The Right Kind of Trouble (15 page)

He smashed it out and then dumped it into the trash can before checking the setup. Everything looked good. As long as his luck held …

He lit the chain of fabric and paper, dropped it as it went up in a whoosh, and bolted, flying through the window he'd used as an entrance just as the room went up in a whoosh.

He took his chosen exit route and was coming down the street just as people started to notice the flames. Feigning shock, he rushed down the alley, shouting out for Mrs. Stafford, using just the right amount of fear in his voice.

He timed it perfectly.

Firefighters had to drag him outside after he'd successfully busted down the door.

“You're a fucking wreck, man.” One of the firefighters handed him a bottle of water, shaking his head.

He managed what he hoped was a convincingly strained smile. “I guess I should haven't been so hasty. I just saw the store and panicked.”

In the crowd gathered around him, he saw more than a few sets of admiring eyes linger on him before they slid away. Mrs. Stafford, the woman he'd supposedly been trying to save, was standing nearby and sobbing into a handkerchief.

She smelled, faintly, of cigarette smoke.

The ruse had worked.

The bookstore was ruined.

And nobody suspected him.

*   *   *

It was well after five—as a matter of fact, it was almost eight. If Gideon hadn't known Agent Kim Wycoff, he would have held off calling until tomorrow, but he did know her well enough to know she was going to try to peel a piece of his hide for taking so long to call back as it was. Since he was already missing a few layers of his hide, he figured it would be best to get it over with.

“About damn time,” she said in lieu of greeting.

“Nice talking to you, Kim. Yeah, it has been a miserable, wet winter … nah, I doubt I'll do much for Christmas. What about you?”

Her laugh was soft and husky. For a few short weeks, they'd been lovers.

Kim would have been happy to make it longer, but Gideon had been reeling from Moira's marriage to Hurst and the last thing he'd wanted was a relationship. Now talking to her left him more than a little uncomfortable, just because whenever they did talk, she managed to bring up subtle hints of those few hot, torrid weeks together.

“You always were one for small talk, weren't you, lover?” she asked.

He didn't respond.

“Or maybe not.” Her tone changed—a subtle shift, but Gideon could practically hear the wheels spinning in her head. “How is life, Gideon?”

“It's fine. I don't imagine that's what we've got to discuss though, is it, Agent?”

“I've always got time for old friends.”

He braced himself for the barrage of questions, but to his surprise, she let it go. “I need your take on a man who says he's from down your way, Gideon. Goes by the name Clive Owings.”

“I got your message earlier.” Gideon rubbed the back of his neck, lifting his head to stare up at the sky. Sucking in a deep breath, he caught the acrid tinge of smoke and frowned. “Owings is a pain in the ass—a stupid one. More of a nuisance than anything else.”

“Nuisance, as in small and annoying?”

Gideon snorted and sampled the air again. That smell of smoke was definitely there. Thicker now, too. Walking down the sidewalk, he looked north up Main, then south. “Kim, I've got to be honest … Owings doesn't possess the brain cells or the energy to be much more than small and annoying. He'd have to work to be anything more than a lazy bastard and that goes against his most deeply held beliefs.”

“Well, shit.” She drew the second word out into two syllables.

“Problem?”

“We picked him up at a pawn shop after the owner's new wife got suspicious about some stuff he was trying to sell. Turns out we'd been waiting for it—DEA we. It had been earmarked for possible drug trafficking, but disappeared out from under the noses of the boys on the border. Thought maybe we had a line in.”

“With Clive?” Now Gideon laughed. It was a sardonic sound, but it felt good to laugh all the same. “Trust me, he couldn't think up a way to hide a pimple on his ass. No way would he think to hide something as important as drugs.”

“Okay.” Kim blew out a sigh, sounding disgusted. “Thanks, Marshall. We might be releasing your boy soon.”

“Can't wait.”

He disconnected, still doing a slow sweep of Main. An odd flicker in the bookstore caught his eye. He stared, waiting to see it again.

Then …
Oh, fuck.

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was silly the way her heart lurched when she saw him.

It was foolish the way her breath caught.

She didn't care.

Silly and foolish, she'd welcome them both, and she wouldn't even let herself feel bad as she moved into closer to Gideon through the mass of bodies gathered in clusters on the street.

One group of bodies, decidedly smaller than the rest, caught her attention and she lifted a hand in greeting. Brannon and Hannah, Neve and Ian, already here. She'd go speak to them in a minute.

Gideon hadn't seen her yet.

But before she could reach him, somebody crashed into her. She managed to hold back her instinctive sneer when she found herself looking into Joe Fletcher's gaze. His ever-present sneer was there, and she put a few more inches between them as he looked from her over toward the bookstore.

“Damn shame about your brother's place,” he said.

“Yes. Excuse me, Joe.”

“I mean, they just finished fixing it up. Guess it's a good thing he has insurance and all, but that poor old lady … that place is her life.” Joe heaved out a dramatic sigh. “Seems like everything you all touch lately is bound to get fucked up. That girl at your brother's winery dies. This place catches fire.”

The edges of her temper fraying, Moira leaned in. “Joe … get out of my way, otherwise you're going to have
another
McKay woman put you on the ground.”

His face went red but when she pushed around him, Joe didn't say anything. She made her way to Gideon without anybody else getting in her way. Once she reached him, Moira smoothed a hand down his arm and waited as he finished speaking to one of the firefighters.

Her heart ached as she gazed at the hollowed-out guts of the once-thriving bookstore. She felt Gideon's eyes skim over at her, although he didn't stop speaking in a low voice to Dirk Hutton, the fire chief.

The fireman slid her a look and on some unspoken cue, he and Gideon both stopped speaking. Dirk beat Gideon to the punch as he tipped an imaginary hat toward her. “Ma'am. We don't have much information for you or your brother just yet.”

“I wasn't here to ask for any,” she said mildly. Then she glanced over her shoulder at Brannon. He was with Hannah, one arm around her shoulders, while he had his other hand folded over Neve's.

Neve was crying silently, staring at the ruin of the building while tears ran unchecked down her face. One of the last places Neve had gone with their parents had been the bookstore.

Damn it all to hell.

“Brannon will be ready to push for something, though,” she warned. “And soon.”

At that very moment, her brother looked up and met her gaze over their sister's head. She had no doubt he was remembering the very same night she was remembering.

“As soon as we know something.” Hutton nodded at her and then turned to stride back toward the still-smoking building.

Moira reached up instinctively.

Gideon tensed.

She almost pulled away, but didn't let herself. She'd done that for too long. So long, she'd just about destroyed them both. When she wiped a smudge away from his cheek, his lids flickered. “I get the feeling you're going to be pretty tied up tonight.”

“Looks like.”

She smiled weakly. “I guess it would be a bad time to pout.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Pout away.” Gideon's eyes, always watchful, slid around.

She wasn't sure why he bothered. They were standing in front of probably thirty or forty people. They had no privacy, not standing out on the street in Treasure. She didn't care, though.

“I got to admit, Mac, I half-expected you to call me and tell me something had come up.”

She opened her mouth, an ache in her chest, but before she could figure out what to say to him, he looked away. “Your voice is better.”

“I rested it,” she said lamely. She hadn't let herself talk at all until nearly five, and she'd sipped on lemonade and tea most of the day. Her throat was still sore, but it was amazing the difference from last night to today.

Somebody called his name, and she blew out a tired sigh. “You're going to be busy for a while.”

“Yeah.”

“I should go then.” She moved away, but he caught her hand.

She looked back at him.

His mouth was on hers in the next second.

It was a short, quick, rough kiss, one that left her panting.

When he lifted his head, he paused momentarily to murmur, “Rain check.”

Then he was gone, lost in the rush of emergency personnel and other cops.

*   *   *

“You kissed my sister.”

Gideon had been expecting Brannon to show up.

He'd even been expecting something along these lines. Since the question didn't really catch him off guard, he took his time lifting his head. He nodded slowly, pretending to think the comment through and then he said, “Well, yes. I believe I did. Quite often, in fact.”

“I'm not talking about years ago.” Brannon jammed his hands on his hips. “I'm talking about today.”

“I was talking about today, too.” Then Gideon shrugged. “Or at least last night.”

Brannon's eyes narrowed. Then he squeezed them shut, lifting his face to the sky as he muttered something.

Gideon thought he might be counting.

Just annoy the bastard, he said, “Your sister knew what sex was before you knew what your penis was, Bran.”

“She did not.” Brannon's voice was surprisingly mild, and he finally looked back at Gideon.

To Gideon's surprise, the look in his eyes was one of sympathy. Brannon looked around the mostly empty bullpen before he slipped inside Gideon's office and sat down. “You sure you wanna go down this road, man?” Brannon asked softly.

Gideon stared at his friend. Brannon was like a brother to him. Had been for a long time. “I would have thought you'd be here to tell me to take it easy with your sister,” he said levelly, slumping back in his chair.

“My sister's been carving your heart out for close to twenty years,” Brannon said, shaking his head. “I'd be blind not to see it. You almost seemed level, Gideon. You were seeing Maris. What happened?”

“I realized I was lying to myself.” He shrugged and shoved upright, moving over to the window. Fire trucks were still parked out in front of the bookstore, but it had nothing to do with the blaze and everything to do with the reasons behind it. Looking for why that fire had started. “It's never been anybody but her, never will be anybody but her. I wasn't being fair to Maris. I had to end it.”

“And when Moira gets scared again?” Brannon sounded uneasy.

Gideon looked back at him.

Brannon held still for a moment and then, as if the stillness was foreign—and miserable—he all but leapt out of his seat and started to pace. “Look, I'm not saying … I love Moira, you know that. I want her happy, but I think she's happier being … miserable. Miserable and safe, so nobody can get in and hurt her.”

Gideon listened, although Brannon wasn't saying anything he didn't know.

“So what do you do when she panics again?”

“I leave.” Gideon had made up his mind during the day. He was the moth to Moira's flame and he was too weak to deny the heat of her. As long as he was here. Turning to Brannon, he told the truth. “If she turns away again, even one more time, Brannon, that's it. I'm done. I'll leave.”

He made a gesture at the office, his badge. “This, Treasure … even you and Neve. I'm walking away and I doubt I'll even stop long enough to say good-bye. I can't keep living like I have been.”

“Have you thought maybe it would be better to just leave now?” Brannon's voice was low.

“Yeah.” Gideon dropped down behind the desk, bent over the notes he'd been making. “But I've always been a dumb-ass idiot, Bran. You know that better than most. I've got work.”

There was a taut moment of silence before Brannon blew out a breath. “Okay, then. You'll let me know what you learn about the store, right?”

“Yeah.” Grim, Gideon stared at his notes as Brannon left his office. He'd let him know. Shit, he could do it now.

Somebody had a big, righteous hate-on going for the McKays.

He'd heard what Mrs. Stafford had said—she'd had a quick smoke in the back. But she'd flushed it down the toilet. She always did. That didn't mean much to him. He knew it wouldn't mean much to the investigators either.

What mattered to him was every bad thing that had happened to the McKays in recent months.

Hannah's crash aside, there was the attack on Moira. Now the bookstore was destroyed.

Everybody knew the importance that bookstore had to the McKays.

Son of a bitch.

*   *   *

The door squeaked like a deranged mouse when Brannon let himself into the loft. He rarely slept here anymore, but he'd needed to talk to Gideon and he hadn't wanted Hannah by herself.

The son of a bitch who'd stabbed him, who had likely killed Shayla and Roger Hardee, was still out there somewhere and Brannon wasn't taking chances.

Which was why there was a big, brooding Scot on his couch.

The Scot was supposed to be awake. How he'd slept through that door opening, Brannon didn't know.

He took one step in Ian's direction, determined to club him across the head for falling asleep without setting the alarm.