Raw Exposure (10 page)

She wore more of her typical fare. Drab olive cargo pants and a black ribbed t-shirt. A far cry from Dolce and Gabbana but, damn, if it didn’t look better in his mind. Hell, he’d spent so long surrounded by women who would panic if they so much as got a hint of dirt on their attire, he’d forgotten what a real woman was like. And Affrica O’Shea was all he’d been looking for.

He forgot what it was like to do something not in a loud club or in a fast car. But he knew Affrica loved the outdoors, and he wanted to enjoy it with her. Her nails were short and unpolished, hands which were capable of shooting him to ecstasy or wielding a camera which took amazing shots.

She had three piercings on each ear, and as he stared at her, he took in the silver earrings which she wore. He noticed the Celtic cross highest up then came a vivid blue heart, and the last one dangled but he couldn’t make it out. Stepping closer to her as he held the door for her, he brushed his lips along the collar of her shirt.

“What’s this?” he asked. His hip held the door while he touched the lobe of her ear with one hand.

“My earring?” She pursed her lips for a brief moment. “Ah, that’s the tree of life. Aidrian gave them to me.”

Her breath caught, and he could sense her sadness. She never told him what had her so concerned, and so, he did his best to ignore it for the time being.

“Tree of life?”

“Aye. The trunk symbolizes strength. The branches stretch and hunt for learning and knowledge. Our ancient Celtic heritage is represented by the roots. And, if you look closely, ya can also see a trinity knot within it.”

Leaning closer, he gazed at it and sure enough, he could see the knot, right in the center of the tree. He inhaled deeply and smiled as he caught the scent of her as it intermingled with his much more masculine soap. Truth be told, he liked his scent on her. Sure, it may be possessive and caveman-like but he didn’t give a damn.

He hung back as she got her ticket and watched as she strolled through the station to take a seat beside him.

“Ya know ya can leave. I’m capable of getting on a train by mahself. It’s boarding soon.”

Ignoring her, he draped an arm along the back of her chair. “Humor me.”

She didn’t decline nor did she move away, and he allowed himself a small smile of victory. He knew she was warming to him.

You’re not being an ass,
his mind pointed out.

True. He wasn’t. He actually enjoyed spending time with her. Hell, even this morning while he watched her sleep, he’d discovered he was at peace. Normally, if a woman was sleeping in his bed, he itched for them to wake and get out. Sometimes, he would wake them and tell them to leave. He’d ignore their pouting and whining about wanting to stay, shoving them out the door so he could sleep in his bed. He’d always been protective of his sleeping place, but with Affrica, he wanted to keep her there.

“Watch mah stuff for me,” she said before shrugging away from him and walking toward the restrooms.

He hefted her bag and placed it in the seat she’d just vacated all without taking his gaze from the naturally seductive sway of her olive-covered ass. A view he completely enjoyed right up until a pair of long tanned legs blocked his view.

Brows converging in irritation, he lowered his gaze and started at the feet. Fuchsia and black stiletto heels showed off a matching pink nail color on the toes. Up he travelled over the tanning bed colored legs and up to the sequined fuchsia stretched fit mini. An exposed midriff showed off the four diamonds dangling from the belly button. A groan almost slipped free as he passed over a platinum wide neckline razor cutout cropped top and onto the familiar face of Marisol Anderson. With her dark brown hair, vivid green eyes, and creamy skin, she was pretty enough but he’d learned the hard way her insides were much darker than the out.

“What the fuck are you doing at a train station, Marisol?” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Especially at eight in the morning.”

“I was out when I saw your car go by. I wanted to talk to you so I followed.” She smiled. “And here I am.”

Out, my ass. More like you were on your way home from a night on your knees. I need to get rid of her before Affrica comes back.

“We have nothing to discuss. I told you that.”

She stuck her lower lip out in a well-practiced pout. “I already apologized for that minor incident. Forget it; remember how great we were together.”

In truth, he couldn’t recall a damn thing about her. “Not interested.” And that was, in no way, a minor incident.

She smoothed her hands down her sequined skirt and gave him a smile, which in the past would have gotten her just about anything she wanted from him. Now, it merely curdled his stomach.

“Let me refresh your memory.” She sidled closer, her hips swinging with each determined step.

He blew out an exasperated breath, already beyond bored with her attempts. It bothered him a bit she followed him here. Actually, followed him all the way up here. Okay, so it more than bothered him a bit.

“Go home, Marisol, before you embarrass yourself even further.”

Past her, he could see Affrica approaching. Shit! He wanted to stuff this woman in a corner so there was no connection between them. The last thing he needed was Affrica seeing this woman with him. But it was too late, he knew it when she cocked a brow and gave him a sardonic smile.

He curled his hand around her bag and lifted it out to her. Marisol’s eyes widened but she stepped to the side and allowed Affrica to get nearer.

“Thank ya,” Affrica said.

He didn’t let go immediately until she narrowed her eyes slightly.

“Who are you?” Marisol demanded. “What are you doing with her bag?” This time, her words directed at him.

He caught Affrica’s gaze and was shocked to discover amusement lingering there. Reeve had been expecting to see disappointment, anger, anything but what he saw.

“Och, dinna worry, lass, I’m nae a threat to ya. Our brothers work together, and he was kind enough to bring me to the train station this morning to catch mah ride.”

He had to bite his tongue to keep his thoughts to himself. His cock throbbed as her accent rolled over him. Damn, all he wanted was to back her up against a wall and pound the hell out of her as she screamed his name.
Just like last night.

Marisol paused in her tirade, fake lashes batting. “So y’all aren’t involved?”

Affrica chuckled and shouldered her bag. He frowned, extremely displeased with the cavalier way she laughed off what they’d shared. One didn’t simply ignore or forget what occurred between them.

“Nae.”

She put her back to Marisol as she faced him. With a mocking glint in her eyes, Affrica gave him a cheeky grin and a thumbs up. It was blatant she was enjoying his discomfort. Shit. Could it get any worse?

Marisol cocked her hip and planted a fist on it. “Good because I’m not about to give him up without a fight.” A derisive sniff. “Especially to you.”

Apparently, things could.

Affrica stiffened, and the flames in her gaze reminded him of when she tore into him outside Godric’s place. It was more than that, though. It wasn’t just Affrica who was upset. Personally, he was fucking pissed by Marisol’s words.

“Watch your tone, Marisol,” he growled, rising from the seat.

Affrica’s emotions smoothed out. “Let it go, Reeve.” She gave a small shake of her head as she rested one hand against his chest. “It’s nae worth it.
She’s
nae worth it.”

He stared down into her large brown eyes and nodded. The small smile she bestowed upon him made him lightheaded for a moment. She patted his torso and stepped back. Past her, Marisol continued to ramble, obviously upset things weren’t going her way, but he only had eyes for Affrica.

“Thanks for everything, Reeve Leighton.”

Before she could walk away from him, he reached out and snagged her wrist. Everything aside from her faded into nothingness. He drew her back close and captured her chin with his free hand so their gazes were locked. Wiping his thumb along her plump lower lip, he leaned in.

“You and I are far from finished, Affrica O’Shea. Far from finished.”

She remained silent for a bit then grinned. “I look forward to it. Goodbye.” Then, she was gone, striding away without any hesitation or final lingering glances over her shoulder.

Only when she vanished from view did he turn his attention to the whining woman tugging on his arm.

“What?” he snapped.

“I thought you said there was nothing between y’all. From the way you were looking at her, I’d say you lied.”

Without speaking, he stared at her and tried his damndest to recall what had drawn him to her. And fell drastically short of accomplishing so. He gazed at her with disdain, understanding his brother’s aversion to her as well.

“Actually, Affrica said that, not me. Furthermore, let me make this perfectly clear, there is no
us
, so you have no say over anything to do with me. Do
not
presume to demand in regards to me ever again.”

He stalked away, acknowledging his fist would have connected to the face were Marisol a man. He’d never hit a woman and so left before he forgot himself.

At his car, he noticed her coming after him, tugging on her way-too-short skirt with each step she took. He climbed in and drove off, leaving before she got to him and her car, which she’d parked beside his.

When did my life get so out of control?

He went home and laid in bed, his face against the pillow Affrica had used, her scent faintly lingering upon the linen. Before he could contemplate his situation much more, his phone rang. With a frustrated groan, he reached for it.

Chapter Seven

Affrica sat across from Mrs. Marshall in her quaint living room. A steaming mug of tea sat untouched before her, matching the white porcelain teapot and cups on the serving tray. Mrs. Irene Marshall was a petite older woman with gray hair back in an immaculate bun.

Large circles were noticeable beneath her eyes, and her skin seemed almost ghost-white. In her hands, she clutched a few of the items Affrica had brought with her.

She waited for the woman to take whatever time she needed. In her pocket, her phone vibrated but she ignored it. More important things were going on now.

Teary light blue eyes lifted to glance at her. With trembling hands, Irene placed the picture and cross necklace down on the coffee table. “He was so sure something was going on over there,” she said in a shaky voice. “I tried to get him to go to the authorities but he insisted he had to have proof. All he was going to do was take pictures. It would be safe. But he never came home.” Large tears spilled over and ran down her face.

Affrica swallowed before reaching over to take her hand. Her skin felt paper-thin. “I know this is hard for you, Mrs. Marshall. I can’t imagine what a loss like this would feel like, and I am so very sorry you have to experience this.”

“Did you know my Davy well?”

“No, ma’am. We’d only met a few times but he was such a gentleman.”

A slight smile. “Yes, that was my Davy. Never rude.” She wiped at her tears. “His father wouldn’t stand for it. He was a military man. Broke his heart when Davy didn’t follow in his footsteps. He…he would have been proud of him though. I just know it.”

“Of course he would be. I know how military men can be sometimes.”

“Does your husband serve?”

“No, ma’am, I’m not married. My brother serves.”

Mrs. Marshall got up and led her to a small table laden with pictures. They spent a good portion of time looking at them. Husband and son.

“I know you didn’t have to come all this way to give me his personal effects. You could have mailed them. So you must need something.”

“Actually, I do, Mrs. Marshall.”

The woman stared at her with assessing eyes. “What is that?”

Affrica guided her back to the padded seat and sat across from her again. “They are presenting an award for breaking this story. To me, but I only finished what your son started. I would like you to come where I will accept on his behalf and present it to you.”

“Why would you do such a thing?”

“You son broke this, gave his life for it. It’s nae right for me to take credit.” She shifted. “There is one other thing, though. If I publically put your name out there, you could be in danger, if there are more who think Davy may have told you something. If you would rather remain anonymous, I can just present it to you and not call you out as his mother. I would love to hand this to you before everyone but you have to think of your safety.”

“You are a wonderful woman, Miss O’Shea. I would be honored to come accept it. You tell me when and where.” She patted her hand. “As for the danger, those cretins took everything from me the day they killed my Davy. So let them come.”

“I want you safe.”

“I’m safe enough. One thing, though,” she said.

“What’s that, Mrs. Marshall?”

“Stop hiding your accent. Before I married Mr. Marshall, I was a Delaney. Does this old heart good to hear a touch o’ the Irish.”

Affrica smiled. She’d worked hard to speak clearly, so the woman wouldn’t have a hard time understanding her.

“Do you still speak it?”

For the first time since she’d arrived, Affrica noticed Mrs. Marshall’s eyes sparkle.

“I sure do,” she replied in Gaelige.

Affrica remained for the rest of the day and left after utilizing Mrs. Marshall’s kitchen to make her some good Irish fare. She left with a hug and the promise to keep in touch besides the ceremony next month.

Back at her hotel, she took a long, hot shower before sitting on the queen-sized bed, bundled in the thick terry cloth robe. Drawing her legs up, she sighed as she rested her chin upon her knees. Fingers laced along her shins, she stared out the window at the sight presented. Astoria was a beautiful town.

These past weeks had been harried, and she relished the quiet. Part of the reason she embarked on the four-day train ride out to Oregon as opposed to taking a plane was she needed to decompress. No Outback, no one trying to kill her, and no bloodthirsty reporters trying for an exclusive about everything. She’d fielded calls from newspapers wanting her working for them.