He knew his way with his eyes closed, though, and he kept them that way as he walked her to the oversize four-poster his aunt had put in the room years after he’d gone to college. He dragged his hands down her sides, settling them on her narrow waist. Then he slowly turned her around to find the zipper of her strapless dress. “Let’s start here.”
She lifted her hair with two hands in a move that was unfairly sexy, giving him access to a long zipper. Down it went, revealing her bare back, which he had to caress as he unzipped and let the dress fall with a silky whoosh to the floor.
“So long,” he whispered, turning her around.
“So long to my dress?”
“I’ve waited so long for a dress to fall.”
Her shoulders moved with a quick laugh. “Not quite two weeks.”
“An eternity.” He stroked her sides and bare breasts, admiring how she looked in nothing but a snow-white lace thong. “But worth it.”
She reached up to unbutton his shirt, and with every open button, she pressed a kiss on his chest while he found new and perfect places to touch.
As each item of clothing hit the ground, his breath grew tighter in his chest. With each touch and kiss and sweet little whimper, his blood rushed faster to the same place. And when they fell onto the bed, naked and ready and hungry for each other, every cell in his body was screaming for Jenna.
Her sighs whispered over him, as warm as her hands and as sweet as her lips. He found new places to kiss, turning her over, lifting her on him, and finally getting her on her back with her hair spilling over his pillow, her eyes closed with raw, unadulterated pleasure.
“Brock, please. Condom. You. Me. Now.”
He laughed softly at the somewhat pathetic plea, grabbing the packet from his nightstand and kneeling over her to put it on. While he did, she reached for his hips, still moving hers, biting her lip, groaning with nothing but need.
“Brock,” she whispered.
“You mean David.” He tossed the empty foil wrapper and settled back down to wrap her sexy thighs around him.
“I mean Brock.” Her voice was barely air, but he heard the words and the emotion behind them. “It’s Brock I…want.”
He found his way into her, sliding slowly, not breathing as the initial blinding rush of pleasure wrapped around his whole body.
“Brock,” she said into his mouth, mixing his name with a kiss. “That’s who I want. You. Not…some fantasy. You.”
He would have responded, but heat and friction took over, stealing his ability to string two words together, unless they were yes, faster, more, and holy hell, that feels good.
She arched sharply, her nails digging into his shoulders, her mouth against his skin, the same soft cry he’d heard the first night in the lightning. It pushed them both to the very edge, where he hovered while she lost control and rocked and rolled and clung to him as a climax racked her.
With each stroke, the pressure reached the breaking point, pushing and pulling and building until all he could do was open his eyes, look into hers, and free fall into a long, blinding release that felt like it lasted forever but would never be enough.
Finally, he relaxed onto her, spent and spinning and soaked with sweat.
Only then did Brock realize how entirely different this was than the first time.
As that hit him, he lifted his head, blinking in the dim light to look at her flushed face and sparkling eyes. Yes, she was the same woman he’d essentially hooked up with after an hour in the rain. The same body, hair, eyes, and sweet, sweet voice that he’d left the next morning with a promise for more that night.
Then why was this so different? Why was his heart and head getting in the game that belonged to an entirely different part of his body, in just a matter of a few weeks?
Her eyes opened slowly to look up at him. “Brock?”
That was one difference. He wasn’t David, he was Brock. But was that all?
“Everything okay?”
Was it? He let out a ragged breath and lowered himself so their bodies were in full contact again. “I don’t know,” he whispered, hearing the rough honesty in his voice.
She tried to push his shoulder back to see his face, but he kept his nose nuzzled in her neck and hair, inhaling something that smelled like Nana’s garden and moonlight and sex and deep kisses on the widow’s walk and lobster rolls and laughter and…oh no.
He was in love with her, that was the difference.
“Brock, what’s the matter?”
Nothing. Everything. The world was tilted, and he was…connected to her. And nothing in him wanted that to change. Ever.
“Jenna,” he whispered, slowly withdrawing from her body, but knowing that he was still in there, somehow.
“What?”
“You’re…” The only woman I ever want to be with.
“Yes?”
“I’m…” Hopelessly gone for you.
“You’re what?”
“That was…” Way more than just sex. “Great,” he finally managed.
She just laughed and pulled him against her. “It sure was. Rest up for round two, honey.”
Okay, maybe for her it wasn’t love, but he’d get her there. He knew he would.
* * *
Jenna woke with that sudden sharp clarity that usually meant a good idea had been gifted to her in her sleep. Something profound, something memorable, something worth writing about.
Brock.
She closed her eyes again and just let herself enjoy the indescribable comfort of his body curved against her back, the heavy arm tight around her waist, the male hardness pressed against her lower back.
Oh yes, he was profound, memorable, and worthy of every word she could conjure up. Like dear and sexy and good and wonderful, and he made her feel…she frowned, rooting for the word.
What was the opposite of lonely? Just as whole and complete and finished as a body could be. That’s what this man did to her.
There. That. Something…worth writing about.
That sense of clarity zipped through her again. A feeling she’d learned long ago not to ignore. A thread of something better than what she thought it could be.
The opposite of lonely.
That was the story of the Blackthornes, she realized with a start, going all the way back to Alistair and Meredith. That was their secret. The whole unit—cousins, brothers, aunts, uncles, grandparents, alive and dead—was so integrated that no one could or would ever be lonely when wrapped in the Blackthorne blanket.
She stirred, getting up against her will, needing to get to her laptop and write this concept, already thinking of the very fiber in Brock that made him so proud of being a Blackthorne. It’s what made them all proud. It wasn’t wealth or whisky or boats or businesses. It was an indescribable sense of alwaysness that anyone born to it would feel forever.
“Hey, hey.” He tightened his grip and held her in place. “No escape.”
“I have to—”
“Okay. Fast. Come right back afterward.”
“—write.”
He choked a laugh. “Impressive work ethic. Also dumb.” He slid his hand over her tummy, then lower. Much, much lower. “This, however…” His clever fingers moved into her. “Is very smart.”
Shuddering at his touch, she let him stroke her, but as powerful as the pull for more of him was, her idea was burning. It was pure Char May, really. That’s what she did to any subject or topic: She dug until she found the essence and then shone a spotlight on it.
“I need to write.”
He just laughed, turning her over. “You need to…oh, yeah, that’s your work face. Really? Now?”
She sighed, dragging her hand down to stroke him, sighing at the size and length and pure maleness of him. “I’m afraid you’ll make me forget my brilliant idea.”
He grunted as she let go of him. “I promise you my idea is more brilliant.”
“No, mine is…amazing.”
He eased back, his eyes comin
g into morning focus. “What is it?”
“I kind of want to surprise you, but I think I can finish the proposal now.”
He lifted a brow. “You’re forgetting who has final approval of whatever you write.”
“You can read it when I’m done. But I need some time this morning.” She slipped farther away, each inch a little painful as the sheets grew cooler.
“Parade’s at noon,” he said. “Don’t you want to ride the float with all the other Blackthornes?”
“Your family rides? I thought it was just some distillery and boatworks employees.”
“For the first part of the parade, we’ve always been on the float, ever since I was little. Kind of a show of family solidarity.”
She smiled, knowing she’d put that in her proposal. “I’d love to, but how much time do I have?”
He rolled over and picked up his phone to check the time, then frowned. “What the hell?” After a moment, he sat up, the scowl deepening as he brought the phone closer. “What the holy freaking hell?”
“What’s the matter?”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything, staring at the phone and making her ache to lean over and look at the screen, but the dismay—maybe fury—rolling off him held her back.
“Did you know he was going to do this?”
“Know…what? Who?”
Finally, he turned the phone to her, showing her what looked like a screenshot of an Instagram post, the picture suddenly extremely familiar. “Ollie took that,” she whispered, feeling a sick sensation in her belly.
“He might have, but you got the photo credit.” He pushed the phone a little closer so she could read the fine print on the Instagram account of the tabloid Celebrity Watch.
Celebrity biographer and daughter of superstar Char May, Jenna May Gillespie, teases readers with this photo taken as she conducts research for a shocking exposé of the Blackthornes, one of America’s wealthiest and most fascinating families. Recently separated from his wife, who has relocated to France in the wake of her own rumored affair, family patriarch and company CEO Graham Blackthorne is shown here with his latest conquest, the daughter of a major liquor distributor being acquired by Blackthorne Enterprises. Look for ON THE ROCKS, the can’t-miss insider’s view of the destruction that whisky, wealth, and women has brought to this family. Coming next year from Filmore & Fine.
She just stared at the words, biting back the bile that rose in her throat.
“Brock…this is utter garbage. The title, the picture, the caption, everything.”
He tapped the screen of his phone to reveal a string of texts she assumed were from his family.
Silent, he read the texts, then finally looked at her with nothing less than anguish in his eyes. “The McKinneys are talking about canceling the deal, four retailers closed their purchase orders, Devlin just lost a boat contract, and Imbibe Magazine just reposted this picture to ten thousand industry followers.”
“Oh, Brock. I’m so sorry.” She pulled the sheet up, suddenly aware of how exposed she was.
“I just hope my aunt doesn’t see this.”
“Ollie has to take that down, now. Let’s go find him and—”
“He’s staying at the Bickmore Hotel and you might want to check in, too.”
She froze. “Excuse me?”
“Graham has asked that you leave, immediately.” He climbed out of bed on the other side, grabbing a pair of sweats hanging over a chair. “We’re meeting in a few minutes to prepare a response and launch damage control before this gets any—”
“Brock, you can’t possibly blame me for this. You know I didn’t post it. You know none of that is true. You know…” She fisted the sheet at her chest, watching him move with precision and…ice. “You do blame me.”
“I blame myself,” he muttered. “I should have been more vigilant in protecting the family name. But if you can put some pressure on your buddy Ollie to get that taken down, it could help my family.”
My family. For reasons she didn’t understand, those two words cut her heart more than anything else. No, they didn’t cut her heart…they cut her out.
He pulled on a T-shirt and strode to the door, turning. “I have to go, Jenna. I’m…sad this has to end like this.”
“This…this morning or this relationship? What this are you talking about?”
“Look, I…I gotta fix this.”
He slipped out the door, closing it behind him and leaving her speechless and heartbroken. “No, Brock,” she whispered, sliding out of bed. “You have to fix this. Me. Us.”
But then, deep inside, she’d always known there wasn’t an us in her future—not with Brock, not with anyone. She didn’t know what the opposite of lonely was, and the truth was, she might never.
Chapter Eighteen
The weather didn’t look too promising for the big parade. But overcast skies were the least of Jenna’s problems. Right now, all she could think about was finding Ollie and demanding he take care of the situation.
The Bickmore Hotel was on the parade route, so the crowded lobby didn’t surprise Jenna when she walked in later that morning. All of the antique settees were full, and large groups peppered the gleaming hardwood floors of King Harbor’s upscale hotel. Would Ollie be down here, or would they ring his room for her?
Didn’t matter. If Jenna had to steal a maid’s uniform and knock on every door, she would. Of course, he’d ignored her calls, and his office was closed on a Saturday. But Jenna wasn’t going to let this go.
First, she was going to get that picture taken down. Then, she was going to call her agent and get out of this contract. And after all that, she’d find a way to prove to Brock that she had nothing but respect for his family. If she lost him, well, so be it. That would hurt. But she wouldn’t slink away without fixing the mess.
She scanned the lobby again, casing the three clerks to decide which might be the most likely to give her the room number of a guest. None, probably. Then she glanced at a bearded man in camo pants and a T-shirt walking toward the elevators and sucked in a shocked breath.
What the heck was Roger Platt doing here?
Without a second’s hesitation, she strode over to him, not sure how she expected him to react to seeing her here.
“Oh, I found you,” he exclaimed.
She sure hadn’t expected that. “You were looking for me?”
“Have been for a few days, but I never got your name, and I didn’t have the nerve or desire to hunt down a Blackthorne.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I called that book company you mentioned. Filmore? After six different people talked to me, I finally got through to a guy named…”
When he frowned, Jenna finished for him. “Oliver Hazlett.”
“Yeah. And I told him I needed to talk to you.”
Oliver never mentioned that last night, Jenna thought. Whatever Roger had, Oliver was going to take it and…do what with it? Make sure it sold books, the way salacious pictures did on Instagram? “Well, here I am. What do you need?”
He looked from one side to the other, and she automatically guided him to an empty seat under a window. “Here. Let’s talk.”
When they sat down, he stared at her, looking hard at her face.
“Yes?” she urged.
“After you left, I was pissed. And wanted to know why the hell we got mystery money for so long that the Platt family became pretty stupidly rich, but then it stopped.”
“I want to know, too.”
“So I went digging into the graves.”
She recoiled at that, but stayed silent.
“There ain’t no dead people there,” he said. “It’s where my granddad started keeping the money since he hated banks. Anyway, one of ’em was the first one my granddad dug, and he was the only one allowed to dig there. My grandma said you’d die if you tried, so no one ever did. Until you came, and then I decided to dig, and I found…”
“Money?”
He shook hi
s head. “These.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small white envelope, opening it and dumping something into his hand.
She leaned closer to see gold cufflinks with yellowish stones. “What are they?”
“Human teeth.”
She jerked back with a gasp. “What?”
“I heard it was a mob thing during Prohibition. Al Capone started it. Like a trophy for a kill.”
Her heart slammed as she took another quick look at his palm. “And…”
“And this was in the jar with them.” He pulled a card out of the envelope and handed it to her. The front was embossed in gold with nothing but one name: Augustino Satrielli.
“Who is that?”
“Turn it over.”
She did and read the tiny handwritten words.
W — Unless you want my next pair to be made of Alistair Blackthorne’s teeth, put the money and the recipe in the barrel that has both your names on it. You can save that son of a bitch. Or I can get new jewelry.
She looked up at him. “Maybe your great-grandfather saved Alistair’s life.” And maybe that’s why he paid the family seventy-two million dollars.
He shrugged and closed his fingers around the disgusting tooth jewelry. “’Cept I looked through every barrel we ever had at our place. Ain’t no barrel with both their names on it.”
Oh yes, there was.
For a long moment, she said nothing. Was it possible that something in that barrel they’d spotted in the distillery could remove any stain on the Blackthorne name? Maybe even polish it up, if Alistair had done something that good for the other family? At the very least, maybe Augustino left the recipe in there.
“Thank you, Roger.”
He stood up and shoved his hands and treasures into his pockets. “It’s a lot of money, and none of the living Platts know why we used to get it. We want to.”
“So do I.” As she stood, she stared at Roger for a long time, trying to decide if she’d rather have Ollie’s room number so she could march up there to demand he get that picture taken down…or head back to that distillery to possibly get her hands on the best-kept secret in Blackthorne history. One that would show the world one of the many reasons they had a right to be proud.
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