Busted (Barnes Brothers #3) (31 page)

“But you’re
old
, Uncle ’Bastian.”

“Your son doesn’t lack for drama,” Ressa said as they trailed behind.

Trey nudged the door closed and she paused to look at him.

He just stared at her.

Her heart jumped, caught, racing inside her chest. She wished she could reach up. Touch him. Five minutes alone . . .

You two really do need to finish that talk
.

Preferably this time without her flying off and losing her mind.

“Ah . . . so, maybe we should . . .”

“Have you eaten?”

They both stopped, staring at each other. Then Ressa lifted a hand, laughing. “You first.”

He reached out and caught her hand. “You look like you need to sit down, relax. Have you eaten?”

“I’ve been sitting on my ass in a car for half the day,” she murmured.

“That’s not the same as relaxing.” His thumb stroked across the back of her hand. “Have you had anything to eat?”

She wrinkled her nose. “A burger from some fast-food joint around noon.”

“Then you need to eat.”

*   *   *

The smell of something rather delectable filled the house, and despite the fact that she wasn’t hungry—or hadn’t been—she could feel her belly rumbling. Maybe she could use some food, although until the past few minutes, nothing had sounded appealing.

As she roamed the house, she sipped at the wine he’d poured, wine she hadn’t really wanted, but it gave her something to do, so she’d taken it.

Absently, she pushed open a door even as a voice in her mind murmured,
Don’t be nosy
.

The rest of her was saying,
Nosy is better than brooding
.

Standing in the doorway, she found herself looking at a room that was clearly Clayton’s.

It was easy enough to figure that out thanks to the
Star Wars
motif and toys scattered everywhere. It was a large room, bright with color. Everything a child could want for a bedroom. She moved around, picking up toys out of habit and putting them into bins or on shelves if she could see where they went.

“Hey.”

She looked up and saw Trey in the door.

“Hey.” She looked around. “I’m meddling. I . . . Sorry.” Grimacing, she stared at the Dinobot she held and then shook her head. “I’m trying to keep my mind distracted. Today was . . . rough.”

“No need to apologize.” He came inside, stopped a few feet
away. Rocking back on his heels, he looked around. “I haven’t ever really given you the grand tour, have I? This is Clay’s room.”

“Aw, man . . . and here I was thinking I found a guy who shared my obsession with Grimlock.” She lifted the toy in her hand and grinned at him.

“Who says you haven’t?” He took the Dinobot and easily switched it from dinosaur to robot, eying her through his lashes. “You know the best thing about buying these toys? Clayton never realizes I do it so I can play with them, too.”

“Be still, my heart.” She took the robot he offered and moved around him, picking up her wine as she moved past the bookshelf. “Every room in this place has a bookshelf.”

“Nah. I didn’t put them in the bathrooms.”

She was able to laugh, she realized. Sliding him a look over her shoulder, she nodded. “Probably not a problem . . . most of us take a book in there anyway.”

He grinned.

Putting the Dinobot on the bookshelf nearest the door, she headed out of the bedroom and paused in front of the next open door.

He gestured. “Just a guestroom.” He reached around and flicked on a switch. “Travis is using it right now.”

Ressa looked inside, saw absolutely nothing out of place and no hint of the personality of the man who was currently residing there. She doubted even Mama Ang could make a bed
that
neat.

“Did that man spend some time in the military or something? There’s not a single thing out of place.” She turned away, without noticing the way Trey’s jaw hardened, or the tension in his shoulders as she continued her way down the hall. The next door was mostly closed but she pushed it open, glancing behind to see if he was coming.

“Hey, wa—” A guilty look flashed across his face.

It was that expression that
made
her look—it was instinct. She couldn’t stop herself, or maybe she didn’t try hard enough.

She thought of the ring he’d worn and some small part of her couldn’t help but wonder. Did he have pictures of his wife in there? There was next to no sign of her anywhere. Was there something here?

But, no. Ressa frowned as she found herself staring into a room full of books. Not bookshelves . . .
books
.

A lot of them, and they were all his, spilling out of boxes, stacked haphazardly, and judging by the title on one of the nearest, she suspected a number of them were foreign editions. She thought that one was German.

Grimacing, she looked back at him. “Your twin has a handle on the organization thing better than you, I take it.”

“Ah, yeah. Um . . .” He looked past her, a quick, almost furtive look.

“Hey, I’ve seen messy rooms before. And it’s not exactly messy so much as disorganized.” She shrugged and looked back inside.

He edged into the doorway, all but crowding her out, and his gaze once more darted to an area off to the side.

“I guess this is where you keep all your . . .” She turned, absently following his gaze. Her eyes bounced off them twice without really tracking what she was seeing. The third time, she shoved past his larger form and moved deeper into the room.

Head cocked, she stared at one shelf, jammed with books that had been carelessly double stacked. They stood out, like a spring flower among autumn leaves and winter-bare trees—that bright and sassy green, although if he hadn’t kept glancing over there, she doubted she would have looked.

But yeah, now that she’d seen them, she couldn’t look away.

Those
books didn’t belong in here.

L. Forrester
stamped the spines of those thirty-some-odd books, and piled right next to them was a stack of what might have been one of Trey’s titles in French.

The title, in bright pink font, stood out, and she reached out, traced her finger down the spine

Exposing the Geek Billionaire
.

Slowly, she turned her head to look at him, confused. An odd little suspicion began to form in the back of her already chaotic mind. A question hovered on the tip of her tongue, but one look at him had the question fading, while that suspicion exploded into full-on understanding.

His face was red.

The blush crept all the way down his neck and he wouldn’t look at her, either.

Was it because her mind needed the release? The escape? She didn’t know, but absurdly, she started to laugh. He stood there, brilliant red, half a snarl on his too beautiful face and she laughed.

“You . . .” she managed to gasp out between giggles that were edging too close to hysterical.

“What?” he demanded, hands jammed deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched.

“You are . . .” She snickered and then moved toward him, throwing her arms around him. “
You
are L. Forrester.”

The red in his cheeks deepened—he blushed so hard, he looked like he’d been scalded.

“Trey, you dirty devil.” Ressa laughed harder, completely delighted. The book he’d signed to her. The way he’d acted in the bookstore at Chillers. She pressed a smacking kiss to his lips.

His hands came up and gripped her waist while she continued to laugh.

He still didn’t say anything and she finally managed to get that half-desperate laughter under control. Once she did, she lifted her face and met his gaze. Those blue eyes glittered and his hands flexed on her waist. “Glad you find this amusing,” he said gruffly.

“Oh, it’s not
amusing
,” she said, a smile still twisting at her lips. “I think it’s perfect . . . but you’re busted, pal. Sorry, but I got your number now.”

“Yeah?” He slid a hand up her back, tangled his fingers in her hair. “Well, there’s a problem with you knowing my secret. I have to keep you. Make sure it stays between us.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him and he leaned down, nipped her lower lip.

“I have to go check on the food,” he said, his voice still oddly strained.

“Oh, I’m not done talking to you about this.” Especially not now that she’d managed to find something else to think about, even if only for a few minutes.

She caught up with him in the hall and he shot her an exasperated look. “What’s to talk about? You do realize that a lot of authors write under a second name, right? Plenty of them try to keep it quiet when the material is that different.”

“Oh, hey.” She bit her inner cheek to keep from smiling. If she did that, she might tip back over into that laughter and the rest of her emotions were fighting to boil out of control, everything kiting back and forth, with her anger still at a keen edge. But now, just now, the brightness of this moment overshadowed everything. “Don’t go getting defensive on me. I think it’s fantastic that you’re so . . . flexible.”

*   *   *

That mischievous glint in her eyes had him torn. Okay, he was hugely embarrassed now, but there was something in her eyes.

Something dark.

Something dark and edgy. That he understood.

Distraction could prove vital for sanity. That was why he’d buried himself in stories, in books . . . wrapped himself in Clayton for so long after Aliesha had died.

“Why are you blushing?” she asked.

Mortified, he realized his face was still hot and probably burning red. Turning away, he checked the pasta and then turned off the water. “I’m not,” he lied.

“Okay. Then how did you suddenly become so sunburned?”

Sighing, he braced his hands on the counter. “You’re getting a kick out of this, aren’t you?”

“Why are you so worked up over it?”

Aggravated, he shrugged. “The hell if I know.”

“You know, I think it’s wonderful you can write like that.”

Grabbing a colander from the cabinet, he slanted a look at her. He opened his mouth, closed it, then finally just shook his head.

She drew closer, and the self-consciousness he felt now only added to his discomfort. When she settled her hips against the counter next to him, he couldn’t really keep avoiding her gaze, either.

“You’re weren’t this gun-shy talking about your other stuff.”

Shows what you know
. He just hid it better—because he’d been prepared. But he kept those words behind his teeth. Jerking a shoulder in a shrug, he said, “That was . . . different.”

“Different how?” Her tone was tart. “Let me guess . . . you’re fine with pushing the dark and the dismal and the
intellectual, but bring something fun and sexy to the table and
that
is a problem?”

“Hell, no.” Aggravated all over again, he shot her a look. “Have you
seen
my bookshelves downstairs? Those are my books, Ressa, and you know what kind of books I read. They are
mine
. There’s everything from
The Story of O
to Jules Verne to
The Iliad
to Grisham and J.D. Robb. If I can read about sex, then I can damn well write about it.”

“Then what’s your problem?” she asked, lifting a brow. “Why do you look like you got caught sneaking your dad’s
Playboy
magazine? Why do you look so embarrassed?”

He snorted. “First of all, assuming my dad
had
them, I never would have found them—and I doubt he had them. The only time I ever got my hands on them was when I found Zach’s old stash. Second of all . . .” His mind went blank. Once more, he found himself floundering for words, because he was absolutely incapable of figuring out how to put it into words. “It’s not about . . .”

Trey sighed and gave himself a minute as he mixed up some olive oil with garlic, red pepper, and salt. After his mind settled a little, he glanced at her. “It’s not about being embarrassed, okay? I write. It’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. It’s like . . . I’ve always breathed. I was able to learn how to walk well enough, too, although I don’t remember doing that. I’ve always been able to write. I’m good at it—I know that, and I work hard at it, but . . . I’ve always done . . .. It’s . . .” Lowering his hands, he scowled at her. “It’s weird having the woman I’m sleeping with making a big deal out of it. Especially with those books, because I saw that ARC I gave you in your bedroom. You’ve already practically read that L. Forrester book to pieces.”

*   *   *

Ressa had never realized how appealing it could be to see a man look that flustered. Although she realized she’d been off target—embarrassed wasn’t quite right.

Self-conscious
was the term she needed.

He focused on the food he was putting together with a single-minded intensity, although considering how easily he had done everything, she suspected being in the kitchen came
about as easily as everything—well, everything that didn’t involve anything public. “It’s done,” he said less than a minute later, while she was still pondering her next step. “They ate earlier. I ordered pizza, but I didn’t eat much and I’m starving now.”

She moved to block him.

“So . . . what? You think this is just a regular, old, everyday job and people shouldn’t be interested?” she asked, her eyes narrowed on his face.

“It
is
a job. It’s one I’m just suited for better than some others—like any one of my brothers.” A wide grin split his face as he said it, and then, as it faded, he turned toward the glossy blue refrigerator and opened it up. A line formed between his brows as he looked at her. “It’s a job. Some people are born to be soldiers, some are born to be cops. Zach was born to act—for a while, and then he lost touch with it. He found what made him happy. Others are good with kids and they go on to teach or be counselors or that kind of thing. I’ve got stories in my head. I didn’t
ask
for them to be there, although I won’t complain that I have them. It’s a job, Ressa.”

“It’s a damn good job, most of the time,” he said softly. Turning away, he got plates from a cabinet, focusing on that simple task. “People pay me to do the one thing I have to do if I want to sleep at night . . . but yeah, it’s a job.”