voice. She knew that voice. More than knew it—
On a violent rush she twisted around, and saw. “Cain.”
Her brother glared down at her. “Saura? What the hell—”
“Don’t hurt her,” called another voice, this one equally familiar. “I want her perfectly lucid for what I have in…”
Cain reared back and looked from her to the stranger. His big body tensed, just as it had when she was fifteen and he found her in the foggy back seat of an old Lincoln with an eighteen-year-old. It didn’t matter that technically Cain was her little brother. Never had. There’d never been anything “little” about Cain. “ Merde, D’Ambrosia, do not tell me this is the woman—”
Everything inside of Saura went painfully still. D’Ambrosia. The stranger had a name—and her brother knew it. The heat came next, the realization that if her brother knew D’Ambrosia, and knew about “the woman,” then he could know more. A lot more.
The stranger she’d given herself to in the bayou, the man she’d played cat and mouse with at the party, who’d dragged her from the burning hotel then kissed her within an inch of her life, stooped down beside them. “There’s no mistake.”
She saw her brother’s eyes darken, knew he was connecting the dots with brutal speed—and consequence. “ She was the one with Lambert?” It was the dead quiet voice he’d used for interrogations, when he stated dirty ugly facts no one else wanted to repeat.
D’Ambrosia grabbed a red bandanna from a pocket inside his jacket and handed it to her. “You’re bleeding.” Then to Cain: “Last night.”
Her brother barely moved, barely so much as breathed. “In—his—bedroom.”
The words, the flat tone, made her cringe. “Cain.” She scrambled to her knees. “Just listen, okay. This isn’t what you think. I can—”
“Cain?” His mouth a hard line, D’Ambrosia looked from her brother to her, then back to Cain. “You know this woman?”
Cain grabbed the bandanna and lifted it to her forehead, dabbed at the wound she could neither see nor feel. “You could say so,” he bit out. “She’s my sister.”
The green walls pushed in on John. Two folding chairs sat against the wall, next to a table covered in outdated magazines. The couch that had been here a few months before was gone, the only window nailed shut. Even if he’d been able to pry it open, the bars outside would make it impossible to escape. Not that he needed to escape. Just needed to breathe something other than the stale store-bought disinfectant that permeated the small clinic.
He paced, refused to give in to the urge to push open the door and go down the hall, find out what was taking Cain so long. They’d been in there for forty minutes. Dr. Guidry had been examining a sick baby at the time, but within minutes she’d taken Saura and Cain to one exam room, John into the other. Over his protests her assistant had checked him over. He was fine, just as he’d told them. But Saura—
Christ. Her name twisted low in his gut, even though he did not speak it aloud. Saura. Not Lambert’s mistress, but Cain’s freaking sister. A Robichaud. Gabe’s cousin. Niece of a United States senator and one of the most powerful sheriffs in the state.
The walls, they pushed a little harder, a hell of a lot closer.
Gabe’s urgent message, identifying the woman in the picture as his cousin Saura, had come too late. Shoving a hand through his hair, John strode to the window and stared out at the damp gray day, tried like hell to reconcile everything that had gone down. He and Cain had worked together, but their interactions had never bled into the personal. He’d never been to Cain’s house, never met his family. The trip to Bayou de Foi following Alec’s death had been his first—
Saura.
Memories slashed through him, of the first night he’d seen her standing across the smoky honky-tonk. She’d worn jeans that night, tight-fitting and a little out of fashion.
On a violent rush she twisted around, and saw. “Cain.”
Her brother glared down at her. “Saura? What the hell—”
“Don’t hurt her,” called another voice, this one equally familiar. “I want her perfectly lucid for what I have in…”
Cain reared back and looked from her to the stranger. His big body tensed, just as it had when she was fifteen and he found her in the foggy back seat of an old Lincoln with an eighteen-year-old. It didn’t matter that technically Cain was her little brother. Never had. There’d never been anything “little” about Cain. “ Merde, D’Ambrosia, do not tell me this is the woman—”
Everything inside of Saura went painfully still. D’Ambrosia. The stranger had a name—and her brother knew it. The heat came next, the realization that if her brother knew D’Ambrosia, and knew about “the woman,” then he could know more. A lot more.
The stranger she’d given herself to in the bayou, the man she’d played cat and mouse with at the party, who’d dragged her from the burning hotel then kissed her within an inch of her life, stooped down beside them. “There’s no mistake.”
She saw her brother’s eyes darken, knew he was connecting the dots with brutal speed—and consequence. “ She was the one with Lambert?” It was the dead quiet voice he’d used for interrogations, when he stated dirty ugly facts no one else wanted to repeat.
D’Ambrosia grabbed a red bandanna from a pocket inside his jacket and handed it to her. “You’re bleeding.” Then to Cain: “Last night.”
Her brother barely moved, barely so much as breathed. “In—his—bedroom.”
The words, the flat tone, made her cringe. “Cain.” She scrambled to her knees. “Just listen, okay. This isn’t what you think. I can—”
“Cain?” His mouth a hard line, D’Ambrosia looked from her brother to her, then back to Cain. “You know this woman?”
Cain grabbed the bandanna and lifted it to her forehead, dabbed at the wound she could neither see nor feel. “You could say so,” he bit out. “She’s my sister.”
The green walls pushed in on John. Two folding chairs sat against the wall, next to a table covered in outdated magazines. The couch that had been here a few months before was gone, the only window nailed shut. Even if he’d been able to pry it open, the bars outside would make it impossible to escape. Not that he needed to escape. Just needed to breathe something other than the stale store-bought disinfectant that permeated the small clinic.
He paced, refused to give in to the urge to push open the door and go down the hall, find out what was taking Cain so long. They’d been in there for forty minutes. Dr. Guidry had been examining a sick baby at the time, but within minutes she’d taken Saura and Cain to one exam room, John into the other. Over his protests her assistant had checked him over. He was fine, just as he’d told them. But Saura—
Christ. Her name twisted low in his gut, even though he did not speak it aloud. Saura. Not Lambert’s mistress, but Cain’s freaking sister. A Robichaud. Gabe’s cousin. Niece of a United States senator and one of the most powerful sheriffs in the state.
The walls, they pushed a little harder, a hell of a lot closer.
Gabe’s urgent message, identifying the woman in the picture as his cousin Saura, had come too late. Shoving a hand through his hair, John strode to the window and stared out at the damp gray day, tried like hell to reconcile everything that had gone down. He and Cain had worked together, but their interactions had never bled into the personal. He’d never been to Cain’s house, never met his family. The trip to Bayou de Foi following Alec’s death had been his first—
Saura.
Memories slashed through him, of the first night he’d seen her standing across the smoky honky-tonk. She’d worn jeans that night, tight-fitting and a little out of fashion.
Similar Books
