Brave Enough (10 page)

“Do you regret it? I mean, if he hadn't died, would you have come back?”

“Honestly, I don't know. But I don't regret it. Now that I've seen what's out there, Chiara is as precious to me as it always was to my parents. This is my home. These fields, these grapes,
this life . . .
it's part of who I am. And I'll do anything . . .
anything
to make sure there's a place for us here.”

I feel the frown work its way onto my brow. “Is that why you're helping me?”

There's a short pause before Tag moves with the speed of a snake's strike. He has me on my back, pressing me so quickly into the clothes on which we rest that it startles a squeak out of me.

“I want to help you because
I want to help you.
Yes, I do want for my mother to be able to stay in her home for the rest of her life, no matter how long or short that might be, but I also want to help you. No one likes for their fate to be decided by someone else.”

He says the last with such passion, it spurs more questions. “But what happens when this is over? Aren't you afraid that Dad will have you and Stella removed?”

“As ruthless as he is, or as he talks at least, I'm not sure he'd actually be able to throw my mom out. She's cared for him, his family and his home for half his life. Me, on the other hand? There'd be a greater likelihood he'd toss me out on my ass, but then he'd have to find someone
immediately
, someone experienced and competent and familiar with this type of terrain, and have them trained in a matter of weeks. Harvest is just around the corner. It's crucial that things go smoothly. I think he's too smart to be that impulsive. I think he'll bide his time and keep trying to manipulate you through your
charity. But in the end, I think it's a distinct possibility that we can both get what we want.”

“And you're willing to bet all that you have here?”

“I am. Because I'm not betting on your dad; I'm betting on me. On my ability to read people, on what I know and what I want, and the lengths I'll go to get it. William O'Neal is still a smart businessman when you take emotion out of it. I'm betting on being able to rationalize with him if it comes to that, help him see what I have to offer. After all, he owns these fields, but I've worked them my whole life. And I've got plans for this place, plans that he'll like if he'd listen.” He stares down at me, raising a hand to brush my hair behind my ear. “In short, yes. I'm willing to risk it. It's a risk, but a calculated one. And the possible rewards are . . .
compelling
,” he says, smiling devilishly down at me.

Looking up at Tag, at his swirling eyes and his breathtaking face, I lose the ability to think clearly. All I can do when he settles his hips between my legs is gasp, my questions and concerns evaporating from my mind like water from a pool on a hot day. The only thing I can think to say is, “I hope helping me is worth the risk, then.”

“From the first time I saw you, I've thought of little else. And, God help me, from the instant I got to taste these lips,” he says, dipping his mouth to mine in a kiss that makes my head spin and my body melt. “From the instant I got to touch this skin . . .” He glides his hand from the swells of my breasts all the way down my side to my thigh, which he tugs on until I wrap my legs around his waist. “From the
damn second
that I got to feel this body . . .” he whispers, easing his rigid cock into my welcoming heat on a deep
groan, “I knew,
I knew
I was a goner. You're worth the risk. I'd be willing to bet my life on it.”

“But why?” I ask breathlessly, barely able to hold on to rational thought with him buried inside me this way. “Why me?”

I
have to
ask. Of all the women—all the young, beautiful, plentiful women—why me?

“If I could figure that out, you wouldn't be under my skin, now would you?”

I half laugh, half moan when he withdraws and then pushes back in a bit harder.

“But if I had to guess,” he says, tracing a path up my throat to my ear with the tip of his tongue.

“Yes?”

“I'd say you're a witch. Because you've bewitched me. I just can't seem to get enough.”

You've bewitched me.
I love the sound of that.

As he whispers the last into my ear, he flexes his hips and steals my breath. After that, all conversation ceases to matter.

Tag

Weatherly is fast asleep on our clothes. Well, most of them. The majority of her creamy skin is covered in my silk shirt, but everything else is beneath her. I manage to extricate my slacks from under her right leg without waking her. As I pull them on, I stare down at her—at the beautiful face turned toward the rising sun, at the slim arm tucked under her head, at the spill of dark, thick hair spread out behind her. Damn, she's gorgeous.

Is that what's getting to me?

I quickly discard the theory. I've slept with gorgeous women before, so it can't be
just
that. So then what the hell is it?

The answer: I don't know. I don't know
what
it is or
how
it is; I only know that
it is.

Just standing here watching her is giving me a major hard-on.
And she's sleeping, for God's sake. I wasn't kidding when I told her that I can't get enough of her. I really can't.

I debate waking her up the fun way, but decide instead to creep to the house and get some breakfast to bring back to her. And
then
we'll have another round of “fun,” before the rest of Chiara wakes up and our love nest isn't so private anymore.

I carry my shoes out into the grass before I put them on to traverse the dew-covered field. At the house, I sneak in the back door, fairly certain that if William and Michael are up, they'll be having breakfast in the dining room. Men like them don't eat in kitchens. And I'm right. It's deserted except for the same fiftyish woman who was here yesterday afternoon.

“Good morning,” I say as I make my way around to the pantry. I set about collecting a thermos, some Styrofoam cups and a small picnic basket, which rests beside the one I took on the four-wheeler and never used. I fill a clean dish towel with warm croissants and fill a plastic container with thick slices of warm ham and bacon. Lastly, I put a few cubes of cheese in a cup and pack it all into the basket.

When I glance up, the chef is eyeing me with something that looks like amusement.

“Breakfast in bed,” I explain.

“A bed
outside
?”

“The best kind,” I answer, grinning at her. She merely cocks a brow and resumes stirring a pot of . . . something. I bet those sharp blue eyes don't miss a thing.

I set the basket on the counter and take the back stairs up to the room we share to use the bathroom and clean up a little before
heading back. I'm standing, bare-chested, in front of the bathroom mirror brushing my teeth when I hear the door open. I smile, my hunger forgotten when I think about spreading Weatherly out on the bed and eating
her
instead. But when I rinse my mouth and step out into the bedroom, all I see is Cher. Naked except for her fiery red hair, which is obscuring part of her very ample breasts.

I stop, obviously surprised, and stare.

Before I can ask any questions, Cher makes her way over to me. Her hair shifts as she walks, giving me peek-a-boo glimpses of hard, pink nipples.

Oh shit.

“I think you might have the wrong room,” I say, retreating a step when she reaches me.

“No, this is
definitely
the right room. Your friend told me exactly which one you sleep in.”

“My friend?”

“Rogan.”

“Rogan,” I repeat. Damn him! He
did
send me a woman for my birthday. I wasn't kidding when I told Weatherly I thought she was a gift from him.

“How did he talk
you
into this?”

“We cater events for the studio all the time. I've known Rogan and his girlfriend for a while now. I asked if he knew you, told him we were doing some work up here. He told me it was your birthday. And what you wanted. I thought we'd be the perfect fit, since it just so happens that I want it, too.”

She rakes her short, clear-painted fingernails down my chest as she says this.

“Look, I'm sorry that you went to all this trouble, but—”

Her smile tells me it was no trouble
long
before her lips do. “Believe me, this will be all my pleasure.”

I figured. I knew it when I first met her. Like I said, I can spot these women a mile away.

She leans into me, pressing her tits up against my chest and dragging the nipples from left to right. I wrap my fingers around her upper arms and push her gently away. I'm debating the best way to blow her off without pissing her off, if for no other reason than to keep this from getting any more awkward. Unfortunately, I'm still thinking when Weatherly opens the door and walks in.

Even though her hair is tangled, even though her clothes are wrinkled, she's still mouthwatering. She still pulls my attention, my
desire
like no one ever has, especially with her eyes flashing like violet flames. For a few seconds, all I can think about is how much I want her.

It's when the two bright red spots appear on her cheeks and her mouth drops open that I realize what her beauty caused me to miss initially. That fiery little spark in her eyes and that hot little flush to her cheeks aren't the result of lust. She's mad. Mad as hell. And I know exactly why.

“This isn't what it looks like,” I begin, releasing Cher who is desperately trying to cover herself.

“I'm so sorry, ma'am. I thought we were alone.”

Weatherly turns her blazing eyes on Cher. “You thought you were alone? Does that really make a difference? Do you have
any clue
how inappropriate this is? Are you
trying
to lose your job?”

Cher blanches visibly. “No, ma'am! The guy, Rogan . . . his
friend . . .” she tries to explain, hiking her thumb over her shoulder at me. She inches her way toward the clothes thrown over the back of an armchair in the corner as she continues in a stammer. “He . . . he assured me that this was okay. It's . . . it's . . . I'm a birthday present.”

Weatherly watches her with thinned, furious lips before she turns that withering look on me. “Well, I sure hope you enjoy your present.”

And with that, she turns on her heel and calmly exits the room. I have to grin when she closes the door rather than slamming it off its hinges, which is what
I'd
want to do. What I imagine that
she
wants to do, too. But a woman of her breeding would never make such a scene. It almost makes me want her more. I've seen firsthand the kind of fire she's capable of, fire that seems to leap to life at the touch of my fingers or the lick of my tongue. But she can obviously control herself when she wants to. The fact that she doesn't use that control when it comes to me . . . that she doesn't want to . . . or that she
can't . . .
Damn, that's hot!

I glance at Cher on my way after Weatherly. “You won't lose your job. I'll make sure of it. Just get dressed and get back to work.”

I don't catch up to Weatherly until she's walking proudly out the front door. I don't know where the hell she's going, but I love that she's going without thought of the two men who are watching curiously from just inside the dining room.

“Weatherly, wait!” I call as I barrel down the stairs. That only makes her speed up. I catch her before she can descend the steps out front, taking her gently by the arm to stop her. “At least give me a chance to explain.”

She whirls around, eyes spitting purple sparks. “Don't bother,” she hisses through firmly gritted teeth. “I saw all the explanation I needed.”

She yanks her arm free and marches down the steps. With an exasperated shake of my head, I follow. “Damn it, Weatherly, do you really think I'm
that
stupid?
That
shallow?”

“Obviously you are,” she answers without turning around.

I lunge for her before she can get to the garage, to her car. “We can talk about your opinions of me later, then, but you can at least give me five minutes now.”

“You don't deserve five minutes,” she bites off, making me smile again.

I don't respond to that, but launch right into my explanation. It seems that the fair and beautiful Weatherly has a bit of a temper. “I asked you when I saw you in the tub that first day if you were a birthday gift.”

That gives her pause. I feel it in the way the supple muscle of her arm relaxes a little.

“Remember? And that's all this was—a stupid birthday gift from my numb-nuts friend. Cher was just playing along. I didn't touch her, I swear.”

“I
saw
you touching her.”

“Oh good God, you know what I mean. I didn't touch her
that way
, nor did I have any intention of touching her. You can ask her yourself if you don't believe me. I was right in the middle of trying to let her down without embarrassing her when you walked in.”

That gets another rise. Weatherly spins toward me. “Without
embarrassing her? Without
embarrassing
her? I think she had
more than embarrassed herself . . .
quite sufficiently, in fact, by that point.”

“It was just a misunderstanding. No reason for anyone to get fired or beheaded or any dicks to be cut off. Because that's what it looks like you're thinking right now.”

I cover my junk with one hand.

Still no smile.

I see the indecision in her eyes, though. I see the rational, reasonable woman returning, although I love this hot-blooded one, too. I'm not normally a fan of jealous women, but for some reason, I find that I very much like this one.

“What the hell is going on out here?” William O'Neal bellows from the front steps.

My shoulders sag.
Shit.
I don't even turn to look at him. I'm not worried about him right now. I'm worried about Weatherly.

“Don't let this mess things up between us,” I tell her softly. “I had nothing to do with that. I swear it. I have no interest in her. Which will probably worry me later,” I add.

Weatherly's brow furrows. “Worry you? Why?”

“Because I'm not in the habit of turning down hot women who throw their naked bodies into my arms.”

“Then why did you?” she asks, an edge returning to her voice.

“Because she's not the hot woman I want. You're the only woman I can even
think about.
I have no interest in touching anyone else. Touching or kissing or spending time with. I told you that you've bewitched me, and hell, woman! I meant it.”

“Why do you make it sound like such a bad thing?”

“Because I don't like not being in control. And you make me
lose control. You're all I can think about. And every time I start thinking about you, I feel like I'm gonna lose my damn mind if I can't get inside you. Or put my hands on you. Or press my mouth to yours.”

Her expression changes. I recognize the look. I see it the instant she goes from angry to hungry. Hungry for me, for what's between us. I know it because I feel it, too. It's all I
can
feel, it seems like. That should bother the shit out of me, but this woman is under my skin. Jesus Christ, how she's under my skin. And I just told her as much, which is a first for me, something else that's out of character for me. Then again, Weatherly O'Neal is proving to be all kinds of firsts in my life.

When I start to step closer to her, desire shifts back to concern. Her mouth cracks then closes, and then cracks again for her to speak.

“Don't hurt me, Tag. I wanted to let go. I'm
trying
to let go, but I'm still not a woman used to this. To
you
.” Her eyes . . . they glisten with sincerity. With the soft plea. They're trusting me to be a man of honor.

Guilt stabs me in the chest.
Don't hurt me, Tag.

She's so honest, so vulnerable. I know it's hard for her, which makes me admire her all the more. Most people aren't brave enough to admit weakness. Maybe that's why,
on her
, it doesn't seem like weakness at all. Just courage.

I bring the tip of my finger to her trembling lower lip. “I swear on my life that I'll do my best.”

And I will. I'll do my best not to hurt her. I just hope to God I haven't already broken that promise.