Clayton (Bourbon & Blood Book 2) (9 page)

I
’ve put
Emma Grace to bed in Mia’s room. She’s got some clothes at Patricia’s so it won’t be too much of an issue to get her ready for school in the morning. Luckily, I’d had the foresight to bring her backpack with me so she wouldn’t have to go to school sans homework in the morning.

I glance at the clock. It’s pushing ten and I’ve still had no word from Clayton. I’m worried. The only thing predictable about Emmitt Hayes when it comes to a Darcy is hatred. And that’s in public. For a Darcy to show up on his property, even in the company of his brother, is no guarantee. If Clayton comes in a bloodied mess, I’m going to have to raise fifteen kinds of hell.

I check on Patricia again. She’s on a regular schedule with feedings, meds, turning and repositioning her. Everything has been done. I’m doing it more for my own peace of mind and to distract me from other worries than because she actually needs it.

I hear the back door open and I go to the kitchen to see Clayton walking in. He’s carrying a heavy file box which he sets on the counter.

“You wanted my secrets,” he says. “There they are. That’s what I’ve been accumulating for the last year on Samuel. I’ve lied. Cheated. Bribed. I’ve had his apartment and office wired. That’s all the dirt I uncovered. And tonight, Emmitt Hayes handed over a folder that makes this look like child’s play.”

I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Half afraid, I pull the lid off the box and look inside. Photos of Samuel with women other than Erica are on top. There are copies of receipts and credit card statements attached to them. He’s been using his company credit card to pay for hotel suites for trysts with women that are younger than his own daughter. I feel a little sick just looking at it.

“Why?” I ask him. “I don’t understand. Why now?”

Clayton sits down at the kitchen island. There are dark circles under his eye. He looks tired and beaten down in a way I haven’t seen before. I realize in that moment just how heavy a burden he’s been carrying.

“In two months, Mama will receive the last payment from the trust her parents left. It was ten million dollars. There’s another trust that’ll mature in about five months and that has enough money to ensure that she has all the care she needs for the rest of her life… because we’re broke Annalee. All of us. Me, Quentin, Mia… we’ve sunk everything into Fire Creek, and he’s bleeding it dry.”

I didn’t know any of this. He never hinted at money problems. Every month, like clockwork, he’s put the same amount of money in the account I use for the household bills and he’s done it without complaint.

“Clayton, why didn’t you say something? I could have cut back… I could have gotten a job.”

That pissed him off. I can see it instantly. I can see that muscle ticking in his jaw where he’s clenched them so tight.

“That’s not what I promised you,” he says sharply. “I told you when you agreed to marry me that you’d never have to worry again, never have to scrimp and save and do without… not ever a-fucking-gain.”

I’m shaking my head at him. Yes, he promised me that. And when Emma Grace was born he said that it made him happy to know that I could stay home with her, that I could take care of our daughter and be the kind of mom I wanted to be. I never considered for a moment that he might be pushing himself too hard to make those things happen, that the cost to him might be greater than he’d ever realized.

I thought Clayton was being selfish and keeping his secrets. But the truth of the matter is, I’ve been selfish, too. I never asked. I never questioned. I never once stopped to think about what he might be giving up to give me what I wanted. From the moment I met him, Clayton has always been this upstanding guy. I never understood just what a feat that was until I met his father. His whole life has been spent trying to be what his father never could or would... a good man. And because of my own issues, because of my own fear that he might be hiding something worse than the fact that he had to bend a few rules to do right by all of us, I pushed him away. But he let me, and for some reason, that's harder to forgive than anything else.

“I’d rather scrimp and save and do without, I’d rather go back to working a crappy job, than to see you doing this to yourself… Clayton, you’re killing yourself with all this. Do you not see that?”

“I was,” he agrees. “But I’m done now. I’ve got what I need, Annalee. Without Samuel draining every penny of profit we earn, we can make it work. The distillery is earning. Fire Creek is solid. It’s just him.”

I look back at the box and all the assorted papers. As I begin sifting through it, I see things that could not possibly have been obtained legally. Tapes, financial records, background checks. There are reports from private investigators. At the bottom of the box is a photo of Erica, Samuel’s mistress who works at the distillery, and another woman, along with newspaper clippings about that woman drowning in the Kentucky River. It was never investigated as murder. The assumption, according to the newspaper, is that she’d fallen from an unidentified boat.

“Do you think Samuel was involved in this?”

“I know he was. I can’t prove it, but I know it.” His answer is firm, matter of fact. “That was Katherine… the older, perfect sister of the woman who Mia inadvertently hired to care for Mama but was snooping through the house instead. That picture of her and Erica together is circumstantial at best, but it’s a link between Samuel and the dead woman, when we’ve never been able to make one before.”

He stops for a minute, drawing in a deep breath. It's like the magnitude of what's just fallen into his lap is finally sinking in. He continued, “The Shelbys are all mixed up in this. Barbara, and Katherine's death, then Elizabeth turning up and nearly killing Mia. There's the letter Barbara Shelby wrote that Mia found, detailing her affair with Samuel... all laid out in a gloating confession that sent Mama running from the house in tears. … the one that apparently led to Mama driving away and wrapping her car around a tree.”

He says it dispassionately, but I know it bothers him. He was the one who cleaned out the car afterward, he picked up the scattered contents of her purse from the floorboard while staring at the bloodstained seat where she’d been cut from the car. I know that will haunt him forever.

“Do you think Samuel killed her?”

“I can’t say. I think it was his boat she was on before she wound up in the water… but if she went in to the river by accident or not, he still left her there. He didn’t alert anyone for help. He might not have killed her, but he didn’t lift a hand to save her.”

Something else catches my eye. It’s a letter from an attorney addressed to Samuel. It’s about the trust that was established by Patricia’s parents and the final payment from it. It’s only a couple of months away.

“So he wants the rest of Patricia’s money,” I surmise.

“Yes.”

“When did you find out?” I demand.

“It was before Japan. The day I left,” he admits. “That’s what was on my mind while I was there… and when I came back. Trying to figure out what I needed to do about it, how to make it work. I only knew that I had to find some way to get him out of the picture, to keep Mama safe and make sure she didn’t wind up in the kind of home he wanted to put her in from the beginning.”

There is one thing that he said there that sticks out in my mind.
Get him out of the picture.
“How exactly were you going to get him out of the picture? What were you planning to do, Clayton?” I’m afraid of his answer. I’m afraid of just how far he would go if he thought it meant saving the rest of us.

“It’s not what I wanted to do… but I was prepared, Annalee, to end him if I had to. That’s why—.” He just stops, like he can’t bring himself to say anymore.

“That’s why what?” I demand. “You need to explain all of this, Clay, and you need to do it now.” It’s too much to take in. Looking at everything he’s amassed, at all the planning and scheming, the digging and searching that he’s done, I can’t even fathom when he slept.

“That’s why,” he says softly, “when you asked for a divorce, I gave it to you. If I had to go down for killing the son of a bitch, I wasn’t going to take you down with me.”

I hit him. I can’t help it. I punch him in the shoulder because it’s the only part of him I can reach. It feels so good, I do it again. “You
stupid
, selfish, asshole! How dare you! How dare you make those kinds of decisions about my life, about our daughter’s life, without even bothering to talk to me!”

He catches my hand when I swing at him again, not hurting me, but holding me so tightly I can’t do anything but fume. “I had to,” he says, and his voice is the merest whisper against my ear. “I had to keep you all safe and I had to keep my promises to you… and to Emma Grace. I promised her when she was born that she would not grow up the way you did, that she would never feel forgotten, never feel like her mother wasn’t there for her. Telling you anything about my plan would have made you an accessory… I was prepared to go to prison, Annalee, but I wasn’t going to do it and leave our baby girl alone.”

I’m so confused by what he’s telling me, I can’t even think straight. Part of me wants to kiss him, to hold onto him as tight as I can because whatever he might believe and however stupid he might have been, he’s still the best man I’ve ever known. Another part of me wants to knock him in the head for being such an idiot.

“Let me go.”

“Not if you’re going to hit me again,” he replies evenly. “I might deserve it but it’s been a hell of a day and I just don’t think I can take it.”

“I’m not going to hit you.” I won’t. I may want to, but I won’t. I’m going to attempt to be a rational adult.

He steps back, letting go of my hands and I turn to face him again. The way he’s looking at me makes me squirm a little. “What?”

Shaking his head, he answers, “You said that if I gave you the truth before you signed the papers, we were good. Is that still true?”

I don’t know. No, I do. But I’m not quite ready to say it yet. “Maybe. Probably. I’ve got to figure out if I can forgive you for being a dumbass man.”

“I was a dumbass man when you married me,” he points out.

“Slightly less dumb,” I retort. “And I was too young and stupid to know it wasn’t going to get any better.”

He reaches for me, and this time when he takes my hand, it’s not to keep me from hitting him. Instead, he presses my hand to his chest. I can feel the heat of him, the firm muscle beneath fabric and the steady thump of his heartbeat. “How about we both act young and dumb tonight? No promises. No talk of how things are going to play out. The future can work itself out… tonight, let’s just do what feels good.”

God it’s tempting. Like chocolate cake during PMS tempting. But I’m still hesitant. Scared, even. I can’t let go of him again. The first time nearly broke me. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Doesn’t have to be a good idea,” he replies, and his hand has encircled my wrist, his thumb drawing lazy circles on sensitive skin until I shiver. “Just has to feel good. Tell me you don’t want it… that you don’t need it just as bad I do?”

I’m caving. Giving in even though I know I shouldn’t. Yes, he’s given me the truth, but that doesn’t make everything just go away. There are issues to be talked about, decisions to be made. But for the night, I just want to let all that ride. I want him to make me forget how lonely I’ve felt for the last twelve months.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I whisper. I hate how breathless I sound, how needy and how fucking horny I so obviously sound. I’m either asthmatic or auditioning to do voice overs in porn.

He steps back. “I’ll meet you in my old room. I’ve got to put all this stuff somewhere safe.”

I watch him carry the box upstairs. Standing behind him, I take just a moment to enjoy the play of muscle, of long legs and a tight, firm ass. My mind is drifting to what it feels like to cup that perfect ass in my hands while he’s driving into me. Yes, I am too fucking horny to make good decisions. My emotions might be mixed up and all over the place, but my physiology is pushing me in one very solid direction.

Listen to your body. That’s the advice they give in every yoga class I’ve ever been to. Somehow, I don’t think this is what they had in mind. Of course, they’ve never had the pleasure of having Clayton Darcy in their beds and I have. That man could tempt a saint.

Climbing the stairs, I make my way to Clayton’s old room. Luckily, it’s not an homage to his childhood. He’d moved back home for a while after Patricia’s accident and had given it the adult makeover. The bed is small, a full size, but I don’t think that’s going to be a problem for us.

I hear his footsteps in the hall. I reach for the hem of my shirt and tug it up and over my head. As he walks through the door, I toss it to him. He looks down in confusion for a second, then smiles before looking up at me.

If I’d had more time to plan, I’d be wearing sexier lingerie. But the way he’s looking at me, it doesn’t matter. My body responds instantly, my nipples hardening into taut points. The anticipation of having his hands on me, his mouth, it’s too much. I can feel the wetness between my thighs.

Before I can say anything, he’s already across the room and his arms are around me. He pulls me in close, his hands cupping my face. I love when he touches me this way. It makes me feel special… it makes me feel desired.

He kisses me and everything just falls away. All the hurt, the anger, the lingering doubts. I still think he fucked up, but the bottom line is I just don’t care. He came back to me. He kept his promise.

His mouth is on mine. He’s sucking and nipping at my lower lip until I moan. That moan is all the invitation he needs. His tongue slips inside, thrusting boldly into my mouth, mimicking what I know will come later. I press myself against him, eager for more, urging him on.

He doesn’t seem to be in any great hurry. Sometimes that’s a good thing, but after a year of having nothing between my thighs that wasn’t battery operated, I’m a little impatient. I grasp the front placket of his shirt and pull. Buttons skitter, popping off and rolling over the floor to disappear between the furniture.