Can’t Get Enough

by Showalter, Gena

  Lyndie’s ears began to ring. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Those pale green eyes hardened, pinning her in place. “Because I want that woman to be you and only you. Lyndie Scott, will you do me the honor of marrying and divorcing me?”

  Chapter Three

  Over the past week, Brock’s emotions had run the gamut. From the highest of highs to the lowest of lows. Over the past five minutes, he’d experienced a hard punch of lust when Lyndie had opened her door, panic as he’d prepared to ask a woman to marry him, even temporarily, and now dismay as he waited for a response.

  She had to say yes. No other woman would do. Actually, the thought of marrying anyone else sent him into a tailspin of denial. Can’t do it. Won’t do it. Would rather lose everything.

  He’d given this a lot of thought. At first he’d decided to take option B: a fifty percent stake in Hud and Son Group, a real estate giant that dipped its toes in construction and engineering. Brock could collect a monthly check without lifting a finger, forcing Miranda to do all the work in order to maintain her current lifestyle.

  As satisfying as he found the thought, he knew she would find a way to cheat him.

  However, if Brock wanted all of the business as well as three luxury homes—a penthouse in Manhattan, a Bel Air spec house in LA, and a private island off of Florida—he had to get married.

  Just as appealing? Taking Lyndie Scott off the market, even for a little while, and making love to her in all three homes, in every room. In every way.

  Blood heated in his veins. Muscles hardened. Every muscle. He shifted atop the settee, trying to hide a raging hard-on.

  His body had decided to act seventeen again, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  He blamed Lyndie. A wealth of strawberry-blond waves framed a face scrubbed clean of makeup, revealing flawless porcelain skin. A pink cotton T-shirt that read “Show Me Your Kitties” replaced the usual high-necked blouse. Instead of khakis, she wore lightweight flannel pajama pants. On her feet? Fluffy white bunny slippers. She was adorable, whimsical, and sexy all at once, and he wanted to strip her naked at the first opportunity.

  Focus now, pleasure later. Right.

  “Any thoughts?” he asked. “Questions?”

  When he first arrived, she’d been very obviously tipsy. Over the past few minutes, she’d seemed to sober up, the glassiness fading from her eyes.

  Now color drained from her cheeks, her rosebud mouth floundering opened and closed. “I’m struggling to get past a single word,” she admitted.

  Like he had to wonder which one. Even still, he said, “And that word is…”

  “Marriage?”

  “Marriage is the legally recognized union of two people in a personal relationship. There.” He winked. “All better?”

  Lyndie glowered at him.

  Oookay. Perhaps levity wasn’t the way to go right now. He didn’t have to delve too deeply to know why the word “marriage” gave her such pause. “I’d give you more time to get used to the idea, but I have to act before Miranda comes up with a way to stop me.” He massaged the back of his neck. “Instead of internalizing your objections to my proposal, why don’t you tell me about your first husband? I know he wasn’t a nice man.”

  Brock and Lyndie had had many conversations over the past few months, but none of them had been personal. He expected her to remain silent, or tell him to go screw himself.

  She licked her lips and said, “At seventeen, I considered James Carrington a hero. I asked him for help, and he delivered, rescuing me from my father’s cannonball fists.” Her cheeks pinkened, and she glanced away.

  As if the darling woman had anything to be embarrassed about.

  Brock held his breath, afraid of spewing vitriol about the travesty of her past and possibly scaring her. “Please go on.”

  “For the first time in my life,” she said, “I knew peace. Then, when I turned eighteen, James came back around to check on me and, despite our age difference, we sped through a whirlwind courtship. He didn’t reveal his true colors until after the wedding. I just… I never again want to find myself at someone’s mercy. And dang it! Wine makes me chatty. Or maybe the group therapy sessions helped loosen my tongue.”

  Note to self: always keep wine on hand. “I’m not James, and I’m not your father. I’m never going to hurt you, Scottie.” He would say those words as many times as she needed to hear them.

  After a beat or two, she nodded. “I know you won’t.”

  Did she? “Before coming to see you, I paid a visit to Rick Lambert. Jude and Daniel were with me.”

  Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped.

  “We knocked on his door, and though he was there, he refused to open up. We explained what would happen if he came near you again.” Go near Lyndie Scott and not even a cadaver dog will be able to find your body.

  “What will happen?” she asked.

  “He’ll end up in prison, of course.” After Brock ensured he never walked again. “I know we can make this work, Scottie, because it’s temporary. Just give me a chance.”

  He could have her over and over again and screw over Miranda in the process. What could be better?

  She opened her mouth, closed it. No sound escaped.

  “My father had the good sense to insist on a hardcore prenup before his marriage, ensuring every piece of property in the Hudson’s private portfolio belonged to him, and Miranda had no claim,” Brock said. Lyndie had shared details about her life. Now he would do the same.

  “Miranda is…”

  “My mother. A woman who hates my guts.”

  Lyndie jolted as if she’d been struck. “No, no. She can’t. A mother can’t hate her child.” Her head canted to the side, her amber eyes revealing all kinds of heartbreak—on his behalf. “Can she?”

  “She can. She did. She does.”

  “Oh, Brock.”

  “When she found out the terms of my father’s will, she kicked over her chair and threw a paperweight at my head.”

  She’d also screamed, “After everything I’ve endured…I built this company into what it is today. Me! I decorated those homes. And he dares—he dares!—to serve them up on a silver platter to this…this…ingrate!” She’d motioned to Brock with a jerky wave of her hand.

  In that moment, Brock had thought, Maybe I can get hitched.

  “My brother Braydon is her favorite,” he found himself adding. Braydon hadn’t said a word during the proceedings, had simply hidden his reaction behind a familiar, sardonic smile.

  A smile that hadn’t cracked even when he discovered he would only receive a cool one million and a couple of cars from the three-billion-dollar estate.

  The note Brent had left his youngest son? You might not be my blood, but I do love you as if you are my own. But I do not like the favoritism your mother has shown you all these years. Now it’s Brock’s turn to receive preferential treatment.

  “How could she love one boy and not the other?” Lyndie asked, and she looked seconds away from launching out of her seat to hug him.

  I’ll see your hug and raise you a kiss. “I’ve wondered for years. Finally learned the truth. Braydon isn’t really my father’s son. Miranda had an affair. She loved his father, but not mine.”

  Her lips pursed. “Your poor dad. James had affairs. A lot of affairs. I know how terribly they can hurt the significant other.”

  Another reason for Brock to hate her ex. “My father—his name is Brent—found out about the affair seventeen years ago but decided not to seek a divorce, or even admit the truth. He feared there would be a long custody battle for Braydon. And me. I would not have survived without him. I learned he helped out more than I’d realized. Anytime he found out Miranda had hurt me, he lowered her allowance.”

  Lyndie leaped to her feet, her hands balled at her sides. “Your mother hit you?”

  “Slapped. But she also…said things. How much she hated me, how worthless I am,” he added softly, comprehending for the
first time he and Lyndie were kindred spirits. Like called to like. Both of them had been betrayed by “loved ones” at a very young age.

  More than that, he’d learned to recognize victims of abuse during his many overseas tours. Back then, he’d been limited in ways he could help. For Lyndie’s, he could cross any line.

  Huffing and puffing with indignation—again on his behalf—she eased into her seat.

  Well, well. Now he wanted to hug her.

  Tears welled in her heartbreaking and heartbroken eyes. “She is the worthless one! You are a good guy. Jude and Daniel know it. Ryanne and Dorothea know it. And yeah, it might have taken me a while for reasons that had nothing to do with you, but now I know it too.”

  Her words touched a chord inside him, one he hadn’t known he possessed. He found himself opening up, sharing more. “Brent explained that Miranda once loved a poor man. In an effort to have both her man and money, she married Brent…and quickly grew to hate her husband, blaming him when the other man left her. That hatred spread to me.”

  Finally learning the reason for his mother’s animosity should have eased Brock. It hadn’t.

  With a hand resting on her heart, Lyndie asked, “What about your brother’s father?”

  “A year after my birth, Miranda ran into the love of her life, and the two had an affair. Braydon was the result. Because she loved his father, she loved the child.”

  “You deserved better.”

  Her compassion was doing something to Brock, making him want more.

  “Brent confessed he had a side slice of his own. The mistress he loved.” All the Hudson skeletons had come out of the closet to play. “He’d been with her for over a decade.”

  When Miranda learned the mistress inherited ten million dollars, two cars, and a home in the Hamptons, she’d screeched all over again.

  “Any second I expect an evil twin to burst through the door and tell me that he was abducted at birth,” he said, his tone dry. “Or maybe I’m the evil twin?”

  A laugh suddenly poured from Lyndie’s mouth, but she quickly sobered. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be amused by your plight. My poor Brock.”

  Yes, yes. Her poor Brock. All hers, just for a little while. He’d take what he could get. Even pity. Kiss me better? “My father said he wants me to find someone who will bring me out of darkness and into light.” Someone Brock wouldn’t search for unless forced. “Miranda wants me to remain single, of course. She’s already called three times.” When he sent her to voice mail, she’d actually left messages.

  1. Please, Brock. Let’s work this out between us. I’m sure we can come up with a mutually beneficial arrangement.

  2. If you want the company, fine. Take it. I don’t care!

  3. If you take the company away from me, I will make you pay. Do you hear me?

  So, yes, Brock would get married. “I will inherit control of the family business, dismantle it, and ensure Miranda no longer profits from the Hudson name. I will give away her furniture and sell her homes. Then I will forget her.”

  Moral of the story: parents should be nice to their kids.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you that part.”

  “I’m glad you did. You’re always so kind to women. The fact that your mother is the sole exception proves just how terribly she hurt you. And really, I have sometimes wished I could have hurt my father and James,” she admitted.

  Their gazes met, held. Lyndie’s eyes had powers unlike anything else in the world; they could enchant, stupefy, or eviscerate with a single glance.

  This time, they enchanted.

  Must have this woman…

  “Why marry me specifically?” she asked.

  A thousand different reasons, but he’d stick with the highlights. “I know you. I like and trust you. Our friends are friends. We could be friends. We should be friends. Or better friends. I want you.” More than he’d ever wanted another. “I want to protect you, Scottie. You have no idea how badly I want to protect you. And we could have fun together.” So much fun. “You won’t be hurt when we split.” And they would split. His motto hadn’t changed. Get in, get out, before a woman starts to hate me. He and Lyndie could part as friends without complicating their group dynamic. They’d both know what they were getting into from the start. “Shall I go on?”

  “No! Yes. I don’t know, maybe.” She waved a shaky hand through the air. “Please backtrack and elaborate.”

  Despite her uncertainty, relief flooded him. She hadn’t refused him outright. She was asking questions, seeking more information. “Which part requires clarification?”

  “You want me want me? Like…sexually? Because I had no idea!”

  “I want you want you. You must have suspected.” Sometimes he’d feared—hoped—the heat of his gaze would burn her clothing to ash.

  “No. Not even a little. You never even asked me on a date.”

  He raked his gaze over her, taking in every curve—those perfect breasts, that flat stomach, those slender hips, those mile-long legs made for a runway and sex. Taking in her every reaction as he did it—the way her breath hitched, the way the pulse at the base of her throat hammered erratically, the way her nipples hardened. Miss Prim and Proper wasn’t wearing a bra.

  A growl rumbled low in his chest. How to explain his previous reluctance to make a move on her without hurting her feelings? “I knew you were afraid of me. If I’d asked you out, you would have declined, right?”

  She licked her lips and shifted in her seat. “At first, yes. But later?” She shrugged.

  What! No, no. She would have declined, no question. He would have known if she desired him. Right? “I feared our relationship would devolve if we slept together and might become as strained as it once was.”

  “And you don’t think our relationship will be strained now?”

  No. Because they had a game plan. They both knew what they were getting into, and expected the end. But he said, “Now I’m willing to take the risk.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you planning to boink me as well as every other girl in creation?”

  Boink? “While we’re together, I won’t be sleeping with anyone else. You have my word.” Brock would not disrespect Lyndie by cheating on her. Ever.

  What’s more, he knew himself. Knew he would be faithful to his wife, whoever she was—whether he wanted someone else or not. Vows mattered to him. Always had, always would. One of the few facts he liked about himself.

  Throughout Brock’s childhood and even into adulthood, Brent had promised to attend different events—piano recitals, krav maga matches, graduation, airport pickups when Brock had come home on leave. Most times, Brent had lost track of time at work or simply forgot. Hasty apologies had been made, along with new promises that hadn’t been kept.

  “But…marriage?” she repeated. “I promised myself I’d never do the whole legal-ties thing again.” Straight white teeth nibbled on her bottom lip. “How long would our marriage last?”

  Anticipation blended with excitement, driving him mad in the best possible way. So close to victory! “I don’t know exactly. I’ll need to find the employees of the Hud and Son Group new jobs before I dismantle the company. There will be no collateral damage on my watch.” The employees were innocent, and he would not leave them in the lurch. “If I had to guess, I’d say a month. Maybe two, but not likely.”

  Lyndie’s beautiful lips shaped the words, One month.

  The will had two stipulations: Brock had to be married in order to run the business and, if he planned to continue running it, he had to remain married.

  Brent had used the perfect bait. Miranda’s downfall. He’d known Brock would seethe as he imagined her rich, happy, and carefree.

  What Brock hadn’t yet comprehended? Why Brent cared about Brock’s relationship status. What made his father think a commitment would “bring him out of the darkness and into the light?” Unless the mistress had done something similar for Bren
t?

  Or maybe this was Brent’s idea of a parting gift for Brock? His mother hurt him; now he had the chance to hurt her back.

  Thankfully—and shockingly—there’d been no requirements for Brock’s wife. No “proper” pedigree. No reputation above reproach. No family worth ten million or more. The very requirements for the girls he’d dated in high school.

  Little wonder he’d always gravitated toward wild, tattooed biker babes.

  Lyndie was an anomaly, everything he’d never wanted but now had to have.

  She gulped. “Would we live together?”

  “Yes. For the sake of appearances, but also because your safety and peace of mind matter to me.” He would be on his best behavior. Would sidestep any conversations about the terrible things he’d done in the past. She would never know how much blood stained his hands. “I will continue to protect you from Rick Lambert. From anyone who threatens you.”

  Her shoulders rolled in. “I’m a magnet for crazies, aren’t I?”

  “Scottie, you’re a magnet, period.”

  She drew in a deep breath, slowly released it. “I’m shocked to admit this, but I like the idea of having you here…which makes me not want to have you here. I can’t learn to rely on you. I must rely on myself.”

  Craved her independence? “What if I promise not to ever cook your meals or clean the house or do anything gentlemanly?”

  The corners of her mouth twitched. “That would help, yes.”

  Closer still!

  “We’d have to sleep in separate bedrooms though. I’m not going to get used to your warmth.” Twin pink circles stained her cheeks. A flush of embarrassment…or pleasure? “But, uh, just to be clear,” she said, and gulped, “you will want to have sex with me, yes?”

  His excitement deflated. Did she not want to have sex with him? “Yes. I will. I do. I hope you’ll want to have sex with me.” Many times. Every night. “If you allow me into your bed, I will make your pleasure a top priority. But I will expect nothing, and I will never pressure you for something you aren’t willing to give. The money will be yours whether we sleep together or not.”