BROCK (7 Brides for 7 Blackthornes Book 5)

by St. Claire, Roxanne

  “Excuse me, Mr. Blackthorne, but how much longer should I tell Duke he can expect to wait?” she asked in her formal admin voice.

  “One minute, Karen.” When she closed the door, he finally let go of Jenna’s hand, but stayed just inches from her. “I have an appointment with my barber,” he said to her. “We can start over dinner tonight? That is, if you don’t have plans.”

  “I had plans with David,” she said, letting her gaze drop over his face, then down to the suit and tie he wore. “But it looks like his barber is about to eliminate every last shred of him.”

  “Same guy, different hair.”

  “And now you’re Brock, so that changes everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Listen to me.” She reached up and straightened what he knew was a perfectly straight tie, looking at his neck, then slowly gazing up into his eyes. “The fact is, I’ve been burned by a source recently. Another gatekeeper who lied to me.” She sighed, shuddering slightly at the admission. “And you should know that my entire career is riding on this book proposal, along with a lot of money, a shredded reputation, and the opinions of people I love. I’m not going to mess with it by…” She swallowed, lifting a brow that said so much more than words could, reluctantly letting go of his tie.

  That was a no-more-sex brow if he ever saw one.

  “I won’t sleep with Brock Blackthorne,” she confirmed. “It would go against every professional ethic there is.”

  Disappointment thudded while a few thousand hormones groaned in defeat. “Maybe David will make a reappearance,” he teased.

  “Won’t matter. One night will have to have been enough for us.”

  He watched her leave, putting a hand on the tie knot she’d just touched, knowing deep in his gut that one night was not going to be enough. Not by a long shot.

  Chapter Four

  “All right, Char, I have to go. My meeting is starting in two minutes,” Jenna said into the cell phone balanced precariously on the bathroom sink while she leaned toward the mirror and added a dab of lipstick as a finishing touch.

  Meeting. Not a date. It might have been at one time, a thousand years and twenty-four hours ago, but it wasn’t anymore. There’d be no longing gazes across the table, no accidental hand brushes, and no head-banging sex.

  “Just remember, Jenna,” her mother continued. “The question you don’t ask is as important as the one you do.”

  Yeah, like last night, when it never occurred to her to ask, Do you know Brock Blackthorne? You see him anywhere in this bar?

  “I’ll remember, Char,” she promised her mother, whose broadcasting-trained voice was also the voice of wisdom, experience, guidance, and—

  “So, for God’s sake, don’t blow it again.”

  And, sometimes, disappointment. “Thanks for that vote of confidence, Mother Dearest.”

  She snorted softly. “Hey, I’m the one who believes in what you’re doing. Your father…” Her voice drifted off.

  “How is he?” Jenna asked.

  “Old,” she replied on a laugh. “But then, we both are.”

  The fact was, Char May had been forty-one when Jenna was so unexpectedly conceived, and her father, a shocking fifty-six. Childless for their entire marriage and stellar careers, they’d approached parenthood as if their new arrival was another agenda item on their busy schedules.

  “I meant after the hip surgery,” Jenna said.

  “Oh Lord, nothing stops that man. Not even a titanium ball and socket. But he’s worried about you, Jenna. That last book situation…” She sighed, and Jenna could just hear the whoosh of her caftan when she picked up that martini glass again. “It was a disaster, honey.”

  The term of endearment didn’t do anything to take the punch out of the words. Yes, the first book in Jenna’s two-book deal with Filmore & Fine had gone south at the most inopportune time—five days before publication.

  “How could I know the main source for the most important chapter in the true story of the House of Villeneuve would turn out to be…” She closed her eyes and tried not to picture David. “A liar?” Thinking of him, she tapped the phone to check the time and cringed when she saw it was after seven. David might run a few minutes behind, but Brock Blackthorne would not be late. “And I have to go. I was supposed to be in the lobby five minutes ago.”

  “Just do your homework earlier and better this time,” her mother said, physically incapable of ending a phone call without one more shovelful of advice.

  “Don’t worry, I have an in at the company now,” she said. An in who’d already lied to her, but still… “Anyway, failure is not an option.”

  “You could always move in with Dad and me and let us take care of you.”

  Oh Lord. Failure was so not an option. “Thanks, but I got this.”

  “Just remember this, Jenna. Let your source lead you to the truth, not tell you the truth, because what they say won’t be the truth,” she continued, clearly spurred on by the gin. “When you want to rip the layers off a subject, you have to do it—”

  “Mother.” Sometimes she had to break down and not call her by her famous nickname. “I don’t want to rip anything off Brock Blackthorne.” Except, maybe, his clothes. Again.

  Which wasn’t going to happen if she had a snowball’s chance of succeeding and gaining career redemption after the book that crashed and burned.

  But she had one more chance. Filmore & Fine had given her an impossible task, but she wouldn’t stumble. Especially because a screwup would mean she’d have to pay back the advance, which would mean…

  Hello, Mother. Hello, Father. Here’s your millennial failure looking for a place to live.

  “I have to go,” Jenna said quickly, grabbing the phone and heading out of the bathroom. “I’ll talk to you soon. Maybe later. Maybe in a week. Bye!”

  Before her mother could dish out one last closing comment, Jenna disconnected, dropped the phone in her bag, and snagged the room key from the dresser.

  “Here goes nothing,” she whispered as she stepped into the dimly lit hallway and then into the elevator. This time, it could be different. This time, it could be better. This time, it could be…

  Hot.

  It was the only word that popped into her head when the elevator doors opened, and she saw Brock Blackthorne leaning against the back of a lobby sofa.

  And her second thought was…so hot.

  Great, Jenna. He’s killed your words.

  If he had, the loss of a few brain cells was understandable. Yeah, David with a wet beard and long hair and a Harvard T-shirt was pretty sexy. But Brock decked out for business was…not fair.

  He held his suit jacket over his shoulder, hooked on a finger, his white dress shirt tailored to accentuate the breadth of his chest and cut of his biceps. She’d traced every cut of that six-pack…with her tongue.

  Damn, this would be so much easier if she didn’t already know what she was missing.

  “Hey.” He pushed off the sofa and took one step, slow enough for her to see his gaze drop over her, lingering on the V in the neck of her black cocktail dress, all the way down to her heels, then back up again, coming to rest on her face.

  He’d just totally eye-screwed her and…God help her. She liked it.

  “Brock David Blackthorne.” She held out her hand to stave off any chance that he’d reach for a hug.

  “Jenna May Gillespie.” When her eyes widened in surprise, he gave a guilty laugh. “My admin told me that’s how you signed in at reception.”

  Of course, her full name was on her driver’s license. Or had he done his research on her? Didn’t matter. He was the subject of the interview, not her.

  He took her hand, and just as it had every time they’d touched since last night in the cab, electrical currents pirouetted up her arm, through her body, and settled in the most inappropriate place. “You look…” He gave a soft laugh. “Not sure what’s appropriate here,” he admitted. “Gorgeous? Beautiful in black? Or…”
>
  “How about ‘ready to work on the authorized account of the Blackthorne family,’” she finished for him.

  “That, too.”

  “Are we eating here at the hotel?” she asked, nodding to the small and very ordinary lobby dining room. “It’d be fast and easy.”

  “And subpar.” He put a hand on her back and led her to the door. “You want to know how Blackthornes live?”

  “I want to know everything,” she told him. “So, yes, I want to know how they live.”

  He reached for the door when the only doorman was preoccupied with another guest. “Boring, that’s how we live.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “We’re just not that fascinating,” he said. “The whisky is. The race cars are. And the boats can make you want to chuck life and sail to the ends of the earth. We came in second in the Southern Maine Sailing Invitational in May. Did you know?”

  “Second? For some reason, I didn’t imagine Blackthornes would be second in anything.”

  He smiled. “Well, my cousin Devlin lost the race and his confirmed bachelor status to the same woman, so we come in second if we want to.”

  “He threw the race?”

  He shrugged. “No one is actually saying.”

  Outside, they walked under the overhang to a black stretch limo, where a gray-haired man in a suit instantly opened the back door, nodding to her.

  “A limo?” she asked, hesitating to get in.

  “My uncle wanted the town car I usually use, so we got an upgrade,” he replied, then gave her a teasing nudge. “Unless you want to call our friend the cabby.”

  She gave a soft sigh as she stepped toward the open door. “You’re right. At least your driver won’t get into a fistfight.”

  “You hear that, Hoyt?” he said to the driver. “No fighting tonight.”

  “No promises, Mr. Blackthorne.” The reply came with enough twinkle in Hoyt’s gray eyes that Jenna could tell the two men knew each other well. “Things can get pretty hairy with those Menton valets.”

  Brock laughed, following Jenna into the back seat.

  “Menton?” She slid to the side, giving a quick tug to her dress so her entire thigh wasn’t exposed. “Even I’ve heard of that restaurant, and I don’t live in Boston.”

  “Just voted one of the top ten restaurants in the country,” he said. “Definitely not the hippest eatery in town, but I love the food and atmosphere, and the chef is a friend.”

  The confession made her give him a side-eye as she settled into the cool, plush seat and inhaled the lightest mix of leather, woods, and something barely floral. God, even Brock’s limo smelled delicious.

  “I can’t believe you were right in front of my face the whole time and I didn’t see you,” she admitted on a whisper.

  He reached for her hand, and as much as she wanted to whip her fingers away to avoid that zing of his touch again, she didn’t. Or couldn’t. Instead, she let him take her hand and give it the softest squeeze.

  “Will a simple ‘I’m sorry’ do?”

  She studied him for a moment, finally sliding her hand free, although it pained her to do so. “Agreeing to help me goes a long way,” she said slowly. “And I understand that some famous people want to hide their identity, but after meeting in the cab like that…”

  He turned more toward her, as if sitting side by side just wasn’t intimate enough. No, he had to actually melt her with those brown eyes. “I’m just protective of the name and everything attached to it. Also, let’s get this straight. I’m not famous.”

  “Well known? Household name? Insta-worthy?”

  He rolled his eyes. “If that’s the family you think you’re going to write about, you might want to switch your assignment to the Kardashians or…” He lifted a brow. “Villeneuve.”

  Oh, he had done some research. Damn it.

  “I really had planned to tell you my real name tonight,” he said, “before we even left the lobby of your hotel for our date.”

  “Which is now not a date. It’s a meeting. A business meeting between a writer and her source.”

  “Taking all the fun out of it.”

  “Depends on how much my source shares,” she quipped. “A good interview can be a blast.”

  “So can…” He searched her face, slightly closer. Not too close, but not exactly on the other side of the car, either. “A thunderstorm and a wild cab ride.”

  She couldn’t help the smile that tugged. “It was fun, I’m not going to lie. But I told you…”

  “And I heard you,” he assured her, inching away as if that proved he knew his boundaries. “But your reaction proves my point about the name. It comes with baggage. It comes with expectations and preconceived notions.”

  Now that, her mother would say, was an opening that a biographer needed to kick with her boot and force her way in. Carefully, of course. “Is that a problem you have with women, Brock?”

  “I don’t have problems with women.”

  She almost laughed at that. “I bet you don’t. But you assume they have expectations about your name. Do you think you might disappoint them? Or that they want something you can’t provide? Or that—”

  “Don’t.”

  She lifted her brows in question.

  “Don’t get personal.”

  “Little late for that,” she shot back.

  “Hey, you set the ground rules today. If we’re not intimate, then we’re not personal.”

  As intense as his gaze was, seeming to look right through her, Jenna refused to look away or accept the order. “Maybe you don’t know how this process works, Brock.” She leaned toward him to make her point. “The whole idea is that I get personal. Every minute of every interview is personal. How else am I going to find the soft underbelly of the Blackthorne family?”

  He closed a little more space between them. “I guarantee you no one in my family has a soft belly.”

  Oh yes, she remembered.

  “Are you telling me,” she whispered, “that you won’t tell me anything personal?”

  “Will you tell me something personal?”

  She hesitated for a moment. “If you haven’t already done all your homework on me. Sounds like you have.”

  “A little,” he admitted. “Enough to be thoroughly intrigued.”

  She narrowed her eyes to make a point he couldn’t ignore or flirt away. “You can’t be anything more than a source for me, Brock.”

  “No, Brock can’t. But David?” He smiled, and something told her that sly grin of his had wooed a lot of women over the years. It changed his face from stoic to sexy and made him relaxed, approachable, and gorgeous. “What if David shows up in the off-hours?”

  A thousand chills danced up her spine. “Just wear your glasses, and we’ll see.”

  “Just like Superman and Clark Kent.”

  She laughed. “Just.”

  Chapter Five

  “Please bring two glasses of Blackthorne Gold, neat,” Brock quietly instructed the hostess who seated them at Brock’s regular table overlooking Congress Street. But not so quietly that Jenna didn’t give him a surprised glance as she settled into the chair he held for her.

  “I’ll just have water,” she said.

  He gave her a look that he hoped communicated what he thought of that as he sat down, purposely taking the seat across the small, square table for two.

  “Who starts dinner with whisky, anyway?” she asked.

  And that earned her another look of sheer disbelief from him, making her laugh.

  “I guess I forgot who I’m with.”

  “Jenna.” He took the napkin from the table. “If you’re going to learn about Blackthornes, you’re going to have to know and love the drink that is synonymous with our name. Not everyone starts dinner with a glass of Gold, but I like to. Plus, I want to tell you about it, and you can’t appreciate the history if you don’t taste our finest product. It’s book research, I swear.”

  She gave him a smile of surrender.
“All right, I’ll try it. And I’m sure I’ll like it, considering its colorful history.”

  Its colorful history? He stayed silent, not sure if she’d meant the whole company, the brand, or the premium whisky that some said had a shadowy past.

  “But this isn’t the kind of place where I can take notes or record you,” she added. “So I need to stay clearheaded so I can transcribe everything we discuss into my research tonight. I honestly cannot waste a minute.”

  “I know,” he agreed. “Three weeks is a stunningly short time frame. I’d think you would have more.”

  She exhaled hotly. “I’m being punished.”

  “For the Villeneuve book?”

  “I thought you were spending the day in all those meetings clearing your calendar, not researching the researcher.”

  “Karen pulled a few facts for me,” he confessed. “And I had a quick call with Oliver Hazlett.”

  She cringed. “Went straight to my boss at Filmore & Fine, did you?”

  He didn’t respond as a tuxedoed waiter brought their drinks in heavy crystal glasses, nodding to Brock in that deferential way that said the server knew exactly who was getting their best bourbon.

  “The chef is a James Beard winner,” Brock told Jenna. “I usually let her surprise me with something called the Chef’s Whim, unless you have food allergies or issues.”

  “Maybe you should ask Karen,” she replied with a playful smile. “But no, I’m sure I’ll love whatever the chef prepares.”

  When the waiter left, Brock lifted his glass and waited for her to do the same. “To your success,” he said.

  “Which, if you talked to my publisher, you probably know is seriously on the line right now.” She tapped his glass lightly. “But thank you, and I will certainly drink to that. Anything I should know before my very first sip of Blackthorne whisky, other than no e in whisky?”

  He smiled. “Get that right, and you win major points with me,” he said. “What you’re about to taste is our finest, top-shelf bourbon-style whisky, the only one made in our Maine distillery, from locally grown sugar gold corn, which is where it gets its Blackthorne Gold name.” He lifted the glass. “Tradition you can taste.” He dragged out the company tag line like an ad exec presenting new creative content.