The Bachelor Contract (The Bachelors of Arizona Book 3)

by Rachel Van Dyken

  He’d stayed bitter. While she’d allowed herself to live, to move past the past. Past the pain.

  This man, the one in front of her, wasn’t the one she’d fallen in love with, the one she at one point saw herself spending the rest of her life with. Having kids with.

  She choked back a cry. With a sigh, she crossed her arms and gazed in his general direction. He was one giant, muscular blur, and then her eyes lowered. “I’ve never been so thankful to be blind.”

  “Thankful,” he spat. “You’re thankful?”

  “Brant—”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Fine.” She swallowed back the tears and felt her way to the door, tugging it open with both hands.

  “Why?”

  “What?” She didn’t turn around. “Why what?”

  “Why won’t you cash the damn check?”

  “For the same reason I made the donation in the first place,” she said softly.

  “What’s the reason?”

  He didn’t deserve to know—he didn’t deserve her, and yet for all these years she’d held on to a sliver of hope. It was small, but it was hers, her cross to bear, that the man who had hurt her the worst would finally see himself the way she’d always seen him.

  Because I’ll always love you. Because no matter how many times you hurt me, I want you.

  I crave you. I dream of you.

  Because she lost the loves of her life in one fell swoop.

  Her family had abandoned her the minute she said yes to him, and his family never forgave him for getting married so young. She was left with nothing.

  She told him a half truth. “Nadine Titus. I owed her a favor.”

  “And she called in the favor by having you bid on me?”

  “Yup.” Let him believe what he wanted—it wouldn’t change anything, nothing would. Especially not now. “Brant?”

  “You should go.” His deep voice was like a shot to her heart. She’d fallen for that voice first, the personality second, the body, surprisingly, third. His voice always reminded her of warmth, comfort.

  Now? It was hollow, emotionless—dead.

  “I’m not the man you knew, Nikki.” She froze as warm hands suddenly pressed down on her shoulders from behind, tugging her against his naked, hot, body. His lips lowered to her ear as he whispered, “That man is dead. Make no mistake, I will fire you without hesitation. Our past”—his voice was shaking—“means nothing.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Brant stomped out of the spa area, a man with a mission. And his mission? Kill Cole, find Nadine Titus, repeat the process of killing, and take a cold shower.

  His body jerked to attention. Maybe he should start with the cold shower.

  What the hell had Nadine been thinking? Was she insane?

  He snorted, making his way through the lobby.

  “Watch it.” He sidestepped one of the staff just in time to see towels go flying. With a sigh he stopped, turned on his heel, and glared. “Clean that up unless you want to get fired.”

  The employee hurriedly started folding the towels with shaking hands while Brant groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Cole, where is he?”

  The guy gulped. “O-outside.”

  “Can you be any more specific?” Brant said in a tense voice. “After all, ‘outside’ could be anywhere, you could be talking about fucking Antarctica for all I know. Want to try again?” He loomed over the guy, casting a shadow over the kid’s face. Hell, the kid couldn’t have been any older than Brant was when he first started working. His baby face had no lines of displeasure, no haggard look of too many late nights, still innocent.

  Not for long. Nothing in this world ever stayed untainted. Not even the most pure. The most innocent.

  “By the pool,” the kid finally spouted. “Last I saw him, he was by the pool.”

  Brant shook his head. “That’s better.” When he looked up, Nikki was headed down the hall, her walking stick poking out of her right hand.

  His body jolted violently as if he’d just been shocked. When Annie, the spa receptionist, met Nikki and pointed in his direction, he felt the sudden urge to duck behind a tree or run in the opposite direction.

  He could smooth-talk his way out of any situation. Except with Nikki. He’d never wanted to. Because he’d just wanted her. Just her.

  And because sadness was so often intertwined with the constant anger he felt whenever he thought about her or his past, he sneered even though she couldn’t see the expression. He wanted her to feel the anger directed toward her, however misplaced it may have been.

  “Stalking your boss?” he called out to her.

  Nikki froze, and her grip on Annie’s arm loosened. “No, actually I thought I heard my boss yelling at one of the college interns and thought I could intervene, you know, be the calm to his storm.”

  “Nobody asked for your help.”

  “And yet here I am.” Her chin lifted.

  “I’m fine.” The kid finally had all the towels restacked. “Mr. Wellington, I was actually headed toward the pool, if you’d just follow me this way.”

  Brant shoved past Nikki.

  Completely unnecessary. But in a sick way, he wanted to touch her, wanted to make her feel all the things he was feeling, even though he would die before he admitted it.

  Her touch. He’d gone too long without her touch.

  And he was pissed as hell that he’d been reminded what it was like to walk through life like a dead man and suddenly experience a single jolt of sunshine, like the clouds breaking apart and allowing him one minute of peace.

  Too bad peace never lasted, because a natural effect of finally being at peace…

  Meant it wasn’t long before you experienced more war.

  Fighting.

  Death.

  It always came back to that, didn’t it?

  “Great.” He followed the kid down the hall and out the door, while little whiffs of Nikki’s perfume danced around his nostrils.

  Cole was in front of the pool, waving his arms around frantically at an employee who was shaking her head, and then he glanced in Brant’s direction.

  Cole took one murderous look at Brant. And charged.

  It happened fast. As he got shoved into the pool, Brant pulled the angry bastard in with him.

  “Pissing off employees!” Cole shoved Brant under the water then pulled him back up. “Taking advantage of Nikki!”

  Brant fought for air then shoved his hands against Cole, pushing a wall of water between them. “It’s none of your fucking business!”

  “The hell it is! I’m her best friend!”

  “Is that what this is? A friend defending another friend’s honor?”

  Cole splashed him. Mature.

  Employees started filing in, their expressions horrified.

  “Not here,” Brant said.

  Cole nodded tersely.

  “One reason.” Brant swam to the side of the pool, grabbed a clean towel, and wrapped it around his wet body. “Give me one reason not to fire your ass.”

  Cole heaved himself up out of the pool. Cell phones were pointed at both of them.

  “Back to work,” Brant barked. “Now.”

  A few people grumbled. The rest flat-out ran back to wherever they were supposed to be, but not before looking at Cole as if asking for permission to listen to Brant.

  Cole grabbed a towel and nodded.

  A waiter asked, “Mr. Wellington, can I get you anything—?”

  Brant glared.

  The waiter cleared his throat. “More towels, maybe?”

  “Two margaritas on the rocks, with salt,” Cole piped up. “Now.”

  “Drinking during work hours.” Brant smirked. “You know that’s not really a mark in your favor.”

  “Ask me if I give a shit,” Cole snapped.

  “You’re fired.”

  “You said that already.”

  “And I meant it both times.”

  “Don’t fire me. Not yet.” C
ole leaned back against the chair. “Especially since I saved your life.”

  Brant’s mouth dropped open. “By pushing me into the pool and trying to drown me?”

  “By cooling you off.” Cole’s eyes narrowed. “According to some of the staff, you seemed overheated after your massage. I was concerned about heat stroke. And your job.” He leaned in with a sneer. “You’re welcome.”

  Brant shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Damn it. Even though he was technically Cole’s boss, the man had a point. The company policy basically stated that any sort of fraternization between employees was frowned upon. He suspected he wasn’t the only one who’d been wanting to piss all over that policy.

  “What do you know?” Brant asked.

  “Too much.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Vague. Great. Just what he needed after a near drowning.

  “You hurt her, and I’m going to run you over with my cement-filled SUV.”

  Brant shook his head. “And there’s cement in your SUV because?”

  “Because I plan on running you over, and I need it extra heavy.”

  The waiter returned with their drinks. Brant sipped his, mainly because all he could think about was a certain masseuse and how he’d be seeing her in a few hours—finally.

  His fingers itched to touch her. His body burned for her.

  “Either you have a thing for margaritas or you’re thinking about her again,” Cole mused, chugging his own drink. “You don’t deserve her.”

  “You don’t fucking know me,” Brant snapped.

  “I don’t?” Cole leaned forward. “Hmm, let me see: Alcohol-induced orgies and the inability to keep it in his pants ring a bell?”

  “What? You nearly kill me and suddenly you have no filter?”

  “Or maybe I just don’t give a shit anymore.”

  “You’re that protective of your…employee, huh?” Brant waited for Cole to slip, for the guy to say something like She’s mine. Cole shrugged and kept sipping his drink. Damn it.

  “You run this hotel well,” Brant said, trying a different tactic. “But don’t think I won’t hesitate to fire your ass if I see any reason to be concerned that you aren’t the very best for business. You did just push your superior into the pool.”

  “And you’ve been getting massages ever since your arrival—two days now, is it? And each time you leave smelling like her—not massage oil, but her. So I guess we both get to keep our jobs, huh?”

  He wanted to tell Cole that Nikki was going to be a problem, that she already was a problem. Hell, life would be easier if he just fired her.

  But she’d said she needed the job. So why was she still sending back the check?

  Not her money. Nadine’s.

  “You don’t know shit,” Brant muttered.

  “I know everything,” Cole said in a sad voice. “I have to get back to work…don’t want to piss the boss off. I’ll see you tonight.”

  He set his glass down and walked off.

  Leaving Brant the impression that Cole had just started a war—which was fine with him. Brant didn’t lose.

  Not anymore. Not again.

  He’d just have to avoid Nikki at all costs at the masquerade and do his damn job. There would be no more massages with happy endings from the one woman capable of breaking a heart he no longer possessed.

  God, he did still have pieces of that heart, though. That was how he knew he was alive, breathing. Because when the drunken fog lifted—he felt pain.

  Yeah, he still had pieces, all right. And girls like Nikki, they demanded every last one. She’d destroyed him once. She’d jump at the chance to do it again, right?

  Because when he’d needed her most—when they’d needed each other most—they’d both fucked up. And never recovered.

  That was where love got you. Soaking wet, alone, poolside, drinking.

  Even now, he still smelled her. It wasn’t fair that Nikki would haunt him regardless of where he was.

  His phone buzzed on the concrete. Thankfully, he’d seen Cole charging him and had dropped the cell phone from his hand onto the ground before getting pulled into the pool. But when he saw the caller he almost wished it would have sunk to the bottom of the pool right along with his shoes. Either Bentley was in prison or something was wrong. There was a shit-ton of missed calls.

  Sighing, he picked it up and swiped. “What?”

  “You sound different,” Bentley said accusingly.

  Brant pulled a towel over his face and cursed, then waved over a passing waiter and ordered club soda with lime. “Miss you too.”

  “Shit.” Bentley chuckled. “Did you just order water?”

  “Club soda. Totally different.”

  “It’s sparkling water, bro.”

  “Is not.”

  “Hey, Red,” Bentley shouted at his girl. “Is club soda water?”

  “Yes!” Her loud response.

  “I’m regretting answering my phone.” Brant leaned back against the lounge chair. “What was so important that you called me seven times in a row and then left text messages with nothing but middle-finger emojis?”

  “I’m pregnant,” Bentley said in a deadpan voice.

  “Physical impossibility.”

  “Right, but if I was, you were the first person I was going to tell, and you weren’t answering your phone. Ergo, I would have been on national news and you would have had to learn via CNN. That’s not how twins act, man.”

  “Stop lashing out.” Brant laughed, probably for the first time all day. God, he missed his brother sometimes. Ever since Bentley had found his happy, Brant had been ignoring him more and more, mainly because what fun was getting drunk when your brother didn’t encourage it? When his face went from happy to worried? Brant carried enough guilt on his shoulders. He didn’t need to add Bentley’s concern—or his judgment—on top of it. Amazing what finding an honest woman did to a man.

  His thoughts lingered on that massage room. On her hands.

  Because no matter how magical her touch was, how incredible her kiss had been, he wouldn’t go there, not again.

  “You haven’t returned any of my texts or phone calls since it was announced you were leaving Wellington to work for the enemy,” Bentley said, interrupting his thoughts about Nikki. Thank God.

  “We’re on the same side, and why do you care? You’re doing charity work with the zoo. You couldn’t care less about Wellington.”

  “Let’s talk about you.” Bentley was always great at changing the subject. “I’ll start.”

  Brant rolled his eyes. This. This was why he’d been ignoring his twin. Bentley was nosy as hell and refused to back down. Hell, he was the type who beat the dead horse, revived it, then beat it again. He didn’t know when to quit. Ever.

  “A week ago, I found you in an alcohol-induced haze, drunk off your ass, angry, smelling like cheap perfume and sex, and today you’re ordering club soda? If you cut your hair I’m disowning you.”

  Brant guiltily tugged at his short, wavy hair and quickly changed the subject. “Weren’t you the one worried about me?”

  “Being worried is one thing—change is good. But you’ve done a complete one eighty, what gives?”

  A certain masseuse.

  The job.

  A challenge.

  Life.

  The past.

  So many things.

  “Is there another reason you called?”

  “I was thinking about visiting this weekend—especially since, when Grandfather told me where you were, he had a twinkle.”

  “A Twinkie?”

  “Twinkle. Keep up. His eyes did that creepy twinkle thing. Are you sure this isn’t a setup?”

  “I just got pushed into the pool by the concierge, nearly got impaled by one of the hairstylists because she prefers two types of scissors, and had a massage that was so painfully deep I walked funny for hours. So no, I don’t think it’s a setup, though my reputation apparently hasn’t faded in the last four years.
The employees are either pissed off at me or they’re too terrified to say hi.”

  Bentley chuckled. “You were a hard-ass when you worked for Grandfather. You fired two people for not getting coffee fast enough.”

  Brant groaned. “They were interns, and I was making an example. Plus they’d been lying on their time sheets for weeks.”

  “Right, but everyone thinks it was the coffee.”

  “Not my fault.”

  “You were good at your job.”

  Past tense. Brant didn’t like the direction this conversation was going. He knew where it would end.

  And the last thing he wanted to do was talk to Bentley about his feelings, about his sadness, about his hate.

  God, it was hard enough living with it on a daily basis.

  “Hey, I gotta run,” Brant lied.

  Bentley let out a long sigh. “I know you’re lying, but since I heard you laugh at least once in the last few minutes, I’m going to let it slide.”

  Brant would probably regret his next words. “You should bring everyone down this weekend…maybe even invite Brock and Jane. It would be fun.”

  “Damn.” Bentley said in a stunned voice. “Was it the death massage or getting pushed into the pool?”

  “Huh?”

  “You sound”—Bentley hesitated—“nonsuicidal.”

  “Nice. Real nice, Bent.” Brant pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Look, I’m fine, I’ve always been fine, just…”

  He didn’t want to say it.

  But apparently, he didn’t need to, because Bentley added, “Sad.”

  “I was going to say angry.”

  “Sometimes they’re the same thing.”

  “I gotta go.”

  “You said that.”

  “Bye, Bentley.”

  He disconnected the call and tossed the phone onto the opposite chair.

  Maybe the biggest step was just admitting that you had a problem. Even though you weren’t so sure you wanted to even solve it.