“Did you go to college?”
“For a couple of years. I dropped out when Mom and Dad died.”
“To take care of Dee?”
The look she slanted him held a glint of suspicion. “Is this leading to another lecture about how I should let Dee live her own life?”
Her full lips curled with disdain, tempting Alex to blurt out his true identity so that she’d stop hating him and start loving him.
With the hostility out of the way, the possibilities could be endless, he thought, frustrated. But then he remembered who she was, and how it probably wouldn’t make much difference if she did know he wasn’t Dee’s boyfriend. He’d stop being Hot Shot and start being Boss Man, which he didn’t like much better. And knowing Brooke, she’d make the switch without losing her fantastic talent for sarcasm.
He smiled into her wary eyes. “No lectures, I promise.”
“Okay. I did drop out to take care of Dee. My brothers were already married and living their own lives.”
“So that left you.” He said it softly, and didn’t bother hiding his admiration. She took a sip of her chocolate and made a face. Alex chuckled. “Glad you tasted it first.”
Her lips twitched. “It does taste bitter.”
Simultaneously, they set the cups on the brick fronting the fireplace. With his hands empty, Alex had a difficult time keeping them to himself. Lust aside, he ached to hold her.
“Dee took their deaths pretty hard,” she said with a shrug that didn’t fool Alex. “She was the baby, and we all spoiled her rotten.”
He gave in to the urge to touch her, reaching out to hook her short hair behind her ear, letting his fingers linger against her heat-flushed skin for just a moment. “And you?”
She focused on the flames, dislodging his hand. With another shrug as bogus as the first, she said, “The last thing Dee needed was for me to fall apart.”
Alex let her words sink in. It didn’t take him long to come to several interesting conclusions; since her parents’ deaths, he suspected Brooke had gallantly ignored her own grief. If he was right, it would explain her fierce protectiveness toward her sister. Not that he blamed her for trying to protect Dee. Quite the contrary: he admired her.
But it didn’t excuse or explain the outrageous risks she’d taken today, kidnapping him at gunpoint and dragging him to an isolated cabin. Alex clenched his jaw. What if he hadn’t walked out of that restaurant at that exact moment and she’d brought the real bad guy here—or some other dangerous character? As fierce and as clever as she was, she was no physical match for a man.
He felt unaccountably angry at her foolish actions. And to think—her only protection had been a plastic penis, for crying out loud. Grasping her chin in a rough grip, he forced her to look at him. “I admire your loyalty,” he told her gruffly. “Hell, I admire everything about you, but bringing me here wasn’t exactly a smart thing to do.”
Looking startled, she licked her lips. “Why is that?”
“Because you’re a beautiful, sexy woman.” And I’m a horny beast, Alex wanted to add, but wisely didn’t. He figured that by now it would be old news to her, anyway. “And you think I’m a sex maniac. We’re alone in an isolated cabin. Aren’t you concerned that I might decide to take advantage of the situation?” He watched her throat move as she swallowed, but he detected no fear in her eyes.
“Dee was supposed to be here,” she defended herself, trying to pull from his hold. He held tight. “And I doubt you’re planning to rape me.”
Alex leaned close, his gaze locked on her glistening lips. “Who said anything about rape?” he asked softly, just before his mouth covered hers.
Chapter Seven
She’d made him angry, Brooke thought as his lips touched hers, and now he was trying to frighten her.
Nothing was going as she’d planned.
Deliberately—or was that desperately?—she closed her mind to the feel and texture of his mouth as it moved persuasively over hers. She knew from his earlier kiss what he could do with those lips, and she wasn’t taking any chances.
Her lips were sealed tighter than the vault at Quicksilver Bank.
It was really embarrassing, though, to feel her nipples harden and that now-familiar dampness pool between her legs.
Just from the touch of his mouth on hers.
Lord, she hated to imagine what her turncoat body would do if he really put his talents to work! It was more than embarrassing; it was humiliating.
A tiny sigh of relief escaped her when he lifted his mouth from hers. She managed a lip-curl—one of her most disdainful. “Ooooh. I’m so scared.”
His eyes narrowed.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t a good idea to taunt him, she thought, just seconds before he funneled his hand through her hair and brought her lips crashing against his again.
This time he caught her with her mouth open. He thrust his tongue inside and staked his claim, giving a whole new meaning to the saying, “possession is nine-tenths of the law”! He knew how to possess, and he knew how to kiss.
It was the sound of someone moaning—and the jarring, mortifying realization it was her—that gave Brooke the strength she needed.
Bracing her hands on his chest, she shoved him away.
They were both breathing hard. His eyes glittered, and she dared not think about what she looked like. “Okay,” she said in a shaky voice that had to belong to someone else. “You’ve proven your point. Maybe I should have given this plan more thought before I acted. But just because I made a mistake doesn’t give you the right to—to—molest me.”
His eyebrow winged upward at her choice of words. “Molest you? Where I come from, they call it kissing.”
Brooke felt her anger rise. It was a comforting feeling, and far more welcome than desire for her sister’s boyfriend! “Call it whatever you want, just don’t do it again.”
He sat back on his heels, hands planted on his knees as he regarded her through sultry, hooded eyes. “I can’t make any promises,” he said. “How long do you plan to wait on your sister?”
“She’s probably working through an attack of nerves. If she doesn’t show tonight, she’ll be here in the morning.” Brooke wished she felt as confident as she sounded. Truth was, she was worried. What if Dee had had an accident? What if one of their brothers had showed up at the house? The latter would explain her delay, because Dee would not want Dean Jr. or Logan getting his hands on Cliff.
“I guess you expect me to sleep on that lump you call a sofa?” he asked, nodding to the couch behind her.
Brooke bit her lip. It was uncomfortable, not that she particularly cared about his comfort, she reminded herself. And where in the heck did he think he’d sleep? In her bed? Not a chance. Not ever. “Dee and I always bunked down in front of the fire. There are plenty of blankets, if you’d rather go that route.”
His gaze strayed to the lumpy couch. Finally, he sighed. “I’ll take the floor.”
“Fine. I’ll just get the blankets, then.”
Five minutes later, she returned to the living room with a pile of musty-smelling blankets to find him once again removing his shirt.
She quickly averted her gaze from the sight of his spectacular chest. “Um, here you go.” Dumping the pile on the sofa, she turned to leave with every intention of locking herself in the bedroom—away from Mr. Temptation.
“Stay and talk.”
He hadn’t asked, Brooke noted, bristling; he’d demanded. Who in the hell did he think he was? “I’m not in a talkative mood.” She could have bitten her tongue off when she realized what she’d said and how it could be misconstrued.
Fully expecting a mocking, sexually explicit comment about what she might be in the mood for, he surprised her by saying, “If I promise to behave will you stay?”
Hm. Depended on his definition of talk. Slowly, she turned, keeping her gaze averted. “What do you want to talk about?” she asked, not bothering to hide her skepticism. Several times during their six-mo
nth relationship Kyle had claimed he wanted to talk about the factory and her job, when in fact he really meant he wanted to lure her into his bed. She’d later overheard him complaining to one of his friends that he’d wasted six months on her. Only instead of saying her name he’d called her a cold bitch.
Two weeks after that, he’d promoted someone else to Level B Supervisor when he knew Brooke had been waiting for the promotion for the past two years.
“About the factory.”
Startled by his uncanny words, Brooke forgot she wasn’t supposed to look at him. She blinked, reminding herself that this man wasn’t Kyle, and couldn’t possibly know....He was, however, just as devious. And dangerous. Maybe more so, because he definitely had Kyle beat in the looks department.
Squaring her shoulders, she kept her eyes on his face as she demanded, “Why are you so interested in the factory?”
He looked surprised by her vehemence. “I told you, I might be interested in doing a story.”
Gingerly, she perched herself on the edge of the sofa. If he made a single move she was going to clobber him, she decided. “What can I say that I haven’t already said?”
“Pretend I’m the owner—”
“Alex Bradshaw,” Brooke supplied.
“Yes. Him. Pretend I’m him. What would you say to him if you had the opportunity?”
“And he was prepared to listen?”
“Right.”
“Off the record?”
“Off the record.”
“If you print a single word, I’ll sue you.”
“Fair enough.”
The temptation to ease her frustrations proved too great. And as a supervisor at the factory, the frustrations were many. Brooke carefully leaned back on the sofa, sticking her hands in her jacket pockets. “First I would tell him what a jackass I think he is.”
“Why?”
“For neglecting his company. He wanted it badly enough to kick old man Donaldson when he was down, yet he hasn’t visited one single time since he bought the factory.”
“So it was a hostile takeover?”
Brooke absently stroked Hugo. “No, not exactly. Rumor had it that Donaldson needed cash to cover a few bad investments, and was looking to sell anyway. Bradshaw found out about it and made him an offer way below the asking price.”
“And Donaldson couldn’t refuse?”
“He wasn’t in a position to refuse.”
“So you think Bradshaw took advantage of Donaldson?”
“After what I just told you, don’t you?” Brooke countered defensively.
He shrugged. “Sounds like business as usual, to me.” He added a rueful chuckle. “But then, what do I know? I’m just a reporter. So, after you scolded him for neglecting his business, then what?”
“I’d tell him what I thought about his mandatory once-a-month Saturday.”
“I’m not following you.”
“It’s mandatory for every worker to put in at least six hours one Saturday a month.”
“You said earlier that most of your employees jump at the chance for overtime,” he reminded her.
“They do, but this isn’t overtime.” When he frowned, Brooke nodded. “Some employees don’t make production, so everyone is required to work those extra six hours—at regular pay—to make up for it.”
“You’re kidding. How long has this been going on?”
“Since the takeover.” Brooke smiled bitterly. “We’re not unionized, so what can we do? If we make a fuss, then we get canned, and nobody can afford that luxury. I’m telling you, this guy’s a ruthless thief. A throwback to the dark ages. No wonder his wife left him. At least, that’s the rumor.”
“Hm. Any other complaints?”
“Oh, yeah. I was just getting warmed up. I would also tell him what I think about his policy demanding a doctor’s excuse for the employee.”
“I remember you mentioning it earlier. This is Bradshaw’s work, too?”
Brooke shook her head. “No, it’s always been that way, and it’s always been the wrong way. They should have sick days—period. Not sick days for themselves, but for family members as well. Most daycare centers won’t take a sick child, and I don’t blame them. The mothers have to stay home, and because of this stupid company policy they don’t get paid. It isn’t fair.”
“I agree,” he murmured.
“Then there’s the leaky roof in the break room, and the old equipment, and the sexual harassment—”
“Whoa, back up! Sexual harassment?”
Brooke felt a slow burn creep into her face. Why did she have to go and mention sex? Stupid, stupid, stupid! “Scratch that.”
“No.”
Her gaze widened on his stony features. “Look, I didn’t mean to say—”
“Yes, you did.”
By the looks of his stubborn jaw, he wasn’t letting the subject go. With a sigh, Brooke said, “Being a man, you’ll probably disagree with me, or think I’m silly.”
“Try me.”
“It’s the jokes.”
“Jokes?”
“Yes, the jokes. Each week, the Bradshaw company faxes a memo to the supervisors with a new condom joke. Some of them are pretty raunchy, and a few are illustrated rather graphically.”
“As in offensively?” he queried, his tone oddly soft.
She should have known Mr. Sex Machine would think she was overreacting. Her chin angled. “Yes, offensive. After six years of working there, I’m pretty immune, but there are a couple of the supervisors that have threatened to quit.”
“I see.”
“Do you?” she snapped. “I don’t think you do. It’s not only the jokes themselves—which are usually demeaning to women—but the fact that he believes we actually enjoy them. He’s a sick son-of-a-bitch.”
“And you’d tell him so?”
“In a heartbeat!” Brooke nearly shouted.
The silence that fell was sudden and deafening. Guilt stabbed Brooke. The problems at the factory weren’t his fault. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t yelling at you, but at—”
“That perverted son-of-a-bitch Bradshaw,” he concluded.
Brooke almost smiled at his over-exaggerated Texas drawl, until she remembered that she shouldn’t like him anymore than she liked Bone-Head Bradshaw. She must be a lot more tired than she realized, to be thinking of finding anything about him amusing.
“Well, I think I’ll go to bed,” she announced, rising from the sofa. She’d already shared more with him than she shared with most people she knew all of her life. The knowledge not only disgusted her, but frightened her.
“Good night,” he said.
She glanced at him, then looked quickly away as he stretched. “You won’t slip out on me, will you?”
“Hm. You could always chain me to your bed.”
Brooke felt a strange relief at his suggestive comment. This man she recognized and disliked. For a few moments, while they were discussing the factory, he’d seemed almost human. Nearly likable.
She shivered, then stiffened as the rough pads of his fingers trailed along her exposed neck. He’d come up soundlessly behind her, the rat.
His breath tickled her ear. “If you get lonely, you know where I’m at.”
“Not in this lifetime, Lover Boy,” she whispered back.
Husky laughter followed her mad flight to the bedroom. Once inside, she quickly shut the door and locked it. She sank onto the bed and covered her face with her hands.
Her anger at Dee dissolved completely. She forced herself to admit that to remain mad would make her the biggest hypocrite in history.
A knock at the door made her jump.
“I forgot something,” a deep, muffled voice said.
What now? she wondered, staring at the door. Maybe if she kept quiet, he would give up and go away. She didn’t want to look at him, his chest, or any other part of his glorious anatomy another single instant.
“Hello? Are you all right?”
Half growling, half laughin
g at her own ridiculous reaction, Brooke rose from the bed and stomped to the door. She jerked it open. “What the hell do you want?”
He stood in the doorway, bare-chested and sexy and every bit as glorious as she remembered, right down to his long, narrow feet. He smelled of wood smoke and sunshine.
“You keep looking at me like that, and I’m going to need more than a pillow.”
Mortified to be caught ogling him, Brooke jerked her gaze up. “You need a pillow?”
His eyebrows rose, and his eyes took on a familiar gleam that seemed to waver between humor and hunger. “You had something else in mind?”
“Go to hell,” Brooke growled, stomping to the bed and snatching up one of the pillows. She brought it to him and stuffed it into his arms.
“I changed my mind. There is something else I need.”
“You—”
Brooke’s words were muffled by his mouth. By the time he released her, she had to grab the door jamb for support; her bones had turned to jelly. “You have to stop kissing me.” She had meant to shout, but her voice emerged as a whisper.
His gaze dropped to linger on her mouth for a long, thoughtful moment. When he spoke, there wasn’t a trace of laughter left in his voice. “I will—when you stop wanting me to.”
Chapter Eight
Brooke awoke with the dim light of dawn filtering through the single cabin window, and Hugo poking into her ribs; she’d fallen asleep with her jacket on.
With a grimace, she sat up and struggled out of the wrinkled jacket, casting it onto the bed beside her. Her eyes ached and itched, and her throat felt dry and scratchy.
Coffee. She needed coffee in the worst way.
Much more than she needed to remember the dream she’d been having—the one that had generated all that sweat that was now drying to a sticky film on her body. The one where Mr. Broad Chest had climbed into bed with her, stripped her naked, and ravished her until she screamed.
From pleasure, that is. Lots of raw, piercing screams of pleasure as he did things to her she’d only read about. Down and dirty things, sexy, mind-blowing things that had made her writhe and beg for more.
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