Unfaded Glory Page 15

  He fled downstairs to pull on his boots and put some space between them.

  If he’d never left Glory, it would be such a normal thing to do, to take his woman to Sweet Thing or The Corner Pharmacy for breakfast on a lazy morning. Except he’d never done things like that with any woman. The only time he’d ever gone to breakfast with one had been a stripper who worked the little joint hidden on a country road between Glory and Lawrence.

  She’d paid.

  He’d left a failure in the back of a police car and he’d returned the same. Maybe not in the back of a police cruiser, but it was a government car and the rules were the same. Do what you’re told, or you’re going to prison.

  He had no doubt if he screwed this up with Damara, Renner would follow through, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was that if he screwed up, if he failed again in any way, Damara would get hurt. He could stomach any outcome of this little scenario but that one.

  He kept waiting for that earworm to push to the forefront again. He kept expecting to hear Austin Foxworth condemning him, but he didn’t. He heard nothing but his own doubts and fears.

  She was deceptively fast, darting back down the stairs wearing those illegal jeans and a soft sweater over his T-shirt. They clung to her luscious little curves in a way that made her outfit sexier than if she’d been wearing lingerie.

  He especially liked her boots with the fur on top.

  “It’s not that cold.” He grinned. She looked as if she was preparing for the Iditarod.

  “And I’m wearing a coat. It doesn’t ever get this cold on Castallegna. I can’t seem to get warm.” She snuggled down into the sweater.

  It would have been an easy thing for him to pull her against his body and offer her his warmth. It’s what every instinct inside him screamed to do. As if he was failing again somehow because she was cold. Instead of touching her, he stuffed his hands in his pockets. “When summer gets here, you’ll be wishing for the cold. We don’t have the ocean to keep the temperature mild. It gets hotter than the devil’s ball bag.”

  “Is that a meteorological term?” she quipped.

  “It is.” He nodded seriously.

  “So, we can just go out—we can do that? I’ve never been able to just go somewhere because I wanted to.”

  She was so damn beautiful, but she’d been a pretty bird in a gilded cage. He tried to remember that. And like a bird who’d never gotten used to her wings, she was likely to fly too far, too high, and not know how to get down without crashing. It was his job to make sure she didn’t.

  “Yeah, we can do whatever you want.” They had some time. It wouldn’t hurt to indulge her.

  “We don’t have to take a car or...” She shrugged.

  “If you want to walk to Sweet Thing, it’s not that far.”

  “Will there be coffee?” She perked.

  “I’m sure there will.” Byron took a moment to check in with the security detail again to tell them where they were going.

  They walked down the old-fashioned sidewalks and crossed into downtown, the area he’d deliberately avoided on his morning run. It hadn’t changed much since he’d been gone. It was almost a caricature of small-town goodness with the cobbled sidewalks and wholesome storefronts.

  “Your hometown is lovely, Byron.”

  Byron guessed it was okay for antiquing and quilter types. He’d always wanted more adventure. He shrugged. “It’s quaint.”

  “I bet you were miserable here as a child. Not enough excitement.” She laughed, still taking in all the small-town charm.

  “Maybe I was.” He nodded. It had been more than that—he’d just never felt as if he belonged anywhere.

  After the press junket and all the to-do that had been made about his return, people waved at the princess (they still stared at him as if he were a leper), but they weren’t mobbed. It was as though she’d already been welcomed into the fold.

  He knew what was next.

  Casseroles.

  Bundt cakes.

  Three-layer macaroni salads.

  Maybe they should just turn around and— Nope. Any hope he’d had of dragging Damara elsewhere died a cold death when they smelled the bakeshop.

  Damara inhaled deeply. “That smell is divine.”

  “You can tell Betsy you think so. I’m sure an endorsement from a princess wouldn’t hurt her business.”

  “Is she your friend?”

  “Everyone knows Betsy. She’s Caleb’s sister.”

  She didn’t say anything else until it was time for her to choose her pastry. All the patrons in the shop were staring at them. Their stares reminded him of his every sin. He wanted to rail at them, to growl and rage. He wanted to demand they stop studying him as if he were some infectious virus.

  “What do you recommend?” Damara asked when it was their turn.

  “Princess Damara! I’m so honored.” Betsy Lewis squealed. She came around from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron, and embraced Damara as though they’d been friends since they were kids.

  “You must be Betsy.” Damara allowed the hug.

  Byron looked around the shop. Many people averted their eyes, until he saw Jack McConnell sitting in a corner. He knew the other man had returned home a hero. Jack was everything he wished he could’ve been. Prosthetic limb and all. His team had come home. He found it hard to meet the other man’s eyes, but when he did, he saw the same horrible knowledge reflected back at him.

  The same self-doubt, the same fears.

  Byron nodded in acknowledgment, and Jack returned it.

  He wondered how the other man could have that much pain and sorrow when he was a hero? It made him think that maybe everything wasn’t as it seemed, perhaps for both of them.

  Betsy promptly loaded Damara down with three of those purple boxes, at which Jack stood and made his way over.

  “Hold on now—you can’t give away all the maple bacon doughnuts. Those are mine, Sweet Thing,” Jack interrupted.

  There was something in the way he said those words that Byron knew he and Betsy were together. Betsy had followed him around in school like a lovesick puppy. But they both seemed better for it.

  “India brought over some Better Than Sex doughnuts last night. I can see why she ate them all the first time.”

  Betsy arched a brow. “Oh, really? She told me Caleb ate the first box.”

  They laughed. “Byron told me if I keep eating all these doughnuts and French fries I’m going to get fat.”

  Betsy glared at him. “You did not.”

  He nodded. “I did.” Then he grinned. “But she doesn’t care.” Byron was still aware of stares boring into his back. He’d learned to live with whatever they thought of him.

  “And neither should you,” Betsy admonished.

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “I don’t care if she’s fat as a piglet.” He cast her a sly glance. “As long as she doesn’t care when I let the six-pack go.”

  Damara made a face. “Does that mean that Adonis line will go away, too?”

  “Most definitely.” She was so good at playing the game, for a moment, even he believed their banter was real.

  She put the boxes down and the expression on her face was one of abject disappointment. Almost like a child who’d been told no lolly before bed.

  “Damara,” he said quietly into the shell of her ear. “I’m only kidding. Eat yourself into a sugar coma. I like the sounds you make when you’re eating these doughnuts.”

  He also liked watching the blush stain her cheeks and pretending that this banter meant something more, that it wasn’t just a show for the world.

  “They’re bad about making us blush, aren’t they?” Betsy asked, shaking her head.

  “How much do we owe you?” Byron asked. H
e wanted to get away from the genuine love he saw between Jack and Betsy, their bond, because Byron was still playing pretend, still dressing up like something better than what he was.

  “Nothing at all.” Betsy beamed.

  “India suggested you might like to make the wedding cake,” Damara offered.

  “Won’t you be accepting bids?”

  “No. I want you,” Damara said. “If you’d do it.”

  “Of course. I’d love to.” Betsy grinned even wider. “Really? I mean, this is a big deal.”

  “Yes, really.”

  “If she has her way, it’ll just be doughnuts and French fries,” Byron said, trying to keep the tone light in his own head.

  “I’m seriously considering it,” Damara teased.

  “We better get moving if we want The Bullet Hole to ourselves for a while.”

  “You like to shoot?” Betsy asked.

  Byron realized all eyes were on them, and he nudged Damara. “I like mixed martial arts, too. I’m afraid I’m not always a very proper princess.”

  And he felt the judgment of all those eyes sear deep into his bones. Damara could do no wrong, but the people here would never forget that he was just bad to the bone.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BYRON HAWKINS WAS BUILT like a god with the mouth of some dark knight turned poet, Damara thought as they reached The Bullet Hole. The things he said, the things he made her feel, it was as if he turned every emotion to ash and then filled her back up again. Her heart ached for him as much as the rest of her did.

  She didn’t think he realized how deeply he experienced things. The more he tried to shut them out, the more they cut into him. He was tragically beautiful, but not like a piece of art. He was real, he was flesh and he bled inside.

  Damara was tempted to think if he’d just open up to her that she could help him shoulder his burdens. Yet, she wasn’t as altruistic as he believed or as she wanted to be. Some of her reasons were purely selfish—something a princess wasn’t supposed to be.

  She couldn’t help but wonder why it wasn’t okay for her to want something or someone just for herself.

  Except she knew why, and she knew why it couldn’t be Byron Hawkins. He wasn’t ready to be with anyone.

  And that realization hurt, especially as she listened to the playful banter around her.

  She shoved a doughnut in her mouth, hoping the sugary goodness could actually patch the wounds that had ripped themselves open.

  “Are you going to taste it?” He eyed her.

  No. They were the Better Than Sex doughnuts and those made her think about the night before, and right now she really had to focus on what she had to do for Castallegna.

  Except at the moment, they were one and the same. She had to marry him for Castallegna. She had to put him and herself through this ruse for Castallegna.

  She was glad they were going to a shooting range. She’d get to blow off some steam.

  Her stomach did a little flip when she realized they were completely alone on the range.

  He flashed her a grin. “Your safety is a matter of national security. I asked Renner to close it for the day and bring out some big boys for you to play with.”

  If she’d ever thought she’d be allowed to go on a first date, this was what she’d want to do. She closed her eyes, trying not to be affected by the gesture.

  “I just thought you’d need to know how to use some of the heavier weaponry. If the Bratva is running arms through Castallegna, this is probably what’s going to be available for you to use.” He gestured at the array of weapons before them. “You don’t look pleased.”

  “It’s just, this is so kind. This is exactly the kind of gift I’d want, if you’d asked me.” She tried not to make too big a deal of it, but it was. It meant a lot to her.

  “Good. Let’s blow shit up.”

  He led her closer to the weapons. “This is an AK-12 Kalashnikov. It’s a carbine rifle. They’ve just recently been phased out of use, so those weapons had to go somewhere. Most likely to men like Grisha and Vladimir. Because of your size, this is going to be harder for you to manage. So hold your hands, here and here.”

  Byron posed her so that she had a better grip of the weapon, moving her around like a doll. She couldn’t help but think about that morning when she’d seen all the hard body she was now pressed against so intimately. He smelled so good, and all she could think about was touching him when she should’ve been focused on the weapon in front of her. He was right. They could be running this very weapon through her country right now. If she was faced with one, what would she do? What could she do?

  “Want to try it out?” he asked, curling his finger over hers and around the trigger. “You can fire six hundred rounds a minute at fully automatic. Or you can set it to a three-round burst, or semiautomatic. Right here.” He showed her with his other hand.

  When Byron released her, she felt his absence acutely with a chill that was more than skin-deep.

  “Ready?”

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket, as did Byron’s. He scowled and leaned away from her to answer his own. “It must be important.”

  She answered. “Hello?” Damara could hear that Byron’s call had been linked to hers.

  It was Renner. “Approximately three hours ago, another ship like Circe’s Storm in the Mediterranean sent out a distress call. Satellite recon shows it was ‘escorted’ to Castallegna by armed ships that have been linked to other incidents of piracy. Vladimir Kulokav announced to investors today that they’ll be opening a shipping station in Castallegna as part of his new venture with his brother-in-law. The Council ratified your marriage to Grisha.”

  Damara knew her brother would be angry, she knew on a logical level that he’d do anything to get what he wanted, but it was still a knife in her heart.

  “Princess? Are you there?”

  She nodded until she realized he couldn’t see her. She would have to speak. She didn’t want all the things she felt to choke her voice; she didn’t want them to know just how much this hurt her. Even after everything, he was still her brother. “I’m here,” she managed in a small voice.

  Byron met her gaze, and she shied away from the knowing there. She suddenly understood why he didn’t want her to see when he was hurting—how weak and vulnerable she felt.

  “I never signed anything. I never agreed. The law says—” she began. Damara hated how she sounded.

  “Your brother changed the law. Two Council members who dared to oppose him were found dead this morning. Suicide, but we have proof that it wasn’t,” Renner offered.

  She narrowed her eyes. If he had proof of this, why hadn’t he done something about it? “Do you have people on Castallegna?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why don’t they manage my brother?” She regretted it as soon as she said it because Byron had offered to “manage” her brother several times and she’d declined.

  “The same as he doesn’t want to cause an international incident, neither do we. But Interpol and the State Department have linked him to Kulokav’s seedier ventures, like human trafficking, and they’re both now wanted men. Your brother is wanted in Monte Carlo for murder.”

  Damara felt as if she’d been punched. The hits just kept coming. Her brother, these things couldn’t all be him. They just couldn’t. Except she kept seeing the boy he’d been rather than the man who’d taken his place.

  “So what do you want me to do?” she asked, dreading whatever was to come.

  “We need to move up the wedding. You need to be a citizen of the United States. And you need to call your brother. We’ll record the conversation and use sound bites in the media campaign,” Renner instructed.

  She looked at Byron, and he nodded his approval to the plan. Of course, what else would he do? No, th
is had been the plan all along. It was a mission, a strategy.

  She’d let herself forget that.

  “Okay,” Damara agreed because there was nothing else to do.

  Byron tried to put his arm around her, but she declined the support. He’d told her that she had to depend on herself, to trust only herself, and that’s what she would do. She pushed away from him. She couldn’t let herself rely too much on the strength she derived from his touch because it wasn’t always going to be there.

  “I assume you’ve got someone waiting to patch me through?” she said.

  The line went dead for a moment before several clicks and ringing. The phone was like a brick in her hand, and her stomach rolled and twisted. She thought she was going to vomit, but instead she closed her eyes and breathed.

  “I’m surprised you called,” Abele said after the first ring.

  His voice made her stomach churn again. It made her homesick and heartsick. His voice was both familiar and warm but terrible, too.

  “Your actions asked me to call.” She didn’t know what else to say.

  “I asked you to marry Grisha Kulokav, and you didn’t do that.” His voice was low and silky, with an undertone that promised violence.

  Damara was sure she didn’t know the man speaking to her through the phone.

  “Marrying a man and picking up the phone are two different things, my brother.” She hoped to remind him that she was his sister and that at one time, he’d loved her.

  “Not so much. Both were for the good of my heart.”

  Liar, she wanted to scream. “I’m sorry if I’ve worried you, but I’m safe.”

  “Your husband will be looking for you.”

  “My husband is in the next room. Or didn’t you hear about the secret wedding?” She couldn’t resist needling him, driving home the fact that he didn’t get to choose who she married and that she wouldn’t let him do this to her or her country.