Chapter 1 #2
As he nursed his drink, the taste of the finest whiskey in the world did little to settle his mind.
The ghost of his father's words haunted him, and his mother's incessant reminders gnawed at him.
Even the flirtations of Bitsy Mitchell, the club's resident siren, did nothing to stir the desires he once felt so strongly.
His gaze drifted back to the moonlit landscape, seeking solace in the natural beauty that lay beyond the club's artificial opulence.
The moon, cold and distant, seemed to mirror the isolation he felt.
The stars, twinkling faintly in the night sky, provided a backdrop that contrasted sharply with the burdens of his reality.
Caught in a swirl of thoughts, he couldn't help but reflect on his life choices.
Each one felt predetermined by the weight of his surname, leaving little room for spontaneity or true freedom.
Even the simple act of choosing a partner had been stripped away from him, replaced by a contractual obligation to marry well and preserve the family name.
His frustration grew; a simmering pot barely contained. He desired something more, something different. But the path to Winter's Peak, the journey both he and she were destined to take, loomed ever closer.
He wondered if, like her, he would ever find a way to create his own path, to break free from the chains of expectation.
For now, Jordan resigned himself to the bar, seeking comfort in the transient pleasures the club could offer. The whiskey burned warmly in his chest as he took another sip, yet the fire within him remained unquenched.
*****
"You look like shit."
The bluntness did not surprise her. Caleb Morrison was well known for his direct approach.
Her stepbrother was hard as nails, had to be in order to hold down his job as an undercover detective in the NYPD.
He looked anything but official. His hair was a wild tangle of untidy twists and there was a weeks' worth of stubble on his harshly attractive face.
He was wearing distressed jeans with holes in both knees, and his shirt was torn out at the arms, revealing rippling muscles against tanned skin.
He was back from a six-month undercover stint where they had been successful in rooting out a dangerous gang that specialized in human trafficking.
They shared a mother, but their bond was tight.
He was three years her senior and had left home as soon as he turned sixteen.
But he had always kept in touch with her.
"Thanks," she muttered. She had not bothered with makeup, since she had not left the house, but had kept on working until this afternoon. And barely had time to take a shower and put something on before he showed up.
"You're working yourself into a panic," he continued, watching as she padded to the stove to remove the roast she had put in earlier.
She was thin, he thought with a pang. He knew she had a habit of not eating especially when she was working, but he could also see the shadows beneath her eyes. "Dammit Jules. You don't have to go."
"She was my aunt. I know she was not related to you by blood-"
"She wasn't." Sliding off the stool, he brushed past her to open the fridge. Scanning the contents, he selected a can of coke. "Would it kill you to buy some beer?"
"I had no idea you were coming by."
"I called you yesterday," he reminded her as he took out plates. "As usual you forgot."
"You just said you were back." She slid a wry glance over as she started on the salad. "Communication is not your strong suit."
"You're the writer." He eyed her for a minute, before grinning. "I am proud of you sis. You did it."
"I did it." She heaved out a breath and continued slicing into the Romaine. "How long are you staying?"
He shrugged. "Hard to say. The arrests are still going on and then there is the court case." His expression turned grim. "It's a bloody mess."
"Was it very bad?" She shook her head. "Of course it was. They were trafficking children. That's awful."
He could not discuss the case with her and even if he could, he would not subject her to the horror of what they had found. Abandoned buildings with boarded up walls and debris on the floors. Children tied to bed frames with tears-stained face and bellies gaunt with hunger.
It made him so crazy; he had almost emptied his clip into the Ramono Diaz's skull. But it would have blown his cover and cost him his job. He would just have to be contented that justice will be served and the sick son of a bitch and his cronies would be locked up for the rest of their lives.
"Yeah." Draining the can, he tossed it into the recycle and stole a carrot. "When is the funeral?"
"Saturday." She continued to slice, avoiding his eyes. "You know I have to go."
He understood her loyalty. The woman had looked out for them or tried to make up for her brother's lack, by lending a hand and making sure that Julesa and his mother were given a home when the drunken bastard took his own life. By that time, Caleb had already left to make his own way.
The guilt he felt sometimes ate at him, but he had had to leave, or he would have committed murder. He had wanted to beat his stepfather within an inch of his life. Leaving had been best for all concerned.
He wished he could go with her, but he was never one to cut off his nose to spite his face.
And he had work to do. Busting up the operation, one as major as that, meant tons of paperwork, something he could do without.
And he could not stomach going back to Winter's Peak.
The little town held too many bad memories.
He had gone back for their mother's funeral and left right after.
He would never go back. He hated the place with a passion.
Small town and small-minded people who had stood by and watched as they were treated like crap.
Not to mention the high and mighty Wainwright's who owned the entire frigging lock, stock and barrel.
Their mother had worked for the family and been treated like nothing.
Harry Wainwright and his hard as stone wife and their two daughters behaved as if their crap could make meat were as prejudiced as the day was long. He did not want to breathe the same air. So, he was staying away.
Shaking off the troubling memories, he went around the counter to grab a carving knife. "I'm here now," he murmured in a low voice. "You're not alone."
She glanced at him, a smile shimmering. Putting away the knife, she wrapped her hands around his trim waist and just held on. Turning his head, he kissed her forehead gently.
*****
The woman purred, one hand sliding over her voluptuous curves as she stared at the man sitting on the edge of the bed, his chest heaving from the exertion of trying to keep up with her.
Joani relished the fact that she was his wife's personal secretary official, unofficially she was Harry Wainwright's mistress and had been a week after she had started working for the prissy Jacquline Wainwright.
The woman looked down her long narrow nose at her and with Joani being black, made it all the worse.
Yes, she pretended that she was forward thinking and even went as far as hiring her over the other white applicants, but Joani had her ticket and that's why she had entered the illicit relationship in the first place.
Now it was more than rubbing it in the prissy woman's face.
She was starting to fall in love with him.
She was practical enough to realize that he would never leave his wife, but she wanted children.
She was approaching her mid-forties and time was running out on her.
He had laid down his rules and she abided by them.
Harry Wainwright was a very generous lover, and her bank account was testimony to that fact. Joani knew he would never jeopardize his position in Winter's Peak and that he saw her in secret, because of his views on any other race except his own.
She did not mind in the least. In the privacy of the apartment, he reserved for them at the edge of town, he was a different person altogether. With her, he was able to shed his stiff and rigid principles and just be himself.
People saw him as arrogant and unapproachable, she saw a man who was addicted to her body and would do anything for her. Within reason.
"You look pensive," she murmured. Kicking off the sheets, she came up behind him and started to knead his shoulders gently. "And tensed. What's going on lover?"
Reaching up a hand, he closed it over hers and felt the familiar lust coursing through his body.
He was a man in his sixties, and she was the first lover he had that could make him forget his standing as the most powerful man in Winter's Peak.
And the fact that he had a wife and children.
She made him feel young and alive and he recognized the fact that he was a little in love with her.
She never nagged him or asked him for anything other than he was able to give her.
"Jordan." The one word was loaded with derision and impatience.
"You have to give him time." Bending, she blew into his ear, sending heat spreading. "He's still young."
"He's in his goddamn thirties," he growled, but the thought of his wayward son was already disappearing into thin air. He had two daughters who had married men picked out for them by him and his wife, but for some reason, his son was determined to defy them.
Joani had heard the same argument for the past five years and made commiserating noises as she continued to rub and knead his flesh. A smile touched her lips as she looked down and saw that very soon, the time for talking was at an end.
Sliding her hands down his chest, she pressed her generous breasts against his back and saw when he started to rise significantly.
"Perhaps we should stop talking altogether," she purred.
"Good plan." Turning around, he pushed her back against the pillows and mounted her.