Branded

by Stacy Gail

  “Caveman,” she muttered, shaking her head. “In case you haven’t heard, corporal punishment went out with the last century. My sympathies to your future daughter or daughters.”

  “And two,” he went on, ignoring her, “I had hoped that once you’d received those invitations, you’d pick up on the fact that there are no hard feelings on my part.”

  She let out a squeak that could have shattered glass. “Hard feelings...on your part?”

  “It’s not every day my ass gets groped like it’s a stress toy.”

  “I...you...” For a full five seconds she seemed incapable of remembering how to speak English. Then to his surprise, she deflated with a long sigh, and her expression twisted into a pained grimace. “You’re right.”

  “Damn right I’m right.”

  “Worse yet, I have no excuse for my gropey behavior.”

  “Gropey?” He couldn’t have stopped his snort of laughter if he’d tried. “Is that even a word?”

  “You didn’t deserve to be treated with such disrespect, and you obviously wouldn’t have retaliated if I had just kept my stupid hands to myself. Hell, you probably wouldn’t have noticed I was even there, so believe me when I say that you have no idea how sorry I am for treating you that way.”

  “Aha.” Slowly he began to smile, and he looked at her for so long it was a wonder he didn’t drive into a tree. “There she is.”

  She blinked. “Who?”

  “The woman I knew you’d grow to be. And you’re out of your mind if you think I never noticed you.” He pulled up to the main house’s wraparound porch steps. The house itself was a huge, rambling yellow and white Victorian mansion complete with turrets and gingerbread scrollwork. Normally he hated even being in close proximity of it, but at the moment all he could see was Celia. “I noticed you long before that night. I am a man, after all.”

  “Trust me, that’s no guarantee,” she muttered, and shadows of what looked like pain sifted through her eyes before she looked away. “When it comes to men, I’m...well. Kind of invisible.”

  “You’re out of your mind if you think that’s true.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised. I did a number on myself when I got stupid-drunk and groped you. You’re highly regarded in town, so that one disrespectful act made me pretty much the most hated person around.”

  “What the hell, Cel,” he muttered, shocked. “Don’t you ever say that, you hear me? You’re not hated by anyone.”

  “You don’t know.” The hurt in her low voice lashed out at him until it was all he could feel. “If it weren’t for a couple of dates with a coworker in San Antonio, I’d honestly believe I’d made myself invisible to the entire male population of the world.”

  “Wait, back up.” His mood took a hard left, and he turned to scowl at her instead of shutting off the engine. “What coworker? Are you serious about him?”

  “What...? No, I actually haven’t seen him socially in months. Not that it’s any of your business,” she added, probably just to bug him.

  “It’s my business now, because you’re not invisible to me.” Before she could even think about dodging him, he reached out to curl a hand around the nape of her neck under all that gorgeous hair of hers, and waited until she met his gaze head-on. “You could never be invisible to me. You understand what I’m telling you, Celia?”

  “Uh, not really. Ry—”

  “I see every part of you, from your knockout black magic eyes, to your hair that I want to bury my damn face in every time I see you, to that sassy mouth that I want to quiet with mine. So don’t tell me about other men, and definitely don’t tell me what my business is. You’re my business, and since I’m a fair man, I’m fine with you making me yours.”

  “Make you my...what? My business?” Those soul-swallowing eyes stared at him as if she’d never seen him before, and it made his gut tighten in the sweetest way. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “It means I want you to get busy about seeing me as I really am.”

  “I do.”

  “No you don’t, not even close. I’m not one of the Brody brothers that all the townie girls want to fuck so they can brag to their friends they bagged one of us.”

  “The last thing I want to do is bag you.”

  “And I’m also not the bad guy that you have to avoid like the plague. I’m not your enemy, darlin’. If you give me half a chance, you’ll see that I can be your hero.”

  * * *

  The house Ry referred to simply as the main house was a gorgeous three-story Victorian, and Celia was properly stunned by the grandeur of the place after going through a thorough tour. It was the oldest structure on a property that spanned over five thousand acres of prime grazing land, with the Nueces River running through the southeast portion of it. The original Brody ancestor planted a semicircle of pecan trees near the homestead, and they’d grown to become a cradle for the main house. As far as she was concerned, the old mansion could have easily been put on the list of historical landmarks, and it amazed her that the business of running a highly profitable ranch happened in that building to this very day.

  The main house was separated from the day-to-day work structures, such as the tack room, the birthing barn and feed barn, the bull barn—famously dubbed the Bachelor Pad—the first barn built on the property called the Small Barn, the cupola-topped stable that was home to a dozen or more work horses, and a vast network of corrals. There was also a sizable woodworking and machinists’ shop, a large first aid station that looked to be as functional as any ER room, and a huge metal building Ry simply called the garage, which housed the ranch’s wide variety of rolling stock and heavy motorized equipment.

  The work structures were all painted a traditional red with white trim. With the faint black dots that were their famous Black Angus cattle scattered here and there amongst the rolling green fields, Green Rock was the epitome of picture-perfect ranch life.

  Or that was the impression Celia got. In all honesty, as Ry took her through a tour of the buildings, she was barely able to absorb it all. She was too overwhelmed. Not by the Brody ranch—which, understandably, would overwhelm anyone.

  No.

  The one thing that overwhelmed her was the jean-clad, Stetson-wearing, sexy as hell rancher sitting beside her.

  As impossible as it was to comprehend, Ryland Brody—second-eldest of the legendary Brody boys and the most devastatingly charismatic man she’d ever known—seemed laser-locked on making a play for her, the oddball social outcast.

  The gossips would have a field day if they ever found out.

  When she’d crushed on any and all things Brody, she would have been over the moon at this unexpected turn of events. No doubt she would’ve hopped on the phone to brag to everyone she knew that one of the Brody boys, freaking Texas royalty, had taken an interest in her.

  But that was then, and this was now.

  Now all she could think was this had to be some kind of elaborate joke.

  Why would Ry Brody want to make a play for her, when he could have any woman in the world?

  “We’ve got a good-sized barbecue pit and smokehouse onsite, which is usually fired up around the clock whenever we’ve got a big blowout coming up.” Behind the wheel of an open-sided all-terrain utility vehicle that looked like a badass golf cart on steroids, Ry nodded to a squat brick structure beyond the pecan trees, the brim of his dark brown cowboy hat shading eyes that seemed even more intensely green in the natural light. “It’s a safe distance from the main house, but it’s still close enough to the outdoor entertainment area for when it’s time to get the main course to the table.”

  Grimly she tried to focus on what he was saying, and not how she wanted to take that hat off so she could run her fingers through his dark hair. “Where do you usually set your guests up for these outdoor events?”

  “See all that open lawn
between the back of the house and the bandstand? That’s where we set up a few dozen picnic tables, haul out the portable dance floor from the Small Barn, and kick up our heels until the sun comes up.”

  “Wait. You have a portable dance floor?” Seriously, who the hell owned their own portable dance floor?

  “Have you ever tried dancing the two-step on an uneven lawn? It’s not for the faint of heart.” Then he shot her a sideways glance. “You do know how to two-step, don’t you?”

  “You make it sound like it’s mandatory.”

  “Good Lord, you don’t know how to two-step.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Do you know how to two-step?”

  Damn it. “No.”

  “Oh, hell no.” He stopped the cart with a jerk, snapped up the keys and slid out. “We’re fixing that right now.”

  “There’s nothing to fix,” she said, keeping her butt firmly planted on the padded seat while he rounded the vehicle. “Seriously, I’m good.”

  “Every Texan has got to know how to do the two-step in order to live a complete and fulfilled life.”

  “You really don’t have a problem with overstating things in a big way, do you?”

  He waved that observation away. “Since you need to understand both me and this ranch to do your job up right, you’ve got to start with the basics.”

  “Since I’ve already turned down the job, I really don’t.”

  “Come on, darlin’.” He held out his hand, his gaze challenging hers. “There’s nothing to be scared of.”

  “Scared? Me?” Her hand was in his and she slid off the cart before she thought about it. “I’ll have you know that I’m one of the best dancers in Bitterthorn, if not the best. It’s my favorite thing to do, even more than eating Pauline’s praline ice cream.”

  “Yeah?” The sun blazed down on them as he led her to the middle of the open lawn. “That’s got me beat. Dancing might not be my most favorite thing to do, but it’s definitely in the top three. Kissing’s number two.” Facing her, he took her left hand to place it on his right shoulder, then took her right hand in his while his free hand curled around her back to cup her shoulder blade. Once they were in a classic dancing position, his head bent toward hers until his ruggedly gorgeous face was all she could see. “Wanna guess what my first favorite thing to do is?”

  “I’m going to guess it’s not eating ice cream.” Valiantly she tried to believe the burn in her cheeks came from the sun, and not her imagination as it dived into thoughts of Ry naked and twisting her legs around his ass as he plunged into her... “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”

  He moved closer still, so that the brim of his hat blocked out the sun’s glare. “I thought you said you weren’t scared.”

  Scared? Oh, hell yes. She was downright terrified of how much she loved having him this close. “You implied doing the two-step on an uneven lawn wasn’t easy, so...”

  “I’ve got strong arms. I’ll catch you if you fall.” His hand rubbed along her shoulder blade in what was probably a reassuring gesture, but it was so close to a caress it took all her strength not to shiver in delight. “Trust me, Celia?”

  Surprised, she looked up into his eyes and said the first thing that came to mind. “Not even a little.”

  He took his time absorbing that. “Then this lesson’s going to do you a world of good, because the two-step’s all about the woman trusting her man.”

  That didn’t sound promising. “Why is that?”

  “Because in this dance, the man leads his woman where he needs her to go, and she has to trust he knows what the hell he’s doing.” His fingers tightened on hers in a gentle squeeze. “You start by putting your right foot back, then bringing your left foot back to it, real quick. Ready?”

  “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this right—”

  “And go.”

  She wasn’t sure how it happened, but somehow he made her feet move, a quick step backward that made her clutch at his shoulder.

  Holy crap.

  A pleased sound rumbled deep in his throat, and she glanced up at him only to find that his attention was zeroed in on her mouth. “Not gonna lie, darlin’. I love how you do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “The way you hold me.” The surprising deepness of his voice seemed to vibrate all the way through her, making her skin heat and her belly turn to goo. “You gripped my shoulders just like that when I kissed you last night. You’ve got such little hands, but by damn, do they know how to hold on to me as if they never want to let me go.”

  Her eyes widened before darting to her hand. Sure enough, her traitorous fingers were curled into his deltoid muscle like her life depended on it. “Sorry, I didn’t realize—”

  “Don’t apologize. I told you I love it. Now then,” he went on in a more businesslike tone, before she had a chance to pull away. “Those two quick steps back are just the first half of the two-step. The second part is a slow walking backward—first your right foot, then left. So basically it’s two quick steps back that bring your feet together, and two slow walking steps back. Got it?”

  She nodded. It wasn’t exactly rocket science. “When do I get to go forward?”

  “That’s where the trust part comes in. You don’t go forward in this dance. The man leads, and his woman believes.”

  “I’ll bet this dance was made up by a man,” she began, then squeaked when he leaned forward, setting her into motion.

  Like that, they were dancing.

  They had to look ridiculous. There was no music, no floor beneath their feet, and no earthly reason for them to be doing what they were doing.

  So ridiculous.

  But with each step her awkwardness faded away, and as she caught his rhythm, how they looked no longer mattered. They didn’t need to be on a dance floor, or have a beat to move them in harmony, and being under a cloudless sky in beautiful surroundings was reason enough to celebrate life with a dance. The strange rightness of it floated through her, even as they glided across the grounds with such ease it was almost alarming.

  What was she doing? She should be trying to avoid him like the plague, because nothing good ever seemed to come of getting tangled up with him.

  And yet...

  Her heart thudded against her sternum as she gazed up into his eyes. God, she loved the way he looked at her, as if he wanted to memorize every nuance of her face. The weight of his gaze was an unabashedly intimate caress that had the power to steal her breath despite her determination to keep her distance. How could she ever want to keep her distance when there was this baffling rightness being in Ry’s arms? For God’s sake, this was Ry Brody, the one man in Bitterthorn she shouldn’t feel anything for.

  But her heart was pounding. Her senses jangled with heightened awareness, making his clean, manly scent all the more delicious as it mingled with the scents of the grass under their feet. He made her feel this much. No one else. Just Ry.

  If he were any other man, she would have been bowled over by the sheer romance of the moment.

  This wasn’t any other man, though.

  She’d be an idiot to forget that.

  “Don’t look down, darlin’. There’s nothing to see there.”

  Her head snapped up as his voice yanked her out of her thoughts. “Sorry, what?”

  “I want your eyes on me and nowhere else. Makes me believe you like looking at me.”

  She did like looking at him, too much. “I suppose you’re more interesting to look at than my feet.”

  “Damn, woman, you’ll turn my head with flattery like that.”

  Yikes. Talk about rusty social skills. “Just call me a smooth operator.”

  “You’re definitely smooth on your feet.” The hand at her back urged her closer, and suddenly there didn’t seem to be enough air in the world. “See how easy l
ife is when you trust me to know what I’m doing? Suddenly you know what you’re doing, and everything feels right with the world.”

  “That’s the thing, though. I don’t know what I’m doing.” That truth was becoming clearer to her with each passing second, as she realized she no longer had the power to look away from him. “From one moment to the next, I’m totally winging it and any second now I’m sure I’m going to wind up falling flat on my face.”

  “I said I’d catch you if you fell.”

  “I’m doing my best not to.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting that. And so far you haven’t, but it won’t be the end of the world if you do. And who knows?” He gave her hand another squeeze, the muscles in his tattooed forearm oddly beautiful in their movement. “You might even enjoy the fall.”

  She sucked in a careful breath. “Are we still talking about dancing?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I thought we were,” she said slowly, all the while wondering how his eyes could be so vividly green, without even a hint of blue or brown. “But now I think maybe not.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “When you figure it out, let me know. In the meantime, when it comes to dancing, I think you must be a natural.”

  “Told you I was good.”

  “You move like you were made to dance with me.” As he spoke, the dazzling brilliance of the sun gave way to the cooler shade of the trees. Automatically she looked over her shoulder to make sure she didn’t crash into a branch, but her head whipped back around when his hand tightened on hers. “Don’t look back. Trust me to take care of you, Celia.”

  “On a dance floor, maybe,” she said, not looking back once more through sheer force of will. “Dancing backward at a high rate of speed through trees is asking to get cracked in the skull by a low-hanging branch.”

  “Life’s full of lessons. Looks like today’s lesson is all about risk-reward.”

  “Where does the reward come in? Because all I’m feeling is the risk.”

  The smile he gave her was a work of masculine art. “If you risk having a little faith in me, I promise you’ll get one helluva reward.”