Headed for Trouble (The McKay Family #1) (13 page)

Is that how it’s going to be
?

He should leave it at that.

If he was smart.

But Ian realized he was something of an idiot himself.

As Joel turned and stomped back to the kitchen, Ian braced his elbows on the bar and focused on Neve. “Are you looking for Brannon?”

Her gaze came to his and the cool expression there would have been as effective as an ice slap, if he hadn’t felt her body up against his—first in reality, then in his memory, and then his dreams, all bloody night.

“If he’s available,” she said, her voice remote, polite.

When he’d met Moira, he’d decided he could see her as a queen—remote and set apart, ruler of her small bit of territory. McKay’s Treasure, in its way, was just that.

And now he was staring at the princess. Gone a long while, but she had a haughty edge to her. Haughty and cool. It hadn’t been last night, but then again, he hadn’t been an oaf until the very end.

Damn if it didn’t make him want to take another taste of her. A bigger one … a longer one.

“If you want to have a seat, I’ll find him.”

“I’ll stand, thanks.”

This,
he mused,
is going to be harder than I thought.

But after one long, lingering look at Neve, he couldn’t even bring himself to question it—she’d be worth it. He gave her a nod and called out to Chap.

As Chap came to take Ian’s place behind the bar, he told himself he’d just go find Brannon. She looked like she’d already had a day. He didn’t need to add to it now, did he?

But instead of heading directly to the back, he found himself going to her.

Her shoulders went back.

Her chin went up.

What he did want to do was take those shoulders in his hands, cover her unsmiling mouth with his own.

Fuck it all.

“About last night…”

Neve lifted her eyebrow.

Ian felt like a big, stupid oaf. A big, stupid,
besotted
oaf.

Setting his jaw, he took in a deep breath. “About last night,” he said again. “I owe you an apology.”

She flicked a hand dismissively and looked away, her gaze on anything and everything but him. Clearly she didn’t see the
point
in looking at him. “I don’t see why. I kissed you back.”

“Oh. I’m not sorry about kissing you, and about you kissing me
back
—I’m not entirely sure who kissed who first. But there was a fair bit of mutual kissing going on. And again, that’s not what I’m apologizing for, Miss Neve.”

Now
she looked at him.

Ian let his gaze wander down to her mouth and he moved in closer, half expecting her to back up.

She looked like she wanted to, but to his surprise, she squared her shoulders and held her ground, staring at him, challenge written all over her face.

“No, you see, I’m sorry for how I reacted after I heard your name. I think…” He weighed his words. “I think I handled that poorly.”

“Handled that poorly,” she said, mimicking his brogue, and he had to say, she did a fair imitation. Then she sniffed and cut around him. “Don’t worry, Ian. You’re hardly the first guy who’s had a weird reaction when he realized he’d tangled tongues with a woman as rich as Croesus. I’ve had people mocking me for being that
one percent
just as much as I’ve had people chasing after me and wanting something for it. It’s nothing new.”

Ian gaped at her back, stunned into silence. It lasted long enough that she’d managed to make it halfway through the bar before he caught up with her.

He took hold of her arm.

She tensed.

It was subtle and she hid it well, forcing herself to relax as she gave him yet another one of her haughty smiles. This time, though, instead of being torn between amusement and wanting to kiss the damn smirk off her mouth, Ian felt something else.

The slow stir of something dark and ugly.

She couldn’t quite hide the shadow in her eyes, either. Not fast enough, at least. Others might not have seen it.

But Ian had seen such a sight before—he knew those shadows. After all, his grandmother had hidden them well, too.

He didn’t immediately let go of her arm. Instead, he relaxed his grip and swept his thumb across her inner arm. “I hate to be the one to knock you off your high throne, Princess Neve,” he said, keeping his tone light as he gave her a mock bow.

“It’s
high horse,
” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Horse. Throne. What’s it matter? You’re up higher than all of us peasants.” He watched as her pretty, pale green eyes narrowed and color washed into her cheeks. Fighting a grin, he continued, “I don’t give a bloody damn about your money. It’s just…”

Brannon appeared in the doorway, and Ian gave her an exasperated, pained smile, exaggerating it as her brother drew closer. “It’s just somewhat awkward. You see, your brother’s my best friend … and I don’t fancy having him try to shove his fist down my throat if he found out I’d had my hands all over you.”

*   *   *

Neve didn’t entirely believe him.

Despite the daggers Brannon shot his way, despite the glimmer of amusement and the heat that lingered still in Ian’s gaze, she didn’t entirely believe him.

She wanted to, because the heat that lingered in his gaze echoed inside her. She could feel it licking through her, warming things that had gone cold during the long, tense minutes in Gideon’s office. Minutes? No. She realized she’d spent nearly two hours in there, recounting so much of what had happened over the past ten years of her life.

“Ian, go flirt with somebody else,” Brannon said.

Ian continued to hold her arm, staring at her, those pale gray eyes steady on her face.

“But I think I like flirting with your sister, Brannon. She’s a pretty lass,” Ian said.

Flirting
? Was this what he called
flirting
? This was all but
seduction
, even if they were in public and even if they were still clothed.

His voice stroked over her like a caress of silken velvet, dragging over sensitized nerves. Her heart skipped a beat and she curled her free hand into a fist, her nails biting into her palm. It was either that or reach for him, and nothing good would come of that.

And his thumb was still stroking over her arm. How long had it been since a man had been able to touch her without inspiring terror in her? She didn’t think Gideon counted. Neither did Brannon. But every other man did. Even the casual brush of a stranger caused that knee-jerk instinct. It might be gone in a blink, but it was still
there
.

After living several years where just a casual question might inspire a backhand, for her to be able to have somebody touch her and just
feel
 …

The heat spreading through her became too much for her to process, making her thoughts short-circuit.

Before it became too much, Neve broke the contact and stepped away.

“Is that what you’re doing now?” she asked, holding Ian’s gaze. It took more willpower than she thought she possessed, standing there and watching him. But at the same time, just standing there watching him as he watched her did something to her. She couldn’t quite describe what it was, either. For so long there had been a deep, aching cold inside her. It had been there so long that she’d forgotten what it was like for her to
not
feel that cold.

Standing there so close to Ian Campbell, it was like that cold knot wanted to dissolve.

It
hurt
.

It was the deep, oddly welcome sort of pain of a long-injured limb coming back to life.

It was terrifying.

The smile tugging up the corners of his mouth called to her, made her want to smile back even as part of her was whispering,
Get away. Get away … be smart …

The roaring of blood in her ears drowned out the noise coming from the late-afternoon crowd and she could have almost pretended it was just the two of them.

She had to clear her throat before she could speak. “For the record, if and when I decide to carry on a flirtation with a man, my brother doesn’t have a say in it,” she said, proud of how level her voice was. Something hot flared in Ian’s gaze and she saw the smile forming. Memories flashed of how it had felt to be kissed by that beautiful mouth, to stroke her fingers down over his dark beard.

He held out a hand.

Curious, she went to shake it. “I think we’ve already done the…”

The word
introductions
froze in her throat as he bent his head and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.

“Until next time, Miss Neve.”

“Damn it, Ian,” Brannon said.

“I didn’t realize there was going to
be
a next time,” she said at the same time.

“Well…” He continued to hold her hand for a moment. “It’s a small town, isn’t it? We’re bound to see each other from time to time. I find myself hoping it will be sometime soon.”

Then he let go and turned back to the bar.

She gave herself a minute to stare at him, to appreciate the view. She couldn’t complain about the kilt, either, although she shifted her gaze to Brannon. “You know, guys don’t wear kilts on a regular basis in Scotland.”

Brannon looked over at her. “Know from experience?”

“I stayed there for a … while.”

“When were you there?” His voice was neutral. “Last I heard, you were still in London with William What-the-Fuck.”

“Clyde,” she said quietly. “His name was William Clyde.”

“I know what his fucking name was.”

She turned to look at Brannon and saw the fury simmering in his eyes. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, turning on his heel and storming away.

She could feel people staring at her. Ten years ago, she would have fired something off at them, told them to mind their own business.

Five years ago, she would have ducked her head and scurried away, tried to hide away from the attention.

Now she just mentally braced herself and followed after him.

She hadn’t planned on doing this until tonight.

But if she didn’t do it now, she’d feel like she was running.

She found Brannon in an office. It was neat and organized—that told her right away that it either wasn’t his or that he’d changed just as much over the past decade as she had.

“Why?” he asked.

He stood staring out the window as he spoke, and he didn’t turn to face her as he said that one single word.

She leaned back against the door, taking in a deep breath. She really didn’t want to handle this emotional storm again. Not twice in one day.

Brannon turned to look at her and she knew she’d have to.

“Tell me why you decided that schmuck was so important you’d blow off your family for him, Neve.”

She considered and discarded a hundred different things. What would he listen to? What was going to cut through that icy anger? He looked at her and expected to see the spoiled brat she’d been when she left, the spoiled brat she’d displayed for him the one time he’d come after her in London—and, oh, had she played that part well.

When none of the answers seemed to fit, she found herself reaching for the hem of her shirt instead.

There were only two scars, thin and narrow, almost surgically near. William had taken great care—and great glee—when he carved the
X
into her belly.

X marks the spot, you stupid bint … ever leave me again and I’ll drive this knife inside you and watch you bleed.

She dragged it up. Mechanically chilled air blew over her bared torso as she stood there and lifted her gaze, met her brother’s across the office.

For the longest time, he just stared.

She let the shirt go and then she started to talk.

*   *   *

Gideon calmly explained himself again.

He didn’t know how many times he’d done this, but he knew he’d have to do it again.

“Mrs. Mouton. I realize you don’t see what the problem is with your dog … relieving himself in public and, yes, it is a natural body function. But it goes against the town ordinances. You need to clean up after Samwise,” he said, nodding to the watermelon-sized pup snarling at the matron’s feet.

“It’s just plain foolishness, Gideon Marshall. A dog will go where it wants to go!” She sniffed at him and then glared at the ticket. “I will
not
accept that ticket. If I don’t accept it, you can’t make me pay it.”

“It doesn’t—”

He went quiet, hearing the noise coming from inside the pub just a few feet down.

“Brannon!”

Neve’s voice, familiar, was the only warning before Brannon came rushing out the door. One of the signs that Ian propped out on the sidewalk in the evenings was knocked over, and he almost sent Joel Fletcher flying. Brannon barely noticed.

Aw, hell
.

“Damn it, Brannon, would you stop?” Neve shouted after him as she appeared in the doorway.

Ian was at her shoulder a moment later.

Deciding he had more important concerns, he shoved the ticket in his pocket. “It’s your lucky day, Mrs. Mouton. One final warning, but I suggest you have Mr. Mouton help you find those little baggies I told you about.”

He delivered the rest of the words over his shoulder as he launched himself forward, using his body as a barricade between Brannon McKay and the Bugatti.

“Why don’t you take a minute to calm down there, Bran?” he said softly.

“Get out of my way, Gideon,” Brannon said, his voice tight, barely above a whisper.

“Can’t do that.” He shook his head, studying Brannon’s blue-green eyes, saw the hell there. He understood—he’d been dealing with the same emotions for the past few hours. “You really think she needs you disappearing on her now?”

Bran went still. “You knew.”

He shot out his hands then, jerking Gideon up against him.

“You
knew
!” Brannon roared.

“You need to calm down!” Gideon said. “One final warning.”

Brannon’s only response was a snarled, “Fuck
you
!”

It took more effort—and muscle—than Gideon would have liked. Brannon was a big, and determined, son of a bitch and the two of them had spent more than a little time squaring off with a pair of boxing gloves. But Gideon hadn’t spent four years walking the sands in Afghanistan just to have his ass handed to him by the richest, if somewhat pissed-off, boy in town.