No White Knight Page 16

  I just roll my eyes and haul down another box. Together, we pull the tape from our boxes and start rummaging.

  There’s a lot in here.

  A lot of things I hadn’t really known about. Dad packed some of the boxes himself long before I hauled them upstairs.

  Old journals with nightly observations on the stars he watched from this very attic window, his telescope still set up and trained toward the Hercules Globular Cluster, which he’d been documenting before he got sick.

  But there’s a whole lifetime’s worth of star notations, near-Earth objects, comets, and so on.

  You can feel the love in every page, every tiny scribble with degrees, trajectories, times.

  I feel like I’m holding his hand again when I smooth my fingers over the pages.

  And the way Holt handles the journals in his box, flipping through the pages gently, slowly, reverently...even if he doesn’t know what it all means?

  It’s like he knows he’s holding a man’s whole life in his hands.

  He’s treating it respectfully.

  That means something.

  It brings a warmth that makes the hurt a little easier to bear.

  There’s more—snow globes full of glitter that makes them look like galaxies, silly little keychains with baubles in the shape of constellations. Dad was like a kid sometimes. If it had to do with stars and NASA, he’d want it, even if it was souvenir shop stuff.

  Tons of books, too. University textbooks, paperbacks on the philosophy of the stars, even astrology.

  If my dad wasn’t looking up at the night sky, he had his nose in a book.

  You’d think that would make him the kinda guy who never noticed the real world around him.

  But he always saw us.

  That’s why I can’t believe he was secretly a cold-blooded murderer.

  No man who loved the sky and his family as deep and wholeheartedly as he did could do something so awful.

  * * *

  We’ve been digging for what feels like hours and we’re not finding anything useful.

  Not until we get all the way to the back and hit on what I used to call the No-No Chest when I was a baby.

  I called it that because every time I went wobbling toward it on my stumpy little legs with my chubby baby fingers reaching for it, Dad would swing me up with a laugh and shake his head and say no, no, little one, those are Daddy’s toys. You can’t break them.

  I’d pout and whine, but he’d distract me with things I couldn’t destroy.

  Sooner or later the No-No Chest disappeared in the attic, where clumsy little hands couldn’t sneak in when no one was looking. And I guess we all forgot about it.

  It’s lacquered wood, dark-stained oak with lighter trim, a rounded top and a simple latch. It’s also covered in a layer of dust so thick I nearly sneeze as I brush it away.

  The hinges creak when I lift the lid.

  It’s like opening a treasure chest.

  Another ton of little keepsakes, most of them in clear plastic display containers with silver foil printed labels.

  I can’t help but smile as I lift them out, reading the labels.

  It’s the important stuff from his NASA days. A fragment of the last Apollo moon lander prototype. A tiny test component from the Viking probe. Bits of circuitry from too many projects to name. The scratched and dented lens of his very first high-powered telescope.

  And yeah, right there, an ashy-colored piece of moon rock the size of my thumb tip.

  Dad, you dork.

  My smile hurts, but I can’t seem to let it go, even though my breaths are choking.

  There’s more stuff here, too.

  Little gold locks of hair tied with ribbons—mine and Sierra’s. Photo albums with our baby pictures, family vacation pictures...oh. Baby booties, too. A dried bracelet of flowers I saw in one of the photos of Mom.

  Also a little black velvet box with their wedding rings, little bands of gold, and a picture of them tucked into the top of it, a tiny wallet-sized photo of their wedding day.

  They were so young.

  They look so happy.

  I wish I could’ve known them then.

  I wish Mom hadn’t died when I was so young.

  I wish...

  No. All the wishing won’t bring them back or fix this mess I’m in.

  “Hey,” Holt calls over my shoulder, and I gasp so sharply I nearly choke. “What’ve you got there?”

  “N-nothing.”

  Maybe it’s because I’m so emotionally flayed open from going through these old memories, but I can’t stand having him so close right now.

  With a gruff sound, I pull away, hefting the chest up by its handles. It’s not that heavy even though it looks like it should be.

  “If there’s anything special,” I say, “it’s got to be in here. Let’s take it downstairs where there’s better light.”

  There’s plenty of late evening sun spilling through the window. I can see just fine.

  I’m just after an excuse to put some space between us.

  I refuse his help as I wrestle the trunk down the ladder. I need the distraction, something to keep my hands busy until my feelings calm down.

  Downstairs I thunk the chest down on the kitchen table, then start taking things out, laying them in rows.

  “All of this stuff is impressive, but it’s not that useful,” I say.

  “So far. We’re only at the top layer.” He leans over the box, whistling softly as he picks up the chunk of moon rock and holds it up to the light to inspect it, before laying it down and reaching in to help me unpack more things. “Your dad collected a lot of cool stuff.”

  I half-smile. “‘Cool stuff.’ Now you sound like him. He never stopped being a big kid about space junk.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.” Holt’s hand brushes mine as we both reach into the box at the same time.

  Sparks zip through me in a fluttery rush.

  I jerk my hand to the side. He doesn’t, continuing on like he didn’t even notice.

  “Is that why you and Blake got on so well with him when you were young?” I ask.

  “Maybe so. It’s good to keep a sense of wonder. You remember the first time you saw something beautiful when you were a kid? Don’t you wish you could relive that feeling as an adult? Something that pure, that perfect, without all the ugly complicated shit that comes with growing up?”

  “What would you know about anything pu—”

  Oh.

  Oh, God.

  Lifting my head to look up at him was a mistake.

  I thought he didn’t notice the way our hands touched.

  But from the way he’s looking at me...

  Crud.

  I’m very, very wrong.

  Holt looks at me like he sees something pure and perfect right here, right now.

  Like he sees something that fills him with such wonder it makes his voice soft, his eyes dreamy and dark, and he can’t look away.

  No one’s ever looked at me like that.

  Usually it’s a mixture of consternation, fear, and complete and utter disgust for my rude mouth. The way he’s staring at my lips right now sure ain’t foul.

  Hot is the only word that comes to mind.

  Like he’s touching me without ever lifting a finger.

  Like he can already taste my lips with his eyes and make it feel like a kiss.

  Welp, I’m gonna spontaneously combust.

  My fingers go limp on this small lacquered box I was lifting out. I nearly drop it—and it’s the sudden feeling of it slipping that breaks the spell.

  I suck in a breath, ripping my gaze from Holt’s and grasping the box.

  It’s black, roughly the size of a grown man’s clenched fist, fully opaque and shaped like a cube.

  I frown, turning it over, fully distracted.

  Can’t remember seeing this thing before.

  “What is this?” I murmur, running my fingers along the seam until I find the catch.

 
It pops open with a metallic boink!

  Inside, nestled in a bit of foam that seems to be cut to fit it, there’s an odd-shaped stone.

  Maybe twice the size of a really big marble.

  It’s porous, almost like a pumice rock, and really light. The color seems strange, a kind of murky off-red shade that makes me think of the stones in my necklace, but not as polished.

  Instinctively, I catch myself reaching for my Aries necklace, tracing the little red stars inside, while I turn the box so the rock catches the sun.

  “This can’t be it,” I say. “Can it?”

  “Doesn’t look like much to me,” Holt says before grinning. “Unless it’s some old-timey fortune teller’s prophet stone. Maybe Ursa had all kinds of weird shit going on.”

  I roll my eyes, flipping the box shut and setting it on the table. “Pretty sure that rock came out of someone’s garden. Looks almost like the red rock they use for gravel filler. Maybe it belonged to my grandma or something.”

  “But why would it be in a case like this?” Holt picks up the black lacquer box, turning it over. “It’s the only one without a label, too.”

  “It probably fell off,” I say. “I bet if we dig around in the box, we’ll find it crumpled up in there.”

  “Maybe.” He sets it back down, then stretches, lifting his arms over his head until that flannel shirt rides up.

  I get a glimpse of his tight, toned waist twisting against the paper-thin undershirt underneath. With a groan that borders on obscene, he drops his arms, rolling his neck, stretching.

  Dear Lord.

  “Think whatever we’re looking for isn’t here. We need a break,” he says.

  At least one of us does.

  I need air to tame these hot flashes.

  Swiping two of the four remaining beers from the six-pack in the fridge, I head outside like the devil’s on my heels because he is.

  But this devil seems oblivious to the effect he’s having. He just thanks me with an easy grin when I pass him a beer before he flings himself back down in the chair he’d left before, sprawled there with masculine ennui and lazy strength.

  Ass.

  Yeah, I’m mad at him now.

  Pissed for being so hot I can’t peel my eyes off him for half a second.

  But it’s not grating like before. Mostly because my mind’s on other things.

  Sighing, I drop down in my own chair, cracking my beer and taking a cold sip to chase away the dust I’d breathed in up in the attic.

  “So if we can’t find this rock,” I say, “what do we do?”

  Holt taps his fingers against the side of his beer can with little plinks. “I’m not above helping you hide a body.”

  I snort, muffling a tired laugh against the mouth of my can. “Don’t say that! I might take you seriously.”

  “Who says I’m not serious?”

  “Holt.” I tilt my head, glancing over at him, resting my cheek to my shoulder. “When you look at it straight, that’s concealing a crime. Obstruction of justice and all that jazz. Only one of us needs to be guilty of that.”

  “You just basically admitted intent,” he rumbles, half smirking, leaning across the table—and I’m suddenly too aware it’s a damnably small table. “So now I know. If I don’t go to the cops, I’m guilty of aiding and abetting anyway. Might as well get my hands dirty.”

  “First time I saw you, I wouldn’t have believed you knew a thing about getting your hands dirty.” I eyeball him, my lips twitching.

  “Yeah?” Those whiskey-dark eyes drop down to my mouth. Holy hell, it feels like he’s kissing me again with just his eyes. How does he do that? “Bet you believe I could get all kinds of down and dirty, now.”

  I groan softly, but it feels more like something luscious rolling over my tongue than the sheer exasperation I want it to be.

  “Don’t you flirt with me, Holt Silverton,” I murmur.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “’cause if you do,” I say, “I’m gonna do something dumb like this.”

  I’m moving before I realize it.

  I feel drunk right now, but it’s not the beer.

  It’s not even the dizzying summer heat that makes everything feel sluggish and hazy and slow and half-drugged.

  It’s him, messing up my brain, messing up my body, messing up my everything until somehow, I’m the one closing the distance between us, leaning across that stupid table, and pressing my mouth to his.

  It’s a kiss that shouldn’t happen.

  A kiss I can’t resist.

  And it’s a kiss I lean into with all my heart and soul while Holt groans raw pleasure, reaching to fist a hand into my hair and pull me in.

  Oh, he’s got me hostage now.

  Just enough for me to feel it with a little spark of pulling that makes the pleasure of his mouth that much better.

  Maybe I’m the one who kissed him, but there’s no doubt who’s in control when he kisses like he’s got all the time in the world and he’s gonna taste every freaking inch of me.

  Holt takes over my mouth, caressing with these long, domineering strokes of his lips, his tongue just a tease darting around for half a second.

  Half a breath, taunting me and making me want more, more, sweet hell, more.

  For a second, I think I’d let him have everything.

  Because the way he teases nice and slow says he knows what he’s doing.

  He knows how to wait.

  He knows how to make it that much sweeter for every second delayed.

  And when he finally slides his tongue against mine in a slow, deep thrust that slips past my lips to invade my mouth, I moan with a helpless little jerk of my hips.

  My lips go slack against his. I feel that thrust deep down inside, the anticipation making it ring through me like he just hiked my hips up and wrapped my legs around his waist and slid his cock right into me.

  Any man who can make a kiss rock my whole body like that, who can make me feel things he ain’t even done to me?

  Yeah.

  I’m screwed without even screwin’.

  God, I think I’d melt for him like a popsicle.

  He’s burning me more than the summer heat, leaving me struggling to breathe, my mouth wet and needy against his, my fingers rising to tangle up in his flannel shirt.

  I pull him closer with a sharp jerk.

  It’s pissing me off how calm he is, how much he makes me want him, how he does this to me.

  In a hot rush, I bite him, sinking my teeth into that cruel, sensuous lower lip.

  Only for him to growl back.

  A thrilling, deep animal vibration that says he’s a man who ain’t ashamed of his pleasure in the slightest.

  Oh. My. God.

  I need to hear that sound again.

  So I bite his lip a second time.

  My thighs get tight. My stomach gets hot and my breasts almost ache with the heavy, full, sensitive want in them. I—

  There’s a far off sound—one I recognize as buckshot.

  Nothing to be worried about, probably.

  Just Mendez on the neighboring ranch scaring rabbits out of his garden; he does it all the time.

  But it shocks me back to my senses.

  I fly backward, staring at Holt like he just gave me a lashing of current, my whole body trembling, every inch of me undone.

  Of course he still looks like the fallen freaking angel he is.

  Mouth red and wet, eyes molten.

  Dangerous, sinful, masculine beauty that makes you want to just throw yourself at him and do anything he asks so he’ll make you feel that way again.

  Like he can reach down inside and twist you all up until you forget who you are.

  Because there’s nothing left under his flaming gaze but pleasure.

  I can’t lose myself so easy.

  I can’t forget who I am or what matters to me.

  I swallow, thick and harsh, and dredge up some sane words.

  “Holt. I think...” I whis
per, “you should leave.”

  “Yeah?” That heavy-lidded gaze drifts over me before he stands. He’s moving differently, like there’s some kind of slick, sensual energy powering his muscles. “If that’s what you want, honey. I’m gone.”

  I expected him to fight, maybe push me up against the nearest wall and take what I’m afraid to give him.

  This almost makes the roaring ache between my legs worse.

  Before I can call after him, he’s already prowling away, a proud lion of a man.

  I stand up and immediately tip over after I’m inside, sliding against the kitchen wall, burning the hell up, but shivering.

  I hate that he doesn’t argue with me about it.

  Because it says one of two things.

  Either he didn’t feel that kiss the same way I did...

  ...or he did.

  But he’s oh-so-confident that I’ll come crawling back for more. And he can just stroll away whistling and knowing he can wag his finger and have me any damn time he pleases.

  Like hell.

  No matter how divine that kiss felt, I’m not totally crazy.

  I don’t have room in my life for a tornado like Holt Silverton.

  10

  Hung Like A... (Holt)

  I can’t believe she bit me.

  No, fuck, that’s a lie.

  I can believe it.

  Just can’t believe I liked it as much as I did.

  Nah, that’s another lie.

  I liked it. I wanted it. Goddammit if I don’t want her to do it again—preferably without as many clothes.

  But I don’t think that’s happening now.

  She asked me to leave, and over the past few days, it’s been nothing but texting.

  Dry exchanges of info. Checking in every day to make sure no one’s been down Nowhere Lane. Updating her that I’ve made no progress on finding more that might shed light on skeleton man.

  I’m thinking that’s not likely, though.

  Not when she said that shotgun shell came from her daddy’s gun.

  I’m still thinking about it as I sit at my desk in my trailer, reading through purchase orders for our next job. We’ve got a ton of these lined up right now—smaller contracts we can finish in a day or two, doing minor restorations on some damaged buildings—and honestly, they’re the only things keeping us afloat besides the bigger Paradise Hotel cleanup job.