Tyler O'Neill's Redemption. Molly O'Keefe
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know,” Tyler said. “Your father made it real clear why he and his goon were kicking the crap out of me.”
She felt him watching her, but she didn’t turn, didn’t engage in this fight with him. The past—their past—was dead and buried.
“You’ve gotten cold, Jules,” he said. “A few years ago you’d have torn my head off.”
She wanted to snap at him, to turn her head and scream every foul and hateful thing she’d ever thought about him. She wanted to punch him and scratch his face—hurt him like he hurt her.
But what would be the point?
“You have no idea, Tyler,” she said instead, wrapping herself around her icy-cold hate for Tyler O’Neill and the meager victory she’d won for Miguel.
TYLER SIGNED THE LAST of the papers and followed Juliette out into the impound yard. It broke his heart to see poor Suzy surrounded by junkers with wreaths of parking tickets under their wipers.
She deserved so much better.
He watched Juliette, the sun turning her hair to ebony. Her body, so tall and strong. Her grace had become something disciplined. Something controlled. Powerful.
It was making him nuts. It was why he’d tried to provoke her in the car, watching her hands on the wheel, her eyes on the road. Queen of her kingdom.
He wanted to knock her down a few pegs, remind her of that totally different girl he’d left behind.
But not you. Some awful, righteous, pain-in-the-butt voice inside his head asked, You’re still the same, aren’t you?
“Here you go,” she said, unlocking the gate, swinging the chain link back. She stood back, her hand on her thin waist, her black pants tight across her thighs. Her hips.
He swallowed, tossing his keys in his palm. Trying to be casual. Pretending that something wasn’t shaken inside of him.
When he’d made the stupid decision to come back to Bonne Terre it had never occurred to him that Juliette would still be here. If he’d have thought he’d run into her, he never would have come. Because it hurt to look at her, it hurt to be reminded of what he’d felt that summer—of who, for three short months, he’d let himself believe he could be.
“Thank you,” Juliette said, brushing off her hands, “for being cool about—”
He put his hand up, shaking his head. The years behind them, the way he’d left, those nights in the bayou, what she’d done for him in the end.
“It’s the least I could do, Juliette.”
For a second her face softened, and she was the girl he’d known. The girl who had made his head spin and his heart thunder with stupid dreams, a million of them put right into her soft hands.
“It’s a good thing you’re trying to do,” he said. “With that boy.”
She opened her mouth as if to say something, but in the end thought better of it and just nodded.
He slid his key into the lock of Suzy’s door, every instinct fighting against the stupid impulse he had to touch her. Just once more. For all the years ahead.
Do not, he told himself, trying to be firm, trying to be reasonable, get yourself worked up over this woman again. Don’t do it.
“You know,” he said, turning to face her again, the sun behind her making him squint, his eye pound. “Your dad was right.”
“About what?” she asked on a tired little laugh that nearly broke his heart.
Don’t do it, you idiot.
Her eyes snapped, the air around them crackled. The impulse, the need to touch her was a thousand-pound weight he could not ignore or shake off.
She will take off your head and feed it to a dog, man. Do not be stupid.
But in the end he ignored the voice because she was a magnet to everything in him searching for a direction. He stepped close, close enough to breathe the breath she exhaled. Close enough to smell her skin, warm and spicy in the sunlight.
Her eyes dilated, her lips parted, but she didn’t move, didn’t back away and his body got hot, tight with a furious want.
The air was still between them, as if they were frozen in time. But inside he raged with hunger for her. Always for her.
He lifted his hand, slow, careful, ready for her to snap but she didn’t. He placed his calloused, shaking fingers against the perfection of her cheek. Her breath hitched and for a moment—the most perfect moment in ten miserable years—Juliette let him touch her.
And then, like the good girl she was, she stepped away from the riffraff. Her eyes angry, her skin flushed.
“You’re way too good for the likes of me, Juliette Tremblant,” he murmured.
He got in Suzy and slammed the door. The humidity inside the car was an insulation between him and her, an insulation he needed. He needed metal and barbed wire and pit bulls straining at their leashes between them, because he knew, like he’d always known—underneath her totally justified anger, her reluctance, her disgust—he knew Juliette Tremblant wanted him as much as he wanted her.
I can’t see her again, he thought, starting the car, Suzy’s rumble a welcome sound. Familiar. This was his world. Suzy, his father waiting at home, the clothes on his back, his money in the bank.
And there was no place in it for Juliette.
And there was no place for him in Bonne Terre.
He was an O’Neill. One of the most notorious of them all, which meant that Juliette and the past and those fledgling dreams he thought he’d forgotten about were wasted on him.
And whatever he thought he was going to find in Bonne Terre, whatever peace or solace he was looking for—it wasn’t here. It wasn’t anywhere. Not for him.
Gaetan was right—he was always wanting what other people had. Coming back to The Manor, looking for the kid he’d been, the family he’d known. That wasn’t for him.
He got hotel rooms and card games. One-night stands with women so beautiful they could only be fake. Late nights and later mornings, days vanishing under neon signs. That was his life. That’s what he got.
And it was time to get back to it.
JULIETTE SHOOK. FROM the inside, through her blood and muscles, from her hair to her fingers, she shook with anger.
Oh, and don’t forget the lust. The lust that churned through her and over her and under her.
She slammed the impound door too hard and the chain link rattled and bounced back at her. So, she slammed it again. And again. Her hair flying, the gate rattling and crashing.
“Damn him!” she screamed, slamming the gate so hard it bounced, rebounded and stuck shut.
Damn him.
Ten years without a word, after what she’d done for him. After what she’d given him in the cramped backseat of that stupid Chevy he used to drive. Ten years. And he waltzes back here and realigns everything.
She put her hands on her hips, feeling the weight of her badge and gun, the solid strength of those things against her hips. She was not the girl she’d been, and Tyler O’Neill was not going to ruin her life again.
“Chief?”
She turned and found Miguel standing beside the back door of her sedan.
Great, she thought, just what I need. Miguel with an earful.
“You okay?” Miguel asked, his concern fierce and palpable. She melted a little; her little hoodlum was so gallant.
“I’m fine,” she said, and took a deep breath. “And, actually, so are you. The owner of the Porsche isn’t