Name Your Price

by Barbara Mccauley

  “I…told…you—” she bit her lip when his mouth moved down her neck “—I wasn’t going to…sleep with you tonight.”

  “We aren’t sleeping.” He nuzzled that little spot just below her ear.

  Smiling, she slid her arms over his shoulders. “True.”

  He filled his hands with her breasts, caressed her sensitive, swollen flesh until her nipples hardened, then replaced his hands with his mouth. She arched upward on a low moan, certain she could die from the pleasure pulsing through her. His teeth lightly raked her nipple and she moaned softly, dragging her fingers through his thick, dark hair.

  She whispered his name, struggled to rein in the emotions spiraling through her. His mouth was warm against her breast, his tongue hot and moist. And so very, very busy.

  Did he know how much she needed him? she wondered dimly.

  Did she really want him to know?

  It frightened her, to give herself to him, not just her body, but her heart. She loved him. She’d never stopped loving him. She knew she never would.

  Wrapping her arms tightly around him, she rolled until he was underneath her. She hadn’t the courage to say the words, but she would show him.

  Even in the dim light of the room, she could see the fierce expression in his eyes when she straddled him. She laid her hands on his broad chest, felt his muscles tense under her touch. Lowering her mouth to his, she kissed him softly, then moved her lips down his neck, savoring the dark, heady taste of his skin.

  “Becca…” He took hold of her arms, but she shook her head.

  “Let me,” she murmured. Love you, she finished silently.

  His fingers tightened on her skin, then dropped to his sides.

  Palms flat, fingers splayed, she moved her hands over his strong shoulders and chest while she caressed him with her lips and teeth. His breathing grew sharp, ragged, his muscles tightened with restrained desire.

  Though her own body screamed to feel him inside her, her love and her need to give pleasure kept her focused. She took her time, slowly worked her way down his magnificent body. More than once, he swore, his voice hoarse and rough. When her hands and mouth slid down his hard, flat stomach, he sucked in a breath and jerked underneath her.

  He groaned when she moved lower still, then grasped her shoulders. Velvet steel, she thought. Powerful, arousing. Need—urgent, raw, wild—surged out of control.

  “Dammit.” His fingers dug into her arms. “That’s it.”

  She hadn’t time to resist before she found herself on her back. His hands raced up her arms, circled her wrists and raised them over her head.

  Her heart pounded furiously, she gasped for breath, then cried out when he entered her in one hard, deep stroke. She met him, wrapped her legs around him and rode the violent wave of passion that consumed them both. He filled her. Her mind, her heart, her body and soul.

  Arching upward, she cried out, shuddered again and again. He groaned, his body shaking with the force of his release.

  While she waited for the world to find balance again, she held him close and fought back the moisture gathering in her eyes—tears of joy, she realized, then smiled.

  Tears of hope.

  He watched her sleep. Light spilled into the bedroom from the hallway and washed across the room in a golden glow. The silence of midnight, smooth and warm and soft, closed around them.

  Elbow bent, head propped in his hand, Trace lay on his side and studied her face. The delicate arch of her brow. The straight line of her cute nose. The sexy curve of her lips.

  Her hair fanned across the pillow and, unable to resist, he traced one silky curl with his fingertip. He liked the way she wore it now, a little shorter, with a few wispy bangs. But he’d liked it before, too, he remembered, and the image of Becca on a swing jumped into his mind. He could still hear her laugh, see the sunlight in her billowing hair as he’d pushed her higher and higher.

  He smiled at the memory. They’d picnicked at the park. She’d packed ham sandwiches and potato salad. He’d brought a blanket and a bottle of Pinot Noir. They’d stayed until dark, kissed under the stars, talked about their dreams. She wanted to take pictures and travel. He wanted to create his own winery and label.

  And then she’d left.

  His smile faded. When he saw her again, he’d told himself he’d wanted her in his bed to get her out of his system. After he had, he’d been certain he could walk away without a second thought.

  Revenge? he wondered. Or had he simply wanted to punish her? Both, he decided.

  He watched her roll to her side and sigh, then burrow her cheek into the pillow. Something stirred inside him. Lust, he told himself. Certainly not love. He’d made that mistake once with this woman, let himself be fooled by his emotions. He wouldn’t do it again.

  This time, he would be the one in control.

  Eyes narrowed, muscles tense, he pulled back the bedclothes, watched her eyes flutter open, then moved quickly over her. He held her gaze when he filled her, thrust his hips hard and deep, held her gaze as the rhythm built, faster, harder, until they were both gasping.

  His need bordered on violent. He grasped her hips, plundered her body savagely. When her eyes glazed over and she arched upward on a mindless, shuddering moan, he held back, refusing to give in to the fierce need ripping at his gut. Pleasure turned to pain and still he waited, his thrusts hard and fast inside the tight, hot glove of her body.

  Her nails raked over his shoulders, her legs tightened around his hips. On a guttural moan, he threw his head back, his body convulsing with the blinding force of his release.

  Seconds…minutes passed before he could move, then he rolled to his back and took her with him.

  She woke slowly, with the early morning sun on her face and the scent of coffee in the air. The bed beside her was empty, the sheets rumpled and cool. Becca slid her hand over the smooth, beige-striped cotton, felt the warm wave of contentment ripple upward through her fingers and settle into her bones. Something had happened last night. Well, other than the obvious, she thought, smiling at the memory of making love with Trace. He’d been tender, yet forceful. Patient, but demanding. Heat rushed through her as she remembered her own lack of inhibition. She’d never considered herself a wanton woman, but she certainly had been last night.

  Her smile widened.

  Wickedly, wonderfully, gloriously wanton.

  But there’d been something else happening between them last night besides sex. An undefinable shift in the careful and tentative relationship that she and Trace had established. The possibility that maybe, just maybe….

  She hugged her pillow, afraid to even finish the thought. What if she’d read the situation wrong? What if he’d simply been caught up in the excitement of becoming an uncle? What if she’d wanted so desperately to believe he felt something for her beyond the physical, that she’d simply imagined it?

  And what if she hadn’t?

  With a groan, she sat on the edge of the bed and stretched her sore, stiff muscles. Her eyes widened at the sight of a darkening bruise on her thigh, and she blushed at the intensity of their lovemaking, realized that she’d just as likely left marks on Trace, too.

  She dressed quickly, decided she would shower at home before she went to work. She also decided she would pick up a present for Megan’s baby and take it over to the hospital later, though the possibility of running into Trace’s mother made Becca’s stomach tighten.

  Lilah Ashton had never openly snubbed her, if anything, she’d been exceedingly polite. But Becca had known the woman hadn’t wanted her to marry Trace, and it had hurt, just as much as it had hurt her that her own mother had been opposed to their engagement.

  It should have been so simple. She’d loved Trace so much, and she had been so certain he’d loved her. In the beginning, Becca had naively, and foolishly, thought that with time, their parents would come to accept their relationship, then eventually be happy for them.

  But that had never happened. And it had only
seemed that as the days became weeks, then months, Trace’s parents, and even her mother had become more determined than ever to break them up. Five years ago, Becca hadn’t been strong enough to stand up to them.

  Was she strong enough now?

  Sighing, she made her way to the kitchen, found Trace rummaging through the back of his refrigerator. He was shirtless and the jeans he wore, faded, the back pockets nearly worn through. Great butt, she thought, watching him from the doorway. Lean waist, wide, muscled shoulders. What woman wouldn’t want this man for a lover? When he straightened and she noticed the scratches on those wide, strong shoulders, her cheeks warmed. So she had left marks on him, she realized, and bit her bottom lip.

  “Good morning,” she said, heard the breathless tone in her voice. A carton of eggs in his hand, he turned and smiled at her. Something fluttered in her stomach.

  “You’re not supposed to be awake yet,” he reprimanded.

  “I’m not?”

  “Nope.” He set the eggs on the counter, then pulled out a cube of butter and what looked like a package of shredded cheddar cheese. “Not until I’ve made you breakfast.”

  He was making her breakfast? The Trace Ashton she’d known hadn’t even owned a can opener. The flutter she’d felt in her stomach moved up to her heart. “You cook now?”

  With a shrug, he plucked an egg out of the carton, then—one-handed—he cracked it open into a bowl sitting on the counter. “I’m not sure you’d exactly call it cooking, but I’ve learned to master an omelette and toast.”

  He cracked another egg, then cursed as he fished a piece of shell out of the bowl. She moved to the counter beside him, couldn’t resist sliding her hand up his bare arm, then pressing her lips to his shoulder. His skin was warm, the scent musky and arousing. “I’m very impressed.”

  “Yeah?” He twisted and dropped his mouth to hers, a long, sensual kiss that left them both breathing heavier, then he straightened, opened a kitchen drawer and wiggled an eyebrow. “I even have my own whip.”

  She laughed when he pulled the utensil out of the drawer and waved it at her.

  Helping herself to coffee, she wandered the kitchen while he beat the eggs. It felt so familiar, so comfortable, to be here with him. It felt like…home, she realized.

  She stood at the kitchen window, sipped her coffee as she glanced out at the rows of bare grape vines, knew that in spring, the view would be an explosion of varying shades of brilliant green.

  “There’s been a lot of talk about a new Cabernet and label you’re introducing,” she mentioned.

  “Ah, a spy in my midst.” He held out his arms in surrender. “Go ahead. Do what you must to get information out of me.”

  She rolled her eyes at his foolishness. “I think you’ve got the other wineries worried you’ll snatch up all the awards this year.”

  “We intend to,” he said with a firm nod. “I could arrange a private tasting for you, if you’d like. How ’bout Friday night through Sunday?”

  “A three-day tasting?” She raised a brow. “For one wine?”

  “This is a wine like nothing you’ve ever tasted.” His gaze slid over her. “Luscious grapes, smooth tannins, supple texture. And a long, long finish.”

  Becca shivered at his description, and especially liked the long finish part. So tempting, she thought, then glanced away from him. She’d wanted to put this off, but knew she couldn’t. “I won’t be here, Trace.”

  He stilled. “Oh?”

  “I’m finished with the Whitestone shooting,” she said as calmly as she could muster. “I need to get back to L.A.”

  “I see.” His shoulders were stiff when he turned back to the eggs. “What about the Louret job?”

  “They haven’t hired me yet, and even if they do, I wouldn’t start for a couple of months.”

  He grabbed a pan from under the counter, set it carefully on the stove and fired up the flame. “I figured you’d be here until after Christmas.”

  “I wish I could, but I have to get two proposals out before the end of the year.” She forced a smile. “Gotta pay the bills.”

  Butter sizzled when he dropped a slice onto the hot pan. She hated the sudden silence between them and the cold that had seemed to creep into the room. But still, she wondered. Did it—did she—matter enough to him that he would ask her to stay? And if he did, what would she say?

  Yes.

  Her fingers tightened on her coffee cup while the silence stretched and the eggs bubbled in the pan. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath until he turned to her.

  “You don’t have to leave, Becca.”

  Her pulse raced at his words, her heart leaped. But she said nothing, just kept her eyes steady with his intense green gaze.

  He turned back to the eggs. “I was going to talk to you about it, but things got a little crazy the past few days.”

  Crazy, she thought. Yes. They had gotten crazy. “Talk to me about what?” she asked hesitantly. Hopefully.

  “I’ve been considering a new design company to run the promotion for Ashton Estates,” he said evenly. “I thought you might be interested in handling all of our advertising and marketing.”

  She furrowed her brow, certain she hadn’t heard him right. “What?”

  “You’re good at what you do, Becca. Very good. I’d like to hire your company to work exclusively for Ashton Estate Winery.” He kept his gaze on the omelette, sprinkled cheese on the eggs and flipped one side over. “You could set up a studio here in Napa.”

  “You mean, move here?” she asked carefully.

  “Yes.” He slid the eggs onto a plate.

  “To work for you.”

  “For the winery.”

  “Exclusively.”

  “Yes.”

  She stared at him, felt the bubble of joy in her chest burst. This couldn’t be happening. Not again, she thought.

  Not with Trace.

  “I’ll have to think about it,” she said stiffly as the pain sliced sharply through her. When he turned toward her, offering her the plate of food, she was terrified she might be sick.

  “You eat it,” she managed to say through the dryness in her throat. “I have to leave.”

  He frowned at her. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m running late, Trace. Really, I’ve got to go.”

  “Becca—”

  “I’ll call you later.” She turned, knew she had to get away quickly. She grabbed her keys from the front entry table where Trace had dropped them last night and hurried down the stairs.

  “Becca, wait a minute, dammit,” he called from the doorway.

  She didn’t answer him, just got in her car and drove away through the haze of tears.

  What the hell had he done? Trace thought, staring after Becca as she pulled away. Dammit, anyway! He’d offered her a job—so what? She’d had no problem five years ago when his father had handed her a check, why should him offering a job bother her so much now? But the look on her face, the shock and disgust, had slammed into his gut like an angry truck driver’s fist.

  He’d hurt her, he realized.

  Confused, he scrubbed a hand over his face. So maybe he hadn’t thought this completely through. Actually he hadn’t thought about it at all. He’d simply panicked when she’d said she was leaving. Offering her a job here in Napa had seemed the most logical thing to do. She could “pay her bills” and she wouldn’t be so damn far away.

  But there’d been something else in her eyes. Something that had bothered him more than anything else.

  Disappointment?

  Dammit, dammit!

  He stomped back into his apartment and slammed the door. She’d been the one who’d disappointed him five years ago. She’d been the one who’d taken money from his father, then walked out and never looked back. He still had the canceled check, signed by her.

  He needed it now, needed to hold it in his hand, look at it. Needed the reminder that money and her career had been more important to her than
him. He stormed into his home office and pulled the check out of the lower right-hand drawer, stared at it for what felt like the millionth time.

  Becca Marshall. One hundred thousand dollars. Her signature, with its distinct and curly B, ending with a swirl after the final L.

  Something was wrong, he thought, but he didn’t know what it was. After what had just happened, he couldn’t very well go to Becca and confront her.

  There was only one person he could confront. It might be five years too late, he realized, but today, he would finally have the truth.

  He picked up the phone and dialed.

  Nine

  B ecca parked her car on the hilltop that overlooked Napa Valley. From her vantage point, the Valley became a sea of vineyards, with roads burrowing not only through the flatland, but on the mountainside, as well. Tall oaks dotted the landscape and rugged hills rose high above the valley floor.

  She’d found this spot on a photography field trip in her senior year of high school. On a clear day like this morning, it was a photographer’s dream. She’d brought Trace here once, wanting to share her little slice of heaven with him. He’d teased her that she had stars in her eyes. Maybe she had.

  She’d known who Trace’s family was before she’d met him, had heard the scandalous talk about his father. According to the rumors, Spencer Ashton had been a ruthless, heartless son of a bitch who would sell his grandmother for a buck.

  She’d never really believed the gossip, at least, not completely. How could any man who’d raised a son as loving and caring as Trace be that calloused? There had to be some good in Spencer, Becca had thought. Some kernel of kindness.

  How wrong she’d been.

  She would never forget the day Spencer had handed her that check. She’d been so confused, had stared at the huge amount of money, not understanding what was happening. Even after Spencer had explained, she’d still been dazed.

  The anger had come much later.

  He’d shattered her life that horrible day, taken something precious away from her she’d never been able to get back.