Kestrel (Hart Briothers #3) (10 page)

“I’m
game if you are. I do need some food first, though.”

“Tell
you what. Let me shower and then we can go to breakfast somewhere.”

“It’s
a plan.”

As
I bathe, I try to figure out what to wear. He’s in jeans and a shirt, with
sleeves rolled up. Now I really do wish I had something cool to wear.
And my hair.
I tug a comb through the mass of tangled waves.
I decide to braid it. This way, it will be out of my way and I won’t have to
worry about it. A plain face stares back at me as I examine it in the mirror.
There’s a smattering of freckles across my nose and cheeks but other than that,
my skin is clear. My lips are neither plump nor thin; they’re simply average.
That pretty much sums up my looks: average.

Rummaging
through my drawers, I hunt for the best pair of jeans I can find that don’t
make me look like a dweeb. It takes me six pairs to decide, but the ones I end
up with are pretty worn.
Now for a top.
I end up with
a tank, and put a flannel shirt over it. Chucks are my choice for shoes and I
hit the steps.

When
he sees me he grins. “You look like you’re eighteen.”

“I’ll
take that as a compliment.”

“It
was meant as one.”

That
stops me in my tracks. “Really?” I turn to look at him.

“Yes.
Your braided hair looks great. And I love the Chucks. The whole look, actually.
Very cute.
I bet you had tons of guys chasing you in
college.”

“Hardly.
You know the story. Besides, I didn’t have time. A kid, you know. Pumping in
the car.”

His
face turns a bit pink. “I would’ve chased you.”

“No,
you wouldn’t have. And if you had, I wouldn’t have noticed.”

We
keep chatting as we head for his car.

“Carter,
I would’ve made sure you noticed.”

“Now
that, I believe.”

I
direct him to my favorite breakfast place near the water and we sip coffee and
eat the best blueberry pancakes known to mankind. I also introduce him to
cheesy grits.

“They’re
much better than I thought they would be.”

“See,”
I grin. “Told
ya
. Now, just wait until I make some
shrimp and grits for you. But the kind I make aren’t anything like what you’ve
ever had.”

“Why
not?”

“Because
I fry the grits cakes up and then serve them with a type of gravy and the
shrimp on top. You’ll see.”

We
leave and head out of Charleston toward Wadmalaw Island. There are all sorts of
country roads out there where he’ll be able to drive like a maniac.

Once
there, I tell him, “Okay, now don’t get too crazy on me.”

And
he doesn’t. But he does like to go fast. I find it’s very exhilarating. It’s a
very warm day for the beginning of October and he’s taken the top off. The wind
rushes through my hair and it’s the freest I’ve felt in a long time.

Eventually,
he pulls over and asks if I want to drive.

“Uh,
I’m not sure.”

“Why
not?”

“I
don’t know.”

He’s
out of the car and opening my door before I can think.

When
I’m standing next to him, he says, “I like how pink your cheeks are.”

Hmm.
Okay. That thought is with me as I sink into the bucket seat behind the wheel.

“Do
you imagine this is how a pilot must feel?”

“Not
at all. They have much more room than this.”

“Are
you a pilot, too?”

He
laughs. “No. But HTS, the company I’m with, has private jets. I’ve seen a
number of cockpits.”

“Oh.”
It’s becoming much clearer to me that this man has money.
Lots
and lots of money.

I
pull off the side of the road and give it a bit more gas. She drives like
nothing I ever experienced. Just a little gas sends her bolting. “Whoa, this
thing will go, won’t it?”

“From
zero to sixty in two point nine seconds.”

“Wow!”

I
look at the tiny speedometer and find that I’m going sixty already. So I ease
up on the accelerator.

“Carter,
you don’t have to drive like a grandma.”

“What
if I want to?”

“Do
you?”

“I
don’t know.”

“Open
her up.”

I
give in and apply a bit more pressure to the pedal. She leaps ahead and my
hands clench the wheel. This is serious business. I don’t want to go faster. It
scares me. We’re coming up to a curve so I prepare myself. We go into it and
it’s there I find just how much this car hugs the road. And then everything
clicks. My foot presses down a little harder and the purring of the engine
increases. It’s just me, the car, and the road. I could totally lose myself out
here. It’s harmony.

“Hey,
crazy girl, ease up some.”

I
take my foot off the gas and at the same time check my speed.
Ninety miles per hour.

“Shit!
I had no idea.”

“I
know. She does that to you.”

“I’m
seduced.”

“What?”

“Your
car has seduced me.” I pull off the road as Kestrel laughs. When we come to a
stop, I reach over to give his arm a light smack. He violently jerks away from
me.

“Hey,
sorry,” I say. His reaction baffles me.

“Jesus.”
He rubs his arm first, and then his face. “Jesus. I’m sorry.”

His
face is a mask of conflicted emotions.

“Are
you okay, Kestrel?” What is going on with him?

“Yeah.
Give me a sec.”

We
sit in silence. He offers no explanations. The quiet becomes a living,
breathing thing.

“Okay,
I’m sort of a speak my mind kind of girl. Talk.”

“Yeah.
Well, I’m sort of an issue kind of guy. Not quite ready yet.”

Swiveling
in my seat a bit, I face him and say, “So it was fair of you to demand all of
my secrets from me but you won’t share any of yours? Is that it?”

“No,
that’s not it at all. Your situation was different. You were asking something
huge from me. I’m not asking anything from you.”

His
remark stings much more than I care to admit. “I see.” I get out of the car.

The
road we’re on leads to the water. It’s only a short walk so I decide to take
it. As I stand there facing the Wadmalaw River, I wonder about people.
Everything is always so disjointed when it comes to relationships. Why does it
have to be that way? I thought I could be friends with Kestrel. Now I’m not so
sure.

I
hear his footsteps crunching on the road. He’s behind me when he says, “Do you
know anything about me?”

“What
do you mean?”

“Have
you Googled me? Done any searches on me?”

“No.
Why?” That’s a strange thing for him to ask.

“So
you don’t know anything about me, or the Hart name?”

“No!
Why? Are you a serial killer or something?” Panic edges my voice. He’s scaring
me.

“You’re
safe, Carter. You have nothing to worry about in that regard.”

He
puts my mind at ease, somewhat, but why would he ask me that?

“Then
why did you want to know all that?”

“The
Hart name was pretty newsworthy about a year ago. That’s why.”

“Oh.
Well, I don’t pay much attention to the news.”

“Do
you know anything about HTS?”

“No.”

“Damn.
You really should be more conscious of your environment. I
could
be a
serial killer. You should’ve investigated me before I came into your home for
dinner and checked out your furnishings.”

“Well,
I didn’t. Honestly, it never crossed my mind.”

“Shit.
That’s very careless of you.”

“Maybe
so. Why should I know HTS?”

“Again,
it was in the news a lot, too.”

“So,
tell me.”

We
look like we’re in a face-off. Who’s
gonna
beat the
other to the puck?

I
finally say, “You can either tell me, or I’ll Google it. What would you rather
have me do?”

“My
father was a mobster and my mother shot and killed him last year when he tried
to kill my sister-in-law.”

“The
fuck?” Who the hell is this guy?

“My
brother is the owner of Hart Transportation Services. My father owned Hart
Entertainment. You wouldn’t recognize the name, but it was comprised of a lot
of casinos in Atlantic City and Las Vegas. I worked for my dad. I now work for
my brother. The reason I’m in Charleston is I’m opening up the southern
division of HTS.”

I’m
trying to get past the part about his father being a mobster. And he worked for
him? What does that make him? And why did he practically jump out of the car
when I touched him?

My
unfiltered mouth gets the best of me when I say, “So is HTS involved in illegal
activities, too?”

If
it were possible, his emerald irises would turn me into a permanently frozen
block of ice. That’s how cold his gaze is. I have never been chilled by a look
from someone until now and I will never forget how it feels. Without saying a
word, he turns and in long, angry strides, heads back to the car.

When
he gets halfway there, over his shoulder he calls back to me in a clipped tone,
“If you would like a ride back to town, I suggest you get your ass in the car.
Otherwise, you’re on your own.”

Jogging
to catch up with him, I say, “You wouldn’t leave me out here.”

“Oh,
wouldn’t I? Care to test me?”

His
tone lets me believe he would.
 

“Okay,
maybe that question was inappropriate.”

He
doesn’t stop. Nor does he answer. Body rigid with anger, he continues walking.

“Look,
I’m sorry.”

No
response. In desperation, I reach for his arm, and when I touch him, he reacts
violently. It’s almost like my hand burns him. He slings my arm away so
viciously, I’m afraid it’s injured.

“Jesus,
I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” he asks.

“No,”
I say, rubbing my forearm.

“Let
me look. I won’t hurt you.”

I’m
sure he can tell I’m skeptical. My body trembles as I stand there. He bends my
wrist and elbow and there isn’t pain.

“I’m
sure it’s only a slight bruise, if anything,” I say.

“Carter,
I’m so sorry. You’re right. There are things about me you need to understand.”

We
walk the rest of the way to the car and when we’re inside, he says, “Without
going into too much detail, my father was a monster. He adopted my brothers and
me—there were three of us—as young boys. But what he really did was
he stole us from our mothers. He’d pick out women who worked in his casinos,
all of whom had gambling problems. He’d let them run up huge debts and then
he’d go to them with his solution.” He wiggles his fingers as if they were
quotations marks. “It would be a payoff of their debts in exchange for their
sons. The adoptions were legal, but not ones the women truly wanted. We were
abused and brainwashed. He was a real son of a bitch. So I have a lot of
issues, and touch is one of them. I’ve gone from craving it, to being afraid of
it, to dealing with it, to vacillating between all three. I’m at the point now
where if it catches me off guard, I react a little crazy to it. I’m really
sorry I hurt you. It was not intentional. I hope you understand that.”

Processing
what he has just said to me is so hard. I can’t imagine having a parent that
abused me.

“Who
does shit like that?”

He
laughs. It’s a hollow sound.
A sad one.
“You wouldn’t
believe the stories if I told you.”

His
hands are flattened on the tops of his thighs. I want to hold them.

“Kestrel.
Give me your hands.” My hands are open, palms facing up.

He
places his in mine. I take them and clutch them tightly. “I’m sorry for all the
hell you went through growing up. I hope one day, it’s behind you, and you can
live without any kind of reaction like what happened earlier.”

“Believe
me, so do I. I’m working on it, but at times it seems I’ll take one step
forward and two steps back.” He gives me a grim smile.

“You’ll
get there. Until now, I never would have guessed anything was wrong.”

He
pulls his hands away, pushes the button to start the engine, and pulls the car
back on the road. My attempts to engage him in further conversation fail. For
the rest of the drive back to town, he’s taciturn.

When
he pulls into my driveway, he says, “There’s this cocktail party I’d like you
to attend with me next week. Saturday night. I’ll pick you up at seven. We can go
to dinner afterward, if you’d like. Dress accordingly. And Carter, wear your
hair in a loose braid.”