“Uh, thanks.” Mason nodded, appalled to realize that Daisy’s parents were just a few doors away from where he had very thoroughly corrupted their youngest daughter last night. Jesus, what if they’d been right next door? He and Daisy hadn’t exactly been quiet. Who was next door? It would undoubtedly be someone they knew. Christ, what if it were one—or more—of the old ladies? The thought sent a shudder down his spine. He was so preoccupied by the horrific thought that he barely acknowledged the riders as they filed past him.
He absently started running again, but his peace of mind had been thoroughly shattered by the thought of one of Daisy’s naïve old aunties hearing the unmistakable and loud sounds of their lovemaking last night.
He tried to clear his thoughts and focus on his running, but the morning had been well and truly ruined.
Daisy was still sound asleep when Mason crept back into the room just after sunrise. The room was bathed in the warm dawn light, and she looked beautiful as it painted her skin with an unearthly glow. How could he ever have thought she was plain? He drank in the sight of her kiss-swollen lips, so plump and tender he longed to claim them again; those pretty freckles splashed over her nose and cheeks; her lashes long and thick against her pale skin, the perfect frame for those clear gray eyes. Every inch of her was stunning, and he wanted to spend the entire day just staring at her in wonder.
“Daisy.” The familiar, cajoling voice penetrated her sleep and brought a smile to her lips. “It’s time to wake up, angel.”
She sighed and stretched languidly, opening her eyes to stare up into Mason’s beautiful green gaze. His eyes dropped to where the sheet had fallen from her breasts, and instead of covering up, as was her first instinct, Daisy arched her back slightly and watched the fire ignite behind those eyes.
“Stop flashing those gorgeous things at me,” he admonished sternly, and she smiled sleepily, pulling the bedcovers up far enough to just cover her nipples.
“How was your run?” she asked, pushing herself into a sitting position.
“Shit. I couldn’t stop thinking about who was in the rooms on either side of ours.”
“That’s a random thing to be thinking about.”
“Daisy, what if it’s your aunts? Unless they’re stone deaf, there was no way they wouldn’t have heard our lovemaking last night. You’re quite the screamer.” Daisy battled a blush and tried not to read anything into the fact that this was the second time he’d referred to their sex as “lovemaking.”
“Daff is in twenty-four, and one of Clayton’s friends is in twenty-two.”
“Christ, not Daff. She’s not much better than your aunts,” he groaned, and she laughed.
“What’s the time? I have to get ready for this spa thing,” she said, unable to disguise the reluctance in her voice. “I don’t know how or when to tell Lia about Clayton. She’s going to be so hurt. What if she blames me? Or hates me? Or—worse—doesn’t believe me? It’ll do irreparable damage to our relationship. I wish I could talk to Daff about it first, but she’s so pissed off all the time lately. Half of it is because of what she knows about us, but the other half . . . I don’t know what that is.”
“You have to try, sweetheart, or watch your sister make the biggest mistake of her life tomorrow.”
“She may wind up doing that anyway, despite anything I have to say, and I don’t know if I can stand up there and pretend to be happy for her after I essentially tell her that her fiancé is a . . . a . . .”
“A prick?” he helpfully supplied.
“And more,” she said fervently. He smiled sympathetically and sat on the edge of the bed. He toyed with one of her feet through the covers as he weighed what he wanted to say to her.
“I can’t help you, Daisy, I wish I could. Whatever you do is ultimately up to you.”
“I know. Sorry for getting you mixed up in all the family drama. You were just here for the free food and drink,” she recalled wryly, and he chuckled.
“This is much more interesting. Now, I’ve already drawn a bubble bath if you’re interested in joining me.”
“For just a bath?” she asked with a pout, and he narrowed his eyes.
“No time for anything else, missy,” he said sternly. “So you behave. I have to meet the asshole and his buddies for golf.”
“You do? When did that happen?”
“Saw them on the beach this morning.”
“And you’re up for that?”
“Not really, but he was being such an arrogant douche, I figured it’ll be nice to take him down a peg or two.”
“Mason . . .”
“In an entirely sportsmanlike, nonconfrontational way, of course.”
She wasn’t sure she believed him, but she let it slide.
In the end, there was enough time for a very hot session in the huge tub, leaving more water on the floor than in the tub. Afterward, relaxed and very satisfied, they helped each other dry off.
“Tell me about this tattoo,” she invited, running her fingers over the branches of the gnarled bare tree on the right side of his torso. His nipples beaded, and he flattened a hand against hers to prevent her from stroking even more.
“The tree represents my years in the military. The letters and dates represent lost brothers and the dates they fell.”
There were so many initials, and a lot of them shared the same dates.
“It’s a beautiful gesture,” she whispered, and he shrugged.
“It was the least I could do.” His tone and body language told her that the subject was closed for now, and she kissed his chest just above the highest branch. He continued to towel her off before pausing.
“Jesus,” he suddenly swore, and Daisy, still contemplating that stark, poignant tattoo and what it represented, jumped at his vehemence.
“What?”
“You’re full of bruises.”
“I am?” She twisted around to get a look at herself in the mirror and saw the dark-blue and -purple bruises mostly on her butt and thighs. There were a few smudges on her arms as well.
“Why didn’t you tell me you bruised so easily?” He sounded horrified.
“Well, I had no idea that I did.”
“Does it hurt?” He touched one tentatively, his face tight with remorse.
“Not at all. And before you ask, no, you didn’t hurt me when we were having sex either. I didn’t even feel these when they happened. We were both carried away. I mean, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you have a few scratches down your back as well.”
“That’s nothing. It’s already an ugly, scarred mess; a few scratches won’t make a difference.” She gasped at that and poked a stern finger into his hard, naked chest.
“Your body is gorgeous, every delectable inch of it. And tonight you’re telling me what your other tattoos mean and we’re going to catalog all your smaller scars. Got it?”
“Don’t try to distract me. I’m not touching you again until after these fade.” His face grew stormier with each new bruise he found. He was seriously pissed off with himself for bruising her.
“You’re being silly.” She stepped out of his hold, taking the towel from him. “And just so you know, you have a bruise too. A huge one. On your neck.”
Mason turned to face the mirror, and sure enough, he had a massive hickey just above his collarbone.
“God, I look like a teenager,” he groused, and she smiled, looking so damned pleased with herself that he immediately didn’t mind the mark.
“I’ve never given anyone a hickey before.”
“And you’re never giving me another. One is your limit,” he warned, and she nodded, still looking smug. His eyes drifted back down to those ugly bruises marring her beautiful skin, and he felt like a savage for putting them there. He couldn’t recall ever marking anyone like that before, and he knew it wasn’t just because she had sensitive skin. He’d been seriously out of control with her. He needed to cool down, be gentler. And that was always his intention until he got his hands
on her. Then all bets were off.
They got dressed; Mason pulled on a pair of gray cargo pants, canvas shoes, and a navy-blue Henley before turning to her with his arms outspread.
“Golfy enough?” he asked, and she shook her head.
“You look much too sexy in that getup. My father probably has a plaid-shorts-and-shirt combo you can borrow.” He looped his arms around her and dropped a kiss on her neck.
“Sexy, huh?”
“Don’t you dare fish for compliments, Carlisle,” she warned, and he hugged her close for a moment before letting her go with a lighthearted tap on her rump.
“You look pretty hot yourself,” he said, eyeing her appreciatively, and Daisy flushed. She glanced down at her simple white shift dress—another new purchase—pink cardigan, and scuffed tennis shoes. She looked like a librarian, or maybe somebody going to Bible study group. Hot was not the adjective she would have used, but Mason’s gaze was sincere, and she was going to simply accept and enjoy the comment.
They parted ways in the hallway, Daisy stopping to knock on Daff’s door while Mason stopped a few doors farther away to pick up the golf clubs. She felt a pang of loss as she watched him walk away and wished she could spend the morning with him.
Daff yanked the door open and thankfully distracted her.
“Oh my God, you look awful,” Daisy said. Her sister had black circles under her eyes, her hair was a mess, and she looked as pale as a Goth. “Are you sick?”
“A little hungover. And sleep deprived.” Daff glared at her before taking her hand and dragging her into the room. “You and Mason weren’t exactly quiet last night.”
“You heard us?” Daisy whispered, dismayed.
“I’d be surprised if the whole hotel didn’t hear you too. You guys were pretty damned vocal. What the hell, Deedee? One minute you’re telling me there’s nothing between you, and the next you’re shagging each other’s brains out?”
“It just kind of happened.”
“You’re not the type of woman these things ‘just kind of happen’ to.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She was immediately offended, and Daff rolled her eyes.
“You’re the good one, that’s what I mean. I’m the one who usually makes the dumb life choices and winds up in bed with the wrong guys.”
“Well, sometimes being good is boring. Mason and I are both consenting adults, and we had fun. He made me feel sexy and raunchy and—”
“Stop. For the love of God! I don’t need to hear any more.”
“Maybe you do,” Daisy insisted. “Do you know that I’ve never had a real relationship?”
“I . . . did not know that,” Daff admitted reluctantly, the wind leaving her sails. “You’re really private sometimes, and I always assumed there were guys at college. You always talked about guys.”
“I was embarrassed. I felt unattractive and unwanted. Mason makes me forget that I’m the sad girl who never had a boyfriend in high school and never dated in college. The twenty-seven-year-old virgin who had no prospects of ever changing her status.”
“You were shy,” Daff said heavily. “I didn’t realize it was that bad.”
“I was shy, and I thought I was boring and ugly and fat.”
“But you’re not.”
“I’m beginning to see that,” Daisy said with a smile, and her sister sat down heavily, staring up at her contemplatively.
“You look happy and confident and really goddamned sexy,” her sister mused, and Daisy’s smile widened as she sat down in the other chair.
“I feel all those things too.”
“So maybe Mason isn’t a total douche bag.”
“Not even a partial douche bag.”
“But, Daisy . . .”
“It’s nothing serious. We’re just having fun. I think I’m entitled to a bit of no-strings fun.”
“Are you sure?”
Was she? She had no option but to be sure. After this weekend with Mason, they would go back to normal. There would be no reason for them to inhabit each other’s worlds anymore. She felt a huge pang of regret at the thought. She didn’t want to lose him, but every time that rogue sentiment surfaced she quashed it by reminding herself that he wasn’t hers to lose.
“Daff, we need to talk about Lia,” she said, deliberately changing the subject. Her sister, alerted by the absolute seriousness in her voice, sat up straighter, her eyes sharp.
“What’s going on?”
It didn’t take very long to lay out the sordid little story in its entirety. Daff remained absolutely quiet while Daisy spoke of her discomfort around Clayton, about the innuendos, the subtle sexual harassment. And by the time she stuttered to a halt, Daff was pale and there were lines of strain on her forehead and around her lips. She didn’t speak for the longest time, while Daisy watched her anxiously, fearing repudiation, laughter, or anger. What she got was a shuddering sigh as her sister dropped her face into her hands.
“Daff?”
“Oh, Daisy,” Daff whispered, looking up to meet her gaze. Shockingly, her eyes were wet, and Daisy wasn’t sure what that meant, until Daff got up and knelt on the floor next to Daisy’s chair. Her sister reached out and pulled her into a hug, and Daisy exhaled the breath that she’d been holding on a relieved sob. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I thought I was imagining things. He’s really good at making you think you’re mistaken. I was so relieved when Mason asked me about it. I thought I was going crazy. I don’t know how to tell Lia. What if she hates me?”
“If she still wants to marry him after hearing this, then I’m sorry to say she’s an idiot who totally deserves to marry that . . . that . . .”
“Asshole?” Daisy supplied, using Mason’s go-to word.
“Motherfucker!”
“Right.”
“Come on, Deedee, let’s go talk some sense into our sister.”
Mason was soundly trouncing Edmonton and his toadying buddies on the golf course, and their earlier jovial mood was turning distinctly sour. They were on the seventeenth hole, and Mason was well below the course par, and Clayton was three shots behind. Most of the other guys were so far behind Mason’s score they had no chance of catching up.
Mason had managed to maintain a relatively pleasant façade for the majority of the last two hours, but nothing he had learned about Clayton Edmonton had done anything to shift his opinion of the man. He was an arrogant prick who spoke down to people he thought were his lessers—a group that included caddies, a couple of his groomsmen, and, of course, Mason.
Mason watched critically as the man lined up his shot. He hated golf, but he had learned to play back when he and Sam had started up the business. Sam had told him it was a good way to impress potential clients. Later, when they’d had more than a few famous golf pros as clients, they’d been forced to attend charity golf functions, and sometimes the clients preferred they keep a low profile, which meant caddying or joining the game. Mason had gotten really good at the sport, even though he had never developed a fondness for it. Just another hazard of the job as far as he was concerned.
He was grateful for the experience now, though. It was satisfying to watch Edmonton lose his cool. The man was starting to miss easy shots and swearing like a trooper. Losing that urbane edge that he so carefully cultivated.
“So you’re here with the other sister, right?” Grier Wentworth Patterson—the best man—suddenly sneered. It was the first time the man had deigned to speak to him in over two hours, and considering the not-so-subtle nod Clayton had just given him, it was a ploy to distract Mason from the game.
“None of the guys wanted to partner with her for the wedding,” another bright spark added. Mason couldn’t remember this one’s name, but he had clearly been overindulging a bit on the beer because he was more merry and bright-eyed than the occasion warranted. “We drew straws.”
Mason cast an eye over the group; it was only Clayton and his six groomsmen. Despite what Mason had been led to
believe, there were no other wedding guests present. He was the only outsider, which is why he had been quite content to just play his game and ignore them for the most part. But now his blood was starting to boil.
“Her name,” he said, going through Andrew McGregor’s very well-stocked golf bag and taking his time selecting the heaviest driver, “is Daisy. The next fucker who fails to use it will regret his memory lapse.” He kept his voice level as he withdrew the golf club and buffed the head meticulously. He looked up at them only after he’d finished polishing it to his liking and was pleased to note that several of the guys looked a little uncertain after his pleasantly voiced threat.
“Come on, man,” Clayton said heartily. “You can’t expect us to believe you’re serious about her? You’ve dated supermodels, actresses . . . a princess, for Christ’s sake. Daisy isn’t exactly your usual type.”
Don’t hit him! The voice was like an alarm inside Mason’s head, but he could feel his fists clench as the bastard continued to just vomit a ton of shit.
“I mean,” he was saying, “I can see the appeal, kind of. I’ve always wanted to fuck a fat chick.”
Don’t HIT HIM!
“I mean, I wouldn’t want to be seen with her in public. But I figure it’d be a novelty to fuck a fattie. More cushion for the pushin’, as the saying goes.”
DON’T HIT HIM! It was becoming a mantra. A strident, unwelcome mantra.
“Right?” Edmonton continued to spew. “I suppose you’re an adventurer, willing to try anything at least once. I’ve always wondered about that one. The repressed ones are dynamite in the sack, right? Am I right, bro?”
Seriously? Fuck this guy. The rage inside Mason went quiet as his visual range narrowed until all he saw was his target: the braying ass in front of him. He inhaled slowly, feeling as lethal as he ever had on the battlefield.
He exhaled, hauled back, and slammed his fist into the bastard’s midriff, reaching out to grab the front of his preppy polo shirt in his other hand. Edmonton was bent over and wheezing for breath, and Mason leaned in, ignoring the man’s flinch, to speak close to his ear, his voice pitched low enough for only him to hear. “I know what you’ve been doing to Daisy, Edmonton. If you ever touch her again, I swear to God you’ll be shitting your own teeth for a week. Got it?” He thumped the still-gasping man on his back with his free hand before shoving him toward his groomsmen.
The Wingman Page 25
