The Annie Carter Series Books 1–4. Jessie Keane
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pleased.
He faced the bed and took off the dressing gown. He saw her eyes widen as she clocked the size of his erection, but he didn’t hesitate, he got into bed and cuddled right up to her.
She was cold to his touch.
Poor kid, he thought. She’d never had it before and probably had never even felt the urge for it, this was bound to be a shock.
‘It’s all right,’ he said softly, hugging her. ‘We’ll take this slowly, okay?’
Ruthie was trembling with rage and disappointment. Max Carter, the man of her dreams, was naked in bed with her, his hands working their way under her nightie, and all she could see was her treacherous sister’s face.
‘Lie back,’ he said, kissing her neck and touching her between the legs. A spasm of pleasure shot through her as he touched the little button there, but she was unresponsive and so upset that she just couldn’t let go.
Bitterness welled up in her, smothering all prospect of enjoyment, but Max was shoving the nightie up under her armpits and cupping her small breasts in his hands. Ruthie knew they weren’t as lush or as pert and big as Annie’s, and she imagined him doing this to Annie, and she knew that Annie would be up for it, far more so than she was.
Max moved between her legs, panting now, and she felt that big stiff thing nudging her sex open.
‘No,’ she said, pushing at his chest, furious, gasping with pent-up rage.
‘Come on sweetie,’ cooed Max, pushing at her.
‘I know about you,’ spat Ruthie.
‘We’ll talk afterwards,’ said Max, nudging harder. She was as tight as a duck’s arse, he thought. Tight and dry.
‘About you and Annie!’
He burst through her hymen and thrust in deep. Ruthie screamed. Max froze, not believing what he’d just heard, but he was in now and too excited to stop. He thrust quickly, ten, twenty times, while Ruthie groaned and shoved helplessly against him, then he came. He rolled off her. Ruthie curled up into a foetal ball, aware only of the pain between her legs and the bitter hurt in her chest. She started to sob.
Max lay there and looked up at the ceiling in a daze.
Shit, that little bitch Annie.
Her and her fat gob, she’d ruined this. He’d told her to keep it buttoned, but she couldn’t resist rubbing Ruthie’s nose in it. The fucking little cow. He touched Ruthie’s shuddering back, but she twitched away from him.
After a while he got up, put on his dressing gown, and went to the adjoining bedroom. He got into the cold bed and lay there cursing Annie Bailey and swearing to himself that she would pay for not keeping her trap shut.
Kieron Delaney stood shivering at the side of his brother Tory’s grave. Summer had given up for the day and was drenching the funeral party in cold rain. The weather suited their business here. His mum and dad were standing like statues beside him.
He stole a glance at them.
His mother was devastated, her white curls and floods of tears hidden by a thick black veil. His father seemed to be swaying on his feet, as if he would fall at any moment. Kieron was appalled to see how much weight his father Davey had lost. Suddenly, big strapping Davey Delaney, founder of the family firm, looked his age. Kieron saw his older brother Pat clutch at their dad’s arm to steady him.
‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ intoned the priest, dropping dirt on to the coffin in the hole.
He held the box out to Redmond, who took a handful and slung it in. Then Pat. Then Orla, who was tearless and composed. Then Kieron. Then their mum and dad.
Kieron tuned out the rest of it. He thought of Tory Delaney, his big brother, carrying him on his shoulders when he’d been tiny. He remembered the soft feel of Tory’s curly golden hair beneath his little fingers, remembered the booming Irish laugh of this man who was now nothing more than a corpse being buried in the dirt.
They’d drifted far apart over the years. Kieron was the youngest of Davey and Molly Delaney’s five children, and he had benefited from the family firm’s wealth without ever having to get involved in it.
He’d stuck his head in the sand and refused to acknowledge the sort of dodgy business his siblings were engaged in. He’d gone to art college and then had a year travelling. Ignorance was bliss. But in his guts he’d known that his dad had been into all sorts in his time, including a spell in Strangeways, and that Tory, Pat and Redmond had built the firm up from that base into what it was today.
He knew damned well his brothers were racketeers, thugs, criminals; he knew they ran girls and were into the ‘heavy game’, their term for armed robbery.
Live by the sword, die by the sword, he thought.
‘I wonder you bothered to show up,’ said Pat when it was over and they had moved away from the grave.
Kieron looked at Pat. There had always been a sting of animosity between them. Kieron thought Pat a stupid bully, and Pat thought Kieron a fairy. The two were never going to happily co-exist, so Kieron had been glad to get away from home and see the back of his thuggish older brother. But it was clear to see that nothing had changed between them despite time and distance.
A few years back, Kieron would have flown at Pat in a rage. Today, he merely smiled.
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘Brought your sketch pad, did you?’ Pat sneered.
‘Padraig!’ said Molly sharply, coming up to them and touching Kieron’s arm.
‘It isn’t a crime to have a talent,’ said Kieron.
‘It’s a gift from God,’ said Molly, patting his arm. She looked back towards the grave where Davey her husband was still standing, supported by Redmond. ‘This is going to kill your father,’ she predicted with a tremble in her voice.
‘No it isn’t, Mum,’ said Orla, hurrying over and embracing her mother. ‘Dad’s a tough nut.’
A year away had given Kieron a new perspective. His sister Orla was a lovely young woman now, no more the freckly girl. Her red hair was long and sleek, and her green eyes were gorgeous. She was tall and slender, like Redmond her twin, and the black of mourning flattered her pale skin.
‘Tory was a tough nut too,’ said Molly. ‘And now look.’
The priest was striding back towards the vestry for his tea and biscuits. The crowds were dispersing and there were many sad faces.
Things would change now.
If Tory was no more, then who would take over the manor? The Carters were chipping away at them day by day. It would be down to Redmond, the eldest, to take over the firm, but for now no one could face that prospect. Everyone on the manor had respected Tory Delaney and they were all sick at heart to see him gone. The streets had been lined with bare bowed heads when the cortège drove through to go to the church. No one would be celebrating on the manor tonight.
Davey and Redmond joined the rest of the family.
‘I want to know who did this,’ said Redmond. Unlike big golden Tory, Redmond’s hair suited his name. It was red like his mother’s had once been, long ago. He had green eyes and pale lashes. He did not appear a man of action, but he looked sleek and elegant in his black coat and leather gloves.
Redmond hadn’t got into boxing like Tory and Pat, like their dad before them. Accountancy was his game, adding up figures and doing deals, and he was good at it, Pat had to admit that. Pat looked at his effete older brother and wondered if Redmond could ever hope to fill Tory’s shoes.
And