The Bachelor Auction (The Bachelors of Arizona Book 1) (12 page)

H
e’s going to lose,” Bentley announced, tossing more money into the pot. He and Brant had started betting once they heard that Brock and Jane were playing checkers, and now they were sitting on Jane’s bedroom floor being annoying as usual.

They had gone from making a simple five-dollar bet to five hundred dollars.

Which, all things considering, was pretty tame for his brothers, given the last thing that Bentley had won was an ass.

“Shh, you just take your time,” Brant coached Jane. “In and out, there you go, deep breaths, make your decision then stick with it, stick it to him hard.” He gave Brock a wicked smirk and mouthed
fuck you
.

“Don’t listen to Brant, Brock. Just focus.”

Jane moved her black checker forward. It was a bad move; he could easily jump it, so clearly he was missing something. He glanced around the board. Impossible. She’d just given him the game!

And this was their tie-breaking game.

The first she’d won.

The second he’d won.

“You’ve just lost.” Brock smiled arrogantly.

Her poker face stayed completely unreadable as she gave him a noncommittal shrug and glanced down at the board. “Then move.”

He moved his red checker, hopping over the black and stealing it. “The way I see it, you have two left. I have three.”

“Mmm-hmmm.” She smiled sweetly and then, very quickly, jumped one of her other black checkers, one he hadn’t noticed because he’d been so focused on that damned stupid move she’d just made. All in all he lost two checkers. Leaving him with a lingering thought that he’d completely underestimated her ability at board games. “What was that? About losing?”

“Son of a bitch!” Bentley yelled. “The hell, man! I told you to focus!”

“You mean you saw that?” Brock roared.

Bentley held up his hands. “Rules are rules, no audience participation.”

“Thank you.” Brant grabbed the pot of money on the floor and threw it in the air. “Hey, if we have dollar bills I bet the cock will dance for us.”

Brock rolled his eyes. “And Grandfather wonders how you guys end up in every newspaper in the country.”

Bentley shrugged. “We’re hot and rich. Two plus two, man; two plus two.”

“It’s good that humility runs in the family.” Jane nodded while Brant gave her a kiss on the head and a pat on the back, like she’d just won him a freaking car or something.

“How’s the ankle?” Bentley moved to her side. There were entirely too many people in this room. Brock wanted to shove everyone out but that would look bad. Him forcing his brothers to leave so he could do what? Kiss her again? Stare at her? Watch her kissable lips pout?

“It’s good.” Jane yawned behind her hand. “Sorry, all the excitement must have worn me out.”

“Checkers. Almost like running a marathon with your hands.” Bentley winked. “Lay down; it’s dudes’ night to clean up.”

Brock had no choice but to stand.

And follow his brothers out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

But the minute he turned from the door, both Brant and Bentley gave him dumbfounded looks.

“What?” He crossed his arms. “Why are you both looking at me like that?”

“You’re an idiot.” Brant shook his head slowly. “Did you really just…leave?”

Brock glanced back at the door then back at them. “She said she was tired! She yawned!”

“That doesn’t mean you leave!” Bentley slapped a hand to his forehead. “You’re such an idiot.”

Brant just continued shaking his head in disappointment.

Brock lifted his hands into the air. “What the hell was I supposed to do? Fluff her damn pillow?”

“
Yes
!” They both yelled in unison.

“Offer a massage,” said Bentley.

“‘Do you need a glass of water?’” offered Brant.

“‘More blankets?’” added Bentley.

“How about a fucking bedtime story?”

“What’s that? You want me to stay with you until you fall asleep, get naked under the covers? What? You want me to touch your sweaty naked body and—” Bentley had always been the storyteller in the family.

Brant coughed.

“Sorry.” Bentley exhaled. “I got carried away.” He pointed in Brock’s direction. “Stupidity does that to me.”

Brock ran his hands through his hair and turned to re-open the door.

“No!” Brant shoved him back. “It’s too late. Now you seem creepy and unsure.”

Bentley nodded his head in agreement. “Completely wasted opportunity. I’ve never been so disappointed in a brother, and I live next door to this asshat.”

“Thanks, man.” Brant nodded.

“Anytime.” Bentley flashed a smile. “Brock, go to bed. Think about all the bad choices made in just the past ten minutes and for fuck’s sake fix them. Do you really want to spend the next seventeen days without seeing her naked?”

“It’s not about that,” Brock said defensively.

“Even better.” Brant suddenly grew serious. “Even better.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Brock clenched his fists.

“It means”—Bentley stood between them, pressing a hand against Brock’s chest—“that it’s about damn time you do something for you. Not for us. Not for our dead parents and sure as hell not for Grandfather, but for you. And that girl in that room? She’s for you.”

Stunned, Brock could only gape at Bentley as if his brother had grown two heads.

“There’s always tomorrow,” Brant encouraged. “’Night, guys.”

“There isn’t,” Brock whispered under his breath. “We aren’t promised tomorrow.”

Bentley paused in the hall, his expression pained. “Then why the hell are you allowing someone else to control your life? If you died tomorrow, what would people remember about you? How easygoing you were? How controlled? How rich? Is that what you want,
boring Brock
?”

The old nickname was a solid hit to his chest. His brothers hadn’t called him that since college.

“Well?” Bentley’s eyebrows shot up. “Boring Brock would walk away, but I don’t think that’s what you want anymore.”

“It’s all I know. It’s for him. For them.”

“Never for you.” Bentley sighed. “Look, man, I get it, believe me. I get the pressure, but do you ever wonder who put it there in the first place? Because the way I see it, it sure wasn’t Grandfather. It was a scared twelve-year-old boy who took the baggage and cheerfully carried it out the door, refusing to let anyone help him along the way. And for what? Did anyone throw you a parade? Did anyone notice how hard it was? No, just you.”

“When the fuck did you get so wise?”

Bentley laughed. “Let’s not let that get around. If Grandfather ever found out he’d auction me off next. God help the poor woman saddled with me for the rest of her life.”

“Nothing wrong with commitment.”

Bentley paled. “We all have our demons.”

“Goodnight, Bentley.”

“Night…Boring Brock.”

Brock smiled the entire way back to his room.

Tomorrow, after all, was a new day.

L
ying awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling and wishing she’d packed some sort of sleep aid—not that it would work, because for the most part she knew the reason behind the no sleep—was becoming a new habit for Jane.

Brock.

If only she could walk. Maybe sleeping on the couch would help, or maybe she’d just raid Brock’s whiskey closet.

After another hour of tossing and turning, she finally made the decision to hobble downstairs. So what if it took an hour? At least the slow journey would exhaust her.

Once she sat up in bed she was careful not to put any weight on her foot. Rather, she hobbled, loudly, toward the door. Her tank top and shorts didn’t really hide anything but it was dark and everyone else would be sleeping.

She hoped.

Or did she?

Rejecting the thought of Brock sitting in the living room, waiting for her, she opened the door and glanced down the hall to the right and to the left.

All clear.

With a wince, she hobbled a few feet then lost her balance, nearly face planting against the wall and knocking out a tooth.

“Need help?” asked an amused voice to her left.

Slowly she turned. Brock’s smile was easy, wide.

“I’m fine. I was just…” She searched for a better excuse than
I couldn’t sleep
but she had nothing. “I’m having trouble sleeping.”

His eyes twinkled. “Me too.”

She was quiet. What was she supposed to say?

“Whiskey?” He offered his arm.

She stared down at it then back up at him. Decision made, she slid her hand through. He started walking them down the rest of the hallway, then with a heave she was in his arms as he carried her down the stairs.

She’d always thought of herself as curvy, not light as a feather, but Brock carried her like she weighed nothing more than a cup of rice. She remembered how strong he’d felt when he’d picked her up at the party—how good he smelled. Memories of their first meeting surfaced as his body flexed around hers.

He deposited her on the couch, went into the kitchen, and returned with two mugs of whiskey.

“Thanks.” Her voice was rough, edged with the tension already coiling in her belly at Brock’s proximity and her own sudden change of heart. Maybe it would be best if he was still angry with her, projecting all his feelings onto the help. At least then she wouldn’t fall for him, right?

“I see why you couldn’t sleep.” His light southern drawl wrapped around her like liquid heat. “If you stare any harder at the wall it’s going to crack.”

Jane immediately looked down into her mug and took a slow slip, careful not to cough and spew whiskey all over him. “Just a lot on my mind.”

“Want to talk about it?”

No. Because talking meant bonding, bonding meant hurt later on down the road. And she didn’t want to focus on the future, a future where she wouldn’t be able to sit in the world’s most perfect ranch house with the world’s most beautiful man and sip whiskey out of a nice brown mug.

“Tell me about the auction.”

That did it. His smile fell and a cold expression chilled his features. He sat back and took a giant swig of whiskey that seemed to go on forever. He finally set his empty cup down and made a face. “It’s for charity.”

She almost laughed out loud at his disgusted expression. “And you hate being charitable?”

“Hardly.” He snorted. “I’d much rather throw millions of dollars at a charity by hosting a dinner; even the ball that the old man’s throwing is a good idea. Ten thousand dollars a head is a good way to bring in money to the foundation. It’s the whole auction part that’s…” He cursed. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about you?”

“You’re much more interesting.” He’d brought up a blanket and she tried pulling it over her ankle, but before she could do it herself Brock was at her side. He pulled the blanket over her and within the same breath he lifted her foot, sat down next to her, and placed her leg over his lap.

Jane’s breath hitched as he ran his fingers over her ankle in a smooth caress before locking eyes with her. “Is this okay?”

She gave him a jerky nod, mentally groaning at how eager she must look for his touch, his proximity.

Oh, this was bad.

So bad.

His hand started to move up her calf. Oh, this was good, so very good.

“You were saying.” Somehow, miraculously, she found her voice as he continued to lightly knead the muscles in her calf.

“The auction is stupid. Plain and simple.”

She frowned. “Then why did you say yes?”

His hand froze and he went completely still. “Saying no wasn’t an option.”

“But…” Her eyes narrowed. “You always have a choice.”

“It would seem that way. I believe that’s how life is supposed to work—you’re in control of your own destiny, you always have a choice, but what people never admit is that although you can say no to something, there might be horrible consequences. Which basically means it’s not really a choice. The word ‘choice’ is just there so that it seems fair, so that it looks good, so the situation looks balanced, when it’s never been balanced, not for a long time.”

Jane wasn’t sure if they were still talking about the auction or something else.

“So, what do you think about the auction? Don’t lie and say you have no opinion about it, either.”

A smile teased the corners of her mouth. “Clearly you know me well.”

“All women have an opinion.”

“And all men are led by their stomachs.” She winked.

He licked his lips. “Among other things, yes.”

“I, uh…” She twisted her hands in her lap, suddenly nervous. “I think that it’s nice that you’re willing to put your future in the hands of a grandfather with a desire to go to raves at the age of eighty-two.”

Brock groaned as his head fell back against the couch. “Ugh, tell me about it.”

“It’s…cute,” she said, trying to make him feel better.

“Cute,” he repeated, still not looking at her. “Cute.”

He said it a few more times before glancing at her.

“What?” She rubbed her lips together.

“A man my age doesn’t want to be cute.”

“Your age?”

“Hey, you’re the one that called me old.”

“You’re thirty-five.”

“I know my age, thank you.”

“So maybe according to my twenty-two years you seem old. That’s all I meant.” She smiled as his face paled.

“T-twenty two?” He stared at her. Hard. “You’re twenty-two?”

“You say it like I’m diseased.”

His mouth dropped open and closed. “I suddenly feel like a cradle robber.”

“Because I’m a child?” She pulled the blanket closer, needing the protection, thinking that if she could just bury her body into it, he wouldn’t see how his words affected her.

“Shit.” He took one look at her expression and leaned across the couch and cupped her face. “I didn’t mean that. I just…it took me by surprise, that’s all.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m sorry; maybe I’m more tired than I thought. I should probably go back to bed.”

“I’ll join you,” Brock added then stumbled over his words. “I mean, I’ll take you. Damn it, sorry. Clearly we’re both tired.”

She didn’t have a chance to say anything more before he picked her up and carried her slowly up the stairs, careful not to bang her ankle on the wall. Once they were back in her bedroom he placed her on the bed and pulled the covers over her, his eyes searching, yearning, as raw emotion raged like a war across his dark features.

Did he want something more from her? Did he feel the electric pull between them, too? So many times it seemed like he had more to say, like he wanted to pull her into his arms and devour her. Just the thought had a shiver running down her spine.

God knew, she wanted him.

Even though she knew she would end up without him in the end, it didn’t make her feelings toward him go away, though she wished they would.

“I’m sorry, Jane,” he whispered, tucking her hair behind her ear over and over again, as if he couldn’t stop touching her. “Like I said, I was surprised, and apparently I turn into an ass when I’m caught off guard.”

“Most old people do,” she joked in a deadpan voice. “I think they’re afraid of heart failure. Either that or their hearing is already going so they get defensive.”

His eyes darkened. “Very funny.”

She laughed into the blankets. “I thought so.”

“Keep making fun of me and I’ll throw you over my knee.”

She stilled.

His smile froze and then turned very dangerous, so dangerous she could feel the impact of it all over her body.

“I should go,” he whispered, still not moving.

“Probably.” Her throat worked hard to swallow as he leaned over the bed and pressed a kiss to her forehead. His lips slid down to her temple and then her cheek. An inch from her mouth he waited, hesitated.

Her body burned for more of his kisses, more of his touch.

But she didn’t know what to do. The last man who had kissed her had told her she was frigid because she wouldn’t sleep with him.

Would Brock be the same?

He was used to women giving him whatever he wanted—she’d fall short.

Finally, she sank back into the pillows. “Goodnight, Brock.”

He let out a heavy sigh and pulled back. “Goodnight, Just Jane.”

When he was almost to the door, she called out, “Don’t forget to remove the dentures!”

With a curse, Brock stumbled into the door and then turned around and glared. “What did I say about teasing me?”

Feeling braver now that he was farther away, she arched her brow. “Maybe I like being punished.”

He gripped the doorway with his large hands and swore. “Now she tells me.”

“I figured you were already leaving so I was safe.”

“I could always sprint back toward that bed.”

“But you won’t.”

He sighed. “Not tonight. But Jane?”

“Yes?” Was that her voice? All husky and desperate?

“Tomorrow is a new day, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she croaked, “It is.”

“Sweet dreams.”

“You too.”

“If you think I can leave your room and actually sleep…” He shook his head, then gave her a sad smile. “Cheers to a night of tossing and turning.”