Chapter
Eight
Bexar-Wolfe Lodge, Northern Virginia
“Unbelievable! What’re you doing here?” He could kill her. And Cord. “I told him.” He thrust a finger at her. “Number one rule?—you stay in that room! If you can’t do that one simple thing, it’s time for you to leave. Now!”
Brooke slid into his path. “I invited her to have breakfast with Mom and me. The dining hall wasn’t safe?—”
“Her room is safe!” He’d waded into a rip-current of betrayal. Granted, nobody here knew what was going on with Brighton, but he wouldn’t let her use that to her benefit and destroy more of his life.
Recalling Cord’s warning that Horvath would be looking for her, he bit back a curse. Knew she shouldn’t be alone, so he’d have to escort her back. “Let’s go. I’ll take you?—”
“You will not!” His mother came up in all her five-two indignant glory. “She is my guest.”
Stone fisted his hands. Tightened his lips. While he’d told his mom about the scandal, she didn’t know the woman in her condo was the responsible party, so he needed to temper his rage. “Mom?—”
“I don’t care what bad blood exists here, but rudeness is not?—”
“You have no idea?—”
“What is wrong with you, Stone?” His mom scowled her disappointment. “How can??—”
“Please.” Voice soft, Brighton scooted around them. Man, she played that dejected card to the hilt. “It’s okay. I’m … I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have??—”
“That’s right!” Stone barked, turning straight into her. Towering over her. “You shouldn’t have. Do what you’re told.”
She snapped her chin down, but not before he saw shock and hurt in those caramel irises that had always turned his knees to putty. Quickly, she made for the door.
He glowered at his sister, then turned to follow Brighton. His arm caught and he jerked around.
Brooke’s age-old defiance flared. “I’ll go with??—”
“No.” He flipped her hold and drew her back. “She and I need to talk.”
“You’re being a bully. A mean, abusive bully, Stone! Stop??—”
“Leave it.”
“She’s traumatized.”
“Not near enough,” he hissed, hating himself for those words, but he wouldn’t take them back. He stalked across the foyer, seeing the way her short legs hurried her toward the room. She reached the door before he was halfway there and swiped the card. The access light flickered red. Struggling to swipe the card again, she shot him a frantic look.
What he saw hauled him back: Fear?—of him. It slowed Stone, told him to release the anger tightening his lungs. Then again, hadn’t she ruined enough of his life?
She tried again?—dropped the keycard and whimpered.
Forcing himself to calm down, Stone reached her as she retrieved it.
“It’s not working.” Her voice shook as she shuffled back a step but kept swiping the card. She was so stressed she nearly dropped it again.
He put a hand over hers.
She froze.
So did he. The touch was a mistake. Reminded him of how small she was compared to him. How she had fit in his arms. Felt against him. The softness of her murmurs and kisses.
Step off, Metcalfe.
