by Lauren Smith
“Fenn! On your right!” Wes shouted out the warning but there wasn’t enough time for Fenn to react. Their horses were on a collision course. Wes reacted on pure instinct. That little boy inside him, the one who remembered Fenn gone all those years, took over. He dug his heels into Nelson’s flanks and the horse leaped forward, closing the distance and Stonecypher’s mount smashed Nelson shoulder to shoulder just as Stonecypher swung his mallet, striking Wes in the solar plexus.
Air whooshed out of his lungs and he went limp. Nelson screamed and reared back. When he thrashed his head, Wes’s weak grip on the reins slackened and the strips of leather slipped free of his hold.
There had only been three other times in his life when a horse had thrown him, but that spark of panic in his chest, the clawing agony of his lungs struggling to breathe and the weightless free fall, were unforgettable. He struck the ground hard, the impact knocking the last bit of air from his lungs before his head snapped back and a sharp pain followed him into darkness.
Chapter 23
A panicked shout and the screaming of hooves jerked Callie’s focus back to the field. Fenn had the ball, but Stonecypher was rushing at him, mallet raised dangerously. Wes was only a yard behind and then in a blink he and his horse were wedged between Fenn and Stonecypher. The mallet swung and Callie leaped to her feet, trying to see what happened. Wes’s horse reared, his muscles gleaming, mouth frothing, as it screamed. Wes slipped off the back of the horse and hit the ground. A sickening fear gripped her in its jaws. The horse stumbled and rolled over Wes before it got back up onto its feet.
“Wes!” Callie screamed and kicked off her heels so she could run across the field faster. All she could think about was getting to him. She had to. Tears blurred her eyes and she choked down sobs. He was only fifty feet away and not moving. Stonecypher, Fenn, and the other riders had dismounted and were on the ground beside him.
“I swear, Lockwood, I didn’t mean to—” Stonecypher’s face was ashen as he stared at Wes’s body.
Callie lunged forward, but when she got close, strong arms caught her and held her back.
“Hey, kid, hold on.” Fenn’s voice was distant, almost muffled beneath the blood roaring in her ears.
“Let go of me!” She struggled, arms flailing and legs thrashing against Fenn’s body. A muttered curse reached her ears and then she was free. She shoved past him and dropped by Wes’s side. Emery and Stephen Vain were examining him.
“Doesn’t look like any bones were broken,” Vain observed. His eyes met hers before he focused on Wes again.
Callie gripped one of Wes’s hands and squeezed.
“Wes, please, wake up.” She felt so helpless, like the little girl whose mother would never come home. Some memories were so deep that even a young child couldn’t forget them.
His dark lashes fluttered and then he finally opened his eyes. With a low moan, he lifted his head, only to drop it back to the ground.
“Easy.” Emery patted his shoulder and glanced at Callie.
“What happened?” Wes tried to raise himself up again and this time succeeded.
“You fell,” she explained, her voice breaking. “We should call an ambulance.”
He cursed. “I don’t need an ambulance.” He struggled to get up, wavered only a few steps before he seemed to regain control, and he started off in the direction that his horse had run, which was back to the stables.
When she tried to go after him and grab his arm, Wes growled at her. She retreated a step and they all watched him stalk off toward the stables. The ambulance crew had apparently been waiting behind the tents in case of emergencies and when Emery spoke to them, he told them Wes was headed for the stables.
Callie was rooted to the ground. Her whole body shook and she was a little dizzy, and also hurt by Wes’s brush-off. He didn’t want her to check on him and that stung. More than stung, it created a heavy ache in her chest. She rubbed the spot over her heart, trying to ease a pain she knew full well wouldn’t ease until she’d taken care of Wes.
“Are you okay?” Fenn wrapped his arm around her shoulders, shaking her a little and she focused on him.
“Huh? Oh, I’m fine. Just a little shook up. I was so afraid…” Her sentence died in a breathless whisper.
Fenn cupped her cheek and met her gaze. “Pretty scary to see someone you love get hurt, huh?”
“Yeah,” she agreed, and when he chuckled she scowled. “What?”
“You love Wes. You didn’t deny that just now.” Fine lines around his eyes creased as he smiled. “I guess it was worth a few punches to get him to admit he loves you, too.”
“He doesn’t.” She rubbed at her eyes, brushing away tears, but she gasped as Fenn caught her by the shoulders.
“I was wrong about him, kid. So you listen to me. A man like Wes does not get into fights over a woman, not unless he loves her. Hell, he got mad when I suggested it was only desire for you. He was pissed. He may not be ready to tell you he loves you, but it sure shows.”
She wanted to cry. If he loved her, he wouldn’t have walked off after the accident, and she told Fenn as much.
He unclipped his riding helmet and shook his head. “You think he wants you to see him hurt? A man likes to be strong and protect his woman, not frighten her by getting hurt. His pride is injured and he’s probably scared that you’ll lose faith in his ability to take care of you.”
“But that’s ridiculous.”
Fenn laughed. “As I recall, you once told me, men never make sense.”
He had her there and she couldn’t argue.
“So what can I do?”
A serious expression lined his face as he considered this. “He needs to get his sense of power and strength back. Find a way to make him feel comfortable again and he’ll be okay.” With a brotherly pat on her head, Fenn walked away.
Callie remained on the field a few minutes longer, the grass cool beneath her feet as she watched the crowds disperse. One person caught her attention.
Corrine Vanderholt was standing next to the edge of the large party tent, her attention on the stables where Wes had gone. A smug smile curved her lips as she glanced around and then slipped back into the vanishing crowds. A little shiver of dread tiptoed down Callie’s spine. Was Corrine happy that Wes had been hurt? Would she try to get back with Wes and was she heading off to find him at that very moment? Jealousy crawled beneath her skin and she despised admitting she was worried Wes would be tempted by Corrine.
The questions had no ready answer, but Callie would be watching her closely from now on. Something wasn’t right. Every instinct she had screamed that Corrine had liked Wes getting hurt.
Callie collected her shoes and slipped them on before she headed to the stables. Wes hadn’t come back out yet, so he might still be inside. As she reached the stables’ main entrance, two paramedics walked past her. Emery was right behind them, looking bemused.
“Where is Wes?” she asked.
Emery waved a hand back down the long dim hall of the stalls.
“He’s brooding, but fine. A bump on the head is all.” Emery’s assurance didn’t soothe her. She needed to see Wes, to make sure he was, in fact, all right.
The stalls were full of polo ponies who stuck their faces over the edges of the doors to eye her curiously. The heavy warm scent of hay and grain made her feel safe. It would always remind her of the ranch. A large tack room bore glossy English-style saddles, and a rack behind them was laden with large cup trophies. Fat ribbons in a dozen colors hung from pegs on the rack, their forked ends gleaming in the soft gold glow of the ceiling lights.
Wes was at the end of the row of fifteen stalls. She saw his dark silhouette against the daylight behind him from the rear entrance of the barn. His tall, lean, booted legs, narrow hips, wide shoulders, all of him focused as he held a horse’s face in his hands, his forehead pressed to the beast’s in a sign of gentle endearment that tugged at her heart. He was so sexy, so alive, and at that moment completely ignorant of her presence.
She loved him so much it hurt. It wasn’t the same as she’d felt with Fenn. That had been a shallow cut to her soul when he’d rejected her. With Wes, it was like nothing else she could ever have imagined. Everything she someday hoped to be was tied to him, like an ocean to the shore. Always crashing back to each other, pulled by an invisible force like gravity. A love that was built into the fabric of the universe. It couldn’t be explained or ignored. Only embraced and cherished.
I will love you for the rest of my life, Wes Thorne. Even if you break my heart, it will be yours.
The horse he was stroking shifted and bumped its nose against Wes’s chest and Wes chuckled. The sound was rich and low. It made her entire body explode with heated memories of their nights in Paris. Without a word, she walked right up to him and put her arms around him, hugging him. If he was startled, she couldn’t tell. Her face was buried against his chest.
“Hello, darling.” He kissed her temple and curled his arms around her body.
“Don’t ever push me away like that again. Ever.” She rubbed her cheek against the soft cotton of his polo jersey. His scent, mixed with a little sweat and hay, made him enticing and irresistible.
A hand patted her lower back and then he eased her away a few inches so their gazes could meet. Around them, the silent equine witnesses huffed and pawed their hooves against hay-covered stone.
“Keep coming after me.” His eyes were heavy with a solemnity she hadn’t expected. “Don’t let me shut you out. Whatever you ask of me, I can’t refuse you. You know that, don’t you?”
Her heart skidded to a stop as hope sprung forth. Could he mean what she hoped? That he belonged to her just as she belonged to him? She was too afraid to ask if he meant that.
“How’s your head?” She touched his cheek gently.
One corner of his mouth rose in a crooked grin. “Just a small bump.” He reached behind his head, but she caught his wrist.
“Don’t touch it if it hurts. Did the paramedics tend to it?”
He nodded. “Are you hoping to patch me up again?” It was meant as a tease, but she didn’t find it funny.
“I don’t want to make that a hobby, stitching you back up or bandaging your wounds. I’m serious, Wes. Be careful for me.”
“You were really worried?” His brows arched and his lips softened in a tender half-smile.
“Of course I was. A horse practically fell on you. You weren’t moving…” She couldn’t finish the thought.
“I’m sorry I scared you.” His earnestness made the knot of panic in her chest ease a little. He held her a long moment, neither of them brave enough to speak.
“Are you ready to go home?” he finally asked.
“Yes.” She still had her arms around him and she tilted her head back. “Wes, will you take me to the club tonight? I know you plan to go watch over the forged Monet. I want to go with you.”
His eyes narrowed. “You want to go to the Gilded Cuff with me?”
She nodded.
“No.”
“But—”
“Callie, that’s a full BDSM club. You wouldn’t know what to do, and you are far too shy. Besides, I’d have to collar you in front of everyone just to keep the other doms from approaching you.”
She nibbled her bottom lip, considering how brave she might be to go to the club and play by his rules. She didn’t know if she could succeed but she wanted to try.
“Wes, this is important to me. I want to do this.” Going to the club was part of his life and she knew that if she ever wanted to convince him they could be together, then she had to prove she could survive in his dark world.
“You’re serious about the club?” A flicker of consideration in his eyes showed she might have a chance to convince him.
“Please,” she begged, staring at his lips, then his eyes. She stood on tiptoes and curled her fingers around the back of his neck to pull his face down for a kiss.
This time she was the aggressor and used her lips to convince him how much she deserved him and wanted to please him. He growled softly against her mouth, his hands spanning her waist and pulling her against him. The kiss deepened and this time she lost her control. Clinging to him, she sighed and moaned as he assaulted her senses.
When they finally broke apart, she was pinned back against the wall next to Vengeance’s stall and Wes was stroking her bare arms, his eyes bedroom soft, his lashes at half-mast as he gazed intently at her kiss-swollen lips.
“All right. You can come tonight, but I’ll need to keep you close in order to make sure you don’t anger any of the doms. I love your fire, but not all masters like their submissives spirited.” He threaded his fingers through her hair and the caress was soothing.
“I can do this, Wes. I promise.” She had faith that she would be brave enough to survive a night at one of the most exclusive BDSM clubs on the East Coast.
“We’ll be there together.” His assurance warmed her.
Together. What a difference one small word could make.
* * *
Corrine Vanderholt lingered in the tack room, eavesdropping on Wes’s conversation with the little blonde-haired twit. It still infuriated her that Wes had broken off their relationship for a girl like that. A small-town nobody. Corrine had connections to the Kennedys, for God’s sake. Any man should want to marry her. Lucky for her, though, she didn’t actually like Wes. Sure, she played submissive, because that was the only way a woman could get any time with him. And that had been her goal. To get time with him, to get him to propose to her.
She had no interest in his love or his money. She wanted his art. For the last few years she’d been watching him as he purchased several rare, near priceless pieces. The Monet, the Renoir, they would all be hers. There was just one problem. He kept these rare pieces well hidden. Her partner had cased Wes’s house and hadn’t found them anywhere. But Corrine knew they had to be there somewhere. Paranoid Wes had just hidden them and they needed a way to trick him into showing the paintings’ location.
Her partner had developed a plan to steal art from Wes’s friends and clients. When Wes learned of the thefts he would want to get involved, and just as her partner had predicted, Wes would use his own art as bait to draw out the illusive thief. A little smile curled her lips. Wes had it all wrong. He was the mouse in this game and she was the cat.
It was a good thing she’d thought to follow him to the barn. That little nobody in the rose dress had revealed an unexpected twist. Wes wasn’t planning to hang the real Monet in the club. He was going to hang a fake. That meant her plan to steal it had to be changed. A wicked sense of glee filled her. Oh, it would be too easy to get Wes to hand over the real Monet and anything else Corrine desired.
“There you are.” A deep masculine chuckle came from the back door of the tack room that led to the other row of stalls on the other side of the stables.
Corrine turned to see her partner. He called himself the Illusionist, but she didn’t care about the nickname. She only cared about him and the art they would steal.
“Hey, baby,” she purred and wrapped her arms around his neck.
His brown eyes burned through her. He was the only man who ever made her feel before. She didn’t have to playact any certain way when she was around him. She could just be herself.
“What’s Thorne up to?” He settled his hands on her lower back and tugged her close.
“Changing the game, that’s what. He put a forgery in the club this afternoon. The real Monet is still hidden.”
Her partner frowned. “Damn.”
Corrine stroked her fingertips along the nape of his neck, teasing with the edge of his polo jersey. “It’s okay. I know what we can do.”
“Do you?” He bent his head, kissing her until she was breathless.
“Yes,” she replied. She had the perfect plan. And it would cost Wes that sweet girl he’d dared to fall for.
Chapter 24
Remember to breathe.”
Callie
had to repeat Wes’s suggestion a few times as he parked his Hennessey in a lot outside an old warehouse building. Her hands were shaking as she climbed out of the car and glanced around. It was eight o’clock and the lack of buildings around this isolated warehouse was a little eerie in the dark.
“Ready?” Wes held out a hand and she took it, grateful to have him to hold on to.
He looked good in his black wool suit. His clothes and his demeanor screamed that he was a powerful dom. She wore only jeans, a t-shirt, and a pair of soft leather cuffs with a fur lining. When she’d asked earlier that evening what to wear, he’d told her to dress comfortably because she’d change at the club and he’d taken care of her outfit, which he’d put in the submissive locker room earlier that day.
She had no idea what to expect. Would Wes want to do a public scene with her? Sure, she’d read plenty of romance novels, but what was this like in real life? What she did with Wes in private was wonderful, explosive, but she was afraid she couldn’t do something in public, not something incredibly intimate. What if he wanted her to be naked in front of his friends or the other doms? They hadn’t talked about that, but she was feeling right now like those might be close to her hard limits.
“Darling, are you all right? You’ve got a death grip on my hand.” Wes gave her a reassuring squeeze.
“I’m good,” Callie lied. He frowned and that look made her instantly regret lying.
“Callie, once we’re inside the club. No lying. That’s important. I won’t be mad at you, even if you tell me you’re terrified. All you have to do is use your safe words. ‘Yellow’ to slow down if you’re uncomfortable and ‘red’ to stop immediately.”
She nodded, relief flooding her. Wes would protect her. All she had to do was rely on him to guide her through the night.
Callie followed Wes as they reached the warehouse. He opened the large wooden door to the inside of the club lobby. Craggy rock walls and sconces with warm gold lights gave the castle a medieval ambiance. There was one red-painted door at the end of the lobby, and a man in a black suit with a red armband stood by the door, checking IDs of the men and women passing into a dark interior beyond. A few people stood in a line in front of a desk where a woman in a pantsuit and black-framed glasses was checking names off a list.