Brock

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Tell me about her.”

  “More later.” If he told her too much, shrewd Karen would sniff out the circumstances of last night’s hookup in no time. “We have a date tonight, and we’ll see how it goes. For now, let’s work.” He moved the papers on his desk to get her attention there.

  “Can’t you tell me anything about her? Name, rank, and how ready for marriage?”

  “Work, Karen.” He tapped the open calendar. “Starting with Mr. Gillespie. I have zero idea what he wants or why you set up a courtesy session, so color me unprepared, which is why I’m sure you’re here, not just to dig into my love life or pass judgment on my five-o’clock shadow.”

  “Honey, that’s not a shadow. Two more weeks in Maine and you could audition for Duck Dynasty.”

  “Hardly.” He rubbed the facial hair, thinking of how Jenna had said it was like sleeping with Jake Gyllenhaal. He wasn’t exactly sure who that was, but she seemed to like the idea.

  Karen walked around his desk, dropping a file folder in front of him and heading to the window to separate the blinds and steal a peek as she always did. But she never pestered him to open the blinds to a view that most people would kill for. Karen knew how he felt about looking down fifty-three dizzying floors.

  “First of all, your meeting is with Ms. Gillespie,” she said. “Second, you agreed to the meeting last April, when Oliver Hazlett, senior publisher at Filmore & Fine Publishing, contacted you directly and asked for it.”

  He frowned and flipped open the file to read the first line of a letter that now looked vaguely familiar. “‘The untold story of the Blackthorne family’?” He inched back and gave Karen a look of pure disgust. “Was I drunk?”

  “Mr. Hazlett golfs with your uncle Graham.” She left the window and came back to attend to his out-box. “Does it need more explanation than that?”

  No. Graham must have given his approval for this to happen. “And no one crosses Graham Blackthorne,” Brock noted. “Except, of course, my aunt.” Who hadn’t yet flounced off to Europe when Brock had agreed to meet a biographer.

  Karen slipped into a guest chair. “I take it there’s no word on Claire’s, uh, sudden departure?”

  He gave his head a slow shake. “She’s still in Paris, and Graham’s firmly planted in denial,” he said, thinking of how his uncle had been even more gruff than usual when they ran into each other this past month. “You’d think with the way romance has been burning through the Blackthornes this summer, Graham might want to spread a little of that his wife’s way.”

  “I heard about Phillip and Ashley,” she said, waggling her brows.

  “Now that was a thing of beauty.” He grinned. “She took my brother down without much of a fight, I gotta say.”

  “Happy for him. How about Devlin and Hannah? Still good?”

  “Glued together since the race on Memorial Day.”

  “And Ross?”

  “Oh yeah. He’s announced he’s staying in Kentucky with Holly by his side.”

  “Who would have thought that they’d all fall in love one right after the other?” She laughed. “Oh, don’t forget Jason.”

  “How could we? He and Mallory are hard at work on his next show, and when she’s not in the director’s chair, she’s in his…” He almost said bed. “Arms.”

  Karen pressed her hands together and pretended to swoon. “It’s all so romantic.”

  “Not all of it. Not this…this rift between my aunt and uncle.” He closed his eyes, thinking of the dark cloud that hung over the family despite his brothers and cousins falling hard for great women. “If major accounts or key customers get wind of how serious this is, or how long she’s been gone, or…”

  “The fact that the Blackthorne family might no longer be able to claim it has been divorce-free for two hundred years? I know you like to slip that in to some of the marketing brochures because it underscores the stability of the brand.”

  He let out a soft grunt. “It had to happen someday, but…” Not to the two people who’d swooped in and made sure he wasn’t an orphan for a single moment after his parents died. Because of Graham and Claire, Brock’s childhood was whole and secure, when it could have been anything but after the plane crash that took Julie and Mark Blackthorne from this world.

  “I know, I know what you’re thinking,” Karen said, though she probably didn’t. “If the gossip-happy industry rags get hold of this news, it could hurt the value of the company and the brand.” She added a smile. “I know what you worry about, Brock.”

  The brand? A reasonable amount, considering he was the head of brand management for Blackthorne Enterprises. But he worried about the family name and reputation a hell of a lot more. He’d do whatever was necessary to make sure that name was never blemished, wrecked, or disrespected.

  “You still have no idea what secret she was referring to?” At his surprised look, Karen added an unapologetic shrug. “Brock, a lot of people overheard that argument at her birthday party, and rumors spread like wildfire around here. You’re fooling yourself if you think people who track the highs and lows of the Blackthorne clan aren’t trying to figure out what your aunt was talking about when she said she’d kept Graham’s secret.”

  No, he knew the powder keg he was sitting on. “I’ve been keeping my ear to the ground, and I’ve heard the conjecture. No one has hit on anything that qualifies as a deep, dark skeleton in our closet.”

  He closed his eyes to remember the scene again and the fire in his aunt’s eyes when she delivered her speech. “Whatever it is, if and when it comes out, you’re right about one thing. I’m the one who has to think about what it could do to the brand. After all, this is the family tree that hasn’t had a broken branch in two hundred years. The company is built on the deep roots of that tree. The promise that our products are made with a spirit of unity and quality and—”

  “A time-tested tradition aged in oak and pride,” she completed the litany of lines straight from the latest brochure in a singsong voice. “Remember, I proof all the marketing materials. And you stress too much.”

  “Because it matters to me, Karen.” He slapped the file in front of him and shoved it across the desk. “Which is why I am not authorizing some trashy tell-all looking to dig up dirt. The Blackthornes have never authorized a single memoir or personal narrative or biopic of any kind, and God knows we’re not about to start now.”

  “Unauthorized biographies have been published.”

  “Utter trash full of holes, innuendo, and debunked myths,” he countered. “So, send in Ms. Gillespie, and I’ll tell her we can’t help her.”

  “And the senior publisher at Filmore & Fine? You want to call Mr. Hazlett, or should I talk to Graham’s admin about it?”

  “God, no. I’ll handle him. I’ll quietly suggest that if this Gillespie woman goes forward with an unauthorized bio, we’ll tie the publisher up in court for so long, they’ll pay more in legal fees than they’d ever make on the book.”

  Karen took the file. “Or you could authorize it,” she said in that quiet voice that often hid the smartest advice he got from anyone on his vast marketing team. “That way, you’d control every interview she does, and you could insist on final approval before a single word is ever printed. You could steer her clear of certain topics.”

  He considered that for about a nanosecond, then dismissed the idea as a time, money, and energy suck. “I have too much work on my plate that takes precedence over some dumb book that won’t sell a damn bottle of whisky even if it’s the most flattering puff piece ever written. The whole idea is a headache, a nuisance, and a massive risk. I want nothing to do with this…whatever her name is.”

  “Jenna Gillespie.”

  “Je…” He felt a frown form. “Jenna?”

  “That’s her first name. Why?”

  The very first tendril of concern wormed its way up his chest. The echo of his own voice whispering that name when they were…

  Oh man. That couldn’t be possible. “I
t’s not…that common a name,” he said to himself as much as to Karen.

  “She’s not that common a woman,” Karen said as she gathered her papers and stood. “She’s a beauty, with a sweet smile, warm blue eyes, and quite a lovely figure, not that it matters.”

  Check, check, check, and oh shit.

  “And if you read the rest of that letter, you’ll see she’s the daughter of the legendary Sam Gillespie, former editor in chief of The New York Times, and Charlotte May.”

  “Char May? Of 60 Minutes?”

  My mother was in television… He stared at Karen in speechless disbelief.

  “Retired, now, but yes. Celebrity interviewer extraordinaire. This young lady comes from solid publishing pedigree, and I’d bet there are high expectations on this project.”

  Publishing. In town on business. At Hancock Tower…to get the lay of the land. With each remembered phrase, he put the pieces together, and the picture did not look good. He’d slept with this woman who wanted to…

  “Brock, what’s the matter?”

  Everything. “This…Jenna. Is she…” Gorgeous? Witty? Sexy and sweet and freakishly afraid of storms? “Blond?”

  She inched back at the question. “Why don’t I just bring her in here, and you can meet her?” She glanced at her phone as she emptied the last of the papers from his out-basket. “Oh, reception just notified me that Duke is here to cut your hair. I’ll tell Ms. Gillespie she has ten minutes, max. Knowing you, it’ll take two. Should I hold off Duke until you’re done with her?”

  Done with her? He’d known the minute he said goodbye this morning he wasn’t done with her. She was different. Funny. Thrilling. Enticing. And she thought his name was…David.

  Oh, this was not good. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to date the biographer he planned to send home holding nothing but a warning that there could be lawsuits if she proceeded.

  Time to break the news…and the date. “I’ll see her,” he said, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice.

  “And Duke? He won’t wait more than fifteen minutes before he triple-charges and then has a hissy fit and tells all his customers that Blackthornes are selfish, proud, and their hair grows too fast.”

  “We are proud.” He stabbed his hand into that too-long hair and pulled it back. “Send her in and give Duke a bottle of Blackthorne Gold if he has to wait, but I’m sure this won’t take long.” Because the minute she saw him, she’d…

  What would she do? Run? Yell? Laugh it off and beg for more?

  Hey, a man could hope.

  “Got it, boss.” She gave a playful salute and stepped out, leaving Brock to wait. He stood, buttoned his single-breasted jacket, came around the desk, and prayed like hell this was a different Jenna.

  But then the door opened, and he stared straight into the beautiful blue eyes of the woman he’d woken up next to this morning. And watched them turn to ice as Karen launched an introduction.

  “Brock, this is—”

  “What?” Jenna choked the word, eyes popping wide, jaw falling open, and every drop of color draining from her cheeks.

  He took a step forward. “Hello, Jenna. Nice to, uh, see you again.”

  She stood frozen in place, gaping at him.

  “Uh, I guess you two…” Karen backed away. “I’ll leave now.”

  The sound of the door latching was the only noise in the room. Unless the steam he imagined was coming out of Jenna’s ears hissed. No, that was her taking her next breath, nostrils flaring.

  “You son of a—”

  “Wait. Wait.” He held out his hands. “We made a mistake—”

  “You can freaking say that again.”

  “No, that wasn’t a mistake, but I—”

  “Lied about your name.” She spat the words at him, taking a step backward as if it all hit her too hard. “You lied.”

  He shook his head. “I frequently use my middle name when—”

  “When seducing strangers.”

  He hadn’t really…okay, he had. But the road to seduction had been a two-way street. “I planned to tell you tonight,” he said simply. “I use the name David because my real name attracts attention.”

  She crossed her arms, glaring at him, all the warmth he remembered from last night and this morning completely gone. “Well, you certainly attracted mine. David.”

  He blew out a breath and rubbed the beard that for some reason had started to itch. “I apologize if you feel deceived, but I had no idea who…what…you are.”

  Her eyes flashed, but she stayed silent, letting him dig himself deeper.

  “You were barely awake when I left, so I figured I’d tell you tonight.”

  He could see her regain her balance, straightening her shoulders and lifting a defiant chin. “I was awake enough to have sex with you.”

  He swallowed. “I would hope so.”

  “I was alert enough to finalize a date.”

  “Which I was…” Weirdly happy about. “Looking forward to.”

  “And yet, you couldn’t manage to whisper, ‘Oh, by the way, my real name isn’t David’ in my ear before you left.”

  “I whispered in your ear,” he said softly. “I’m pretty sure you heard what I said.”

  Color returned to her face, confirming she most definitely heard his sexy parting shot.

  “That was before I knew you were Brock Blackthorne in disguise.”

  “Disguise?” He touched his face again. “Not exactly.”

  “Beard? Long hair? Glasses? Nothing about you…” She drew back, looked him up and down, lingering on his suit and tie. “Yeah. I guess I see it now. I guess…lust is blind, because I wouldn’t have even talked to you had I known who you were.”

  For some reason, that hurt. “Then see how wrong you can be about people?”

  She launched a brow north. “Wrong? You do realize that you are the reason I left the bar?” At his confused look, she added, “Some of your employees announced in the bathroom that Brock Blackthorne was in the building, which meant I had to get out of it.”

  He fought a little smile at the irony that her running from him had taken her right to him. But he knew better than to look smug or victorious over that.

  Neither one of them said a word for the span of about five long heartbeats. He took the time to drink in every fine feature, the way makeup brought out the beauty of her eyes, and the silky blond hair that had tickled him when she was on top of him the night before.

  At the image of her naked in bed, bathed with sweat and pleasure, he closed his eyes. That wasn’t going to go away from his brain for a long time, which meant…this situation was one hot, awkward mess.

  He blew out a breath and tried to be normal about it. “So, my assistant tells me you’re working on a book…” When she didn’t move, he gestured to the chair. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

  “Not really,” she replied, staying exactly where she was. “I’m sure it’s a moot point now.”

  It was a moot point because he had no intention of letting her write this book, but the minute he said that, any chance with Jenna would be gone. And for some reason he didn’t understand, he refused to let that happen.

  “Not necessarily,” he heard himself say. “I don’t see why what…transpired…last night should affect business.”

  The slightest smile kicked up her pretty lips. “What transpired, Brock David Blackthorne, was earth-shattering, mind-blowing, toe-curling sex.”

  With each word, heat crawled up him. And made him want more. “No argument there.”

  “And now that we’ve done that, I’m sure you’re going to say you can’t help me.”

  He’d planned to say exactly that. But now, he’d just seal his fate as a world-class douche if he sent her off and then called her publisher to threaten a lawsuit. Plus, he didn’t want to close the door on Jenna Gillespie.

  “What kind of help are you looking for?” he asked, knowing it was futile to hope she wanted something simple, like a product
sampling or a questionnaire he could answer in writing.

  “I need unfettered access to your family, the history, and business of all things Blackthorne. I want private tours, intimate interviews, and behind-the-scenes insights to every aspect of the Blackthorne family.”

  Brock blinked at her. Seriously?

  She laughed softly, obviously interpreting his silent, stunned response. “It’s fine. I can find the people I need to interview and do it the hard way. My publisher encouraged me to contact you as the gatekeeper, but I can find my way through those gates alone.” She turned to the door. “Thank you.”

  “No.” He closed the space between them and put a light hand on her shoulder, instantly jolted by the familiar feel of her and the flowery scent that he now knew was from her shampoo. “Wait, Jenna. Please.”

  She turned slowly, looking up at him with a question in her eyes. “Yes?”

  For a long time, he just stared at her. And the longer he did, the easier this decision was. Yes, he wanted to control this process from beginning to end. Yes, he wanted to be sure that anything written reflected well on the family name he loved and protected.

  But that wasn’t why he was about to make a decision that went counter to everything that made Brock Blackthorne who he was.

  He liked this woman. A lot. So, turning into her all-day—and all-night—escort through the interview process didn’t seem like the worst idea in the world.

  “Give me the day to clear my calendar,” he said. “And I’m all yours.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “On one condition.”

  He almost laughed. She was doling out conditions?

  “What’s that?”

  “You never lie to me again, Brock Blackthorne.”

  He extended his hand to her. “You have my word.”

  She took his hand slowly, slipping her much smaller one against his palm. Just then, his door inched open, and Karen peeked in, eyeing their joined hands, then meeting Brock’s gaze with a look of hope and interest so utterly Karen-like, he almost laughed.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Blackthorne, but how much longer should I tell Duke he can expect to wait?” she asked in her formal admin voice.