snapped.
“What?”
“Thankful?”
Gabriel smiled, and Catch saw nothing in it and yet saw everything.
“I’m very thankful. I want to devote my life to showing how thankful I am.”
Catch asked a few more inane questions, got a few more inane answers, told Gabriel that Michael would call the next evening and left. He repeated what Gabriel had said to Michael and then rode home.
He’d hoped to feel satisfied the pair was under proper supervision, but how could he ever feel that, even if the VRB guys had turned out to be shit hot? Catch had a list of those he thought Gabriel would go after. Not necessarily to kill but to speak to. His undercover name—Logan—was on there, but there was only one name that really mattered to Catch.
Turner.
No matter what else Catch managed to achieve in relation to Dava and Gabriel, keeping Turner safe was paramount. Catch knew Turner had moved house, but that wasn’t enough to keep them off his trail, surely the idiot knew that.
Catch might not have spoken to Turner in twenty years, but he hadn’t been able to keep away from him. Catch wasn’t sure whether seeing him from a distance and never speaking had made the ache in his chest worse or better. Had Turner ever spared him a thought that wasn’t one of hatred? Walking away from Turner had been the hardest thing Catch had ever done in his too-long life, but he’d figured it was no more than he deserved and the only way to keep Turner under the radar.
Now Catch had to keep him safe again, and maybe he’d be more effective if he were close by rather than trying to keep tabs on Dava and Gabriel. Catch’s cock perked up and he snorted. After twenty years, even the thought of Turner was enough to give him a hard-on.
Maybe it was time to set a ghost to rest.
Chapter Six
Turner drove into the village and was roaring out the other side when he slammed his foot on the brake. What the hell was he doing? Milford Hall was his house. He shouldn’t be the one leaving. Who knew what the hell the idiot would do in his absence.
Plus there was the distinct risk that if he drove too far, he wouldn’t find his way back. Not with the bloody satellite navigation still trying to take him to his previous house.
Turner needed to turn around. He swallowed hard. How was it that with a name like his, he hated going back, looking back, retracing his steps, thinking what he might have done rather than what he had done. No use wishing things were different. His life had taken a different path twenty years ago and he had to live the one he had now.
Driving on until he found a slightly wider section of road, Turner did a twenty-five-point maneuver, barely managed to avoid reversing into a water-filled ditch and returned to the village. He pulled up outside the estate agents. Closed, but printing on the window said they were open late the following day. He’d be paying them a visit to complain about a member of their staff.
Thoughts concerning conflict of interest and lack of professionalism kept him seething until he pulled up outside Milford Hall, and then Turner sagged. Avoidance tactics hadn’t worked. Guilt swirled in his head. He’d done something despicable, fucked Matty in an uncouth way, and somehow he had to make it right without letting her think she could now stay.
Turner pushed open the door and a cog clicked in his head as he recalled an earlier suspicion. Had she set him up? The short skirt. The fall—oh yes, he’d tripped on the ladder, but had she taken advantage of that, engineered the frantic fuck? It wasn’t inconceivable that she’d think having sex with him would soften him up. No matter what else he was, Turner was male. He harrumphed. Of course, she didn’t know him. Sex was not a way to his heart—Turner got out of the car and locked it—though he wouldn’t mind letting her try again. His jaw twitched. He hadn’t fooled one cell in his body.
He wanted her. He just didn’t want her in his house—for
“What?”
“Thankful?”
Gabriel smiled, and Catch saw nothing in it and yet saw everything.
“I’m very thankful. I want to devote my life to showing how thankful I am.”
Catch asked a few more inane questions, got a few more inane answers, told Gabriel that Michael would call the next evening and left. He repeated what Gabriel had said to Michael and then rode home.
He’d hoped to feel satisfied the pair was under proper supervision, but how could he ever feel that, even if the VRB guys had turned out to be shit hot? Catch had a list of those he thought Gabriel would go after. Not necessarily to kill but to speak to. His undercover name—Logan—was on there, but there was only one name that really mattered to Catch.
Turner.
No matter what else Catch managed to achieve in relation to Dava and Gabriel, keeping Turner safe was paramount. Catch knew Turner had moved house, but that wasn’t enough to keep them off his trail, surely the idiot knew that.
Catch might not have spoken to Turner in twenty years, but he hadn’t been able to keep away from him. Catch wasn’t sure whether seeing him from a distance and never speaking had made the ache in his chest worse or better. Had Turner ever spared him a thought that wasn’t one of hatred? Walking away from Turner had been the hardest thing Catch had ever done in his too-long life, but he’d figured it was no more than he deserved and the only way to keep Turner under the radar.
Now Catch had to keep him safe again, and maybe he’d be more effective if he were close by rather than trying to keep tabs on Dava and Gabriel. Catch’s cock perked up and he snorted. After twenty years, even the thought of Turner was enough to give him a hard-on.
Maybe it was time to set a ghost to rest.
Chapter Six
Turner drove into the village and was roaring out the other side when he slammed his foot on the brake. What the hell was he doing? Milford Hall was his house. He shouldn’t be the one leaving. Who knew what the hell the idiot would do in his absence.
Plus there was the distinct risk that if he drove too far, he wouldn’t find his way back. Not with the bloody satellite navigation still trying to take him to his previous house.
Turner needed to turn around. He swallowed hard. How was it that with a name like his, he hated going back, looking back, retracing his steps, thinking what he might have done rather than what he had done. No use wishing things were different. His life had taken a different path twenty years ago and he had to live the one he had now.
Driving on until he found a slightly wider section of road, Turner did a twenty-five-point maneuver, barely managed to avoid reversing into a water-filled ditch and returned to the village. He pulled up outside the estate agents. Closed, but printing on the window said they were open late the following day. He’d be paying them a visit to complain about a member of their staff.
Thoughts concerning conflict of interest and lack of professionalism kept him seething until he pulled up outside Milford Hall, and then Turner sagged. Avoidance tactics hadn’t worked. Guilt swirled in his head. He’d done something despicable, fucked Matty in an uncouth way, and somehow he had to make it right without letting her think she could now stay.
Turner pushed open the door and a cog clicked in his head as he recalled an earlier suspicion. Had she set him up? The short skirt. The fall—oh yes, he’d tripped on the ladder, but had she taken advantage of that, engineered the frantic fuck? It wasn’t inconceivable that she’d think having sex with him would soften him up. No matter what else he was, Turner was male. He harrumphed. Of course, she didn’t know him. Sex was not a way to his heart—Turner got out of the car and locked it—though he wouldn’t mind letting her try again. His jaw twitched. He hadn’t fooled one cell in his body.
He wanted her. He just didn’t want her in his house—for
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