Brave Enough (3 page)

I clutch my chest with my hand. “Thank goodness.” My voice is awash with relief. Even though it wouldn't be my fault, I'd feel horrible if working here at Chiara, producing and tasting and enjoying wine all these years, had damaged her liver to the point of illness.

“She has Wilson's disease. She was diagnosed as a child and they've treated it for years, but they didn't catch it as early as they should have. Her liver is scarred. Failing.”

Failing?
That sounds . . . fatal.

“What about a transplant?”

“She has other health factors that make her a less desirable candidate for transplant. I offered her a portion of mine, but . . .”

“But?”

His laugh is wry. Bitter. “She won't take it. She's too damn stubborn.”

“I-I'm sure she's worried about you, though. Being without a part of your liver.”

“I'd give her half of
all my organs
if it would save her life,” he says fiercely, his frown thunderous when he turns it toward me. It dissolves in seconds, though. As quickly as the ferocious lion showed up, he's gone, leaving behind only the Tag I've just recently met. Calm. Charming. Matter-of-fact. “But none of that matters if she won't take them.”

I don't know what to say. It's easy to see that he's hurt by this situation, as anyone who loves a parent would be. I don't know much about transplants and compatibility and all that, but one thought comes to mind. “What about your father?”

I don't have many memories of Stella's husband, Joseph. I wasn't allowed out on Chiara grounds without my parents when we came each year, so I wasn't as familiar with the people outside these walls as I was the ones who worked inside. I guess that's why I knew Stella better than anyone. She took care of the house mostly. I knew she had a son, but I only saw him from a distance and I thought Dad had mentioned that he went into the military.

“He's dead.”

Oh God!

“Tag, I'm so sorry. I . . . I . . .”

“Don't be. It's been a few years.”

I'm ashamed that I don't know more about his life. His family has tended our vineyard for as long as I can remember yet I know so little about them. It's as though they weren't worth discussing in my family. Despite the progress made in the last two hundred years, class distinction still very much exists in some circles. I was born into it. Tag was, too, whether he knows it or not. And we are on opposite ends of the spectrum.

I clear my throat, not knowing how to recover the night at this point. “Did Dad tell me that you went into the military? Or did I just imagine that?”

“Yeah, I was in the Army for a tour.”

I nod, relieved at the hope of a change in subject. “What did you do?”

Tag shoots me an odd look, one that brings the hairs on my arms to shivering attention. “I doubt you'd really want to know. And even if you did, I couldn't tell you much.”

“Oh,” I say flatly. I take that to mean that he
can't
talk about it, that he's done clandestine things, top-secret things. Maybe dark, dangerous things. I can't know because he won't tell me, but the possibility actually intrigues me. I won't press, though. I've made enough of a mess of tonight's conversation and dinner hasn't even begun yet!

Quietly and unabashedly, I examine him as he finishes up the last of the meal preparations, straining pasta and sliding a pan of buttered bread into the oven. I look at his hands—long of finger, broad of palm. Strong, capable. Although this man seems perfectly at home in the kitchen, or in the vineyard, or staring at me from the bathroom doorway, I can easily imagine him dressed in black, holding a gun to someone's head. He might even wear that same fierce look I saw only moments ago. Yes, I can imagine it all too clearly. This man is probably dangerous in many ways.

“Would you like to set the table? Everything will be ready in just a few minutes and then it will be your turn,” Tag declares.

“My turn for what?”

“To tell me all your secrets,” he says, his voice dropping down to a sexy whisper. And that's all it takes to shift the mood back to one of attraction that simmers as hotly as the red sauce bubbling on the stove.

“What makes you think I have secrets?” I ask, collecting plates from the cabinet so that I can avoid meeting his eye.

“Everybody has secrets.”

“Then what makes you think I'd
tell them
?”

I feel the heat of his mouth at my ear as Tag leans into me from behind. “What makes you think you have a choice?”

When I turn to look at him, he's disappearing into the pantry, leaving me wondering if I have a damn clue what I'm getting myself into. Or if I even care.

Tag

I hold Weatherly's chair as she slides into it. I hesitate to push it in because the enticing glimpse of her mile-long legs will be hidden from my view. I console myself with the thought that I'll get to see them again soon. With nothing covering them. With nothing covering
her.

She smiles politely as I plate her spaghetti and offer her a piece of bread. Her eyes follow me as I pour her a glass of red, per her request, and then pour some for myself. I love that she's not one of those women who pretends she's not attracted when she sure as hell is. Something about the way she plays, even though I can tell it's not necessarily her nature, makes me think she could match me in passion. Honest, no-strings-attached, down-and-dirty passion.

“So, where would you like to start?” I ask, loving the way her eyes widen the tiniest bit with her discomfort.

She takes a sip of wine and then clears her throat before she responds. Very deliberate. I'm sure she was taught to think carefully before she speaks. I'll break her of that if she'll give me the chance. I want her to speak her mind, to tell me every erotic thought that passes through it, without even pausing. I don't know why I want so much to see her inhibitions die, but I do.

“What would you like to know?”

I arch one brow. “What I'd
like to know
and what you're
willing to tell me
are two very different things, I imagine.”

“Then what do you think I'm willing to tell you?”

I can't help grinning. “So cautious. I'd love to see you let go. Do you think you might consider doing that, maybe just a little, while you're here?”

“I'm already letting go.”

“How so?”

“My parents would disown me if they saw me dressed this way.”

“And what's wrong with the way you're dressed?” I lean back, using this as an excuse to openly peruse her body. She's got an amazing build. Her round, high tits press into the purple knit material of her dainty top and her narrow hips and long legs are only hinted at in the thin, flowing black skirt with slits all the way up the sides. It would be so, so easy to push that fabric up, to press my lips to the top of her thigh . . .

My cock jumps eagerly.

Jesus! I have to quit thinking about that shit at the dinner table.

“This isn't appropriate for an O'Neal,” she says mockingly in a deep, chastising voice, her eyes cast down as she looks into the bottom of her wineglass.

“Ohhh, I see. So, for you, dressing like a regular person is letting go?”

She shrugs. “Sort of.”

“Not much of a rebel, are you?” I tease.

“Until now? No.”

“And what makes you a rebel now, besides the clothes? And having dinner with an incorrigible rake?”

She grins and it brings out a dimple right near her mouth. Makes me want to stick my tongue in it. “An incorrigible rake? An
incorrigible rake
? Do you read historical romances or something?”

“Maybe one or two.”

“Are you joking?”

“Why so shocked? What better way for a guy to become acquainted with the thoughts and desires of a woman? Especially when said guy is a horny teenager. With a mom who has a stockpile of those paperbacks.”

“So that's your trick?”

“No trick.”

“You think it worked?”

“I could say you tell me, but a decent man would never say such a thing, now would he?”

“Oh, surely not,” she replies, the edges of her lips twitching.

I smile. Damn, she's fun.

I clear my throat and try to redirect my mind from its current dissection of what it would be like to undress her right now, lay her up on the table and devour every inch of her creamy flesh. “So, beautiful, rebellious Weatherly, how long will you be staying with us?”

“As long as it takes.”

Fun and interesting. “As long as it takes for what?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?”

“I would, actually. Very much.”

“And why is that? Why so interested?”

“Because you interest me. A lot.”

“Why?”

“Because you ask a lot of questions.”

“Is that all?”

“Oh, God no! Everything about you interests me.”

“But you hardly know me. In fact, you
don't
know me.”

“But I want to.”

She nods slowly, her violet eyes never leaving mine. I can all but see the wheels of her mind spinning.

“You're running from something. Care to tell me what that is?”

Shock. That's what's written all over her face. Good old-fashioned shock. “Wh-what makes you say that?”

“I've run from things before. I know the look.”

“Well, you . . . I . . . It's not . . .”

“Wouldn't it be easier to just tell me what it is rather than trying to make up excuses? You know you want to.”

“I most certainly do not!” she denies vehemently, but I can also see on her face that she very much
does.

“Liar.”

“I am not. I—”

“Sometimes a perfect stranger can be a great sounding board. No attachments. No judgments. Nothing to fear. Just someone to listen. And maybe even help.”

“Trust me, there's nothing you could do to help me.”

“You'd be surprised by what I'm capable of,” I tell her, deadpan. And she would. I've killed, I've stolen, I've pillaged and plundered. Well, sort of. But I've also saved and sacrificed, confessed and surrendered.

She starts to say something, her exquisite lips parting and then slowly closing again. “It's my father. He wants me to marry someone who's not of my choosing.”

“A business connection, I presume?”

She nods once. She's looking down at her fork where she turns it up on its side and then rolls it to the other. Back and forth, back and forth. “He's a nice man, but I never wanted to marry someone for reasons other than love.”

“Then don't.”

“It's not that simple. My father . . .” Her sigh is deep and mournful. “I run a charity that's very important to me. A children's charity. To provide the hungry with food. He doesn't want to invest more money into it, but I do. I was going to invest some of
my
money once my trust fund matures when I turn twenty-five in a few months, but he's going to revoke the trust if I don't marry Michael before then.”

In most of modern society, that shit doesn't happen anymore.
But in Weatherly's circles, and with men like William O'Neal? Who the hell knows
what
goes on?

“Why the rush? Why now?”

“Another company has been trying to get my father to sell a considerable amount of his holdings at less than market value because the stock has dropped. There have been some . . . financial problems in the last couple of years. But he doesn't want to sell. Now the other company is moving into a hostile takeover and this is my father's only way out.
Michael
is his only way out, or so he thinks.”

“And does Michael want to marry you? Or is it strictly business for him, too?”

She shrugs, a vague movement of only one shoulder. “I suppose he does. He's always been . . . interested, I guess.”

“I can imagine. You're an intelligent, well-bred, beautiful woman. What's not to like?”

“Wow! I've never felt more like a show horse.”

“No, not a show horse. Just a very desirable catch, that's all.”

Her eyes snap up to mine. They're shooting fire, violet sparks spitting out at me from around her wide, angry pupils. “And is that supposed to be enough for me? That
he
wants
me
? Is it so unthinkable that I would want to love the man I marry? That I would want to
want
him
? To
like
him? That I would want to enjoy his company?”

“I don't think that's too much to ask.”

“And yet . . . here I am, being forced into this like it's 1850.”

“So you've come here to think of a way out, is that it? Is that the rebellion?”

“Yes. As pathetic as that is, that's pretty much it in a nutshell.”

“Well maybe I
can
help.”

“And just how, exactly, do you propose to do that?”

It's more her phrasing that catches me off guard than anything. And it gives me an idea. But that's another discussion for another day. Right now, I need to salvage the evening.

“I've been known to think strategically a time or two in my life. Maybe I can think of something. If not, maybe I can at least take your mind off things. Maybe just not being so overwhelmed by it will open you up to new possibilities.”

I wink at her and her face slowly softens. I think she wants to abandon this topic as much as I do.

“New possibilities?” she asks, a smile running through her voice like a golden thread. “Is that code? Are
you
a new possibility?”

“Hell yeah, I am,” I admit, pinning her with my gaze as I sip my wine. The sweetness pours over my tongue and I think to myself that she will taste just as sweet, just as intoxicating. I don't know how I know that, but I do.

She tilts her head to one side as she considers me. It's a subtly sexy move that hits its mark. “Are you like this with every woman you meet?”

“Like what?”

“So charming and flirtatious. So . . . forward.”

“Am I being forward? I didn't mean to be. I thought I was just being honest.” She narrows her eyes on me. Not really in suspicion, but more like she's trying to see inside my head. “Maybe you're just not used to honesty,” I offer casually.

“Are you always so honest, then?”

“I try to be,” I answer carefully, knowing that my honesty definitely has its limits right now. Some things are just more important. They have to come first. But I can't really tell her that either.

“Ah, so no promises of absolute truth?”

“I think promises of absolute truth are usually lies in and of themselves. Haven't you found that to be true?”

“No one has ever bothered to promise me the absolute truth before.”

I set down my glass and lean forward, taking one of her hands from where it rests in her lap. “Then how about this? I promise to tell you the absolute truth about everything I'm feeling.”

She leans forward, too, putting her face, her delectable lips, even closer to mine. “Why would you think that would matter to me?”

“Because if you stay here very long, there's going to be more between us, and I don't want you wondering if I'm feeding you a line of shit or not.”

“Starting now?”

“Starting now.”

“Then tell me, honest Tag, what is it you see happening here?”

“I see me wanting to kiss you the longer I stare at that incredible mouth. I see that you're curious about whether I will. And I see that kiss turning into something more.”

“What's ‘more'?”

“What do you want it to be?”

“My life is extremely complicated right now.”

“Sounds like it. But
this
doesn't have to be. You intrigue me. Not because of your money or your father or what country club you belong to. Just you. The way you smile, what you're thinking behind
those violet eyes, how your skin will feel under my hands. Maybe I'm just what you need right now.”

“How will I know?” she asks softly, her face oddly vulnerable. Her big eyes hold her every insecurity and, if anything, I'm even
more
intrigued.

“Oh, you'll know, fair Weatherly. You'll know.”