The landscape loved him too.
And oh, WOW. Brock had just looked her up and down, giving her the same thorough perusal she’d given him. Slowly, almost languidly, as if he’d taken the time to mentally strip her out of her clothes.
Now he knew what waited beneath…
Her nipples puckered—the traitors—and she couldn’t blame the cold. The blazing heat in his eyes warmed up her, even made her sweat a little bit.
Lyndie gulped and, needing a moment to regroup, looked away. She spotted Mrs. Abramowitz, her neighbor from across the street. Mrs. Abramowitz was in the process of leading one of her mini donkeys to a pen. As soon as she caught sight of the half-naked Brock, she stopped to gawk.
I know the feeling, Mrs. A.
“Where are you going?” The boyish hope in his eyes darkened to devastation. “Without leaving a note. Or saying goodbye.”
Devastation? Somehow, she’d crushed this big, strong male.
For the best. Fembot, remember? Despite the guilt agitating her stomach, she jutted out her chin and said, “I have things to do and people to see.”
“We can do them together.”
“I want to do them alone.”
“This is your honeymoon,” he said, his eyes narrowing.
A tremor of fear worked through her, a survival instinct ingrained in her. But she lifted her head and stood her ground. “I think we’ll survive spending a few hours apart.” We must! I must.
He scrubbed a hand over his face before handing over an envelope she hadn’t noticed, too caught up in him. “There’s a check inside. For the shelter.”
A check? This man…he was too good to be true. She’d thought it before, but she knew it now. At some point, something had to give.
Still, she felt like crap for bailing on him. “Thank you, Brock.”
He did not acknowledge her words. “My mother and brother are staying at the Strawberry Inn. If you spot them, do not engage. Just…call me. Please. I’m not commanding or trying to control you, I’m just asking. I want you safe. Same deal with Rick Lambert. I’ve got a man tailing him now, with orders to step in if necessary, so Lambert shouldn’t be a problem.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his bare heel and stalked inside the house.
Lyndie waited, frozen, brimming with the desire to go after him but determined to stay put.
He glanced over his shoulder, leveling her with a look of seething disappointment.
A sudden realization exploded inside her head: Brock was obviously upset with her, and yet he’d walked away. Without lashing out.
He deserved more than an apology, but right now, they’d both have to settle for words.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out. When he stilled, the muscles in his back all knotted up, she continued. “I’m sorry I wasn’t—that I’m not—I’m sorry I’m not as brave as you think I am. Sorry you don’t have a wife like Jude and Daniel, who go after the things they want.”
He was frowning as he faced her. “What do you want?”
“I don’t… I don’t know.” To be alone, but also to be together. She was being pulled in two different directions!
He inhaled deeply, exhaled sharply. “All right. We’ll pick up the what do you want conversation at another time. For now, you see yourself as…what? A coward? That’s why you’re upset this morning?”
One of the reasons. “You risked your life for mine, but I did nothing for you.”
Tension drained from him as he searched her face. “Sweetheart, it’s not cowardly to stay in a safe room when someone breaks into your home. It’s smart.”
After swallowing the lump growing in her throat, she said, “I didn’t go into the safe room. I just stayed behind a closed door. But not you. You headed straight into danger.”
“I never said I was smart.”
An unexpected laugh burst from her. Eyes widened, she covered her mouth with her hand.
Gaze locked on her, he closed the distance a second time and backed her up against the car. “I thought you were leaving because you were afraid I’d hurt you.”
“Afraid of you physically? I’m not. Well, not most of the time. Every so often, old fears try to rise, but they have nothing to do with you. Logically, I understand that.”
A heavy weight seemed to lift from his shoulders—shoulders used to being crushed? “I’m glad,” he said.
Warm, minty breath fanned her face. He’d recently brushed his teeth, yet he’d chased after her so quickly he hadn’t had time to dress. How long had he been awake?
His body heat enveloped her. So did the scent of cinnamon and vanilla.
Quivers ignited in her belly, tremors in her limbs. Her gaze remained locked with his as she began to pant. “Guess what? You survived your first night of married life, even though tab A never made it inside slot B.”
“And some people say miracles never happen.” His pupils dilated, black swallowing green. He stared at her lips as if they held the secrets of the universe. “I’d kiss you goodbye, but I’m pretty sure Mrs. Abramowitz would have a heart attack.”
He’d never moved his gaze from Lyndie, yet still he’d noticed their audience? “Forget Mrs. Abramowitz. I’d have a heart attack.”
“No sudden-onset medical conditions for you, ever.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Have fun, and make sure you spend our money. On lingerie.”
“Sure thing.” She batted her lashes innocently. “What size thong should I buy you?”
He snorted. “You want your man to wear butt floss, he’ll wear butt floss. Extra large.” With a wink, he headed back inside the house.
Feeling as if a heavy weight had lifted from her shoulders, Lyndie finally slid into the car. Thunder boomed, and lightning flashed in the distance. How soon until the rain fell?
She would love nothing more than to snuggle with Brock in front of a fire while the storm raged. They could talk and laugh and kiss and touch, and she would love every second. Perhaps crave more.
Definitely crave more.
My body does not control me!
Now, what errands did she need to run again? Her gaze snagged on the envelope Brock had given her. She peeked inside and gasped. Ten thousand dollars. Almost half a year’s salary for Lyndie.
Brock, you darling man, what am I supposed to do with you?
* * *
Brock spent the morning working on security for the house. When he needed more tools and supplies, he called Jude and Daniel, and the two came over with everything on his list.
For one odd moment, he wondered what life would have been like if he could have called his brother too. If they could have talked and laughed with each other, perfectly at ease.
A pang of longing. A pang he ignored. Too many years of dislike and distrust had passed. Some bridges were burned beyond repair and could not be rebuilt.
More than likely, Braydon would have come over with hopes of convincing Brock to ease up on Miranda. To give her far more than she deserved.
Too bad, so sad.
His friends helped set up cameras that would watch over all five acres Lyndie owned. Every five minutes or so, there were short but heavy bursts of rain. Everyone would huddle under a tree until lightning streaked the sky, then they’d rush back inside the house. By the time they finished setting everything up, they were soaked to the bone and covered in mud.
“I didn’t think I’d hear from you for a week. At least,” Daniel said as he rubbed a towel over his head. “Thought you’d be busy in bed.”
Yeah. Brock too. “Women,” he said, basically the answer to every question that had ever been asked.
Jude tossed his towel in the laundry room. “Missing single life already, are we?”
“Not even a little.” A fact that surprised him to the core of his soul. The guy who’d always avoided commitment should have felt trapped as soon as he’d said “I do,” right? Or at least the day after. “But I’m not exactly enjoying every aspect of married life either. My relationship with Lyndie is comp
licated.”
“Wrong.” Jude shook his head, locks of hair dancing over his forehead. “Relationships are never complicated. You either want one to succeed and fight for it, or you let go.”
Let go. The words echoed in his mind as he pictured Lyndie pregnant with his child while he returned to the life he’d lived before his marriage. Banging random strangers. Another pang seared him, this one born of self-directed fury. How could he ever abandon his child? How could he have entertained the notion, even for a second?
He had not thought this marriage through.
And what would happen if Lyndie ever grew to hate him? Would her hate spread to their child, the way Miranda’s hate for Brent had spread to Brock?
Sweat broke out on the back of his neck. No. Absolutely not! Lyndie was nothing like Miranda. She would love her child even if she despised Brock.
Breathe, just breathe.
“By the way,” Daniel said, unaware of Brock’s internal freak-out. “I hate to be the one to tell you, I really do, but your mother is spreading rumors about you.”
Brock stiffened as his fury found a new target. “What is she saying?”
His friends shared a look loaded with rage, dismay, and anguish on his behalf.
Jude massaged the back of his neck. “She says you, uh, like to beat women.”
Of course she’d go there, probably hoping to scare his vulnerable wife away. “Thanks for letting me know,” he grated. Had Lyndie heard the rumors?
A string of curses exploded from him. Rumors, whether true or false, caused damage. People got an idea stuck in their head and let it taint the way they looked at everyone involved. Brock had enough cruelty, violence, and bloodshed in his past. There was no need to add “batterer” to the list.
“I’m sorry, my man,” Jude said. “Thankfully, residents are refusing to believe her lies. They are standing up for you, all the way.”
He walked his friends to Daniel’s truck, boots squishing in the mud. When he turned to go, Daniel patted him on the shoulder, stopping him. “Took me a long time to realize life is a vapor, over and done in a blink. Do the things you dream about doing while you can. Enjoy your wife, and your life. Treasure every second of every day.”
PANG. The words stuck with Brock long after his friends left.
He was grateful his neighbors believed him over his mother; they’d proven themselves to be more of a family to him than Miranda ever had. And he shouldn’t be surprised that his mother had taken such a devastating route. Anything to hasten a divorce. But it still cut him to the quick.
His phone rang, his attorney’s name popping up on the screen. They spoke at length; the process of claiming ownership of the Hud and Son Group, as well as the residential properties, had begun. Of course, last night someone had “broken into” all three homes without tripping a single alarm and “stolen” everything worth anything.
Foolish Miranda. Jude was a computer whiz. He could follow a money trail to find whomever Miranda had hired to do the deed. Also, Brock wouldn’t have to break a sweat to find out where she’d hidden everything—and take it back.
His phone buzzed, signaling a text had just come in. Anticipation and excitement rushed through him—until he saw the message was simply an update about Lambert and not a note from his wife.
Apparently Lambert had spent the day at home, only walking outside to fetch his paper.
Well then. There was no better time for an up-close-and-personal chat with him. If Lambert didn’t open his door this time, Brock would bust it down.
Before climbing behind the wheel of his car, Brock sent Lyndie a text. Stop making me think about you. I’m busy.
Her reply arrived only a few seconds later. So I shouldn’t tell you I bought the sexiest piece of lingerie of all time? It’s invisible…
He groaned. Lyndie…naked…
He was rock hard in seconds. Brock the rock.
Focus. Her safety was more important than his fantasies.
Lambert lived in one of the larger neighborhoods in Blueberry Hill. Most of the homes were considered “starters,” roughly one thousand square feet in size with a teeny-tiny yard.
Brock parked in the driveway and stormed up the porch steps. He pounded his knuckles into the front door and snapped, “You will open up or I will bust inside. That’s a promise.”
Finally, Rick Lambert did, indeed, open up. His clothes were wrinkled and stained, his skin sallow after a night of drinking. He was forty-four, on the short side, thin, with a comb-over and thick glasses. Nothing wrong with any of that. Well, besides the comb-over. There was all kinds of wrong with that.
“You.” Lambert leaned back, only to launch forward to spit on Brock’s shirt.
Brock didn’t deign to respond to the action. Later he would burn his shirt. “Yes. Me. You’ll stay away from my wife, or I’ll make you regret it.”
Lambert raised his chin as if he were somehow superior to Brock. “You’re a thug, Mr. Hudson, and you have no business being with a woman like Lyndie Scott.”
“Lyndie Scott-Hudson,” Brock corrected with a cold smile. “And you’re right. I may not have any business being with her, but the fact remains—I am with her.”
A world of crazy glittered in Lambert’s wild eyes. “You won’t be with her for long. Sooner or later she’ll realize you aren’t good enough for her.”
PANG. Once again, Brock ignored it, saying, “And you are? Hate to break it to you—no, scratch that. I love to break it to you. Just like I’ll love breaking every inch of you if you keep harassing her and showing up at her house. She’s never wanted you, and she never will.”
“Liar!” Lambert’s nostrils flared as his breathing turned labored. More calmly, he said, “You are a liar.”
“She’s not an avatar you can program to do whatever you want. She won’t develop feelings for you just because you have feelings for her.” Be smart. Heed your own words.
“You don’t know anything. An officer of the law told me Lyndie wants to be with me, but she’s extremely shy. I don’t know how you turned her against me, but it doesn’t matter. Like I said, she’ll realize you aren’t good enough for her, and you’ll lose her.”
Like a predator who’d just spotted prey, Brock took a menacing step forward. Fear contorted Mr. Stalker’s features, and he jumped backward. “Consider this your final warning. The next time you come near my wife or trespass on our property, I won’t waste time with a conversation, and I won’t bother calling the cops. I’ll simply put a bullet between your eyes. And unlike the last time I made a kill, I’ll smile while I do it.”
As Lambert sputtered, Brock returned to his car. He’d said his piece. He’d spoken true. Now he drove home. Well, drove to his temporary home. He cursed when he spotted Lyndie’s car parked in the driveway. He wasn’t calm, which meant he wasn’t ready to face her. If he frightened her…
Don’t frighten her.
She paced across the porch, wringing her hands, adorable with twigs in her hair and mud stains on her Halloween T-shirt.
In a split second, worry for her overshadowed his fears. He jumped out of the car and raced to the porch. “What’s wrong?”
When she spotted him, she stilled. “Just…don’t be mad, okay?” she rushed out.
The words cut him deeper than a knife, but no way he would ever reveal his hurt. “You trust me not to hurt you, Lyndie. Remember?”
“I do, yes. I’m sorry, okay, I really am. And I’m not afraid you’ll hurt me right now. But you might decide I’m not worth the hassle.”
Fear that he would leave her before she got pregnant—or fear that he would leave her, period? That, he understood. Heart squeezing in his chest, he said, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right where I want to be. So tell me what’s wrong.”
“Well. I went to the shelter. It was a kill shelter. I didn’t know that. I ended up giving the check to a different rescue organization. Anyway. The shelter was hosting an adoption event. Too many animals, too few kennels. They
had to reach a certain number of adoptions, or four animals would be scheduled for euthanasia in the morning. So…congrats! You’re now daddy to two more cats, a dog, and a potbellied pig.”
Chapter Fourteen
Lyndie ended up taking the next week off work. Because why the heck not? She got her new family potty trained and used to living in Scott-Hudson luxury.
During that time, Brock hadn’t kissed her, touched her, or made any attempt to sleep with her. But oh, during every one of those days, desire had escalated inside her and frustration had deepened.
Brock spent most days in New York, only to return later that evening, never staying away overnight. When he walked through the front door and spotted her, they would both seem to stop breathing.
He would play with the animals and spend a little time chatting with her. When the sexual tension got to be too much, he would seal himself inside his bedroom.
Momma needs some sugar!
“All right, class.” Lyndie leaned against the corner of her desk and regarded her students. “Miss Khatri is going to help you go over your sight words.”
Aisha Khatri, a twenty-two-year-old student teacher, had arrived last month for a ten-week stint in Lyndie’s kindergarten class. Aisha lived in Oklahoma City, about an hour and a half away, but she had family in Grapevine, a Strawberry Valley neighbor.
The kids loved her. The handful of male teachers constantly drooled over her. She had dark skin, hair, and eyes, and an innate sensuality Lyndie envied. They’d hit it off right away…until this past Tuesday.
Lyndie had kept her nuptials a secret from outsiders, but word had traveled after the fact, and the principal had asked her if she’d like to change the name on her door. From Ms. Lyndie Scott to Mrs. Lyndie Hudson.
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