Wyatt (Lane Brothers #1) (14 page)

“Please don’t do this to him,” I beg, crying for the first time since waking.

I can hold it together, but I know Wyatt isn’t the kind of man who will walk away from this unscarred. If he has to pull that trigger, it’ll destroy him.

“I have to go see my baby now.”

That’s all she says before fumbling to strike a match.

It never takes because a shot rings out and she slumps forward, hitting the floor with a resounding thwack and a wheeze of breath.

“Baby! Jesus, you’re covered in this shit. Roman, we need water and something she can wear.” He’s yelling and unshackling me at the same time, and I’m tempted to launch myself at him once I’m free but stop dead.

I’m covered in gas.

“I’m so sorry, Wyatt. I’m so sorry you had to do that.”

“He didn’t. I did.”

“Oh, Miah.”

“Nah, sis, no sweat. I’m a freaking cop and cops shoot criminals if they have to, so…”

“Wait. You’re a cop?” I ask as Wyatt shoves me into the horror tub and starts ripping my clothes off in a frenzy.

Roman and Miah both turn their backs as Wyatt starts scrubbing and rinsing at my skin, saving me from what would no doubt be some pretty unpleasant burns.

“Yup. Don’t tell Ma. She still thinks I work for this jackass.”

“Scout’s honor,” I whisper, crying when Wyatt finally deems me clean and pulls me into his arms, his body trembling with emotion when tries to inhale me with a kiss that’s all about the relief he feels at having me back, safe and sound.

“You’re my hero, Wyatt Lane, and I love you more than words can say,” I whisper, kissing him back when tears start pouring down his cheeks.

“Hey! I shot her.”

“Yeah, but he saved me twice. Didn’t you?”

Wyatt

The flight back home to New Orleans is spent with Ellie in my lap despite the flight attendant’s protests and my solemn vow never to let her out of my sight again.

That’ll be tricky since I still need to work, but the way I’m feeling right now, I might teach my little accountant all there is to know about investment banking and clinching the perfect deal.

We’ll see.

No one talks much and I can’t say I blame them. I’m still feeling raw after telling Ellie about Pop’s heart attack, made even worse when she started crying inconsolably and refused to settle down.

              We reached the hospital in record time thanks to Roman’s police escort and Miah’s very intimidating glare any time someone tried to stop us from entering.

We look terrible, unkempt from the long drive through sandy, dry terrain. And poor Ellie reeks of gasoline.

Pop’s okay, though, and for that I will always be grateful. The heart attack was a small one, but the doctors are already making noise about early retirement and some such nonsense, so it looks like I’ll be even busier in the coming months, running all three companies since my useless brothers would all rather die than give up their policing.

Jerry survived even after losing so much blood. Who knew that old fart had that in him?

Of course, he’s not welcome in our family, anymore, because no matter what he tried to do in the end, my baby almost died because he kept his mouth shut while trying to save himself and his other family.

I should forgive him, I guess, but I never really liked the guy, anyway.

“Can we go home now?” Ellie asks hours later when the nurses threaten to call security and Ma and Pop shoo us all away, promising to call if anything changes with his condition.

Sweeter words were never said, and I kiss my woman with all the love and hope I now have in my heart.

“Let’s go home.”

Miah

The woman is a menace. If she shakes her sweet ass my way again, I won’t be responsible for what happens. Nuh-uh. A man can only take so much temptation, and Clara Elms is a package that is made of temptation, wrapped in seduction and sporting a bow that screams “try me if you dare.”

See, this is why I’ve avoided good women like the plague since I was old enough to get a boner. I just always knew that once I got a whiff of good, I’d start salivating after her ass like a damn lovesick dog.

My sister-in-law Ellie sits on her chair like the queen she is, her hugely pregnant belly taking up so much space that I can’t imagine how she walks around like that, never mind does the hundred and twenty things Wyatt is still trying to forbid her from doing.

“Christ. Tell me again why we’re attending a baby shower and eating pureed peas that taste like dog vomit,” Jared growls, scowling at the sound of feminine squeals and the aroma of brooding females everywhere.

“Wyatt said he’d break our legs if we left him alone to deal with all this shit.”

Not that I care much what he says. He might be my big brother, but I can take him any day of the week. That is, if I ever had the heart to hurt him after what he’s already been through so far.

He loves his Ellie more than I’ve seen anyone love a woman, and that’s saying a lot when Pop loves Ma so much that he ate all of her sugarless cookies and never uttered one complaint.

              I look back at the gaggle of females, lock eyes with Clara again, and feel my heart stutter even as my dick takes up the call and starts trying to rip its way through my pants.

Settle down, asshole. That one isn’t for us, remember?
I snarl at my erection, cursing him to hell and back.

I’ve known Clara for a good year now, ever since Ellie got back in touch with her and the woman moved to New Orleans to be with her best friend.

She never once complained about leaving her old life behind and seems so focused on Ellie and the renewed friendship that I haven’t had the heart to ask her what made her leave Philly so easily.

I’ll get to the bottom of that, though, because I won’t have any trouble at my little sis’s doorstep now, especially not with her seven months pregnant and ready to pop at any second.

But Clara does intrigue me, and boy, does the woman know how to tease my lust. I’ve jacked off to thoughts of her for a month solid now and haven’t so much as looked at another woman since laying eyes on the beauty.

“Good God, man, stop trying to eye fuck that woman if you’re going to cold shoulder her every chance you get. Mixed signals are beneath you, dude,” Jared says and I snarl when his eyes land on Clara and stay there.

“Stop looking at her, moron.”

“Why? It’s not like you’re going to go for it, so why shouldn’t I give her a try? She seems nice and sweet and looks so good, I bet she’s a good girl turned wild in the sack.”

That does it.

The push I give him to get him out of the room as quietly as possible sends him reeling before he comes back with a sucker punch to my nose and I give him a knee to the gut.

“Goddammit, calm your ass down, Miah. I was just looking, bro.”

“You don’t look. You don’t think about her. She’s not on the fucking market, moron!”

Calm down, Miah. That sounded a lot like you claiming that woman, and we do not do that shit, dude. Not ever.

Too bad, because I’d spend a good portion of my life wanting to wake up to that kind of sweet beauty every morning. Maybe that includes thinking about fucking her, too.

She’d need a ring, though, and maybe a few babies to round things off.

“Jesus Christ, Jeremiah, if you’re so possessive of the woman, why don’t you just ask her out, bro?” Jared wheezes, bending at the knees to catch his breath.

“You know why, so stop trying to goad me, asshole. Just stop looking at her and leave me alone.”

“Huh, and here I thought you were smarter than that shit. You still tripping over Carrie? Dude, she made her choices and there’s nothing you can do or say that would change the outcome, man. Get over it and move on already.”

The mention of that name makes my blood boil and threaten to explode out of me, and it takes a force of will to wrestle the memories back and lock them away where they belong.

At least with a bad girl you know what you’re getting. You have a good time and you can both walk away happy and sharing a mutual respect that good girls never seem to have for guys like me.

I’ve dated a good girl, and I got my heart stomped on for my effort. No matter how much I want Clara, and no matter how many looks she throws my way, I’m not going there.

Definitely not.

I think.

~ END OF WYATT ~

Miah's story will be released on the 13th of May

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The Metropolitan Museum of Art is my favorite place in the world, hands down. I love everything about it, from the steps at the entrance to the crowds of people vying to see the art.

I visit at least once a month without fail and never cease to be spellbound by everything all over again, nevermind how many times I’ve been. My favorite painting is Monet’s
Sunflowers
.

It’s the happiest painting I’ve ever seen, or at least, it makes me happy every time I see it.

My college professor despaired of my one-dimensional view of art the whole time he’d been cursed with me and my uninspired ass. He said my interpretation of art is skewed, flat, and altogether too happy when faced with a world of possibilities.

All I know is that I love creating something that is happy and colorful, something that brings joy to those who see it. And I love flowers.

Sue me.

It’s as I’m leaving that I make the quick decision to pop into the gift store, even though I know I won’t find the print I’ve been looking for. Every time I come here I’m disappointed. I never get my print of the
Sunflowers
.

Last year Mom had bought me a tote of the
Water Lilies
for Christmas. I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s not what I wanted, so I’d aaahhhed and held it aloft and then gone home and hung it from a hook to store extra brush rags.

“It’s a beauty, this one,” I hear from somewhere to my left.

I look back over my shoulder to see a man and what looks like Heidi Klum’s twin sister cooing about a dark blob that’s masquerading as art but is actually a one-way trip to depression. The guy is…hotter than hell, with black hair and a set of lips that make me wish I’d brought my sketchpad and pencils.

I no longer do that after the last time I’d lost track of time and been asked to leave at closing time. But, and I hate to say this, with the super love I have for landscapes, I want to do something with this man that will dominate the canvas.

Something about him is just so…

“Oh, Vincent, I just love all this angst. To see and feel what the artist must have been feeling is so inspiring.”

I hear the overwrought tittering and grind my teeth against the need to tell the airhead that no matter what people think, they can never know what the artist was thinking.

I ignore the gushing and go back to my monthly fix, going over every minute detail, every brushstroke, every shadow and shade until I can go home and try my hand at it again. Here’s the print I’ve been searching for, and yet, it’s so pale in comparison.

“This one is my favorite, but I like
The Artist’s Garden at Giverny
too,” says a crisply accented voice.

British. How delicious.

I know who is standing behind me, and I freeze, feeling my breath stall as shivers and goose bumps break out all over my skin. He’s standing so close I smell his citrusy cologne and feel the heat of his breath at my nape.

“I…I prefer these stronger colors, but that one’s excellent too. It’s beautiful.”

It comes out a choked whisper, and I feel myself blush and tense when he leans to my left and peers down at me.

“You’ve been staring at it for over an hour before coming into the gift store. See something the rest of us don’t?”

His breath whispers over my ear and cheek, and it’s all I can do not to lean back into him and experience the tightly muscled chest visible beneath his suit jacket and shirt.

“I-I keep trying to paint it just so…but I can never commit it to memory enough to… The colors are never right.”

“That’s the problem with true art. One of a kind originals can never be faked exactly. Nor true beauty.”

His husky whisper has me turning against my will, and I gasp when a set of mint green eyes captures mine. I can say I have seen true beauty in every art form, but I have honestly never seen a man this intensely handsome before.

I won’t be obsessively painting the
Sunflowers
when I go home. Oh, no, it’s this perfect creature that will consume me until the wee hours of the morning, and I know exactly how I’ll capture him on my canvas.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Or so they say.”

His lips curve, and I spy a single dimple gracing his right cheek.

“Then let me say how truly honored I am to behold you.”

“Oh God, does that work on every woman you try to pick up, or am I just lucky?” I ask, laughing at the cheesiness of the line.

His answering chuckle makes me smile harder before the art lover wannabe sidles up and latches onto him like poison ivy.

“Vincent, you said you’d help me pick out a good souvenir for Mummy.”

I pull myself back from the brink of flirtation and open staring when I realize they truly are together—and, unbelievably, I’d forgotten that fact—and make an ass of myself when a postcard rack behind me gives way and I’m dumped to the floor in an inglorious heap of flailing arms and flying cards.

I am possibly the biggest klutz on earth, and now I’ve managed to make a tool of myself in front of the first man to ring my bell. Great.

“Good gracious! I can see your pants.”

As I’m not wearing pants and am in fact clothed in a really nice cherry red gypsy skirt, I know exactly what they’re all seeing, and I groan through a blush that fits my attire.

The only upside to this day?

I’ll never have to see Vincent, my new obsession, ever again.