BROCK (7 Brides for 7 Blackthornes Book 5)

by St. Claire, Roxanne

  “Dude.” Phillip snorted from a few feet away, scooping up his darts to take his turn. “You’re worse than usual, if that’s possible. Too much Jenna?”

  Not enough Jenna. “Long day, is all.” Was it just this morning they were stuck in a storm, making out like teenagers and finding buried secrets?

  “Where is she?” Phillip asked.

  “Working,” Brock said, remembering the light in her eyes as she clung to those journals and begged off to her room after dinner.

  “Watch this.” Phillip took his spot in front of the dart board and set up his stance. He threw a look at Brock just as he let go of the dart, which, of course, hit the dead center of the board. Phillip cracked up. “Like taking candy from a baby.”

  Brock rolled his eyes and didn’t even bother to watch the next dart, looking down at his half-empty glass of Blackthorne Gold, his brain straddling two problems: missing Jenna and wondering about…Wilfred Platt.

  He eyed his brother, who pumped his fist after his third straight bull’s-eye. “You sure you don’t remember Dad ever talking about someone named Platt?” he asked. “Wilfred or Roger? Maybe a trust by that name?”

  “You asked me that already.” Phillip ambled to the board to retrieve his darts, then approached the table, eyeing Brock. “Is that what’s bugging you? The Salmon Falls crap? I know you’d freaking slit your own wrists before you let something bad be written about Blackthornes.”

  Brock didn’t bother to disagree.

  “Unless you are thinking with the wrong brain, my friend.” He slid onto the barstool at the high-top table, one of a few in the private room. “It happens, of course, to the best of us.”

  “I don’t believe Alistair stole the recipe for this…” He lifted the glass. “Any more than I think there’s a man in the moon. But something weird happened with that family. I trust Jenna to find the truth, and I’ll help her.”

  “Then why aren’t you helping her now?”

  Good question. She’d been distant ever since leaving Nana’s. He chalked it up to her fascination with the journals and determination to start reading them. But maybe it was more than that. Maybe she was planning to do some damage to the Blackthorne name. Or…his heart, which had no business getting involved in these thoughts, but there it was.

  For a long time, he stared at his drink, then at Phillip. “How’d you know?” he asked softly, not that the few others in the room could hear them.

  “What was bothering you?”

  “That Ashley was…you know.”

  Phillip made a face that told Brock he knew exactly what that meant. “She just fit, I guess. In the sack, in life, when things are smooth and when they suck. Ashley just fits right…” He hit his chest with his fist with a noisy thud. “Here.”

  All Brock could do was shake his head. “Didn’t take long.”

  “Fourteen stupid years,” he reminded Brock. “But those years got us to where we belonged.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “Have I thanked you enough for putting that woman in my life back in college, however begrudgingly you did so? She’s so flipping awesome, I…” He laughed. “I’ll give you the game. You can’t afford to lose any more tonight.”

  Brock snorted and clinked his glass, throwing back the rest of the whisky, not caring right that moment if the recipe was stolen, bought, or made by elves. It tasted great.

  “Speaking of my woman, I’m headed back to her now.” Phillip stood and pushed his chair in. “You need a ride?”

  “I’m going to walk,” he said. “Thanks.”

  A few minutes later, Brock made his way through the back streets of King Harbor, off the beaten tourist path, taking a shortcut he’d used a million times to get to the estate. A full moon slid out from behind some clouds, spreading light to make it easy to find his way. He checked the time as he neared the gate.

  Not quite midnight. Would she still be up? Want company? He looked up at the house to see if the lights were on in her room, but his gaze was snagged by the widow’s walk perched at the top. There, silhouetted in the moonlight, was a woman.

  A casual observer might imagine that was a ghost from long ago, a seafarer’s wife looking out to the Atlantic, waiting, wondering if she’d be a widow. But he wasn’t casual, not when it came to Jenna Gillespie.

  He stood stone-still and stared at her, watching her look up at the moon as she lifted her hair and let it flutter over her shoulders. He imagined the sound of her sigh, the silkiness of that hair, the way she’d feel in the cool night air bathed in moonlight.

  Of course she’d be somewhere that he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—go. Still, drawn like a magnet to her steel, he headed into the back of the house, rounded the corner into the kitchen, and climbed the attic stairs. When he reached the one that squeaked, he stepped hard, hoping she’d hear him coming and meet him halfway. At least in the attic. Not…up there.

  But she didn’t open the door, probably not as in tune to his arrival the way Logan had been when they played hide-and-seek. In the attic, he needed his phone flashlight to find his way to the tiny door that led to the widow’s walk, noticing around him that more boxes had been opened.

  He glanced at a set of sports trophies and yearbooks and a photo album that had BB on the cover. So she’d found his bin and looked through it.

  Far from feeling any kind of violation, he felt the thought send a weird shot of adrenaline through him. She cared about the family, and she cared about him.

  Slowly, silently, he opened the door and peered up the last seven steps to the walk.

  “Hey, Rapunzel. Come on down.”

  “Brock? How did you find me?”

  “I spotted you from half a mile away.” He stepped closer, cringing at the stairs he knew would take him to a place that made him dizzy.

  And a woman who made him dizzier.

  “Come on up,” she called, then appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing nothing but a thin tank top and cotton sleep pants. “I’m lonely.”

  Oh man. “Come to me. I hate it up there.”

  She just smiled. “You made me run through a storm in an open cornfield today.” She reached a hand toward him. “Face your irrational fear, Brock David. The view is gorgeous from up here.”

  His gaze dropped over her again, his breath hitching at the sight of her hardened nipples through the top and the silhouette of her thighs in sheer pants. “It’s gorgeous from down here, too. Come to the attic, and let’s…play.”

  “Hide-and-seek?” she asked on a laugh.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of spin the bottle.”

  She let out a sigh that he couldn’t interpret, but it sounded mighty wistful. “Probably not a good idea.”

  Neither was going up there, but if it was the only way to get next to her? He put his foot on the first step and swallowed. “I might have to close my eyes when I get up there, but…” I’ll use my hands.

  With careful steps, he made his way up, slipping her into his arms when he ducked through the narrow opening to the widow’s walk.

  “Good job,” she whispered, looking up at him. “Now check out the view.”

  He searched her face, her big blue eyes, and bowed lips. “I am. It’s beautiful.” Pulling her into him, he let their bodies press, top to bottom. “Missed you tonight, babe.”

  She stayed silent, but her eyes said it all. She missed him, too.

  “I lost at darts,” he admitted.

  “Don’t blame me for your lousy aim.”

  “I drank some whisky, made from a possibly stolen recipe.”

  “Nothing I’ve read yet tonight confirms that. The only weird thing I found was that Meredith seemed a little afraid of seeing someone called The Duke.”

  He frowned. “My barber in Boston? Dude’s old, but that would make him well over a hundred.” He stroked her face, lost in her eyes for a moment. “What else did you find?”

  “A beautiful love story. A commitment to family like I’ve never seen. And enough drama to make a dece
nt movie. Or…book.”

  “Good for you. The whole night, I’ve been thinking about…this.” He lowered his head and kissed her mouth, lightly, barely a touch, but it sparked and made him want more.

  She stood still for a second, hesitating, holding back, then very slowly lifted her hands to close them over his arms. She squeezed and then dragged her hands over his shoulders, giving an appreciative moan and angling her head to get more of the kiss.

  Instantly, they molded together, her curves against his hardness, her hips pressed to his, their hearts hammering a matching beat, chest to chest.

  “I gotta say,” he murmured into the kiss, “these heights are dizzying.”

  “You never come up here?”

  “I’d scream for Logan from the bottom of the steps. But I always found him.”

  He added a squeeze, pulling her into him, letting her feel what she did to him.

  She dropped her head back with a noisy sigh, just like the one he’d imagined. “You found me,” she whispered. “Now what happens?”

  “Whatever…” He tipped her chin so his lips could find their way to her throat. “You…” He slid his hands up and down her back and sides, painfully aware that the tank top was the only thing she wore, and it was as thin as air. “Want.”

  She bowed her back, and once again, he grew hard, his body seeking hers, his hands already sliding under that top to touch her warm, smooth skin.

  “Brock, we…can’t.”

  “Brock who?” he teased, rounding her rib cage to run his thumb over the sweet, soft underside of her breast. “Don’t make me go to my room and get my glasses.” He inched his head back, but let his hand cup her, watching her eyes close and her jaw go slack with pleasure. “On second thought, let’s go straight there.” He kissed her and rocked against her. “Now.”

  “Oh.” The word was pure agony and didn’t reflect at all the ecstasy he was feeling. “Brock.”

  “David,” he insisted.

  She eased back, blinking, focusing, finding his gaze. “I can’t do this.”

  He stilled his hand, slowly moving it away from the precious breast he wanted to caress all night. “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Honestly, can’t.” She flattened her hands on his chest with another sigh, this one more frustration than sensual. “I want to,” she added. “I want to so…damn…much.”

  “Oh man, I hear a ‘but’ right around the next corner.”

  She nodded. “But I made a…” She swallowed. “Ethical commitment to my publisher. It would go against…everything.”

  “You should go against everything,” he said, pulling her back into him. “Starting with me. Ending with me, too.”

  She blew out a breath, and he could see the torment on her face and feel the chills on her skin. “You have no idea how much I want to.”

  “Then what’s stopping you?”

  “Not what. Who.”

  He drew back. “I swear to God, your publisher will never know. Our secret. Our…” He rubbed his thumbs against her ribs. “Our little secret. And, babe, you already know how good it’s going to be. Better now that we actually know each other.”

  She bit her lip, and he watched the agony in her eyes, the longing and lust and internal battle to do what both of them wanted.

  “There’s more on the line now than there was the night I met you, Brock.”

  He looked at her, considering exactly what that was. Genuine feelings. Truly caring about each other. Trust. Risk. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Which is why I want you even more.”

  She blinked at the admission and swallowed. “Brock, we—”

  “We fit each other,” he finished, echoing his brother’s confession, a little shocked at how right that was.

  Her eyes flashed. “We do?”

  “Physically,” he said quickly. He didn’t want to scare the crap out of her by letting her know just how much she was starting to mean to him.

  “So, why can’t we wait?”

  He could think of a million reasons why. “Wait for what?”

  “The book to be done.”

  His jaw fell. “You think I’m made of titanium? I couldn’t spend that much time with you and…” He frowned, trying like hell to interpret the look in her eyes and failing. “What brought this on, Jenna?”

  “I told you the day I found out who you are that we couldn’t do…anything. I told you.”

  “But this afternoon, in the distillery, I was pretty sure you’d changed your mind.”

  “It was…the storm.”

  He lifted a brow. “So the only time we can make love is during a storm?” He looked up at the sky. “Lightning, damn it!”

  But she didn’t laugh. “Let’s just wait.”

  He inched back. “Until the proposal is accepted?”

  Laughing softly, she nodded. “Yeah. That’ll work.”

  “Fine. But I get to show you what you’re missing.” He wrapped his arms around her and leaned her against the railing of the widow’s walk, so careful not to look out or down, just into her eyes until he kissed her, this time with a little more desperation than ever before.

  She shivered in his arms, slack and soft, arching into him as their tongues touched and twirled. When she moaned with pleasure, he lifted her a little, letting her ride him, sliding her up and down until her breath was nothing but helpless gasps. She clung to him, pressing her head into his shoulder, quivering and riding and lost.

  With both of them at the hairy edge, he eased her down to the ground, silent, holding her gaze.

  “I’ll wait as long as I have to,” he whispered. “Because you’re worth it.”

  She just closed her eyes and dropped her head against his shoulder. “So are you,” she said softly. “Good night.”

  She slipped away, and he sucked in a breath. “You’re just going to leave me up here?”

  She held out her hand to him. “I’ll help you down, Brock, because I like you so much.”

  “I like you, too,” he whispered. Taking her hand, he headed off the sickeningly high walkway, took her back to her room. There, he kissed her good night and headed to his own room, as disoriented and lost as if he’d stood up on that walkway and jumped.

  Chapter Sixteen

  For the next week and a half, Brock and Jenna slipped into a pattern that was somehow wonderful and frustrating. The wonderful part was afternoons of “research,” which consisted of Brock taking Jenna around to King Harbor businesses so she could talk to employees and townsfolk and watching her piece together a story of a family that Brock couldn’t imagine would be anything but flattering.

  Nights were wonderful, too, when they shared dinners, walked through town hand in hand or hung out at the Vault. But Jenna kept her promise to hold him at arm’s length and, in fact, seemed more determined to go to her room alone every night the deeper she dived into those journals and the past. Oh yeah. That was the frustrating part for Brock. For both of them, really.

  But even with all her research, they’d found nothing to explain the money paid to the Platt family, even today, after the long-awaited meeting with an aging lawyer named Bill Whitlock.

  He’d been on vacation for almost ten days, but finally came home for Founder’s Day. Sadly, the meeting they’d just left with him had delivered up a big bowl of nothing.

  “I have never been so frustrated in all my life.” Jenna shoved some stray hairs off her face, shooting Brock a look as he revved the Porsche up the driveway toward the estate.

  She fluttered through the notes she’d taken during their conversation at Whitlock’s house near the harbor. “I mean, how is this possible?” she asked, not for the first time since they’d gotten in his car. “How can no one know anything about seventy-two million dollars? I realize Blackthorne is a big company, but this is a sizable amount.”

  He saw it differently, though. “Blackthorne has multiple business, all running in the tens of millions in revenue and spending.”

  “But who loses a million a ye
ar?”

  “It’s not lost,” he said. “It went to the Platt Family Trust from my father’s personal account, not the business account, and stopped thirteen years ago because Dad’s projects were set to continue for seven years after his death.”

  “Or so Whitlock says.” She closed her notebook with a thud. “Shouldn’t that lawyer have asked what the money was for?”

  “No law says he has to. My father might not have even known. He might have been following instructions from his father.”

  “Who was covering for his father, who stole the recipe.”

  Brock blew out a breath. “Jenna, you’ve seen the documentation, the historical records, and the pictures from the original distillery. This whole week while we waited for Whitlock to get back to town, we’ve talked to every family member and employee—past and present—that you could find. You’ve grilled Nana until she has to drink six glasses of whisky instead of five. And you’ve had your head in Meredith’s journals every night.” He lifted her chin to face him. “Nothing says the recipe was stolen.”

  “Except a barrel with both their names on it.”

  He flinched at the memory. “I’m certain that was some weird mistake or even a forgery. Maybe something Platt made to threaten my great-grandfather. There’s no record of a connection between the two men anywhere. You even went through all that King Harbor News microfiche of articles from ninety years ago. There was nothing.”

  “Not even an obit for the first Wilfred Platt,” she said. “That’s just weird.”

  “Not in the 1930s. Things were different then.”

  “Not that different that records aren’t kept.” She turned to him. “What if it was blackmail, Brock? What if Alistair wanted something hidden forever?”

  “Like the fact that he killed Wilfred?” Even saying the words hurt, but he knew they were both thinking the same thing.

  “No, he’d never do a thing like that.”

  Brock snorted. “You know him so well.”

  “After reading Meredith’s journals, I do. He wasn’t capable of murder.”

  Although Brock knew people were capable of anything. And he supposed stealing a recipe and paying to keep someone quiet beat murdering them and paying to keep them quiet.