Whiteout

Chapter Twenty-Four

Ian glanced at her from across the room. Headphones in, Breanna concentrated on the screen as she scribbled away in a notebook. He had to give her credit for her self-discipline, her commitment to her studies. Without being forced to sit in a lecture hall, as he had in college, he sure as hell wouldn’t have had the wherewithal. But that was just it. More than her beautiful face or her luscious body, her strong-willed nature was what attracted him to her.

She’d spent most of the week combing through Valerie’s things, even going through every nook and cranny of the study while he worked, to no avail. Just as he’d predicted, the documents weren’t there. Still, Breanna resolved to find them. “I know they’re here somewhere. I feel it in my gut.”

And time was running out.

Derek was expected to return today.

He was going to have his hands full dealing with him, keeping him away from Breanna without rousing too much suspicion. Ian was just a kid when her father’s car careened off the mountain, but even then he’d heard the whispers. A clear September day. No other vehicles involved. It couldn’t have been an accident.

Shane was born and raised on this mountain. He knew the pass like the back of his hand, every twist, turn, and curve of it. Same as Ian did. Maybe his brakes failed. Who knows? But it surprised him to learn that, like many of the villagers, Valerie and Lawrence also believed there was foul play regarding their son’s death. While he knew she wasn’t particularly fond of his uncle, she’d never mentioned her suspicions.

Raymond couldn’t be that deranged, so hellbent on revenge, could he? What happened with Sharon was ancient history. And he and Breanna’s grandfather were like brothers, or so it appeared, anyway. The man was broken after his son’s death. A shell of his former self, Lawrence Dalton died five years later, at the age of fifty-eight.

“The Daltons owe this family, son. Don’t you ever forget it.”

Then again, maybe he was. He’d heard those words often enough at the office, Uncle Raymond drilling it into Derek’s head any chance he got. At the time, Ian thought little of it. His cousin would just roll his eyes behind his father’s back and snicker. Then, after six months in Sacramento, he went to Dalton House at Valerie’s request—not that he minded.

Ian adored her, and she him. From the time he was a young boy, scampering around Dalton House alongside his mom while she and Valerie redesigned its grand interior, he thought of her as he would a grandmother or a kindly older aunt. His allegiance, his loyalty, was hers, and hers alone. And now it belonged to her granddaughter.

So gazing at the girl he found himself in love with, Ian vowed to right his cousin’s wrongs—and his own, if he were to be honest. His princess never deserved the disdainful opinion he once had of her. How he wished Valerie had confided in him before she died. If she had, he could’ve outsmarted Uncle Raymond and Derek. Then she might’ve felt it was safe enough to build a bond with Breanna.

We all fucked up. What a fucking waste.

He shut his laptop, got up from the sofa, and crossed the room to the oversized chair Breanna was curled up in. With those headphones on, she didn’t notice his approach, and leaning over her from behind, Ian swept her hair to the side to kiss the skin beneath her ear.

She giggled.

The humming of Christmas carols in the kitchen ceased. He glanced up to find Francie grinning. Having deemed her a trustworthy ally, Ian winked.

“You about done here, princess?” His fingers slid through her silky hair. “Mom and Derek should be here soon.”

Breanna wrinkled up her nose. “Yeah, I need to go up and change.”

Dressed in leggings, fuzzy socks, and a Portland State sweatshirt, Ian thought her perfect. “Why? What you have on is fine.”

“For studying, maybe.” She tipped her head back and puckered her lips, so he kissed her. “But I will not be looking like a bum in front of your mother.”

“I told you, you’re fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He smiled.

“I’m going to change, anyway.” She snapped her laptop shut. “Be right back.”

With a shake of his head, Ian chuckled, and watching Breanna sprint up the stairs, he strolled over to his aunt. “I’ll never fully understand the way the female mind works.”

“Nothing to it, dear. I mean, look at you in your chinos and cashmere. My sister is always impeccable, and Derek?” She harrumphed. “Well, you know Derek. Breanna is the lady of this house now. About time he knows it, too.”

“She doesn’t need to impress him, my mother, or anybody else.”

“It’s not about that, Ian,” Francie said, glancing up from the potatoes she was peeling. “How would you feel walking into court in jeans and a T-shirt?”

“Totally out of place.” Not that he’d ever do that.

“The suit makes the man, eh?”

“This isn’t court, Auntie, it’s her home.”

With an arch of her eyebrow, she shot him a look.

“Okay, yeah, I get it.”

“Breanna’s a wonderful girl, Sinny.”

Though everyone called him Sinjin as a kid, his aunt hadn’t used the nickname Pamela gave him in a very long time. These days, she saved it for when she was especially meaningful or showing him affection. Ian figured in this instance, it was a little of both.

The corners of his mouth rose, and he softly agreed, “Yes, she is.”

“I see so much of Shane in her.” Biting on her lip, Francie choked, “He and Valerie would be so damn proud.”

Hugging his aunt, Ian sighed. “Yeah.”

“You’ve got to put a stop to this, honey.” She swiped beneath her glasses.

Besides him, Francie was probably the person closest to Valerie Dalton. She and Ted had been here, running the house for her, for over forty years.

“I’m trying to, Auntie.”

“How can I help?” She held onto his hands.

He kissed her brow. “Right now, I need you to follow my lead and do your best to keep Derek away from her.”

To say his cousin was far from happy was putting it mildly. Breanna was still upstairs when Derek charged in like he already owned the place, which he did not, and never would if Ian could help it. Of course, the bastard cornered him the first chance he got. “Did you get it done?”

“Told you, cuz.” He poured himself a bourbon. “It’s not fucking happening.”

“I guess we’re doing things my way, then.” And with a smirk, Derek turned toward their aunt. “What’s for dinner, Francie?”

“Creme Fraiche salmon, escarole salad, potatoes Anna, beef tenderloin, and I baked us a chocolate caramel pecan tart for dessert.”

Now, in the sitting room with said pecan tart, Breanna safely tucked between him and Pamela, Ian watched Derek return with a tray of brandy, obviously miffed, judging by the pinched expression on his face, that he had no choice but to sit with Ted and Francie.

His mother snickered, taking a snifter from the tray. “What a difference a week makes, eh?”

“And just what is that supposed to mean, Pamela?” Derek’s nostrils flared. “I wasn’t aware you were joining us this weekend.”

“Hm, perhaps because my comings and goings are none of your concern, dear.” She sipped on her brandy with a smile. “I’m here to help Francie and Breanna with the holiday touches.”

“I see.”

“Why are you here?” Pamela asked, as if she didn’t already know.

“For Miss Dalton, of course.”

“Shouldn’t you be…oh, I don’t know…at a dinner party somewhere or spending the weekend in Tahoe with Miranda? That’s what you usually do, isn’t it?”

“I have more important matters to attend to here,” Derek said, his sights on Breanna.

She ignored him, asking his mother instead, “Who’s Miranda?”

“His fiancée, darling. They’ve been engaged for years.”

Inwardly, Ian chuckled.

Wrinkling her nose at him, Breanna looked at Derek like he was the equivalent of pond scum.

“Not anymore. We, uh, ended our engagement.”

I call bullshit.

“Oh, no. I’m so sorry to hear that, dear.” Shaking her head, his mother patted her nephew’s hand. She was quite the actress when it was called for.

“It was for the best.” Derek placed his hand on top of hers, effectively putting an end to her patting, and returned his gaze to Breanna. “Besides, I’ve discovered my interests lie elsewhere.”

For fuck’s sake.

“And what might those be, dear?” Not that Pamela gave him a moment to answer. “A new hobby is just the thing after a break-up. An ex of a friend of mine took up racquetball when they separated—or was it squash? Neither here nor there, I suppose. The point is to find an activity that invigorates the body as well as the mind.”

“Exactly my thought.” He smirked.

“Racquetball?”

“An invigorating activity.” Derek swept his tongue across his lip and winked.

Ted shoveled a forkful of dessert into his mouth. “This is damn good, Mrs. Keeler.”

“So good,” Breanna agreed. “Reminds me of those turtle candies, and they’re my favorite. I think I’ll have another piece.”

Derek opened his mouth to speak, no doubt to chastise her for wanting seconds, but before he could utter a word, Ian cut her a generous slice of the pecan tart.

“I’d be more than happy to give you the recipe, honey,” Francie offered. “It’s very simple to make.”

“Miss Dalton doesn’t cook,” Derek scoffed.

“No? She made waffles for me just the other day.” Taking Breanna’s hand in his, Ian grinned. “Isn’t that right, Auntie?”

“From scratch, too,” she said, nodding. “Best darn waffles I’ve ever had.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Ian whispered into Breanna’s ear, and he stood, pulling her up from the sofa with him. “Excuse us, I’m going to show Miss Dalton how to shoot some pool.”

“Billiards,” Derek spat.

He stood at the cue rack, watching her look out through the glass. Moonlight reflected off snow-covered peaks, painting the night sky a deep winter blue. She rubbed her arms as if she were cold, so he wrapped her up in his.

“Are you going to teach me how to play billiards or not?”

Ian could hear the smile in her voice. “Pick a stick, baby. I’ll rack.”

Breanna seemed to weigh her decision carefully. Her lips pursed, index finger rubbing her cheek, she visually sized up one cue over another, before getting the feel of her chosen stick in her hands.

“Have you ever played before?”

“Once or twice.” She smirked.

“Ladies first, then.” Bowing to her, his outstretched hand swept toward the table. “You break.”

“All right.”

She stood back for a moment, chalking the felt tip of her cue, before stepping up to the head rail. Placing the cue ball just left of center, Breanna leaned over, the cable knit sweater dress flattering her shapely ass as she lined up the shot. Relaxed, her bridge arm bent slightly at the elbow, she shattered the break, slamming two balls into the pockets.

“Impressive.” Ian moved closer as she went to re-chalk her cue. “You’ve got solids.”

“I wanted stripes, darn it.”

“You fibbed, my naughty girl,” he playfully chided. Tucking his tongue against his cheek, he smirked. “You shoot a mean game of pool, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh.” Breanna turned away from him to study the position of the balls on the table.

Ian hooked an arm around her waist, dragging her to his chest. “Care to make a friendly wager?”

“What?” The corners of her mouth turned up into a smile that was nothing less than sultry.

This girl was making him fucking insane. Waves of cappuccino and buttermilk fisted in his fingers, he kissed her. Sweet oranges infused his lungs, her decadent flavor tickling his tongue. Caramel. Chocolate. His dick painfully straining against his zipper.

“I could fuck you right here,” he rasped, nipping at her lip with his teeth.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“No?”

Ian took the pool stick from her hand. Gripping it firmly, he trailed it between her breasts, over her sweater, to rub between her thighs.

Panting, Breanna licked her lips. “Derek could walk in.”

And right now, he wouldn’t give a shit if he did.

“Fuck him.” He snickered, sliding the cue back and forth against her covered lips. “Though maybe you’d like to. Would you?”

“No,” she protested, limpid blue pools locked on him.

Ian leaned into her. Pressing her against the table, he held the stick snugly against her cunt, running it across the telltale wetness, saturating the gusset of her tights.

“He wants to fuck you, princess.”

“Sinjin,” she whimpered. “Please.”

“I’d die before I ever let him touch you.” He growled, and pushing her onto the table, Ian tugged the thin barrier of a garment down her thighs. “You’re mine, understand?”

“Yes.” Her breath hitched with a gasp as he inserted the thick butt end of the stick several inches into her sopping-wet hole.

“You’re my princess…my dirty girl.” Mesmerized by the sight of the cue in her pussy, he withdrew, just to watch it slide back inside her again. “Only mine.”

“Fuck.” Her teeth sank into her pillowy bottom lip.

“Like that?” Ian kissed the skin beneath her ear. “You’re so perfect.”

“Oooo,” she keened when his fingers fell to her clit, the cue stick moving in and out.

Screaming with her orgasm, he removed the stick from her pussy. Coated in her sweetness, Ian smeared it across her lips. Grabbing it out of his hand, Breanna sucked the stick into her mouth, like she would his cock, and then licked it.

Jesus.

Overcome, he shoved his fingers inside her. “Whose little freak are you?”

“Yours.”

“And who does this pussy belong to?”

“You, baby,” she cried, her fingers reaching for her clit. “Only you.”

That’s right.

Ian tossed the stick, then lifting her into his arms, he carried her up the stairs.