The Bachelor Contract (The Bachelors of Arizona Book 3)

by Rachel Van Dyken

  Home meant family.

  Home meant her.

  “You sure you don’t mind?” He kissed her rounded belly. “That I can’t access my trust fund yet?”

  “I didn’t marry you for your trust fund, Brant.” Nikki’s smooth skin broke out into goose bumps. “I married you because you’re my home.”

  He smiled against her skin. “You’re just saying that because we’re living in a one-bedroom apartment overlooking an alleyway where I’m ninety percent sure an orgy takes place every night.”

  Nikki’s laughter danced around the room as she tugged Brant by the arm and pulled him closer. “Hey, at least they’re having a good time.”

  “By the sound of it, they’re having a great time.”

  “Just like us.” She kissed the tip of his nose. “You’re my happiness, B.”

  Emotion clogged his throat. “God, I would die without you.”

  Her smile was sad. “You can’t say things like that. It scares me.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a lot of responsibility, keeping such a risk taker like you alive.” She winked.

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Be careful not to trip over your briefcase on the way out the door. I put a note in your lunch next to the apple and pocket protector.”

  “Really? A backup pocket protector?” He grinned. “So the riskiest thing I’ve ever done is marry you in my senior year of college. I’ll take it.”

  “I like being your risk.”

  “I love it.” He kissed her into silence, as her hands began massaging the stress away from his skin.

  “Brant.”

  Huh? Who was saying his name?

  George waved a hand in front of his face. “You doing okay, son? You’ve been staring at the wall for the past few minutes, and you look pretty pale.”

  “Yeah.” Brant cleared his throat. “Elevators?”

  George tapped his fingers against the bar top. “Why don’t I show you?”

  “No need, seriously, just point me in the right direction.” Why was it that he did life better drunk?

  That’s right. Because when he was drunk, he usually blacked out between a woman’s thighs, forgetting all the memories that haunted him when he was sober.

  Shit, it was going to be a long week.

  He’d been living in a drunken fog for so long that he’d forgotten what it actually felt like to have a clear head.

  “You sure?” George asked.

  “Positive. You’ve already got a few new customers.” Brant pointed at the couple approaching the bar. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other—honeymooners, if he had to guess.

  A very long week…

  “Elevators through the lobby, to the left.” George held up his hand for Brant to wait and quickly made another soda with two limes. “For the road.”

  “Thanks, George.” He lifted the drink to the bartender and made his way through the dimly lit lobby. Candles hung from the ceiling as if they were floating; the décor was a mixture of Gothic and Old World Spain. It was haunting yet warm.

  Brant breathed a sigh of relief once he found the elevators and hit the penthouse floor.

  The elevator doors opened wide to a private entryway with a dozen or so lit candles spread on a high glossy black table. A note rested on a silver tray in the middle of the table: WELCOME HOME.

  The words were typed out in perfect square letters. He picked it up and tapped the small card against the table before sliding the key card out of the packet Cole had given him and tapping it against the black sensor.

  Nothing.

  Not red.

  Not green.

  Just nothing.

  He tried again.

  And then, like an idiot, he flipped the card over so the A was pressed against the black, and bingo, the door slid open.

  No hinges.

  Just a sliding door that quietly went from left to right and then slid shut behind him.

  Huh. He needed a hands-free door like that. His brother would lose his mind.

  A hollow feeling spread through him.

  His brother.

  Which one?

  Ever since they’d found their soul mates (the term made Brant shudder), both Brock and Bentley had been basically nonexistent in Brant’s life, except for the other morning when Bentley charged into Brant’s apartment with guns blazing.

  He set his briefcase down on the nearest table and sucked in a breath. The room was perfect.

  And completely unexpected.

  The balcony was as large as the room itself, with a pool and a hot tub, a private bar, and a bed with white fabric strewn around bamboo-style bedposts.

  And because he was sober, his first thought was Nikki would have loved this.

  He would have loved to give her this.

  Fuck.

  He ran his hands through his hair and bit down on his bottom lip, about five seconds away from throwing every piece of glass within a one-foot radius against the wall.

  This. This was why he drank. She was his past. His very painful past.

  Concentrate on the resort, asshole.

  He grabbed the portfolio with is itinerary and checked his watch. He had a massage in an hour.

  It was exactly what he needed to relax.

  Well, it was either that or get drunk and ask good ol’ Cole if it was against hotel rules to send up any single available women.

  Yeah, he highly doubted that was part of the 24/7 service, though could it hurt to ask? His dick twitched, as if he needed another reminder that it had been at least fifteen hours since he’d had sex.

  And sex, just like drinking, did a damn good job of making him forget about all of the reasons he was still so angry with himself.

  And at the universe for taking the one good thing he’d had and ripping it from his fingers.

  “Enough.” Oh good, now he was talking to himself. Sober, Brant? Slowly losing his damn mind.

  Well, at least nobody was there to see it happen.

  Chapter Five

  Whoa there!” Nikki held up her hands to keep Cole’s blur of a body from slamming into her. “In a hurry?”

  Cole pressed his hands against his knees and exhaled a curse. “New. Client.”

  “Aren’t you a runner?” she wondered out loud. “How are you out of breath?”

  “Running.” He heaved, holding a finger in the air. “Sprinting.” Another curse as he exhaled. “Two very…different…beasts.” Standing to his full height, he gripped her by the shoulders and spoke slowly. “He’s deaf.”

  “Huh?”

  “He. Your next client. Horrible, um, train accident, he was a conductor, and you know how those careers are. Trains. Loud. Deafness.”

  No. No, she didn’t know because he wasn’t making any sense. “A train conductor? Wow, now I’m curious, I wonder if—”

  “Pay attention.” Cole cupped her face with both hands. “He’s extremely…sensitive about it, so don’t try engaging in conversation. Besides, he won’t be able to hear much except for mumbling, and mumbling makes him—”

  “—sad?” she offered.

  “Yes.” He sounded so relieved, she patted his shoulder. “So very sad. His poor wife just wants a nice vacation with him. Your job is to relax him, and do not, under any circumstances, speak.”

  “Okay.” She drew out the word. “Can I head in there now? Or is there something else you aren’t telling me? Because you don’t sound like yourself.”

  “How was the burrito?” His words tumbled out on top of one another.

  “Burrito?” She frowned. “You mean the pasta?”

  “Shit, pasta, yes, how was the pasta I sent you? Ha-ha, I must have had the burrito.” He coughed.

  “Cole, seriously, what’s going on?”

  “Busy afternoon.” He took a step back. “Remember, you’re mute.”

  “Right. I’m mute, he’s deaf, if only I were blind. Oh, wait!” She snapped her fingers. And offered a sad smile.

>   “Very funny, now get in there.” He grabbed her hand and placed it on the door. She was surprised he didn’t slap her ass and say something like Go get ’em. Cole was acting weird. Very weird.

  With an eye roll she knew he had to have seen if his snicker was anything to go off of, she opened the door and let it quietly close behind her.

  And immediately she knew something was wrong. Her body went on high alert as a familiar scent invaded her nostrils.

  With shaking hands, she willed her body to calm down. What were the odds? Besides, Cole would have said something—it wasn’t like he didn’t know every painful detail of her past.

  And he’d been odd, but not pissed.

  And if he’d seen Brant, talked to him, well, the cops would probably already have shown up, right?

  She shook her head at her own idiocy and the stupid fluttering in her stomach at the thought of touching Brant again.

  Running her hands down his smooth body.

  Suddenly hot and aching in all the wrong places, she gritted her teeth and ran her hand along the arch of the man’s foot, before sliding it up his strong calf and pausing on the tightest ass she’d ever felt—and it was her job, touching bodies.

  Would she get fired if she squeezed? Just once?

  Bad Nikki!

  She shook the errant thought away.

  And just like that, the memory of Brant transformed into the feel of the man beneath her. What the hell was wrong with her? She’d never been tempted by a client.

  Ever.

  Clearing her throat, she worked her right hand from his ass to the dip of his lower back. What did the guy do in his spare time? Run until his shoes fell off? His muscles were lean, defined, toned.

  And suddenly she found her treacherous bitch of a right hand sliding back toward his ass.

  It was going to be a long massage.

  * * *

  She touched his ass.

  Twice.

  The second time wasn’t a mistake, was it? He sucked in a breath when her fingers dug into his already overheated skin. The sheet did nothing to protect him from the erotic way her fingers spread across his body.

  Too bad his masseuse was mute; he’d at least tell her he didn’t mind if she lingered in those places if she kept touching him like that. Cole had written specific instructions in the itinerary, which Brant thought a bit weird, but who was he to judge? The poor woman could hear him but not respond, and even though she could hear, according to Cole she only understood some obscure Japanese dialect he had never heard of.

  Which was fine by him.

  Her hands flexed over his back and slid down his ass a third time. He wasn’t sure if he should laugh or wonder if he had a sexual harassment lawsuit in his future. Great. That was just the news Nadine would want to hear about his first day.

  Cold air hit his back as the sheet was pulled down and tucked beneath his hips. He flinched when the tips of her fingers nearly had a shaky first encounter with his dick.

  He barely suppressed a moan of pleasure as she worked out every damn knot in his upper back, pulling her hands down his sides until he thought he was going to experience an honest-to-God orgasm from her touch.

  It was…magic.

  His eyes jerked open as he focused in on the simple black-and-white Nike shoes in his line of vision.

  He froze.

  No.

  Nope.

  Hell, no.

  Rejecting the idea as soon as it popped into his head, he closed his eyes again.

  Her fingers dug deeper, harder, and suddenly what had started out amazing quickly took a turn toward hellish and spiraled into What the fuck do you eat for breakfast? Wheaties?

  Brant squirmed under the pressure of her elbows as he gripped the massage table with both hands and tried to breathe in and out.

  What the hell was he supposed to do? Flip around and wave his hands in the air?

  What was the universal sign for Bad touch, make it stop or you’ll see a grown man cry?

  He bit back a curse when her fist dug into his ass and twisted, then he nearly leaped off the table when her elbow replaced her fist, right underneath his ass cheek.

  Five minutes went by. Then ten.

  He counted. It was the only way to keep himself from strangling the woman or making a run for it—naked—down the hall.

  Finally, the woman removed her hands and slid the sheet away from his leg, tucking it suspiciously close to his junk—again. His treacherous body perversely seemed to respond to her abuse, since he had a hell of a time keeping his dick from leaping into her hands. What the hell? She ran her hands down his thigh muscle and then dug into his calf.

  Minutes whizzed by, and suddenly he was getting tapped on the shoulder.

  “Huh?” He pressed his palms to his eyes and rubbed, then blinked, then rubbed again. She held the sheet up high like she wanted him to turn over but he still couldn’t see her face, not that it was important that he put a face to the woman who’d copped a feel and nearly killed him.

  With a grunt, Brant flipped onto his back and stared up at the ceiling as a flash of dark hair entered his line of vision and then a hot towel was placed over his eyes. It smelled like lavender.

  She worked out every knot in his hands, every single muscle strain in his arms. When the door clicked shut behind her, he jolted awake, feeling as if he’d just been taken advantage of, but in the best way possible. A little violence, a little pain, a lot of ass touching, and apparently a raging hard-on.

  Huh. So her hands got him that turned on? Interesting. Maybe she was single? With a groan, he moved to a sitting position, an uncomfortable sitting position, and froze.

  The air—he could have sworn he smelled her.

  Damn it. Brant’s mind always had a way of playing tricks on him. How many times had he woken up from a drunken stupor to smell her against his pillow? Even though she’d been gone for years?

  You’d think after a few years the vision of her would fade, the feel of her, the scent of her. If anything, his memories of her were stronger than ever.

  He gripped himself in his hand and let out a moan.

  Jet-black hair.

  Red lips.

  Dimples.

  Soft laughter.

  He pumped harder.

  I have everything.

  I’ve lost everything.

  “Fuck.” Rage replaced every lust-filled thought, and then shame. Shame that he’d left, shame that she’d let him, shame that he’d had it all—and allowed it to slip through his fingers.

  Brant slammed his hand down on the bed and stood on shaky legs.

  Bikini wax, Grandma Nadine, Grandfather Naked. He looked down. Problem almost solved. With an exhausted yawn he reached for his clothes and slowly put them back on, then made his way to the door only to backtrack, pull a hundred-dollar bill out of his pocket, and drop it on the table. The least he could do was tip, right?

  For some reason he was lingering. He inhaled. Exhaled. Closed his eyes, and tried to even his breathing. It was just a massage, and this? This was just another job.

  His eyes flashed open. He glanced around the small room and slowly took stock of the candles, the oils that weren’t labeled. His eyes zeroed in on the table; dust had collected across the wood grain.

  Frowning, he ran a finger across the table, and it came back dirty.

  He immediately grabbed his cell, took a few pictures and wrote down a few notes, then jerked open the door.

  Room five.

  Best massage of his life or not—the woman clearly didn’t understand how important it was to have a work space that adequately represented a luxury hotel, and it was his job to make sure she did.

  And if she refused to listen, he’d just fire her.

  Chapter Six

  Nikki took a giant gulp of water and sat down in the empty break room, then ate the rest of her pasta in glorious silence. No soft classical music, and no tempting man with muscles made for sin bulging beneath her fingertips.


  She’d touched his hips twice, both times accidently brushing against—well, it clearly wasn’t his cell phone!

  At first, she’d been pissed that he’d reacted that way to her touch.

  But that feeling lasted for maybe two minutes—was it a simple chemical reaction, or was he thinking of her? Did her touch do something to him?

  She shivered, a whole lot more turned on than she had a right to be. Damn it, she was a professional!

  If she closed her eyes she could still feel his muscles beneath her fingers. Every inch of him was hard—every inch.

  It had happened before, men getting aroused during the massage, but she’d always attributed it to blood flow. This felt different.

  Hot.

  Good.

  She slammed her hands down next to her leftover pasta. “Ugh!” What was wrong with her? She never acted like this. Ever.

  Exhaustion. That’s what this was. She’d been on her feet all day—what she wouldn’t give for a nice foot rub.

  Bet her client would have liked a rub.

  Okay. too far.

  Low blood sugar and exhaustion. She needed more than a few bites of pasta and a bottle of water. Stretching her arms over her head, she felt muscles her tense and relax. Then she grabbed her white cane and stood. The cane was wrapped in white leopard print, her way of feeling better about the fact that she had to use it to get around. It could be worse, though, it could always be worse. At least she saw shapes, colors, blurs. Tap, tap, she moved the cane in front of her.

  Nikki’s dream was to be able to afford a seeing-eye dog. The idea of having a dog with her at all times and living with her in her small apartment across from the resort sounded like a dream come true.

  Someone to spend time with.

  She swallowed the sudden sob in her throat and focused on the future. Because every time she thought of the past, a deep sense of hopelessness would threaten to overtake her, and she didn’t want to be one of those people. The ones who felt sorry for themselves, who refused to leave the past where it belonged.

  What good would it do her to focus on something she couldn’t fix? None. Forcing a smile she didn’t really feel, she picked up her pace, tapping left to right, as she went down the hall.

  Low voices buzzed around her.