Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) (23 page)

Creek doesn’t give me that sly grin that always puts me at ease and makes light of any situation. Instead, in the soft candlelight, the fractures in his eyes—those cracks in the center of blue ice—seem all too clear.

“You’re so beautiful,” whispers, “inside and out. I couldn’t stand to ever lose you, Robin. And I almost did.”

His eyes are glued to me as he slides off his shirt and joins me on the bed again. He wraps his arms around my body and hugs me close to his chest, kissing my hair. Gently, he runs his hands down to massage my breasts, his fingers working as delicately as if I were made of tender spring petals. Yet I’m already on fire as he leans in to swipe a kiss before steering his tongue gently down my throat and cleavage to my nipples. He circles one edge of my breast with his tongue, then the other and back again, until I’m building in ecstasy. Between my legs, I tingle and even ache for him, my breath short and halting at times, so I seek to slide his jeans and underwear down over his sinewy thighs. The feel of his smooth, hard skin beneath my palms sends me reeling.

We both kick off our shoes and the rest of our clothes, then fall together, releasing long, drawn-out sighs, like spirits who’ve finally escaped to some pure realm where only skin-on-skin and heat-on-heat rule the candle-lit night. As Creek’s lips descend to my breastbone and work their way over my stomach to my navel, I’m moaning in want—no,
need
—and I feel his tongue travel down between my thighs. Already I’m bursting with pleasure, white sparks flickering on the backs of my eyelids—I didn’t even realize my eyes had fallen closed. Clutching at his cropped hair, I pull him down to me as the rhythm of his tongue begins to drive me insane. He’s still so gentle, swirling and kneading, and I feel myself creeping over the edge. My entire body ripples and rises with pleasure until I hear some animal part of me cry out.

“Not yet, Creek. I want to you to come, too.”

I edge myself beneath his body and take him, long and taut beneath my hands, and move his tip between my legs, thrusting him into me until we’re one. My legs wrap around him and clench in total greed, but to my surprise, he smoothes his hand over my hair and rocks ever so slowly, gazing into my eyes.

“Mrs. Flynn,” he whispers, rotating his hips in just the right way to make me crazy. When he sees my pleasure, that half-smile finally works its way across his lips, making that dagger scar over his cheek sharpen to a fine edge. “How do you like being my wife?”

“Pure heaven,” I smile.

With that, he rolls and writhes, his muscles as tight and twisting as the snake tattoo on his arm, sending me soaring until I release a cascade of breathless gasps. All at once, his thrusts grow harder until I’m somewhere between panting and screaming and clawing for more. I’m almost afraid of myself, grabbing and demanding everything he’s got, yet trying to avoid the raw wound on his chest that’s still encased in bandages. I clutch his tight biceps instead, rocking him against me and feeling the slightly upraised scar where I carved the word
Partners
on his arm.

“Partners,” he whispers with one final thrust, his back arched before he falls slack onto my chest, where I embrace him so tightly I can hardly breathe.

“Forever,” I reply.

The hush that follows, that long and sacred gap of silence with only our ragged breaths between us, is what I treasure most. Our hearts beat on top of each other like one person, throbbing wildly at first but eventually slowing down to a more peaceful rhythm as my hand seeks the tufts of his hair to curl between my fingers. I stroke his moist temple for a second, then glide my fingers down his hard cheekbone and neck and along the curve of his smooth back, kneading his tight muscles as he begins to relax. But when my hand reaches the bed again, I feel something stiff with a firm edge beside us beneath the quilt.

“What is it?” Creek asks, as if sensing the subtle change in my mood.

“Uh, I’m not sure,” I reply, slipping my hand beneath the folds of our bed linen to check it out. “There’s something here.”

Sure enough, my fingers detect a box. I grasp it by the corner and pull it out. It’s made of dark, distressed wood with a tarnished brass latch. It looks like the kind of small chest Granny Tinker keeps in her wagon to store rabbit’s feet, incense, and herbs.

“C’mon,” Creek urges, “I want to see what mischief Granny’s been up to this time. It’s probably her weird idea for a wedding gift. No wonder she wasn’t around for your parents’ candlelight dinner.”

Hesitantly, I creak it open with the same trepidation as if it were Pandora’s box, fearing what types of boondocks voodoo I might find.

Inside, I notice the chest is lined with a rich, red velvet, and I spy a large note in Granny’s handwriting. Picking it up, it reads,

Happy honeymoon, y’all.

Watch out fer the shivaree.

“What’s a shivaree?” I ask.

In my mind, I imagine some backwoods prank on honeymooners—one that probably involves banging on pots and pans, and maybe an explosion or two from the TNT Twins.

Creek laughs. “Don’t worry, sweetheart—if they try to kidnap you, I can take ’em on.” His mouth slips into a crooked grin. “Sounds like fun, actually. Just make sure you put your clothes back on before we go to sleep.”

I give him an elbow in the ribs. “You’re still healing from a gunshot wound, Mr. Flynn,” I scold. “Take it easy, okay? I can fight for myself.”

Creek nods and swipes a kiss, but then I turn over the note and watch his face turn to ash. On the back, it reads,

And best beware of ghosts who never rest.

“What does she mean by ghosts?” I add. “I thought we left them all a couple of thousand miles away, in Italy.”

But that’s when I realize Creek isn’t looking at the note. He’s staring inside the box, at a silver bracelet that was beneath Granny Tinker’s strange message. Woven through the links of the bracelet are little dried blue flowers, with the letter C stamped on the clasp. Beside it is a lock of blonde hair tied with a blue ribbon and a small stack of letters bound with twine. When I turn to Creek, he’s all of a sudden as far away from me as the stars.

Once again, he’s that guy I don’t know.

That I’m afraid I’ll never know.

And his eyes are a wall of ice, even in the warmth of the candlelight.

Holding my breath, I jiggle his shoulder.

Creek,” I say gently. “What’s happened to you?”

He remains silent, every muscle in his body tightening, for what feels like minutes.

“Goddamn her,” he finally whispers.

Swallowing hard, tears mist my eyes. I know what C stands for—it’s for Caroline, his mother.

But why on earth would Granny Tinker want to spoil our honeymoon with a reminder of the loss of Creek’s mom?

Fishing around the box with my fingers, I discover that beneath the lock of hair and a few lake shells and smooth stones lies the ruby heart.

The necklace has been attached to the top of the heart again, and it appears that Granny must have somehow glued it all back together. For the first time, I realize the pieces that had broken off from the shotgun blast had cracked along the fissure of the star.

“Look, Creek,” I hold it up to him, hoping to change the subject—along with his abrupt shift in mood. “Shouldn’t we give this back to the gypsies? After all, it’s their heirloom, the Stone of Thieves.”

Creek’s eyes appear troubled, and so distant that I feel a chill travel through my whole being. I grab the quilt and wrap it tight around our shoulders in a huddle.

“Granny Tinker would’ve sent it back herself by now,” Creek says. “Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

He gazes into my eyes while his jaw muscles twist. For an interminable space of time, he’s silent, until he releases a long sigh. “Unless she thought we needed it,” he whispers.

Grasping the ruby heart from my hand, Creek holds it up by the necklace and studies its crimson reflections in the candlelight as though the stone were a witness to everything he never wanted to remember about his mother’s murder.

“But I thought my dad said the stone has no power,” I remind him.

I watch Creek’s Adam’s apple slide up and down his throat as he drops the stone into my hands.

“Your dad is a goddamn liar.”

“So are you,” I reply defiantly.

I’m on thin ice here, and I know it.

The way Creek looks at me, from somewhere dark and far away, makes me fear I’ll never find him again. And it sends shivers straight through my soul. It’s as though he’s gone—long gone—down into a black abyss from his childhood that he’s never completely revealed.

“You say we’re married, Creek. But there’s a whole world of hurt I don’t know about you. That door is closed and sealed tight. And Granny knows it, and you know it.”

I hold the ruby heart by the necklace up to the candlelight again to watch it shimmer as it spins in little circles, left and then right, before it finally becomes still.

“Until we find out who your mom really was, Creek—why she made the choices she did and what happened to her killer—I’m never really going to have your full heart, am I?” I say as bravely as I can muster. “Not completely, anyway.”

Swallowing hard, I realize we’re at a crossroads. And this night could be our last if Creek doesn’t agree with me—right here, right now—because I can’t take another minute of living on the wrong side of his wall, and not having access to his whole soul anymore.

The wagon falls silent as a tomb, and all I can hear is the sound of Creek’s breathing. He doesn’t look at me. He only stares at the ruby heart I now hold in my hand.

Finally, he strokes the back of my hair before leaning his head against mine.

“I hate that fucking stone,” he whispers, staring into my palm.

I feel his breath warm my temple as his lips press for a kiss.

“But it’s time.”

“Time?” I reply, my heart in my throat, throbbing hard.

Creek nods.

“It’s time to open that door.”

His words barely leave his lips when the door to our wagon swings ajar with a warm gust of wind, scaring the daylights out of me.

The familiar orange glow of a thin cigar lights up the back of our wagon. “Got some news fer ya, Mister and Missus Flynn,” Granny Tinker smiles, her gold tooth gleaming in the candlelight.

Her beauty still astounds me, with her silky gray hair and Greta Garbo-crossed-with-a-rock-star features. She strides right up to us in her long, black velvet dress and matching floppy hat with a feather in it, and hands me a crumpled copy of the
Cincinnati Enquirer
.

Apparently Granny Tinker’s undaunted by the fact that Creek and I are nearly naked, covered only by the soft folds of one of her crazy quilts. As she crosses her arms and taps one of her lace-up boots, part of me wonders if she’s been listening to us all along.

Seriously? A newspaper headline warrants busting in on us during our honeymoon? Why, oh why, didn’t I think to turn the lock?

Glancing down, I realize the paper is curled open to the
Business
page. Circled in red ink is an article that says in bold letters
Pasta Sauce Dynasty Hits Hard Times
. Scanning the first few lines, I read aloud, “The de Bargona pasta sauce dynasty has taken another steep dive on Wall Street this week after their patriarch and CEO was found walking alone and almost naked in a remote forest of the Veneto, living off raisins and babbling about ghosts. Though he’s since been taken to a psychiatric facility for evaluation, the international company is engaging in a massive PR campaign to reduce the damage. There’s no word yet about his mental health, but analysts highly doubt that De Bargona International will ever climb out of bankruptcy.”

I’m sucking air, but Granny Tinker merely takes back the paper from my hands and blows a stream of smoke from her cigar that rises and collects around her, making her appear as hazy as a phantom. She opens the paper to another section and shows me the
Lifestyle
page, where the headline reads,

Enrollment Drops Off Sharply at Pinnacle Boarding School Due to Rumors of Ghosts.

After our eyes trace the words, Granny Tinker folds the newspaper beneath her arm.

“Looks like y’all will be paying a visit to Robin’s Alma Mater soon,” she says mysteriously, releasing more puffs of smoke that make me cough. Her shadow leaps like a spirit against the side of the wagon with each flicker of the candle flame. Reaching into her pocket, she tosses a small bouquet of wildflowers into my lap.

“Them’s forget-me-nots,” she points out in a raspy tone. But her renowned timberwolf eyes, translucent gray with a fiery yellow in the middle, are trained on Creek, not me. “I gathered them tonight ’cause the moon’s full, and that’s when their power’s the strongest. They always been known to help people find a lost love.”

Creek is no stranger to Granny Tinker’s spooky ways, and he’s not exactly one to back down either, so he meets her gaze.

“My love is right here,” he states with defiance in his voice, hugging me tight. “No need to be disturbing the dead.”

Granny Tinker narrows her eyes, leaning in to Creek.

“You ain’t the one who’s lost, sweetheart.”

She picks up the silver bracelet from the chest on the bed and holds it up to us. It glints in the candlelight, losing a couple of its dried, blue petals.

“And until your mama’s found, she’s a damn sight far from dead.”

With that, Granny Tinker hands Creek the bracelet and turns away, just as we hear the hoots and hollers and pot banging of the folks at Turtle Shores preparing for not one, but two shivarees tonight. I pity my poor parents as Granny Tinker strides through our wagon to the door, when I see her pause for a moment to blow our candle out. Only the orange tip of her cigar and her slow cackle fill the darkness, making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

“Follow yer star, darlins,” Granny Tinker’s voice weaves through the wagon, though she’s nowhere I can see. “An’ bring everybody home.”

In another gust of wind, the door slams shut, rattling our wagon a little. All at once, the ruby heart begins to pulse and feel warm in my hand. Then it flickers with a crimson glow.