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A Stepbrother Warriors Novel
Book One

By Celia Loren
 Copyright © 2015 Hearts Collective
All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced
in any way without the expressed written consent of the
author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in
this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional
likeness to real people or real situations is completely
coincidental.

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 HARD TACKLE
A Stepbrother Warriors Novel
Book One

By Celia Loren
 CONTENTS

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
 Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Book Two (Sneak Peak)
 Prologue

I stare at the unusually tall man in the in the charcoal grey suit, his salt-
and-pepper hair arranged just so, despite the fact that he just pulled into the
parking lot with smoke leaking out of the hood of his car. His car is a
Bentley, but still. He looks remarkably well-composed as he scrolls through
his Blackberry, glancing up every now and then to the TV mounted on the
wall opposite his corner booth.
We don't get many rich people in here. My mom owns the place, a
small, kitschy diner in South Tampa, almost smack dab in the middle of the
Interbay Peninsula. Old Tampa Bay to the west, Hillsborough Bay on the
right, and ABC Diner lies in the center with no sea breeze from either.
I turn toward the kitchen and frown at our line cooks, Andrè and Silvio,
who are staring at the radio propped on the counter, as if they can see the
football game they're listening to inside its cheap metal exterior.
"Andrè, I've been waiting on a tuna salad sandwich for ten minutes," I
sigh. He glances up at me in faux shock and slaps his brother on the arm.
"You believe this girl? I've known you since you were this high," he
says, indicating a height about three feet off the ground, "and you're gonna
take that tone with me? With the Buccaneers on the ten yard line?"
I roll my eyes. When Andrè and Silvio emigrated from Cuba a couple
decades ago, they threw themselves into fitting in with their new American
compatriots, assiduously switching from avid baseball fans to football. It
was a struggle at first, but their presumed duty turned into a true interest,
and now they never miss a game.
 "Just give it to Stratton! What are they doing?!" Silvio cries in his
lightly accented Spanish.
My mom walks over from the other end of the bar and pokes her head
through the window. "Don't make me come back there," she says with a
smile. They know she hates having football games playing at all, but she
relented to her customers' wishes and her cooks' passion. Silvio begins
gesticulating toward the radio as he fires off Spanish that goes over my
head, but he grabs a roll from the bag and begins to make the sandwich. The
brothers were the first two hires that my mom made when she bought the
diner with the last of my father's alimony, before he disappeared altogether,
and now they're like family. My mom's always had a good sense when it
comes to people. Well, most people.
I rest my head for a moment on her shoulder. We're both just under 5'2",
so it's rare to find someone else the same size. She has dark, chestnut brown
hair that swings above her shoulder, while I have my father's thick blonde
hair, currently pulled into a haphazard bun on top of my head. I've thought
about dyeing my hair dark to do away with any trace of him, but my mom
always tells me my hair is beautiful and I shouldn't mess with it. At least I
inherited her bright green eyes.
Silvio slides the plate toward me and I turn and duck under the bar,
headed for the rich man in the corner booth, and place it next to his Diet
Coke. Not that he notices; his gaze is now glued to the TV.
"Anything else I can—" I begin, and jump as he suddenly raises his
hand and slams it down on the tabletop. I stare at him, shocked, as I feel my
heartbeat quicken. "Was there—did you—" I stumble, as I wonder if there's
something wrong with his order. I could have sworn he said tuna salad
sandwich, hold the cole slaw…
 "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," he says in a low, gravelly voice, as he
glances up and notices my expression. "That's my son."
I turn to glance around the diner and am vaguely aware of the brothers
hollering about the game in the kitchen. "Where?" I ask, frowning. Surely
he can't mean the trucker seated at the bar…
"There," he says, pointing at the TV. "Jack Stratton is my son." I follow
his extended finger up to the photo of a handsome young man that ESPN is
showing next to his stats. The screen cuts back to the game and I see a
hulking man leaping from the end zone to chest bump his teammates.
"Mmm," I mutter, unable to keep the scorn out of my voice. I turn
around to see a small smile on the man's face.
"Most people are impressed," he says, placing his elbows on the table
outside his plate and templing his fingers. I get the distinct impression that
he's studying me, and I square my shoulders. Driscoll women don't back
down.
"Not me," I reply. He holds my gaze for a moment, then glances toward
the bar.
"This your mother's place?" he asks.
"Yes," I answer warily. There's enough of a resemblance between us that
people have made the connection before, but there's something about the
man's confidence that I find unsettling. And I have a feeling I know where
this is headed.
"My name's Ray. Ray Stratton. I was just heading to check on some of
my properties when my car started smoking, so I figured I'd grab a bite
while I wait for the tow truck. I don't suppose your mother would—"
"She's not interested," I interrupt and spin around. My mom walks
toward me as I walk back under the bar and away from the man's
penetrating gaze.
 "What was that about?" she murmurs, busying herself by cleaning a
glass with a cloth.
"Nothing. He's excited about the game, I guess."
"Good-looking," she observes, glancing over at him.
"Really? I don't think so."
"Objectively good-looking," she murmurs with a smile. "Looks like his
water glass is a little empty," she says, grabbing the pitcher from the bar.
"It does not—" I argue, but she's already off. I watch her approach the
table, her narrow hips swinging. I can't hear what they're saying from here,
but the body language is telling.
I bite the cuticle on the edge of my nail as the sounds of the radio drift
through the window toward me. My wise, beautiful mother is always losing
her otherwise practical head over these brief flings that leave her
emotionally exhausted. I see my mom take the pen out of her apron and
write something on a napkin. Giving him her number.
Best case scenario, this Ray guy never calls. A girl can dream.
 Chapter One
Eight months later

"I can't believe you guys are wearing those," I groan, shaking my head
at Andrè as he walks out from the kitchen. They both have on red and black
Buccaneers jerseys with Stratton emblazoned in capital letters above his
number 41 on their backs. "And I'll tell you when he gets here. You don't
have to keep checking."
"I needed a…salt shaker," he replies, sticking his hand out to grab the
nearest item as an excuse.
"Yeah, I'm sure the kitchen doesn't have salt," I mutter under my breath.
My mom's with Ray now as they head over to the diner with his football
star son Jack in tow. She tried to get me excited to meet him, but I'm just
not. From everything I've seen and read, he's just some hard-partying jock. I
guess I'll have to see him around Ray's mansion every now and then when
we move in next week, but thank god he's not actually living there himself.
The front door jingles and I glance up to see my mom and Ray walk in,
my mom's arm laced through Ray's. And behind them, the infamous Jack
Stratton. My stomach involuntarily tightens and I turn around to hide my
face. He's even better-looking in person, with closely-cropped light brown
hair, sea blue eyes, and a strong nosed balanced by sensuous lips. And at
6'5'', he's slightly taller than his father, with muscle packed onto every inch.
I hear the entire diner go quiet for a moment. You can't help but notice
the younger Stratton's hulking figure, plus he's one of Tampa's heroes, the
Buccaneers' star tight end after only two years in the NFL. I take a deep
breath and turn around. My mom's looking around for me as they head to
Ray's now regular corner booth. People are staring at Jack, but he's either
oblivious or used to it, because his expression remains nonplussed.
I hear frantic whispering through the window to the kitchen and can't
help but smile at Silvio and Andrè's excitement. "You wanna come over
with me?" I ask, sticking my head through.
"No, no, I'm too nervous," Silvio responds in hushed tones.
"He's just a regular guy," I tell them. "Except, you know, bigger." They
both shake their heads so I shrug and turn around. The patrons'
conversations have resumed around the restaurant, though many sets of
eyes are still glancing over at the football player. My mom's watching me
expectantly as I walk over. She's sitting next to Ray, his hand resting on her
thigh under the table, and Jack's sitting across from them. His thick, jean-
covered legs are sticking out onto the tile floor next to the booth, unable to
fit under the table.
"Hey, honey," she greets me with a wide smile.
"How's business today?" Ray asks, ever the CEO.
"Not bad," I murmur, feeling my cheeks beginning to burn. I can sense
Jack's gaze on me, and I feel reluctant to look at him for some reason. Is it
obvious? Am I being awkward?
"I'm Jack," I hear a low voice say next to me. I finally turn to see Jack
flashing a megawatt smile at me. Something about the way he's looking at
me is too confident, too sure of himself, and I narrow my eyes at him as we
shake hands. He lets his rough fingers linger on mine for a second too long,
and I know what's bothering me.
He thinks I'm going to fall at his feet, like so many girls in Florida and
across the country would. Don’t think so, buddy. Football players just don't
do it for me, even ones that look like you.
 "Nice to meet you, Jack," I say, slapping his shoulder like we've been
pals forever. He looks slightly taken aback and I smile inwardly. I grab a
chair from the table behind us, pull it up to the end of the table and sit.
"Jack's in the middle of the off-season right now," my mom says, trying
to start conversation between us. I know she and Ray want Jack and me to
be friends.
"Oh, right," I reply, nodding politely. Jack leans back in the booth and
surveys me, a slight tension creeping into the edges of his lips.
"He's training and everything…and relaxing…" she continues, raising
her eyebrows slightly at him.
"A little heavy on the relaxing side, actually," Ray says sternly, though
not unkindly.
"Dad, it's fine," Jack assures him.
"What are we talking about here?" I ask, still trying to keep my voice
light. Whatever it is, I want him to know I don't care.
"Well, Jack's coaches have suggested that maybe a change in his
lifestyle could be helpful," my mom says.
"Why do you sound like a politician?" I ask her suspiciously. Jack leans
in, spreading his forearms on the table, a slight smirk on his face.
"She's worried we're not going to like living in the same house," he
informs me.
"Same house?" I repeat, alarmed. Shit, I wasn't supposed to care.
"Jack's been partying too much in his penthouse and his coaches think
it's better if he spends the off-season training in a quieter atmosphere," Ray
sums up concisely.
"You're moving back home?" I ask Jack, unable to keep a hint of
derision out of my voice.
 "It's not like that," he responds, his jaw muscle twitching. I hear the
front door jingle and glance to my right to see a large group walk in. I flush
as I recognize all of them: the popular group from high school. Including
Jenni, my least favorite person who knew just how to push my buttons, and
my most favorite person, Miles, my crush since the second week of ninth
grade. We all graduated a couple weeks ago, and I was fervently hoping I'd
never see Jenni again. Whether it was my height, my lack of makeup, my
baggy clothes…she never let an opportunity pass by to tease me.
Jenni's eyes lock onto mine and I see her grin. Not a nice grin, more like
the grin of a shark that just spotted its lunch. I stare down at the laminated
tabletop, wishing she would just go away, but knowing she won't.
"Bree! I forgot you work here!" she crows, walking over with the rest of
the group in tow. "Oh, and you must be Mrs. Driscoll!" she says sweetly to
my mom. She always knew how to make adults happy.
"Yes…you and Bree went to high school together, is that right?" she
asks, trying to place her. "Oh, this is my boyfriend, Ray Stratton, and his
son—"
"Holy shit. Holy shit!" Jenni exclaims as her eyes land on Jack. "I
cannot believe I'm meeting Jack Stratton right now! I'm like, your biggest
fan." The rest of the girls around her begin to squeal, and the guys try to
hide their excitement. Only Miles seems uninterested, glancing at the
specials written above the counter. Jack gives her that mega-watt grin, and I
roll my eyes. Jenni's attention snaps back toward me. "Wait. How do you
know Jack Stratton?"
"Like my mom said," I say through gritted teeth, "she's dating his
father."
"Oh, that makes more sense. Wasn't your dad a football player too,
though?" I wince. She knows damn well he was. "That's sort of weird."
 "Not really," I reply, shrugging my shoulders. But she knows she's hit a
nerve.
"Yeah, that's right! He used to be a big deal, but then he—"
"Yup, that's him," I cut her off.
"Jack would you mind—" Jenni begins, turning to him. But my mom's
caught a whiff of her attitude and interrupts her.
"Nice to meet you Jenni. Feel free to grab that table over there," my
mom says, pointing to an eight-top on the other side of the diner.
"I just wanted—" Jenni protests.
"But it was so nice to meet you," my mom repeats with an icy smile.
Man, I wish I could handle a mean girl like she can.
Jenni stares at her for a moment, then gives Jack a sweet shrug. "Bye,
Jack," she purrs, and the group follows her to the other side of the diner.
Jack nods in response, and I stiffen as I see Miles approaching the table
from the counter.
"Hey, Bree."
"Hi," I breathe as I look up at his dark brown eyes and long hair pushed
carelessly back from his forehead.
"I didn't get a chance to see you after graduation, but I wanted to tell
you I liked that piece you wrote for the paper."
"Thank you," I whisper, shocked that he even knows my name, much
less admires the short story I wrote for the final issue of the student
newspaper. Someone from his group calls him over to their table, and he
heads away without another word. Thank goodness – I've forgotten how to
breathe and I can feel Jack's eyes on me.
"So, how's your sister doing, Jack?" my mom asks, thankfully changing
the subject.
 "Good, I guess. Last I heard she was in Monaco, or maybe it was
Milan," Jack answers, and his father snorts. In that one short sound, I can
hear a wealth of disapproval. Silvio and Andrè shyly approach the table,
their posture almost deferential. I stand up to give them room to talk to
Jack, and fade back toward the rear wall.
I'm still reeling from my encounters with Jenni and Miles, and now I
have to live in the same house as Jack Stratton? His blue eyes glance up
from signing the brothers' jerseys and catch me looking at him. The light
from the window plays over his irises and I shiver at the expression in them.
He's looking at me like he knows me. I don't like it.
 Chapter Two

I hold my beat-up laptop and slowly spin it around my new bedroom so

that Carter can see it.
"Fuck," he swears as the screen captures images of the palatial
Mediterranean-inspired space. "I mean you told me the guy was rich,
but…"
"I know, right?" I say, putting the computer back down on the mahogany
wood desk and peering at my older brother. Whenever we have the chance
to talk via Skype, I can't help but scan him for signs of new injuries or
stress. He's in Afghanistan on another deployment with his SEAL team. As
always, he sits on a cot in front of a burlap backdrop, revealing nothing of
his location.
"What do you think of him, really?" he asks. I pause, wanting to give
him a truthful answer. Carter and I never bullshit each other.
"I think he loves her…" I start. "He's hard to read. It's like he's always
got a poker face on, like he's always in a business negotiation."
"Huh," Carter replies, ever a man of few words.
"But I didn't tell you the worst part. His son Jack is living—" I stop as
Carter's face jerks toward the right of the screen. His jaw sets in a familiar
way and I know he's being called away. "It's OK," I say as he turns back
toward the screen. "Talk to you later."
"Talk to you later," he repeats, his expression stony as he shuts his
computer and my screen goes black. There is so much more to say, but we
both know not to say it. I can't ask him where he's going, or if it's
dangerous, or when he might be able to call again. He won't tell me
goodbye, in case it really is goodbye. So it's "talk later" every time.
"Did I miss him?" my mom asks, not bothering to knock as she hurries
into my bedroom.
"Sorry, he just left," I tell her. She nods, a look of grief passing quickly
over her face before she swallows it. She clears her throat. "Not bad, huh?"
she says, indicating the room's sumptuous furnishings.
"Yeah, I never knew there was so much money in shipping," I admit,
looking around.
"Well, Burke Shipping is one of the biggest, and oldest, shipping
companies in the United States. It was started by Clara's great-grandfather."
"Who?"
"Clara. Ray's wife, who passed. Alexa and Jack's mother."
"How come Alexa's not here?"
"Ray says she's 'gallivanting around Europe,' but I'm not sure that's the
whole story," she says with a smile. "Wouldn't it be nice to have a…you
know, sister?" she asks shyly, sitting on the bed and holding onto one of the
intricately carved posts.
"Sister?" I ask, my eyes bulging out of my head.
"Well, yeah. I thought you realized how serious Ray and I are about
each other."
"I…I mean, I did…. I guess my mind just hadn't gotten that far," I
stammer.
"And that would make you…happy?"
"Um, I don’t know," I reply honestly. "He's better than Louie," I decide,
naming one of her exes. "And definitely better than Drew, or Max, for that
matter—"
 "OK, I get it!" she says, rolling her eyes. "I'm glad I raised such an
honest daughter. Most of the time," she adds jokingly as she walks to the
door. She turns in the doorway, her hand on the knob. "And you'd have
another brother, too."
"I already have one of those!" I call back as she shuts the door. Ugh, my
step-brother could be Jack Stratton. I haven't seen yet since we moved in
this morning, so I'm not sure how well his supposed break from partying is
working out.
I lift my head unconsciously as the breeze changes. The AC's on in the
rest of the house, but I have my windows wide open. What's the point of
having this mansion right on the water if you can't smell the sea?
I stand up and walk to the French doors leading out to the balcony. Yup,
that's right, a private balcony off my very own bedroom. I swing the doors
open and step out onto the tile, my eyes fixed on the twinkling lights of
south Tampa across Hillsborough Bay. A crack of thunder peals across the
water, sending a shiver of excitement running through me. I love the
thunderstorms during the summer here.
A woman's giggle drifts up from below me, and my attention snaps
down to the deck next to the pool. The only lights on are the ones
underneath the pool's surface, casting a ghoulish blue light into the dark
night, and barely illuminating the two figures intertwined in a lounge chair
next to it.
"Shit, that scared me!" the woman's voice exclaims.
"Shh, I'm not supposed to be partying so much." Even in a whisper,
Jack's voice floats up to my second story bedroom in the still air between
thunderclaps.
"Let's go in, it's about to pour," she whines.
 "Wait, the view of the lightning over the water is amazing out here. I
love watching it," he replies. A half-second later, a white bolt splits the
night sky in two, piercing from out of nowhere to the dark expanse of the
bay. Jack was right. It's spectacular.
"Jack," the woman protests. I hear him sigh, but then she laughs. "Put
me down!" I can't see them now, but I assume he's carrying her off into the
bowels of the house.
Another peal of thunder fills the air, followed more quickly by a bolt of
lightning. The storm's getting closer. I dart back inside to grab my
computer, then shut the doors as I hear the rain begin to pelt down. I draw
my desk chair up to the glass and watch the storm close in.
I've been drawing a blank when I try to think of what I want to write.
But all of a sudden, an image just popped into my head: a young girl,
running toward a thundercloud. I begin to type. She's pursued by a man…
maybe her father. Behind them lies a revival tent where the man is the
preacher. A bolt of lightning hits a tree, throwing up sparks, but she keeps
running.
There was no creative writing class at my high school, so anything I've
learned how to do has been from books. During school, I wrote mostly on
weekends, but now my goal is to write a novel. My concentration is broken
by a laugh from somewhere inside the house – my mom or Jack's mystery
woman? Too far away to tell. I tap my pencil on the pad. Everyone else is
paired off but me. Loneliness wraps itself me for a moment, but I resolutely
shrug it off.
Maybe I could make an effort to be less of a loner, but most of the time
I'm happy by myself. It's only every now and then that it overwhelms me,
and I start to imagine what Miles is doing…what it would be like to lie
curled in bed next to him, talking about our next projects together while soft
music plays in the background.
I drift off to sleep with my laptop sitting on my legs. At some point in
the night, I stir and manage to make my way over to the bed, flopping down
into its soft sheets.

The morning sun wakes me, shining without a hint of the thunderstorm
the night before. I yawn and stretch, pushing my mess of hair back off my
forehead. I look down at my stained t-shirt and consider changing it, but
most of my shirts look like this one anyway.
The massive foyer of the mansion has two staircases that wrap around
either side of it, leading to the north and south wings. I take the one closest
to my door and yawn as I traipse down. Through bleary eyes, I manage to
remember the location of the kitchen toward the rear. Coffee. Must have
coffee.
I stop in shock at the scene in front of me as I turn the corner to the
kitchen. Jack's standing shirtless over the sizzling stove, sweat dripping
down his bare chest, clearly post-workout. He's wearing only red athletic
shorts and headphones over his ears, attached to his iPhone on a band
around his thick bicep. His head bops to a beat I can't hear, and I cover my
mouth to keep from laughing as he begins to mouth the words.
The movement catches his eye, and he glances up, yanking the
headphones off his ears as he sees me. From their spot dangling on his neck
I can now hear the music.
"Is that Taylor Swift?" I ask gleefully. His hand flies to his iPhone and
the tune cuts out.
"What? No, I—" he clears his throat, looking caught. "There's coffee,"
he finally says.
 "Oh, thank god," I say, heading over to the fresh pot sitting under the
complicated-looking chrome coffee maker on the counter behind him.
"Late night?" he asks, and I can see him glancing over my rat's nest of
hair, my baggy, stain-covered t-shirt, and my cotton pajama pants. I realize
I'm not wearing a bra…not that I've got enough going on for him to notice. I
hope.
"Not as late as yours," I retort, grabbing the half and half from the
fridge.
"Meaning?"
"You'd be surprised how much I can hear from my balcony."
"Oh, so you were eavesdropping," he says, flipping a giant omelet over
in the pan in front of him.
"No, I…" I shake my head, tossing off the very idea. "Do I get to meet
her?" I ask, glancing toward the deck, wondering if she's taking some early
morning sun.
"I don't like for them to stay the night," he replies with a smirk, and my
jaw drops.
"Wow. Wow. There's so much to unpack there," I gasp. "You make the
women sound like a harem or something."
"Hey, there's as happy to be there as I am, and they know not to expect
anything from me."
"Yeah, they're just honored to be able to spend a couple hours in the
company of the Jack Stratton."
"Well, it's how we're spending the time that's important. Believe me,
they leave satisfied," he says, looking up at me and holding my gaze, a
promise inside his eyes that makes me shiver.
"Ugh, gross," I say, pulling myself away. "Besides, I thought you were
supposed to be taking it easy on that stuff. Your coaches would be pretty
upset if they found out, huh?"
He pauses. "You won't say anything. Will you?"
"Probably not. Probably," I say with a careless shrug as I head outside
with my coffee.
"Bree!" I hear him call after me as I shut the patio door behind me.
He sounds worried. Good. I like having something to hold over his
head.
 Chapter 3

After breakfast, I wash out my bowl and put it in the dishwasher. My

mom said that there's a housekeeper, but I feel strange leaving out my
dishes for someone else to clean up. I glance toward the backyard, and
down at the ocean beyond. The only thing breaking up the view is Ray's
huge boat, which is tethered to the private dock.
My mom's at the diner, and I assume Ray's at work, so I'm left to my
own devices today. I wander out toward the foyer, figuring I'll give myself a
tour since I focused on unpacking my stuff in my bedroom yesterday. I start
on the first floor, wandering through the high-ceilinged spaces. When I
come to the third sitting room, I begin to wonder what Ray needs this many
rooms for. With Jack usually in his penthouse or on the road, and Alexa
away, I'd find the space lonely all to myself.
I find a door to the basement in the hall between the formal dining room
and a coat check room and head down. The main area is a filled with
games…a ping pong table, billiards, and vintage-looking arcade games. I
see a few doors leading out and head for the nearest one and poke my head
into the dark room. As my eyes adjust, I realize I'm in a small movie
theatre, though the seats are each individual recliners. I shake my head and
cross to the other door, which is heavier than the others. The air in the room
feels different, and I see bottles of wine covering the walls.
I head back into the game room and toward the third door. It leads down
a short hallway into a brightly lit home gym, though it looks just as well-
equipped as the one my mom used to belong to when she was on a health
kick. I spy a white towel draped over a weight machine, and catch the faint
whiff of sweat in the air – Jack's sweat. I shiver involuntarily and head for a
door on the opposite side of the room. It leads up a small stairwell and into
the side of the backyard.
There's a bunch of football equipment spread across the grass, and a
wire basket filled the balls to my left. I feel my stomach clench and circle
around toward the back of the house. I know it's not fair, but I feel a surge
of annoyance at my mom. We've both spent so much time distancing
ourselves from football, and now she's dating the father of one of the
biggest stars in the NFL and forcing me to live in a house with him.
I know that's not fair. I know that her falling for Ray had nothing to do
with Jack, but I can't help but think that Freud would have a field day with
the situation. I take a deep breath and will the anger out of my body. It's
toxic, and it won't help anything.
I open the door nearest to me on the ground floor and walk inside. I stop
short, realizing I'm in a room that I must have missed on my first tour of the
ground floor. There's a huge oak desk to my right, and a seating area to my
left. This must be Ray's home office. I walk around the desk and look over
the photos he has displayed. There are only two, and they're the only
personal items in the room.
One shows a photo of Jack with his helmet raised over his head, his
face covered in sweat, and the other is a photo of Ray with Jack and a
young woman. By her age, she must be Alexa, Jack's sister. I lean closer to
study her face. She's strikingly beautiful. Tall, like Jack and Ray, but with
dark brown hair that flows over her shoulders. The phone on the desk trills
a harsh ring, and I jump back, startled. I reach toward it, unsure if I should
answer.
"He doesn't like anyone in here," says a voice from the doorway to
the backyard. I squint as Jack strides out of the sunlight to the desk and
picks up the handset. "It's OK," he says immediately, as though he knows
who's calling, and what they're calling about. "It's just Bree, she wandered
in. Yup," he says, and hangs up. "My dad doesn't like anyone to come in
here," he says and gestures toward the door. I walk out, feeling indignantly
like I'm being chastised.
"I was just taking a tour of the house," I explain. "And how did he
even know I was in there, anyway?"
Jack nods toward a black box on the doorframe as just before he shuts
the door. "Those are motion detectors. They're all over the house, but he has
them set up here so that he knows personally if anyone goes into his office."
"Yikes," I murmur. Talk about a control freak.
"He deals with large amounts of money," Jack says with an easy
shrug as we walk back across the patio to the kitchen doors.
"What did your mom look like?"
"Why?" he asks, stopping to frown at me.
"Oh, well, I just noticed that your dad doesn't have any pictures of
her, and I was wondering if she had brown hair like Alexa."
"Alexa takes after my dad. His hair was brown before he went gray,"
he explains shortly.
"I didn't mean to pry."
"I guess we both have parents we don't like to talk about," he says
with a wry smile. "Is that why you go by Driscoll?"
I nod. "It's my mom's maiden name. It wouldn’t confuse someone
who was really determined to look up Steven Riley's wife and kids, but it
helps."
"I used to have his card," Jack confesses with a smile.
"Really?"
 "Yeah. I was so excited when I found it in the pack. He was great, in
his day."
"Not that that's what anyone remembers," I reply. "Nor should they," I
add. "Where's your bedroom?" I ask, wanting to change the subject.
"Why do you want to know?" he asks, raising an eyebrow
suggestively.
"Just asking," I stress. "Like I said, I was looking around."
"Third floor," he says, pointing to the top of the house. "Right in the
middle. You swim?"
"Sure."
"Been in the pool yet?"
I look up at him and notice an evil glint in his eyes. "Jack…" I say
warningly.
But it's too late. He reaches out quick as lightning and grabs me
around the waist, then flips me into the pool. I close my mouth just before I
hit the surface of the water and sink under. I kick back up to the surface and
slap my palms on the water angrily.
"Ugh, how old are you?" I snap, pushing my hair out of my face.
"Hey, at least it's heated. That's for your little blackmail threat
earlier," he adds with a smile.
I grumble to myself and swim to the side of the pool and extend my
arm out demandingly. He takes it and begins to pull me out, but I swing my
legs up against the side and extend them out suddenly. He's huge, but I've
taken him by surprise. He tumbles over my head and into the water with a
splash.
I grab hold of the edge and watch as he surfaces, spluttering. "Oldest
trick in the book, Jack. You better up your game."
Another random document with
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 WORKS IN LITERATURE

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G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS, New York and London.

 Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious errors in punctuation and inconsistencies in proper names have been silently
corrected.
Page 17: “he rest of Europe” changed to “the rest of Europe”
Page 263: “Bogdanóvich’s Pysche” changed to “Bogdanóvich’s Psyche”
Page 313: “shine in the bark” changed to “shine in the dark”
Page 315: “mary him” changed to “marry him”
Page 321: “aphabetical order” changed to “alphabetical order”
Page 352: “more stupid that our” changed to “more stupid than our”
Page 418: “are overthown” changed to “are overthrown”
Page 438: “learny our parts” changed to “learn our parts”
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANTHOLOGY
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