Brave Enough (7 page)

With one withdrawal that takes him almost completely out of me, Tag thrusts back in, filling me up so completely that it pushes air out of my lungs in a huff. He swallows my exhalation with a hungry kiss as my body gives up its fight and begins its tumble over the edge.

Tag rides me in hard, deep strokes, unrelenting. His tongue tangles with mine and I raise my fingers to dig into his back. He groans into my mouth when my body fists around his in one tight squeeze. He knows where I am. He knows where I'm going. He flexes his hips and grinds against me, forcing me higher onto the crest.

And then I'm lost. Splintering. Flying.

My body begins to ripple rhythmically around his and Tag yanks his mouth away. His eyes bore down into mine, surprise reflected in them. “Oh shit, I can't stop! I can't stop,” he breathes desperately, straightening his arms and pumping his body into mine. “Weatherly!” he growls, arching his back sharply.

And then I feel it.

The first pulse of his orgasm throbs into me, throwing me back into a second release that sends electricity shooting all the way to my fingertips.

Ruthlessly, he pounds his body into mine until his tension eases. I feel it as his climax calms. The pulses come slower and slower and his rhythm changes to a long, deep push that presses my body into the mud. The sodden earth sucks at my back as Tag drags over my front, caressing every inch of my skin with his own.

Wetly, he slides over me, into me until we are both limp and drenched, covered in vineyard earth and filled with the delicious cocktail of our combined release. When he collapses on top of me, I close my eyes and listen to his ragged breathing, trying desperately to bring my own under control.

Every detail of this moment sears itself onto my brain—the fragrance of the grapes, the tap of the rain, the cool of the mud, the dark of the night. Permeating each of those fragments is the feel of Tag within me, his weight atop me, his desire moving through me. He holds the pieces together like a thread that weaves in and around every sight, every sound, every feeling.

Of all the things that I imagined this moment might be, of all the sensations that I imagined this moment might hold, this is more. So much more. It's more than I can process. More than I can explain. More than I've ever before experienced. Emotions assail me. Feelings assault me. Words fail me. Except for one. It loops through my mind in lazy circles, like a melted figure eight.

Wow.

Wow.

Wow!

I know that I'm not alone in this when Tag lifts his dark head and pins me with his languid gray stare. “Damn,” he says simply, one corner of his mouth curling up appreciatively.

I can't help smiling. “That's just what I was thinking.”

Tag

I'm a night owl, a light sleeper and an early riser. There isn't much that escapes my notice, awake or asleep. I heard Weatherly's car the day she arrived, despite my distance from the drive, just like I heard the car arrive this morning.

Last night, after I marked her ten ways from Sunday, I carried a wet, muddy, naked Weatherly back to the house and straight into the shower. I hated to wash my handprints off her. I liked seeing them there. A lot. But damn if I didn't like washing them off her almost as much. At first she just stood under the warm spray like she was too boneless to move, but as soon as my soapy hands found her big, heavy breasts, she wasn't so boneless anymore.

I've never met a woman who responds so intensely to my slightest touch, my softest whisper, my lightest kiss. But Weatherly does. Maybe that's why, even as I crept out of her room this morning, I
was hard with the need for more. Maybe that's why I turned around and went right back inside, peeled the covers off her naked body and climbed back into bed with her. I don't think she was fully awake when I rolled her onto her stomach and pressed her down into the mattress. I don't think she was fully aware of what I was doing when I slipped my fingers inside her. But that might've been the best part. She was already wet, like she was just waiting for me to come back to her.

“Fair Weatherly,” I'd whispered in her ear as I fingered her from behind. She'd moaned, raising her hips to give me better access. “Please tell me you're on some kind of birth control.”

“I . . . I am,” she answered breathlessly. I almost lost it right on the spot. “I-I'm clean, too,” she'd panted. I told her I was tested regularly and everything was fine.

By that time, she was riding my fingers all the way to my knuckles and my hand was wet halfway up my palm.

“Oh God,” she'd whispered, and I could feel her squeezing me tighter and tighter. That's when I pulled her hips up off the bed and eased my cock into her as deep as it would go. She came as soon as I entered her and I think I came about ten seconds later, with her milking me the whole time.

That tight little pussy . . . God!

I was still breathing hard, still buried balls deep inside her, when she fell back to sleep. That time, I
did
manage to leave and not come back. Now here I am, on my way back to the house after checking the east field for evidence of glassy winged sharpshooters, an insect that can mean death to an entire crop of grapes. They've been particularly bad in some areas this year and if they spread
Pierce's disease, it's all over but the crying. My mind isn't as focused on the grapes as it should be, though. I've been picking at a little corner of guilt that sprang up right after I left Weatherly. I can't help wondering how differently this would be playing out if she knew everything about me, about my past. Even about my present. But I can't tell her those things. At least not yet.

That's when I heard the motor. Now I'm watching dust puff up behind the rear bumper of the silver car, wondering to myself who the hell brings a Bentley up into the mountains. Even William O'Neal, Weatherly's father, has enough sense not to do that.

A vague sense of dread and irritation seeps in to suffocate the satisfaction and contentment I'd been feeling since leaving Weatherly's room. Something tells me I won't like what I find when I get back.

And I don't.

I hear voices when I walk through the kitchen. One of them is Weatherly's. It's barely recognizable. It's stiff and cool, although still remarkably pleasant despite it. I'm already bristling at whoever decided to intrude upon our morning before I even walk out into the foyer.

I clear my throat when they're within view. Both Weatherly and the guest, the guy with whom she is obviously familiar, turn toward me. On her face is fear. Fear and the same dread I was feeling on the walk back to the house. She still looks like the beautiful creature I left sleeping in her bed, only now she has this cornered look about her, like a predator found her while her protector was away. That much is easy to see.

I tear my eyes away from her in favor of assessing the threat. The
man she's talking to reeks of money. Everything from his two-hundred-dollar haircut to his thousand-dollar shoes speaks of power and influence. I would estimate him to be in his early forties, the touch of gray at his temples making him look distinguished rather than weak. His blue eyes are as shrewd and sharp as the lines of his tailored black suit, and his diamond cufflinks sparkle when he extends his hand.

“Michael Stromberg,” he says, his polite yet distant voice cutting into the tense silence.

I don't hurry to reach him. I saunter slowly across the marble and stop closer to Weatherly. I reach out and cut my palm across his, giving it a hard squeeze and two sharp pumps before releasing it. When I retrieve my hand, I have to cross my arms over my chest to keep from drawing Weatherly against my side like I want to do.

“Tag Barton. What brings you to Chiara, Mr. Stromberg?” I ask boldly. I have no right to question anyone, of course, but I don't give a damn.

“I'm here to see Weatherly,” he replies, his statement as much a challenge as it is an answer.

I glance down at the woman in question, the one who is now looking up at me with panic in her eyes. The quiet grows around me. It snaps and snarls and writhes with antagonism from Stromberg and supplication from Weatherly.

Her sparkling amethyst eyes are begging me to save her, even though I doubt she thinks I can. And I want to. Damn, how I want to.

That's when it hits me—how to solve all sorts of problems in ten short seconds. If only Weatherly will go along with it.

There's risk in doing it this way, but risk has never mattered to me. What's worth having that isn't worth taking a risk for?

So I go for it. Because that's just who I am. I am my father's son.

“You can speak freely in front of me, Mr. Stromberg. My fiancée and I have no secrets.”

I'd swear I could hear a pin drop all the way down in Enchantment.

Weatherly

I'm so stunned at first that I just stare up into Tag's handsome face, wondering what the hell is happening behind his winsome smile. My mind stutters along. I was still in a sluggish stupor from Tag's loving when I came down to find Michael in the foyer. All I wanted to do was turn around and go back upstairs, back to the sore yet satisfied place I woke to.

“Weatherly?” comes Michael's questioning voice. When I don't answer, he becomes more insistent. “Weatherly!”

That brings me to razor-sharp focus for some reason. He sounds so much like my father, that chastising tone all but ordering me to pay attention, do the right thing, make the right decision.
For the family.
Always for the family.

It's for that reason that I cling to the life preserver—or at least the time extender—that Tag threw to me. The lie springs easily
to my mind and pours quickly from my lips, too quickly for me to have second thoughts.

“Michael, I'm sorry. I was going to tell you. That's why I came up here. I knew I had to get some things straightened out. Figure out what I'm going to do.”

“You mean to tell me that you're
engaged
to this man?”

I nod hesitantly, wondering
now
what the hell is happening behind
my
winsome smile. Only I'm not wearing a winsome smile. I imagine I'm wearing something closer to a hideous cringe. Dear God, what have I done?

“Since when? Why didn't your father tell me?”

“Probably because he doesn't know.”

Michael's eyes narrow suspiciously. “And I'm supposed to believe this?”

That
strikes a nerve. I struggle to keep my voice calm and well modulated, like a good O'Neal would. “Why wouldn't you? Why wouldn't you believe that, after a lifetime of following
to the letter
rules set over my life that I had no say in
,
that I'd want to do something rebellious? That I'd want to have something of my own, that my family had nothing to do with, no knowledge of? Why is that so hard to believe?”

I'm satisfied that I held on to my cool with both hands, yet still let Michael know in no uncertain terms that I'm not going to be walked all over this time.

“Because that's something a silly girl would do, and you are no silly girl.”

“No, I'm not, am I? I never have been. Not even when it was acceptable, expected even, to be a silly girl. I've never been able to
just be myself. I've always had to be what everyone else wanted me to be.”

“Until you met me,” Tag says quietly from my side. In my impassioned debate with Michael, I'd almost forgotten he was there. The man who is, at once, offering me the means to save myself and hang myself, depending on which way this goes.

But he's right about one thing: He hasn't wanted me to be anything other than what I showed up here being. Not once. He only wanted me. Just Weatherly.

“Until I met you,” I reply softly.

“Well, it will be very interesting to see what your father has to say about this when he gets here.”

My heart pumps blood that now feels like cold concrete throughout my entire body, cementing my muscles and freezing me where I stand. “My father is coming?”

“Yes. He wanted to surprise you.”

Oh, I'm surprised, all right.

“How did he know I was here?”

Michael's gaze shifts from me to Tag and back again. “Maybe he knew of a reason you'd come here.”

That might make sense to Michael, but it doesn't to me. This engagement is all of three minutes old. There's no reason for my father to think I'd come here. Although I
have
always loved it, I haven't been to Chiara in years.

“I don't suppose I'd be entirely surprised. That man seems to know everything,” I say, my tone more than a little dry. All my life, there was no escaping the all-seeing, all-knowing eyes of William O'Neal. It appears that, in all these years, nothing has changed.

The silence that follows drags on until it swells and surges through the room, threatening to drown me in an ocean of unsaid things.

“Michael, I . . . I'm sorry,” I offer. And I am. For all his similarities to my father, he really
is
a nice guy and I really
do
believe that he cares for me. As much as one can care for someone who is merely a business arrangement, a business arrangement that one happens to find physically attractive, that is. “I never meant to hurt you. I just . . . I always wanted to marry
for me.
Just for me. I needed time to figure things out.”

I'm sure he is under no delusions as to what I'm figuring out. He must know that my choice is between a man I (presumably) love and a man who is the better fit for my family. While in most of Western society the decision would be a no-brainer, in my privileged, cutthroat world, nothing is quite so simple.

Michael's smile is polite and tolerant, much like a father who is struggling for patience in dealing with his willful daughter. And that's what our dynamic would be—I'd be going from one controlling man who expects me to never buck my place in our world right into the arms of another who feels the same way. The expectations are the same for all the wives of men like this. It's bred into us. And we are bred into this world.

“Fine, if that's what you need to come to the right decision, you have it. If you'll show me to a guest room, I'd like a shower to wash away the grime.” He makes a point of glancing at Tag, as if to say that
he
is the reason for the grime rather than his trip here from Atlanta.

“Of course,” I say, extricating myself from Tag's hold. I hadn't
even realized he'd pressed up close to my side and slid his arm around my waist. I felt so comfortable there, it felt so natural there that I hadn't even noticed. Which is odd because thus far I've been inordinately attuned to his every move. Maybe it's because, at this moment, I needed comfort. And that's what he was providing.

“I was just on my way upstairs to our room. I can show him on my way,” Tag offers with a pleasantly innocent smile.

I swallow hard at the “our room” part, but manage to keep a calm curve to my own lips. “Oh, well thank you.”

My last glance at Michael shows that he is in no way pleased by this turn of events, but he says nothing, merely picks up his bag and follows Tag up the stairs. Even now, it's all about the show, the breeding.

I watch until the two men disappear. My unease worsens and I wish now that I'd at least offered to go along. Wondering about what's being said up there is incredibly unnerving.

Ten minutes pass with excruciating sluggishness. When ten turn into fifteen, I start pacing. As I make my way to the kitchen and back again, my thoughts begin to slip automatically into hostess mode despite the “let it go” attitude I arrived with. I'm thinking of what refreshments to offer Michael and what to suggest for lunch. And dinner. And every meal on every day, all the way up until my father and his crony depart.

I'm just about to pick up the phone and dial for Stella when I remember her color and her failing health. I can't very well ask her to tend to the house and the cooking and ask her to see to our guest when she's all but dying.

I take out my cell phone and start trolling the Internet for a
replacement service down in Enchantment. I'm just about to dial when a knock sounds at the back door. It's odd for
anyone
who's unfamiliar with Chiara to be going around back.

I find a pretty, petite redhead in neat black pants and a stiff, spotless white shirt standing on the steps. She's clutching a clipboard to her chest.

“May I help you?” I ask, opening the screen door as well.

“I'm Cher Young. I'm from Concierge Services in Enchantment. Is Mr. Barton available?”

What in the world?

“Um, yes, of course. Please come in.” I step back into the kitchen as the woman enters. “Let me get Tag for you.”

“Get Tag for who?” Tag asks, strolling in just as I turn. He looks heart-stopping in a white button-up shirt, faded jeans and hair still wet from his shower. He smiles at Cher, rolling his sleeves up his tanned forearms as he approaches. “Tag Barton,” he explains, holding out his hand.

“Uh, Cher Young. Y-you called about some housekeeping and gourmet services, I believe.” I almost feel sorry for the young woman. She looks as though she's having trouble thinking at the moment. She's trying not to stare and failing miserably. Of course, I can't really blame her. Tag is truly one of the most gorgeous men I've ever seen. Ever.

“I did. Thank you for coming so quickly.” He turns his smile on me. My knees get weak accordingly. Damn the man! How does he do that? “This is Weatherly O'Neal. She's the lady of the house. She's had some unexpected guests. One is here now and more are on the way. She'll be the one to give you instruction on what meals
she wants prepared and what housekeeping services she'll be in need of.”

“Yes, sir,” Cher says, still grappling with her composure. She blinks several times when she looks down, as though she's stared too long at the sun and is trying to rid her vision of the residual bright spots. “I, uh, we can certainly take care of whatever needs you might have. We are full service and offer twenty-four-hour coverage if you'd have a need of—”

“I don't think we're in that bad a shape. I think day and evening coverage should suffice, don't you, Weatherly?”

Is that laughter I see in his eyes? Does he find my discombobulation amusing?

“I agree. I think we can make do with someone in the mornings and again in the late afternoon to prepare dinner and such.”

Cher nods. “We're happy to provide that. I just have a few details I'll need and then I have some paperwork for you to look over.”

“Of course, I—”

The bang of a car door out front has me stiffening all over again. That has to be my father.

Tag, ever observant, notices immediately. “Go,” he says, tipping his head toward the foyer. “I'll take care of this. You can make a list of what you want for tomorrow. Cher and I can take care of today.”

I'm torn. I need to go greet my father, but I want to stay and work out the details with Cher. The last thing I need is for the household to appear to be falling apart because of Tag's sick mother. My father is already going to be very unhappy about this situation. The last thing I need to do is give him a reason to toss them all out the door.

I have to admit to wanting to hang around in here because of Cher's overly bright smile, too. As Tag explains what he'd like prepared for lunch and dinner (which actually sounds quite delicious), Cher watches him with stars in her eyes. She keeps taking deep breaths, which only draws attention to the ample chest straining against the linen of her shirt.

I curse the stab of jealousy as I make my way out of the kitchen and into the foyer to greet my father. I stop just before I step out into his line of sight and take a cleansing, calming breath, reminding myself that I'm a grown woman and this is
my
fate we're dealing with, too.

I feel more prepared to face William O'Neal after my ten-second pep talk. My smile is perfectly polite and unruffled when I step out into the foyer. “Hi, Dad,” I say, catching my father just as he steps through the door.

“Weatherly, Weatherly,” he says, shaking his head, his tone rife with disappointment.

He has no idea just how disappointed he's going to be on this trip
, I think to myself as I give him my cheek.

Let the games begin.