Vulnerable (Morgans of Nashville 4)

When the light clicked off in Jake’s room, she imagined him sliding into the center of his king-size bed. Seconds ticked past. The silence grew. When it was clear they’d not have sex, she allowed the breath she held to flutter over her lips.

Knowing he was so close offered a comfort she did not enjoy very often. Soon she’d awake. Soon she’d worry.

But for now, sleep.

* * *

Dalton Marlowe was on the phone the better part of the evening since the detective had left his house. Seeing the picture of the man in Austin, Texas, solidified in his mind that Amber had found another pawn to do her work. She could be so seductive and make a man do just about anything.

“Damn it. I’m so sorry I ever brought her into our lives, Mike.”

Mike had been a good kid before Amber. He’d not been the smartest guy, but he listened and was easy enough to handle. Life had been good. And then Amber had shown up with her secrets and wagged her tight little ass in front of him, knowing he would want a taste.

He dragged a hand over his head. God help him, but the sex between them had been so good. That first time she’d come to him had been in a small hotel bar. She had swept her hair up, a black dress hugged her curves, and extra makeup made her appear older. He’d taken her up to his room and she’d slid off her dress, which pooled around her high-heeled feet. She’d been wearing only lace panties. She had let him fuck her three times before she’d whispered her secret in his ear.

Now, as he sat in the dimly lit parking lot of the bar, he thought about what it would take to control that little slut. Like a cockroach, she was hard to destroy.

He checked his Rolex and confirmed it was after two. The bar’s parking lot was nearly empty and he could see inside that the staff was wrapping up. She’d be out soon.

When Tracy Ryder came out at two-ten she was alone, moving easily across the lot in three-inch high-heeled shoes. Her short skirt hugged trim legs that still got noticed. When she was younger, she was pure candy. The instant she first walked up to him and smiled, he was as hard as a pike. For months, he was so damn hot for her. When he wasn’t fucking her in the city apartment far from his wife, he dreamed about fucking her. In those days, he could barely think.

In that sleek apartment, she rode him and moaned his name as if possessed. And then his wife had hired a detective who snapped pictures of him and Tracy in the hotel room. How the hell his wife discovered the affair, he would never know. When confronted with the pictures, she raised her voice and broke down into tears. She did not beg. She did not plead. She gave him a choice: break it off immediately or get out of the marriage and lose the money and all rights to their unborn child.

Even with the ultimatum looming over his head like the sword of Damocles, he hesitated, resenting that this plain, cold woman controlled his life. But his wife’s money trumped the sex. Without it, he was nothing.

Shit.

He could only blame his lapse in judgment on youth and stupidity, especially as he now watched Tracy Ryder crossing the parking lot. A taut figure now sagged a little under a short miniskirt and a low-cut top. Once blond hair was now dyed a harsher and more unnatural white. And the wrinkles around her mouth were deep from years of smoking.

Whereas Tracy had been easy to handle, Amber had not. Christ, if he’d known what trouble Amber was going to cause, he might have just killed her himself right then and there in that hotel room.

As Tracy fumbled for her keys, he got out of the car and crossed the lot toward her. The chill in the night air quickened his step. The crunch of his shoes against gravel had her turning, eyes narrowing and her hand slid into her purse. No doubt those long red-tipped fingers were curled around the trigger of a gun.

“Tracy.”

Her head cocked at the sound of her name. For a moment, she stared at him before she recognized him. “Dalton Marlowe.”

Her wrinkled skin and brittle blond hair turned his stomach. “Where’s Amber?”

A lift of the chin hinted to her disappointment, but Tracy had always been quick to recover. “At the Reed house, I suppose. She’s been there since she got out of the hospital.”

“What does she want? Why is she back?”

She moistened her lips, smiling at the discomfort seasoning his tone. “Amber? Who knows what Amber wants? But she won’t let go until she gets it.”

He flexed tense fingers. Laughter from a couple crossing the dark lot toward their car kept him from closing the gap between them and slapping her face. “I want to talk to Amber.”

Bone thin shoulders shrugged. “I thought you paid her a visit in the hospital?”

“There were too many people around for us to have a proper conversation.”

“God only knows what you’ll do to her.”

He tipped back his head, the irony of all this jabbing him. “Why should you care what I’d do to her when you never gave her any thought? You only cared about yourself?”

Painted eyes narrowed. “Fuck you.”

“I did, and I’m still paying dearly for it.” He tugged at the edges of his hand-tailored jacket. He was wasting his time with Tracy. The woman had no idea what her daughter was capable of doing. “If you see Amber, tell her I want to talk. She knows how to find me.”

She sniffed, shaking her head slowly. “What’s in it for me?”

The couple had vanished, leaving the two of them alone. He moved fast, snatching her thin arm in his meaty fingers. He tightened, squeezing until he saw the pain in her blue gaze. “Tell Amber to call me, Tracy, or I promise I’ll bury you so deep, the cops will never find your bones.”

* * *

Hal arrived home ten minutes after two, his head spinning from too much bourbon and beer. He fumbled with his keys, dropped them and cursed. “Goddamn lock. Carrie, you bitch!” This time she had locked him out. Bet that lady cop was filling her head with lies and trouble.

He groped for the keys, staggered, and stabbed the key into the lock. Inside, the house was dark and quiet. He fumbled for the light switch, pawing his hand down the wall until he felt it. With a click, a dumpy little room came into view. It summed up his life. Shitty.

“Carrie, where the fuck are you?” His voice was garbled and slurred. “Get your ass out here and cook me something to eat. I’m hungry.”

He knew she was supposed to work tonight, but last call at Rudy’s was one a.m. She should be home, and that damn kid should have been fed and asleep. “Carrie!”

He stumbled forward toward the kitchen, getting more pissed with each step. When he found that dumb bitch he was gonna knock some sense into her.

A light in the hallway went on and he turned to find her standing in the hallway. She wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a jean jacket. She’d tied up her hair and had scrubbed all the makeup off her face, revealing a dark bruise on her cheek. For an instant, guilt jabbed his gut, but he quickly shoved it aside. He hadn’t wanted to hit her, but she made him. She always knew how to push his buttons.

“Get me something to eat,” he shouted.

“I wanted to tell you face to face, Hal. I’m leaving with the baby.”

“What did you say?”

“I’m leaving.”

His temper flared hot. “And where the hell are you going?”

“I have a place to stay.”

“That cop woman.”

She swallowed. “It doesn’t matter. I’m already gone.”

“Like hell you are.” He advanced toward her with fist raised. His mind was in such a fog of anger, frustration, and booze that he barely remembered the next half hour. It was a blur of Carrie’s cries, bone-crushing hits, and blood.

When she fell to the floor and he finally stepped back breathless, the adrenaline that had rushed through him vanished like water down a drain. His vision cleared and for the first time since he’d arrived home, he saw Carrie. Really saw her.

Carrie. His Carrie. The woman he loved was lying facedown in front of the stove, her face beaten so badly he couldn?

?t recognize her.

He stumbled back, slipping in the blood and nearly falling backwards. He looked down at his bloodied hands and cried, “Holy shit! What have I done?”

In the other room, he heard the baby’s cries. His mind shut off and there was no more thinking as he moved to a drawer in a small table and removed a revolver. He put it in his mouth. The hammer dropped and the gun fired. Hal was dead before he hit the floor.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Wednesday, October 11, 6:00 A.M.

Georgia’s sleep hadn’t been light, but deep and so dark that it had been devoid of images or worry. Out like a light. As if pushing up from the depths of the ocean, she rose toward the light and burst to the surface.

Her eyes fluttering open, she was greeted by the sound of rushing water. A shower. Wherever she was, she wasn’t alone.

She didn’t instantly recognize her surroundings. She sat up and shoved a lock of hair from her eyes as she searched baseball pictures. Smoothing her hands over the hand-sewn quilt, she smiled when she remembered. Jake Bishop’s house.

She slid her legs over the side of the bed and, running her tongue over her teeth, hurried to the second bathroom where towels waited. She dug a toothbrush from her travel bag and brushed her teeth, turned on the shower, and shut the bathroom door. After peeing, she got into the shower and washed away the lingering fatigue as well as the scents of Rudy’s bar, which clung to the strands of her hair.

She soaped her entire body and washed her hair and by the time she stepped out of the shower, she felt . . . human. It took another few minutes before she put on clean clothes and combed her hair.

Emerging from the steam of the bathroom, the scent of coffee welcomed her. Jake stood with his broad back to her, staring out at the first hints of sunrise. Bread warmed in a state-of-the-art toaster.

“Good morning,” he said. Without turning to look at her he poured her a cup of coffee and then splashed in a bit of milk along with some sugar as she liked it. When he turned, he looked rested, clean-shaven, and curious as he studied her. “Sleep well?”

She accepted the cup. “Honestly, it’s the best I’ve slept in a while. Thanks for letting me crash.”

“Anytime. No reservations needed.”

She sipped the coffee savoring the taste and the warmth. “Thanks.”