Desired (Two Marks 2)

He hesitated before he put his arms around me, which wasn’t like him. Not at all. I didn’t like him tentative. I liked his firm hold, his sure kisses. His intense need for me.

“Hey, what happened? Cord said things didn’t go well with your dad?”

“He’s not my dad. My dad died when I was a baby,” he said through gritted teeth. “Rachel… I can’t do this with you.”

I went still. Looked up. “What?”

“Harlan is fucking dangerous, which means I am, too. I can’t be your mate.”

There was that word again. “My what?”

He took off his hat and ran a hand through his blond hair. “Your husband. I can’t do it. It’s not safe for you.”

“Of course it is. You wouldn’t hurt me. I don’t understand. I know you’re a little rough, but I like it.”

“Rough?”

Another vehicle approached, and I was relieved when Cord parked. He’d be able to talk some sense into Nash. He was there when we had sex. He knew I liked Nash’s more intense play.

Except, it wasn’t Cord’s truck. I didn’t recognize the white compact car that pulled in.

Oh God.

I did recognize the driver. It was Chester behind the wheel, and he was glaring at the way I was in Nash’s arms.

Chester showing up was not what we needed right now.

When Nash turned to see who arrived, his body went rigid and a menacing snarl came out of his throat. He stepped in front of me to block Chester’s view. “We made it pretty fucking clear. You’re not welcome here, buddy,” Nash told him when he got out of the car.

I peeked around Nash’s large body. Chester appeared even wilder, and in a worse mental state than Nash. I’d never seen him so riled. His face was flushed, his hair disheveled, and his clothes were rumpled and stained, like he’d been wearing them for days. I’d never seen him less than perfect.

“Chester, Jesus,” I said. “You look terrible. When’s the last time you slept?”

“Get back in the fucking car and drive away,” Nash barked. He was way more aggressive than the last time we saw Chester, but it made sense. Chester had been harassing me by phone for days now. He’d called me more times in forty-eight hours than he had the entire four years I was at Stanford.

He’d been warned to leave me alone. I’d made it clear I wanted nothing to do with him.

“No,” Chester said, tucking his hand in his jacket pocket. “I’m not leaving without Rachel.”

“Oh yes, you are.” I heard Nash’s knuckles crack as his fingers squeezed into fists.

“Oh, I am not,” he snapped. “She’s mine. She was meant to marry me. Her inheritance was supposed to start my political career—her grandfather told me as much before he died.”

“Chester, I’m not marrying you!” I shouted. Nash had his arm across my chest, but I was no longer behind him. “Nash is my husband, and that’s final. I love him. I want to be with him. Not you. You’ll find donors for your campaign, like most politicians do. You don’t need me.”

“I do need you!” he shouted, a bit of spittle flying from his mouth. The guy looked insane. Seriously insane. “I have debts. Gambling debts. I can’t get out of them. I need that fucking money!”

Jesus.

My stomach churned. The ground seemed to tilt.

Chester had a gambling problem?

God, what a con. He’d never been anything but a shark, preying on me for my money. He didn’t want me. He never had.

“Not my problem,” I said firmly, crossing my arms over my chest. “You heard Nash. Get back in your rental car, and drive yourself out of my life. For good this time.”

Chester took a step closer. “Not. Happening. Rachel, step away from this loser.”

I frowned, confused, until I saw him draw his hand from his pocket. Oh God—he had a gun!

The sound of a third car turning down the long dirt drive made Chester turn. Nash rushed forward, faster than I would have believed possible, but Chester turned back and fired right before Nash reached him. He pulled the trigger again and again.

I screamed, as if the sound of my voice might stop those bullets.

They hit Nash square in the chest.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Yet Nash still kept going after Chester, cocking his fist and starting to swing, but his body finally crumpled and dropped to the ground before he could complete the action.

“Nash!” I shrieked, running forward. My lover—my husband—was gasping, choking in rage, still focused on getting to Chester.

I dropped to my knees beside Nash, set my hands to the bleeding on his chest, but Chester pressed the gun to my forehead. I froze.

Sweat slid down my back, and my heart raced.

“No,” Nash gasped, collapsing completely in the grass.

“Get up and get in the car.” Chester shot a look over his shoulder at the old beat-up truck approaching. “Now!”