by Calista Fox
His irises deepened in color, almost turning onyx. A sufficient sign of angst—on her behalf. He said, “I’ve never liked knowing what I know about how you grew up. But when you ask me to keep something between us, baby, that’s where it stays.”
“Thank you.”
“Nothing to thank me for, sweetheart. I’m always on your side.”
His head slowly dipped and his mouth lingered a mere breath from hers. They were momentarily suspended in time as they stared into each other’s eyes. It was that perfect, precious point where anticipation mounted and need gripped them both. Her heart soared. Her insides blazed.
And every fiber of her being cried out for his kiss…
Chapter Three
Scout’s warm lips brushed over hers in a feathery touch that made her blood sing and had her body and soul instantly begging for more.
He murmured, “I think about you all the time. You know that, right?”
Ciara’s stomach fluttered. “I’m happy to hear it.”
He kissed her again. Softly. Sexily. Tongueless kisses that teased and titillated.
It was best they didn’t go for a full-on lip-lock. Because it’d be a scorcher. And not only would they end up in bed and Ciara would not get the things done this evening that had to be taken care of, but they’d also set the rumor mill on fire.
Hell, they’d likely done that already with their pressed-to-each-other dancing. So she needed to keep a cool head where Scout Winchester was concerned.
Tilda had always enjoyed the gossip around town; she’d just never wanted her family to be headliners. That was why the St. James family kept their skeletons in their closets. As much as they could, at any rate.
Pulling slightly away—before they got carried away—Ciara splayed her hands over Scout’s pecs and asked, “How long are you in town, Winger?”
Her nickname for him, since he’d been a right wing forward from about the time he could walk.
Scout let out a low growl easily recognizable as sexual frustration. Said, “Just got in this morning. There’s the dedication of the ice rink tomorrow and some other business to tend to on Monday. Then on Tuesday I’ll head up to the cabin with my brothers and mother for the holiday and the remainder of the week.”
“Ah, yes, the dedication. Big doings for you. Quite the honor to specifically have your name added to the Winchester rink. That’s a sign of success in this town. All the good businesses sport the proprietor’s name.”
“Not exactly necessary in this case, since it isn’t a family business. My grandfather built the rink for me and donated it to the town when I was eight, remember? Because he didn’t like me skating along the creek when it was only partially frozen over. And since I practically lived in a jersey and carried around a stick and puck everywhere I went, he was convinced hockey was going to be my passion in life. Was right, as usual.”
“I like watching you play.”
“I like watching you walk. Damn, you’ve got a nice sway to those hips. An ass I crave to bite. Legs that don’t quit... And I remember exactly how they feel wrapped around my waist while I’m buried—”
“Shh,” she said on a long sigh as she raised a hand and pressed a finger to his lips. “Stop now or we’re going to be the talk of the town.”
“I’m sure we already are,” he mumbled around her finger, before whisking it aside. “And quite frankly… I don’t give a damn.” His mouth crashed over hers.
Ciara’s lips instantly parted and Scout’s tongue delved deep, sweeping over hers.
So much for not giving into the full-on lip-lock. She should have known it was inevitable. This was Scout Winchester, after all. Virile, aggressive, very, very alpha.
His arms tightened around her. Ciara was fairly certain he never held a woman the way he held her. But she’d never had the heart to ask. Didn’t want to know the reality of what his life—his sex life, to be exact—might be like when they weren’t together. When they had no plans for seeing each other. Were going about their own business with no mutual port in sight.
What Ciara latched onto was the intensity of their kiss. The way Scout seemed to get as lost in her as she did him.
One of his hands skimmed down to her butt and he squeezed an ass cheek. Held her more firmly against him. His erection grew and nestled her belly, exciting her even more. Hitching her pulse and her internal temperature.
All the while, he kissed her with the sort of reckless abandoned that made her crave to be alone and naked with him. To crawl all over his hunky body. Feel his hands all over hers.
Ciara had no idea how long the kiss went on and on. She didn’t care if it’d been minutes or hours. Would be absolutely content—in that sizzling-hot sort of way—if it went on and on forever.
But suddenly there was a shrill whistle and a “Woot!” that pierced the crisp, quiet night air. Followed by, “Get a room, Win!” Punctuated by the sound of a muffler-impaired truck roaring by.
Scout tore his mouth from hers and watched the vehicle continue down the street. He chuckled, albeit tightly. “Fucking Dorman.” He shook his head.
“Who?” Ciara asked in a breathless voice. She was lightheaded from the kiss. Teeming with exhilaration. A bit mind-blown.
More than a bit.
“Tom Dorman,” Scout said, not quite catching his breath, either. “Came to town midway through senior year. I don’t think you had the pleasure of meeting him at school. Thank God. You would have left me for him in a heartbeat. Strapping football type.”
“That hardly competes with rugged hockey hero.” She winked.
Scout kissed her again. Another searing one as her fingers plowed through his thick hair.
She could swear by the way he hungrily devoured her, kept her sealed to him, that he couldn’t get enough of her.
A dangerous thought. One she shouldn’t allow to invade her usually sensible, highly focused brain.
Yet she let him pull her deeper and deeper into his heated kiss. Released the tether with reality and just…felt. Scout’s hard body against hers, since he’d left the zipper of his jacket undone. His lips and mouth teasing and tasting her. His hand on her ass, kneading the cheek and causing her to rub along his powerful thigh, wedged between her parted legs.
Nothing else existed but the two of them. This late in the evening, she wasn’t too worried about additional passersby. And the chill in the air didn’t even register. In fact, Scout had her incinerating from the inside out.
Tension and need built in her core. Ciara didn’t know Scout’s dating status when it came to other women; neither of them had ever been in the position to ask for or demand exclusivity. She’d silently followed that path regardless. What was the point in being with another man when all she could think of was Scout?
Therefore, it’d been three long and lonely years since she’d been wrapped in a strong, possessive embrace. Three years since she’d been consumed by this sort of heated bliss.
Naturally, she wasn’t the least bit interested in giving up the scintillating sensations coursing through her, along with the sheer excitement of being Scout’s Girl when they were in town together.
But cosmic intervention had her ripping her mouth from his and jumping back as she felt a mighty vibration against her hip.
“What the hell, Scout?” she demanded, wide-eyed. “What was that?”
He shoved a hand through his hair. Grunted like a stealthy, victorious animal suddenly denied his prey.
“My phone.”
“That’s one powerful vibrate setting.” Capable of replacing the battery-operated device she kept tucked away in her luggage, for God’s sake.
“Damn it,” he all but growled over the broken moment between them. Then extracted the iPhone from the front pocket of his jeans.
Ciara’s teeth clamped down on her lower lip and she willed her chest to stop heaving because he’d turned her on so damn much.
The heat factor did dim a little as she wondered who would be calling Scout this la
te at night.
He consulted the screen…and scowled. Glancing up at her, his scowled deepened. “Hey, what’s with the Fatal Attraction death look?”
She gasped. “What?”
The scowl turned into his cocky grin. “The I’m going to reach through his phone and strangle the woman on the other end of the line who interrupted us look. Not that I’m not flattered… Because believe me, sweetheart. I am.”
“I do not look like that!”
“Yeah, babe.” His grin widened. His gorgeous, chocolatey eyes sparkled under the light from the antique lampposts. “You do.”
She opened her mouth to make a rebuttal… No words came out.
Scout said, “Stop maniacally plotting—although I find it very sexy. There isn’t another woman calling me. It’s my agent.”
“Oh.” Relief suddenly flooded her veins. Okay, perhaps she had been a bit maniacal.
Psycho-jealous much?
She could kick herself. Jealousy would not make her life any easier.
Scout tucked the cell into his back pocket this time, letting the call go to voicemail. He said, “Nothing that can’t wait until morning. Now… Where were we?” He wagged a brow at her. Stepped in close and took her in his arms again. “Oh, yes. Right here.”
He kissed her.
Or, at least, tried to. Ciara wiggled out of his embrace. Resisting him. And good Lord that was one hell of a feat!
All worked up once more and having trouble forming coherent thoughts, let alone finding her real voice, not the provocative one that always came out to play when Scout was around, she reminded him, “I have tons to do tonight.”
“I have a to-do list as well.” Now, he grinned seductively. “You’re at the top of it.”
“William Woodrow Winchester.”
“Ah… Come on now, babe.” He groaned. Shook his head. “You had to go and do that?”
“Yes, I did.”
He and his brothers were named after U.S. presidents. Scout had received the esteemed honor of being named after more than one. Somehow, his mother had thought it sounded classy. Ciara knew Scout had thought from an early age that it made him sound like a dork. So, when his Granpa Win had begun taking him around to scout for elk pre-hunting season, he’d told his gramps he needed a pseudonym—and Scout it was.
Ciara gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek and told him, “Pulling out the big guns is the only way to get you to focus on the business at hand—not kissing me. It’s either that, or I call your mother.”
“I’m sure she’s in the middle of canning something,” he quipped. “You wanna know where JT the New York Times bestselling author, Hamilton the investment mogul and Scout the former pro hockey player get their drive from? It’s all that woman.”
Ciara’s heart constricted. He’d said this flippantly—even though it was all deeply rooted in fact. But she knew that Scout took offense that his father had never motivated, inspired or encouraged his sons to greatness. From what Scout had said of Jeff Winchester—and it wasn’t a whole lot, because Scout didn’t typically speak of the man—the senior Winchester had always been more concerned about lining his own pockets than taking care of his family. Always had a new scam or scheme up his sleeve. Always angled for a deal that would benefit him. And him alone.
Ciara also knew that discussing Scout’s father was much too volatile a subject to broach, particularly when they were standing in the middle of the street.
So she merely told him, “I think your mother’s brilliant. I watch her show all the time—she’s carved quite a niche for herself. I order her gravy and plum sauce every year, to be delivered wherever I am. Personally, I can’t can for crap, but it’s fascinating how she keeps the process fresh and the topics relevant.”
“She’s always been fond of you as well. In fact, she’s mentioned a time or two that she, Marilyn and the others believe you ought to take over the society. Head it up in Tilda’s wake.”
Her mind suddenly reeled. It wasn’t anything Ciara had ever considered. “Those are big shoes to fill, Scout. And those ladies aren’t just active this time of year. They take a scaled-down version of the reenactment on the road all over the Southwest, to museums, libraries and elementary-grade history classes.”
“Well, you are the rightful heir to the society, since Tilda was the one to charter it. Something to think about.”
A huge something to think about!
But then Ciara mentally shook her head. It wasn’t even a notion she could ponder at the moment. Ciara didn’t live in Plymouth Rock. Ciara didn’t live anywhere. And her calling was travel writing and blogging.
Though, on the very realistic side of things, she had to remind herself that her career had recently, unexpectedly and involuntarily stalled out. At least with the documentary aspect, since the magazine she primarily wrote for, and which she hosted webcasts for, just folded. Totally out of the blue.
Which basically—if she allowed herself to face the facts—meant that Ciara was not only homeless, but also jobless.
There it was in a nutshell. More knots in her string of bad luck.
But none of it was anything she could reconcile this evening.
She told Scout, “We’re going to freeze if we stay out here any longer.” The snow had started to fall again. Fat, fluffy flakes.
He gave her a quick kiss—though she felt his restraint as he tried to keep it light between them. He asked, “You’ll be at the dedication tomorrow?”
“Catherine and I agreed that if we start early enough in the morning, we’ll both be able to make it to the rink on time. I’ll see you there, Winger.” She smiled at him. Climbed into the Rubicon and cranked on the ignition, the heater and the windshield wipers.
Scout closed her door and she drove off. Myriad thoughts swirled in her mind. Though mostly she was wrapped in the thrill of being with Scout. Even if only for a few days…
***
Scout woke to a biting cold morning. He peered out a window in his room at the B&B. It’d snowed all night. The town was blanketed in white and the pines on the mountain were laden with fresh powder; drifts rose and fell on the slopes.
While it was incredibly beautiful, he and his family had planned Thanksgiving dinner at Win Creek Cabin. He hoped they didn’t have any trouble getting up the mountain with all this new snow. It was avalanche country, after all.
And he, JT and Hamilton had quite a bit of work to do up there. The brothers owned the remote retreat now, divided equally amongst them, since Gramps had cut their father entirely out of his will. Lots of bad blood there. The three boys had always loved the cabin, but since they’d all gone their separate ways, no one had made it up the mountain in years. No one came home for the holidays anymore. Until now. But Thanksgiving wasn’t the true reason for the reunion.
Hamilton had approached Scout and JT recently about selling. It was a damn good deal. Almost impossible to pass up. Except that, first and foremost, Scout didn’t need the money. Secondly, in his heart, parting with something that had meant so much to their grandfather—and to the brothers, to be honest—didn’t sit right with him. Yet Hamilton was gung-ho about letting go of the cabin. No one used it and the upkeep was a bitch. Scout knew JT didn’t want to sell. But invariably, Scout wasn’t inclined to rain on Hamilton’s parade.
In Scout’s mind, he really didn’t have much say in the matter. He might be an equal owner, but he’d never been around enough to feel as though he were truly a part of the family. He certainly wasn’t in the position to say what would or wouldn’t be in everyone’s best interest. So he would agree to the sale if that was what his bros eventually decided, though no law had to be laid down until the end of the month. Still, there was a lot to do to clear the place out. The very reason they were all in town.
He released the lacy curtain he’d pulled back and it dropped into place. The frilly room had been the only one available when he’d belatedly made the reservation. Sure, Constance Carter, the proprietor, had offered to call ever
y guest currently booked and ask if they’d switch accommodations for the weekend, since Scout was a bit of a local celeb and she’d insisted he should have whichever room he wanted. But he wasn’t big in the head that way. Granted, he possessed the Winchester arrogance, but not in a belligerent way. That was his father’s forte.
So he’d politely accepted whatever room was open. And feared the wrath of the fields of daisies that had given their lives for the sake of the décor. Seriously, it looked like a greenhouse had hurled its guts in here. And the yards of lace… Jesus. The only thing lace was good for in Scout’s mind was to fill the pages of lingerie catalogs. Or for him to slowly peel away from Ciara St. James’s gorgeous body.
He grinned. Christ, she was something else. Not just drop-dead gorgeous. No, Ciara was so much more than that. She was warm and soft and sexy. Had a soul-stealing smile. Exuded the sort of quiet strength and perfect-timing humor that did a guy like him in. Completely.
She knew so much about him, but everything she didn’t know—like the extent of his accident and subsequent injuries, and how they gravely impacted his life—were things she mulled over anyway in an inquisitive, though not-so-invasive manner that would feel as though she were poking and prodding. He’d gotten enough of that from various other avenues, all wanting to know the exact course of his future in sports. It grated, especially while the wounds were still fresh.
Though Scout knew he had to tell her about the traumatic brain injury—TBI, his renowned neurosurgeon called it. It was pretty much a secret to the rest of the world, but Ciara wasn’t the rest of the world. She was… Ciara. His Ciara.
Yes, Scout also needed to come clean with his family.
Though he’d been cleared to play following the accident in Canada, once all the swelling had gone down, he hadn’t told a soul of the subsequent nasty side effect he suffered. Headaches that made migraines feel like a breezy walk in the park. The pain was excruciating. The pounding, pounding, pounding was so vicious, he couldn’t think straight. The agony would tear through him until he screamed at the top of his lungs. The headaches could be debilitating. And anything could trigger them, but mostly it was when he was constantly slammed into the boards, body-checked over and over, because that was how his opponents tried to stop him from scoring, weaken his attack.
