The Right Kind of Trouble by Shiloh Walker Page A

a boy, either. Hardly old enough to drink, but had that bitch cared? No. He was rich and that was all that mattered.
    From that moment on, he’d hated Brannon—the kid had apologized good-naturedly after Leanna had seen him, scrambling away and tugging her dress down. Brannon had acted like he hadn’t known, but the laughter had been there in his eyes. When his sister had arrived, Brannon had tossed down several bills, told the bartender drinks were on him, and had offered another apology.
    He’d wanted to make the boy eat that fucking money.
    Instead, he’d just left and busied himself gathering up Leanna’s belongings. She’d let a fucking McKay touch her.
    There had been other things since then, and as he’d worked his way closer, it had only gotten worse.
    He’d prepared for that, expected it, and dealt with each problem. He had a plan and nothing would stop him.
    First he had just planned to confront them—let everybody know the truth. But as he had gotten closer, he’d realized they were too stupid to understand and that his own hatred had grown.
    Truth wasn’t enough.
    He wanted them to hurt, to suffer as he had.
    Then he’d begun to dig deeper, heard more and more talk of that treasure. So much talk, so elusive, thought to be legend. But was it? Legend had basis in reality as often as not, so he’d dug deeper, read all the tales.
    It had taken time, more than he’d liked, but he’d had plenty of it and nobody noticed him. He’d been there in the background for so long. Nobody ever paid him any attention. Neither of them had even recognized him when they all met up again, years later.
    That moron Brannon couldn’t find his prick in the dark with a roadmap, plus he was always out at his winery.
    He’d long since learned how to keep Moira out of his way.
    Then Neve had come home, ruined everything. She was such a nervous wreck, and she looked at things. She paid attention. It shouldn’t have been hard to send her packing—after all, she was nothing but trouble. That’s what they all called her. But planting drugs in her backpack hadn’t worked to cause a split between them and she’d just further ensconced herself in her family home and now he was having to watch his back that much more closely.
    But he’d get it sorted.
    He was too close not to. Too close to let it all fall away.
    Lying on the bed, he stroked a finger down the journal.
    It wasn’t the original.
    That one was old, priceless. To him at least. Locked up and protected from careless handling, he’d had to use caution when he made the duplicates. Even though the copy he’d painstakingly reproduced by hand was no more than a few years old, it was already worn, the leather cover smooth in places from how often he’d handled it.
    His eyes drifted closed as he thought back to what he’d done.
    He’d left bruises on her.
    It wasn’t the first time he’d brought harm on a woman, but before it had been done simply in the name of expediency, carrying out his duty, the way he saw it. This … it had been different. He could feel the soft, almost delicate arch of her neck, the trembling of her body.
    Her voice had shook as she answered.
    As she lied .
    â€œIt’s there.”
    He knew it was.
    Everybody did.
    The whole fucking town was named for it.
    *   *   *
    Have Ella Sue make me a hot toddy . Moira was fuming.
    She grabbed a bottle of scotch and splashed it into a glass, tossing it back. It burned the whole way down, and her eyes watered. That didn’t stop her from splashing more into the glass and doing it again.
    When she heard a noise behind her, she slammed the bottle down and turned around, her lips peeled back in a snarl.
    Seeing Gideon standing there, she narrowed her eyes to slits and pointed to the door. “Out,” she said.
    The scotch had done a bit to numb her throat, and she managed to