Get You Back: Part One: Revenge Read online

  "This is so not a good idea." Annabelle blocked the door. "That's all ancient history. Why do you want to go stirring things up?"

  I reminded myself that Annabelle was only ten when everything went down. She didn't feel the same anger I did. "No stirring. If it helps, think of it as a trip to congratulate Lauren on her engagement."

  "Lauren's engaged? I'm not surprised. She was always so pretty," Annabelle said wistfully. Two years younger than Lauren, my sister used to trail after her like a baby duckling. Drove me crazy.

  "Bull. She had braces and knobby knees. You're twice as beautiful as she is. Now get out of my way." I tried to sidestep her, but she was too quick for me.

  "I'm coming with you. I'll keep you from doing anything too stupid."

  "Good idea," Elijah agreed. "I'll come too. Safety in numbers. You can't trust those women."

  "No one's coming with me. Someone has to be here in case Ben needs something. And what about your patients, Annabelle?" Annabelle took care of the more elderly of Ben's horses.

  "There are enough ranch hands out there right now." She pulled off her riding jacket. "I'll just go change."

  "Not a chance, kiddo. I'm doing this alone. It's a reconnaissance mission. If I need you guys, I'll let you know. I just want to sneak in, find out what they're up to, see if there's anything that needs to be done, and come home. I don't need reinforcements."

  Annabelle didn't seem to be listening, so I hauled her over my shoulder and spun around so I could plop her in the living room, out of my way.

  "Rye! That's so not cool." Already she was scrambling to her feet, so I booked it toward the door.

  "Sorry. Yell at me when I get back. Won't be long. I'll be in touch, I swear. Elijah, get the fuck out of my way."

  Seeing that I meant business, Elijah gave me space to make my escape. "Think this through, Rye. Don't let your temper make a mess of this."

  "I don't have a temper."

  Elijah's snort followed me out the door. I threw my duffel in the crew cab of my truck and tore off down the street as if the devil was after me.

  Fine, on occasion I had a temper. Correction. On occasion I lost my temper. Generally I kept it tightly under wraps, where it couldn't get me into trouble. But there were certain moments that had become local legends. Couple of bar fights. Trips to the emergency room. Mostly they happened when someone posed a threat to a McAllister or a Parker.

  When someone did harm to my family, I turned into a bulldog. My father had always warned me about my temper, but how else was I supposed to protect the family? I wasn't the strongest or the quickest or the biggest. But I was always the most tenacious. It was the McAllister way.

  I was the same way on Ben's ranch. Give me a job, and I wouldn't fucking quit until it was done. Investments, same thing. I lost money until I got it right. In bed with a woman—yeah, same thing. I didn't give up until she was a boneless mass of pure satisfied female.

  And now I was one hundred percent focused on one goal.

  The Blakewell women had no idea what was coming their way on the next flight out of Houston. No idea.

  2

  Lauren

  Some nights, my job wasn't worth the money. In fact, I'd say that was true every night. But political parties were the worst, even when they were being held at the Smithsonian and attended by every power player in the Metro DC area. Before we came to Washington, I thought it would be the peak of glamour to shake hands with the Secretary of State while wearing a black sheath and pearls. But the reality was that my shoes hurt and my panties kept crawling up my butt, and the few hits of weed I'd had earlier weren't nearly enough.

  Isn't it funny how five hundred dollar Manolos can pinch just as much as a Payless special? And don't even get me started on whoever invented thongs. I'm sure it was a man. I wonder how he'd like to have a string of itchy lace wrapped around his dick.

  I shoved my totally inappropriate thoughts aside and focused on the older lady with the sapphire earrings who was talking to me. But my thoughts kept drifting. Maybe that joint had been stronger than I realized. Who were these people? Were they even real? No one's smile looked real. No one's face looked real. No one ever showed their actual thoughts or emotions. I should be used to it, right?

  After all, I was an expert at exactly that sort of behavior. I'd been trained by the master, or at least the mistress. But that didn't mean I liked it.

  The woman was still talking. I noticed a speck of plum lipstick clinging to a hair above her upper lip. It was hypnotic, the way it moved up and down. Like a follow-the-dot song on a karaoke machine. I bit the inside of my lip to hold back any inappropriate burst of laughter.

  "…don't you agree, dear?" The woman paused, looking at me expectantly.

  My turn to talk. And I had no idea what we were talking about.

  "That makes perfect sense to me." I smiled falsely. All my smiles were false. All my utterances were false. I was a pillar of falseness poured into a Chanel dress.

  I felt Brian shift next to me. I smiled prettily at the older woman and turned to my fiancé. He gave me a brotherly little side-hug that brought me against his pudgy ribs. "What did I just agree to?" I asked out of the corner of my mouth.

  "Shenanigans," he whispered back. He addressed the woman, who I now remembered was one of his great-aunts, or second cousins, or something. Brian was related to half the Republican elite. "You'll have to clear it with my mother," he told her. "She's taken charge of everything wedding-related. It's a good thing I have the most loving and accepting fiancée on the Eastern Seaboard."

  Of course I was "accepting." Because none of it mattered.

  I stroked his forearm, putting a little sizzle in my smile. "I did draw the line at a family honeymoon, darling. I have my limits."

  He beamed at me as if he couldn't wait to ravish me in that mythical honeymoon suite in Santa Lucia. We both knew how to play our parts. Politics, I'd learned, was the ultimate con game.

  The aunt/cousin looked a bit flushed. "Well … I'll discuss it with Blair, then."

  "Perfect." Brian kept his arm around me until she left. "T minus thirty," he muttered under his breath.

  "Thirty minutes or thirty years? Because right now they feel about the same."

  He giggled. Yes, giggled. Why everyone in this chandelier-spangled room didn't realize Brian was gay -- that mystified me. "I'm going to miss your sense of humor, Lauren. Do you think we can stay friends?"

  "Depends. Take it up with the script-writers." Someone was stage-managing this farce, but it wasn't me.

  "I mean personal friends. Under the radar. Catch up now and then on the phone."

  "Sure. Facebook, that sort of thing. I'd like that." No need to break it to Brian that I intended to disappear when I was done with this job. Facebook profile and all. Brian was a good guy and I wished him well. Spending so much time with him was no hardship, even though most of the time I wished myself a million miles away. "What's the time now?"

  "T minus twenty. See? We'll be out of here before you know it."

  I thought longingly of the condo where Bliss and I had lived for the past three years. I wanted to snuggle under my pink comforter, turn on my flat-screen, and stream Netflix until I passed out. My feet ached in these stupid high heels and my face was screaming to be released from its smiling duties. The bacon-wrapped shrimp I'd sampled earlier had not agreed with me. My stomach was roiling with the need to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  My stoned brain brought up the image of the grungy motel room in Chicago where we'd been living when Bliss first met Ian McAllister at a bar. Would I rather be there? With the moldy black grout between the shower tiles? The thud of a headboard against our wall, courtesy of the prostitute next door?

  Maybe I would. It was more honest. Bliss and I had lived everywhere on the spectrum, from dump to mansion. I liked luxury as much as the next girl, and I was thrilled when she married Ian McAllister. For ten months of my life, I had a normal-ish existence. For the first time, I
had a home that was an actual house. With an actual family. Brothers. A sister. Stuffed animals, for heaven's sake. A lion, to be exact. Gifted to me by Rye, who tossed it to me after Annabelle scoffed at the idea of a stuffed Aslan. I didn't care if I was an afterthought. Rye gave it to me.

  Rye of the tempestuous eyes and restless body. Always moving. Always laughing. Always a magnet for my attention. You'd laugh at how much I cuddled that golden lion. It might as well have been a lock of Rye's hair. Me and my silly crush. Mortifying.

  I shivered, longing for another puff of oblivion, AKA weed. Why was I thinking about that time? It was bad for my morale. When those memories disturbed my thoughts, it was hard to keep the Mona Lisa smile pinned to my face. Maybe that's why I'd started secretly smoking more.

  If Bliss knew, she'd be furious. These days, I was the one at center stage, not her. I needed a clear head to play my part. I couldn't afford to be distracted. Not when I was so close to getting out. One more job and I was done. That was our deal.

  I put all my energy into my next smile and angled my head toward Brian in the classic "Entranced Fiancée" pose—Expression #41.

  And froze.

  A man stood stock still on the other side of the Smithsonian's ballroom. I blinked, just in case my drifting thoughts were causing this hallucination. He was just so … different. Everyone else in the room was wrapped up in some kind of conversation. This man alone was silent. Still. Oblivious to everything around him. Staring straight at me.

  With silver eyes.

  Transfixed, I stared back. Everything about him stood out. He was the only man in the ballroom not wearing any form of tuxedo or business suit, unless his business required a beat-up old black leather duster. I was surprised they let him in, except who would dare to stop him? He exuded a menacing, masculine, dominant aura. Tall and strong and merciless. And he hadn't looked away from me once.

  He started walking toward me. With purpose. His intensity terrified me. Something about him looked familiar, but I couldn't pin it down. All I knew was that this dominating man had me in his sights and I was in trouble. My flight-or-fight response kicked in and I wheeled around to run.

  I slammed into a waiter passing by with a tray of champagne glasses. It teetered precariously as I watched in horror. Just what I needed. More attention. I had to get out before disaster struck.

  Brian grabbed me. "You okay, honey?"

  "No." I struggled against his hold. "I have to get out of here."

  "All right, all right. We just have to say goodbye to the hosts."

  "Can you do it?" I whispered desperately. "I really need to run to the bathroom. It's a … personal thing."

  Right away he let go of me. I knew he had no interest in thinking about any of my private functions. I hurried past the waiter, who gave me a dirty look. "I'm so sorry," I told him. I gave a quick look over my shoulder but didn't see my tall pursuer.

  Who was he? The knowledge was right there, at the edge of my consciousness, and if I could just get my head to clear…

  I found an exit door and slipped through it. Right away the sounds of the party got muffled. All that chatter, all that roaring and deal-making and maneuvering and gossip, was finally reduced to a hush. Thank God.

  I leaned against the wall, soaking in the solitude. In the quiet, red-carpeted hallway, my hallucination seemed absurd. Why would some tough, leather-wearing cowboy show up at a Republican fundraising event? Even if he did, why would he come after me?

  Even stranger, the mystery man looked eerily like Rye McAllister. But Rye lived in Chicago and wouldn't wear cowboy boots and black leather. He wouldn't be staring at me with steel vengeance in his eyes.

  Or maybe he would.

  "You fool," I whispered. "That wasn't him. It couldn't be."

  I took a deep, shaky breath and vowed never to smoke weed again.

  "Lauren Blakewell."

  I jumped about two feet in the air and spun around, landing like a confused cat. The voice was deep, very male, and filled with scorn. Rye used to address me in exactly that same tone of voice when I first knew him. Later, we'd become friends of sorts.

  But he certainly didn't sound like a friend now. And he wasn't looking at me like a friend.

  Alarm bells rang all over the place. Danger, danger. Drawing on every ounce of my training and experience, I tilted my head and assumed Expression #24— – "Adorably Perplexed."

  "Do I know you?" I asked him coolly.

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. My bravado was working.

  "Define 'know'," he said grimly.

  I offered him a vague half-smile while I came up with a response. While pretending not to stare, I surreptitiously gathered every bit of visual information I could. Rye McAllister had grown up into someone I didn't recognize. He was like TNT packed into muscle form. His nose was a lot bumpier than it used to. He looked like he didn't mind using his fists, or any other part of his body, to get what he wanted. Fierce. Off-the-charts intense. And sexy … oh my God, my knees were already jelly.

  But I couldn't let him see that. Play the part. You know what to do.

  I narrowed my eyes as if searching my memory. Tilted my head the other direction. "Rye? Rye McAllister?"

  Yeah, I didn't fool him for a second. "Lauren Blakewell. Gallatin. Clayton. Will you just put all those last names together? Or are there others?"

  I ignored his jabs. I recognized an opening maneuver when I saw one. I just didn't know what he wanted. "What an interesting coincidence that I should see you here. Do you live nearby? Funny we haven't run into each other before now."

  "I live in Houston."

  I swallowed hard. This was not a random chance meeting then. Not good. Houston? Why did he live in Houston? What did he do there? My mind raced with questions I wanted to ask. How was Annabelle? Elijah? I knew Ian had died, but I'd completely lost track of the others. But I couldn't ask any of those things before I knew what was going on. I settled for something safe. "You're far from home."

  "Yes, and I'm anxious to get back, but I'm sure this won't take long."

  What wouldn't take long? What was he here for? Why had he followed me out of the party?

  "Well, it sounds like you have urgent business to attend to. I won't keep you." I gave him a polite nod and skirted around him toward the door. The ballroom suddenly seemed like a much safer choice than this empty hallway. The space practically throbbed with testosterone, all emanating from this one volcanic male.

  "Don't touch that door," he said quietly. "I'm not done with you yet."

  I froze. How dare he order me around? But there was a note in his voice—a kind of command—that touched me somewhere deep. I couldn't resist it. With my hand hovering close to the door handle, but not touching it, I raised my chin and shot him a scornful glance. "What do you want, Rye?"

  I expected to catch him looking smug because I'd obeyed him. But he didn't. Almost as if it went without saying that I would do as he said. Instead, he looked even more grim and forbidding.

  "You know, I wasn't sure what I would want until I saw you. I decided to play it the way it came to me. I didn't expect you to be so …" His jaw tightened, and he looked away from me. As if he couldn't stand the sight of me. "When I saw you on the news, I couldn't think straight. I couldn't believe you were here. Engaged. Like nothing ever happened."

  "I can't imagine how my engagement could mean anything to you. Are you looking for a wedding invitation? Well, I suppose we're family, in a way."

  That last bit slipped out. And boy, was it a mistake. Rye's eyes went storm-gray, and the next thing I knew, his hands were on my upper arms.

  At his touch, a full-body shudder swept through me. I couldn't hide it. I couldn't stop it. All I could do was react to the fire searing through me.

  I'd never felt anything like the electric current of energy flowing between us. He felt it too. His hands tightened, his eyes drilled into me. My thoughts skittered like little mice running from a tomcat. I took in every detail of his face�
��familiar yet so different. Where had he gotten that cut near his right eye? Who'd broken his nose?

  The small distance between us evaporated. I'm not sure who moved first, or how my body came to be pressed against his. I knew better, or at least my brain did. But my body was driving this train, not my common sense.

  The places where we were touching—--chest, thighs, stomach, hips—sizzled like lightning. I clung to the worn black leather of his jacket. I inhaled the scent of him, and it was surreal. I recognized the teenage Rye—fresh laundry, hint of sweat—from the times I'd bumped into him during games of tag or badminton or Ping-Pong. But now I also smelled black leather, travel dust, maybe a whiff of diesel. Had he driven a truck to get here? Ridden a horse?

  I had to get a grip. I scrambled for words that would give me back the upper hand. "I never thought you'd end up a cowboy. I hope that silver spoon up your ass doesn't get in the way."

  Tension radiated through the muscles under my hands, under all that leather. "I hope that heart of ice doesn't get in your way."

  Heart of ice? If only he knew …

  "You came, you saw, you insulted. Are we done here?" I moved to draw away, but I couldn't with those bands of iron clamped onto my arms.

  "Not even close." With a growl, he bent his head and crushed his mouth against mine.

  My mind went absolutely blank. My breath literally seemed to stop. My legs tried to collapse under me. His tongue owned me. Owned my mouth, owned my lips, which parted helplessly, greedily. The press of his teeth on the tender flesh of my lower lip made me moan. I was absolutely on fire. It was the roughest kiss I'd ever experienced and I loved it.

  "Fuck." He groaned from deep within his chest. We stared at each other, both of us shocked, panting, as if we'd suddenly stumbled at the edge of a cliff. "Fuck," he said again.

  Interesting how many ways the word "fuck" can be interpreted. The first "fuck" meant "what the hell." That second "fuck"—that one meant the moment was over.