Chapter nine
Amber’s blush haunted Juan all through dinner.
And she’d stayed in the kitchen throughout the meal, so he hadn’t had a chance to speak with her.
For now, maybe that was a good thing, though.
Daphne once said that Amber needed her routine, especially in uncertain times.
He didn’t love it, but if leaving her to her usual schedule helped, he’d willingly step aside and not intrude.
But when nine thirty rolled around and he hadn’t seen her, he couldn’t stop himself from sending a text.
Juan: Just checking in. How are you?
They were less than a four-minute walk across the clubhouse from each other, but he wouldn’t presume she wanted to see him and show up uninvited at her door.
Bubbles popped up on his screen, and the tension in his shoulders eased.
Amber: Having a glass of whiskey and staring at the moon through my window. Want to join me?
Juan: Be there in two
He was out the door before hitting Send. Taking the back hallway so as not to go downstairs through the lodge room where some of his brothers lingered, he tapped lightly on her door right on time. Her voice filtered through the thick wood, telling him to come in.
Pushing the door open, he stepped inside, taking her in as he shut it behind him.
She sat curled up on an upholstered chair, her feet tucked underneath her, wrapped in a pale pink cashmere robe.
She’d pulled her hair back, and her face looked pale, though resolute, and a tumbler of whiskey dangled between her fingers.
His breath caught as she held his gaze. He didn’t bother trying to figure out exactly when she’d become his. He only knew that she was. Or more accurately, he was hers.
“I was going to text you in a few minutes,” she said, gesturing to the second glass sitting on the side table between her chair and its twin.
“I didn’t put any ice in it since I didn’t know if you’d want to join me, but there’s some water in the bottle if you want to tip a few drops in.
” She nodded to her water bottle sitting on the bedside table behind him.
His gaze lingered on the glass, then drifted to her. Lines bracketed both her lips and her eyes, and though she appeared reclined, tension radiated from her body. He exhaled and opened his arms. “Come here.”
Her jaw ticked, and a sheen filled her eyes.
A beat later, she set her drink down, unfurled her legs, rose, and stepped into his embrace.
Curling his arms around her, he tucked her head against his shoulder, dropping a kiss on her crown.
Her hands splayed across his back, trying to touch as much of him as possible, as if grounding herself in him.
He didn’t watch the clock or count the seconds. Instead, he absorbed the movement of her chest as she breathed, inhaled her scent—something powdery yet sensual—and held on. For as long as she needed, he’d hold her.
“I don’t know what to think,” she said, her breath a warm huff against his T-shirt. He ran his fingers through her hair. “If it was Anthony, I’d at least know what to worry about. But this? I have no idea what it’s about. Maybe it’s something good, maybe it’s nothing to worry about. But, well…”
“Uncertainty is hard.”
She nodded against his chest. “And I had plans for us tonight,” she said.
That shifted his attention. The idea of her making plans for them piqued his curiosity. And his libido. For the past few nights, he’d been more than happy to let her take control and explore him in whatever ways she felt comfortable.
But plans? That sounded as if she wanted to move on to something else. His mind conjured about a hundred possibilities, but he didn’t let any take root because she’d used the word “had.” She didn’t have plans for them; she’d had them. Before the shitstorm of the afternoon.
“We have more nights,” he said. He hoped. Life had taught him nothing if not that time was no guarantee. But even if they knew tomorrow wouldn’t come, facing the physical demons left by her ex wasn’t how he’d want her to spend those hours.
“Why don’t we sit, watch the moon, drink our whiskey, then go to bed?” he suggested.
She pulled back and looked at him. He cupped her face, sliding his fingers into her hair, and smiled. “Someone once told me I’m a pretty good cuddler.”
A smile touched her eyes. “That someone was right.” That “someone” was her.
He brushed a light kiss across her lips. “Yes, she was.”
***
The next morning, Juan sipped his coffee and studied the pictures spread across the short end of the long kitchen island.
“This is Adrian Mills?” he asked, pointing to a woman with shoulder-length black hair.
Finding the location of the phone by looking for a trailer or RV hadn’t been as hard as Leo had anticipated.
A couple of internet searches and a flyover with a new drone HICC needed to test anyway had done the job.
By eight in the morning, no less. Although Juan suspected the “internet searches” HICC ran weren’t exactly standard Google fare.
“It is,” Mantis confirmed. As they’d theorized the day before, the owner of the phone and the nurse inquiring about Amber were one and the same. Only Adrian wasn’t alone.
“And this woman?” he asked, his finger resting on another photo. An older woman, maybe late sixties, early seventies, with wild curly gray hair.
“Clara Beverly. Adrian’s mother. Who, interestingly, has a house in the same neighborhood where Amber lived when she was married,” Mantis replied.
“I thought this wasn’t tied to Anthony,” Juan said, his breath sharpening as rage against Amber’s ex began building in his body.
“To the best of our knowledge, it’s not,” Mantis replied.
“What’s not what?” Amber asked, entering the kitchen as she zipped a lightweight blue sweatshirt over her tee.
They hadn’t fallen asleep until the early hours of the morning and knowing the day might be a long one, he’d wanted her to get as much sleep as possible.
When he’d slipped out of her room a little after six, she’d been tucked up under her comforter, warm, cozy, and relaxed. The way he liked seeing her.
“What are these?” she asked, glancing at the photos.
“Leo found the owner of the phone last night, and HICC sent a drone up early this morning,” Juan said. “It’s Adrian Mills, and she’s traveling with her mother. They’ve rented a small cabin, but the RV is parked outside. The drone captured a few images of them.”
“Who’s this?” she said, lifting the top photo.
“Adrian Mills,” he said. “Do you recognize her?”
Amber tipped her head as she studied the image, her curtain of hair falling over her shoulder. A few seconds later, she shook her head. “I don’t. It’s still possible she attended me during one of my rare hospital visits, but I don’t recognize her.”
“What about her?” Mantis said, handing her the next picture.
Again, Amber’s gaze took in the photo. “She looks familiar, but I can’t place her.”
“Clara Beverly,” Juan said. “She lives in your old neighborhood.”
Color leached from Amber’s face, and she rested her hand on the counter. “Anthony.” The raw whisper of her voice scraped across his skin.
“There’s still no indication he’s involved, but HICC is digging deeper,” Mantis assured her.
Like an automaton, she turned and looked at their club president, although Juan would bet his bike she wasn’t seeing a thing in the room. The only thing playing in her mind was the brutal memories of her marriage.
“Amber,” he said, keeping his voice low and steady as he curled a hand over hers. Her glazed gaze remained fixed for the space of two heartbeats, then she blinked, dropped the photo, and looked at him.
“I remember Clara now. I didn’t see her often.
I didn’t see anyone often. But she’d wave to me from down the street every now and then.
Once she brought me a batch of cookies. Browned-butter sugar cookies.
” A faint smile touched her lips. “They were delicious. Like crack in sugar form, though. You know the kind? You almost have to eat the entire batch in one sitting.” She paused, then frowned.
“I ate several. Anthony found the rest on the counter when he got home that night. Made me throw them out, then forced me to drink ipecac. I vomited for eight hours. He didn’t want me to gain any weight. ”
After leaving the military, Juan vowed to never kill another person again, not unless he had no other choice. He’d held on to that vow over the years, but if he ever encountered Anthony Ely, he’d be tested.
“Did you ever get a sense that Clara knew Anthony?” Mantis asked, gently bringing the conversation to the present.
Amber blinked, then shook her head. “Anthony didn’t know anyone in our neighborhood. Having friends meant letting people into our private lives.” She turned to look for something, her gaze landing on the coffeepot.
“I’ll get you some,” Juan said, setting his mug down. As he did, the cup bumped the corner of a picture, sending it fluttering to the ground.
“I’ll get it,” Amber said, ducking to pick it up. He’d just reached for an empty mug when a strangled sound jerked him back. Already pale, Amber had gone white. By the time he took the two strides back to her, her body swayed like a sapling in a storm.
“Amber?”
“No,” she whispered. “No.”
He glanced down at the third picture in the stack, Adrian Mills holding a little girl on her hip. Both were smiling, fingers raised, as if pointing to the birds in the trees.
“He died,” Amber cried, shaking her head, the anguish in her voice ripping his soul in two. “He told me he died,” she said before crumpling to the floor.
Thank god, his reflexes hadn’t dulled, and he caught her before she hit the ground, swinging her into his arms. Her head lolled at an odd angle and her arm hung limp, suspended to the side.