The room fell silent.
Brant looked down at his shoes, his face unreadable, while Jane locked eyes with Brock. Her expression was sad—not necessarily pitying, but close enough. God, he hated pity.
Almost as much as he hated being a yes man.
“Hey.” Jane slowly made her way over to him. “Bentley said something about horses. Do you think…” Her cheeks burned bright red. “Maybe I could get on one?”
Damn it, she was cute when she was nervous.
Cute was dangerous.
Cute made you want to care.
Cute made you want more than one fleeting night of passion where you left in the morning without saying good-bye.
And suddenly, the conversation he’d just had with his grandfather was thrust into the forefront of his mind. Hadn’t his intention been to kiss her senseless when he marched back to the house? It had been, until his brothers had decided to seduce her with baked goods.
“Here.” Bentley was suddenly at his side with a small backpack. “I have all the essentials: screw top wine, cheeses, crackers, grapes, and a few cookies I managed to hide from Brant.”
“Bastard,” Brant muttered.
Brock took the bag, wondering what Bentley as about, but as always, Bentley was the king of hiding what he was really feeling, which made it damn near impossible for Brock to know if his brother was being conniving or caring.
“Thanks.” Brock took the bag and put it over his shoulder while Jane smiled and limped toward the door, opening it for both of them.
“Careful,” Bentley said in a quiet voice. “Just”—he licked his lips—“It’s private property but you never know… If the press finds you here…with Jane, Grandfather will have a stroke. We already have enough to worry about with the auction looming over the family—the last thing you need is the media somehow catching wind.”
Tensing, Brock gave a jerky nod then followed Jane outside, passing a curious Brant on the way.
Jane was next to the barn, the rooster by her feet. It looked like the damn cock had decided he wanted to be friends rather than enemies.
“He’s not so bad.” She laughed still standing on one foot and leaning on the barn wall.
The cock flapped up toward Brock. He stumbled back. “Yeah, completely tame.”
Jane laughed again. “So, which horse is yours?”
“Buttercup.” Brock felt his chest swell with pride. “My grandfather gave her to me right before…”
Her hand touched his shoulder. “Before?”
“Before my parents died. And then after everything happened, he always tried to encourage me to ride her. Grandfather hoped it would bring me out of depression.”
“Did it?”
“I’m a firm believer that animals can sense your emotions. Take Diablo, for example. He thinks I’m going to steal his hens and he attacks. Animals have the potential to heal, as long as you remember the cardinal rule.” He grabbed a blanket and threw it over Buttercup, then reached for the saddle.
Jane took a step back, her eyes rapt with fascination as he buckled the saddle. “What’s the cardinal rule?”
Brock’s fingers stopped moving as he looked over his shoulder at Jane. “They’re still wild.”
Jane’s eyes grew wide. “Does that apply to humans as well?”
“Jane, are you accusing me of being wild?”
“Well…” She crossed her arms. “I definitely wouldn’t accuse you of being tame.”
“I don’t think anyone”—he reached for the harness—“has ever accused me of being anything but boring.”
“Really?” Jane’s eyes narrowed. “No staying out late in high school? Partying in college? Wild raves with that grandfather of yours? Orgies?”
Brock’s hand slipped at the word “orgy.” Sighing, he gently put the bit in Buttercup’s mouth. “Sorry to disappoint, but if I ran for congress, my grandfather would probably have more dirt than me. I’m clean.”
“That’s too bad,” Jane said, surprising him. “Sometimes my most favorite days that I can think back on are the ones where I was dirty.”
His heart picked up speed as her eyes lit up with amusement. “You know, mud pies, that sort of thing.”
“Sure. Because that’s where a thirty-five-year-old man’s mind goes: mud pies.”
“I figured,” she teased, lifting a shoulder in the air.
Damn it, he already felt the familiar strain of his dick against the button of his fly as she giggled and ran her hands down Buttercup’s face then brushed a kiss across the velvet of her nose.
Clearing his throat, he attached the backpack to the saddle and held out his hand. “Are you ready to ride?”
It was the wrong thing to say.
Completely.
However, she lifted her chin up, her eyes both challenging and excited. “Are you?”
He let out a groan and tugged her against him. “You know a man can only take so much.”
“Cleanliness?”
“Yeah.” He eyed her up and down. “That’s right.”
“So.” She linked her arms around his neck. “How do we ride this thing?”
Buttercup neighed.
Jane jumped back on her one good foot, nearly falling on her ass.
Brock smiled and reached for her hips and lifted. “Up you go.”
“Ahh!” Jane let out a little squeak. The minute she was in the saddle, her hands found the horn and gripped tight. “It’s high.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“Super high.”
“I know.”
“This horse is tall.”
Buttercup neighed like she knew she was getting a compliment.
“I’ll be right behind you.”
“You better be.” Jane clenched her teeth. “You know when Bentley mentioned this, I wasn’t imagining I’d be riding Goliath.”
“You have no idea how desperately I want to comment on that, but I think it might make you blush again.”
She laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, one that said he’d better hurry his ass up before she burst into tears.
He heaved himself up behind her and grabbed the reins and she automatically slid backward. A grunt erupted between his clenched teeth at the soft contact of her ass.
He was going to murder his brother.
This was a horrible idea.
Not because he wasn’t enjoying himself, but because he was enjoying himself too much, outside; where anyone could see them, and now he was paranoid. Especially after Bentley’s warning.
She moved, just slightly.
Terrible idea.
All he wanted to do was take her back to the house and kiss her—everywhere. Because her mouth, as tempting as it was, wouldn’t be enough. Already he’d tasted and wanted more. Her neck, her fingers, her thighs—he wanted his mouth everywhere.
Another slight movement had him inwardly groaning.
His body burned as she thrust back against him. It was all he could do not to take her right here on this horse. Cameras be damned.
“Comfortable?” His teeth were still clenched; he gripped the reins as if his life depended on it.
“Yes.” Her voice was wobbly, unsure.
“Shall we see how fast Buttercup can gallop?” he teased.
“S-sure.”
“Relax,” he whispered in her ear. The temptation to lick her neck was utterly ridiculous, but there it was. “We’re going to walk nice and slow.”
“I like walking.”
“Good.” He pulled on the reins and whistled. Buttercup ambled out of the barn, and past the cock who’d suddenly gone silent as the horse went by.
“Oh, oh, wow.” Jane dug her nails into his arm, which she’d had in a death grip since he’d gotten on behind her. “This is, this is—”
“Nice?”
She laughed. “Yeah, really nice.”
“Do you want to go faster?”
“Maybe…”
“Come on, live a little.”
�
�Where has Boring Brock disappeared to?”
“Eh, I left him back in the barn with the cock.”
Jane let her head fall back against his chest as she laughed. “The poor cock is going to commit roostercide. Poor guy will be so bored, what will he do?”
“Did you just call me boring?”
She shrugged and then glanced over her shoulder. “I’ve just noticed a certain lack of color.”
“I wear color,” he said defensively, looking down at his black T-shirt. “I just didn’t bring anything like that with me.”
“Mmm, I see.”
“All right, you’ve asked for it.”
“Oh?”
“I hate to do this, but you better hold on. Clearly I have something to prove.”
“Brock—”
“Hold tight, Jane,” he whispered in her ear, just as he dug his heels into Buttercup’s sides. The horse took off at a gallop. Thankfully, riding a horse was like riding a bike: you didn’t forget.
Jane let out a loud gasp. Earlier Brock hadn’t thought she could grip him any harder—he was wrong. He’d have nail prints in his arms for days. But she was safe with him; he wouldn’t let her fall.
Jane’s hair was blowing in his face and it smelled like raspberries. He inhaled deeply.
Trouble. He was in so much trouble.
Because for a moment, the temptation to look beyond the next two weeks was almost too much to resist. There might be a life where he was able to have Jane in his arms like this, where he wouldn’t be paranoid about his Grandfather dying over a simple word—or worried that a camera would catch him kissing a woman he actually had feelings for.
He had once loved this ranch.
And she was making him love it again, but she was part of it. The ranch without Jane would just be a house.
She made it feel like home.
Hell, he was so happy he’d even let the cock stay.
Outdoors, of course.
Eventually, he slowed Buttercup to a walk and Jane unclenched his arm.
“What do you think?”
She quickly wiped at her cheek.
He froze. “Damn it, are you crying? Did I scare you?”
“No.” She wiped her other cheek. “It’s just…” She leaned away from him and he pulled her back against his chest. Not a chance in hell she was going to get away from him. “I felt free.”
Brock’s stomach clenched.
He knew the feeling.
“Do you feel trapped?”
She nodded.
“Me too,” he admitted. She slid her hand into his.
They rode in silence down to the river that divided the pasture and the rest of the property, where they kept a few heads of cattle for beef.
“I blame myself for my parents’ death,” he said quietly.
Jane gripped his hand as he led Buttercup through the grass. The horse was still breathing heavy from the run.
“We argued. I said no to something my father asked me to do. Something stupid that wasn’t even important. And twenty-four hours later they were dead.” He stared into her big brown eyes. “I haven’t been able to say no again. And I’ve felt trapped ever since.”
“It wasn’t your fault. You were how old? Twelve?”
“I said no.” He squeezed her hand tighter. “I hate that word.”
She blinked down at their joined hands and then back up at him. “Do you still feel trapped?”
“Not right now,” he whispered. “Not with you.”
Brock slid off Buttercup first, and reached up for Jane. She grabbed his arms and slowly slid down his body.
Their mouths almost touched.
His body burned for her in a way he’d never experienced before. It was a completely foreign feeling, wanting her not just in his bed, not just in the present, but in the future.
She cleared her throat and stepped back, her smile nervous, pink lips trembling. “If Bentley packs as good as he cooks we should have some good snacks.”
He knew that look, the look she was giving him. After all, he wore it often. It said not to prod, not to ask questions, ignore the elephant in the room even though it’s sobbing in the corner.
So he obliged her, though it killed him to do so. But selfishly he knew the minute he started digging more into her life, she’d do the same to him. And part of him preferred to keep the future, the auction, all of it locked away, or at least temporarily forgotten.
Where he didn’t have to deal with it.
“I’ll grab the bag.” His voice cracked and he watched as she quickly turned around and started petting Buttercup again.
The moment floated away, and he kicked himself mentally for allowing it to go. After all, moments with her were precious, they were short, and the sand was very quickly sifting through the hourglass.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
She was getting too close.
She was starting to want his smiles, his caresses, his inappropriate remarks.
She craved them.
Not just the attention, but the fact that somehow they were building something together. Just to have it ripped away when she left. When he was auctioned off.
Was it worth it? Pursuing him? Allowing more touches? Kissing? Spending the few nights they had left together? Would it be worth it? Or would she regret knowing what it would be like to be in his arms… Would she spend the rest of her life comparing every other man to him?
Brock’s muscles flexed as he pulled the backpack from the horse then patted down Buttercup’s side and whispered in her ear.
Holy crap he was sexy.
He was gruff.
Both a polished CEO and apparently a cowboy.
A regular prince of industry.
With a pauper.
Hah.
She reached for her phone to take a picture of the scenery in front of her then remembered she’d turned it off after receiving all the nasty texts from her sisters and left it in her room.
Brock spread out a small black and red quilted blanket, then grabbed the backpack and dropped it in the middle.
“Wine?”
She nodded.
He opened the wine and handed her a plastic cup. “So, what do you think?”
“Hmm?” She took a long sip, frowning over the cup as Brock eyed her up and down in appreciation.
“Riding.” He grinned wolfishly.
She looked away and smiled. “It was okay.”
“Just okay?” He leaned forward. “Careful or you’ll hurt Buttercup’s feelings.”
“Just Buttercup?” She tilted her head.
“Mine too.” His voice was gravelly, buzzing with sexual tension as he leaned forward and very slowly pulled her cup from her hands and kissed her on the cheek. His body was braced above hers. “I’m going to taste you again.”
“You were right.”
“What?” He blinked as if confused.
“You did leave Boring Brock with the cock.”
“It irritates the hell out of me that ‘Brock’ rhymes with ‘cock.’ Just laying it all out there so you know.”
She giggled.
“And now you’re laughing, and I’m trying to kiss you.”
“Don’t try,” she whispered. “Just do it, before I lose my nerve and limp back to the house.”
“Done,” he said just before he slammed his mouth against hers.
With a gasp she hung on to his shoulders to keep from falling backward against the blanket, even though the idea had merit.
His hands reached for her body.
They were a pair: Brock grasping at her in any way he possibly could, Jane holding on for dear life, praying that the kiss could go on forever. It wasn’t just his taste, or the possessive way he marked her with his lips with each caress—maybe it was the combination of everything, of the desperation they both felt.
To be free.
His tongue slid against hers and a shiver ran down her body, just as a raindrop fell onto her cheek.
Brock pulled back,
his expression heated. “I’m not stopping at one kiss.”
Jane brushed the raindrop away only to have another take its place.
Brock glanced up and swore just as the sky opened up and a downpour rained hell all over the beginnings of their romantic picnic.
He jumped to his feet, but Jane remained, her face tilted up at the sky as the cool rain fell against her body, each drop sliding down her skin, making her feel alive, ready for anything.
Maybe the rain was an omen.
A sign.
After all, didn’t rain mean fresh chances? Starting over?
Her gaze blurred as she took in Brock’s wet form hovering over her. His thick black eyelashes blinked slowly as his hazel eyes locked on hers, never wavering. His full lips were slightly swollen, his chin lifted in defiance—ready to challenge her, maybe?
Or himself?
“Mud pies?” she whispered, needing to break the tense silence with something.
“Mud wrestling?” he countered.
“Tough choice.”
“Believe me.” He held out his hand to her. “I know.”
With a grin she took his hand and stood. Seconds later he lifted her up into his arms and twirled her around the wet grass.
She burst out laughing as he jogged over to a pile of dirt that was quickly turning into mud and set her on her feet. “How do we do this?”
“Oh I forgot. You were born an old man.”
He shoved her lightly, making her laugh like she was a teenager.
“You need to stop talking to the twins, before one or both of them end up dead.”
“You’d kill them?” she asked in mock horror.
“It’s often a tempting thought, the only thing that used to help me fall asleep at night with a smile on my face.” His crooked smile had her heart hammering in her chest uncontrollably.
“And now?”
“Now, she asks.” He smiled down at the dirt and slowly leaned over, pulling some mud into his hand and slapping it into his other like he was clapping. “Now, my thoughts are a lot hotter at night, scorching, uncontrollably erotic, and if I’m being honest, damned uncomfortable.”
“Hot, you say?” She grinned, leaning down on her haunches to grab some mud.
“Very.” He nodded.
“Let me cool you off.” She winked, then smeared mud on his face. “Better?”
He bit back a curse then fell against the dirt laughing. “Completely healed of any sort of sexual fantasy, yup, thanks.”
The Bachelor Auction Page 15