Can't Get Enough

by Gena Showalter

  You are not the person she says you are. Understand? You are worth something. You are valued. You are...mine. For now.

  But she would give him up, and rightfully so. Besides, heart trumped logic, and deep down, the little boy he used to be still believed something was wrong with him.

  What chance did he have of winning a woman like Lyndie for an extended length of time?

  When she started to dislike him--and she would--he would... What?

  Nothing. He would absolutely nothing. Brock wouldn't let their relationship reach that point. He would destroy the Hud and Son Group before then. He and Lyndie would part on happy, friendly terms. The baby...

  He gnashed his molars.

  As she faced him, she chewed on her bottom lip. "I have one more week of school, then I have a week off for fall break. But..." No woman had eyes as expressive as his Lyndie. Her concerns were clear. This wasn't a real marriage, so why was he treating it like the genuine thing?

  Easy. "I only have you for a short while, and I want to do you in all fifty states."

  She snorted, then handed him a bottle of shampoo and turned. "Wash my hair, please."

  There was a great deal of intimacy in this kind of act, something Brock had never before dared experience. Taking care of Lyndie proved addictive. As he cleaned and conditioned her hair, he grinned like a loon.

  "Oh, I know! For our honeymoon, why don't we buy you a kilt and pretend we're in ancient Scotland?" she said. "The Highlands, to be exact."

  "Got a thing for Outlander, do you?"

  "A big thing. Huge! And then we can donate the bulk of our travel budget to an animal shelter in the city. The place where I got Cameow and Mega."

  Such a softie, his wife. "Scottie, we have no budget. We can travel and donate."

  "But the cats--"

  "Can come with us. The Hud and Son Group has a private jet." He nibbled on her earlobe. "Any other excuses?"

  "I'm not sure I want to travel," she admitted, her tone quiet, as if the words embarrassed her. "I told you, I like my home. I like my surroundings. I know the people in town, and and and..."

  Ah. He thought he'd understood before, but he gained even more clarity now. This was her safe space, something she hadn't had as a child or even as a married woman, and the thought of leaving freaked her out.

  "If you want to stay, we'll stay." Aching for her, he circled his arms around her. His new favorite position. One hand cupped her breast while the other played between her legs.

  Once again, she rested her head on his shoulder.

  "I think I like married life," he admitted. Except one day he would be in a terrible mood, snap at her, scare her, and she would no longer melt in his arms like this.

  And there went his erection.

  She patted his hand. "What's wrong, Hugsy?"

  No way he would discuss his fears. How can you expect her to trust you when you refuse to trust her? He ground his teeth so forcefully his jaw ached. "I--"

  An alarm suddenly screeched to life, emitting a high-pitched wail. Lyndie gasped, nearly jumping from her skin. "Break-in?"

  Most likely. Blanking his mind of all thoughts but the protection of his wife, Brock left the water running. He pulled Lyndie out of the stall, quickly dressed her--she'd frozen up, as if her muscles refused to move--then just as quickly dressed himself. He ripped the duct tape from a semiautomatic she'd hidden behind one of the cabinet doors.

  She didn't know it, but he'd come over three days ago while she was at work to beef up her security. He'd found her stash of weapons and marveled.

  "How did you-- Never mind." Teeth chattering, she wrapped her arms around her middle. "What do we do now?"

  "We get you to safety." He exited the bathroom only after peeking out the door to study her bedroom. No one leaped out at him, no shadows moved in or beyond the door. No weapons were fired. He gave Lyndie a gentle push toward the closest where the door to the safe room waited. "Lock yourself in and stay put."

  "Stay with me." She clasped his hand, refusing to let go as her eyes beseeched him. "Please, Brock."

  Hide? No. If Rick Lambert had broken in, Brock now had a legal right to shoot him--which he would do without a qualm--thereby ending Lyndie's troubles.

  Brock might not like being a bad guy capable of doing bad things, but Lyndie's well-being came first.

  Pots clanged together, and Lyndie jolted. The intruder was tossing the kitchen?

  "Safe room," Brock instructed, his hard tone broking no argument. "Now." In stealth mode, he made his way out of the bedroom.

  All the lights had been turned on, from the hallway to the living to the kitchen. They'd been off when Brock and Lyndie arrived...right? He'd been a little too preoccupied to notice.

  Once he reached the kitchen, he spied the back of a tall, dark-haired male wearing an expensive pinstriped suit, perfectly tailored. Not typical B&E attire. The man was...washing dishes?

  On the counter was a breakfast fit for a lumberjack. Pancakes, bacon, sausage links, scrambled eggs, and hash browns.

  The man turned, his gaze going straight to Brock. "I hope you're hungry," Braydon said. "I would have cooked dinner, but I only know how to make breakfast."

  Chapter Twelve

  As Brock lowered the gun, he ran his tongue over his teeth. "What are you doing here, Braydon?"

  His brother set aside a pot and smiled. Obviously the man had been here a while. Hadn't tripped the alarm on the way in but had set it off on purpose?

  Braydon should have looked out of place in the colorful, cheery kitchen with pink walls, blue cabinets, and ruby-veined marble counters, but he'd donned a frilly red apron and blended right in.

  Motions jerky, Brock punched the proper code into the wall unit, finally putting an end to the high-pitched screeching. In the ensuing silence, he heard his cell phone ring. He didn't have to glance at the screen to know who waited at the other end. A dispatcher from LPH Protection. His company monitored all alerts for this house.

  He dug the cell out of his pants pocket and let dispatch know he was all right, then apologized for the false alarm.

  "Thank you for not killing me. Or turning me in," Braydon said, almost as an afterthought.

  Though they had different fathers, they were clearly brothers; both had dark hair, bodies well over six feet and cut with muscle. Braydon's jaw was a little more square and his nose a shade longer. His eyes were ice blue rather than pale green, but they were shaped just like Brock's, with a thick fan of black lashes.

  "Lyndie," Brock called.

  He heard a muffled "Yes?" through the walls.

  "The intruder is my brother. You can come out or stay put, your choice." He really hoped she stayed put. If Braydon were to tell her some of the things Brock had done as a child...the fights, the bullying, the thefts...

  No reply and no footsteps. Staying put, it is. Thank God!

  Braydon motioned to a plate of food. "Hungry?"

  "For arsenic? Rat poison? No, thanks." Brock plopped onto a barstool. "You frightened Lyndie. Next time I see you and Lyndie isn't around, I'm going to beat you senseless for it. Well, more senseless than you already are."

  Braydon hiked a single shoulder in a careless shrug. "Fair is fair. Can it wait though? Till after we speak?"

  "We have nothing to say to each other."

  "I'll take that to mean you're happy for me to do all the talking."

  Well, why not? That way Brock could tell Lyndie he'd tried to be nice. "Fine. Start with what you're doing here and why you didn't knock on the front door. End with how you bypassed security." LPH Protection installed a top-of-the-line system. The best of the best. Brock didn't make mistakes. Nor did Daniel or Jude. Their work was never sloppy or subpar.

  Even still, Brock would double-check the entire system tomorrow. He would also install new...everything. No lock would be the same. He would put a camera in every room but the bedrooms and bathrooms, and the feed would be accessible by an app on both Lyndie and Brock's phones but no
where else. In her bedroom, he would put a panic button, and that particular signal would feed straight into his cell phone.

  Leaning over to anchor his elbows on the counter, his brother said, "If I'd knocked, you'd have shut the door in my face. I saved us an argument about it. You're welcome. As to why I'm here." Another shrug. "Believe it or not, I want to help you deal with Mother."

  "Sorry. I don't believe it." No way he'd get his hopes up.

  Once upon a time, Brock had loved his brother, and Braydon had seemed to love him. Then Braydon caught Miranda's disdain, as if it was contagious. Brock had been crushed, but for a long time, he'd tried to make things work.

  At sixteen, he'd gotten a job bussing tables at a nearby restaurant, because he hadn't wanted to rely on his parents for anything. He'd been saving up for a car but decided to use a hefty chunk of change to buy Braydon a birthday present. A new gaming system the fourteen-year-old couldn't wait to play. How stupid Brock had been. At the time, he'd been so proud. He should have known Braydon would toss the gift back to him with a carelessly uttered, "Mom already got me one. Hers came with games."

  In the present, Braydon piled a plate with food, not quite meeting Brock's gaze. "Whether you want my help or not, you get it. I'll keep Devil Mom busy while you do your thing with Dad's company."

  Devil Mom? Please. She'd been an angel to Braydon.

  Exhaustion set in, making Brock feel he'd aged a hundred years in the past minute. "Just...get out. Go home. I don't want you here."

  His brother paused to take a breath. When his gaze flipped up and landed on Brock, his usually icy blues blazed. "I did you wrong as a child, and as a man. I get it. I do. But I'm sorry, and I will make it up to you."

  "Why? Why now?" Stupid questions. The answers didn't matter. No way Brock would believe a single word that came out of his brother's mouth. Braydon either hoped to fool him to try to get more money, or he was using the gesture as a smoke screen to keep tabs on him while Miranda did everything in her power to screw Brock out of his inheritance.

  "I didn't realize how much I wanted a family until Dad died," Braydon said. "I'd missed my chance to build a relationship with him. And I watched you today, with your groomsmen. The three of you, you're bonded. It's obvious. You'd trust them with your life, I'd bet."

  Whoa. Back up. Braydon had been there? Brock's men hadn't spotted him. Nor had Brock. "I have trusted them with my life, just like they've trusted me with theirs."

  "Do you have any idea how rare that kind of trust is?"

  "Yes," Brock said, his tone flat. "Yes, I do."

  Braydon raised his chin, becoming the picture of stubbornness. "I want your loyalty too, and I'm going to earn it."

  "Impossible." Reaching the end of his patience, Brock stood, the stool scooting behind him. "Get out. Before I do something we'll both regret."

  Several beats of silence passed. Then, "You know, as much as Mom hated you, she loved me. Different emotions, both operating at the same twisted degree. Her love wasn't unconditional. I was rewarded when I did things her way and punished when I didn't."

  "Boo-hoo. You received a few spankings. So what?"

  "I received more than spankings," Braydon said softly.

  Ignore the sudden pang in your chest. "Go. Please." Brock pointed to the door, a little too raw to deal with this right now.

  "Very well. But I will come back." His brother untied the apron, folded it, and placed it on the counter. "By the way, when I first arrived, there was a drunk man skulking around outside. I took his wallet before I sent him on his way. His name is Rick Lambert, and I'm guessing he's a bit unhinged. As he left, he shouted about how you'd stolen his woman and deserved to die."

  Brock popped his jaw. "I'll take care of him."

  "Be careful."

  Want to believe...

  Can't. "Go!"

  Braydon squared his shoulders, raised his chin, and marched out of the house.

  *

  Lyndie couldn't catch her breath. Her head swam and throbbed at the same time, her vision growing dim. Blood pounded in her ears, creating a low-volume but constant ring. Her throat seemed to close up. Her chest burned as if her lungs had caught fire--breathe, need to breathe--and yet her veins felt as though they'd been filled with ice. Her limbs trembled and her feet tingled.

  The wild fluttering of her heart agitated her. Heart attack? If only! There was no doubt in her mind--she was having a panic attack.

  Both shivering and sweating, she tripped to the bed and plopped onto the edge of the mattress. She'd almost locked herself in the panic room before and after Brock had let her know the identity of their intruder, but she'd wanted to be available to help, just in case her new husband needed her.

  A bitter laugh escaped. Her? Help?

  Tears filled her eyes before spilling over, streaming down her cheeks and leaving white-hot tracks.

  Dang it, why panic? Why now? She'd dealt with this stupidly stupid stupidness most of her life. Until James died. The attacks magically stopped then. She hadn't had a new one until Officer Rayburn pulled her over to issue his threat about Lambert.

  She'd told herself it was a one-off and wouldn't happen again. And she'd foolishly believed it. Now? A sense of dread devoured every bit of her calm. At first she'd thought Lambert might have broken in. Even when she'd learned Braydon was the culprit, she'd struggled. What if Brock got hurt?

  Minutes dragged by--hours?--as the tears continued to pour down her face. She hated panic attacks almost as much as she hated her father and James. Struck by helplessness while losing control of her thoughts and body, nothing but time able to help--she would rather die!

  "Hey, hey." A gentle hand settled on her nape and massaged. "Scottie. Sweetheart. What's wrong?"

  Brock! Speaking was beyond her, breathing still a laborious chore. But she thought she smelled cinnamon and sugar on his skin. Blindly she reached out. The second she made contact with the warmth of his skin, she threw her body onto his lap. Whimpering, she clung to him.

  This man had just become the only life raft in the heart of her storm.

  "I've got you. I'm not letting go." With one hand, he combed his fingers through her hair. With the other, he held her close. Warm breath fanned over her face.

  Deep breath in--yes! She could breathe. Deep breath out.

  "Are you reacting to the fact that someone broke into the house?" he asked.

  She managed a jerky nod.

  "Understandable. My brother meant us no harm though. At least not physically. But I promise you, he will never trip the alarm again. Or come inside the house. He's gone now."

  As she focused on Brock's words, her tears dried and her throat opened up. "Do you not like your brother?" she asked. Her voice had nasally undertones, her nose stuffy. "You sound as if you hate him."

  "I don't hate him, but no, I don't like him."

  He said no more, the subject clearly closed.

  In the ensuing silence, panic surged anew. For no reason! Her lungs seemed to close up shop again. Sweat beaded over her forehead while her teeth chattered. Hot flash. No, cold flash. Argh! Her stomach churned and--

  "Before the wedding," Brock said, as if they were seated in a restaurant, discussing their days, "you mentioned you wanted to know more about me. Well, I want to know more about you too. I want to know everything. No detail is too small. So tell me your favorite color."

  Color? She frowned. "All the colors."

  "Why?"

  Lyndie had to flip through mental files to find the answer...there. "To me, colors represent independence. James preferred white or beige." A pause, then, "Do you have a favorite color?"

  "Like you, I've never met a color I didn't like. But if I had to pick a favorite, I'd go with gold."

  "Because of money?"

  "No. Gold represents a sunrise. The start of a new day. One more chance to get things right."

  I knew this playboy had depth.

  More than that, he had skill. He'd worked a miracle and actua
lly distracted her. The room had even come back into focus. Bright pink walls covered in a thousand framed photos of Ryanne and Dorothea, plus the few photos Lyndie had of her mother. One window had metallic blue curtains. The other windows had metallic green curtains. The chair in the corner had a pink-and-black back, purple arms, and a black-and-white-checkered cushion. The ottoman at the foot of the bed was upholstered with a flowery fabric. Her dresser was the color of an olive while her side tables were yellow and orange. A plum-colored rug stretched across the freshly polished wood floor.

  Neither James nor her father had ever set foot in this house. Mine, all mine. Once James's life insurance had come in, she was able to walk away. At least physically.

  "What's your favorite number?" Brock asked.

  "I don't have one," she said, grateful for all Brock had done. The fact that he'd recognized her panic attack for what it was and stuck around to distract and soothe her, well, he had to have experience. "Who does?"

  "Only everyone. Mine is two, because two is better than one. One person always needs someone else to guard the rear. So. What's yours?"

  "One, I guess." She shrugged. One sounded good.

  "Because you prefer to go solo?"

  Here and now? "No," she admitted, surprising herself. She shifted atop his lap, settling in, getting more comfortable. His heart thumped against her temple, the slightly elevated beat reassuring in ways she'd never imagined. "Because while it's nice to have someone guard your back, it's not always a guarantee. Better to rely on yourself."

  Advice she had best heed. She should stand and kindly but firmly ask Brock to leave her bedroom. And she would, in a minute.

  "Remember when I told you needing help means you're human? I meant it. None of us are built to go this life alone. If we were, we'd have eyes in the back of our head."

  There was a bite of truth to his words. People needed interaction with others in order to thrive.

  "How long have you dealt with panic attacks?" Brock asked.

  Thought she was ready for the big-girl questions now, huh? Sweet of him. Perhaps he considered her braver than she considered herself. "Most of my life," she admitted. "How did you know what it was?" Not everyone would have recognized the signs.

  As one second bled into another, the room cloaked in silence. She thought he might have closed another subject, which caused a surge of disappointment. What would it take to crack him open like an egg so his secrets spilled out? And he did have secrets. Why else would he shut down?