“What’s your favorite color?”
“Don’t know, Garland. What’s yours?”
“Red. I think your favorite color is brown.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because everything in your house is brown, your hair is brown, your eyes are brown, and most of Austin is brown.”
He chuckled. “Well it is at this time of year. But you’re wrong, my favorite color isn’t brown.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
She threw a tostada chip at him. “What is it?”
He pinned her gaze. “It’s whatever you call that.” He pointed at her eyes.
She stopped eating, which, Brant thought, was a minor miracle, given the way she ate tacos like she’d just discovered food. “My eyes?”
He nodded. She blushed, and knowing that she was blushing made her blush all the more. Girls jaded by fine hotels, restaurants, and world travel don’t blush. Unless they’re discombobulated by sexy handsome bikers who come from another world.
Brant chuckled, liking the way the blush looked on her. In fact, he liked just about everything about the girl who sat across the table. He liked the way she hummed when she gobbled tacos to indicate how much she was enjoying them. He liked the way her eyes lit up when she noticed he was watching. He liked her laugh, her silly questions, and the way she seemed oblivious to all the male attention she garnered. She acted like the two of them were the only two people in the world. And he liked that. A lot.
“This is my favorite.” She held up a fish taco.
“I’m really glad you feel that way because I don’t like to waste food and, as far as I’m concerned, fish tacos are cat food.”
She laughed. “Lucky cats. What’s your middle name?”
“Stonewall.”
“Stonewall?!”
“Yes. My grandfather was a big fan of Stonewall Jackson. It was kind of an offering to keep the peace when I wasn’t named after him.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Horace.”
“Ouch. Here’s a toast to your parents for having the good sense to name you Brant instead of Horace. Although… Horace would lend itself to an unusual nickname for a boy.”
“Funny.”
“Where did Brant come from?”
“Was Mom’s idea. I’ve been told it’s Old Norse. Means sword of fire or somethin’ like that.”
“I knew it!”
“You knew what?”
“You’re a Viking!”
He laughed. “Garland, I’m not a Viking.”
“You are! I can totally see you in a helmet with horns, riding on your bike.”
“Really?”
“Yes!”
“Hate to rain on that parade, but Vikings didn’t actually have horned helmets.”
“Don’t tell me that. I don’t want to hear that.”
“So what’s your middle name?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Yes. You do.”
She shook her head vigorously.
“Okay.” He shrugged. “We’ll revisit that at another time, when we’re not in a public place.”
She laughed. “What does my middle name have to do with being in a public place?”
“Well,” he said slowly, opening his hands in explanation, “if we weren’t in a public place, I could hold you down until I’d located your most ticklish spot, then torture you until you gave up the information.”
“You’re a dangerous man. With or without a sword.”
“If the horns fit…”
“What’s your favorite movie?”
“Enough about colors and movies and middle names and imaginary childhood friends. Tell me something real about your life.”
The quickness with which she stopped chewing, went still, and lost all sign of happiness was disturbing. She stared at him like that was the last thing in the world she wanted to talk about.
“That bad, huh?” He mimicked her question from earlier.
She looked at the half taco she held in midair, set it down on the platter in front of her, then said, “It’s not fun.” She looked up. “I mean, sometimes it is. College was great. I was a long way from New York. I had friends who came from a lot of different backgrounds.”
“Mostly privileged?”
She smiled. “Yeah. Mostly privileged.” She looked down at the tacos in front of her, but didn’t pick one up. “Then I graduated.”
She sat back with a sigh and Brant was sorry he’d brought it up, but thought that once you’re already cold and wet and in the water, you might as well get the swim you came for.
“What happened then?”
She pressed her lips together in a half smile. “My friends and I had fun celebrating graduation. So much fun that it made the Sunday New York Times and embarrassed my dad.”
Brant was trying to put himself in her shoes and process how a night out could end up being a newspaper item, much less how it could ruin somebody’s life, as it seemed to have done with Garland.
“What happened?”
“I was told that I’d be accompanying my dad to Austin for the summer. His company is investing in renovating the Yellow Rose and developing this whole area for touristy draw.” Brant nodded for her to continue. “He also called in favors to get me a last minute spot in the Wharton School of Business MBA program. For September. First, I’ve never been interested in business, but he says it’s time for me to start getting serious about citizenry or something like that. Second, I don’t know anybody in Philadelphia. That’s where the Wharton School is.”
“So you didn’t want to come here and you don’t want to go there.”
She smiled. “I didn’t want to come here, but that was before I found out about Viking mechanics who ride big rumbly bikes.” He acknowledged the compliment with a small smile and a nod. “And, yes, I don’t want to go to Philadelphia or study business. But he gave me a choice. It’s that or a box under a bridge.”
“Garland, you have a degree from a fancy pants college. And even if you didn’t,” he waved at the world around them, “lots of people get by with a hell of a lot less and they don’t end up in boxes under bridges.”
“I know. But I’m not them. I’m, like, handicapped.”
Brant looked confused. “Handicapped. What are you talking about?”
“I never expected to have to work. At least not like the people you’re talking about.”
“You mean not like being a mechanic or,” his eyes darted around, “being manager of a place like this.”
Her voice was quiet. “Yeah. Like that.”
She looked away for a minute, like she didn’t want to face him. Brant didn’t like that any more than he liked the idea of her old man being an asshole to his own daughter, treating her like she was chattel because she partied out a milestone.
“Your tacos are not goin’ to be fit to eat if you keep ignorin’ them.” Her eyes drifted back to the plate in front of her. “Go on. Try the al carbon. It’s one of my favorites even if it doesn’t qualify as real Texmex. Not that fish tacos do either.”
A little of the light came back into her eyes as she reached for the one he pointed to. “Enough about my sob story. Tell me something real about your life.”
Brant’s gaze drifted over to the rock face cliff on the other side of the road. “I went to high school about fifteen minutes from here.”
She seemed delighted by that tidbit and started a rapid fire series of questions without giving him a chance to answer. “You did? Did you ride a big bad motorcycle to school? Did all the girls want to get in your pants? Did you play football? I’ll bet you did. How big was your school?”
When she paused for a breath and looked at him expectantly, his lips spread into a slow smile. “One at a time. Pick the one that’s most important to you first.”
“Okay. Did all the girls get in your pants?” Her face was alight with mischief.
“Of course not. Only the knockouts.”
S
he laughed. “Did you ride a motorcycle to school?”
“Not usually, but I had a hot car that turned heads.” She shook her head. “What? You think I’m makin’ that up?”
“No. I think it wasn’t the car that was turning heads.” She was watching for his reaction, so there was no missing the little flush that pinked his skin. She almost choked on a taco. “You’re blushing!”
“I’m not blushing.”
“You are!”
Brant saw the people at the next table turn to look. He leaned toward Garland and lowered his voice. “Maybe I have a little sunburn from the river, but I’m not blushing. Men like me don’t blush. You might as well call me a pussy.”
Garland sat back. As her face froze into a serious expression, she looked more intense. She stared into his eyes for ten full seconds before calmly saying, “Pussy.”
“You did not just say that.”
“I did. Want to hear it again?” She giggled. He stood up, threw cash on the table, grabbed her by her arm and started pulling her off the patio and onto the parking lot. She couldn’t stop laughing. “Sticks and stones. Sticks and stones.”
“Sticks and stones, my ass.”
“Where are we going?”
“Someplace where I can smack you on your beautifully formed behind if you call me a pussy again. Christ, Garland. I would hospitalize you for that if you were a man.”
He got on his bike, but before she climbed on, she said, “It’s just a word, Brant.”
“Words can be weapons, Garland. All women know that.”
Minutes later they pulled up to Brant’s front door. He didn’t bother to roll the bike in. He pulled Garland inside and slammed the door with his foot.
Towering over her, he said, “Want to say it again?”
Her gaze drifted from the challenge in his eyes down to his mouth and lingered there. “Maybe. Kiss me first.”
She didn’t have to ask twice.
He nudged her against the wall behind her until she could feel every inch of his body pressing into hers. When she gasped at the contact, Brant’s mouth smashed against her parted lips. He growled deep in his throat. Garland had never before kissed a guy capable of making a sound like that. She was sure of it. It was an expression of earthy masculine supremacy that made a direct connection with the nerve endings in her core.
When her tongue battled his, Brant was so delighted with the blatant push back that he had to suppress a chuckle. He didn’t want her to misunderstand and think he was laughing at her. He wasn’t. He was simply euphoric that he’d found a woman with enough fire to call him a pussy then try to take control of sex. Girls like that didn’t cross his path every day. He knew, in fact, that such a thing could easily happen only once in a lifetime.
Bending at the knees, he grasped the backs of her thighs and lifted her so that she could wrap her legs around his waist. When he started walking them toward his bedroom, she tightened her grip and nipped his earlobe.
“Christ, woman.”
Brant was glad he’d gone to the trouble of changing sheets and making his bed. Just in case. He hadn’t known for sure that the day would bring them to that moment, but he knew he wanted to make a good impression. A girl like Garland shouldn’t lie down on dirty sheets and he knew he’d feel the same way if she didn’t come from money.
When he set her down on her feet, she pulled away and looked around. The bedroom was on the back of the house with a view toward Austin. A gorgeous view.
“Wow. This is…” She didn’t finish. Brant was behind her pulling her damp tee over her head and kissing her neck. When she was left in a damp bikini top, she almost immediately started shivering. “Ahhh! It’s cold in here. Either take me back outside or get me out of these wet clothes.”
“Hmmm. I pick B.”
“Good choice.”
They hurried out of wet clothes as fast as they could and scrambled to get under the covers of his bed, each playfully trying to shove the other out of the way. They burrowed under his sheets and black satin comforter, covered in goosebumps, and unable to stop laughing. The cold had pulled Garland’s nipples into hard beads just begging to be touched. And laved.
Within minutes the body heat had them both pushing at the covers instead of clinging to them. When Garland felt the substantial evidence of Brant’s arousal, she reached between them to take him in hand and stroke.
“Good God, man. This thing is scary big.” He laughed into her neck. “Don’t you dare leave marks on me.”
Brant hesitated. He was fast coming to the conclusion that he wanted to keep this girl. Marks that branded her as his would be a nice bonus.
He pulled away and looked at her. “Leave all the marks you want. I’ll wear ‘em proudly.”
The look on her face told him he was going to destroy the mood, but he knew a couple of ways to get back on track. He’d joked about high school girls getting in his pants, but the truth was that he’d never had any trouble in that department. Women liked him. Maybe it was his looks. Maybe it was an attitude. He’d never cared one way or the other, but he found himself wondering if it would be possible to get Garland St. Germaine interested in a permanent kind of way.
They spent the rest of the afternoon in bed. Exploring. Experimenting.
“You hungry?” Brant asked. They were lying on their sides facing each other.
“I’m in an orgasmic stupor. Couldn’t begin to tell you if I’m hungry or not.”
He chuckled. “It’s dark out.”
She sat up and looked out the window a few feet from the foot of the bed. Some of the lights of Austin twinkled back at her. “Wow, Brant. This is gorgeous.”
He ran the back of his hand down the curve of her side. “Not nearly as gorgeous as this.”
“It’s too late to sweet talk me. You already got what you wanted.”
“How do you know what I want?”
“Hold on.” She held her hand to her forehead. “My ESP tells me you want food.”
“You wore the tacos right off me.”
“How romantic.” She laughed. “So. Are you cooking or offering something out of a box?”
He cocked his head at her. “Don’t know yet. Do you know how to cook?”
She threw herself backward on the bed laughing. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I don’t know how to cook.”
“It’s not ridiculous. It’s a basic survival skill, Garland. A way to keep from ending up in a box under a bridge.”
She stopped laughing. “You may be right. It’s just not a skill I’ve needed to survive before now.” She leaned up on an elbow. “So you know how to cook?”
He grinned. “Well, I’m not a gourmet. The only French thing I can cook is French fries. But I can throw some stuff in a skillet and have it come out edible.”
“Good enough for me. You got some dry clothes I can put on?”
He gave her a pair of cotton boxers and a Harley tee shirt. Both swallowed her, but he found a safety pin to help hold the boxers in place. Half an hour later they sat down to a Hamburger Helper pasta mix with a few green peppers and carrots thrown in.
“This looks like a mess, but it’s yummy.”
“Yeah?” His eyes twinkled at the compliment. “Well, it’s not special or anything.”
“It is special.” She smiled. “It’s my birthday dinner.”
His jaw went slack. “This is your birthday?”
“Yep. I’m a Gemini baby. Sign of the twins.”
“Why didn’t you say somethin’ earlier? I would have planned… I don’t know. Somethin’ else.”
“Why? This was the best birthday ever. I did things I’ve never done before. I rode on a motorcycle. And not just any motorcycle, a big bad black work of art.” He grinned. “I swam in something that’s not a pool or an ocean. I got river mud between my toes. Okay. That part was kind of, ew, but it was still a new experience.”
He laughed at the way she scrunched up her nose.
“That’s all good, babe, but w
hat about cake? And a wish candle? More important, why didn’t your dad have a plan?”
She shrugged and looked away for a second. “He forgets more often than not. Since my mom died, and since I didn’t have birthdays during the school year, there was nobody around to make a big deal out of it. So, you know, it’s not a big deal.” She paused. “Plus…” She made circles in the air with a finger pointed at Brant. “I got beefcake.” She wiggled her eyebrows.
Ignoring her attempt at humor, he said, “It is a big deal.” After a few seconds he got up and started looking through drawers and cabinets. He found a candle in a holder fashioned from recycled iron, and a lighter. He pulled a piece of paper out of a little spiral notebook, scribbled something quickly, and folded it up.
Moving her plate aside, he set the candle in front of her and said, “I don’t have a good singin’ voice, but happy birthday. Make a wish for what you want more than anything.”
Her eyes searched his for a few moments until they grew bright with unshed tears. When her eyelids closed slowly, it forced a single tear down her cheek. She opened her eyes, blew out the candle, and then swiped at the stray tear, trying to make light of the incident and cover with quiet self-deprecating laughter.
“Hey,” he said. She felt the timbre of that one word, as he pulled her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her. He reveled in the feel of her relaxed warmth and braless body. “Your wish makes you sad?”
“No. Well, yes. It’s just… you know I can’t tell or it won’t come true.” She dropped her head back so she could look up into his face. “When’s your birthday?”
“October. The first.”
“Fall. My favorite time of year. At least it is in New England. There’s always this one day when you get up and look outside and, somehow, the shadows look different and you go, ‘It’s here!’.”
Brant ran his thumb over her cheek. “You a poet, Garland?”
She smiled. “We’re all poets in our own way.”
“Maybe.”
He handed her the piece of folded paper.
“What’s this?” She looked as excited as if it was a diamond necklace.
She quickly unfolded the paper and read…
Happy Birthday, Beautiful. This coupon is good for one night on the town. On me. - B.F.
Two Princes: The Biker and The Billionaire Page 4
