighter.

Brooke walked around the table and handed him her Zippo. Ronan snapped it open and struck the wheel briskly, lighting a rolled up piece of newspaper with a careless wave of his hand. He leaned over and held it inside the chimney, waiting for the down draft to reverse and then tossed the paper inside when the smoke began to drift upwards. He piled a few smaller pieces of wood onto the hard packed pile of ash on the bottom of the hearth, and then stacked a few larger logs on top of it, whistling tunelessly as he waited for it to catch.

Still, he thought, glancing around at the wide panorama of windows lining the far wall. For an operation this large, there doesn’t seem to be much security. And no deadbolts or steel doors unless I’m very much mistaken. Her husband’s grandfather must’ve had one hell of an army. Unless he liked living dangerously.

Ronan glanced over his shoulder at Brooke as she sliced open a small bag of rations with a flick of her knife, her long hair brushing the table as she worked.

And something tells me it was a little bit of both.

Ronan walked over to the long, unfinished wood table and set Brooke’s lighter down next to his plate, the intricate birchwood chandelier throwing strange shadows in the sunlight. He looked over the makeshift meal moodily, trying to decide what about it displeased him the most, and then walked over to the fridge and yanked it open, his irritation rising higher when he realized there wasn’t any beer.

Not exactly a hero’s banquet, is it? He said, kicking the door closed as his eyes ran back to the liquor cabinet.

Bacon and eggs were all they had, Brooke said, sitting down in the chair next to his. The hash browns are rations. Remember?

Ronan walked back over to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a fancy looking glass decanter, shaking it lightly in one hand as he reached for a glass.

How could I forget?

Brooke picked up a plastic container of juice as Ronan walked the bottle and glass back over to the table, her lips pursing slightly as he pulled out his chair.

At least that husband of yours knew enough to keep decent liquor in the house, he said, sitting down. To wash this boxcar cuisine down with.

Really, you shouldn’t…

Brooke broke off awkwardly as Ronan paused with the bottle still on the lip of his glass.

I shouldn’t what? he asked politely, raising his brows as Brooke cleared her throat and filled her own glass with orange juice.

You should have some juice with breakfast, that’s all.

Ronan smirked at her, filling his glass to the lip and then rolled the bottle around the rim with a little flourish before setting it back down on the table.

I’m not really a juice drinker, he said, his dark eyes flashing as he picked up his glass.

Or I can put on some coffee if you want. I brought up some bottled water from the boathouse. It won’t take long for the well to start going but like I said, the water won’t be safe to drink until at least tomorrow…

Ronan waved his hand at her dismissively, cutting into his hash browns with the dull side of his fork.

Never mind. I get the general gist of the place. Those newspapers I burned were from at least six years ago. Is that the last time you were up here?

Brooke considered it and then nodded.

That sounds about right, she said, taking out a pack of cigarettes from her purse. I just came to close the place up. Put things in order.

Ronan snapped his eyes in her direction as she pulled out a cigarette and reached for her lighter.

Don’t light that, Ronan said, his voice low and languid. Brooke looked at him quickly, her eyes widening in embarrassed surprise.

You fell asleep smoking last night, Ronan said, picking up a pile of newspapers from the center of the table. Or don’t you remember?

Brooke lowered the cigarette from her lips, watching him uncertainly as he set down his drink.

No, I don’t, she said, rolling the cigarette between her fingertips as Ronan breezed through them one at a time. When was that?

Right here at the table. And something tells me it’s not the first time. So let’s say you give it a rest this morning, hmm? You were in the army, right? You should be familiar with the concept of rationing.

I’m familiar with it, Brooke said quietly.

Oh good. Glad to hear it. Well, well. What do we have here? Canadian Mounties on parade. How informative. Did you happen to get a newspaper from a more relevant part of the world as well when you were out making your wifely rounds this morning?

Brooke chewed her bottom lip in quiet agitation and then stood up and walked into the living room, picking up another newspaper from the dark leather couch in front of the fireplace. Ronan raised his brows as she handed it to him, watching her closely as she walked around the table and sat back down. She looked at her cigarettes as he topped off his drink and then sighed and pushed the pack aside, tapping her jaw with one hand as she began to pick at her plate with an appetite that was almost finicky.

And at some point remind me to discuss your wardrobe with you, he said casually, raising his glass. What is and isn’t appropriate for public display.

Ronan considered her with narrowed eyes as she gave him one of those little bird glances again, her wide gray-green eyes fluttering over his face anxiously as if struggling to read the undercurrents of an approaching storm. She looked down at her pale green tank top, her eyes soft and agitated, and reached for a cigarette automatically before she caught herself and dragged her hand back. Ronan bit back a smirk as she tried to make the motion seem natural, hiding her need for her cigarette as badly as she hid everything else, and felt a rush of amused gratification when he realized that she was nervous. Flustered even. Almost like…

Almost like a new bride, he thought, his fingers drumming the side of his glass. Alone with her husband for the very first time on a honeymoon in the middle of nowhere.

The edges of Ronan’s lips twitched as Brooke’s fingers danced along the edge of her plate in gentle distress, watching the strange new reality of their situation stutter together behind her expression like the gears of some old-fashioned roulette wheel. They were alone out here. Completely isolated in the throat of the Canadian wilderness and presumed dead by everyone they had ever known. Ronan glanced at her out of the corner of his eye as she gave him the other look, that quick thrill of shame that he loved so well, and thought of how easy it was to make her look that way, to bring that girlish desire to please rushing to the surface nearly without provocation.

Not quite the same thing is it? He thought, his mood beginning to tumble down unpleasant corridors as the totality of their seclusion, the utter novelty of it, rolled down his spine like an electric current. Out here, on your own, in the middle of nowhere? With no reasonable little life to run back to, if things start to go wrong.

Ronan cleared his throat as Brooke stood up and put something away in the fridge, her gentle face so perfect it was almost unnerving. He listened to the deep hush of silence around them, the wind quaking the windows in long, erratic bursts, and looked Brooke over with half-lidded eyes, wondering how long he would be able to reign himself in here, now that he had no real reason to hold back. His eyes followed the line of her shorts as Brooke sat back down at the table, tucking her hair behind one ear in a gesture so sweet and unassuming that Ronan felt that knee-jerk jolt of desire again, every nerve ending in his body jumping to high alert as he realized how much control he had, and how impossible it would be for her to deny him.

And there won’t be anyone for her to run to either, he thought as he took another drink. Even if she did want to. Ronan’s mood darkened as he remembered the way Tony’s eyes had slid down Brooke’s body when she greeted him at the plane and followed her gaze as she glanced at her cigarettes again, suddenly wondering how far he could push her before she broke down and started to fight him.

And what would her eyes do then? He wondered, watching her over the rim of his glass. How quickly would her expression change if he told her to strip down, right now, and crawl to him on her hands and knees? What would she think if he made her sit quietly at his feet while he threaded his belt around her delicate white neck, and then yanked it tight? Would she struggle? Would she throw her hand between the belt and her neck and try to fight him like other women had done?

Or would she just turn those wide, liquid eyes up towards him and watch submissively while he set his drink down between his boots and jerked her head towards the ground. Sliding it towards her with the flat of his heel while he patiently waited for her to reason it out…

Do you like it?

Ronan rolled his eyes towards Brooke slowly, the image of her naked and leashed still throbbing through the forefront of his mind in brilliant, wraparound technicolor.

Do I like what? he asked politely, his eyes shifting between her eyes and her lips rapidly for a moment.

Brooke smiled and pointed to the large birchwood light fixture hanging above them with her fork.

The chandelier. You’ve been looking at for a while.

Ronan raised his brows and glanced up at the wide, primitive looking chandelier, his eyes running up and down the thick brown coil of chains that suspended it from the ceiling in quiet contemplation. He shrugged, his expression closing as smoothly as a yanked shut attic door, and then glanced around the dining room without much interest.

Seems to go with the rest of the room, he said, tilting his head at her. Why? Do you like it?

Brooke made a quick gesture with her hand and then reached for her glass, her eyes sliding back to her untouched cigarette pack.

I’ve always liked that piece, she said, tucking her long hair behind one ear as shifted her legs beneath her. It’s one of my favorites.

Ronan rolled his neck to one side, quietly wondering how much she had seen, and then dragged the Detroit newspaper over to his side of the table, trying to refocus his energy along more constructive corridors. Time enough to find out, he thought, sighing deeply as he snapped the paper open with one hand. Nothing but time in a place like this. And who knows? She may even learn to enjoy it after a while. There’s just no telling how much someone can get used to, once you remove choice from the equation.

You know, I’ve been smoking since I was nineteen, Brooke said, her voice hesitant. Ronan smoothed the paper out neatly without looking at her.

So you’ve been smoking for what? Nine, ten years? That’s barely a habit.

Eleven. It’s been eleven years.

Oh? You think I’m being too hard on you?

I take it you don’t have any bad habits, she said testily, and Ronan raised his brows, his eyes twirling with amusement.

Me? Dozens of them. But none of my bad habits will burn the house down around us if I happen to nod off in the middle of them. My love.

Brooke looked up at him, her face brightening at the endearment, even dripping with sarcasm.

I can’t just quit, she said finally, her voice breaking on the last word as if the idea brought her close to panic. Ronan cocked his head at her over his paper and then set it aside.

Fine, he said digging into his eggs. One with breakfast. Just one. And I’ll have the pack. For safe keeping.

Brooke’s handed him the pack, her fingers lingering on it for just a second too long and then picked up the cigarette next to her plate and lit it eagerly, her entire face relaxing as she glanced at Ronan out of the corner of her eye.

How are your eggs? she asked.

Ronan placed the pack just out of Brooke’s reach, watching her smoke with a sharp blend of amusement and irritation.

They’re fine. A little undercooked. Did you buy ketchup by any chance?

Brooke got up and grabbed the ketchup off the counter and then set it down next to the salt and pepper.

You knew how old I was.

Ronan shrugged.

Of course I did.

I never told you that, she said, running a finger across her lips.

I had you checked out.

When did you do that?

Ronan set down his fork and regarded her seriously, his eyes polite and unreadable.

The first day we met. When you- propositioned me. To become my lawyer.

He grinned at her expression and then gave her a look of amused disbelief.

Don’t tell me I was your first connected client? It’s very bad business to go into anything without knowing all the angles first. You should keep that in mind. For the future.

Brooke looked at him curiously, her eyes sweeping over him.

How old are you?

Wasn’t it in my file?

You’d be surprised how incomplete that file is. There wasn’t even a birth certificate.

No? How puzzling.

Yes. Puzzling. That’s exactly what it was.

Well, you know how unreliable public records can be, he said lightly. So many disgruntled state workers shuffling through hundreds and hundreds of inconsequential files a day. It’s a surprise anything makes it into the public record at all. It really is.

Brooke shifted in her seat and frowned at him.

Don’t you want to tell me?

Why do you want to know?

Maybe I want to plan a birthday party.

Ronan snickered, his expression softening and then sat back in his chair, rolling his shoulders.

How old do you think I am?

I think you’re close to my age, she said, her eyes moving over his features with hungry fascination. Ronan blinked, the girlish devotion in her face moving him in spite of himself, and then cleared his throat, tapping the top of her cigarette pack as he glanced away.

I’m thirty-four, he said quietly.

Brooke nodded, her eyes moving over his face with a thousand small emotions, and then smiled so brilliantly at him that Ronan paused, catching his breath.

I thought it was something like that, she said, looking down at her plate. My brother would’ve been thirty-four.

Brooke tapped her fork on the headline of the newspaper, and for one awful moment Ronan almost tipped her chin up towards him again, his heart constricting painfully at the naked love in her face.

Did you read what Connor said about the raid? she said stabbing at her hash browns.

Ronan raised his brows, his face dropping back into lines of polite disinterest, and pulled the paper back towards him as he scanned it leisurely.

No. Not all of it.

They said that we blew the roof. Supposedly to keep anyone from turning state witness.

And that we executed whoever was left down in the sewers. I read that part. They also said that an unnamed hostage died in the apartment blast. And that I gunned down several DEA agents who were- let’s see- ‘giving valiant chase’ down by the docks. I swear someone put it that way. And then I drowned. Drowned. While trying to escape.

Ronan tossed the paper aside and scratched the back of his head in irritated distraction.

Really. Drowned. That’s quite an ending. It appears our good friend Connor is already paving the way for his campaign trail. From the look of his wildly interpretive newspaper copy.

It also says that the DEA only found about a half kilo of heroin at the vineyard.

That’s no surprise. Frankly, I’m surprised Connor left them that much.

Why would he let a story like that circulate? Knowing that you could show up and ruin it whenever you wanted?

Maybe it’s wishful thinking on his part, Ronan said, his face calm and focused beneath the hard bright twirl of his eyes. Or a not so subtle warning- reminding us both that we’ve become personae non gratae in our own city. Then again, he could be hoping to tie up loose ends before it ever becomes an issue.

Brooke paled and looked up at him, licking her lips.

You mean like, track us down?

More or less. If he can find a trail to follow that is.

You’re thinking about the plane.

Among other things.

Ronan cleared his throat and then folded the paper in front of him, turning in his chair to give Brooke his sudden, undivided attention.

Now might be a good time to show me the arsenal, he said politely. His dark eyes flashed wildly as she leaped from her chair.

Chapter Two

Brooke pulled the Jeep out of the large, two-car garage and tapped the brakes as they came to the edge of the dirt driveway. She spun the steering wheel around with the heel of her hand and glanced into the rearview mirror, the high square windows that lined