by Karen Booth
Her grandmother, the most important person in her whole world, was hurt and alone this week while Brianne had been planting beautiful flowers, living in a Caribbean paradise and mooning over an impossible man. The knowledge sliced right through her.
“What’s wrong?” Gabe was by her side instantly, a hand on her shoulder.
“I need to go home.” Shakily, she tried to stand, her knees feeling unsteady. “Now.”
* * *
“Whoa. Wait.” Gabe half caught Brianne in his arms, something that at any other time would have brought with it a forbidden pleasure he’d enjoy even though he didn’t deserve to.
Today, however, she was clearly distressed. Pale and shaking. What the hell was in that letter?
“I need to go home, Gabe. She’s hurt.” The broken sound of Brianne’s voice stunned him.
He’d seen this woman heft twenty-five-pound bags of dirt under one slender arm and collar snakes with lightning-fast reflexes so she could “relocate” them. He would have never imagined her in tears, but her dark brown eyes were unnaturally bright with them.
“Who’s hurt? Your grandmother?” Reluctantly, he pulled his hand from her back, where his fingers briefly tangled in her thick, dark ponytail. He made sure she was steady before he let go of her. Her black T-shirt with an American rock-band logo was wrinkled, the fabric hitching up on one side away from the lightweight cargo pants that were her everyday work uniform.
Her breath came in fast pants as one tear rolled down her cheek. Her normally olive skin had gone as white as the envelope she still clutched. Just a moment ago, she’d been teasing smiles from his son, her beauty naturally captivating even when she wasn’t making silly faces to entertain the boy.
“Read it.” She thrust the note at Gabe and his eyes scanned the short message from Rose Hanson while Brianne fumbled in the leg pocket of her cargo pants and pulled out her cell phone. “I’ve been saving money to move her down here with me. I was going to talk to her this weekend when we’re supposed to have a video call. I should have been connecting with her every day, but I’m calling her now.”
Brianne held the phone to her ear. Gabe could hear someone speaking on the other end, but the call must have gone straight to voice mail message because Brianne punched a button and tried again.
“It’s okay.” He moved around the high chair so he could be closer to her, and yes, put his arm around her again. He gave her a gentle, one-armed hug, hoping to comfort her somehow as he steeled himself for the shock of pleasure that touching her created. “We’ll send someone to check on her. A home health nurse.”
Brianne left a message for her grandmother, asking her to call her back right away. Shoving her phone back in her pants pocket, she slumped over the table.
He regretted that he didn’t know more about Brianne’s family background. All he knew was that her upbringing had been rough enough to make her grandmother cash in the last of her savings to send her off to Martinique with a friend who was retiring to the island. Brianne had been just twelve years old at the time. Her guardian had been little more than a stranger, but she helped Brianne finish her schooling and find an apprenticeship with a local botanist.
Gabe had been caught up in his own drama for so damn long he’d never really gotten to know Brianne as well as he would have liked to. Of course, there was always a hint—just a hint—of a spark with her. He’d ignored it easily enough when he’d been with Theresa, telling himself that the feelings for Brianne were of the creative-professional variety, that he admired her design skills and commitment to her projects.
But there was more to it than that, and it roared to life when he tucked her head under his chin. The scent of her hair was as vibrantly floral as the gardens she tended every day. He couldn’t ignore the feel of her against him, the lush feminine curves at odds with her utilitarian work clothes.
“There’s no one.” She shook her head, her soft, dark hair brushing his jaw. “My stepmother was living with Nana Rose, but then Wendy got a new boyfriend and moved out last month. I’ve been so worried—”
“I’ll find a home health-care service and make a call right now.” He pulled his phone from the back pocket of his jeans, hoping Jason’s caregiver returned from lunch soon so Gabe could give Brianne his undivided attention.
The protective instinct was too strong to ignore. Brianne had been a positive force in his life during his worst days. And her daily, sunny presence in his son’s world soothed a small portion of Gabe’s guilt and resentment over not being able to provide a mother for his own child.
“No.” Brianne straightened suddenly, tensing as she withdrew from his touch. “It’s my job, not yours, Gabe. But thank you.” She took out her phone again and keyed in a code with trembling fingers. “That’s a good idea to have someone check on her until I can get there.”
“Gah!” his son shouted behind him and Gabe turned to see the boy tossing a carrot in the air.
Even though she was upset and distracted, Brianne managed a shaky smile for Jason. She was so different from the baby’s mother, who seemed content to leave the parenting to Gabe no matter how often he’d offered to fly to the States so she could see their son. She had no plans to see her baby until Valentine’s Day, when she’d arranged a photo shoot in New York with a country-music magazine. As if a child was a prop to show off when needed.
Nevertheless, Gabe would be there to facilitate in the small window of time available for his son to see his mother.
“Maybe you won’t have to travel all the way to New York once you have a report on how she’s doing from an outside source.” Gabe hated to see Brianne return to a life that made her unhappy. No matter how much she loved her grandmother, he knew Brianne had bad memories of the home she’d left behind. “You can have a health-care aide for her as often as you want until you’re ready to move her down here.”
He wanted to fix this. To keep her happy and comfortable in a life she seemed to thrive in. Something about the gardens and Brianne was forever connected in his mind. She had a healthy vibrancy that was reflected in her work and he knew somehow the hotel wouldn’t be the same—nothing would be the same here—if she left.
“I’m taking the next available flight.” Her fingers stilled on the phone as she scrolled through screens, her dark eyes meeting his. “That is, I hope you understand I’ll need some emergency time away from work.”
“Of course, that’s a given.” He didn’t want her to worry about her job. Although selfishly, he hoped her family wouldn’t somehow convince her to relocate to New York. He wanted her to return to Martinique eventually since this was his permanent home. He hadn’t realized how much he looked forward to working with her every day until he considered the proposition of not seeing her cutting fresh blooms for the lobby desk each morning. “Your position here is secure.”
“Thank you.” She nodded, long bangs catching on the thick fringe of her eyelashes. “I need to pack in case I can catch something on stand-by tonight.” Backing toward the door, she shoved the letter in her pocket. Her cargo pants momentarily pulled tight across her hips.
What was the matter with him that he noticed all the wrong things on a day she needed his friendship? She’d been a rock in his world. He wouldn’t allow her to deal with this family emergency on her own when she was clearly upset.
“Don’t fly stand-by.” He wanted to help her. She never asked for anything and worked hard every day to make the hotel a more beautiful place. She’d been a source of laughter and escape during the hellish weeks after his separation from Theresa.
And he couldn’t let her go this way.
“Gabe, I have to.” The passion—the vehemence—in her voice surprised him; he’d never heard her use that tone. “She’s hurt. Someone hurt her. She’s eighty years old and she gave me everything I have.”
Just like that, he knew he wasn’t going to let her go alone. Not w
hen it was this important to her and she was so upset.
“And you shouldn’t figure all of this out on your own when you’re so distracted and worried.” He didn’t want her driving when she was still shaking. Or hiring a car from the airport that would take her the long way to Brooklyn because she was too rattled to notice. “I was planning to go to New York anyhow.” It made far more sense for them to go together. “I’ll take you there myself on my family’s jet. Tonight.”
“You can’t do that.” She lifted her arms in the air, exasperated. A long section of dark hair escaped the ponytail to tease against her cheek and she blew it aside impatiently. “You have a son to think about. You can’t disrupt Jason’s schedule to fly at the last minute.”
Brianne gave the boy a tender look, her expression visibly softening as she stroked the back of her knuckle along the baby’s arm.
Through the window Gabe spotted Camille, Jason’s caregiver, walking up the planked path. He was glad she was back so he could focus on convincing Brianne to travel with him.
“My grandfather has been trying to entice my brothers and me to spend time in Manhattan for months,” he explained, pulling Jason out of his high chair and giving the boy a kiss on his head. “I can move up my departure date. My half brother Cam gave me the number of a local pilot who can have a flight plan filed with an hour’s notice. If you want to go to New York tonight, I’ll call him to take us. It will be faster than navigating the airport crush.”
As Camille entered, he passed her the boy and asked her to pack the child’s clothes for a two-week trip. He planned to stay longer than that, but would buy more things once they were settled. Camille cooed at Jason and gave Gabe a nod to indicate she’d heard him while he ushered Brianne out of the kitchen and into the afternoon sun outside.
“Gabe, I could never begin to repay you—”
“Why would you have to?” he interrupted, unwilling to let her think in those terms. “I told you, I need to be in New York anyhow so it makes sense for us to travel together. I owe you more than I’ve paid you, Brianne, if it comes right down to it. But you never hear me complain when you work long hours and contribute more to this place than anyone else. Now it’s your turn to accept something extra from me.”
She seemed to weigh this, her lips pursing as she visibly wrestled with the idea of arguing. But in the end, she put up both her hands in surrender.
“You know what? For Nana Rose, I’m just going to say thank you and go pack.”
“Good.” He nodded, already making a mental to-do list, starting with booking the plane and contacting the nanny who would be making the trip with them. “I’ll let you know when I’ve got our flight time confirmed. After we land, we can share a car from the airport, so count on me to bring you straight to your grandmother’s doorstep.”
“Fine.” Her jaw tightened. “That is, thank you.”
As she retreated, he wanted to offer more. To suggest additional ways he could help out since she might be facing more medical bills and travel arrangements where her grandmother was concerned. But he didn’t want to push his luck with his proud and prickly landscape designer. He had a whole plane ride to talk to her and convince her to let him give her a hand moving her beloved relative back to Martinique. He and Brianne made such a good team at work. Why couldn’t they carry that into their personal lives, especially when they were both going through some tough transitions?
The idea held a whole lot of appeal. Maybe that should have troubled him given that he’d just emerged from a disastrous marriage and divorce. Instead, he felt an undeniable pull of awareness that had been absent from his life ever since his wife was two months pregnant and had announced she was leaving him.
Copyright © 2018 by Joanne Rock
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Off Limits
by Clare Connelly
CHAPTER ONE
SHE MIGHT AS well be naked. The dress is skin-tight, bright red and low-cut. Tiny straps slip over her shoulders. The dress is short, too. Not indecently short but, Jesus, her legs are long and smooth, and while she’s wearing that dress I find it impossible to look away.
She’s hotter than any woman here—and that’s saying something, given that this launch event has brought together most of London’s elite. There are models, actresses, singers, athletes, and lots of those women who’ve married for money and now make it their life’s work to live up to their husbands’ expectations.
And then there’s Gemma.
Her blond hair is pulled into a ballerina bun, her face is serious and her body is like pale silk that I want to wrap around me.
She’s said something funny, going by the way the guy with her leans forward and laughs. Is he her date? A frown pulls at my brow. I stare harder. Did she bring a date? Isn’t she technically here as my plus-one?
Seeing her with another guy does something dangerous to my equilibrium. A possessive impulse threads through me, knotting at my chest.
I pull a couple of champagne flutes from a passing waiter and cut through the room. I’m aware of people trying to get my attention but I have no time for them. Gemma is in my sights.
‘Jack...’
Her lips purse as I approach; her eyes flick to me in that way she has. How is it possible for one person to imbue a simple gesture with a measure of cold disdain even when there’s the hint of a smile somewhere in that symmetrical face of hers?
I hand her a glass of champagne and she takes it, her fingers briefly wrapping over mine. Immediately my mind puts them elsewhere on my body.
‘You remember Wolf DuChamp?’ she says. ‘He manages our accounts in New York.’
I remember his stupid name, but not the man himself. Nothing memorable about blond, pretty-boy looks and that air of Ivy League he seems to wear like a coat.
‘Sure.’ I extend my hand, knowing I have to meet the convention even when my body is singularly focussed on Gemma.
‘Good to see you again, sir.’
Gemma’s lips quiver. I hate being called ‘sir’ and she knows it. Out of nowhere I have an image of her saying it to me, bent at the knees, her eyes moving up my body to meet mine as her lips clamp down on my length. Okay, maybe in some circumstances I could make an exception...
What the hell am I thinking? These fantasies are one thing, but screwing Gemma cannot happen.
Cannot happen. Might as well get that tattoo added to my collection.
‘I was just explaining the software overhaul we’re looking at to Gem.’
Is he tryin
g to piss me off? First of all by removing the very nice image I was enjoying by talking about software. And then by referring to Gemma as ‘Gem’—as though they’re best buddies who paint their nails together.
‘I’ll summarise it for you later,’ she says, sensing my impatience though I suspect not the reason for it.
‘It’ll make a huge difference to our operations,’ Wolf pushes.
‘Gem’ angles her body a bit, turning away from me, giving me a chance to escape.
‘I’ll look into the feasibility. The problem is going to be short-term. We’ll need to make sure the systems are protected during the transfer of data. You handle some of our most sensitive work—a data breach would be unacceptable.’
‘I’ve thought of that, too,’ Wolf carries on—and I am dismissed, it would appear.
Across the room a platinum blonde with a sensational rack and legs that go on forever is trying to catch my eye.
I want Gemma, but I can’t have her. And I’m not one to wallow in self-pity. There’s plenty of fish in the sea.
I have two rules when it comes to the women I fuck.
No commitment.
No redheads.
Commitment was for Lucy.
And Lucy was a redhead.
I freeze. A vision of Lucy is in front of me, a scowl of disapproval on her face. I messed around a fair bit before we met, but nothing like this. I’ve taken it to a whole new level and I don’t care. Except for that scowl. Even in death I don’t want to upset Lucy.
What did you expect, Luce? You left me a pretty big void to fill.
Don’t blame me, I hear her snap back. Your life. Your choice.
Yeah, right.
My eyes wander of their own accord back to Gemma. She’s got her head bent now, and Wolf’s fingers are typing something into his cell phone. She nods and smiles, then presses a hand to his forearm. My stomach rolls on a surge of emotion I don’t much care for.
I stalk towards the blonde as though she is the only woman in the room.