Bonded Read online

  “What tells you that?” she asked.

  He ran a hand over his jaw, which was darkening by the minute. “Just a guess.”

  Her gaze flickered to the bruise, to his mouth, and she frowned. “Are you in pain?”

  “Constantly,” he said, then turned back to his drink.

  The strange, almost morose response made her pause. But before she could ask him anything about it, Dean slid back behind the bar and asked, “You want something, Em? After having to deal with those assholes I’d say you’re done for the night. But first, a drink.”

  “And it’s on me,” Blue said, then tossed back his tequila.

  Dean gave the cowboy a broad grin. “After what you did for our girl here, it’s me who’s buying.”

  “Well, thank you kindly.” Blue held up his empty glass. “Another, if you please. And what would you like . . . ?” He turned to Emily and arched a brow at her. “Em, is it?”

  The soft masculine growl in his voice made her insides warm. “Emily,” she told him. “Emily Shiver.”

  “Right.” He cocked his head to one side and studied her. “The girl with the flowers in her hair,” he said, his gaze catching on the yellow one behind her ear.

  Emily smiled. Couldn’t help it. She liked that he’d noticed. “Started when I was little,” she told him. “Stole flowers from my grandmother’s garden every time I was over there. I’d put them everywhere. My room, the tables here, in my hair.” She shrugged. “It became kind of an obsession.”

  His gaze flickered to the flower in her hair again, then returned to her face. “Pretty.”

  Heat instantly spread through Emily’s insides. Granted, plenty of men came into the Bull’s Eye and looked at her with eyes heavy on the hungry—either for food or for her. Hell, sometimes both. But no one had ever looked at her like Blue was now. Curious, frustrated, interested . . .

  “Drink, Em?”

  Swallowing hard, she turned to see a waiting and mildly curious Dean. “Just a Coke for me, boss. Thanks.”

  Blue groaned as Dean filled a glass with ice.

  “What’s wrong?” Emily asked him, wondering if his jaw was paining him.

  But the man just chuckled softly. “Come on, now. Have something a little stronger than that. You’re gonna make me feel bad. Or worse.” Under his breath he added, “If that’s even possible tonight.”

  Curiosity coiled within her at his words. The way he looked at her, spoke, acted . . . clearly he was working through some heavy feelings tonight. Was it about the fight with the jerkweeds? Or something that came before it? She bit her lip. Did she ask? Or did she wait for him to tell her? But why would he tell her? They barely knew each other.

  Maybe she should just ignore it . . .

  Dean set the Coke before her and poured another round of tequila for Blue, which the cowboy drained in about five seconds flat; then he tapped the bar top to indicate he wanted another.

  Oh yeah. Definitely dealing with something. She’d worked at the Bull’s Eye long enough to know that drinking like he was doing had nothing to do with relaxing after a long day. Dark feelings were running through Blue Perez’s blood. And maybe some demons to go along with them.

  “Everything all right tonight, cowboy?” she asked.

  “Yep.” He turned to look at her again, his gaze not all that sharp or engaged now. The liquor was starting to do its thing. “I remember you. Flowers, and a ton of strawberry blond curls.”

  Emily’s breath caught inside her lungs. What a strange and very suggestive thing to say. Not that she minded. Just wished he’d have said it before the double shot. And the way he was staring at her . . . like he was trying to memorize her features or something. Then suddenly, he reached out and touched her hair, fingered one of those curls caught up in a ponytail.

  A hot, powerful shiver moved up her spine.

  “Here you go,” Dean interrupted, filling Blue’s glass once again.

  “Thanks,” Blue said, though his eyes were still on Emily. Even when his fingers curled around the glass, his eyes remained locked with hers. “Sure you don’t want something stronger, Em?” he asked.

  Emily’s brows shot up, and her belly clenched with awareness. “I think you’re doing fine for the both of us,” she said, reaching for her Coke and taking a sip. Her mouth was incredibly dry. “And I’m going to assume that you’ll be walking home.”

  He downed the contents of the glass and chuckled. “Not to worry, darlin’. I got my truck.”

  Oh jeez. Not to worry? She shook her head. People could be so stupid sometimes. So reckless. Even gorgeous cowboys with eyes the color of a cloudless Texas sky—and a pair of lips that kept calling to her own.

  Like the meddlesome gal she was, she reached over and grabbed his keys off the bar top. Blue’s gaze turned sharply to hers, and under the heat of that electric stare, Emily tried not to melt. Well, outwardly at any rate.

  Yes, you’re hot and sexy and annoyed at my ass now. But I’m not going to let you be a shit for brains.

  She held up the keys. “No rush, cowboy. I got my Coke here, and nowhere to get to. I’m going to take you home when you’ve sufficiently drowned yourself.”

  Blue didn’t like that one bit. He released a breath and ground out, “Not necessary.”

  “I say it is,” she returned.

  “You don’t want to do that, darlin’. I’m not fit to be around tonight.”

  “Maybe not. But there’s no use arguing the matter. I always win arguments. Right, Dean?”

  The bartender chuckled. “Don’t even try anymore.”

  “If you’re really going to push this, I can call someone—” Blue started, then stopped. His eyes came up and met hers, and it was impossible to miss the heavy, pulsing pain that echoed there.

  This wasn’t about the jerks or a bad day. This was deep and long lasting. Emily knew some of what had happened to him in the past couple of months. Finding out—along with the whole town—that his daddy was Everett Cavanaugh. That he had part claim to the Triple C. Along with a set of three new brothers. But clearly there was more that was weighing on him. So much more, she’d venture to guess.

  She slipped the keys into her jeans pocket and settled back in front of her Coke. This wasn’t how she’d wanted the night to go. Watching over a hot, drunk cowboy. She’d had visions of a bathtub, a great book, and some buttered noodles afterward. But tonight this man had offered up his protection, and she couldn’t help but do the same.

  * * *

  She tasted like heaven, her mouth so warm and hungry he fell easily in lust with it. His mind was clouded, unusable. But his limbs, his muscles, his tongue, his dick, and his will were all alive with feeling.

  She was sitting on top of him. Strawberry blond curls falling down past her shoulders, the tips licking her nipples. His mouth watered. That was what he wanted to be doing. Licking those dark raspberries. Tugging at them. Biting.

  If he just knew where he was. What he was . . .

  No. He didn’t want any of that.

  This was his heaven. In the real world, real life, he didn’t get to go to heaven. She was it.

  The angel.

  His angel.

  She smelled like flowers.

  Where was that flower?

  Yellow. Fragrant.

  He groaned as her warm, soft fingers glided up and down his shaft. “I need to take you. Be inside you. Can I, darlin’?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation as if she was thinking. Don’t think. Don’t think. It’s bad.

  Painful.

  Problematic.

  “Blue . . . ,” she whispered, her voice urgent.

  Was he Blue? Blue Perez? Blue Cavanaugh? The tequila wasn’t talking.

  Clasping her soft, small waist in his hands, he lifted her up and placed her down on his shaft.

  White, brilliant, healing heat surged into him.

  Yes.

  This.

  Her.

  “Wait,” she uttered. Breathy. “We
need—”

  But his mouth was on hers and his fingers were playing in her hot, slick sex. And all that remained were the sounds of ecstasy and his cock working inside her. It was the only sound that mattered. Only music that should ever fill his ears.

  “Oh, Blue . . . God, yes.”

  “I need to shut it out, angel,” he rasped. “Them, all of them. And her. The pain. Please.”

  And then he was falling. No. No. Not done. Not over.

  Heat and tightness, and a rush of moisture fisted around his cock.

  Hated this. He wanted more. Her. Only her. She fit him.

  Idiot. Fool. No one fits.

  Only hurts.

  He came in a growl of madness, pumping wildly into her—his hands cupping her breasts, his ears filled with her moans. He should . . . should let her go. Now. But he couldn’t. Not until she ran. Or lied. Or deceived. That would be all too soon. This woman was from hell. Had to be. And yet she felt like heaven.

  Still inside her, he wrapped his body around her.

  She was an angel.

  Dark and addicting.

  His angel.

  Blackness spread through his worried mind, and in the muddled seconds before sleep took him, he felt her disentangle herself from his grasp, heard her pull on her clothes and whisper a pained, “Oh God,” as she hurried from the bedroom of the Triple C’s river cottage.

  Two

  Three weeks later

  “It’s still small,” Aubrey said in that disapproving voice she used every time they looked at the Main Street storefront property.

  The Realtor wanted to go big.

  It was Texas, after all.

  “I think it’s perfect,” Emily told her, sighing with appreciation. It really was perfect. Just what she needed and wanted to get her business up and running. It even had a small apartment above it if her mother ever let her move out of the house. The thought made her grin. Mama Shiver had a hard time letting go of her babies.

  Aubrey crossed her arms over her chest, which sported just the barest of cleavage in her tasteful pale pink suit. “Clearly, I will never talk you out of this mouse house, so you want to put in an offer?”

  Oh, hell, yes, she did. More than anything. Problem was, she was about five thousand shy of what she needed. “You think Mrs. Tambrick would change her mind about the lease?”

  Aubrey’s bright pink lips thinned and she shook her head. “She wants to sell, leave clean, honey. Her son lives in Key West now. She doesn’t want any ties, you understand.”

  Despite the feelings of disappointment running through her, Emily nodded. Hell, if anyone understood the close binds of family, it was her. She couldn’t imagine not living in the same town as her brothers and parents. She’d just keep working toward her goal and hoping no one snatched the property up in the meantime.

  “You’re not showing it to anyone else, right?” she asked with that Girl Scout look of enthusiasm. It was the same expression she wore every time Aubrey showed her 16½ Main Street. And every time, the agent just laughed at her as if that question was just about the silliest thing she’d ever heard. Like, Come on now, darlin’. Who would want this tiny closet posing as a storefront?

  But strangely, Aubrey wasn’t laughing today. In fact, she looked a little sheepish.

  “What?” Emily asked.

  “It seems that mouse houses are growing in popularity,” she explained. “Because there is someone else who’s interested.”

  Emily felt the blood rush from her face. “No.”

  “Honey, I’m as surprised as you are.”

  “When did you show it to this . . . this . . . person?” Emily pressed as George Goss’s “Ain’t No Honky Tonks in Jail” erupted from Aubrey’s very fancy snow-white purse.

  The woman reached in, grabbed her cell phone, and, after a quick look at who was calling, dropped it back in her bag. “About a week or so ago.”

  Anger rushed over Emily like a fierce November wind across the Texas prairie lands. Holding back the urge to growl, And you didn’t tell me?!, she asked, “Who is it, Aubrey?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that, honey.”

  Emily snorted and glanced around the small, charming space that had already, in her mind, become the home to River Black’s first flower shop, Petal Pushers. “Well, you could,” she pushed the Realtor. “Maybe a little hint? Hair color? Married?”

  “Nope. Not going to budge. I took a vow, you know.” The woman laughed and slung her purse over her shoulder. “I understand your anger and frustration, hon. But you have options here. If it’s money you need, can I say it again? Suggest it . . . again?”

  Emily knew right where this was going, and she cut it off at the knees. “I’m not taking money from my parents.”

  “Is it really taking, Emily?” Aubrey argued. “I mean, I’m talking about a loan. I’ve known your parents since I was a teenager. Don’t know two more caring and supportive people in the world. They’d do this for you in a heartbeat.”

  “’Course they would,” Emily agreed. “Hell, they’d buy me the place if I asked.” She sighed. “But I’m not asking.”

  Emily had the most wonderful family in the world. They were all real close. Honest with each other. Had each other’s backs. Did their best not to judge when one or more of them screwed up. But as much as Ben and Susie Shiver wanted more than anything to help their children, they’d also raised them to stand on their own feet. Reach for their dreams and work hard to land them. Wasn’t anyone else’s job, now was it? No favors were owed. Nope. This shop would come to her. She just had to work a little harder, a little longer, maybe take a few extra shifts at the Bull’s Eye. It was like her grandma Gypsy used to say: Dreams ain’t like milk, honey. They don’t come with an expiration date.

  Of course, she mused slyly, in the meantime, there was nothing wrong with a little sniffing around. If Aubrey wasn’t going to tell her who was interested in the mouse house, then maybe she’d just have to find out on her own. And if it was someone she knew . . . maybe they could have a little chat.

  The plan instantly revived her, and Emily straightened her shoulders and headed for the front door. “Thanks, Aubrey. I’ll keep you updated, and hopefully you can do the same with me.”

  “Sure thing,” the woman agreed, following her out onto the sidewalk. “Sorry for being the bearer of bad news.”

  “Not bad yet.” Emily gave the woman a quick wave before she could ask what that meant, then hurried down the street. Her shift started in fifteen minutes, and it wouldn’t do for her to be late. Not now. Not when she was going to be asking for more shifts.

  She was slightly breathless when she sailed through the front door of the Bull’s Eye and passed her manager, Dean, behind the bar. Dean was such a good guy. Maybe five years older than her. He had a wife and three-month-old baby and was looking to buy them a nice single-family home just outside town. Seemed everyone at the Bull’s Eye was working toward something. Or for something. Grabbing her uniform out of her locker, she stole into the bathroom and locked the door. The bar wasn’t extraordinarily busy at the moment, but she hurried anyway.

  After she dressed, she opened her purse and felt around for her hairbrush and makeup bag. She didn’t do anything special with herself for work, but she liked to look nice and put together. Maybe she’d steal one of the roses off the table for her hair, as she’d forgotten to “plant” one in her hair this morning. But the second her fingers wrapped around a box at the bottom of her bag, all thoughts of mouse houses and flowers went right out the window. Gut tight, she pulled it out, blanched when she saw the letters EPT on the side, and set it down on the back of the toilet. She had put the thing in her purse not that morning, but three days ago. When her period had been officially two days late.

  She placed her hands on either side of the sink and inhaled deeply through her nose. She was never, ever late. Twenty-eight days like clockwork.

  Then, this month—nothing.

  Lord, she’d panicked somethi
ng fierce, then driven all the way out to Brunsville so no one would see her at the River Black market or the drugstore.

  Her stomach clenched painfully and her mouth felt very dry. She’d hoped she was just late. But every day that passed without Aunt Flo coming to town sent a new rush of terror through her heart.

  Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  How could you have let that happen?

  No. How could you have let that happen without a condom?

  Heart slamming fiercely against her ribs, Emily turned and stared at the box. She needed to be dressed and on the floor in ten minutes.

  What you need to do is this. Just get it done and over. Odds are it’s nothing but stress.

  Five. Days. Late.

  Stupid.

  Maybe she should do it later. Like tonight. At home. Hell, maybe she should stick it back in her purse and conveniently forget about it again.

  Like you’ve forgotten that night? And him? His eyes? His hands on your skin? The way he moved inside of you like he couldn’t get close enough? The way you come into work every day hoping he’ll be here? Sitting at a table? At the bar? Hoping he wasn’t as drunk as you thought he was? Hoping he can’t get you out of his mind either?

  On a curse, she pushed away from the sink and swiped a hand across her face. It was a mistake, Emily. One stupid night. Where he mentioned wanting to forget his ex-girlfriend while he was inside of you.

  “Oh God,” she groaned. Please let this not be happening.

  A knock on the door of the bathroom jolted her.

  “Hey? You okay in there, Em?” Rae called.

  No. “Yes, I’m fine,” she called back quickly. “Just taking my time. And I . . .” What? What do you have? A pregnancy test? “I have a run in my panty hose.” She rolled her eyes at herself.

  “Well, I have an extra pair if you need it.”

  “No. Thanks. I have one too.”

  “All right, then. See you out there.”

  “Yep. See you.”

  Emily waited for the sound of the waitress’s retreating footsteps, then turned to the box on the back of the toilet. Oh God. Oh shit! It was now or . . . later. And she couldn’t do this at home. Not with her family around.