A Million Different Ways (A Horn Novel Book 1)

by Dangelico, P.

  “Marianne is an extremely understanding person.”

  “I don’t want her to know,” I interrupted, my voice rising. I wrapped my arms around myself, holding down a nervous tremor.

  “Okay, easy. We’ll keep it between us, for now.”

  “All we have is now. I didn’t expect this to happen, but it has. This is about you and me––now. No past and no future.”

  He stared out towards the house, brooding. When his eyes returned to me, they were apprehensive again. “So this is about sex. Is that what you want?”

  Stay strong. I braced myself, even though my stomach clenched painfully at the wounded look on his face. “Yes. And when it’s over, when you’re ready to move on, we won’t ever speak of it again.” My voice sounded hollow, disembodied. My short fingernails dug into my palms.

  “How do you know I’ll be the one to walk away?” Bitterness underscored his words. He would run, not walk, if he ever found out about my past.

  “You will,” I answered, as I began walking away.

  * * *

  “All I need is six more eggs. Just cooperate and I won’t bother you again for a couple of days.” I reached under one of the hens tentatively––she wasn’t having any of it. “Ouch! That’s the third time. I’m warning you!”

  “If you want to get under their skirts, darlin’, you gotta sweet talk’ um. Not threaten’ um.”

  My back snapped straight and my head whipped around. Ben Winters stood outside the gate in long shorts that reached his knees and a sweat soaked, white t-shirt that molded itself to the bulges of his chest so indecently I had to force myself to look at his face.

  “Good morning, Mr. Winters, out for a nice jog?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Need some help?”

  “Are you a hen expert, Mr. Winters?”

  His eyebrow hitched up and his lips curved into a devilish smile. “No…but I know something about getting under skirts.” His shameless smirk made me burst out in laughter. Lady-killer.

  “Be my guest.”

  He entered the large pen that housed the exotic chickens and handed me his iPhone. “Call me Ben, please.”

  “Your accent––I had no idea Americans really spoke that way until I started working for Mr. Horn.” He glanced at me sideways with an amused expression. I got the distinct impression he knew more about my relationship with Sebastian than I wanted him to.

  “Not Americans, Texans.” Circling the chicken coop, he studied the hens from different angles.

  “I think you have to just go for it,” I encouraged.

  He stood with his hands on his hips and his eyes on the hens, his brow creasing thoughtfully. “Sebastian’s pretty much lost most of it.”

  “You’ve known each other a long time?”

  “We’ve been best friends since the fourth grade.” Gingerly, he tried to sneak his hand under the hen. She pecked him before he had a chance to remove it. “Ouch.”

  I bit back a laugh. “Too slow, Ben, too slow. She’s deadly quick.”

  “I didn’t exactly look like this in the fourth grade.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Na, I was real skinny. Malnourished. I had a tough upbringing.” My face fell when I realized he was no longer kidding. “One day, after school, a bunch of older boys started picking on me. Beat me up real good until Sebastian stepped in and set them straight. I think one kid lost a tooth…then he took me home with him. I lived there for two months before anyone figured it out.”

  “Two months?”

  “We’ve been best friends ever since,” he affirmed with a boyish grin.

  Still reeling from the story he’d told, I watched Ben try to gently push the hen off the nest with his forearm. The hen only flapped her wings and made a fuss––scowling at him. That’s when Charlotte marched in with purposeful strides, a cigarette rakishly hanging from her lips. She stuck her arm under the hens and extracted six warm eggs like she was strolling down the dairy aisle at a supermarket. Handing me the eggs one by one, she directed a haughty glare at Ben. There was a confusing undercurrent of hostility between them. I made a mental note to ask her about it later.

  His eyes narrowed at her self-satisfied smirk. Suddenly, he snatched the dangling cigarette from her lips, and ground it out under his sneaker. “Disgusting, filthy habit,” he grumbled and stalked out of the chicken pen with purposeful strides.

  “How dare you!”

  “I dare,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  We both watched him walk away, his muscles flexing and rippling under the wet t-shirt with every step he took. I turned and pinned Charlotte with an assessing glance. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “What makes you say that?” she replied. She tugged anxiously at the loose curls that had escaped her ponytail. I raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “It’s nothing,” she added, feigning innocence poorly. It was clear to a blind man that it was indeed something. “Nothing I can’t handle at least.” The resigned tone of her voice nagged at me. As I watched her march back to the house, I made a mental note to get to the bottom of it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next day, guests began departing at dawn. It was a long process of preparing meals, counting bodies, and dragging luggage to the landing in front of the house. The entire staff was overworked and exhausted. The last remaining guests were his mother and Caroline Pruitt. That’s the name I heard whispered about. Apparently she was an American steel heiress.

  We caught sight of each other in between meals and departures. Caroline, ever present by his side…yapping at his heels like a rat terrier. His eyes were dim, withdrawing. I didn’t blame him. I knew he was hurt. As much as I was an open book to him, I had gotten very good at reading him as well. Still, it had to be done, for both our sakes. We both needed to stay grounded in sober reality.

  Diana Redman had been watching me with the same marked interest as one of Sebastian’s falcons eyeing its dinner. She made sure that he and I weren’t left alone for a single moment. Little did she know, I had done a good job of that all on my own. He hadn’t approached me once. I caught him staring a couple of times but he turned away as soon as our eyes met.

  I had just finished wrapping the left overs from lunch when Sebastian walked into the kitchen looking every inch the ‘lord of the manor’. Not a hair out of place, wearing a closely tailored white shirt of silky cotton, a pair of lean cut linen pants, and Italian driving moccasins––the very picture of ruthless power and elegance. The mask was back on, fixed firmly in place. The fact that I had done that to him made me excruciatingly uncomfortable.

  Mrs. Arnaud reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a container filled with small pieces of chicken. I started drying the silverware with quick, firm strokes while my eyes flickered back and forth to his. He wouldn’t look at me. It hurt, even though I deserved it. Over the last few days I had grown accustomed to seeing him brighter, happier. Now the solemn expression was back and all I wanted to do was kiss him until I banished it from features too perfect for his own good.

  “Can you give me a hand with this?” His gaze, still elsewhere.

  “Yes, of course.”

  We walked past the vegetable garden, through the woods, and towards the mews without saying a word. He stared ahead and kept his usually long stride in check. Even with that hitch in his step, I had to push myself to keep up with him. I wanted to scream. All the easy comfort between us had vanished. And with a few calculated words, we were back to where we had started weeks ago.

  Without thought or consent, I reached for his hand and laced my fingers through his. His attention fell onto our joined hands. Surprise flashed briefly. Then I felt a gentle squeeze, and his brandy colored gaze lifted to meet mine.

  An internal battle was being waged. I could see it blazing in his eyes, and knew immediately which side won when I heard the bag he carried hit the soft grass, felt his arms sweep around me in an unbreakable hold. A tremble bounced off of him when the hard, sculpted pla
nes of his chest impacted my soft ones. His fingers found their way to my hair. Shoving through, they dismantled my neat ponytail in seconds. His other hand roamed up the skirt of my uniform and pressed and kneaded the small cheeks of my rear end. Pulling me closer, he grinded the unmistakable evidence of his passion against the soft curve at the top of my thighs. A sharp, electric jolt branched through me. My moan swallowed by his desperate kiss.

  I would have laughed at his impatient seduction if I didn’t know him better. He had totally lost control of the volatile emotion he kept tightly leashed. Some dark, greedy part of me loved that I could get him this undone. It was exhilarating, a potent aphrodisiac. The part of me that still managed to reason, however, counseled me to be careful. I wasn’t certain if I had a tiger by the tail, or it had me.

  Before I could object, he had me pressed into the sun-soaked ground among wildflowers and tall fescue, his large body cradled between my thighs. He pressed impassioned kisses up and down my throat, scraping the thin skin with his teeth in a carnal show of possessiveness. He exhaled harshly. It turned me pliant, amenable. Thoughts of resisting melted away, replaced by disjointed images and sounds strung together like rosary beads…reality bleeding into a dream.

  The rustling sound of the oaks. A white butterfly floating drunkenly above us. Chirping from a far-away bird. The too-close buzzing of a bee. His hands stroking, caressing my breasts. The smell of starch on his shirt and that scent––that scent that was distinctly him. He ground his erection against my sex. My hips hitched up to meet him in consensual agreement. Whispers escaped in between kisses and nibbles.

  “Need you,” he muttered. “Can’t wait…” His fingers gripped the top of my pantyhose and began pulling, determined in his goal. I reached down and covered his hand.

  “We can’t. Not here,” I whispered, then unmercifully licked the sensitive skin below his earlobe.

  “Now––” His command was loaded with raw emotion. “Have to be inside of you,” he mumbled. He redoubled his effort and, in his haste, shredded the hose in two. He was breathing hard, the remnants of control snapping visibly. Impatiently, he fumbled with his linen pants. I tried to help but he shoved my hands aside. His erection finally free of the hindering boxers, he shoved the wet tip against my aroused and eager body and pushed against that swollen, tender spot that made me see stars.

  “Sebastian, condom,” was all I could get out in sharp fits and starts.

  “Shit! I’ll pull out.”

  Words of reason and admonishment got caught in my throat. He slid deep inside and filled me with unbelievable pleasure before I had a chance to think twice. A relaxed sigh escaped his lips, the mere act of being joined giving him incomparable relief.

  I wrapped my legs around him and held on tightly. He began a bold rhythm, surging out with luscious slowness, then thrusting deep and sure. I could feel him everywhere, as if this beautiful, virile man were made just for me. With every sweeping thrust, the pleasure built. He held me down securely, easily dominating me. I was powerless against such strength. Gladly, I relinquished all control, and the thrill of it pushed me closer to climax.

  “Now, Vera. Now!” Jaw clenched tightly, he forced the words out, his face contorting from the effort of it took to hold back his own release. On a powerful thrust, I exploded, my body clenching and releasing in a rolling orgasm that squeezed him tightly. He shouted, a guttural oath following my name, and pulled out of me. The look of unadulterated bliss swept across his face before his head dropped to the curve my neck.

  His grip on me didn’t loosen. “Don’t let go,” he whispered. It was almost inaudible. But I heard it nonetheless.

  We walked back to the house tucked up against each other, our strides turning lazy and reluctant the closer we got. He plucked a pretty wildflower with five broad petals stained in bright pink. I watched him twirl the stem in between his index finger and thumb with such tender care that I was becoming jealous of it––of a tiny flower. Then I looked up and discovered a playful grin hanging on his face. He wiggled his eyebrows at me and I burst out in laughter.

  You make me so happy, I wanted to say but didn’t. He held on firmly as I tried to push away from him. Hauling me securely against his chest, he asked in a low, sexy voice, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Away from you. You’re a terrible influence.” I couldn’t stop giggling, his affection coaxing out of me a reserve of pure joy I didn’t even know I possessed.

  “Never,” he whispered seductively. “Never,” he repeated, his expression serious this time. He was so attuned to me that when he noticed my smile slip, he tucked the flower behind my ear and silenced my mind with a kiss that left me breathless.

  Suddenly, a loud crack split the sound of trees rustling in the wind.

  A second later, I found myself caged on the warm ground by two hundred plus pounds of muscle. At first, my eyes blinked rapidly, in confusion, until my mind registered the wild, irate look on his face. I couldn’t hear anything other than the high-pitched tone ringing in my ears. Then, just as abruptly, sound returned.

  “Vera! Vera, are you okay?! Have you been hit?!”

  Hit? I certainly hit the ground hard enough when he tackled me. I couldn’t understand what in the world he was shouting about. Why was he so alarmed and angry? My line of sight shifted slightly to the right. That’s when I noticed the blood stain spreading on his shoulder, through his shirt.

  “Oh my God! Sebastian, you’re bleeding!” I struggled to get up.

  “Don’t move! Someone’s shooting at us!” he shouted, holding me firmly to the ground.

  “Shooting? Who could be shooting at us? Why would they be shooting at us?”

  A strange stillness has fallen over everything, the forest and wildlife all holding a collective breath.

  “I don’t know. Could be––” His face grew pale, his eyelids heavy. He was about to…he shook his head, trying to stay conscious. All emotion fled and my mind sharpened to respond in lightning quick decision making unlike anything I could accomplish under normal circumstances. I have always been at my best when a crisis arises. Some people lock up, freeze, others get overly emotional, overwhelmed with anger or fear. I turn as steady and dependable as a U.S. dollar bill.

  I rolled him onto his back––he was too weak to protest––and ripped his shirt open to find the bullet wound had grazed him on the outside of his bicep. It had cut through muscle. Thankfully nowhere near any bone or important blood vessels. I tore his shirt apart and tied a punishing knot around the wound, staunching the bleeding. He grimaced as I thumped my fingers hard and fast on the top of his breastbone in an attempt to keep him awake.

  “Sebastian, you’ve been shot. It’s not serious. I’ve stopped the bleeding. But I need your help to get you back to the house––unless you want me to go get help.”

  “No…no. I’ll get up. Give me a hand.”

  I threw my shoulder under his uninjured arm and levered him up. We had been here once before. Except he was no longer an adversary or a stranger. He was the man I…I cared for him. Of course I did, how could I not? He was so easy to care for. That thought was a lead marble rolling around in my stomach…or a bullet.

  As we approached the house, I began screaming for help. People poured out of the woodwork. They ran towards us shouting instructions at each other before they lifted Sebastian’s weight off of me and pulled us apart. Unwilling to let me go, he reached out with his uninjured arm and our fingers tangled. Ben Winters grabbed my shoulders and shook me gently, making me tear my gaze away from Sebastian.

  “Vera, what happened?” he asked in a steady, soothing voice.

  “The falcons. We went to feed them…we were walking back. I heard a crack. Sebastian was bleeding…bullet went through clean.” I only heard bits and pieces of my own story told in a weak voice I didn’t recognize.

  “You’re not going to faint, are you?”

  That snapped me out of my daze. “Of course not! I’m a physician for heave
n’s sake. I have to go dress the wound before they take him to the hospital.”

  His eyebrows hitched up at the unexpected sound of authority in my voice. “Okay…if you can make it back to the house on your own, I need to check something out.”

  “Ben, please be careful.” His eyes landed on my small hand, resting on his forearm, and the stern set of his mouth relaxed.

  “This is what I’m trained in.” He squeezed my hand before removing it and, without further delay, stalked off into the woods.

  * * *

  “Vera! Where is she damn it!” I could hear him bellow from downstairs, his raspy voice echoing down the hall. I made my way up the marble staircase at a brisk pace. Well, at least he wasn’t fading out of consciousness again.

  A group of servants hovering outside his bedroom door parted to let me enter, a question mark hanging over their heads. Charlotte, in particular, studied me closely. Caroline Pruitt stood inside his bedroom doorway. She narrowed her eyes at me when I walked past her, turned to inspect Sebastian, then me again. I avoided her watchful gaze purposely. With the way Sebastian was carrying on, you’d have to be obtuse not to notice that there was something highly irregular going on.

  I found Sebastian sitting up in bed, his expression a mix of worry and frustration. Aside from the dried blood painted on his bare chest and the strip of shirt still secured around his bicep, he looked to be in good form. His body sagged into the mattress when he caught sight of me. The tension left his face by small degrees with every step I took walking around to his side of the bed. His eyes, bright from the flood of adrenaline, followed me the entire distance.

  Mrs. Redman sat on the edge of the mattress flipping her hair and generally making a nuisance of herself. A selfish creature to the core, I thought with unmitigated disdain. “You have no idea how scared I was when I was told that you’d been shot, Scout. My nerves can’t take any more surprises like this…can somebody get me a God damn martini like I asked for five minutes ago?!” She shouted the last part.