Resisting the Urge (Larchdown Valley #5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

M ac

I look up as a glass clunks onto the bar in front of me, beer sloshing over the side.

“It’s on me.” The speaker is a tall slim guy, with spiky, cropped blond hair and piercing grey eyes. He’s pretty, very pretty, but the look in his eyes and the fact that almost all of his skin is covered in tattoos show me that’s not a label he’s particularly fond of. He’s trying to look every inch the bad boy, but I’ve known a few of those in my time and something tells me he isn’t one.

“Um, thanks?” I say, not sure why he’s given me a drink.

“I guessed I owed you one.” He shrugs slightly. “But for the record, I don’t like cops.”

“Okaaaaay.” Well that’s interesting, as that’s me, Detective Mackinley West, cop through and through. “Should I be worried?” I pick up the pint glass gingerly between my fingers and thumb and give it a tentative sniff. I see his mouth quirk slightly before his face closes down again.

“What I hate more than cops . . . are dirty cops. You put old Winstanton away.”

Not quite; there still has to be a trial. But that there will be a trial is nothing short of a miracle and nearly cost me my career. What his beef with Gerald Winstanton is I don’t know, but it doesn’t surprise me that he has one, and I hope the rest of the world can now see what a sleazebag he is too.

“You don’t owe me anything,” I say. I was just doing my job.

“Not any more, I don’t.” He turns and walks to the other end of the bar to serve someone else, and I unashamedly watch the sway of his arse as he moves—it’s as pretty as the rest of him.

“Well, Mac, what brings you back to the village?” A hand claps me on the shoulder.

“Darla,” I sigh, but turn and give her a grin. I’ve known Darla all my life. We’re the same age and grew up together. We went to the same school, and were even part of the same group that hung out together.

“I was checking up on Josh,” I give as an explanation. The poor kid has been through a lot. He’s only just got out of hospital, and it’s less than a week since his father tried to kidnap him and had one of his personal army hold a gun to his boyfriend’s head. When I told him this evening his father had been remanded in custody without bail and there would be a trial, the relief I saw on his face made all the time I’ve spent on this worthwhile.

“It’s a sad affair,” says Darla, moving around to stand behind the bar. The Blacksmith’s Arms is her pub, which she took over from her parents, and she’s been the landlady for many years. “But I can’t complain, can I?” She gives a guilty smile and indicates with her head to the rest of the pub. I give a quick glance behind me. I hadn’t really noticed when I walked in—my intention was to just have a swift one before driving back home to Oxford—but it’s quite full. More than you’d expect for a small village pub on a Wednesday.

“Reporters?” I ask, but I already know the answer.

“Reporters, bloggers, just general people who like to have a look at crime scenes.” Her voice tells me that she thinks exactly the same as I do about the sort of people who come and gawk at someone else’s personal tragedy. It makes me sick. They probably won’t be able to get much information, though. Whilst the residents of small villages are keen to pass information amongst themselves like wildfire, they pull together to protect their own against outsiders, and from what I’ve seen of this village they already consider Josh one of them now. I admit it’s useful in times like this, but most of the time, the small-town closeness is suffocating. Well, to me at least, which is why I hightailed it out of here as soon as I could drive.

I lower my head a little, because the last thing I want is for them to know who I am. I’ve already had the press in my face today, though of course my standard reply was “No comment.” I’ll leave any further communication to my superiors. I just want to get my job done now, and if they found out this was my hometown, I’d never get out alive. Darla gives my hand a squeeze in understanding. She wouldn’t turn business away—running a small pub in a remote village is tough—but I know she can be more tight-lipped than most when it matters. Getting information out of people is her speciality, not giving it.

“Who’s the new guy?” I ask, to change the subject and definitely not because I’m curious about the gorgeous guy who bought me a drink. Well, maybe a little, but he knows who I am so it only seems fair for me to know who he is.

“Levi?” Darla asks, looking down the bar to where he’s serving a customer.

“What’s his surname?”

“Burton . . . well, that’s what he told me”

The name snags in my brain but I can’t work out why.

“He’s not that new,” she says with more than a little bite. “Which you’d know if you came back more often.”

“I might have to now,” I retort, and she gives a loud snort. Levi lifts his head up at the noise and sees us both watching him. His eyes narrow and he practically snarls before turning back to pouring a pint.

“Oh, he seems taken with you,” Darla laughs.

“Yeah, he’s already told me he hates cops,” I reply.

“That figures,” she says, and when I snap my eyes to her she presses her lips together and I know she realises she’s said more than she planned.

“What’s his background?” I ask. It’s futile but I try anyway.

“I don’t ask and he doesn’t tell,” is all she offers. “He knows his job and he’s a good worker. That’s all I need.”

I’m not going to get any more out of her, but my interest is piqued, and I can do my own investigation. It’s what I do.

“Fuck it, Mac.” She sighs when I don’t say any more. “The kid’s had a tough life; he just needs a break.” I look at her sharply. She’s not the type to go momma bear over people, and my curiosity about the guy notches up another level. Still, I resent that she feels the need to warn me off.

“He’s more than a kid,” I say, and she rolls her eyes. Why does it feel like the years have never passed? Maybe because she could always read me so well.

“I hope to see more of you round here, Mac,” she says. Then, wiping the bar with a cloth even though it’s spotless, she leans in closer. “I think your mum would too.”

That hits like a punch to the gut and I glare at her, but she just raises an eyebrow at me before she walks off to serve a customer. Just like everyone who’s experienced at avoiding, I tamp down all the feelings her words evoke, leaving just the annoyance at her calling me out. It’s complicated and not something I’m going to do anything about, not while I have to focus on the biggest case of my career... maybe not ever.

Everyone knowing your business was one of the reasons I left this village, and just like back then, the oppressive weight of it is too much. I finish my pint quickly, wanting to get back to the city as soon as possible. As I walk back to my car, taking a shortcut through an alleyway between the pub and the house next door, the name Levi Burton floats into my mind. Then I remember.

I’d received a call earlier from Shari, my partner in this case. She said some guy had come in wanting to make a statement that involved Gerald Winstanton. She’d sounded excited that he could be an important witness. It would explain how Levi knew me, though he could have introduced himself. I chuckle to myself that the cute guy from the bar just happens to be involved in the case. It’s just my luck. But it’s probably a good thing as he hardly looked friendly, which—despite Darla’s warning—is just my type.

A shadow falls across the alleyway and I look up to see Levi blocking the way.

“What did Darla say about me?” he growls.

I could say that if he knew Darla, he’d know she wouldn’t have said anything, but he intrigues me too much. So I shrug.

“Enough.”

A murderous look flits across his face, and not for the first time I wonder what’s made him so prickly.

“I said, I don’t like cops.” His lip curls.

“Well, that’s just fine by me.”

He squares up to me, and he’s almost as tall but I’m heavier built. His pretty grey eyes flash and I see anger and hurt behind them. I’ve seen plenty of fights, and been in enough of them to know when someone needs to let off steam. But this has a different edge to it, and for some reason I’m keyed up too. Maybe because the guy facing me is beauty personified, wrapped up in a bad-boy package, as feisty as a hellcat and definitely off limits.

I’m not sure who throws the first punch. I’d like to think it wasn’t me. I’d like to think I didn’t lose it first, but it happens so fast I can’t tell. He manages to get a few throws in. I mostly twist to deflect them and I land a couple of my own. We circle each other and he goes for me again, but this time I’m not quite fast enough and it connects. Nothing I can’t handle. I’ve fought bigger and tougher guys than him. He aims for my face—big mistake. I grab his hand and twist, pushing his chest against the rough brick wall, his arm pulled up behind his back. I kick his legs wide so he’ll find it harder to push back against me.

“I bet you fuck them all like this . . . cop,” he pants out, and I push his face against the wall.

“You bet I do,” I retort, getting my face in close.

His mouth twists into a smile, and there’s a bead of blood on his lip. Did I do that? I don’t remember connecting with his face. My focus narrows to the blood marring his full lips and that mouth spewing vile words at me. I can’t stand seeing that he’s hurt and something in my core kicks in. I lean closer and lick the blood off—anything to have his lips look perfect again. He whimpers slightly and shivers. My cock, which was already half hard from the sparring bout, hardens like rock, and I push my body against his so he can feel me tight against his arse. His groan makes it pulse, and without thinking my lips find his.

I relax my hold on his arm, allowing him to turn, and this time he shoves me backwards against the opposite wall of the alleyway, his lips never leaving mine. It’s feral and desperate, and when I thrust my tongue against the seam of his mouth he opens up, letting me push past his teeth and claim him. I grab his hips, pulling him close, feeling his hardness crash against mine, and he grinds against me, his need for friction as deep as my own.

Too late.

Too late, my brain kicks in.

Too late, I remember that this is the worst idea of my life.

I push Levi away, trying not to focus on his glistening kiss-bruised lips.

He stands panting for a few seconds, confusion contorting his face.

“I will not be material for a pretty boy’s wet dream,” I sneer.

“Fuck you,” he snarls.

I see his right hook coming and let him take it.

I’m not a good cop; I leave that up to the uniformed sections. I’m a decent cop who knows how to play dirty to get results. I’m also not a stupid cop, and I know that the quickest way to get my trial thrown out is to have anything to do with a witness. I’ve worked too hard on bringing Winstanton down to allow that to happen.

I rub my jaw and see the murderous look in Levi’s eyes.

“Do you always treat guys you buy drinks for the same way?” I lay it on thick.

He clenches his teeth, his stormy grey eyes as dark as thunder.

He looks like he’s about to say something else, but instead he spins and stalks away, flipping me off.

I let out a sigh. That’s good. He needs to stay away from me because I’m not sure I can stay away from him. I’ve not felt this aroused in years.