BROCK (7 Brides for 7 Blackthornes Book 5)

by St. Claire, Roxanne

  “Can’t wait,” she said, bringing the glass closer to her mouth.

  “Take it slow. This is probably hotter, stronger, and smoother than anything you’ve ever had.”

  “In other words, spewing it all over you would be really bad form.”

  He laughed. “Wouldn’t be the first shot I had to wear home.”

  Her eyes widened in anticipation as she started to press the glass to her lips. “To my first taste of Blackthorne.”

  Not exactly her first, but if she wasn’t going to flirt about what they’d done last night, then he wouldn’t, either. “Enjoy,” he said simply, sipping his and watching her, which was more intoxicating than the drink.

  She closed her eyes with a low, sweet moan of appreciation. Her throat rose and fell with the swallow, her head tipped slightly back, as she let out a sigh that sounded exactly like the one she’d released when he’d kissed his way from her mouth to her toes.

  Arousal threatened, making him shift imperceptibly in his seat. He couldn’t spend this whole night warding off his body’s natural response to her. Damn. Was it always going to be like this with her?

  “Ohhhh.” The sound came out as a helpless exclamation that could qualify as one of the sexiest things he’d ever heard. Since last night. “Brock.”

  Yes. It was always going to be this way with her.

  He covered by bringing his glass back for one more taste. “Did you get the oak and vanilla?” he asked. “That subtle hint of caramel from the sweet corn? Did you taste that?”

  “I tasted…heaven.” She lifted the glass to inhale the fragrance, again closing her eyes. “And yes, smoke. And…pleasure. Maybe a little temptation. And a flash of insanity, a moment of madness, and a warm fire on a winter night.”

  He cracked up. “You’re inspiring new ad copy for my marketing team.”

  “Blackthorne Gold,” she said, leaning closer. “It’s better than…”

  Neither one of them said a word.

  “Well, it’s almost as good,” she finished with a soft laugh.

  “That is, if we’re going to be honest about the elephant in the room,” he said.

  She gave him a sharp look, and he could swear he saw a warning in her eyes. Then she let out a sigh. “Speaking of elephants in the room…” She swirled the liquid, gazing at it so he could see the way her dark lashes fanned over high cheekbones.

  Oh yeah, he thought, taking a drink. This was going to be a long night, and if he didn’t start thinking about something else, it was going to end like the last one. Which didn’t bother—

  “This is so good, it’s no wonder Alistair Blackthorne stole the recipe.”

  He choked on his sip. “Excuse me?”

  “Please don’t act like you’re surprised.” She lowered the glass, but not all the way, holding it in front of the small candle on the table, letting the light dance through the amber liquid. “They said the golden color of the Salmon Falls whiskey—with an e, I might add—had never been replicated until the Blackthorne family moved to King Harbor from Scotland. Coincidence? Some say yes, some say no.”

  He stared at her, fighting the rush of resentment as strong as all the other rushes he’d been enjoying the past few moments. God, he hated this old stupid myth that somehow refused to die. “The ones who say no would be correct.”

  “And the ones who say yes?”

  “Would be jealous of our success.” He inched the glass away, keeping his gaze on it. “Salmon Falls Distillery closed during Prohibition. It’s little more than a pile of bricks and overgrown trees in the middle of the woods.”

  “And yet, the Blackthorne distilleries…flourish.”

  He just shrugged, no stranger to the folklore about his great-grandfather and the neighboring distillery. “Alistair Blackthorne was smart and knew how to turn a dime. Lots of liquor companies survived and thrived during Prohibition, and some went out of business.”

  “Because their top-shelf recipe was replicated by another.”

  He lifted the glass, feeling his jaw clench. “That’s not true, Jenna. This color you see? It’s the barrels, which are each aged over a year after being burned with special flames that incorporate distinct flavors in specified amounts. These techniques came from Scotland.”

  “But this isn’t Scotch whisky.”

  “Of course not. Scotch, by law, can only be made in Scotland, distilled from barley and the rich peat of the land. Bourbon whisky is made from corn, technically in Bourbon County, Kentucky. Blackthorne bourbon-style whisky evolved from a two-hundred-year-old recipe and aging technique that my great-grandfather’s family made for private use and then brought from Scotland when he arrived in the United States.” He leaned in to add, “He didn’t steal it.”

  She just smiled at him. “Relax. I’ll figure it out when I talk to someone who knows the history.”

  “I know the history.”

  “The history of Salmon Falls,” she shot back. “If it’s not true, I’ll find that out. I can discern the truth. David.”

  He winced at the dig.

  “And, if your short conversation with my publisher included any details, you know that I am smart enough to know when I’m being lied to.” She angled her head with a self-deprecating smile. “Sadly, it took a long time for me to get there on my last project.”

  “Well, I heard his version. How about you tell me yours?” When she looked down at the whisky and didn’t answer, he touched her hand lightly. “So we can avoid the same mistakes.”

  The waiter came with the amuse-bouche before she could answer, so their conversation stopped to appreciate the tuna crudo with watermelon. Brock asked that the wine director choose their wine and waited until they were completely alone again to finish his whisky and let her do the same.

  “If I’m going to be perfectly honest,” she finally said, “there was nothing I could have done differently, but I was blindsided by a source. It turned out that the very premise of the biggest reveal in the book was all a lie, but I only discovered the discrepancies after the book had been edited and sent to the printing press. I could have…” She closed her eyes. “No, I couldn’t have lived with the repercussions if I’d tried to hide what I’d discovered. I had to go to my publisher and tell them to pull the book.”

  No wonder she was a stickler for a truthful source. “But you’re doing another book for them, so it couldn’t have been catastrophic.”

  She gave a wry laugh. “Trust me, it felt like a catastrophe at the time. They’re giving me a second chance because it was a two-book contract, but they are under no obligation to accept my proposal. I know they love the idea of a Blackthorne bio, but I’m not sure they love the idea of me writing it. Other than, you know…”

  He took a guess. “Your famous pedigree.”

  Her mirthless smile confirmed his guess was right. “Charlotte May’s name carries a lot of weight, and my dad’s position at the Times made him a lot of friends. But, the business is ruthless and they aren’t thrilled with me. If they opt out of this book proposal, I have to pay back the entire advance. Which, I hate to say, is pretty much spent.”

  “And your parents?”

  “Drowning their disappointment in their martinis as we speak.”

  “Oh, that is a lot of pressure.”

  She gave a shrug, then eyed him with a dubious look. “And you are very good, Brock Blackthorne.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m the interviewer, yet…” She slid a tiny-pronged fork over a lemon balm on her plate. “You’ve managed to find out more about me than I have about you, and we’re halfway through the first course.”

  “I don’t know much,” he said.

  “You know that my career is on a downward spiral, my wallet is thin, and my parents think I’m not worthy of their names.” She picked up the empty whisky glass. “Truth serum?”

  “Nectar of the Blackthorne gods,” he replied.

  “With a little help from…Wilfred Platt.”

  “Who the
hell is that?”

  “The original owner of Salmon Falls Distillery.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Your time is precious, Jenna. I recommend you don’t waste it on what will be a dead end.”

  She didn’t answer right away, enjoying a bite of food and giving him time to study the way her corn-silk-colored hair fell over her cheekbone, accentuating her delicate features and the curve of her lips.

  “Another question, then?” she asked.

  “Anything.”

  “Why did you agree to help me? You know there isn’t going to be a…repeat performance of last night. You could have closed the door and let me ferret out my own information and stumble through the Blackthorne Enterprises machine, which would have slowed me down and perhaps killed the book.”

  “It’s a fair question,” he agreed. “I wanted to…” His voice trailed off, and he got a warning look from her.

  “Remember, Brock, you promised not to lie. Omission is a lie.”

  His eyes shuttered in acknowledgment. “I wanted to control the outcome.”

  “Of the book.”

  “And…” He flicked a finger from her to him. “This.”

  “There isn’t a this,” she replied without a nanosecond of hesitation. “There was a that last night, but no this tonight.”

  He felt a smile tug at his lips. “You’re good with words.”

  “Most of the time. Sometimes, I get the rug pulled out from under me.” She leaned over the table. “And I get screwed.”

  He closed his eyes, hating that she might even think about putting him in that category. “I don’t want to…” Careful, Brock. “See you fail.” When she didn’t answer, he added, “And, yes, I want to make sure that the Blackthorne family, businesses, and brand come out looking great.”

  “Just so we’re clear,” she said. “Great isn’t always the point of a book like this. You realize that, don’t you? This won’t be a fawning fan book.”

  “What exactly are you looking for, then?”

  “A number of things,” she said. “Readers will want me to tear back the veneer on this family that someone has polished to a shine and make each and every one of you real, warts and all. They want…secrets.”

  He held up his hand to stop the assault. She wasn’t getting any secrets. “Nothing that interesting. Not today, anyway. The family is just…normal.”

  She snorted and lifted her glass. “New drinking game. Take a sip every time Brock puts up a roadblock by telling me the Blackthornes are normal, boring, or just like every other family.”

  “We are,” he insisted.

  “Dysfunctional?”

  “Not in the least,” he countered, squashing down the memory of his aunt flying off to France. “With the minor exception that we have incredibly successful family-run businesses, we are just another large, blended family of brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles, and one feisty old nana who can drink us all under the table.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Can’t wait to meet her.”

  “She’s in Maine.”

  “Awesome. I can go up this weekend.”

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “First of all, I don’t need you. Second, didn’t you say something about clearing your calendar, or was that…not true?”

  He swallowed. “It’s true, I just didn’t know you meant weekends. Anyway, I have to go up later this month for the Founder’s Day celebration, so we’ll get you there eventually.”

  “Eventually?” She put her hand on his to drive home whatever she was about to say. “Brock, I have twenty-one days to get as many interviews as I can. I’m working weekends, nights, mornings, and anything else that’s left. And I’d like to go wherever I can to see Blackthornes in action.”

  “That’s Boston and Maine, mostly, though we have a big distillery in Kentucky, and my brother Jason is in LA running the entertainment end of the business.”

  “I’d like to see the estate in King Harbor,” she said. “It’s what people think of when they think about Blackthornes. King Harbor and whisky.”

  “We’ll get there.” Unless he could just run her around corporate for a few weeks and avoid any land mines.

  “So, let’s talk about it,” she said, a slight sigh indicating she was willing to give up the push, at least for the moment. “Tell me all about this…” She gestured toward the glass. “Taste of tradition.”

  Finally, he was on solid, familiar, Blackthorne ground. No mention of Claire’s leaving, thank God, which he would be sure to keep from Jenna.

  And now he could talk about something that didn’t make him think about…all the things he shouldn’t be thinking about. Like how he could possibly be her “source” for all things Blackthorne and not want to kiss her as often as possible.

  That was definitely going to be a challenge.

  Chapter Six

  Jenna’s mother would say, “Let them talk. In between the lines, you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

  So Jenna let Brock talk. She peppered him with questions, but it didn’t take many for him to shower her in Blackthorne history, delight her with his knowledge of distillery details, and basically draw out her attention, enthusiasm, and a lot of laughs that were still bubbling up as they walked out of the restaurant.

  The only thing she found was a deep sense of attraction, a wistfulness that she couldn’t kiss him again, and a charm that was as infectious as his smile. Nothing she could put into a book proposal.

  “You know you’re going to have to tell me all that again,” she said. “I couldn’t pull out a notebook at Menton.”

  “I’ll tell you and so will half the other people you talk to.”

  Waiting for their car, Brock put a hand on her back and led her into the shadows on the sidewalk, his touch so warm and sure, it was easy to follow.

  “I won’t mind,” she said. “I told you your family isn’t boring. First of all, there are so many of them. For me, it was just Char, Sam, and Jenna tagging along.”

  “You call your parents by their first names?”

  “I do,” she said on a laugh. “I have no recollection of calling them Mommy and Daddy. I called them what they called each other, and they never corrected me.” One of the many weirdnesses of her upbringing. “So, yes, I loved hearing all that, Brock. I can’t wait to go back to my hotel and write it all up. I already know how I want to open the book.”

  “Tell me.”

  She shook her head. “Can’t jinx it.”

  He searched her face for a long moment, sending the same warm rush through her that the whisky had. “So does that mean you want to get back to your hotel so you can burn the midnight oil? Because I know the Boston nightclub scene, or we could—”

  “Oh, is that you, Brock?”

  Jenna turned to see a couple step out of the restaurant behind them, a petite blonde and a much older man.

  “Hello, Sarah,” he said easily, accepting a friendly hug and a brush of her cheek.

  “Do you know Gregg LaVigne of Northeast Liquor Stores?” The woman gestured toward her companion. “This is Brock Blackthorne.”

  “Oh?” the man responded, extending his hand for Brock to shake. “Never had the pleasure, Mr. Blackthorne.”

  “It’s Brock, and this is Jenna Gillespie,” he said. “Jenna, this gentleman is with one of our most valued retailers, and Sarah McKinney is part of McKinney Spirits Distribution, another customer.”

  “Maybe not a customer for long,” Sarah said with a sly smile, which Jenna didn’t understand.

  But Brock angled his head, unfazed by the comment. “We’ll see what happens,” he said. “I’ve heard from my uncle that the acquisition discussions are going well.”

  “Well…enough,” Sarah said.

  “So, how’s your father?” Brock asked. “Has he finished chemo?”

  The other woman let out an understandable sigh. “Yes, but it’s been rough. On my mother, too.”

  “I’m sure he and your uncle will be happy when our deal is don
e,” Brock replied with plenty of sympathy in his tone, but the statement was met with a tight smile.

  Jenna let her gaze shift from person to person, aware of a subtle volley going on and intrigued by it.

  “Has your aunt Claire come back yet?” Sarah asked, raising a pointed eyebrow. “I heard she’s been totally off the grid for months now. It was all so…stunning at her party.”

  Stunning?

  Only because Jenna had been studying Brock all night and watching him relax as the evening wore on did she notice that his broad shoulders tensed and his jaw locked ever so slightly at the question. His aunt was “off the grid” for months? She’d never read or heard anything about that.

  “Oh, right,” Brock murmured. “You were at the estate that night.”

  What night? Jenna wondered, fighting the urge to step closer and pick up the cues and nuances that told her much more than people realized.

  “Lots of people are wondering how things unfolded since Claire made her grand exit.” Sarah put her hand on Brock’s arm. “We wouldn’t want anything to affect the negotiations with Blackthorne and the McKinney brothers,” she said.

  Once again, she sensed Brock subtly respond, but his expression stayed unreadable. “Claire’s enjoying a summer in Europe,” he said. “Certainly nothing that would affect the acquisition of your company.”

  “But she’s without your uncle?” Sarah asked pointedly. “I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a picture where those two weren’t glued at the hip. My mother always talks about what a nice couple they are. Or…were.”

  Brock managed the most casual of shrugs, but his eyes took on that look Jenna had seen when she talked about Salmon Falls Distillery and an old possibly stolen recipe. She saw his Adam’s apple rise and fall and a tiny vein in his temple pulse. The signs of something she might describe in her book as the look of Blackthorne pride.

  “They certainly do have a great relationship,” he agreed after the slightest hesitation. “But everyone deserves an extended vacation now and then.”