Deny Me (Southern Nights Enigma Book 4) Read online

  “She never has to know. Just go out and check on Becky, see what you can find. That’s what you do, right?”

  “Wes…”

  “King.” Wes leaned forward, his intensity pinning King to his seat. “I haven’t asked anything of you, ever. I supported you even when your parents cut you off. I gave you the distance you obviously wanted. But I’m asking you now, please, help me keep her safe. Just…ask some questions. Investigate. If you say there’s nothing there, well then…” He spread his hands. “You’re the only person I know to ask. The only person I know who can do this.”

  The desperation in his cousin’s face couldn’t be ignored. Wes needed him—to protect Charlotte, the woman he’d walked away from a decade ago. The woman Wes obviously had strong feelings for, maybe even loved.

  Did Charlotte return those feelings?

  He refused to think about that. What mattered was her safety and Wes’s request, not his own feelings. Feelings he shouldn’t have.

  Finally he nodded. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll go out and check on things. Give me the address.”

  Wes slumped, his relief palpable. “I appreciate it.”

  “Let me talk to my team lead and I’ll head out. I’ll call you when I’m through.” King rounded the desk to pull Wes into a hug, holding him a bit longer than he normally would, savoring the contact with his own flesh and blood. “I missed you, man.” And he had, more than he’d realized.

  Wes drew back slowly, giving him a worry-tinged smile. “You too.”

  Chapter Four

  Of course Saint insisted on going along. King could feel the man’s stare boring into him from the passenger seat. The bastard was going to open his mouth here in a minute, and King was going to feed him his fist. Being with his team had taught him to tap into the primal instincts “proper” young men weren’t supposed to have, according to his parents. Thank God he’d escaped them years ago.

  Saint probably wouldn’t agree when King’s punch connected to his mouth.

  “So…who is this girl, now?”

  He tensed, ready to strike.

  A car accident is why you’re here. Do you really want to cause another one?

  Damn it. His inner Jiminy Cricket was right.

  “Becky’s a friend of a friend,” he ground out, deliberately misunderstanding the question.

  Saint’s chuckle was the one he used when he knew he was being played—it sounded amused, but it was really more like a signal that the bloodhound was coming out. “Not the girl we’re going to see. The one that’s got you twisted up in knots.”

  “No knots, dickwad.” None he’d admit to, anyway.

  Which explained why his gut felt like he needed an entire bottle of Tums.

  “You know that won’t play with me, right?”

  It wouldn’t. If King was lucky, he’d be able to hold Saint off for a little while. It was the best he could hope for.

  Luckily they came to the turnoff for the trailer park before King could reply.

  The broken post and falling letters on the sign out front said the place had seen better days. A few of the lots were well-groomed, with potted plants and neat patios, while some looked like they’d been abandoned ten years ago. King drove to an empty lot near the back and parked before the drive curved to the left. Both men got out.

  “What kind of truck did you say was involved?” Saint asked, his gaze fixed on something to his right. King glanced that way and cursed.

  “A rusted-out Chevy,” he said as he rounded the car. Shoved into the woods at the edge of the trailer park was just such a truck. With a quick look around to be sure they weren’t being watched, he followed as his friend approached the driver’s side of the vehicle.

  An early ’90s model, it looked like. This Chevy had definitely seen better days, right down to the bald tires. And at the front, where the hood had been rammed into the underbrush, King could see crumpling and scrapes to the front edge.

  The red streaks of paint against the truck’s original, badly faded black made his chest hurt.

  “Guess that answers one question,” Saint said. He slid a hand beneath the brush along the truck’s nose. “No grill. Is this the truck your girlfriend described?”

  That word—girlfriend—hit him like an arrow between the eyes. At one time he’d called Charlotte more than his girlfriend; she’d been his everything. A hard growl left him before he realized it was coming. “Don’t call her that,” he barked. “Quit dicking around and do your job.”

  Which wasn’t fair. Saint wasn’t on a job; he was doing King a favor. And he had no way of knowing how much the topic of Charlotte scraped him raw.

  “Come on, man. You gotta admit no one’s made you this touchy in a long time. You been hiding your girl—”

  Before Saint could get the full word out, King had him slammed against the truck, his arm a hard bar across his friend’s throat. “Don’t. Call. Her. That.”

  “Whoa,” Saint croaked. He spread his hands wide, surrendering. “Chill, brother. I got it. The girl’s off-limits.”

  “Way off-limits.” To Saint and to him, because if he was reading the signs right, Wes was the one with the right to call Charlotte girlfriend.

  And that didn’t bother him at all. Really.

  “You gonna let me go or choke me out?”

  He hadn’t even realized he was leaning into Saint, the arm still across his friend’s neck pressing harder. He jerked back. “Fuck.”

  Saint rubbed at his windpipe. “Ditto.”

  King scrubbed a hand down his face. He’d just confirmed that every word out of his mouth had been a lie, hadn’t he? His sharp glance warned Saint to keep his mouth shut about it.

  Saint’s lopsided grin offered no promises.

  Perfect. Just what he needed. Catholics knew how to lay on the guilt, and that cross hanging around Saint’s neck wasn’t just for show. The man would be laying it on thick soon.

  At least King could delay it for a little while. He walked toward the tailgate to take a photo of the truck’s license plate.

  Saint snapped some images of the front of the vehicle, at least the parts that were visible. “Want me to call it in?”

  The return to business allowed him to take a breath. They were in a different part of Atlanta than Blossomwood, physically as well as economically. Not only would they have to deal with interdepartmental bullshit, but any answers they could get from the cops would be delayed days, if not weeks or months. That wouldn’t keep Charlotte or her client safe. “Let’s check out the trailer first.”

  Saint nodded, his steps falling easily in line with King’s as they followed the curve in the road. Three trailers up on the right side sat number 14, the address Wes had given him. No plants or grooming here. The concrete pad in front was a scarred, dirty mess; the stairs going up to the front door looked like a huff and puff from the big bad wolf would blow them right down. Blacked-out windows left no way to see inside.

  As natural as breathing, King took up position to one side of the front entry while Saint scouted the back. When his friend returned with a sharp shake of his head, King narrowed his eyes on the door, settled a hand on his chest within easy reach of the holster just beneath his coat, and started up the stairs.

  The top half of the screen door was glass, the bottom empty where an actual screen should have been. Sitting jaggedly, the door banged hard against its frame when he knocked. The sound ricocheted in the emptiness of the park.

  No answer. The motorcycle Wes said Charlotte had described wasn’t here, but that didn’t mean Richard Jones wasn’t. King knocked again.

  “Bro,” Saint said behind him. A glance over his shoulder caught his friend nodding toward a nearby window. “Movement.”

  The father or daughter? No way to tell given the state of the windows.

  “Richard Jones,” King barked, using his best cop voice, “come out now! Hands up! Don’t make us come in there!”

  It was a bluff—they had no authority to go
inside, and not enough cause to justify it even if they did. But if it got him what he needed, King would chance it.

  The sound of creaking behind the door tensed his muscles—footsteps. He backed down the stairs and slid his hand inside his jacket to rest on the butt of his gun. “You heard me, Jones. Out! Now!”

  More creaking, then, “Please go away.”

  The words barely reached his ears through the barrier of the door. A female voice. Becky?

  Was she alone?

  He glanced at Saint. Caution darkened his teammate’s face.

  “Jones, open the door!”

  “Please, just leave!” The female again, stronger this time. Strong enough that he could hear the tears in her voice. “Leave me alone!”

  Me, not us. “Becky?”

  A sob filtered through the door. The child was terrified. Was Jones inside, threatening her?

  That wasn’t the vibe King was getting, and sometimes you had to go with your instincts.

  With a jerk of his head to Saint, he grasped the knob of the screen and pulled it open. “Becky,” he called. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

  “Please!” Gasping cries got louder when he twisted the knob on the front door.

  “Becky.” The lock was flimsy—he didn’t even try to break it, simply jiggled the knob and it opened. He pushed the door in a few inches until the chain lock near the top reached its full length. “Becky, my name is King. It’s okay. Charlotte sent me. I’m not here to hurt you, I promise.”

  The girl was still crying. He waited on the top step, staring into the darkness beyond the door, praying she was staring back. Letting her get as good a look at him as she needed to feel safe. Words left his lips, reassurances peppered liberally with Charlotte’s name, hoping to soothe Becky. He hadn’t spoken his ex-fiancée’s name in years, and in less than a day, he’d said it too many times to count—and every one felt like a mark on his soul, but he kept saying it. Kept reassuring her.

  And was rewarded when the creaking of footsteps finally approached the door. He let go of the knob and eased back, his hands out. Saint waited, hand on his weapon, at the bottom of the steps.

  A tear-splotched face appeared in the crack. “I thought he called you.”

  “What, sweetheart?”

  Wes had said she was sixteen, but King doubted it. Medium build, blondish-brown hair, solemn eyes staring up at him. So young. King forced himself to stay on alert despite the sympathy tugging at him as shudders shook her hard.

  “I thought you were the men he called.”

  “Do you mean Richard?” He shook his head. “I don’t know who he called. Charlotte asked us to come check on you.”

  Technically she’d asked the cops, but King didn’t think Becky cared about technicalities right now. Her face scrunched as the tears began again. “He left me. He left me here for the men to come and get me. To take my baby.”

  Saint grunted, echoing the shock drop-kicking King at the girl’s words. Her hysterical words, and he couldn’t blame her. A young girl like this, left alone, believing men were coming to steal her child. No help, no way to keep herself and her baby safe. Hysteria was the calmest response he could think of.

  “Who told you someone was coming to take your baby, sweetheart?”

  “Richard.” A sob hiccupped in her throat. “He made me back out of the adoption. Said he’d be getting a lot of money for my baby.”

  Holy shit. If Richard had been telling the truth, her fear was completely justified.

  He shot Saint a grim look. His friend jerked his chin toward the door. Knowing Saint would watch his back, he got down on his haunches. “Becky, can you let me in?”

  She hesitated.

  “I know you don’t have a reason to trust me, but Charlotte really did send us.” He pulled out his phone. “She couldn’t come herself because she was in a car accident.”

  The girl’s eyes went wide. Before he could offer to call Wes, the door closed, and he heard the sound of the chain being dragged. Becky opened the door a few more inches this time to stare at him intently. “Is Charlotte okay?”

  “She’s okay.” As far as we know. He offered his cell to her. “I don’t know if she can answer the phone, but I can call Wes. You know Mr. Moncrief, right? Do you want to speak to him?”

  She glanced at the phone, at him, at Saint. Finally a deep sigh left her. She shifted the door open more. “Come in.”

  King followed the girl inside, knowing Saint would be right behind him. When she turned in the dim room to sit on the couch, a jolt of surprise went through him—her stomach was a basketball, even bigger than Olivia, Dain’s wife, looked these days. Becky wasn’t just pregnant; her delivery was imminent.

  And her father had tried to sell her baby.

  “Becky, where is Richard?”

  She ran a hand over the mound of her belly. “He left. I don’t think he’s coming back.”

  But someone would be coming, expecting a child in return for the money they’d probably already given Richard Jones.

  “Do you have any family close by?”

  “No.” Her gaze skipped around the room, focused anywhere but on him. “Nobody cared about me but Charlotte.”

  He guessed that included the baby daddy. And King refused to leave her here, unprotected. If there was no one she could go to, that left only one option. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a plan forming in his head. “Sweetheart, I’m not sure what all is going on, but I believe you’ll be safer with Charlotte than you are here alone. Would you come with us?”

  Becky’s eyes went round, her hand gripping her stomach. A tinge of fear reappeared.

  “I promise, we won’t take you anywhere but to Charlotte.” He keyed in his cousin’s number, then passed her his cell phone. “Call Wes, please. He’ll tell you the truth.”

  Becky stared down at the phone for a long moment before pressing the Call button. When she glanced back at him, he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

  “Perfect,” he told her. “You talk, and I’ll pack. Where’s your stuff?”

  Chapter Five

  “Wes is meeting us at the house,” her mother said as she helped Charlotte settle into the wheelchair the nurse had pushed into the room. It took hours to get the approval to leave, hours in which Charlotte’s nerves had ridden a razor’s edge, ready to fall over. Only an earlier phone call from Wes saying someone was on their way to check on Becky had allowed her to relax the slightest bit.

  “He’s been so anxious, not being able to be here.”

  Charlotte ducked her head, hiding her expression. The topic of Wes was one she wasn’t up to discussing, not right now. She was too battered, physically and emotionally. There wasn’t a muscle in her body that didn’t hurt, but that was nothing compared to the fear crouching at the back of her mind.

  “Such a good man,” Ben Alexander said from his position holding the door open. “When are you going to put him out of his misery and say—”

  Charlotte raised her hand, noting that it shook the slightest bit. “Not now, Dad. Okay?” It was a common conversation, but not one she could deal with in her hospital room after coming too close to dying.

  Her father’s sharp features softened. He moved to kneel in front of the wheelchair and laid a big hand over both her knees. “Of course.” He squeezed slightly. “Let’s get you home. That’s the important thing.”

  A rush of affection and sheer gratitude that she hadn’t lost them filled her a bit too full. “Right.” Leaning in, she kissed his cheek, the stubble tickling her lips just like it had since she was a child. “Let’s go home.”

  She closed her eyes on the ride back to the house, not wanting to see the spot where her accident had occurred. She’d woken multiple times during the night, her heart in her throat, her body rigid with panic, always with that image of the truck rushing toward her in her mind. Between that and the constant nurse checks to see if her concussion was worsening, she’d barely rested, much less slept. All
she wanted was a shower and her bed—after they reassured her that Becky was all right.

  The slowing of the car outside the gates of the house registered, the familiar creak of the wires as they drew the heavy wrought-iron panels back. The sound had signaled home since she was a little girl. Now they signaled safety, and her muscles went slack with relief and fatigue.

  “Almost there,” her mom said beside her as if she sensed Charlotte’s response.

  She opened her eyes, her gaze sweeping the wooded lawn until it snagged on the front door. Two cars, one Wes’s silver Mercedes, the other a sleek electric-blue sports car she’d never seen before, waited in the circular drive. Her father passed them to stop at the bottom of the steps leading to the front entrance. “Wait there,” he warned her. “I’ll carry you inside.”

  The snort that escaped made her head hurt. Her chest. Everything, really. She rubbed gently along her temples. “You’re not carrying me inside, Dad.” But he was already out the door and coming around. “Tell him he’s not carrying me, Mom.”

  Her mother patted her hand. “We almost lost you. If carrying you makes him feel better, let him.”

  Which was how she found herself entering the foyer in her father’s arms. The second car in the driveway flashed in her mind. “I’m really not up to company.”

  “Wes isn’t company,” Dad grumbled in her ear, totally missing the point. “Let him see you for a few minutes. You need some food in you so you can take some pain medicine anyway.”

  She closed her eyes, unwilling to argue. Her father had always been Team Wes. She couldn’t make him see that Wes was a friend, not husband material. No one was, not for her. Not after—

  “Charlotte!”

  She glanced up to see Wes hurrying across the sitting room, worry lining his handsome face. “I’m fine, really. I can walk. Dad wouldn’t let me.”

  “I seconded the motion,” her mother said, trailing them into the room. “It’s not every day we get to baby you…” The last word trailed off, only to be followed by a sharp, “What are you doing here?”