Billionaire Bridegroom

by Peggy Moreland

  He swung his head around, took a quick glance at her rear end, then looked away again. “Yeah. It’s tight.”

  Pleased, she dropped down beside him again. “Okay. Now, second question. Does it turn you on when a woman touches you?”

  “Depends on where she touches.”

  “How about on your arm?”

  He dropped an elbow over his knee, and turned his hat between his hands, watching its slow movement. “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  He turned to scowl at her; “On what she’s wearing when she’s doing the touching.” He rammed his hat back on his head. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “I’m going to sleep.” He flopped down on his back, pulling the brim of his hat over his face.

  “Oh, come on, Woody,” Becky begged, scooting over next to him. “Just a few more questions.

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because every question you ask, I could answer with ‘depends.’”

  “Depends, on what?”

  “On a lot of things.”

  “Like, what?”

  He whipped off his hat to glare at her. “Like everything‘ The time of day. The weather. My mood. Hell, a woman could walk through my office buck naked, and if I was busy or had my mind on something else, I wouldn’t even notice.” He slapped the hat back over his face.

  Becky’s mouth fell open. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Serious as a heart attack.”

  “But I thought men were on point all the time? You know, kind of like a hunting dog, sniffing out a trail.”

  He lifted his hat again, just high enough to see her face. “Where’d you get a crazy idea like that?”

  “From you.”

  “Me!” he echoed, pushing himself up to one elbow. “I’ve never said anything like that to you in my life.”

  “No, but I’ve watched you and the other guys at the barbecues you have over at the Golden Steer. Y‘all always line up by the beer keg and eyeball the women as they pass by. There’s always a lot of elbowing and raised eyebrows when a woman with a good figure passes by.”

  He fell back against his saddle, slamming his hat over his face again. “You’re nuts.”

  “I’m not, either!” she cried. “And if you think I believe that a woman could walk naked through your office and you not notice, then you’re the one who’s nuts, ‘cause I don’t believe it for one minute.” She flopped to her back beside him and folded her arms stubbornly across her chest.

  Slowly he pulled his hat from his face and rolled to his side to glare at her. “Whether you choose to believe it or not, it’s the God’s truth.”

  “Oh, really?” she replied, returning his glare. She lifted a hand to the top button of her shirt and toyed with it. “So, if I were to take off my shirt right now, it wouldn’t have any effect on you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  “How much?”

  “Five bucks.”

  Forrest snorted and waved away the offer. “Don’t waste my time.”

  “Okay, then, Mr. Deep Pockets. You name the price.”

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully as he studied her. “A thousand dollars.”

  Becky’s eyes widened in shock. “A thousand dollars! I don’t have a thousand dollars to gamble.”

  He chuckled and rolled over onto his back. “Not too sure of your feminine charms, are you, if you’re already worried about losing?”

  Furious, Becky sat up. “Okay, a thousand dollars, it is—if you win. But if I win, then you have to promise to teach me everything you know about sex.”

  Forrest tried not to look smug. The odds were definitely in his favor. There was no way in hell that Becky was going to bare her chest to him. She was way too modest. “Okay, you got yourself a deal.”

  She immediately dipped her chin, and went to work. “Be prepared to lose,” she muttered, tugging frantically at her shirt’s top button.

  Forrest watched her struggle with the button in growing horror, realizing too late his mistake. He’d forgotten the lengths that Becky would go to meet a dare. What in the hell had he been thinking when he had issued a challenge like that?

  But a second mistake quickly followed the first—and this one was even more foolish.

  He let his gaze slip to her hands.

  She’d managed to open one button and was close to freeing a second, but so far she’d only exposed a little more of her throat and the shadowed hollow at its base. As he watched, firelight danced over the bared skin, turning it to a warm gold. The second button slipped free, revealing a strip of white cotton and a swell of breasts that rose and fell with each furious breath she took. His gaze settled on the shadowed channel that lay between. He swallowed hard at the enticing sight and tried to turn away...but discovered that he couldn’t. What he wanted to do was place his lips there. Taste her. See if she tasted as sweet as she looked.

  Another button slipped free.

  “Becky?”

  “What?” she snapped impatiently, her fingers fumbling clumsily at the next button.

  “Stop.”

  “Oh, no,” she cried furiously. “I’m not going to lose this dang bet. I’m going to prove you wrong.”

  Knowing that if he didn’t do something, and fast, she was going to lose something more precious than a bet. Something more like her virginity. He clamped a hand over hers.

  She snapped her gaze to his. “What?” she snapped angrily.

  “Don’t.”

  She jerked, trying to break free, then froze, slowly becoming aware of the desperation in the fingers that vised hers. Slower still she noticed the heat in his eyes, the intensity with which he was looking at her.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “I turned you on,” she whispered in disbelief.

  He jerked his hand from hers and rolled to his side, turning his back to her. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  She dropped to her hands and knees and crawled to peer over his shoulder. “Then why’d you make me stop?”

  “Because.”

  “Because, why?”

  “Because I don’t want to look at you without your clothes on.”

  Feeling the sting of rejection, Becky rocked back on her heels, pulling the plackets of her shirt together in a fist.

  “I won,” she murmured, though she didn’t feel much like a winner.

  “So what?” he growled.

  “So you have to make good on your end of the deal. You have to teach me everything you know about sex.”

  Five

  Bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, Forrest pushed his way wearily through the back door of his house.

  “Wipe your feet before you come inside.”

  He stopped cold at the sound of his mother’s voice, one dusty boot on the tiled kitchen floor, the other still outside the door. “What are you doing here?”

  Turning from the stove where she was frying bacon, Kathleen Cunningham planted a fist on her hip. “Well, good morning to you, too.”

  Knowing from his mother’s tone that he’d offended her, Forrest closed the door behind him and frowned. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I just thought you and dad were still in London.”

  “We would be, but your father decided to come home early.” She laughed as she rose to her toes to place a kiss on his cheek. “Said he couldn’t stand being around people who couldn’t speak proper English.” She thumbed away the streak of lipstick she’d left on his face, and pursed her lips in displeasure when he ducked away from her hand. “And what are you so grumpy about this morning?”

  He headed for the refrigerator. “I’m not grumpy.”

  She arched a brow. “Oh, really? Could have fooled me.”

  He yanked out a gallon of milk, then butted the door closed with his hip. “I’m not grumpy,” he repeated defensively. “I’m tired. I’ve been up all night.” He lifted the jug to his lips.

  “Forrest...” she said, the word heavy with warning.

  Milk slo
shed, spilling down the front of his shirt.

  “Dammit, Mom!” he complained. “There’s nobody here, but me. I ought to be able to drink straight out of the milk jug, if I want.”

  “I’m here,” she reminded him and handed him a glass. “And watch your mouth. You know very well that I don’t allow cursing in my presence.”

  He heaved a breath. Thirty-five years old and his mother still treated him like a little boy. The hell of it was, he felt like one when in her presence. “Sorry,” he muttered.

  She gave his cheek an affectionate pat. “You’re forgiven. Just make sure it doesn’t happen again, though,” she warned as she turned back to her cooking, “or I’ll have to wash out your mouth with soap.”

  Tired as he was, Forrest found the energy to chuckle.

  “Where’ve you been all night?” she asked, then quickly amended the question. “Or do I want to know?”

  “Nowhere that would shock your tender sensibilities. Just out hunting coyotes.”

  “Are they giving you trouble?”

  He set the jug and glass on the table, then dropped wearily into a chair, rocking it back on two legs. One look from his mother, and he lowered it back to the floor. “Some. Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Did Becky go with you?”

  He scowled as he filled the glass with milk. “Yeah.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Fine, I guess.”

  “Such a sweet girl,” she remarked, smiling fondly as she transferred the bacon to a plate.

  “Sweet?” Forrest snorted his disagreement.

  “Yes, she’s sweet,” his mother insisted, then held up an egg. “Boiled or poached?”

  “Fried.”

  “Bad for your cholesterol.”

  “I don’t have a problem with my cholesterol.”

  “You will, if you don’t start eating properly.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the way I eat.”

  “Heavens!” she exclaimed in consternation. “You’re certainly in a foul mood this morning.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my mood.”

  “You’ve done nothing but grumble and grump since you walked in the back door.”

  “I told you, I’m tired.”

  “So go to bed.”

  “I intend to, as soon as I eat some breakfast.”

  With a sniff of annoyance, she spooned grease over his eggs, preparing them just the way he liked them. “You’ll have to sleep in one of the guest rooms. I changed the linens on your bed and they’re still in the dryer.”

  “You didn’t need to do that. Marie takes care of the housework.”

  “A house needs more than a good going over once a week.”

  “I’m hardly ever here to make a mess. Once a week is plenty.”

  “You work too hard. You ought to be at home more.”

  He choked on a laugh. “And you think I’ve done nothing but grumble and grump?”

  Lifting her chin, she scooped the eggs from the skillet and onto a plate. “I’m not grumpy. I’m a mother.”

  Chuckling, Forrest rose and crossed to her. He slung an arm around her shoulders and stooped to peck a kiss on her cheek. “And a good one, at that.”

  Her expression softened and she smiled wistfully, wrapping an arm around his waist and hugging him to her side. “I miss having you to take care of.”

  “Isn’t taking care of dad enough to keep you busy?”

  “No. I need children. Grandchildren,” she corrected, and looked up at him pointedly. “When are you going to get around to giving me some?”

  He heaved a sigh. “Hel-heck,” he quickly amended, remembering her threat about the soap and not at all sure she wouldn’t carry it out. “I don’t know. Someday, I guess.” He headed for the table, hoping to escape the interrogation he was sure was coming.

  She followed right behind him with his plate. “Are you seeing any one special?”

  He dropped down onto a chair. “No one in particular.”

  She set the plate in front of him. “Which is exactly your problem,” she lectured as she pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down. “You need to settle down and focus on one woman.”

  “What woman?” he said in disgust. “There’s not a woman in the entire county that I’d want to settle down with.”

  She plucked a linen napkin from the basket on the table and pushed it into his hand. “Surely there’s someone.”

  “There’s not. Believe me, I know.”

  “What about Becky?”

  Forrest jerked his head up. “Becky Sullivan?”

  She waved a hand at his shocked look. “Oh, I know that you’re a good deal older than her, but once a person reaches adulthood, a difference in age is no longer a factor.” She leaned forward and added pointedly, “And you certainly can’t find fault with her, since you had a hand in raising her yourself.”

  Forrest dropped his gaze to his plate and scraped another helping of eggs onto his fork. “Becky’s engaged,” he mumbled.

  Kathleen fell back against her chair, her eyes widening in surprise. “Becky’s engaged? To who?”

  “Some guy from Wichita.”

  “Well, I’ll swan,” she murmured. A slow smile began to curve at her lips. “Imagine that,” she said dreamily. “Our little Becky getting married.”

  Forrest looked from his mother’s smiling face to the sunny-side-up-eggs he’d just scooped, then dropped his fork to his plate in disgust. Why did everybody but him seem to be happy about Becky’s upcoming marriage? He pushed back his chair and tossed his napkin to the table. “Thanks for breakfast, Mom.”

  “But you didn’t finish eating,” she cried, glancing at his plate, then back up at him. “Are you sick?”

  “No. Just tired. I’m going to bed.”

  “Oh, all right then,” she said, waving him away with her hand. “But don’t sleep too long, or you won’t be worth killing tonight at Sterling’s party. Oh, and Forrest!” she called after him. “I steamed your tux for you. And wear the silk paisley cummerbund that I brought you back from our trip to Italy last spring. It’s in your closet on the—”

  Forrest closed the door of the guest room, cutting off the sound of his mother’s voice.

  Somehow he was going to have to produce these grandchildren she wanted so badly, if for no other reason than to take the pressure off of him.

  He stripped quickly and crawled between the covers, sighing his pleasure as he stretched out over the cool satin sheets.

  But the second he closed his eyes, the image of Becky kneeling on her bedroll beside the campfire popped onto that theater screen behind his eyelids. Her face flushed with fury, her fingers tugging frantically at her shirt’s buttons. The enticing swell of firm breasts she exposed. The shadowed valley between.

  Groaning, he rolled to his stomach and buried his head under his pillow. He squeezed his eyes shut, determined to keep the image at bay.

  But the image returned. That mane of red hair curtaining her flushed face as she struggled with the stubborn buttons. That first glimpse of fire-kissed flesh.

  And this time Forrest was too exhausted to fight back the image.

  It grew and lengthened, his imagination spinning out a different ending. Instead of closing his hand over hers and stopping her, he...

  ... moved to kneel in front of her. “Here. Let me,” he whispered. Gently he brushed aside her hands and replaced them with his own. His gaze on hers, he unfastened each button, watching her green eyes darken when he smoothed his hands across her collarbone. He felt a shiver chase through her as he pushed the shirt over her slender shoulders. Rocking back on his heels, he lowered his gaze to her chest and watched the firelight dance over her exposed skin.

  “Oh, Becky, ” he said on a shuddery sigh. “What have you been hiding from me?” Unable to resist, he leaned forward and pressed his lips in the shadowed valley between her breasts, savoring the sweet innocence of her flesh, the scent of her. He heard, as well as felt, her sharp
intake of breath... then the slow relaxing of her body toward him. Slipping his arms around her, he unhooked her bra and freed her breasts, baring her to the waist. The color of rich cream, her firm mounds quivered in the cool night air as if begging for his touch. Reverently he took them in his hands, testing their weight, then stroked his thumbs over her nipples, watching them bud. Hungry for the taste of her, he dipped his head over first one, then the other, suckling gently.

  He heard her gasp of surprise as he raked his tongue over the knotted flesh, felt the vibration against his lips... then her hands were in his hair, drawing his face closer to her.

  He would take things slow, he promised himself as he felt his blood heat. He’d teach her what she seemed so hell-bent on learning, prove to her that he was the only man for her. He stroked her flesh, smoothing his palms over her back, letting her grow accustomed to his touch, while he whispered words of praise and adulation in her ear.

  Guiding her down to the bedroll, he stripped her of her jeans and boots, then removed his own, before stretching out beside her. Smoothing his fingertips from the hollow of her throat, down through the valley between her breasts, he finally reached the rise of her feminine mound. He closed his hand over her nest as he dipped his face over hers, covering her mouth with his. He teased her lips apart with his tongue, then dove deep inside. Her hands tightened in his hair and her groan of pleasure vibrated against his lips, his chest. Slowly he began to stroke her, showing her what all her body was capable of feeling, of experiencing.

  Her response both surprised and pleased him, her readiness obvious in the increased pressure of her body against his. He rolled on top of her, mounting her, his need for her as strong as hers for him. With his breath burning in his lungs, he pressed his arousal against her. Tight. Oh, but she was tight. He pressed harder, heard her whimper, and eased back, soothing her with kisses on her eyes, her throat, her cheeks. “It’s okay, Becky,” he murmured. “We don’t have to do this.”

  When he started to roll away, she wrapped her arms around him, stopping him. “No, please, Woody,” she whispered “I want this. You.”

  With a groan, he closed his mouth over hers and...

  Forrest sat up in bed, his hands fisted in the cool satin sheets, his chest heaving. He looked wildly around the room, expecting to find the campfire and Becky...and slowly came to the realization that he was in the guest room alone.