Devoted to Pleasure

by Shayla Black

  The phone in her hand vibrated, and she raised the device to glance at the display. When she saw the name that flashed across her screen, Shealyn smiled and rushed to answer. “Maggie!”

  “It’s Magnolia,” her sister reminded. “Now that I’m going to be a married woman, I’d rather not have people address me by my childhood nickname.”

  “Good luck with that. You might be grown, but I’ll always think of you as little Maggie-Brat.”

  “Don’t you call me that,” she warned.

  “Why not? Hasn’t your fiancé heard it yet?”

  “No,” Maggie whispered furiously. “Davis is a very educated guy from a nice family. I’d rather you not embarrass me, thank you very much. Comfort is already a big culture shock for him.”

  “So no Maggie-Pie, Maggie-May, or Maggie-Butt, either?” she teased.

  “Stop it. I called you about something serious.”

  Shealyn wasn’t sure she could handle more serious right now, but she’d always looked out for her younger sister. Their grandparents had done a wonderful job giving them a roof, a stable home, and a loving environment after their mother had unloaded them with her parents in small-town Texas and never returned. But Granna was from a generation that didn’t discuss things like periods and sex, so Shealyn had tried to help her sister manage adolescence—after stumbling through herself.

  “What’s going on, Mags? Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I don’t know if I’d say wrong . . .”

  Which meant whatever worried her sister was awful.

  Shealyn sighed. “What would you say, then?”

  “Confusing might be a better word.”

  “Spill it.”

  “Well . . . Granna and Papa hired a new foreman for the ranch. Sawyer comes from Oklahoma. He’s younger than Boone.”

  “Everyone is younger than Boone,” she said of their last foreman. “That’s why he retired. Does Sawyer run the ranch in a way you don’t think is right?”

  “No,” Maggie seemed quick to assure. “He’s got some great ideas and has suggested things to Papa that should save both time and money. I’ve got no problems with his work.”

  Shealyn frowned. “Is he thieving?”

  “No. And for a highfalutin California starlet, you still sound an awful lot like you’re from Texas.”

  “Because I am from Texas, even if I live in L.A. now. Don’t change the subject. What’s the problem?”

  Her sister hesitated. “Well, Sawyer is sweet on me.”

  Maggie whispered the confession, and Shealyn frowned at her low tones. Her sister was up to something. “Where are you?”

  “In the kitchen. Granna and Papa are in the family room. Davis is in my room, hoping I’ll come in there and . . . you know.”

  “With your grandparents in the house? I’m not sure I like this ‘educated guy.’ And why don’t you want anyone to overhear your conversation?” Then the most likely possibility occurred to her. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re sweet on Sawyer, too.”

  “Well, it just . . . happened.”

  Shealyn narrowed her eyes. “What just happened?”

  But she knew.

  Maggie grunted. “Don’t make me spell it out.”

  “You had sex with Sawyer? Magnolia Rose, you’re getting married in twenty days.”

  “I know. But he’s a true southern gentleman.”

  “Who tossed you into bed, knowing you’re promised to someone else. I’ll bet he’s a looker, too.”

  “Well, yeah. And he thinks I’m pretty.”

  Shealyn sighed and prayed for patience. “You were Miss Kendall County three years running. Of course you’re pretty. That’s not a reason to have sex with him. What if I hopped into bed with every guy who thought I was pretty?”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, she wished she could walk them back. This confusion had played with her head once, too. When she’d been feeling alone and unsure and vulnerable. She probably needed to cut her sister a little slack.

  Pacing the length of the balcony once more, Shealyn watched the sun begin to set. God, she loved this view. The outdoor space ran along the back of the house, which sat high on a hill, offering her an amazing look-see of Los Angeles and the surrounding hills. But the ranch-like charm of the place was what really made her fall in love at first sight. Despite the fact it sat in the middle of Bel-Air, it had so many elements that harkened back to her childhood home just outside of Comfort, Texas.

  She was so far away from those simpler days. Sometimes—like now—she felt the absence so keenly she’d swear she was missing a part of her soul. But she wouldn’t pick up and move back. She enjoyed her job and the role she’d been cast to play. It was all the inconveniences of fame she could do without.

  “You’re right,” Maggie said. “I told Sawyer I can’t be with him anymore. He’s done his best to respect that. But I think Davis suspects something. He’s been real nasty to Sawyer. I’m seeing a side of my fiancé I don’t like.”

  “You cheated on him.”

  “Not on purpose!”

  “So it was an accident? Maggie, it’s not as if you tripped and fell unexpectedly onto Sawyer’s penis.”

  “Well, no, but . . .” Maggie sighed. “I’m torn. I can’t stop thinking about him.”

  Shealyn didn’t ask what Granna or Papa thought. They were in their seventies. Papa was slowing down, and Granna was beginning to forget things. The time would come when they would need in-home care, especially if Maggie followed through with her plan to marry Davis and move near his family in Connecticut.

  “What is it you think about Sawyer, Mags?”

  “I know the grandparents wanted me married off.” A note of regret tinged her voice. “They want to know I’ll be taken care of when . . .”

  Her younger sister didn’t finish that sentence, and Shealyn was glad because even talk of her grandparents dying hurt.

  “They want what’s best for you.”

  “They want me to leave Kendall County so I can experience life, like you are, but . . .”

  Maggie loved her home. Shealyn understood that all too well. Sometimes, she’d stand in her rustic living room and draw the drapes to block out the dazzling views of L.A. and close her eyes so she could imagine the bright Texas sunshine and gently rolling hills were just a dash away, out the back door.

  Shealyn waited, picturing her sister biting her lip and contemplating whether she should say what was really on her mind. “But?”

  “Being with him is easy. He makes me laugh. With Davis, I sometimes worry I’m trying to be someone I’m not because he’s who Granna wants for me.”

  “What do you want? I know you hate to disappoint the grandparents, but if you marry him, you’ll have to live with him. So think hard. You’ve got less than three weeks to decide what to do, girl.”

  “It’s not that easy. The wedding is already arranged.”

  “That’s not a reason to get married.”

  “The thing is, I thought I could grow to love Davis as I got to know him better. But the longer we’re engaged, the less I like him.”

  “Do you love Sawyer?”

  “I-I don’t know.”

  Shealyn wasn’t sure what else she could say over the phone. She’d only know how serious the situation was when she returned to Comfort and looked her sister in the eye. “I’ll be home a week before the wedding to help—”

  “Can’t you come now? Without Tower? Lord, you should talk to him. That name is so stupid.”

  Her sister wasn’t a fan.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve got to stay here. Besides the usual filming schedule, I have a few other appointments this week.” And a blackmailer to pay.

  Speaking of which, her new bodyguard should be here soon. She needed to get cleaned up and figure out exactly what she intended to tell the s
tranger.

  “I understand. I had to ask . . .” Maggie’s disappointment hung between them. “Your bridesmaid dress came in yesterday, by the way. I’ll pick it up tomorrow when I head into town.”

  “I look forward to trying it on when I get there. Until then, stay away from Sawyer’s penis. And think about what you really want your future to be.”

  “I will. Thanks for listening.”

  “You’re welcome. Be sure you kiss Granna and Papa for me.”

  Maggie agreed, then the line went silent. And Shealyn’s link to home was gone.

  But she didn’t have time to dwell on her sadness. In fact, it would be less depressing if she didn’t. So she tidied up her kitchen after the makeshift dinner she’d thrown together and ran a little gloss over her lips. She refused to dress up for the bodyguard. No matter how hot, how cocky, how interesting, or how trustworthy, she would not look at him twice. She certainly would not fall on his penis, like Maggie had the hunky young foreman’s.

  Like Shealyn herself had once done in the past.

  She glanced in the mirror as she left the bathroom. The phone in her pocket vibrated again, and she half expected her sister to be in her ear once more, going on about the epic struggle between the demands of her head and her vagina. But when she scanned the display, it was worse.

  “Hi, Dean.”

  “Shealyn. Can’t you call me Tower?”

  It seemed silly for her to call him by his stage name, but she understood his point. If she got in the habit of calling him Dean, then it would slip out and his secret would be revealed. Well, one of them.

  “Sure. Sorry. What’s up?”

  “Can you come to dinner with me tomorrow night?”

  “Hang on.” She flipped through the calendar on her phone and didn’t see anything pressing except her evening at home that she’d been looking forward to for weeks. “Do you absolutely need me?”

  “My brother just called. He and Norah are in town.”

  Shealyn understood his problem instantly. “I’ll be there. What time?”

  “I don’t know when their plane lands yet. This is all last minute. As soon as he lets me know—”

  The call waiting on her phone beeped. “Okay, we’ll figure it out when you have more information. I’ve got another call. I need to go.”

  “Okay. Oh, I saw the proofs for your Cosmo spread earlier. You look hot, babe.”

  She smiled. That sounded more like the Tower she knew.

  “Thanks. Talk to you tomorrow.” As soon as she said good-bye, she flipped over to the other call, absently wondering if her phone would ever go silent tonight. Then again, if it did, what would she think about except the terrible threat she didn’t know how to handle? “Hello?”

  “Ms. West. It’s Lance at the front gate. You have a visitor. Cutter Bryant?”

  She vaguely remembered that being the name of her new bodyguard. Jolie Quinn, the clothing designer dressing her for the next season of the show, had passed her Cutter’s contact info. She and the savvy woman had met during her first fitting and they were fast becoming friends. So when she’d said during a moment of weakness a few days ago that she needed a bodyguard, Jolie had wholeheartedly recommended the man.

  “Send him up.”

  Taking one last look around the house for clutter, she shoved a few magazines back in a stack, then admonished herself. She was hiring him, not rolling out her southern hospitality for a houseguest.

  Two minutes later, an SUV rolled up her graveled front drive and parked beside the truck she’d driven here from Texas and insisted on keeping because it reminded her of home. He exited the vehicle. Through the front window, Shealyn couldn’t see him much since dusk was falling and what was left of the sun backlit him, obscuring his face. But his shape was enough to catch her breath. He was what her former castmate, Jessica Jarrett, had called a Dorito. His wide shoulders and powerful chest tapered down to a lean waist and downright narrow hips. Yum . . .

  As he secured the vehicle and stepped onto the wide porch, a litany of pleas rolled through her head. Please be ugly. Please be a jerk. Please be gay. She was lonely and a little bit vulnerable, damn it. She didn’t need temptation in her life.

  When he knocked, she pulled the big arched door open, a subdued welcome already planned. The moment she laid eyes on him, her head went blank and her heart started pounding ninety-to-nothing.

  Dear lord. That was a man. Sandy hair, piercing dark eyes, and a mouth that looked wholly capable of sin. That was before she even noticed his muscles all but bulged from his black T-shirt. He looked big everywhere.

  “Ms. West?” His deep voice sounded gentle and low, but she already knew from reading his résumé that he could be a dangerous bastard.

  She managed to unscramble her wits—sort of—and nodded. “Mr. Bryant, come in.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  That note in his voice was unmistakable. Just a hint of soft twang . . .

  “I’m not ma’am. That’s my grandmother. You’re a southern boy?” She stepped back to admit him.

  A little smile tugged at his lips as he followed her inside the foyer. “I am. Louisiana born and bred. You’re from Texas?”

  She wasn’t surprised he’d done his homework before coming here. Jolie said he was a professional. Still, the fact that this man had gone out of his way to acquire knowledge about her flustered Shealyn a bit.

  “I am, yes. We’re both far from home,” she remarked, then wished she’d stayed silent. He probably wasn’t one for small talk, and she could not flirt with him.

  “That we are.” He scoped out her house with an economical glance. Shealyn wondered if he was surprised she’d chosen to live a bit removed from the glamour, amid the wooden ceiling beams, river rock floor, and simple oak furniture. Had he expected something ornate and grand?

  On second thought, his opinion didn’t matter.

  “Beer?” she offered, just like she would have back on the ranch after a long day. Most southern men liked their cold ones.

  He shook his head. “I don’t drink on the job. I’d take water if you have some.”

  Of course. He wasn’t here to socialize, and she had to remember that they weren’t on a date. “Coming right up. If you’ll have a seat on the sofa in the back room, I’ll be right there to fill you in on the job a bit more.”

  Still scanning his surroundings, he nodded. Shealyn frowned. Somehow, she had the feeling he was examining her, too. Her sense that he thoughtfully studied everything and everyone before making quick, smart judgments unnerved her. She would have to keep whatever she was thinking or feeling tucked away. But just in case, he’d signed a strong nondisclosure agreement. In theory, he couldn’t share any of her secrets with the world. It would, however, be smarter if she didn’t give him anything to sell.

  Grabbing him a chilled bottle of water, she took one for herself and meandered out of the kitchen to find him not sitting. Instead, he stood looking out over her back deck and at Los Angeles beyond. The lights of the city were beginning to twinkle.

  “You have a very nice view.”

  Shealyn handed him the bottle, almost certain a more insightful observation rolled through his head. But she’d already pegged him as a quiet one. He probably shared far less than he discerned in any given situation. Frankly, that was the way she wanted him.

  “Thank you. It’s not quite home, but it’s a nice substitute.”

  “You’ve done a good job making it homey. The personal pictures are a nice touch.” He paced to the hall table behind the sofa and lifted the framed photo closest. “That your family?”

  “My grandparents and my sister, yes.”

  “They come out to visit much?”

  “Maggie has come once, but my grandparents . . . I’m hard-pressed to ever convince them to leave Comfort.”

  He nodded, ge
sturing to the next picture. “And the horse?”

  “I grew up riding Honeysuckle. She passed away last year.” Shealyn felt terrible she hadn’t been there for the end of her childhood companion’s life.

  He meandered to the end of the table and lifted the next framed photo. “Are these the folks on your show?”

  “It’s the first cast of Hot Southern Nights, yes. An extra took this while we were posing for official photos. I liked this better than the pic the network later chose. I keep meaning to change that out with the updated picture from season two. Just haven’t had time.”

  Cutter studied it, seeming to take in all the faces in a single glance before putting it down with a nod. “Congratulations on your success.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your willingness to come here on short notice. You just finished your job for Jolie Quinn?”

  He turned to her, and now that she looked at him in the soft glow of the overhead lights, she saw the chiseled face and firm jaw, the serious dark eyes . . . and the abrasion on his right cheek, the fading bruise at his temple, as well as a long scratch under his lower lip.

  He gave her that lift of his mouth that wasn’t quite a smile again. “As you can see.”

  “Were . . .” Tough guys like him rarely wanted to own up to their injuries, but she found herself curious. “Were you hurt more than what’s visible?”

  He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Minor concussion. Other than a mean headache that lasted longer than I’d have liked, I’m fine. Tell me what I can do for you, Ms. West.”

  She gripped her bottle and took small steps to the sofa, trying to compose her thoughts. She’d give him the minimum—sprinkle it with a harmless white lie—then hope he had no cause to dig deeper. “For the most part, I do all right without a security detail. I had one for a while about six months back, but nothing ever happened that I couldn’t handle, so having a big shadow follow me everywhere seemed silly. I drive myself to the set. I manage to attend whatever press functions I have without incident. I see friends occasionally here and there.”

  “For a star with your rising status, pardon me, but that seems reckless.”