by Jo McNally
Her rush of fear was quickly replaced with one of fury. How dare this drunken tool try to manhandle her! She stomped her heel down hard on his foot, and he grunted in pain and surprise. And then he was just...gone. There was a thud, and Doug was on the ground, with Luke Rutledge’s boot against his chest.
“Let me go, Rutledge! This ain’t none of your business!”
Frank was sliding across the seat of the truck, ready to scramble out and come to his friend’s defense. But Luke, still holding Doug down, pointed his finger.
“Stay out of this. One more inch and I’ll give you the same beatdown I’m about to give your buddy here. And you know I can do it.”
Whitney never knew a person’s voice could actually be hard as steel. Luke’s words were clipped. Unwavering. Ground out through clenched teeth like nails from a nail gun. He was telling Frank to stay put, but she could see the slightest hint of invitation in his eye, as if daring the other man to make a move. He wanted to take them both on. For her.
She couldn’t take her eyes off him, her hand resting over her chest in a vain attempt to control her heart rate. Luke was a tight bundle of rage. She was fascinated and a little frightened by the fury in the air around him. Her back still against the truck, she watched as Frank considered accepting Luke’s invitation to the fight, then decided against it.
He slid back behind the wheel, not making eye contact, and whined, “Let him go, Rutledge.”
Luke snorted, and for the first time, the sound meant something other than he wanted to laugh at her, or he was hiding something from her. This was a snort that told both men he wasn’t about to take orders from them. He was in charge of this show. He reached down and grabbed a fistful of Doug’s shirt, yanking the man to his feet with one pull. He didn’t look at Whitney, but she knew he was talking to her by the way his voice softened.
“Move away from the truck.”
She willed her feet to obey, and moved well behind Doug, where Luke could easily see she was safe. His gaze quickly swept from her head to her feet and back again, and she swore she could feel the heat moving across her skin. His mouth was in a grim, straight line.
“You okay?”
Whitney wasn’t sure “okay” really summed up the way adrenaline raced through her veins, but she nodded quickly. Luke still had Doug’s shirt knotted in his hands, but his shoulders eased somewhat. He’d thought Doug had hurt her. And he’d come running. Maybe later she’d feel offended about some guy playing Prince Charming for her, but right now, his actions filled her with gratitude. His intense gaze made her feel a few other things, too, but she couldn’t unpackage all of that while he still held the other man tightly.
She had this crazy urge to run to Luke. Touch him. Kiss him. Crazy. It had to be the adrenaline. That was the only explanation for the molten desire burning through her veins. She closed her eyes long enough to get some self-control back.
“Let him go, Luke. I’m fine. Although I’m guessing he’s going to be limping for a while from the foot stomp I gave him.” She saw the flare of admiration in Luke’s eyes when he glanced down at her stiletto-heeled pumps.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but the moment was broken when Doug Canfield decided he’d had enough.
“Yeah, Luke. Let me go. She’s fine. But I think I have a broken toe, thanks to that b—”
Luke shook Doug like a dog, shutting him up in a hurry. The steel—she pictured polished blue steel impervious to damage from anything—returned to his voice.
“Watch your language around the lady, Doug. Or I’ll give you a few broken teeth to match that toe. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get in that piece of shit truck with your buddy and get off this property, never to return. Never. Got it?”
Doug had the audacity to look to Whitney. “What if I’m invited?”
She rolled her eyes. “You won’t be.”
Luke shoved Doug, sending him stumbling toward the truck. “You heard the lady.”
Doug wasn’t ready to let go of his pride quite yet. “And if I don’t go?”
Luke’s hand curled into a tight fist and he took a step toward Doug. Whitney grabbed his arm. Good lord, his muscles felt like hardened steel, too. He looked back at her with a mix of confusion and anger. His eyes held hers for a long moment, then he uncurled the fist.
“If you don’t go, you have two choices. Wait for the cops to get here, or come out behind the barn with me and we’ll see which one of us walks away.” Luke took a quick step toward Doug, forcing the other man to flinch. Luke had several inches and thirty pounds on the guy. “And right now I’d really like to take you behind the barn, Dougie, so just say the word.”
Doug huffed out a forced laugh, backing toward the truck. “Yeah, I can picture the sheriff taking a call from a Rutledge. He’d laugh his ass off. Your daddy’s still in prison, ain’t he?” Whitney silenced her gasp of surprise. Luke didn’t move a muscle. Unless you counted that dangerous one ticking along his jaw. He also didn’t deny what Doug said. She stepped up to his side.
“Go home, Doug. And believe me when I say you will not be getting any second chances from me, so stay away from my family’s vineyard.” She bent over and looked into the truck cab. “That goes for you, too, Frank.”
Frank raised his hands in protest. “I didn’t do anything!”
“Exactly.” If possible, Luke’s body went even more still next to her, but Frank was clueless to her point.
“But I didn’t do anything!”
Doug turned toward the truck. “Shut up, Frank. Let’s get out of this dump.” He looked over his shoulder, unable to resist trying to have the final word. “You might want to keep a tighter leash on your woman, Luke. She was trolling for men at the bar tonight. She’s quite the tease—”
Before Whitney had time to blink, much less deny the accusation, Luke grabbed Doug and punched him right in the face. She’d never seen men fight before, and the sound of knuckles connecting with flesh and bone wasn’t one she’d soon forget. Doug stumbled back against the truck door, his hand on his face. He started to spring back toward Luke, but Frank leaned out and grabbed the collar of his shirt.
“Get in the truck, you idiot! Everyone knows you don’t piss off a Rutledge. One of them already killed your brother, man.” She couldn’t hold the gasp this time, and Luke’s eyes cut to hers. Was his father in prison for killing Doug’s brother? How did Luke factor into that? Why hadn’t Helen ever said he was the son of a felon?
Frank tugged hard enough to half drag Doug into the truck. Doug shook him off, but got in and slammed the door shut, glaring out the open window.
“Screw you, Rutledge, and your little bitch of a girlfriend!”
The tires of the truck spun, and Luke automatically stepped in front of Whitney to protect her from the flying stones. Still in superhero mode. She was surprised how much she liked it. A movement in one of the downstairs windows of the house distracted her, but there was no one there when she looked up. Probably just the cat. Helen’s room was in the back of the house, and she was usually there by now, watching her favorite TV shows from bed until she fell asleep.
Luke blew out a long breath and wiggled his hands as if trying to shake off his tension. He flinched when Whitney touched her fingers to his rigid bicep.
“Are you okay?”
He’d punched a guy. For her. There was something about the energy rolling off him right now that told her he wasn’t happy about it. He turned his head. The movement was robotic. It was a moment before his eyes focused on her.
“I should be asking you that.”
“You did. Back at the start of all this. I’m okay. I had it under control.” She shuddered, the movement coming from out of nowhere. “Until he put me against the truck. That’s when you...” She tipped her head. “How...?”
“I heard your car pull in, and then I heard a se
cond vehicle. Doug and Frank had no reason to be here unless they were invited, and it didn’t look like you’d invited them.”
“Of course not!” She kicked at the stones in the driveway. “You came down to rescue me?”
He made some guttural sound. It was almost a growl, but she wasn’t sure who it was aimed at. Sure, her family was unconventional, but they weren’t criminals. How would she feel if someone blurted out that her father was in prison? She chewed on her lip. She’d feel embarrassed. Exposed. Luke had only come down here to save her. She didn’t want him feeling bad about it.
“Is that bottle of whiskey still behind the tasting counter?”
Luke’s dark brows bunched together. “How did you know about that?”
“Tony always kept a bottle of top-shelf stuff there to celebrate good days and wash away bad ones.” She glanced up at the house. “I’m too agitated to go inside right now, and I get the feeling you’re a little agitated, too. Let’s go wash it all away, Luke.”
He stared at her long and hard before nodding slowly. “Yeah. Agitated.” He blew out his cheeks. “One drink.”
“Whatever you say.” She trotted to catch up with his long, tense strides. It had been a crazy night, and she was getting some crazy ideas. Ideas about Luke Rutledge and his kisses and the power of his arms around her and...well...adrenaline or not, Whitney was feeling reckless.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LUKE’S LEFT HAND held a shot glass, which he’d already drained twice. The fingers on his right hand curled into a fist and uncurled again. Over and over. He recognized trouble pretty quickly, and Doug and Frank were nothing but trouble. He’d headed out of the apartment the minute he saw them, making Molly stay behind. If someone was going to take a piece of those two, it was going to be him, not his dog.
They’d bullied his baby brother, Cody, and they were part of the crowd that chased his sister Jessie right out of town after she got pregnant in high school. And then, of course, there was the wreck that left Doug’s brother dead, and Luke’s brother Zayne badly injured. It had all started with dear old Dad. His actions had made his children targets. Made them hard. Hard enough to take on a couple of townies hassling Whitney.
Luke had been coming around the back of the truck when Doug shoved Whitney against it. Through the red haze of anger that had blurred his vision, he saw Whitney jam that spiked heel into Doug’s foot. Clever girl.
Doug Canfield wasn’t the type to take a hit without returning it, though, woman or not. Before Doug could even think about retaliating, Luke had him on the ground. He still wasn’t sure why he hadn’t beaten the guy to a pulp. His fingers curled again.
“For a minute there, I was pretty sure you were going to beat the bejesus out of Doug Canfield.”
He blinked and looked at Whitney. She quietly sipped her whiskey, watching him over the rim of her glass as she leaned against the wine-tasting counter. It wasn’t bad enough she was under his skin and in his dreams these days—now she was inside his head? His heart thumped an extra beat.
“Why?” He saw the surprise in her eyes at his sharp tone. Good. Anything to make her back off and get out of his head and heart. “Because I’m a Rutledge?”
“You know, I keep hearing ‘a Rutledge’ used around you like it’s some common descriptive noun everyone knows but me.” Whitney stepped closer. Wrong direction. “I don’t walk around claiming to be ‘a Foster.’ I’m Whitney. And you’re Luke. I don’t know what your last name means to everyone in this town, but your surname doesn’t define you.” She drained her glass, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and flashing him a grin that hit him square in the chest. “If it did, I’d be a lounge singer in Vegas.”
He couldn’t hold back a huff of laughter at that image. Buttoned-up, professional Whitney, sitting on top of a piano in a slinky dress, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, crooning to the crowd. His laughter died when he realized that image of her, uninhibited and free, was...beautiful. And way too good for a Rutledge. She was out of his league. He reached over to refill his glass, but her fingers touched his hand, stopping him.
“Tell me about this Rutledge name of yours.”
Bad idea. He tried to ignore her, forgetting how relentless she could be.
“Is your father really in prison, like Doug said? Did he kill Doug’s brother?”
“I don’t talk about my family.”
She patted his hand. “I get that. I don’t talk about mine much, either.” She boosted herself up to sit on the counter, crossing her long legs. The combination of skin-tight jeans and spiky heels was hot as hell. There was something about the way she was looking at him. Curious, but not about his name. About him. Was she...flirting with him? Whitney picked up the bottle and refilled both their glasses. “But this is a weird night, and maybe we should do stuff we don’t normally do. Like drink whiskey and share history. Or whatever.”
Whatever? What the hell did she mean by “whatever”? And why did it sound so inviting?
He stared at the honey-colored liquid in his glass. She was right—this was a weird night. And she was sending him some serious seduction vibes. Touching him. Sitting up on the counter so close he could smell her perfume. Talking about whatever in a voice that curled around him and drew him in. He tried to keep his guard up, reminding himself he’d had women come on to him before because of his name. Women who wanted a “bad boy,” whatever the hell that meant. They wanted the thrill of danger, but he was a man, not an amusement park ride.
“Let’s stick to finishing our whiskey, and then you go back to the house.” They should both retire to their prospective beds, in separate buildings, and wait for morning to arrive. Alone. They should not stay together here in the tasting room, drinking and talking and flirting. And they should definitely not go up to his bed and make love.
Aw, hell.
Where did that idea come from? No. That was an awful idea. A horrible idea. The worst.
Whitney’s voice was as honey-colored as the whiskey, and just as smooth and tempting.
“Maybe...I don’t want to be alone tonight. After all that with Doug, I just... I want to feel connected to someone.” The corner of her mouth quirked into a smile as she took another sip of whiskey. “And you refuse to answer my questions, so maybe we need to...connect without using words.”
He swallowed hard. “Connect without words, huh?”
She leaned toward him, her voice dropping. “Yeah, you know. Let other parts of us do the connecting?”
He should walk away. Walk away right now.
“What exactly are you suggesting, Whitney?”
Her voice was tinged with laughter. “Seriously? Does being ‘a Rutledge’ mean you can’t understand innuendo?”
The reminder of who he was had the same effect as if she’d poured ice water over his body. He welcomed it, because it kept him sane. Or at least as sane as he could expect to be around this woman.
“Being a Rutledge means I know my place. And that place is nowhere near this whatever that you’re suggesting.” He drained his glass, wincing against the sharp burn in his throat as he set it down hard on the counter. “Look, you said it yourself. It’s a weird night. You had a scare. I punched a guy. We’ve had some whiskey. And you’re looking for a walk on the wild side with a Rutledge. It’s not gonna happen.”
He turned away, but Whitney grabbed his arm. Her eyes were dark and angry.
“We’re back to the Rutledge thing again? I still don’t know what it means, and I don’t care.” Her grip loosened. “Maybe it is the adrenaline, but Luke...we already know we have chemistry. We’re grown-ups who can choose to explore it if we want to. And tonight? Maybe I want to.”
He carefully pried her fingers from his arm. How the hell had they reached the point where they were seriously discussing this?
“You’re tossing around an awful lot of maybes. You need to be
damn sure before we go any further.”
Whitney’s lips parted slightly, curving into a seductive smile. Her eyes softened and warmed, and something inside of him warmed, too. Her hand slid up his arm to cup his face. And Luke knew he was toast. He’d do whatever she wanted, as long as she’d keep looking at him like this. Touching him like this, with her fingers barely brushing his skin. In a way no one had ever touched him before. Or looked at him before. Like he was something valuable. Worthy. Desired.
“I’m sure, Luke.”
He swallowed hard, fighting back a surge of fear and doubt. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen was sitting on the counter in front of him. Wanting him. Seducing him. She uncrossed her legs and he moved to stand between them without a second thought. His hands rested on either side of her hips. He was afraid to touch her. Afraid he was misreading everything. Afraid she’d come to her senses and...
She leaned forward and touched her lips to his.
Sweet Jesus.
Their first kiss had been tentative and brief, full of sweet caution. They’d given into temptation, and they’d been interrupted before it could build any real heat. There was no caution to this kiss, though. Her lips were soft but determined, and he gave in without hesitation. He gripped her waist and pulled her against him. Then he slid his hands up her back, twisting his fingers roughly in her hair, pulling it free from the ponytail so it tumbled around her shoulders. Her hands gripped his face as if she was as determined to hang on as he was. He tugged her closer, driving his tongue into her mouth. The taste of whiskey on her completely undid him.
He was on fire. His veins were flowing with gasoline, and her kiss had just lit the fucking match. He yanked her off the counter and spun to put her against the wall. Wine bottles rattled next to them, but they didn’t care. Whitney had been in control while sitting above him, and that was fine. But now? Now he was taking charge. Small, desperate sounds came from her throat as she kissed him over and over. She dug her fingers into his shoulders. He ground his hardness against her, his shorts against the zipper of her jeans, and her sounds changed. Less whimper. More demand. Her hips moved against his, and damned if things hadn’t officially gotten out of hand right there in the tasting room.
