by Day Leclaire
“I arranged for a picnic lunch. I thought we’d eat it down by the lagoon.” He gestured toward one of the main corridors. “You’ll find everything you need in the bedroom at the end of the hall. It’s stocked with all the basic amenities. There should be a bathing suit that’ll fit you. Go ahead and change and we’ll head out.”
It didn’t take her long. Just as he’d finished tossing ice cold bottled water into the lunch basket, she reappeared wearing an emerald-green maillot with a matching floral print wrap tied at her waist. She’d replaced her Stetson with a wide-brimmed straw hat and a pair of oversize sunglasses were perched on the end of her nose. She held a bottle of sunscreen in one hand.
“I managed to get everywhere but my back. Do you mind? I burn like crazy, otherwise.”
He suspected she wouldn’t appreciate it if he turned dousing her with lotion into foreplay. And judging by her expression she expected him to do just that. Instead he drizzled the cream onto her back and rubbed it in with brisk efficiency. She relaxed when it became clear that he didn’t plan to jump her, which told him he’d elected the perfect tack. Rosalyn might have chosen to come on this little jaunt, but the more rational part of her still dealt with the potential fallout from that decision.
He could tell she wanted him. And that simple fact had thrown her completely off-kilter.
“Is this one of the hotel suites?” she asked as they exited the cabaña and headed for a gorgeous curve of beach.
“Owner’s residence.”
She shot him a wry smile. “I should have known.” She turned her attention toward the water and nodded in approval. “It’s stunning.”
Pristine-white sand flowed toward a protected lagoon, stumbling over the occasional coconut husk before sliding beneath crystalline aquamarine waves. A row of palms fenced off the area, bravely defending their line to prevent the spill of jungle forest from encroaching onto the powdery sand. To his amusement, a few wayward palms had abandoned their post and congregated halfway between wave and woodland. Most tempting of all, some truly brilliant individual had strung a pair of hammocks between the palms.
Rosalyn appropriated one of them, flipping her hat and sunglasses onto it, along with her wrap. Tossing a quick grin over her shoulder, she made a beeline for the crystalline water and struck out across the lagoon with long, swift strokes. He shook his head in amusement. He had to hand it to her—the woman worked hard at relaxing, swimming with utter focus and intensity. He joined her, matching his tempo to hers.
Twenty minutes later, she paused in her exertions. “I can’t swim another minute. I need food.”
“Now that I can provide.”
He caught her hand in his and dragged her from the water. Her skin was the pale, milky alabaster of a true redhead and he didn’t bother to hide his admiration. “For someone who spends her days out of doors, you have very little tan.”
“I inherited my complexion from my mother.” She paused at the ocean’s edge to wring out her hair before tossing it over her shoulder. It tumbled in a heavy, wet curtain halfway down her back, the sun splintering the deep auburn into shades that ranged from autumn russet to red-gold. “She and my grandmother drummed the importance of good skin care into me practically from the time I was born.”
“Savvy women.”
A hint of sorrow shadowed her expression. “Yes, they were.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, instantly contrite. “I wanted today to be romantic, not sad.”
“That’s okay. I’ll survive it.” She crossed the sand toward the hammock and flopped onto it with impressive dexterity. Wriggling into a comfortable position, she stretched like a cat. The emerald-green bathing suit pulled taut across boyish hips and decidedly unboyish breasts, the wet material leaving little to the imagination. She was quite simply glorious, her figure sculpted into a lean musculature, no doubt the result of years of intensive ranch work.
“Okay, Arnaud. Feed me before I pass out from hunger.”
He flipped open the lunch basket. “I think I have just the perfect thing to satisfy both of our appetites.”
All through lunch he kept the conversation light and casual, using the opportunity to study her. She was one of the most beautiful and intriguing women he’d ever met—a temptation he found irresistible. Unfortunately that temptation created something of a dilemma.
He frowned. Time to face facts. There was a ranch war coming, one he hadn’t anticipated, granted. But it was a war he intended to win. Not that winning would prove easy or decisive. Nor would it come without a carefully executed plan of action. He allowed himself one last, long minute to study his battleground as she swayed delicately in the breeze, savoring a variety of fruit wedges.
Oh, yeah. There was definitely a war coming. And he knew, without doubt or hesitation, where that final, deciding skirmish would take place.
He and his lovely rancher would pitch that final battle in bed.
The afternoon proved to be one of the best Rosalyn could ever remember. Joc went out of his way to offer her every pleasure—food, drink, amusing company and an ocean of gentle waves and warm caresses.
Eventually she abandoned her hammock in favor of his. Or rather, he forced her to abandon it when he picked her up and tumbled with her into his. They stayed there for an endless time, quietly talking as they watched the sun work its way toward the horizon. As the afternoon waned, the sky took on a palette of colors so breathtaking, it brought tears to her eyes.
It was then that she realized that most of the conversation had revolved around her and how she’d handled the management of her ranch after the death of her parents. She hadn’t learned anything about Joc or his background. She settled herself more comfortably into his arms. Time to change all that. “You said you had a traumatic childhood. Do you mind my asking what happened?”
He dismissed the question with a shrug. “I doubt there’s anything new I can tell you that hasn’t already been reported in newspapers or magazines.”
“If you don’t want to tell me, I can understand. I don’t often talk about my parents’ death.” She fought to speak through the thickness in her throat. “Or my brother’s.”
“Ana and I don’t share the sort of relationship with the Hollisters that you had with your family.” A thread of weariness underscored his comment. “They despise our existence as much as I despise theirs.”
Her brows pulled together. “It wasn’t their fault, Joc, any more than it was yours and your sister’s. There’s only one person to blame for this tragedy.”
“I’m well aware my father is responsible for the accident of my birth.”
There was a bite to his words that should have had her backing off. But for now, she’d follow her instincts. “I’m not sure any of you do realize it. Otherwise there wouldn’t be such animosity between all of you.” She allowed her fingertips to drift across the hard contours of his bare chest. “What was your father like?”
He caught her hand in his and lifted it to his mouth, kissing each fingertip. “Boss was…charming. Arrogant. Brilliant.”
“Sounds familiar.”
He released a short, harsh laugh. “You aren’t the first to make the comparison. It doesn’t help that I look just like him, too.”
“And you hate that.”
There was an endless pause, and then his voice came out of the silence, low and full of old pain. “I hate most how similar my personality is to his. How close I came to being him. He died in prison, you know. At one point, I thought I might end up there. Die there.”
She lifted onto one elbow and stared at him in dismay. “What do you mean? How did you almost end up like him?”
He fell silent for a long moment and then he said, “I was ten when I found out that my father had two families. I saw a news report about him on the television. He stood there posing for the camera, his arm around his wife and his four adorable children lined up in front of him.”
“You didn’t know before that?” she asked, shocked. “Your mot
her never told you?”
“She walked into the room just as MacKenzie was answering some question about school. We were in the same grade, and I couldn’t understand how that was possible. My mother turned off the set and sat me down and tried to explain. But what could she say? She was the mistress of a married man and nothing was going to change that.” He combed his fingers through her hair in a restless movement, though she doubted he even realized he was doing it. “I went a little crazy after that. I started hanging with a bad crowd. There were six of us, including me. Mick, Joey, Peter…and a couple others. Eventually we decided to form a little business partnership.”
She shook her head in confusion. “I don’t understand. What did that have to do with your father?”
“I decided I’d prove I was every bit the businessman he was. I tried to emulate him, for a while.” His voice dropped another notch, the words sounding as if they’d been pulled from some deep, dark place. “Over time, I became him. Shadier, in fact. It was all about the bottom line, financially. All about what I could get away with. All about wheeling and dealing. Nothing else mattered. Not who I ran over to reach my goal. Not the better good. Not finding a balance. The win was everything.”
She couldn’t help stiffening, remembering something he’d said when they’d first met. I win. Always. No matter what it takes. “What’s changed since then?”
He understood what she was asking and shrugged. “A lot. I do it aboveboard and I don’t cheat. If you sell your ranch it’s because I’ve offered you something you want more than Longhorn.”
She took a moment to absorb that. “What convinced you to transform yourself?”
“Not a what, but a who. My sister, Ana. I was a cocky twenty-year-old and she was all of twelve. I bragged to her about this great deal I’d pulled off with Mick and the boys—a scam, really—and she burst into tears. By that time my father’s illegal activities had already surfaced, as well as the existence of my mother, and Ana and me. Boss had died in jail the previous year. Ana was terrified that I’d be arrested like our father and she’d be left all alone.”
“What about your mother?”
“She was gone, as well. I always felt she’d been hounded to death by the press after the scandal about my father broke.” He scrubbed a hand across his jaw. “I guess I felt that since everyone expected me to be my father’s son, I would be. Ana made me look—really look—at my life. I made some hard decisions that day.”
“What did you do?”
“I ended my association with Mick and the others. From then on, I went out of my way to make sure that every single business deal was scrupulously honest. I went back to school. Eventually I got into Harvard. And I made money. A lot of it.”
“And your father’s other family? The Hollisters?”
“MacKenzie’s mother, Meredith, is a socialite who had the money and the name to match my father’s. My mother was a dirt-poor farmgirl from the wrong side of the tracks. He married the one and made a mistress of the other.”
“And his children paid the ultimate price.”
“Yes.” He sat up abruptly, setting the hammock swaying, his face a mask of pain. “I intend to make damn certain history doesn’t repeat itself.”
“How are you going to do that?” she asked apprehensively.
“It’s simple.” His eyes turned winter-cold. “I won’t have any children. That way I can’t screw up their lives.”
Four
Joc’s remark put a swift end to their interlude on the beach. After they collected their possessions, they returned to the cabaña. Darkness descended, filling the air with new night-blooming scents that were even more intoxicating than those Rosalyn had picked up on during the day. But the mood between her and Joc had changed and she followed him inside without pausing to wallow in the unique fragrances.
“I have nine o’clock reservations at Ambrosia. It’s one of the newer hotel restaurants,” Joc said. “I suspect you’ll be more comfortable using the spare bedroom to freshen up. So take your time getting ready.”
She appreciated his consideration in not forcing an unnatural intimacy. She loitered in the shower, and afterward exited into the attached bedroom. To her surprise, a box rested on the bed with her name scrawled on the tag. She examined it with equal parts curiosity and trepidation. Ripping apart the outer wrapping, she tore off the lid of the box and stared at the contents. To call it a dress didn’t do it justice. She eased it from its nest of tissue and shook her head in amazement.
The floor-length gown would have been lighter than a feather if it hadn’t been for the beadwork. Of course, if it hadn’t been for the beadwork, the wearer would have been arrested for public indecency. The black gown was as sheer as a negligee, swirls of beads in the shape of exotic flowers fanning the bodice and curling across the pelvis and buttocks. Two spaghetti straps claimed to hold the gown in place, but Rosalyn suspected they lied.
She gave the gown a light shake and a scrap of paper floated to the ground. It landed faceup on the carpet and she picked it up. I hope you’ll wear this for dinner tonight. No other woman could do it justice. It was a pretty lie, one she chose to believe for a few, sweet moments. Then she examined the gown again, her brow creasing in a frown.
There were reasons she couldn’t wear his gift, even if she were willing to accept such an expensive present, reasons Joc couldn’t have possibly guessed. The gown was going back right now. Wistfully she ran a hand across the delicate beadwork. It was so beautiful, so feminine, so…so daring. She shook her head. Not that it mattered. Back it went. The instant, the very moment, the exact second after she tried it on.
Giving in to temptation, she tossed aside the robe she’d donned after her shower and eased the gown over her head. One quick shimmy had it dropping into place and two cautious steps had her in front of the full-length mirror affixed to the bedroom wall. She shook her head in disbelief. The mundane rancher had been transformed into something…glamorous.
The gown fit as though painted on, clinging to every sleek curve. From the front it had the unmitigated gall to appear modest, the bodice only hinting at cleavage. She suspected the same couldn’t be said for the back. Rotating, she examined herself over her shoulder. Holy mother! The gown plunged endlessly, screeching to a halt a scant half inch above the curve of her buttocks. Coiling flower stems outlined in flashing red snaked along the edges of the deep U, drawing the eye on a helpless journey down her spine before arriving at the sassy collection of beads that cupped her bottom.
No way. No way would she wear this gorgeous, outrageous, elegant gown in public, especially since it risked revealing things she’d rather keep concealed. She stepped closer to the mirror, eyeing her abdomen through the beads before turning to check whether anything could be seen along her right hip. To her delight, nothing was visible. As with the one-piece maillot she’d worn to the beach, not a single flaw showed. Oh, dear. It truly was the perfect gown.
Before she could wiggle out of it a knock sounded at the door, and she crossed the room to answer it. From knee to floor, the gown fluttered as she walked, belling outward in flirty wisps. She gave an experimental skip, feeling the most feminine she had in ages—maybe ever. Of course, it was hard to feel feminine when your typical mode of dress was a sweat-soaked plaid shirt, boots and a pair of worn jeans stained with elements best left unidentified.
She opened the door a scant inch and peeked through the narrow opening. Joc stood there. “I want you to wear it,” he said without preliminary.
She gave a short laugh. “One of the saddest aspects of life is that we don’t always get what we want.”
“What will it take for you to agree?”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Another negotiation?” she asked. “I thought we weren’t negotiating on this trip.”
“If that’s what’s necessary to get you into that gown, that’s what we’ll do.”
“Before you try to get me out of it?”
His chuckle was one of agreement, the
soft, intimate sound sending an unwanted shaft of desire arrowing through her. “You can’t hang a man for dreaming, Red.”
“Condemn him, maybe.”
“Only if I manage to turn that dream into reality.”
She flashed on an image of his powerful hands on her shoulders, snapping the thin straps of the gown. Rapt masculine eyes watching as the weight of the beads sent the dress plummeting to the floor in a glittering pool of black, edged with flaming red. The vulnerability of nudity mixed with a painful, unremitting want. His reaching for her. Her retreat toward the bed. His pursuit. The endless tumble to the waiting mattress. Helpless desire growing with each touch before the inevitable mating of body and soul—
She dismissed that possibility without hesitation, though something hot and heavy settled deep in the pit of her stomach, something that had the beads of the gown shuddering in agitation. “That’s not going to happen,” she managed to tell him. Or were her words meant for herself?
“Time will tell. So, are you going to wear it?”
She couldn’t resist sneaking another peek over her shoulder, the mirror reflecting an image she’d never seen before. Common sense warred with an irrational, wholly feminine craving. For the past decade, she’d always put the interests of Longhorn ahead of her own. Always. For the first time ever, she wanted to be tempted. Wanted to surrender to the forbidden. To the fantasy in which she found herself.
She spoke before common sense won out, giving way to the baser of her two choices. “I either dine in this or the jeans I wore to fly out here.”
“Actually, it’s that or your bathrobe since your other clothes are being laundered.” His eyes gleamed with laughter at having boxed her in so neatly. “So, will you wear it?”
“I guess I don’t have any other choice.”
“Not a one,” he agreed.
“I do have a request, however.”
“Name it.”