Christmas at Bravo Ridge

by Christmas at Bravo Ridge (lit)

  Corrine grinned. "But someone's got to do it."

  "That's right. And speaking of family, I hope you and Kira will come, too."

  Corrine considered. "Thanksgiving at Bravo Ridge. That would be…different."

  Mercy frowned. "You're not telling me you've never been invited before?"

  "No, I'm not. Matt's tried for years to get me to come here for holidays with the whole Bravo crew—and he always included my mom in the invitation, too, before she died."

  "But you never accepted?"

  "No. Kira comes for Thanksgiving every other year, though. She was with me last year, so you can expect her this time."

  "Why wouldn't you come, too?"

  "Truth?"

  "Please."

  "Davis has never been my favorite person. It just wasn't my idea of a good time, coming here for a family get-together, wondering what mean thing he might say to me."

  Mercy wore a knowing look. "He's treated you badly?"

  "He has. He never did like the idea of me and Matt together. And he hated that I had Kira. He thought it was totally white trash of me to get pregnant without being married—not that he ever wanted me for a daughter-in-law. I'm not up to his standards. Which is fine with me. He's not up to mine, either."

  Mercy shook her head. "He tried to come between Luke and me."

  "I can't say I'm surprised."

  "There's more. He didn't only try to get Luke to dump me. He also tried to get between Ash and Tessa. And Gabe and Mary." Ash and Gabe were the other two married Bravo sons. "Tessa told me he really pushed to get Ash to forget about her and stick with his engagement to Lianna Mercer. The story on the street is that Lianna dumped him…"

  "I never believed that," Corrine said.

  "Me neither. And Gabe said that Davis tried to lean on him to stop seeing Mary."

  "What is his problem?"

  Mercy suggested, "Just your average old, rich, white dude?"

  They laughed together. Then Corrine admitted, "He does seem to be trying lately, though."

  Mercy agreed. "After he got used to the idea that his three oldest sons married the 'wrong' women, he's treated us all decently—even affectionately. Also, I think Aleta walking out on him has shaken him up some. And really, he loves his children. It's his main redeeming quality. He wants his sons to be happy. Even more than he wants them to marry rich women with connections in the world of big business." She slanted Corrine a smile. "Did you know that Luke and I are having a baby?"

  "Aleta told me. Congratulations."

  Mercy laid her hand on her softly rounded tummy. "We want to have at least four."

  Corrine thought of Kira. "They do change your life in the most amazing ways."

  Mercy gazed at her steadily. "Come for Thanksgiving. Please."

  Corrine thought about Matt, wondered how things would be going between them by then. And then she reminded herself not to be negative, that it wouldn't hurt her at all to assume the best possible outcome—whatever that might be.

  "Say yes," Mercy urged.

  "Well, okay, then. Yes. I'll be here."

  * * *

  They stayed at the ranch for dinner that night. And when they all went back to Corrine's, it was after eight.

  Kira had her bath and Matt tucked her in. Around nine, Aleta and Davis said good-night and went upstairs together.

  Once they were gone, Matt pulled Corrine close. "I thought they'd never leave."

  "They're not gone—they're right upstairs."

  He kissed the end of her nose. "When is she going to move back in with him?"

  "Mercy and I were wondering about that, too."

  "And?"

  "I'm thinking soon. Also, Mercy asked me to Thanksgiving dinner." Corinne paused for effect. "I said I would come."

  "You're kidding."

  "No, Matt. I'm not. I'll be there."

  He studied her face for a second or two. And then he grunted, a satisfied sound. "About damn time." He kissed her, fiercely at first, but then more tenderly. It became one of those kisses, the best kind, the kind that go on and on.

  When the kiss finally ended, she sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. "I would love to lead you upstairs and take off all your clothes, but…"

  He understood. "It's a little crowded around your house lately."

  "Mmm-hmm." She stared into the fire, feeling lazy and content, wrapped in his arms, watching the flames leap and dance.

  "I had a great time today." He kissed the crown of her head.

  "Me, too."

  He tipped her chin up, brushed another kiss across her lips, a sweet one, light and quick. "We should spend Sundays together more often. If you married me, we could—"

  She punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Give it up."

  He caught her face between his big, warm hands. "We didn't really talk about it the other night when you turned me down."

  "What's to talk about?" She tried to keep it light.

  He wasn't having that. "What have you got against marriage?"

  She took his wrists, pushed them away, and she spoke more firmly than before. "We've been through this."

  He let go—but he didn't back off. "You're not answering me."

  "I've got nothing against marriage. Remember, until about two weeks ago, I was engaged."

  "Then what? You resent me for screwing up the thing you had with Bob?"

  "Of course not. I told you. If it was right with Bob, I never would have spent the night with you."

  "So you don't resent me for ruining the thing you had with Bob and you have no issues with marriage?"

  "No, I don't. On both counts. And can we please—"

  He cut her off. "Well, all right, then. What have you got against marriage to me?"

  "I like things the way they are, okay?"

  "No, it's not okay. I want to understand what the deal is, what's keeping you from even considering saying yes." He spoke in a gentle tone that belied the determination in his eyes.

  She almost asked him why it was suddenly so important to him, the whole marriage thing. But she stopped herself just in time. Asking him why would only encourage him.

  He added, "And even if you're going to stick with saying no, I don't see why we can't at least talk it over."

  "Matt. Please."

  "Please, what?"

  "You're just…" She didn't finish. Maybe she'd get lucky and he'd give it up.

  Not a chance. "What? I'm just, what?"

  "You're just such a total…man."

  "And this is bad?"

  "Of course not. In a lot of ways, it's terrific."

  "But."

  "Because you're a man, you don't just talk things over for the sake of a good discussion or to work something out in your own mind."

  "So?"

  "So when men talk things over, they always have a definite goal they're shooting for. They're always working to get the other person to see the light—which, to a man, means to do what they want the other person to do."

  "You think I'm manipulating you."

  "Matt. No. I don't. I told you. I think you're trying to convince me to see the light. Your light. You're trying to get me to see things your way. And you're wasting your time. There's no point in talking with me about something that isn't going to happen."

  "Because I'm a man and men never talk about things that aren't going to happen."

  "Right. I mean it. There's no way we're getting married. I'm totally firm on this and no matter what you say, you're not changing my mind."

  He was silent. They stared into the fire together for a time. Then he said, "Is it about your dad?"

  "Matt, come on."

  "Well, is it?"

  "I hardly remember him."

  "He abandoned you. Just walked out the door and never came back. Are you scared I'm going to do that to you?"

  You bet I am. "Please. Seriously. We're not getting married and I'm…" What? She didn't even know how to finish her own sentence. He had her spinning in c
ircles. "Look. Can we just stop talking about it?"

  He caught her chin again, made her look at him. "I'm not leaving you, Corrie. I never have and I never will."

  "I know that. I…appreciate that so much, the kind of dad you are to our daughter. I know she will always be able to count on you. That's really something. I wish I'd had a dad like you. But marriage? Uh-uh. No way. I want your word that you're going to stop asking me."

  "You want my word." His eyes burned into hers.

  "That's what I said."

  "Why do you need my word? If there's nothing I can do to convince you to change your mind, well, what's the harm in talking about it?"

  "Because it's a waste of time."

  "Not to me."

  "Matt. I mean it. I really do want your word that you'll shut up about marriage."

  "Well, too bad. You're not getting it."

  Chapter Eight

  Matt forced himself to drive home slowly.

  When he got there, the house was too damned quiet. He turned on the flat screen in his bedroom, cranked the volume up high. And then he sank to the end of the bed and watched a couple of big brunettes yell at each other on some reality show or other.

  At the first commercial break, he changed the channel. Nothing much was on. When he got fed up with surfing, he turned the damn thing off.

  The silence, after all that racket, was downright deafening. He tossed the remote toward a chair across the room and fell back onto the bed. It was still unmade after last night. He'd never gotten around to it that morning. And Greta, his housekeeper, had weekends off.

  Last night had been good.

  All nights with Corrie were good.

  He closed his eyes and imagined her naked. It took the edge off his fury with her, at least a little.

  The house phone rang. He reached over and grabbed the cordless from the nightstand. "Yeah."

  Corrie said, "You still mad at me?"

  A smile tried to creep up on him, despite his intention to keep the anger going. "I mowed down five innocent pedestrians on the drive home. It's all your fault."

  "At least you kept it under ten."

  He couldn't help thinking what a damn fine friend she was. And the best lover he'd ever known. Maybe she was right. Why mess with success? "I'm still mad. But I'll get over it."

  "Whew."

  "My dad left yet?"

  "Nope. He's staying the night. And most likely tomorrow night. And the night after that. Every night your mom will let him, until she's finally ready to go home to him."

  "I have an idea—and don't get your defenses up. It has nothing to do with the M-word."

  "Umm?" It was a seductive, inviting sound. He could see her, in bed, her eyes low and lazy. The image had him thinking about all the really exciting things he would like to do to her body. She suggested, "I'm listening."

  "Stay here, with me."

  "Uh, when?"

  "Tomorrow night. Every night you feel like getting away from my parents."

  "You wouldn't mind?"

  "If I minded, I wouldn't have offered."

  "Not on work nights, though, right? I'd be disturbing you. I don't get home till two-thirty. Sometimes later."

  He imagined her, in the middle of the night, slipping into bed with him, trying not to wake him. The idea pleased him. "Any time is good. No matter how late."

  "What about Kira?"

  "This is her home, too. Bring her. Or leave her with her grandma. Whatever works on any given night."

  "Matt. You sound so…flexible."

  "Because I am. Mostly."

  "Yeah. You are. You really are." She was smiling. He could hear it in her voice. "I…I think the world of you, Matt."

  So why won't you marry me?

  He didn't ask. He was done asking. "Tomorrow night, then? The Rose is closed, so you can come for dinner. And bring Kira. I'll have Greta whip us up her famous German meatballs, with Black Forest cake for dessert. Kira loves Black Forest cake…"

  "Matt, I…"

  He waited. But she said no more. Fair enough. "All right." He spoke in a tone both flat and final. "See you then."

  * * *

  Corrine felt semi-rotten.

  Okay, more than semi. Just plain rotten. Totally rotten.

  She knew she had hurt Matt, not only by refusing his proposal—twice—but also by not explaining herself.

  Except she had explained herself. Things were good with them and why take a chance of ruining that?

  He wasn't buying her reasoning. He was certain she had deeper, darker reasons for turning him down. And maybe she did.

  But really, she saw no point in going into those sad, old, pitiful reasons. She couldn't see how revealing her deepest secrets would help him to accept her decision on this. The way she saw it, digging up old garbage wouldn't do anything but stink up the place.

  He would get past this. They would get past it. They had a very good thing going and there was no reason to make any big changes. No reason to take scary chances that could end badly. Marriage was a big step. Too big a step.

  She and Kira got to his place at six the next evening. They ate dinner. They watched TV for an hour. Kira had her bath and Matt tucked her into bed and read to her until she fell asleep.

  Corrine went to his bedroom to wait for him. When he joined her, she was sitting on the bed, wearing nothing but a welcoming smile.

  He came and stood above her. She looked up at him, at his dear face, at his eyes that were turning smoky-gray with arousal. He said, "You are so damn sexy."

  "Thanks."

  "I think I should probably lock the door."

  "Do it."

  He went and turned the privacy lock. Then he returned and stood above her again, looking down at her, his gray gaze hot as the barrel of a smoking gun. "It's good. To have you here."

  "Thank you. For inviting me." Her heart had found a slower, deeper rhythm—the rhythm of desire.

  "Your eyes are midnight blue right now…" He was already hard for her, the bulge at his zipper more than obvious.

  She extended a hand and cupped him through his trousers, hiding her woman's smile when a low groan escaped him. "You have too many clothes on."

  "Yeah?"

  "Umm-hmm." She stood and went to work on the buttons of his shirt.

  He captured her hands. And then her mouth. And then he gathered her into him and kissed her so hard and deep it made her whole body hum with yearning, with that bone-melting need only he could ease.

  Then he released her and got out of his clothes. He opened the drawer by the bed and took out a condom, tore off the wrapper and put it on.

  "Oh, Matt…" She reached for him.

  He grabbed her close. They fell across the waiting sheets, rolling, mouths locked together.

  It was wild and good and more than a little rough. She reveled in it—in the roughness and the sheer sexual glory of it—crying out in pleasure when he scraped his teeth along her neck, when he caught her nipple and sucked it hard. He kissed his way down the center of her body, tugging on her navel ring so carefully, with his teeth, then going lower.

  All the way. He kissed her there, where she wanted him most. He knew the spot, never had any problem finding it. He found the place and he worked his own special brand of magic there, sucking and teasing, stroking with that wicked tongue of his, until she begged him with wordless, whimpering sounds.

  She caught his head, speared her fingers into his thick, spiky hair, and pressed her yearning body hard against his mouth. He didn't stop. He went on and on, tormenting her in the most perfect way. It was his own special revenge against her, she knew. For refusing to accept the ring he had offered.

  For keeping herself just a little apart from him. For insisting on protecting that final central part of her life from the possibility of the havoc he could wreak on her—had wreaked on her, once upon a time.

  He made her suffer in the most glorious way, coaxing her to the brink once, pushing her over. And then waiting, bac
king off a little, his warm breath soothing her, easing her heat, until he sensed she was ready again. And again. And then again.