by M. Leighton
“Good morning,” I say as I make my way around to the pantry. I set about collecting a thermos, some Styrofoam cups and a small picnic basket, which rests beside the one I took on the four-wheeler and never used. I fill a clean dish towel with warm croissants and fill a plastic container with thick slices of warm ham and bacon. Lastly, I put a few cubes of cheese in a cup and pack it all into the basket.
When I glance up, the chef is eyeing me with something that looks like amusement.
“Breakfast in bed,” I explain.
“A bed outside?”
“The best kind,” I answer, grinning at her. She merely cocks a brow and resumes stirring a pot of . . . something. I bet those sharp blue eyes don’t miss a thing.
I set the basket on the counter and take the back stairs up to the room we share to use the bathroom and clean up a little before heading back. I’m standing, bare-chested, in front of the bathroom mirror brushing my teeth when I hear the door open. I smile, my hunger forgotten when I think about spreading Weatherly out on the bed and eating her instead. But when I rinse my mouth and step out into the bedroom, all I see is Cher. Naked except for her fiery red hair, which is obscuring part of her very ample breasts.
I stop, obviously surprised, and stare.
Before I can ask any questions, Cher makes her way over to me. Her hair shifts as she walks, giving me peek-a-boo glimpses of hard, pink nipples.
Oh shit.
“I think you might have the wrong room,” I say, retreating a step when she reaches me.
“No, this is definitely the right room. Your friend told me exactly which one you sleep in.”
“My friend?”
“Rogan.”
“Rogan,” I repeat. Damn him! He did send me a woman for my birthday. I wasn’t kidding when I told Weatherly I thought she was a gift from him.
“How did he talk you into this?”
“We cater events for the studio all the time. I’ve known Rogan and his girlfriend for a while now. I asked if he knew you, told him we were doing some work up here. He told me it was your birthday. And what you wanted. I thought we’d be the perfect fit, since it just so happens that I want it, too.”
She rakes her short, clear-painted fingernails down my chest as she says this.
“Look, I’m sorry that you went to all this trouble, but—”
Her smile tells me it was no trouble long before her lips do. “Believe me, this will be all my pleasure.”
I figured. I knew it when I first met her. Like I said, I can spot these women a mile away.
She leans into me, pressing her tits up against my chest and dragging the nipples from left to right. I wrap my fingers around her upper arms and push her gently away. I’m debating the best way to blow her off without pissing her off, if for no other reason than to keep this from getting any more awkward. Unfortunately, I’m still thinking when Weatherly opens the door and walks in.
Even though her hair is tangled, even though her clothes are wrinkled, she’s still mouthwatering. She still pulls my attention, my desire like no one ever has, especially with her eyes flashing like violet flames. For a few seconds, all I can think about is how much I want her.
It’s when the two bright red spots appear on her cheeks and her mouth drops open that I realize what her beauty caused me to miss initially. That fiery little spark in her eyes and that hot little flush to her cheeks aren’t the result of lust. She’s mad. Mad as hell. And I know exactly why.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” I begin, releasing Cher who is desperately trying to cover herself.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am. I thought we were alone.”
Weatherly turns her blazing eyes on Cher. “You thought you were alone? Does that really make a difference? Do you have any clue how inappropriate this is? Are you trying to lose your job?”
Cher blanches visibly. “No, ma’am! The guy, Rogan . . . his friend . . .” she tries to explain, hiking her thumb over her shoulder at me. She inches her way toward the clothes thrown over the back of an armchair in the corner as she continues in a stammer. “He . . . he assured me that this was okay. It’s . . . it’s . . . I’m a birthday present.”
Weatherly watches her with thinned, furious lips before she turns that withering look on me. “Well, I sure hope you enjoy your present.”
And with that, she turns on her heel and calmly exits the room. I have to grin when she closes the door rather than slamming it off its hinges, which is what I’d want to do. What I imagine that she wants to do, too. But a woman of her breeding would never make such a scene. It almost makes me want her more. I’ve seen firsthand the kind of fire she’s capable of, fire that seems to leap to life at the touch of my fingers or the lick of my tongue. But she can obviously control herself when she wants to. The fact that she doesn’t use that control when it comes to me . . . that she doesn’t want to . . . or that she can’t . . . Damn, that’s hot!
I glance at Cher on my way after Weatherly. “You won’t lose your job. I’ll make sure of it. Just get dressed and get back to work.”
I don’t catch up to Weatherly until she’s walking proudly out the front door. I don’t know where the hell she’s going, but I love that she’s going without thought of the two men who are watching curiously from just inside the dining room.
“Weatherly, wait!” I call as I barrel down the stairs. That only makes her speed up. I catch her before she can descend the steps out front, taking her gently by the arm to stop her. “At least give me a chance to explain.”
She whirls around, eyes spitting purple sparks. “Don’t bother,” she hisses through firmly gritted teeth. “I saw all the explanation I needed.”
She yanks her arm free and marches down the steps. With an exasperated shake of my head, I follow. “Damn it, Weatherly, do you really think I’m that stupid? That shallow?”
“Obviously you are,” she answers without turning around.
I lunge for her before she can get to the garage, to her car. “We can talk about your opinions of me later, then, but you can at least give me five minutes now.”
“You don’t deserve five minutes,” she bites off, making me smile again.
I don’t respond to that, but launch right into my explanation. It seems that the fair and beautiful Weatherly has a bit of a temper. “I asked you when I saw you in the tub that first day if you were a birthday gift.”
That gives her pause. I feel it in the way the supple muscle of her arm relaxes a little.
“Remember? And that’s all this was—a stupid birthday gift from my numb-nuts friend. Cher was just playing along. I didn’t touch her, I swear.”
“I saw you touching her.”
“Oh good God, you know what I mean. I didn’t touch her that way, nor did I have any intention of touching her. You can ask her yourself if you don’t believe me. I was right in the middle of trying to let her down without embarrassing her when you walked in.”
That gets another rise. Weatherly spins toward me. “Without embarrassing her? Without embarrassing her? I think she had more than embarrassed herself . . . quite sufficiently, in fact, by that point.”
“It was just a misunderstanding. No reason for anyone to get fired or beheaded or any dicks to be cut off. Because that’s what it looks like you’re thinking right now.”
I cover my junk with one hand.
Still no smile.
I see the indecision in her eyes, though. I see the rational, reasonable woman returning, although I love this hot-blooded one, too. I’m not normally a fan of jealous women, but for some reason, I find that I very much like this one.
“What the hell is going on out here?” William O’Neal bellows from the front steps.
My shoulders sag. Shit. I don’t even turn to look at him. I’m not worried about him right now. I’m worried about Weatherly.
“Don’t
let this mess things up between us,” I tell her softly. “I had nothing to do with that. I swear it. I have no interest in her. Which will probably worry me later,” I add.
Weatherly’s brow furrows. “Worry you? Why?”
“Because I’m not in the habit of turning down hot women who throw their naked bodies into my arms.”
“Then why did you?” she asks, an edge returning to her voice.
“Because she’s not the hot woman I want. You’re the only woman I can even think about. I have no interest in touching anyone else. Touching or kissing or spending time with. I told you that you’ve bewitched me, and hell, woman! I meant it.”
“Why do you make it sound like such a bad thing?”
“Because I don’t like not being in control. And you make me lose control. You’re all I can think about. And every time I start thinking about you, I feel like I’m gonna lose my damn mind if I can’t get inside you. Or put my hands on you. Or press my mouth to yours.”
Her expression changes. I recognize the look. I see it the instant she goes from angry to hungry. Hungry for me, for what’s between us. I know it because I feel it, too. It’s all I can feel, it seems like. That should bother the shit out of me, but this woman is under my skin. Jesus Christ, how she’s under my skin. And I just told her as much, which is a first for me, something else that’s out of character for me. Then again, Weatherly O’Neal is proving to be all kinds of firsts in my life.
When I start to step closer to her, desire shifts back to concern. Her mouth cracks then closes, and then cracks again for her to speak.
“Don’t hurt me, Tag. I wanted to let go. I’m trying to let go, but I’m still not a woman used to this. To you.” Her eyes . . . they glisten with sincerity. With the soft plea. They’re trusting me to be a man of honor.
Guilt stabs me in the chest. Don’t hurt me, Tag.
She’s so honest, so vulnerable. I know it’s hard for her, which makes me admire her all the more. Most people aren’t brave enough to admit weakness. Maybe that’s why, on her, it doesn’t seem like weakness at all. Just courage.
I bring the tip of my finger to her trembling lower lip. “I swear on my life that I’ll do my best.”
And I will. I’ll do my best not to hurt her. I just hope to God I haven’t already broken that promise.
SEVENTEEN
Weatherly
What in the name of all that’s holy have I gotten myself into? I think as Tag reaches for my hand and laces our fingers together. It’s an intimate, comfortable gesture that two people who really are engaged might indulge in. But we aren’t. And I’m terrified that this ruse is going to start feeling too real. If it hasn’t already.
Tag brings our entwined fingers to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. “Let me bring you a no-longer-warm breakfast. Let’s start over. The right way. The way I intended for this morning to go,” he says, staring deep into my eyes. I feel myself falling helplessly into his stormy gaze. Falling, falling, falling until I’m lost in the tornado once more. He does it so effortlessly—pulls me in. It’s not all his fault, though. Part of the problem is that I find myself wanting to fall. Badly. I find myself wanting this to be real, wishing this could be my chance at happiness, happiness that has nothing to do with money or power or holdings or business. I want those things to be mine. All mine. I want Tag to be mine. That’s why it nearly leveled me to see him holding a naked woman in his arms.
I nod and smile through the memory, tearing it up like a piece of paper and letting the tiny slivers slip through my fingers to be carried away by the wind. I don’t want them anymore. I don’t want to think back on that. Ever again.
Tag turns, eyes still on mine, half grin still on his face, and tugs me back toward the house. He doesn’t let me go. All the way back to the house, he holds me. My hand with his. My eyes with his. And that’s more than fine with me. I don’t want to look at my father, who I know is still standing on the steps. I can feel his angry energy like cold air blowing through my soul.
He won’t be ignored, though. When we mount the stairs and move to pass him, he reaches out to grab my arm, stopping me and forcing me to meet his disapproving eyes.
“Don’t do this, Weatherly. Don’t throw away your future on a whim.”
“This isn’t a whim, Dad. This is my life.”
“You’re telling me that you love him?” he asks, tipping his head toward Tag but not deigning to look at him.
I inhale deeply through my nose. “Yes. I love him.”
I feel Tag’s fingers twitch around my own, squeezing them a little tighter. I don’t know if it’s panic or what, and I don’t look at him to find out. Although I know it’s insane since we only just met, really, but I don’t want to see him shudder or shirk away from that word. It feels too right, too true when I say it aloud, even though it’s just what I had to tell my father.
Dad flings my arm away. “I raised you better than this. Better than him. He’s a common field worker, for chrissake,” he hisses, his voice dropping slightly as though he knows what he’s saying is in poor taste, regardless of his feelings for my engagement to Tag. “I’m sure he’s a fine enough man, like his father, but he’ll never be able to take care of you. This is exactly, precisely why I didn’t want you making this decision for yourself.”
“So you’re not even going to pretend that my happiness matters in all this?”
“You don’t have the first idea what will make you happy, Weatherly. You’ve been sheltered your entire life. But I won’t shelter you anymore. If you do this, so help me God, I won’t protect you.”
“I never asked you to,” I tell him, raising my chin defiantly and holding his gaze. “Stay if you want, but don’t think that your presence here will change my mind. It only strengthens my resolve.”
With that, I nod once and turn from my father, walking stiff-backed through the door and into the house.
—
“I’m sorry you had to hear my father say those things. He has no idea who you really are. He’s just . . . he’s a . . .”
I hear the soft rumble of Tag’s chuckle. “Sticks and stones, Weatherly. Sticks and stones.”
I let the conversation drop, unwilling to let my father mar one more second of my time with this man.
Tag sits up suddenly, resting his hand on my bare stomach. “Come down to Enchantment with me today.”
I love the excitement on his face, even though I’m sort of exhausted by it. After an orgasm-filled, nearly sleepless night, a dramatic morning, the world’s most romantic picnic on my bed, and then incredibly slow, sensual sex, my energy level is at rock bottom.
Yet, as I look up into Tag’s handsome face, as I lose myself in his swirling silver eyes, I feel my enthusiasm return. This man, this gorgeous, charismatic, highly desirable man, wants to spend the day with me. Why would I not be enthusiastic about that?
“For what?” I ask. After such an emotional hour or so, I don’t want to seem too eager. Even though I am. I think I’ve revealed quite enough of myself to Tag for one day.
“I want you to meet some of my friends.”
I’m immediately skeptical. “The ones who sent Cher?”
He cringes visibly. “Yes, but that’s why I want you to meet them.”
That seems backward, but whatever. And truth be told, I’m interested in Tag’s friends, in his life outside this place.
My hesitation must make him think I need convincing. “While yes, Rogan is the one who sent Cher, he’s really a great guy. He’s just got a . . . different sense of humor. He’s like a brother to me, though,” he confesses, his expression turning serious. “We were in the military together. Spent several years in Delta Five together. Right up until I had to come home. He’s saved my life more times than I can count. We’ve all saved each other’s life dozens of times. He’s as much family as my mom is.”
After h
earing that, a team of guerilla warfare experts couldn’t keep me away. “Sounds like a trip I don’t want to miss.”
“Oh, so that’s what it takes to convince you,” Tag complains, flopping down on top of me. “It wasn’t enough that you get to spend the day with me.” He bends his head to capture a nipple, worrying it with his lips and tongue until it comes to a tingling, begging peak.
“It’s not that at all,” I tell him in an already breathy voice. “It just took a pretty tempting offer to get me to leave this bed today.”
He lifts his head and pins me with his gleaming gray eyes. They’re so pale they seem almost backlit in the olive expanse of his face. “Well, when you put it like that, I don’t want to go now. I didn’t realize staying in bed all day was an option.”
I can feel the pressure of his growing erection against the inside of my thigh. “I think that should always be an option,” I respond, my heart melting as quickly as my bones beneath the passionate intensity of his gaze.
“Mmmm, the perfect woman,” he says, trailing his hand down my belly to my simmering center. “Just perfect.”
My last thought is that I guess Enchantment can wait for another hour or so.
—
I might be sheltered and well bred, but I doubt there’s a woman with a pulse who doesn’t know who Kiefer Rogan is. MMA champ, Hollywood up-and-comer, playboy charmer—his face has littered dozens of magazines and gossip sheets since he started dating vacuous starlets. I had no idea that Tag’s Rogan was that Rogan until we pulled up in front of a gorgeous, contemporary home in the gated hills of Enchantment’s “little Hollywood” subdivision. I was immediately uncomfortable and wished that I’d opted for staying in bed after all. But it was too late to back out, so I let Tag drag me up the geometric walk to a tall front door.
The beautiful woman who answered Tag’s knock, however, was not at all what I was expecting. I took to Katie instantly. I doubt I’ve ever met a more down-to-earth, relatable person than Katie. While she’s extremely pretty with her rich auburn hair and her twinkling blue eyes, she also has some scarring down the side of her neck. While it doesn’t detract from her in the least, I admire the fact that, in the world of glamorous perfection in which Rogan obviously lives, she is comfortable with who she is, flaws and all. I’m sure it helps that Rogan adores her. It was obvious from the moment he trotted up behind her at the door, kissing her scarred neck and smiling happily at us from over her petite head that he thinks she hung the moon.