One Night Scandal

by Joanne Rock

  When he set her on her feet, he edged back to look at her, his breath coming fast.

  She knew it was wise of him to separate them. To break the mesmerizing contact. To give them a moment to think about this. But there in the endless dark, with only the horse and the wind as her witnesses, she couldn’t scavenge any reason to deny herself this heat. This connection. This kind of intense pleasure she’d never experienced before. Perhaps it was the inky blackness of the night that made it feel surreal, like a dream she didn’t want to wake up from.

  All Hannah knew was that her body went to his like a magnet drawn to a more powerful one.

  A raw sound rose up in his throat as she found his lips and kissed him again. Brock wrapped his hands around her, this time with more intent and purpose. She could feel the difference in how he flexed his fingers against her, the added pressure tantalizing her all the more.

  “Hannah.” He breathed her name against her mouth. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” She gripped his biceps, wanting him inside where she could take his clothes off.

  Straightening, she withdrew the keycard for the door from the small hip pocket sewn into her leggings. Her fingers were unsteady as she slid it through the reader.

  “I don’t have protection with me, but my house is just through the woods.”

  “I have something.” An old habit inspired by a college friend’s pregnancy. A good thing, because she wasn’t willing to wait for him to make a trip to his place.

  As she pushed open the door, she knew stepping over the threshold was a point of no return. But she had no reservations about this. It was a moment of pleasure in a year of hell. The only things she felt now were hunger and need, the desire for him so stark she couldn’t begin to account for it. Her gaze met his in the dim light cast by two cast-iron sconces that flanked the stone fireplace mantel.

  Extending her hand to him, she threaded her fingers through his. “Please. Come in.”

  * * *

  Something had happened on that shared horseback ride.

  A switch had been thrown. A blaze had started, and there was no putting it out now.

  Brock told himself he’d given her every out. Every option of changing her mind. And she’d refused. He couldn’t fight himself and her, too. Not when he’d wanted her from the first moment he’d seen her. Not when the stress of being a McNeill was at an all-time high. He felt like the whole damn world around him was poised to collapse when the blackmailer went public.

  How could he refuse a night to forget about that, just for a little while, and lose himself in the promise of what Hannah was offering?

  So, stepping into her two-bedroom cabin, he closed and locked the door behind him. Gave himself a moment to try to muster some scrap of restraint, if only to ensure they made it to a bed instead of tearing off their clothes in the middle of the living area.

  But Hannah was having none of it. With the same certainty she’d shown when she slid off his horse and into his arms, she came to him now. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed herself into him. This time, he didn’t hold back, allowing the full impact of those sweetly feminine curves to work their seductive magic.

  Purely potent. Totally intoxicating.

  The chemistry was intense, the heat so strong he thought they might combust right there. He cupped her cheek, angling her chin higher to taste her more thoroughly. She tipped off his Stetson, winging it to an empty ladder-back chair near the door. Her ball cap had already fallen away, her silky blond waves tickling his arm, teasing along his skin.

  He walked her backward, toward the dark hallway where the bedrooms were. He’d helped build this place with his brothers long ago—now it was a guest residence for visitors. Hannah let herself be led, moving with him, pausing near the kitchen bar long enough to pluck a leather handbag from the counter. She brought it with them into the darkened bedroom.

  He flicked the switch by the door that lit a small gas fireplace on one wall opposite the bed, the low flames the only light in the room as he toed the door closed behind them. Hannah had already peeled off her shirt, and the sight of her creamy skin, breasts cradled in blue lace, nearly undid him.

  Pulse thrumming hard, he reached for her, needing his hands on her. Her skin was incredibly soft as he drew her to him, the scent of her—something sweet and heady like orange blossoms—making him desperate to taste her. He kissed his way down her neck, searching for the source of the scent, taking his time on the journey to lick along her collarbone, nip her shoulder and ear.

  She gripped the hem of his T-shirt and hauled it up his back and over his head. The pace was too fast but the hunger too keen to slow down as they undressed each other, tasting and touching as they unveiled themselves. Her creamy skin was rosy in the firelight, her hair turning from platinum to strawberry blond as it fell along her shoulder. He slid a finger beneath one bra strap, tugging it off, tracing the scalloped edge of lace before the fabric fell away.

  She arched into him, the taut, pebbled peaks of her breasts almost close enough to taste. Bending to take her in his mouth, he circled the tip of one and then the other, unfastening the hook to free her and cupping the soft weights in his hands. Her moan was a sexy siren’s song in his ear.

  “Please, please, please,” she chanted, one hand on his belt, a fingertip tracing the top edge of the leather.

  Grazing his abs. Making him impossibly harder.

  Torching all restraint.

  She took a condom packet from her purse and put it on the bed. He eyed it before helping her with the belt. Quickly his pants were gone, his boots were gone, boxers gone.

  His undressing was faster than hers, since she tangled her feet in the leggings while she watched him disrobe, her attention so damn flattering.

  Brock lifted her in his arms, skimming off the scrap of blue lace around her hips before he pulled her down to the white duvet with him. She made soft, sexy sounds of approval in his ear as she speared her fingers into his hair and drew him down to kiss her. Shadows flickered across the bed beside them in the firelight, the need for her—for this—ratcheting higher.

  He’d never bedded a woman so fast. Never imagined a night like this where desire smoked away reason and sensual hunger roared with predatory demand. But Hannah was right there with him, her hands shifting lower to smooth down his chest, back up his arms. All the while she urged him faster, whispering soft commands to touch her. Taste her.

  He couldn’t get enough of her.

  When she placed the condom packet in his hands, he tore it open like a man who’d been deprived for years. He wanted to take his time. See the way she looked when pleasure overtook her.

  But this thing—whatever it was between them—was beyond that. It was a fever in the blood, driving hotter and faster with every breath.

  Rolling the condom into place, he met her gaze. Her gray eyes watched him, her lips parted as her breath came in fast pants. He captured her mouth, kissing her as he positioned himself between her thighs. Edged his way inside.

  He caught her cry of pleasure before she arched her neck and back. Her nails dug into his shoulders, and her body went still at last. When he started to move, he took his time, building the pleasure while she adjusted to him. Her foot pinned his calf for a moment, then slid higher, an ankle hooking around his waist. He gripped her thigh and angled her body. Nearly died of how damn good she felt.

  Brock waited, trying like hell to slow down. To temper the need. But then, Hannah breathed in his ear, nipping the lobe and licking his neck just beneath it. Somehow that pushed things higher, and started the banked tension building again. He reached between them to touch her, teasing out the pleasure for her, too.

  He could feel that same tension in her. Her head tossed from side to side, the rest of her going still. He kissed her again, taking her lips just as the sweet squeeze of her release gripped him tight.
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  The spasms went on and on, nudging him over the edge and into oblivion. His shout mingled with her soft cries, a chorus of the most perfect pleasure he’d ever felt.

  With a woman he barely knew.

  The realization slammed home just as he caught his breath. Just as some form of reason returned. Still, the fact that they didn’t know each other well didn’t take anything away from whatever they’d just experienced. It had been powerful. Passionate.

  Incredibly fulfilling even as it made him want her all over again.

  In other words, it was pure insanity.

  Brock sank into the mattress beside her, rolling her to his side so they lay together before he drew half of the duvet over their bare bodies.

  “That was the craziest thing I’ve ever done.” Her words were softened by the wonder in her voice. The amazement. A hint of a smile curved her lips. “I don’t even know your last name.”

  A stir of warning prickled along his shoulders. He’d withheld it on purpose, of course. But it didn’t matter now. She certainly hadn’t been trying to get close to him because he was a McNeill. That much had been established.

  Besides, as an actress, she had her own path to fame and fortune.

  “McNeill.” He glanced over at her, smoothing a long blond wave away from her cheek. “Brock McNeill.”

  Something shifted in her eyes. A recognition, yes. But not the speculative, almost greedy kind that he’d sometimes seen over the years.

  No. He could have sworn Hannah Ryder all but recoiled. There was the slightest flinch. A fractional crinkle of her smooth brow. A stillness.

  As if the name meant something to her, and not in a good way.

  He wanted to ask her about it. Or at least, to talk to her and make some sense of what just happened. But she was already sliding away from him.

  “I’m so sorry.” She shook her head. “And embarrassed. But I just remembered I have an early call on set tomorrow.” She slipped out from under the duvet, turning to plant her feet on the floor. “I don’t know what I was thinking. But I guess that’s the whole point. I wasn’t really thinking.”

  Perhaps her reaction didn’t have anything to do with his name. Maybe she was just feeling the bite of morning-after regret—far too soon. That much, he could understand. The attraction had caught them like a tornado, touching down with fevered intensity.

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll go in a minute,” he assured her. “Is everything okay? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” She nodded, not making eye contact. “I’m just... This is completely awkward, right?” Hopping to her feet, she found her shirt and slid it over her head, the dark T-shirt covering her to the tops of her thighs. “Would you mind if we talked tomorrow, when I’ve got my head on straight again?”

  Something was off here. Wrong.

  He was missing it, but he wasn’t sure what he could accomplish by staying any longer when she was clearly agitated. He understood that. And she wasn’t the only one feeling rattled by what just happened. He just wished he could be sure that the only thing upsetting her was how fast things had escalated between them, and not something connected to his family name. The McNeills already had enough trouble brewing.

  “Of course.” Nodding, he scooped his clothes off the floor and started to dress. “I’ll come by the set tomorrow and we’ll talk then.”

  She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut again. Nodding, she pulled an afghan off the end of the bed and wrapped it around herself.

  “Sure.” She hugged the blanket tighter while he finished dressing. “And, um, thank you for the ride home.”

  He couldn’t help a wry chuckle as he stepped into his boots. “I sure as hell hope the ride isn’t what you remember most about this night.” Leaning close to her, he brushed a kiss over her cheek, wanting nothing more than to remind her that what just happened hadn’t been a fluke. But he understood about early wake-up calls. “We’ll definitely be talking more tomorrow. Good night, Hannah.”

  Striding out of the bedroom, he retrieved his hat off the chair and dropped it on his head before stepping into the night. If Hannah was hiding something from him—if she had something against the McNeills—he had every intention of finding out.

  Three

  Hannah knew she couldn’t hide from Brock McNeill, but she was tempted to try the next day when he hadn’t made an appearance on the set by midmorning. How could the hottest night of her life have gone so terribly wrong?

  The sexy rancher who’d turned her inside out was a McNeill.

  Seated in a makeup chair under a canvas tent erected near the barn where she’d been shooting earlier, Hannah tried unsuccessfully to read through a script to take her mind off of Brock. She tried to get comfortable. There was a full-length mirror in front of her, and a cup of coffee stuffed in the mesh drink holder of her chair. Dressed in her period costume—a calico dress complete with petticoats and chemise—Hannah scrolled through the script for a space Western on her phone. It didn’t take a genius to know she was starting to get typecast as a ditz—a role she’d done well once and should have distanced herself from afterward. She played something similar in Winning the West, but she would have taken a role as an extra if it meant getting to work on an Antonio Ventura set. Shoving aside her phone, she wished she could feel outrage about her career. Instead, all she felt was anger at herself for making a selfish decision last night.

  How could she have indulged herself that way, putting her own needs before her mission? It had never occurred to her that the casually dressed rancher who personally oversaw his horses could be a member of one of the nation’s wealthiest families. Hannah knew all about the connection between Cheyenne’s ranching McNeills and the Manhattan branch of the family and their lucrative resort chain. She’d also read up on the ties between the Silicon Valley start-up, Transparent, principally owned by Damon McNeill and his brothers.

  Hannah had researched all of them carefully before she accepted the film role on McNeill land because of the secret connection between the Ventura family and the McNeills. A connection they’d all hidden so thoroughly, she wasn’t sure how many people even knew about it besides her. Not that Hannah cared about the secrets and scandals of the rich. She’d simply done her homework to find out if the McNeills were potential allies or enemies in her quest for justice for her sister.

  And despite all the research she’d completed—even briefly working for the Ventura family’s cleaning service—she still couldn’t be certain. It could go either way. Certainly, Brock McNeill had shown no liking for Antonio. They’d behaved as though they were strangers when they spoke on the set yesterday—one more reason why Hannah would have never taken Brock for one of the McNeill family.

  Restless and uneasy, Hannah shot from the chair to pace the temporary makeup and dressing area. She hadn’t gone three steps when Callie raced into the tent, her work apron covered with pins and her usually sleek ponytail twisted into a haphazard knot.

  “There you are!” The wardrobe assistant skidded to a stop, one sandal catching on the tassels of a floor mat. Her cheeks were pink with hectic color. “Hannah, you have a visitor on set.” She lifted her dark eyebrows and lowered her voice. “The hot cowboy from yesterday.”

  Tension squeezed Hannah’s shoulders even as warmth stirred in her belly. How could she pretend the same ease with him that she had yesterday, knowing his identity? Knowing the McNeills hid a connection to Antonio Ventura, the man she hated beyond reason? Not even Meryl Streep could pull off that kind of acting job.

  “He’s here?” Hannah asked finally. Stalling.

  She peered into the full-length mirror, wondering if her expression revealed her distress.

  Callie stepped closer, looking at Hannah’s face in the mirror. “He said you were expecting him. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Just a little nervous, I guess.” She fo
rced a smile, needing to get it together before she saw Brock. If only she understood his family’s link to the Venturas.

  Was there a chance her relationship with Brock could help her learn something useful about Antonio? Something that would aid her efforts to unmask him for the monster he was?

  Steeling herself for the performance she needed to give for the sake of her sister, Hannah hoped she could extricate herself from an intimate relationship without alienating Brock altogether. Because while she was willing to leverage a friendship to learn anything she could about Antonio, she drew the line at allowing Brock back into her bed ever again now that she knew he was a McNeill.

  The rest of the world might not know the truth about the Ventura and McNeill connection, but Hannah had unearthed the secret from a coworker at the Venturas’ cleaning service.

  Paige McNeill, Brock’s stepmother, had married Brock’s father under an assumed name. She was actually the missing Hollywood heiress Eden Harris. Daughter of the actress Barbara Harris and director Emilio Ventura. Stepsister to Antonio Ventura himself.

  So until Hannah knew where the McNeills stood on the issue of the family they had never publicly acknowledged, maybe it was best to treat all of them—Brock included—like they were her potential enemies.

  * * *

  Brock knew he should stay away from Hannah Ryder.

  Publicly, it made sense to keep the relationship quiet since he didn’t need to draw more attention to his family in the days—hours, perhaps—before a scandal broke. And privately, Brock had yet to figure out the expression on Hannah’s face when she’d learned of his identity last night, so it wasn’t a good idea to get too involved with a woman so clearly rattled by the McNeill name.

  Yet here he was on the set of her film before noon the day after they’d met. After they’d parted awkwardly and she’d dominated his thoughts all night.