Wicked Ties(22)

Morgan, no one else would. He would keep her safe; he owed her that much. Particularly

since it was clear Morgan could no longer fend for herself and was exhausted beyond her

endurance.

But on a basic physical level, she trusted him. That trust shimmered through his

body, both hardening his cock and softening his gut. Why fight it? He liked her, even if

he hated her fiancé’s guts. She was by turns feisty and vulnerable, sharp and gullible.

And for some reason so damned familiar, as if he’d seen her somewhere before…

Shifting Morgan in his grasp, Jack shoved the key in the lock, then thrust open the

door. Inside the little Craftsman cottage, clean lines and pine floors reminded him of his

boyhood, of fishing with his grand-pere Brice. This place never failed to inspire great

memories, even if the old family legends his grandfather told here made him laugh.

“Ah, so you made it.”

Jack started—until he recognized the voice. “Holy shit, old man. You trying to scare

me to death so you can have your fishing hole back?”

Brice waved him away. “You wish. I wouldn’t have this place back for nothin’. Rat

trap.”

Jack knew better, but Brice was too old to live out here, so far away from a hospital.

“The place is stocked with food. The security cameras, they’s all on and the generator

is running. Use it sparingly.”

“Thanks. I knew I could count on you.”

“This the girl you called about, the one runnin’ for her life?” Brice gestured to

Morgan, whom Jack still held.

“Yeah.”

With narrowed eyes, Brice peered closer and stared at Morgan. “You sure he’s not just

out to bed her? She’s one jolie fille, but she dresses like a whore, that one.”

“It’s a disguise, Grand-pere.”

Brice frowned his gray head, disapproval still shadowing his strong features. Smiling

to himself, Jack stepped around his grandfather and headed for the cottage’s lone

bedroom. He set Morgan down on the bed, then bent to remove her black boots. If his

grandfather weren’t watching, he’d pull off the rest of her clothes for the mere pleasure

of looking at her…but Brice would both disapprove and get an eyeful that could damage

his heart at eighty-two.

“You still been havin’ them dreams?” his grandfather asked suddenly.

Jack rolled his eyes, ruing the day he’d said anything. “They don’t mean anything.”

“Boy, you been raised in the bayou, even if the army and big city spoiled you some. A

curse is a curse. If you’re dreaming about a redheaded woman over and over, you’re

about to meet her and she’s your heart’s mate.”

Here we go again with this bullshit, Jack thought with a sigh. If Brice wanted to use

the legend to justify his marrying an underage girl sixty years ago, goody for him. As it

was, Jack refused to believe that some faceless woman he’d seen in his dreams with red

hair glinting across bare shoulders in dawn’s light was destined to be his one and only

love. There was no such thing. The redhead was just a fantasy fuck his mind had

conjured up.

“Well, I haven’t met any redheads lately, so the whole point is moot. Dreams don’t

mean a thing.”

“You keep tellin’ yourself that, boy. She’ll turn up. Won’t be long now. Didn’t you say

you’d been having those dreams about five months?”

Six, but who was counting? Jack shrugged.

“She’ll make a believer out of you,” Brice contended.

“Whatever you say, Grand-pere.”

The old man grunted, knowing that Jack was blowing off the famous family legend he

loved so much. The dreams…they had to be coincidence, a byproduct of loneliness and

the fact he hadn’t had a good lay in forever. Nothing else made sense.

“Well, this old man is taking his body home and going to bed. Need anything else,

boy?”

“We’ll be fine.”

“Take care of ta jolie fille.”

Jack sighed. “She’s not my pretty girl.”

And for some damn reason, it annoyed him to admit that. Probably because she was

wasted on an asshole like Brandon Ross.

Laughter cackling with both amusement and age, Brice left. Jack heard the slam of the

cottage door and returned to the bedroom.

He turned on the kerosene lamp in the bedroom, which emitted a soft glow over

Morgan. She looked uncomfortable, as he watched her twist and mutter in her sleep.

He removed a pair of gaudy earrings he hadn’t noticed before and lay them on the

side table. The purple leather…it wasn’t Morgan’s style, but would have to stay for now.

Trying to take it off would surely wake her up. Shrugging, he realized he could only do