Knox KOBO

by Christie Ridgway

  The place was romantically low-lit and already packed with customers. Through the speakers Celine Dion was singing “The Power of Love.” Knox likely wanted to kill somebody over that particular jukebox pick.

  She kept to the shadows because she didn’t see her fiancé behind the bar and because, truth be told, she’d gotten a little nervous when they’d spent time apart. He was winding down his work at The Wake—they were hiring a replacement bartender—but tonight would be busy, and so he’d headed from Cinnabar to Santa Monica a few days prior to get some work done on his beachside house and then take the February 14th shift.

  But the plan was for Knox to relocate permanently ASAP. He said he wanted to be near his yoga girl.

  Erin pressed damp palms to her red dress. Underneath the sleek knit she wore risqué red little-nothings, including a garter belt and sheer stockings. The high heels on her feet were killer red and actual killers—already her toes were shrieking, and she couldn’t wait to slip them off. But they were the kind of shoes that told a man what his woman had been thinking about.

  Then she saw him come out from the back, a rack of clean glassware in his hands. He wore dark jeans and a red button-down shirt, the cuffs rolled up to the elbows. A patron seated on a stool pulled up to the bar made a remark that caused Knox to laugh, his teeth flashing white.

  She waited where she was for a stool to become free. Then, on a deep breath, she wound through the tables to approach the bar. Knox stood with his back to her and for a moment she recalled that worst-case scenario she’d once imagined in the restaurant at the spa-resort. What if when he turned there wasn’t a welcome in his expression?

  Their relationship had developed so quickly. But the mutual physical attraction had been obvious from the first and they’d found themselves quickly sharing their inner selves too. Everyone she knew who knew Knox as well thought they were an excellent match—and she had to agree. His rebel’s confidence rubbed off on her. Her trust in his love allowed him to see a deeper side of himself.

  They each made the other more.

  Or, she thought, with another nervous flutter in her stomach, they had made each other more. But it had been five days without talking to him in person, touching him skin-to-skin, seeing his feelings for her written all over his face.

  Erin stood behind the barstool when Knox glanced over his shoulder. Their gazes met.

  Love blazed in his eyes, hot enough that she wobbled a little on her heels and had to clutch the bar with her hand for support.

  “Hey,” he said, turning. Smiling. His palm pressed against his chest. “Is there an airport nearby, or is that my heart taking off?”

  Oh, God, she loved this man.

  Then he hurried along the bar, ducking beneath the hinged opening. She met him halfway, and they embraced, oblivious to anyone around them. His mouth met hers, and the kiss assuaged the last of her nerves.

  He lifted his head, smiling down at her. “How are you?”

  “Well, I’ve been a little under the weather.”

  “What?” His brows came together in concern.

  “Yes,” she said, kissing the underside of his square chin. “My doctor says I’ve been lacking Vitamin U.”

  Laughing, he pushed her a little away. “Have you been studying pick-up lines?”

  “Just practicing in case I ever have to go after fresh meat again.”

  “Never,” he said, emphatic. “You’re all mine. Only mine. And I’m only yours.”

  They kissed again.

  “And because I’m so grateful for that,” he murmured against her mouth, “and because it’s Valentine’s Day…” From his pocket he withdrew a small square box.

  “Knox!” She smiled at him. “You’ll spoil me.”

  “Get used to it.” He flipped open the top to show her moonstone and diamond earrings, a match to her engagement ring.

  “Oh.” She quickly changed out the simple hoops she was wearing for the new jewelry. “Pretty?”

  With his hand on her chin, he tilted her face this way and that. “Beautiful. I had no idea that angels could fly so low.”

  Erin felt herself blush as she went on tiptoe to kiss him again and then whisper in his ear, “As for your Valentine’s presents…I left one at your house when I stopped there to change. The other gifts…well, you’ll find them when you unwrap me later.”

  Clutching her tighter, Knox groaned. “All right, lady, you’ve officially made the rest of my shift torture. Come sit down. I need to put the bar between us before I give in to temptation and race out with you over my shoulder.”

  She slid onto the empty stool and he went back to making drinks. Content just to watch him, she sipped at the glass of wine he slid in front of her and listened to the love songs playing over the speakers.

  “You’ve got a dreamy look in your eyes,” he said, stopping in front of her.

  “That kind of night, I guess.”

  He reached out to take her hand. “Cass said a birthday card finally showed up for you from your mom.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “You talked to my dad?”

  “Just checking in. How come you didn’t tell me about it?”

  Erin shrugged. “It doesn’t seem quite so important now.” She squeezed his hand. “I have my dad, my friends, I have you.”

  “You do. You always will.” He plucked a maraschino cherry from the tray of bar garnishes and popped it into his mouth. Chewed. “Oh, and I finally spoke with Finn over the phone.”

  She knew Knox had called each of his older brothers to announce his and Erin’s engagement and to explain about his varied business pursuits that he’d kept secret from them. They’d expressed interest and admiration, but most of all they’d assured him that they cared about him no matter whether he invested in shoelaces and custom furniture businesses or spent the rest of his life surfing and slinging drinks.

  That response had pleased him to no end.

  But his younger brother had proved difficult to reach outside of brief emails recently, making Knox worry a little. She was glad to hear they’d made contact.

  “How is he?”

  “Sounds great, and he wanted me to pass on his sympathy to you for taking me on.” Knox grinned. “But with the Brannigan brothers falling like dominoes, we spent most of the conversation making bets on which one will topple next.”

  “Are you going to tell me who you think is the most likely candidate?”

  “A brother who’s not as lucky as me, because I found the best and most beautiful girl in the world.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Another pick-up line?”

  “Straight from the depths of my heart, baby,” Knox said, with that tender expression on his face that scrambled her pulse and made her melt all over. “Straight from the very depths of my heart.”

  # # #

  Dear Reader:

  I hope you enjoyed KNOX, my book in the 7 Brides for 7 Brothers series! It was great fun to write such a sexy and fun hero and to collaborate with such a talented pool of authors. I know you’ll want to read every Brannigan story—each handsome man has a delicious romance of his own.

  Interested in sharing your thoughts with other readers? I hope you leave a review for the book here.

  Continue on to read a description of MAX, by Lynn Rae Harris, the next brother to embark on a romantic adventure. Then find an excerpt to the first book in my Rock Royalty series, LIGHT MY FIRE, guaranteed to make your heart sing.

  Sign up for my newsletter to be informed of future releases and to receive other information about upcoming books and specials. You can also follow me on Facebook, Twitter, or visit my website.

  Best wishes!

  Christie Ridgway

  Do you want more of the Brannigan Brothers? Max's story is coming next from NYT Bestselling Author Lynn Raye Harris. Here's the blurb …

  MAX

  Former Navy SEAL Max Brannigan is a loner with a strong protective streak and an ocean of survivor’s guilt that drives him to take risks no sane
man would take. When he gets the news his billionaire father died and left him a horse farm in Kentucky, he’s busy protecting American military contractors in a war zone. The first moment he’s able, he’ll fly back to the US and dispose of the farm. What does a man like him need horses for anyway? Of all the things his father could have left him, this certainly ranks up there as the most bizarre.

  Elinor Applegate lives for her horses, but life on the farm isn’t easy. Once-thriving Applegate Farm has fallen on hard times in the past few years. Only an influx of cash from her mother’s old friend enabled Ellie to keep the family operation going. All her hopes to turn around the business and buy back the land lie on the hooves of a colt destined to greatness. She’s just got to get him there first.

  But when sexy, ruthless, infuriating Max Brannigan shows up, Ellie realizes her troubles are far worse than she thought. He knows nothing about horses—and he cares less than nothing about her dreams. To Max, the horses are useless and have to go—in spite of the fact that every encounter with Ellie only makes him want to drag her into his arms and kiss the fire right out of her. But Ellie will fight hard to keep her dreams alive, even if she has to fight dirty. Max has spent most of his life protecting people from danger—but can he protect himself when Ellie launches a full-scale assault against the walls surrounding his heart?

  Buy Max's book today!

  Excerpt – LIGHT MY FIRE

  © Copyright 2014 Christie Ridgway

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Chapter 1

  The children of America's premier rock band learned early to sleep through anything. Late night jam sessions, liquor (and worse) -fueled arguments, raucous parties raging from dark to dawn that were peppered with wild laughter, breaking glass, and the squishy thud of fists against skin. At twenty-four, Cilla Maddox had not lost that skill, though she'd recently come to view it as something less than a gift.

  Still, she didn't stir from her curled position on the edge of the king-sized bed when a tall, broad figure entered the room in the middle of the night. No streetlights disturbed the darkness this deep in Laurel Canyon and the newcomer found the bed only by deduction. When, at his sixth cautious step, his shin met an immoveable object, he dropped the motorcycle boots and duffel bag he carried to the plush carpet and took a leap of faith by tipping his long body forward. Finding firm mattress and feathery pillow, he instantly fell into sleep.

  Hours later, Cilla came awake to the sound of birds tweeting and chirping their odes to another Southern California morning as they flitted through the shrubbery and tall eucalyptus trees that grew inside and outside the canyon compound where she'd grown up. Eyes closed, she breathed in the country-scented air, such a surprise when the famous Hollywood Boulevard and its twin in notoriety, the Sunset Strip, were less than a mile away. Flopping to her back, she stretched to her full five-feet, five inches. Then she pushed her arms overhead and swept them back down until her fingertips met—

  Something solid. Warm. Alive.

  On a gasp, her eyes flew open and her head whipped right. She yanked her hand from a man's heavy shoulder to press it against her thrashing heart.

  As it continued to beat wildly against her ribs, she stared at her bedmate. Though his body was plastered to the mattress belly-down, his face was turned toward hers and it only took another instant to realize he was no stranger. But recognition didn't calm the overactive organ in her chest that continued sending blood sprinting through her body.

  She blinked, just to make sure her eyes weren't deceiving her. They apparently had told the truth, she decided. After years of adolescent fantasies, she was actually sharing a bed with him. With Renford Colson.

  No mistake, it was her teenage fantasy man. His glossy black hair that tangled nearly to his shoulders. His days'-old stubble of beard that made his mouth look softer, fuller, more kissable if that was even possible. Those were his spiky lashes resting against his sharp-angled face.

  Yet...was he really here? To make herself believe it, she mouthed his name. Ren.

  As if he heard the silent syllable, his eyes flipped open.

  She started, their distinctive color—a silvered green, just like eucalyptus leaves—jolting her to the marrow.

  Dark brows met over his straight nose and she watched the drowsiness seep from him as his gaze sharpened. "Priss?"

  She frowned. He was the only one to call her that nickname and it had annoyed her since she was old enough to understand it telegraphed something about the way he viewed her. "Excessively proper," she remembered reading in the dictionary. "Prim."

  "Cilla." Her voice sounded morning-husky as she made the correction.

  One corner of his mouth kicked up. "Priscilla."

  Ugh. That was worse. To her mind, Priscilla was the name of some old-fashioned china doll that was deemed too nice to play with and so grew dusty on a high, forgotten closet shelf. As the youngest "princess" of rock royalty (an article in Rolling Stone had described the nine collective children of the Velvet Lemons in just such terms), she'd often been overlooked. Likely Ren hadn't given her a single thought in the nine years since she'd last seen him.

  "Why are you here?" she asked, sitting up.

  His gaze dropped from her face to the size XL T-shirt she wore, an authentic Byrds concert souvenir, one of the several such clothing items she'd collected (read: purloined from her careless father) during her lifetime. "Priss," Ren remarked with a note of mild surprise, "you've grown up."

  Grown-ups didn't react to the red flush they could feel crawling over their skin. Grown-ups didn't check out their chest to determine if it was a modest B-cup that led him to such a conclusion. So ignoring both compulsions, she repeated her question. "Why are you here?"

  "Couple reasons." Ren flipped over then jackknifed on the mattress to face her. Both palms rubbed over his eyes and down his cheeks, his beard making a scratchy sound. He'd fallen asleep in his worn jeans and wrinkled dress shirt. On the floor near him were a pair of battered boots and a leather bag, both as black as his hair. His hands went to the buttons marching down his chest.

  She swallowed. "What are you doing?"

  "I've been wearing this damn thing for—Christ, who knows?—it's got to be a couple of days. However long it took me to get here from Russia with a fucking long layover in Paris."

  Her gaze didn't leave his nimble fingers as they continued unbuttoning to reveal a stark white undershirt beneath. "You didn't stop off in London?" That was where he was based. Ren had started as a roadie for the band, then moved into concert tour planning and security. When he'd left the employ of the Velvet Lemons, he'd set up shop across the pond and continued doing the same thing—just not for their fathers' band.

  Cilla couldn't blame him for that. The three Lemons might as well have been named the Odd Ducks. They'd achieved superstardom in the 1970s and when they were nearing forty, somehow decided they wanted more than sex, riches, and scandalous reputations. Each had produced three kids before declaring their paternal urges satisfied. No mothers came attached to the children they'd fathered. They'd been bought off or wandered off and as long as Cilla could remember the nine rock progeny had spent their childhoods in the expansive Laurel Canyon compound that consisted of three separate houses and then this smaller cottage where she and Ren had chosen to sleep.

  Inspecting the hand-tied quilt covering the bed, Cilla ran her fingers over the psychedelic-inspired design. "You know about Gwen?" she asked, referring to Guinevere Moon, an original Velvet Lemons groupie who'd been the closest to a mother figure the band's offspring ever had. This had been her house.

  "Of course," Ren replied. "I couldn't get here for the memorial service, but I came as soon as I was able to make arrangements for my replacement."

  As head fixer for some other band's tour, Cilla supposed. "Her real name was Donna Carp," she said, her heart squeezing to think that the spiral-curled, caftan-wearing gentle soul was now gone. "Gwen's, that is."

  There was a short silence, then Ren laugh
ed. "Baby, you didn't think she really had Guinevere Moon on her birth certificate?"

  Mortification spread heat over Cilla's face once more. Okay, so she had. "Thanks for thinking I'm a fool," she said, glancing up to glare at him.

  The spit in her mouth dried.

  Ren had tossed his shirt over the side of the bed and then stripped free of the undershirt he'd worn too. Beneath that...

  He was cut. Ripped. His abs were perfectly defined above the waistband of his jeans. His pecs were slabs of thick muscle that drew the eye to broad shoulders that led to arms that were sinew, bone, and more muscle. Over his left pectoral began a primitive-yet-elegant tribal tattoo that swirled in black ink over the cap of his shoulder to reach as far as his elbow. Though most of his forearm was unmarked, on his wrist was a lone, stylized half-curve. She stared at it and then his long fingers, unwilling to let her gaze wander back to that beautiful chest.

  She'd been fifteen when she'd last seen him. He'd been twenty-two. Then, she'd only dreamed of his kisses, chaste kisses at that, and hadn't wondered about his body or his hands or what he could do to a woman with them.

  It was what consumed her thoughts now.

  That, and how they were sharing a bed.

  Galvanized by that fact, she leaped from beneath the covers, her bare feet landing on the carpet. The overlarge shirt swung around her body, the hem tickling the top of her thighs. With Ren's gaze on her, her attempt at escape seemed a foolhardy choice. Suddenly her legs felt too naked, and she was acutely aware of what was under her tee—just a scrap of lacey panties. In another not-so-suave move, she swiftly re-inserted herself under the quilt and between the warm sheets, pulling them high to conceal more of herself. "It's, uh, cold out there," she said, by way of explanation. Her breathless state made her voice sound reedy.