JACE (Lane Brothers Book 3) Read online

  “You don’t, I suppose. You’ll just have to trust me, little Trace. You tell me where she is and I’ll leave your friend somewhere you can get her. Scout’s promise.”

  Trace looks ready to start cussing and I squeeze her thigh in warning, letting her know that it’s okay. Antagonizing this prick is not a good idea right now.

  We need to get Paulette out safely and then we can worry about the repercussions and keeping Lynn locked away.

  “She’s a resident of the Briarview Mental Hospital in Austin, Texas. Now tell me where to get Paulie, asshole,” she hisses into the phone, her eyes closing in relief when a text comes through with an address.

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Tracy. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  The line dies with a click and I’m not even halfway up and off the sofa before Jared sprints out of the room, Miah and Wyatt hot on his heels.

  We all hit the drive and dive in after Jared, just barely avoiding being run over when the idiot just starts the engine and puts his foot flat before we’re even in the damned car.

  “Jace!”

  I look back as Trace comes flying out the door and wave with regret, knowing that she’s likely to be pissed that she’s being left behind.

  “Jared.”

  “Not yet, Jace. Just let me get my girl first. Just let me get my girl.”

  Epilogue

  Jared

  The worst part about knowing that I love Paulette Hayes is the knowledge that the woman I love is a traitor and a liar to boot. I’m going after her after hearing her pain over that phone line because I have no other choice here, but that doesn’t mean I’ve fallen for anyone’s shit.

  My brothers think I’m too fucked right now to know the signs and put two and two together, but I’m not. No matter how unsettled I am by the thought of Paulie being hurt and in danger, even I know that the narc must have been Roman.

  Yeah, Roman. My cousin. My brother. A piece of my soul that now feels as if it’s been ripped to shreds and left by the wayside.

  He’s the only other person who knew about Lynn, so I’m more than positive the guy has gone rogue and joined the enemy.

  For that, I’d beat the shit out of him and make him suffer.

  For knowing and being involved in whatever they did to Paulie, I might just kill him with my bare hands.

  Sure, I believe she’s one of them and I’m pissed and hurt, but that does not mean I am down with anyone hurting her so bad that I felt her pain over that phone line.

  I’m going to go get my girl and make sure she’s okay before I punish her for this betrayal. And then I’ll lock her to my side and make her regret ever leaving me for those murderous traitors.

  I’m not one to love easily, but once I do it doesn’t just quit. I love Paulie Hayes, and traitor or not, she’s my woman and I’m keeping her. It’s up to her to see the error of her ways and make it up to me. And make it up she will.

  If she’s still alive.

  ***

  Paulie

  I think I must be dying as they stop the van with a screech of tires, grab me by the arms and legs, and start swinging me like a sack of potatoes. When I have enough momentum they let me go. For the briefest, most glorious second, I’m floating and not cognisant of the pain screaming through every fiber of my being.

  I’m bruised and hurt almost everywhere on my body after days of hits and kicks and punches so hard, I felt as if one more might kill me on the spot.

  That airborne feeling stops abruptly when I hit the pavement with a thud and my body starts creaming in protest. The screams are silent since I can’t make a sound past the low grunts that scrape up my raw, bloody throat and whistle past my bleeding, split lips.

  After that phone call they were trying to get me to make—hence the state of my broken body since I refused till they gave me no choice—they hit me so hard that I screamed my throat raw and bleeding.

  That’s not the problem I have, though, and certainly not why I’m praying for death even though I should be glad right now. I’m afraid and hurting right now because I know deep in my heart that Jared Lane is coming for me and I don’t want him to.

  He can’t. I don’t want him to see me and look at me like I’m a traitor, because the truth is that I am a traitor and a liar and a fucking cheat and I deserve his scorn and whatever he throws at me.

  I deserve that and worse after what I’ve done to the man I love and the rest of the Lane family. Well, the good side, at least.

  Right now I would give just about anything to have a redo, because I would never have allowed myself to do the things I’ve done and lied that way if not to save myself.

  I had a choice, but I made the wrong one, and now I’m lying in a dirty alley in the middle of New Orleans—bloody, broken, and possibly half dead, and all I can think about as my head starts pounding and I feel the weakness that has been trying to overcome me for hours, is that I would rather die here in this alley right now than see one minute of hurt and disappointment on Jared’s face.

  I guess the Lord must finally be listening to me, because a minute after that prayer I feel something deep inside me swell and pop with a burst of pain, and then I’m floating into space, only half conscious when I hear the squealing tires and the sound of pounding feet.

  I feel nothing at all when a set of arms lifts me and I hear yelling and cursing.

  All I feel right now is peace and the sure certainty that I’m dying and I won’t ever have to deal with the fear and pain ever again.

  My only regret would be never having told Jared Lane that he’s the first and only man I ever loved.

  The light I see at the end of the tunnel is creeping closer, and the voices shouting around me are growing dimmer by the second.

  I should probably try to fight so I can give Jared his message, but right now, as all the pain disappears and all I feel is peace, I can’t find the will to care.

  ~~~

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  RED LOVE

  Chapter One

  The Metropolitan Museum of Art is my favorite place in the world, hands down. I love everything about it, from the steps at the entrance to the crowds of people vying to see the art.

  I visit at least once a month without fail and never cease to be spellbound by everything all over again, nevermind how many times I’ve been. My favorite painting is Monet’s Sunflowers.

  It’s the happiest painting I’ve ever seen, or at least, it makes me happy every time I see it.

  My college professor despaired of my one-dimensional view of art the whole time he’d been cursed with me and my uninspired ass. He said my interpretation of art is skewed, flat, and altogether too happy when faced with a world of possibilities.

  All I know is that I love creating something that is happy and colorful, something that brings joy to those who see it. And I love flowers.

  Sue me.

  It’s as I’m leaving that I make the quick decision to pop into the gift store, even though I know I won’t find the print I’ve been looking for. Every time I come here I’m disappointed. I never get my print of the Sunflowers.

  Last year Mom had bought me a tote of the Water Lilies for Christmas. I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s not what I wanted, so I’d aaahhhed and held it aloft and then gone home and hung it from a hook to store extra brush rags.

  “It’s a beauty, this one,” I hear from somewhere to my left.

  I look back over my shoulder to see a man and what looks like Heidi Klum’s twin sister cooing about a dark blob that’s masquerading as art but is actually a one-way trip to depression. The guy is�
�hotter than hell, with black hair and a set of lips that make me wish I’d brought my sketchpad and pencils.

  I no longer do that after the last time I’d lost track of time and been asked to leave at closing time. But, and I hate to say this, with the super love I have for landscapes, I want to do something with this man that will dominate the canvas.

  Something about him is just so…

  “Oh, Vincent, I just love all this angst. To see and feel what the artist must have been feeling is so inspiring.”

  I hear the overwrought tittering and grind my teeth against the need to tell the airhead that no matter what people think, they can never know what the artist was thinking.

  I ignore the gushing and go back to my monthly fix, going over every minute detail, every brushstroke, every shadow and shade until I can go home and try my hand at it again. Here’s the print I’ve been searching for, and yet, it’s so pale in comparison.

  “This one is my favorite, but I like The Artist’s Garden at Giverny too,” says a crisply accented voice.

  British. How delicious.

  I know who is standing behind me, and I freeze, feeling my breath stall as shivers and goose bumps break out all over my skin. He’s standing so close I smell his citrusy cologne and feel the heat of his breath at my nape.

  “I…I prefer these stronger colors, but that one’s excellent too. It’s beautiful.”

  It comes out a choked whisper, and I feel myself blush and tense when he leans to my left and peers down at me.

  “You’ve been staring at it for over an hour before coming into the gift store. See something the rest of us don’t?”

  His breath whispers over my ear and cheek, and it’s all I can do not to lean back into him and experience the tightly muscled chest visible beneath his suit jacket and shirt.

  “I-I keep trying to paint it just so…but I can never commit it to memory enough to… The colors are never right.”

  “That’s the problem with true art. One of a kind originals can never be faked exactly. Nor true beauty.”

  His husky whisper has me turning against my will, and I gasp when a set of mint green eyes captures mine. I can say I have seen true beauty in every art form, but I have honestly never seen a man this intensely handsome before.

  I won’t be obsessively painting the Sunflowers when I go home. Oh, no, it’s this perfect creature that will consume me until the wee hours of the morning, and I know exactly how I’ll capture him on my canvas.

  “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Or so they say.”

  His lips curve, and I spy a single dimple gracing his right cheek.

  “Then let me say how truly honored I am to behold you.”

  “Oh God, does that work on every woman you try to pick up, or am I just lucky?” I ask, laughing at the cheesiness of the line.

  His answering chuckle makes me smile harder before the art lover wannabe sidles up and latches onto him like poison ivy.

  “Vincent, you said you’d help me pick out a good souvenir for Mummy.”

  I pull myself back from the brink of flirtation and open staring when I realize they truly are together—and, unbelievably, I’d forgotten that fact—and make an ass of myself when a postcard rack behind me gives way and I’m dumped to the floor in an inglorious heap of flailing arms and flying cards.

  I am possibly the biggest klutz on earth, and now I’ve managed to make a tool of myself in front of the first man to ring my bell. Great.

  “Good gracious! I can see your pants.”

  As I’m not wearing pants and am in fact clothed in a really nice cherry red gypsy skirt, I know exactly what they’re all seeing, and I groan through a blush that fits my attire.

  The only upside to this day?

  I’ll never have to see Vincent, my new obsession, ever again.

  Chapter Two

  “Jesus, you should see the man candy out there, Sissy! Eric is so lucky I love him.”

  I smile up at Bee, my best friend and roommate, as she comes sailing into the truly fabulous kitchen and reloads her tray. We both work for Angie’s Angels, a high end service that caters parties for the hoi polloi of New York society.

  Bee waitresses while I do my thing making the plates and appetizers look like artwork. It’s nowhere near what I want from life, but it pays decently and I get to eat on the job, which means I save as much as I make.

  Tonight’s shindig is a small dinner for a select group of contributors to the arts, hence Angie’s willingness to pay me top dollar if I can create actual art with the food.

  So far I’ve gotten through entrees—onion soup with a truly gruesome drawing of The Scream in red food coloring. I hate expressionist art, but I get paid to be this brilliant. And thank God the soup is a cold course, because I’m good, but twenty of those were murder.

  Mains had been a little more bearable because all it had required was a little rendition of Van Gogh’s Irises beside the salad—easier with the lettuce, but those blooms were a bitch to recreate.

  Now I’m on dessert, and I have to admit I am a superstar. Who knew food could really be considered art? This dessert is a cheesecake—divine—sitting in the middle of any painting of my choice.

  Of course I choose my eternal favorite and go Sunflowers on them. What? I am obsessed with that painting.

  “Just make sure—”

  “Yeah, yeah. We can’t let the cakes move or they’ll ruin the sauce and your precious art. We got this, Sis, just relax your poor arm and chill already. Your work here is done.”

  I start tidying my workspace and chat with the chef, Jim, and his assistant while the staff serves dessert.

  “That was fantastic, Sis. When I open my own restaurant you are so invited to be my food artist,” Jim booms, whipping his bandana off as he bows.

  We laugh because this is the millionth time he’s tried to cajole me into going into business with him. Sure, I like the work, and the money would be great, but…

  “You know my true love will always be the canvas, Jimmy boy.”

  “Fine, then at least agree to a date. You’re leaving me too disappointed here, kid.”

  I snort and narrow my eyes at the Viking, taking in his blonde, blue eyed good looks. He’s a hottie, no doubt about it, but James Harlow is way too free with his affections for my taste, and he knows it.

  “I’ll agree to a date when you stop dating three women at the same time, player. Anyway, you’d so fall in love with me and break the hearts of women all over the globe. I’d feel terrible depriving all those future one night stands of your…talent.”

  We tease and insult each other constantly as we clean up and start loading the van.

  “One date and a night in my bed is all you’ll need to fall in love with me, Sis.” He laughs, nudging me away from the dishwasher. “Come on and give me a shot. I guarantee I’ll do more than go for goal. We could even hit double over time.”

  “In your dreams,” I snort. “And stop using my love of hockey against me,” I chortle, snapping the dishcloth at his butt.

  He retaliates by twirling me into his arms and dipping me, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously when his lips stop a breath away from mine, and he winks.

  “One of these days I’m gonna wear you down, kid.”

  “Hopefully not today, and certainly not in my kitchen.”

  Jim whips me back up and lets go of me with such speed I lose my footing and crash into the counter, slamming my hip into the marble so hard I gasp and go crashing to the floor.

  Oh, ouchie.

  “Christ!”

  When my vision clears I look up, expecting the hands running all over my body to be those of Jim. They aren’t.

  “Not you,” I moan, struggling to sit as lances of pain shoot through my bruised hip.

  My would-be rescuer stops glaring at Jim and stares down at me with a sardonic lift of his brows. Those eyes, the exact color of mint leaves, pull me back in, and I still, just staring as he runs gentle hands over my hips, searchin
g for injury.

  I can’t look away, even though I know my staring is rude and I should be embarrassed. I’ve spent hours since that day last week trying to get him onto canvas. There are four in total at the moment that are destined either for the trash or my bedroom wall if I can’t—

  “Your eyes. They change color,” I breathe reverently. “That’s why I couldn’t get it right.”

  He starts as if a live wire has sparked through him and frowns before rising and offering me his hand.

  “Next time you take it into your head to dip a woman, try not throwing her at the goddamned floor. Miss Bennet, a moment of your time, if you please.”

  He walks out of the kitchen without a backward glance, and I shuffle to the door, looking back at Jim with a grimace.

  “Sorry, kid.”

  “It’s okay…wish me luck,” I mutter, exiting the kitchen into a long hallway.

  “This way.”

  I turn to my left and see him—Vincent, I think his name is—waiting three doors down, his back as stiff as his expression.

  “Well, come along, Miss Bennet, I don’t have all bloody night,” he barks, spurring me into a run.

  He steps back when I pass, avoiding any body contact, and I blush angrily. Suffice it to say I haven’t exactly been the picture of feminine grace around the guy, but he doesn’t need to act as if I’ve got the freaking plague.

  He closes the door and marches to his desk—we’re in a huge, book-lined study that reminds me of those Victorian movies my sister likes to watch—and leans his hip onto the corner.

  I feel gauche and ill at ease as he just sits there, staring, picking me apart with those penetrating eyes.

  “That was your work tonight?”

  Oh God, is it rational to be this turned on by the guy’s upper crust English accent? I wonder, swallowing nervously as I nod my head. A million thoughts flood my mind as I take in the hard tilt to his lips and the slight flaring of his nostrils. Maybe he didn’t like my interpretation or the colors I’d used? It’s wicked hard to get the exact shades I was looking for when working with simple coloring and syrup—