Книга - One Night Scandal

One Night Scandal
Joanne Rock


One night to remember with the perfect cowboy…Nothing in Hannah Ryder's plot included a hot fling with a drop-dead sexy cowboy. Especially when he turns out to be Brock McNeill—a potential enemy with ties to the man Hannah wants to destroy!







One night to remember with the perfect cowboy...

Or one step toward the perfect revenge?

Nothing in Hannah Ryder’s plot included a hot fling with a drop-dead-sexy cowboy. Especially when her cowboy turns out to be Brock McNeill—a potential enemy with ties to the man Hannah wants to destroy. When an accident claims Brock’s memory, Hannah is caught in an intricate web of scandal, falling dangerously for the one man she shouldn’t trust...


Four-time RITA® Award nominee JOANNE ROCK has penned over seventy stories for Mills & Boon. An opti-mist by nature and a perpetual seeker of silver linings, Joanne finds romance fits her life outlook perfectly—love is worth fighting for. A Golden Heart® Award recipient, she has won numerous awards for her stories. Learn more about Joanne’s imaginative muse by visiting her website, joannerock.com (http://www.joannerock.com), or following @joannerock6 (http://twitter.com/@joannerock6) on Twitter.


Also by Joanne Rock (#ubdd54d39-9d0e-591e-8751-1677370f3200)

The Magnate’s Mail-Order Bride The

Magnate’s Marriage Merger His

Accidental Heir

Little Secrets: His Pregnant Secretary

Claiming His Secret Heir

For the Sake of His Heir

The Forbidden Brother

Wild Wyoming Nights

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


One Night Scandal

Joanne Rock






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-07675-3

ONE NIGHT SCANDAL

© 2018 Joanne Rock

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Mandy Lawler for all of your

help and guidance.

Thank you!


Contents

Cover (#udceea758-8443-58e4-8eff-93a9078b3361)

Back Cover Text (#ue91a53ef-1263-5229-b5ed-625551c30c16)

About the Author (#u24cab1a2-21e3-51ff-92e1-7aa590f7b881)

Booklist (#u2bb1cf7c-714f-5e93-a423-c7369df1d09f)

Title Page (#ub212c675-2839-5d09-bb50-268966fc2ff2)

Copyright (#uf65430a9-f716-5ed6-8934-69eda1c4cf4d)

Dedication (#u650cb2c9-5084-5db0-ae1b-216fdd331a87)

One (#ud69aaf97-a2fe-59d1-bbbd-4903da26d8cf)

Two (#u9c85a702-6567-5257-abd9-a704c85401d4)

Three (#ud4cf236e-1e7b-5cc9-99df-dd87316b35b0)

Four (#u63453a56-ecec-5c34-bf18-255d817afa78)

Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


One (#ubdd54d39-9d0e-591e-8751-1677370f3200)

Hannah Ryder scavenged her last scrap of patience as the film director she despised zoomed in on her for a close-up shot. The bright lights were making her sweat right through the thick layers of makeup. Itchy, dry hay poked her bare skin. She lay smothered in the stuff on the floor of an old barn temporarily transformed into a movie set. The scene called for her character to fall through the loft in the middle of hooking up with a cowboy; thankfully, the stunt had been pulled off by someone else paid to do that sort of thing.

Now, Hannah had to perform the sequence following the fall after her cowboy lover had abandoned her. Her face was covered in cosmetics to look like blood and bruises. All of which was fine, if she hadn’t been in her third hour of shooting reaction shots while drowning in hay that made her eyes water and her skin burn. Her makeup had to be retouched every twenty minutes to keep it from sliding off, and the flesh-toned bodysuit she wore under the hay didn’t protect her in the least. Horses flanked her on either side, their impatient hooves providing a frame for the scene, according to the sadist in charge. What if one of the animals decided he was tired of a sneezing woman writhing on the floor of his barn?

Twice she was sure a spider or some other creepy-crawly had skittered up her bare leg, and a cramp knotted her calf.

She would have walked off the production days ago if she hadn’t wrangled a part in this film for a very specific reason. She needed evidence of the director’s sexual harassment of women on the set to help avenge what he’d done to Hannah’s younger sister a year ago.

The incident had transformed nineteen-year-old Hope from a bright-eyed aspiring writer, with a coveted job as script reader and assistant to director Antonio Ventura, into a quiet shell of her former self. Hope now worked in retail, content to unlock dressing rooms for customers since it was a job that surrounded her with women. Hope didn’t write anymore, and she showed no desire to leave the house for any reason but work. She startled at noises and cried when she thought Hannah couldn’t hear.

The change broke Hannah’s heart, and months of therapy hadn’t seemed to help her sister. Hope refused to file charges, insisting she’d destroyed evidence after the fact because of conflicted feelings, and she didn’t want to bring a case she couldn’t prove. When months of gentle encouragement and outright coercing had proven ineffective, Hannah had taken a new approach. She’d spend time on one of the bastard’s sets to see for herself if he was victimizing other females.

So far all she’d learned was that every single person who worked on his film Winning the West thought he was a tyrant and a megalomaniac. But she had no evidence that he was locking vulnerable women in closets to forcibly grope them the way he’d done to Hope.

Just the thought of it steeled Hannah to withstand the cramp throbbing in her calf for another minute while the camera closed in on her tears. She’d been Hope’s guardian ever since her sister had moved to Los Angeles to be with Hannah. Their parents had never been much help since their high-powered attorney father had walked out on their mother long ago—taking his family fortune with him. As for their mom, she’d done her best to raise Hope and Hannah, but she’d made no secret of the fact that she was “done” once Hope had turned eighteen.

Hannah would never be “done.” And she would fight for her sister even if Hope refused to fight for herself.

A horse snorted and tossed his head, a hoof momentarily pinning Hannah’s hair to the floor before shifting away again. She couldn’t smother her gasp, ruining the take.

But before the director could explode in rage, a tall, broad-shouldered cowboy stepped into view, casting a long shadow onto the floor where Hannah lay.

“Ventura, I need to take my horses,” the man demanded, his tone uncompromising as he confronted the despot in charge of the shoot. “Now.”

A murmur of collective surprise—quickly stifled—stirred the production team ringing the small barn.

Hannah stretched quietly in the sea of hay, wanting a better look at the cowboy whose arrival had diverted the director’s ire away from her. The newcomer blocked the lights, providing a welcome moment of coolness for her itchy skin.

She craned her neck to see around a horse’s knee.

And got an eyeful of feminine fantasy material in denim and worn boots. The hard-muscled cowboy stood a head taller than the director, his biceps straining the fabric of a gray cotton T-shirt as he reached to stroke a hand over a horse’s nose.

The man’s features remained in shadow, thanks to the set of his dark Stetson, but the sharp edge of his jaw and the hint of dark hair curling along the collar of his shirt were enough to make any woman long to see more. For now, Hannah settled on taking in the rest of him, from where his shirt tapered along his back, from his formidable shoulders down to his lean hips.

“You are ruining my shot,” Antonio Ventura snapped at the cowboy, his dark eyes narrowing. “Now, thanks to you, I’ll need the animals even longer.”

The fury brewing under the quiet words made the sweat on Hannah’s back turn cold and clammy, worry chilling her.

“Whether you need them or not isn’t my concern.” The cowboy took the reins of the one closest to him. “They’re not professional actors, and they’re done for today.”

Hannah would have admired anyone unafraid to stand up to a bully like Ventura. But she took a special brand of pleasure in seeing this big, strong guy put the smarmy brute in his place.

“As you can see—” Ventura enunciated each word as if the cowboy was a simpleton “—they are hardly being asked to act. They’re standing in the middle of a barn, just the same as they will be when you take them with you. I suggest you consult your boss before you make a choice that will cost you your job.”

The dirtbag. How unfair to threaten the man’s livelihood. Hannah was already mentally composing a letter to the ranch owner in the cowboy’s defense.

“My choice is made.” The sexy stranger gathered the other horse’s reins in the opposite hand. “And since we’re making suggestions, I’m going to advise you to take better care of your actors.” The man’s gaze fell to where Hannah sprawled in the hay. “Do you need a hand, miss?”

His eyes were blue. Clear sky blue.

Wide-open spaces, Wyoming blue.

Hannah wanted to fall right into them.

Except, she realized, she couldn’t afford to thumb her nose at Antonio Ventura before she’d gathered evidence of his criminal behavior. With more than a little regret, she shook her head, a stray piece of hay poking the back of her neck as she moved.

“No. Thank you.” She risked a small smile at the horseman, hoping the director was too busy seething to notice.

When she gave her boss a quick glance, he seemed to be pounding out digits on his cell phone as he paced away from the camera equipment.

“You’re going to regret this show of stupidity,” Ventura threatened between clenched teeth.

Around him, the production team buzzed with new life, sensing they were done shooting for the day as the cowboy guided the animals out of the wide barn door. The night air rushed in.

Hannah watched his retreat, her breath stuck in her chest as she followed his long-legged stride, an easy swagger that made her wish she would have accepted his hand when he’d offered it. What might it have been like to touch him? To keep that blue gaze trained on her a little longer?

Behind her, the wardrobe stylist cleared her throat. “Um... Hannah?”

Swiveling away from the enticing view, Hannah glanced up to find the young woman holding a robe in her hands.

“Sorry. I must have gotten distracted.” She grinned conspiratorially as a production assistant shut off the hottest of the set lights nearby. Hannah didn’t want anyone to see how stressed this shoot was making her. Her muscles were cramped from the strain and tension of working with her sister’s molester as much as from holding the twisted pose for hours.

“Didn’t we all?” the stylist, Callie, agreed. Her high, dark ponytail swung in front of her narrow shoulders as she leaned down to wrap the cover-up around Hannah, shielding her in the flesh-tone bodysuit. “I think I forgot to breathe just now.”

The woman’s vanilla fragrance settled around Hannah as surely as the silk dressing robe. Hannah’s itchiness eased immediately from the fresh air, the cooler temperature without the set lights and being free of the hay.

She was stepping into the leather slides that Callie had brought out for her when, from the other side of a rolling cart stuffed full of electronics, a series of shouted curse words blistered her ears. Callie flinched and Hannah’s eye started to twitch while they listened to the director yell at whoever was on the other end of the call.

Hannah needed to get away from here. Three hours of dealing with that man was more than she could take. She had a private cabin on-site at the Creek Spill Ranch, close to where filming took place each day. No need to stay here and listen to Ventura’s tirade when her accommodations were within walking distance.

“Callie, I think I’m going to call it a night and head back to my room,” she said softly, tying the belt on her robe. It was blousy and pretty enough to pass for a caftan. “I can take off my own makeup.”

“I don’t blame you,” the stylist muttered under her breath, her gaze moving furtively toward their boss. He looked ready to pop the vein in his temple, his face contorting as he shouted about ineptitude in his staff and incompetence in the production company. “Take some makeup wipes,” Callie said, passing a small plastic packet before gesturing to Hannah’s face. “You don’t want anyone to think you’ve just been in a horrible accident.”

Hannah was already peeling out a damp cloth from the pack. “You’re a lifesaver.” Retrieving her purse from behind one of the barn columns, she headed for the door, leather shoes slapping the bottoms of her sockless feet. “Thanks, Callie. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Part of her wondered if she should stick around a little longer while Ventura was all worked up and angry in case the bad mood brought his criminal tendencies out. But she was physically exhausted, her spirit weary after the trying day. She needed to de-stress tonight. Conserve some energy for tomorrow.

She’d take a soak in the tub. Maybe try some yoga. The porch of her tiny, secluded cabin had a beautiful view during the day. And at night, she could see stars for miles. But as she hurried across the ranch to indulge herself in some much needed downtime, an image of her sister’s tearful face returned to chastise her.

Back home, Hope wouldn’t be de-stressing tonight. And she sure as hell wasn’t taking any feminine joy from admiring the way a brash cowboy looked in jeans.

Priorities quickly realigning, Hannah double-timed her steps toward the cabin. She’d shower, change and sneak back over to the barn to see what else Antonio the Ass got up to tonight. Because nothing would give her more pleasure than putting him behind bars.

Not even a diversion with the sexy horseman who’d rescued her from the shoot today.

* * *

Brock McNeill couldn’t get the actress out of his mind.

Two hours after he’d removed his quarter horses from the set of the idiot director who was making life at the Creek Spill Ranch a living hell, Brock was more than a little preoccupied by thoughts of the curvy blonde covered in hay. There was something about her that appealed to him—something far more intriguing than her looks, although she was easy enough on the eyes even with the heavy blue and purple makeup meant to look like bruising.

Now, riding back through a rocky ravine to his place after a late consultation with the vet, he found his thoughts on the woman instead of on his sick filly. As the head of the quarter horse breeding and development program at the Creek Spill Ranch, Brock realized his focus needed to be on his portion of the family business now more than ever. The film shoot required it. But the timing couldn’t be worse.

Because the McNeills were bracing for a scandal. A blackmailer had promised to reveal his stepmother’s secrets to the world two days from now. The whole Wyoming branch of the family was on high alert, waiting for the other shoe to drop because they’d decided not to meet the blackmailer’s demands.

To make matters worse, Brock’s stepmother was still recovering from a suspicious hiking accident that had put her in a coma right around the time the blackmailer had first surfaced. It was a mess.

Brock needed to protect his family. As the youngest of his brothers, born after the twins Carson and Cody, Brock had always been the odd-man out. It had been easy to fly under the radar in a big family, but the time had come to step up and prove himself now that his brothers needed to focus on their own relationships. Plus, his half sisters were particularly vulnerable because the blackmailer was hinting that their mother’s marriage to Donovan McNeill was invalid. Brock needed to be there for his father, his stepmother and his half sisters.

So it was flat-out wrong for him to spend his mental energy thinking about the hay-strewn beauty on the floor of his barn. Dating an actress would only draw more attention to his family when they needed to lay low. It was bad enough his sister Scarlett had been in the tabloids recently for dating one of the film’s lead actors. Besides, thinking about the woman so much was crazy, considering he’d watched her work for only half an hour or so. He’d shown up at the shoot because the ranch hands tasked with bringing the horses back hadn’t returned. Brock didn’t appreciate having his generosity with his animals taken advantage of, so he’d gone to set Antonio Ventura straight for himself. And gotten distracted by the woman crying tears that looked all too real.

She’d only been performing, of course. He understood that. But the tears had gone right through him, the pain in her eyes so damn convincing it had been tough to look away. What made a woman choose a job so emotionally demanding? Because—performing or not—tears like that didn’t manufacture themselves. They came from somewhere deep. Seeing her like that had felt oddly intimate.

Maybe that’s all it was. He’d caught a stranger in a moment that felt intensely private. Except then she’d smiled at him. The smallest twitch of her lips when their eyes met, and there’d been...

Heat.

He would swear from the look in her eyes that he hadn’t been the only one feeling a connection.

Brock decided to circle back to the remote barn Ventura had been shooting in earlier, wanting to see for himself that the guy had released the actress from work. Because while Brock had succeeded in freeing his horses from the director’s overheated set, he hadn’t gotten the satisfaction of witnessing the blonde walk away from the grueling job. He’d rather lift bales of hay all day than spend an hour sitting in the stuff half-naked the way she had. Especially the old, super-dry variety the director had spread all over the floor. Brock guessed a bed of nails would be more comfortable.

Reining in his horse as he reached the old, small barn that had outlived its usefulness on the ranch, Brock could see filming must have stopped since the lights were dim. A damn good thing, since he would be well within his rights as a partial owner of the McNeill lands to shut down filming if the company violated safety protocols, a clause his brother Carson had the sense to put into the contract with the production company. And working in a wood barn with hot lights and overheated straw that could catch fire veered into dangerous terrain.

The doors were open, though, inviting bears and other foragers inside. Someone must have forgotten to close up for the night. Swinging down from the mare, he patted her neck before dropping the reins and stepping through the open wood doors.

A dark shadow emerged from behind a support post.

A curvy shadow.

Brock recognized the shape of her instantly. No mean feat considering she’d been mostly covered in straw the last time he’d seen her. Apparently, his imagination had done a highly accurate job of filling in the blanks where her body was concerned.

She was dressed in dark leggings and a dark T-shirt. Her platinum hair was tucked under a ball cap with the logo of a West Coast football team. With her face scrubbed clean of makeup, he could see her features better now. The long lashes over her eyes. A few freckles on her nose. Then the stubborn tilt to her chin as she spotted him just inside the barn entrance.

“I sure hope you’re off the clock at this hour.” Brock summoned a smile, not wanting to startle her when she was alone. “I came back to make sure your director knew enough to call it a day.”

She shuffled from one tennis shoe to the other. Was she uneasy?

He took a side step to lean against the barn door, giving her plenty of space to walk out if she chose.

She folded her arms across her chest and stood her ground instead.

“So did I,” she claimed, although something vaguely defensive about the way she said it made him wonder if that was true. “I walked off the set right after you did, but the director was in such a snit, I returned because I wanted to make sure he wasn’t—” She took a deep breath and let it back out as if she was forcing herself to relax. “Taking advantage of people with no seniority.”

Her careful phrasing seemed...off. She was hiding something, and it didn’t take a genius to see she was uncomfortable. Maybe he’d been mistaken about the attraction before. Maybe it had been all one-sided.

“That would make him even more of an ass than I already took him for,” Brock said, preparing to leave, in case he was responsible for her feeling uneasy. Straightening from the doorframe, he was about to wish her a good-night when her laugh caught him off guard.

A genuine laugh. Surprise music to his ears.

Some of his tension eased as hers seemed to.

“He is. Most definitely.” She took a step closer to him, a smile lighting up her whole face, transforming her from pretty to breathtaking. “I’m Hannah Ryder, by the way.”

She extended her hand. Anticipation flared at the thought of touching her.

“Brock. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He closed his fingers around hers and squeezed.

His hand lingered for a moment longer than necessary. Just enough to see her notice. Her pupils widened a fraction. She sucked in a quick breath.

Gratified that he hadn’t been wrong about their first meeting—that there was something hot lurking just beneath the surface between them—he released her hand. He hadn’t mentioned his last name, preferring to avoid the inevitable interest in his well-known, wealthy family. Brock had been down that road before, not realizing a woman he’d cared about had been after him only for the connections. The McNeill lifestyle. Or, more accurately, other McNeills’ lifestyle. Brock preferred hard work to jet-setting, no matter that his hotel magnate grandfather owned five-star resorts all over the world.

Hannah Ryder toyed with the long sleeve of her dark T-shirt, pulling it over one hand, but not before he spotted a silver ring in the shape of an eternity knot. “I didn’t get the chance to thank you earlier, but your entrance was very well timed.”

There was a slight husky quality to her voice that made the sound as warm and inviting as a whiskey shot. She was about a head shorter than him, maybe a little more. Dressed all in black with her hair tucked under the cap, she looked like she was trying to avoid recognition. Maybe movie people dressed that way all the time when they were off duty. She seemed about as far from his idea of a diva as possible.

“I regret that I didn’t intervene sooner, before my horse’s hoof landed on your hair.” He couldn’t act fast enough after that, knowing the animals were too restless to be trusted standing so close to her head. “You barely even winced.”

She shrugged, shaking her head. “But it was enough to ruin another shot. Whenever I let my guard down even a little bit, then it’s my fault the whole crew gets stuck on the set for an extra hour.”

“Is it always like this?” He realized her eyes were gray under the shadow of her cap’s brim.

She smelled good, too. Like soap and wildflowers. He caught the hint of fragrance as she played with the shirtsleeve, the fabric rubbing against her skin.

“Not at all. My job is usually pretty fun, but this film is making me see how much the director has to do with setting a production’s tone.”

Brock wanted to ask her more, but he guessed she must be tired after her long day.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I thought you were fantastic today.” He wasn’t overstating it, or flattering her. She was good. “In fact, it was because I was so caught up in watching your performance that I didn’t interrupt filming sooner.”

She laughed again, the sound another surprise shot of pure adrenaline.

“So I have no one to blame but myself for my hair getting stepped on? Are you saying that if I’d been a worse actress, you would have come to the rescue sooner?” Her gray eyes twinkled with mischief.

Teasing. Flirtation.

It wasn’t a game Brock had played often. Or well. But he damned well recognized it.

He let the new flames crackle through him, stunned that a total stranger could stir that level of heat. What was it about her? Hell, what was it about him that he was letting it draw him in?

“I’m saying, Hannah Ryder, that you’re not an easy woman to look away from.”

He heard the tone of his voice; it was all wrong for the moment. It brought the teasing and flirtation to a halt. The air around them changed. Got warmer.

He saw the confusion in her gaze. The surprise. A whole host of emotions flickered through her expression that he couldn’t identify.

But there was one that he knew. Because he felt it, too.

Desire.

It pulsed in the charged air like a heartbeat. For a moment, he thought she might take a step toward him. Until, outside the barn, his horse whinnied softly. Breaking the moment and the connection.

“I’d better go.” She tucked her chin into her chest and stalked past him. Out of the barn and into the night.

Brock watched her leave, knowing he shouldn’t follow. She’d made her decision. He respected that. He needed to check in with his family anyhow, see if their investigator had any updates on the blackmailer.

Taking a deep, cooling breath to ward off the lingering hunger for Hannah, he took his time stepping outside. Only to glimpse her outline in the moonlight.

With her back to him, he could see clearly the image that she’d pulled up on her phone.

A map of the ranch.

Walking directions back to her cabin.

Brock closed his eyes for a long moment, knowing he couldn’t let her make the long trek in the dark by herself. He would give his own sisters a hard time about navigating those woods on foot alone at night, and they’d been raised here, fully aware of what to look out for. How much did a West Coast visitor understand about the potential dangers of the Wyoming land?

Steeling himself against the inevitable draw of the woman, Brock stepped closer to make an offer that was going to be hell on his restraint.

“How about I give you a ride home?”


Two (#ubdd54d39-9d0e-591e-8751-1677370f3200)

The cowboy’s voice smoked through her, heating her insides and sending a shiver of awareness over Hannah’s skin.

Did she want a ride?

Her subconscious was going to have way too much fun tormenting her with that image in her dreams tonight. For now, she needed to stop fantasizing about sexy Brock, the rancher who turned her inside out with just a handful of words and a smoldering gaze.

Her legs were still unsteady after whatever it was that had passed between them inside the barn. She’d had meaningful relationships in her past. Men she’d loved. And yet no one had ever given her the sizzling shock to the system that she felt from being around this stranger. Swallowing hard, she braced herself as she turned around to refuse his offer.

“That’s okay. I don’t mind walking.” Her voice was soft and breathless when she needed it to be firm and sure. “I, um, could use the fresh air.”

She could also use a new libido. One that wasn’t quite so susceptible to tall, muscular cowboys. It must be because of all the stress she was under with her sister. She’d latched on to a pleasurable distraction and now she couldn’t quite let go.

Brock folded his arms across his impressive chest. God, his arms were amazing, too. She wanted to skim her hands up the triceps and over his shoulders. Instead, she jammed her restless fingers in the back pockets of her jeans along with her phone.

“You’d probably be fine,” he acknowledged. “You must have walked over here in the dark in the first place, although the moon was higher at that hour, making the path a lot easier to follow than it will be now.”

She had been thinking the same thing since she didn’t remember exactly where she’d broken through the brush to find the barn. Nightfall in this part of Wyoming was nothing like it was in Southern California. Here, there was no ambient light of any kind. Just deep blackness and stars.

“I’ve got my phone,” she argued, although she was beginning to wonder what else might be out there in the wilderness surrounding the ranch lands. She’d heard wolves—or some kind of wild dogs—baying in the distance on the walk over here. “The cabin I’m staying in is just through there.”

She pointed vaguely, trying to see any kind of trail.

“I’m not sure calling someone will do you any good if you meet up with a bear. Or an elk. Or some other wild animal that wasn’t expecting company at this hour.”

She didn’t want to be foolish. So, in spite of the out-of-control attraction, she figured the best thing to do would be to accept the ride and get home as fast as possible.

And put this encounter out of her mind.

“Is your truck nearby?” she asked, peering around the barn. During the shoot, there’d been a couple of golf carts and two trucks parked there.

A smile curved that hard mouth of his. Nodding, he relaxed his arms and walked past her, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body, close enough for his sleeve to brush hers.

“My horse is right this way.”

“Horse?” Her belly flipped.

Not because she minded riding a horse. Only because it implied a proximity that...

A shiver stole over her skin. Her nerve endings danced in anticipation of touching him. Something her brain knew was a very, very bad idea.

“I—” Her voice wasn’t even there. She licked her lips. Tried again. “I’m not sure—”

“You’ll be fine,” he assured her, holding a hand out for her while he stood next to a dark horse with a glossy coat. “I’ll help you up.” He flipped the ring for her foot so it was easier for her to see. “Step into the stirrup and you’ll be home in no time.”

Her heart pounded a chaotic, fast beat. But stalling wasn’t going to get her home any faster. She understood that much. Willing herself to remain calm, she stabbed the toe of her tennis shoe through the foothold.

Brock’s hands were quick and efficient as he boosted her up onto the saddle. He didn’t linger. But he might as well have been massaging her naked body for how her skin reacted under her clothes. Her thigh tingled. Her waist...

She wanted his hands there again. Before she could gather herself or prepare for more, Brock swung up onto the animal behind her. His chest was against her back. Her hips tucked into the cradle of his lap, his strong thighs bracketing hers.

There was no space. No distance. And it felt so good she couldn’t have spoken if she’d tried. The only thing she didn’t like about it was that she shouldn’t like it so damn much.

But there was no chance to protest now as his arm curled around her waist, his hand bracing her protectively against him while he nudged the animal into motion. Hannah sucked in a gasp at the feel of their bodies moving together. In sync. Rubbing together.

It was the most erotic experience of her life, and she hardly knew the man. Keenly aware of his body, Hannah closed her eyes to try to shut out the feel of him...everywhere. But even that proved dangerous, as her mind vividly supplied even more suggestive details. The scent of him—leather and musky aftershave—drifted around her, the warmth of his body a welcome heat on a summer night that had cooled surprisingly fast after sundown. Searching for a fraction of space, she shifted in the saddle as they galloped through trees. Her movement elicited a sharp intake of breath behind her.

It was the first indication Brock might be feeling some of the wayward attraction, too. She wanted to turn around to face him, to see the expression on his face, but his palm was a firm weight against her belly, his fingers a light graze of warmth along the inside of her hip. The barrier of her leggings didn’t begin to dull the intimacy of the sensation.

She didn’t know how she’d walk away from him at the end of this ride. For that matter, she didn’t know how she’d look him in the eye again after this. It was all so very...

Sensual.

Her heart pounded faster than the horse’s hooves. She told herself it was because of the incredible stress she’d been under. The frustrated tension of seeing her sister suffer and not being able to help. The unbearable strain of working with a man she despised in order to find evidence of his misdeeds.

All that anxiety had shoved her to a breaking point, leaving her with zero reserves now, when tempted with the heady pleasure of a generous, honorable man’s touch. Brock had strode into her world, putting the bully Ventura in his place, and Hannah had been intrigued. Curious. Attracted.

Now, adding to that attraction, the horseback ride tantalized her with needs she normally shoved to the backburner. These were desires she’d ignored easily enough in the past, only indulging them within committed relationships.

Brock’s touch teased her with all the ways she’d gone unfulfilled. Because no man had ever ignited the sort of awareness she felt tonight. As if the slightest increase in pressure from his hands would unleash a tide of passion and desire that would completely sweep her away.

Then, suddenly, her cabin was in sight, the tiny pinprick of light from an upstairs window growing as they neared the small structure. She focused on it like a beacon in a dark sea, telling herself this churn of sensual thought would recede once she arrived there.

When Brock leaned back slightly in the saddle, drawing the horse to a halt, Hannah waited for a break in the seductive spell. But even as Brock swung a leg over the saddle and jumped down to the ground, her nerve endings still danced with awareness. Anticipation.

Glancing at him, she met his gaze for a moment, and that only worsened the heat. He reached up to help her dismount, his hands ready to assist her. And she simply fell into his arms. No thought. No planning. She slid down, her body against his in a way that set her on fire. Then she was reaching for him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Kissing him.

His lips sealed to hers, his arms banding around her back and waist. She dangled in midair for a moment against him, her breasts pressed to the hard wall of his chest. Flames licked over her skin as their mouths fused, tongues tangling. A mindless need roared through her, a hunger to have more of this. More of him.

When he set her on her feet, he edged back to look at her, his breath coming fast.

She knew it was wise of him to separate them. To break the mesmerizing contact. To give them a moment to think about this. But there in the endless dark, with only the horse and the wind as her witnesses, she couldn’t scavenge any reason to deny herself this heat. This connection. This kind of intense pleasure she’d never experienced before. Perhaps it was the inky blackness of the night that made it feel surreal, like a dream she didn’t want to wake up from.

All Hannah knew was that her body went to his like a magnet drawn to a more powerful one.

A raw sound rose up in his throat as she found his lips and kissed him again. Brock wrapped his hands around her, this time with more intent and purpose. She could feel the difference in how he flexed his fingers against her, the added pressure tantalizing her all the more.

“Hannah.” He breathed her name against her mouth. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” She gripped his biceps, wanting him inside where she could take his clothes off.

Straightening, she withdrew the keycard for the door from the small hip pocket sewn into her leggings. Her fingers were unsteady as she slid it through the reader.

“I don’t have protection with me, but my house is just through the woods.”

“I have something.” An old habit inspired by a college friend’s pregnancy. A good thing, because she wasn’t willing to wait for him to make a trip to his place.

As she pushed open the door, she knew stepping over the threshold was a point of no return. But she had no reservations about this. It was a moment of pleasure in a year of hell. The only things she felt now were hunger and need, the desire for him so stark she couldn’t begin to account for it. Her gaze met his in the dim light cast by two cast-iron sconces that flanked the stone fireplace mantel.

Extending her hand to him, she threaded her fingers through his. “Please. Come in.”

* * *

Something had happened on that shared horseback ride.

A switch had been thrown. A blaze had started, and there was no putting it out now.

Brock told himself he’d given her every out. Every option of changing her mind. And she’d refused. He couldn’t fight himself and her, too. Not when he’d wanted her from the first moment he’d seen her. Not when the stress of being a McNeill was at an all-time high. He felt like the whole damn world around him was poised to collapse when the blackmailer went public.

How could he refuse a night to forget about that, just for a little while, and lose himself in the promise of what Hannah was offering?

So, stepping into her two-bedroom cabin, he closed and locked the door behind him. Gave himself a moment to try to muster some scrap of restraint, if only to ensure they made it to a bed instead of tearing off their clothes in the middle of the living area.

But Hannah was having none of it. With the same certainty she’d shown when she slid off his horse and into his arms, she came to him now. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed herself into him. This time, he didn’t hold back, allowing the full impact of those sweetly feminine curves to work their seductive magic.

Purely potent. Totally intoxicating.

The chemistry was intense, the heat so strong he thought they might combust right there. He cupped her cheek, angling her chin higher to taste her more thoroughly. She tipped off his Stetson, winging it to an empty ladder-back chair near the door. Her ball cap had already fallen away, her silky blond waves tickling his arm, teasing along his skin.

He walked her backward, toward the dark hallway where the bedrooms were. He’d helped build this place with his brothers long ago—now it was a guest residence for visitors. Hannah let herself be led, moving with him, pausing near the kitchen bar long enough to pluck a leather handbag from the counter. She brought it with them into the darkened bedroom.

He flicked the switch by the door that lit a small gas fireplace on one wall opposite the bed, the low flames the only light in the room as he toed the door closed behind them. Hannah had already peeled off her shirt, and the sight of her creamy skin, breasts cradled in blue lace, nearly undid him.

Pulse thrumming hard, he reached for her, needing his hands on her. Her skin was incredibly soft as he drew her to him, the scent of her—something sweet and heady like orange blossoms—making him desperate to taste her. He kissed his way down her neck, searching for the source of the scent, taking his time on the journey to lick along her collarbone, nip her shoulder and ear.

She gripped the hem of his T-shirt and hauled it up his back and over his head. The pace was too fast but the hunger too keen to slow down as they undressed each other, tasting and touching as they unveiled themselves. Her creamy skin was rosy in the firelight, her hair turning from platinum to strawberry blond as it fell along her shoulder. He slid a finger beneath one bra strap, tugging it off, tracing the scalloped edge of lace before the fabric fell away.

She arched into him, the taut, pebbled peaks of her breasts almost close enough to taste. Bending to take her in his mouth, he circled the tip of one and then the other, unfastening the hook to free her and cupping the soft weights in his hands. Her moan was a sexy siren’s song in his ear.

“Please, please, please,” she chanted, one hand on his belt, a fingertip tracing the top edge of the leather.

Grazing his abs. Making him impossibly harder.

Torching all restraint.

She took a condom packet from her purse and put it on the bed. He eyed it before helping her with the belt. Quickly his pants were gone, his boots were gone, boxers gone.

His undressing was faster than hers, since she tangled her feet in the leggings while she watched him disrobe, her attention so damn flattering.

Brock lifted her in his arms, skimming off the scrap of blue lace around her hips before he pulled her down to the white duvet with him. She made soft, sexy sounds of approval in his ear as she speared her fingers into his hair and drew him down to kiss her. Shadows flickered across the bed beside them in the firelight, the need for her—for this—ratcheting higher.

He’d never bedded a woman so fast. Never imagined a night like this where desire smoked away reason and sensual hunger roared with predatory demand. But Hannah was right there with him, her hands shifting lower to smooth down his chest, back up his arms. All the while she urged him faster, whispering soft commands to touch her. Taste her.

He couldn’t get enough of her.

When she placed the condom packet in his hands, he tore it open like a man who’d been deprived for years. He wanted to take his time. See the way she looked when pleasure overtook her.

But this thing—whatever it was between them—was beyond that. It was a fever in the blood, driving hotter and faster with every breath.

Rolling the condom into place, he met her gaze. Her gray eyes watched him, her lips parted as her breath came in fast pants. He captured her mouth, kissing her as he positioned himself between her thighs. Edged his way inside.

He caught her cry of pleasure before she arched her neck and back. Her nails dug into his shoulders, and her body went still at last. When he started to move, he took his time, building the pleasure while she adjusted to him. Her foot pinned his calf for a moment, then slid higher, an ankle hooking around his waist. He gripped her thigh and angled her body. Nearly died of how damn good she felt.

Brock waited, trying like hell to slow down. To temper the need. But then, Hannah breathed in his ear, nipping the lobe and licking his neck just beneath it. Somehow that pushed things higher, and started the banked tension building again. He reached between them to touch her, teasing out the pleasure for her, too.

He could feel that same tension in her. Her head tossed from side to side, the rest of her going still. He kissed her again, taking her lips just as the sweet squeeze of her release gripped him tight.

The spasms went on and on, nudging him over the edge and into oblivion. His shout mingled with her soft cries, a chorus of the most perfect pleasure he’d ever felt.

With a woman he barely knew.

The realization slammed home just as he caught his breath. Just as some form of reason returned. Still, the fact that they didn’t know each other well didn’t take anything away from whatever they’d just experienced. It had been powerful. Passionate.

Incredibly fulfilling even as it made him want her all over again.

In other words, it was pure insanity.

Brock sank into the mattress beside her, rolling her to his side so they lay together before he drew half of the duvet over their bare bodies.

“That was the craziest thing I’ve ever done.” Her words were softened by the wonder in her voice. The amazement. A hint of a smile curved her lips. “I don’t even know your last name.”

A stir of warning prickled along his shoulders. He’d withheld it on purpose, of course. But it didn’t matter now. She certainly hadn’t been trying to get close to him because he was a McNeill. That much had been established.

Besides, as an actress, she had her own path to fame and fortune.

“McNeill.” He glanced over at her, smoothing a long blond wave away from her cheek. “Brock McNeill.”

Something shifted in her eyes. A recognition, yes. But not the speculative, almost greedy kind that he’d sometimes seen over the years.

No. He could have sworn Hannah Ryder all but recoiled. There was the slightest flinch. A fractional crinkle of her smooth brow. A stillness.

As if the name meant something to her, and not in a good way.

He wanted to ask her about it. Or at least, to talk to her and make some sense of what just happened. But she was already sliding away from him.

“I’m so sorry.” She shook her head. “And embarrassed. But I just remembered I have an early call on set tomorrow.” She slipped out from under the duvet, turning to plant her feet on the floor. “I don’t know what I was thinking. But I guess that’s the whole point. I wasn’t really thinking.”

Perhaps her reaction didn’t have anything to do with his name. Maybe she was just feeling the bite of morning-after regret—far too soon. That much, he could understand. The attraction had caught them like a tornado, touching down with fevered intensity.

He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll go in a minute,” he assured her. “Is everything okay? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She nodded, not making eye contact. “I’m just... This is completely awkward, right?” Hopping to her feet, she found her shirt and slid it over her head, the dark T-shirt covering her to the tops of her thighs. “Would you mind if we talked tomorrow, when I’ve got my head on straight again?”

Something was off here. Wrong.

He was missing it, but he wasn’t sure what he could accomplish by staying any longer when she was clearly agitated. He understood that. And she wasn’t the only one feeling rattled by what just happened. He just wished he could be sure that the only thing upsetting her was how fast things had escalated between them, and not something connected to his family name. The McNeills already had enough trouble brewing.

“Of course.” Nodding, he scooped his clothes off the floor and started to dress. “I’ll come by the set tomorrow and we’ll talk then.”

She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut again. Nodding, she pulled an afghan off the end of the bed and wrapped it around herself.

“Sure.” She hugged the blanket tighter while he finished dressing. “And, um, thank you for the ride home.”

He couldn’t help a wry chuckle as he stepped into his boots. “I sure as hell hope the ride isn’t what you remember most about this night.” Leaning close to her, he brushed a kiss over her cheek, wanting nothing more than to remind her that what just happened hadn’t been a fluke. But he understood about early wake-up calls. “We’ll definitely be talking more tomorrow. Good night, Hannah.”

Striding out of the bedroom, he retrieved his hat off the chair and dropped it on his head before stepping into the night. If Hannah was hiding something from him—if she had something against the McNeills—he had every intention of finding out.


Three (#ubdd54d39-9d0e-591e-8751-1677370f3200)

Hannah knew she couldn’t hide from Brock McNeill, but she was tempted to try the next day when he hadn’t made an appearance on the set by midmorning. How could the hottest night of her life have gone so terribly wrong?

The sexy rancher who’d turned her inside out was a McNeill.

Seated in a makeup chair under a canvas tent erected near the barn where she’d been shooting earlier, Hannah tried unsuccessfully to read through a script to take her mind off of Brock. She tried to get comfortable. There was a full-length mirror in front of her, and a cup of coffee stuffed in the mesh drink holder of her chair. Dressed in her period costume—a calico dress complete with petticoats and chemise—Hannah scrolled through the script for a space Western on her phone. It didn’t take a genius to know she was starting to get typecast as a ditz—a role she’d done well once and should have distanced herself from afterward. She played something similar in Winning the West, but she would have taken a role as an extra if it meant getting to work on an Antonio Ventura set. Shoving aside her phone, she wished she could feel outrage about her career. Instead, all she felt was anger at herself for making a selfish decision last night.

How could she have indulged herself that way, putting her own needs before her mission? It had never occurred to her that the casually dressed rancher who personally oversaw his horses could be a member of one of the nation’s wealthiest families. Hannah knew all about the connection between Cheyenne’s ranching McNeills and the Manhattan branch of the family and their lucrative resort chain. She’d also read up on the ties between the Silicon Valley start-up, Transparent, principally owned by Damon McNeill and his brothers.

Hannah had researched all of them carefully before she accepted the film role on McNeill land because of the secret connection between the Ventura family and the McNeills. A connection they’d all hidden so thoroughly, she wasn’t sure how many people even knew about it besides her. Not that Hannah cared about the secrets and scandals of the rich. She’d simply done her homework to find out if the McNeills were potential allies or enemies in her quest for justice for her sister.

And despite all the research she’d completed—even briefly working for the Ventura family’s cleaning service—she still couldn’t be certain. It could go either way. Certainly, Brock McNeill had shown no liking for Antonio. They’d behaved as though they were strangers when they spoke on the set yesterday—one more reason why Hannah would have never taken Brock for one of the McNeill family.

Restless and uneasy, Hannah shot from the chair to pace the temporary makeup and dressing area. She hadn’t gone three steps when Callie raced into the tent, her work apron covered with pins and her usually sleek ponytail twisted into a haphazard knot.

“There you are!” The wardrobe assistant skidded to a stop, one sandal catching on the tassels of a floor mat. Her cheeks were pink with hectic color. “Hannah, you have a visitor on set.” She lifted her dark eyebrows and lowered her voice. “The hot cowboy from yesterday.”

Tension squeezed Hannah’s shoulders even as warmth stirred in her belly. How could she pretend the same ease with him that she had yesterday, knowing his identity? Knowing the McNeills hid a connection to Antonio Ventura, the man she hated beyond reason? Not even Meryl Streep could pull off that kind of acting job.

“He’s here?” Hannah asked finally. Stalling.

She peered into the full-length mirror, wondering if her expression revealed her distress.

Callie stepped closer, looking at Hannah’s face in the mirror. “He said you were expecting him. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just a little nervous, I guess.” She forced a smile, needing to get it together before she saw Brock. If only she understood his family’s link to the Venturas.

Was there a chance her relationship with Brock could help her learn something useful about Antonio? Something that would aid her efforts to unmask him for the monster he was?

Steeling herself for the performance she needed to give for the sake of her sister, Hannah hoped she could extricate herself from an intimate relationship without alienating Brock altogether. Because while she was willing to leverage a friendship to learn anything she could about Antonio, she drew the line at allowing Brock back into her bed ever again now that she knew he was a McNeill.

The rest of the world might not know the truth about the Ventura and McNeill connection, but Hannah had unearthed the secret from a coworker at the Venturas’ cleaning service.

Paige McNeill, Brock’s stepmother, had married Brock’s father under an assumed name. She was actually the missing Hollywood heiress Eden Harris. Daughter of the actress Barbara Harris and director Emilio Ventura. Stepsister to Antonio Ventura himself.

So until Hannah knew where the McNeills stood on the issue of the family they had never publicly acknowledged, maybe it was best to treat all of them—Brock included—like they were her potential enemies.

* * *

Brock knew he should stay away from Hannah Ryder.

Publicly, it made sense to keep the relationship quiet since he didn’t need to draw more attention to his family in the days—hours, perhaps—before a scandal broke. And privately, Brock had yet to figure out the expression on Hannah’s face when she’d learned of his identity last night, so it wasn’t a good idea to get too involved with a woman so clearly rattled by the McNeill name.

Yet here he was on the set of her film before noon the day after they’d met. After they’d parted awkwardly and she’d dominated his thoughts all night.

He paced behind the camera while the set crew worked to change some components in front of the lens. Lights were rolled out of the open barn doors and new lights were rolled in on handcarts and dollies. Props were switched. Hay was raked and “fluffed” using methods that rendered it unusable for horses—glue, silicon spray and filler were mixed in to make the piles look bigger against the walls. The whole place bustled with activity while the actors and director were on break.

Brock had missed seeing Hannah’s scene earlier in the day, but he’d been busy with his family. His brother Carson’s new girlfriend—Emma Layton, a stunt woman for Winning the West—had shared what might be an important clue about a connection between the McNeills and the Venturas, one the blackmailer could be exploiting. Emma’s mother, Jane, had been hinting at the connection in recent phone conversations. Jane Layton had worked as a maid for the Ventura families for years and had been privy to many of the family’s private affairs, but Emma also confided that her mother was emotionally unstable.

So could they trust any information gleaned from Jane Layton?

The McNeill family’s private investigator couldn’t follow up all the blackmail leads fast enough now that the time had almost expired on the threat to expose Paige McNeill’s past. Brock’s father was scared his wife was going to have a nervous breakdown, since she hadn’t yet fully recovered from her time spent in a coma. And Scarlett, Paige’s youngest daughter, refused to speak to any of them while she nursed her anger that they’d somehow forsaken Paige by not trying to work something out with the blackmailer.

Now this.

The woman who’d so thoroughly captivated Brock last night was hiding something, and he was determined to find out what. The family suspected the blackmailer might be working on the film or have a close connection to someone who did. Could Hannah Ryder be capable of blackmail? Anger flared at the thought she might have used sex to get closer to him. He was certain the attraction was real, but the possibility of deception rankled.

He was so caught up in those dark thoughts he didn’t hear anyone approach him as he held the side door open for a woman pushing a catering cart of fruit, breakfast pastries and coffee.

“Brock.”

The sound of Hannah’s voice behind him sent a spike of unwanted heat up his spine. He really needed to get his attraction to her under control until he figured out where she stood in this mess with his family.

Pivoting on his boot heel, he faced her.

She was even lovelier than he remembered. Her hair was pinned up on either side, the back falling in curls that struck him as a vaguely historical style—maybe because the curls were so carefully molded. She wore a frontier-woman kind of gown, too. It was cream-colored and dotted with tiny flowers. The bodice shaped her torso in an exaggerated manner that looked sort of painful—cinching her waist and lifting her breasts in a way guaranteed to draw the eye. The full skirt of her dress would have reached the floor if she didn’t have the fabric tucked into the waist, probably to keep it clean when she wasn’t filming.

Even her black lace-up boots with tiny heels were from another era.

He battled the urge to touch her. To greet her with a kiss, or a whispered word about how beautiful she looked. Instead, he needed to come straight to the point. He was running out of time to help his family. He needed to know why his name had upset this West Coast actress who shouldn’t care about his identity one way or the other.

“Hello, Hannah.” His nod was as terse as his tone, but it couldn’t be helped. “We said we’d talk more today. Can we go somewhere to speak privately?”

“My next scene is supposed to start filming soon.” She seemed different. More guarded.

Which was to be expected, he supposed, even if she didn’t have anything to do with the blackmail scheme. He ground his teeth against the frustration of the past few weeks. He was a horse breeder and trainer, damn it. Not a sleuth.

“I need to ask you about last night,” he pressed, unwilling to let it go. He simply lowered his voice more and drew her into a dark corner of the barn, between the side door and the open front doors. “About the way you reacted when I told you my name.”

There it was.

A tiny flinch. A slight flare of her nostrils.

He’d been with a woman who kept secrets before. He recognized the signs, and it was an experience he refused to repeat.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied smoothly enough, but the words didn’t erase that moment of honest response he’d seen on her face.

“Yes, you do.” He wasn’t going to drop it. And he wasn’t going to let her off the hook. “My family is going through hell right now, Hannah, and if you know something about that—about the threats leveled against the McNeills—”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She shook her head, the curls brushing her shoulders, catching on the lace detail of her sleeve. Her face paled. “What threats?”

Behind him, another dolly rumbled past with electronic equipment, but with the shouting and noise made by the crew, he wasn’t worried about being overheard.

He plowed ahead. “Someone has been threatening my family. Time is running out for me to figure out who’s behind those threats.” He stepped closer to her, sensing movement behind him as the set workers adjusted lights overhead. “We’re being blackmailed—”

His speech wavered, then halted, as something heavy cracked the back of his skull. He had a flash of awareness that he was falling. A moment to see panic on Hannah’s lovely face before...

The world went black.

* * *

“Brock!” Hannah watched in horror as the big, strong man beside her crumpled to the ground.

It took her a moment to process what had happened. One of the overhead lights had broken free of the grid, hitting the back of Brock’s head. The light lay smashed on the floor behind him, the heavy black housing bent on one side. Already, people were shouting, grips and gaffers scrambling to secure the grid and clear the set.

“Brock?” Hannah sank to her knees beside the fallen rancher, her fingers tentative as she touched his shoulder, fear icing her insides. “Are you all right?”

He was breathing, but he remained stone-still.

Two production assistants were suddenly beside her, leaning over him, informing her not to move him.

Because she was flustered and scared, it took her a moment to process why. He had a head injury. He could have a concussion or much worse. A spinal injury would be...

Oh, God. She laid her hand over his, taking his fingers—careful not to move his arm—and squeezing them gently.

“Call 911!” she shouted, even as one of the wardrobe assistants flashed a thumbs-up sign as she spoke into her phone.

Someone was already taking care of that.

The minutes stretched out endlessly as they waited for an ambulance. In the background, Hannah heard the second director yelling at the production staff while someone swept up broken glass. Hannah debated how to reach Brock’s family to let someone know what had happened, but she couldn’t seem to let go of his hand.

He’d told her someone was threatening his relatives. Blackmailing them. He’d been upset about it—to the point there was even suspicion of her in his eyes—before that light had hit him. Did he suspect her of blackmail?

The thought chilled her even more.

Had he told his family about them? About his night with her or the way she’d reacted when he mentioned the McNeill name? What if they blamed her for the accident?

None of it should matter now when Brock was hurt. But she couldn’t afford to get caught up in a scandal that had nothing to do with her. Brock might suspect her of something, but she knew she wasn’t a blackmailer. She only wanted evidence against Antonio Ventura, but she couldn’t possibly share her secret agenda with his family. Not even to clear her name, if it came down to that.

In the distance, she heard the wail of a siren. The ambulance was getting closer.

Relieved that help was on the way, she let one of the director’s assistants know that she was going to follow the ambulance to the hospital. Because no matter how awkward things had gotten between her and Brock, this was still the man who had kissed her senseless the night before. The man who’d publicly told off Antonio.

She needed to be there for him until someone from his family arrived.

“You’re going to be fine,” she assured him even though he couldn’t hear her. She stroked her free hand over the subtle bristle of his jaw. “The ambulance is almost here.”

The siren grew louder. Nearby, the production team cleared a path between the doors and Brock, moving aside equipment.

Hannah told herself she should step back out of the way, too. But before she could, she felt Brock stirring.

Relief rushed through her.

“He’s waking up!” she shouted to no one in particular, her eyes remaining on him. “He’s coming out of it.”

She squeezed his hand tighter, watched as he lifted his head ever so slightly. Then, as if he found it too heavy, he rested his head back on the ground, but blinked his eyes open and stared up at her.

“Are you okay?” she asked him, tilting her head to meet his gaze. “It’s probably better if you don’t move just yet.”

She searched his face, looking for clues to any sign of discomfort or injury. Needing him to be okay.

Brock frowned, a scowl wrinkling his forehead as he studied her. When he spoke, his voice was gravelly and deep, his tone oddly distant.

“Who are you?” he asked, his blue eyes never wavering from her face. “Do I know you?”


Four (#ubdd54d39-9d0e-591e-8751-1677370f3200)

Was he serious?

Vaguely, she became aware of movement around her, the EMS crew laying a stretcher next to him before gently shuffling her aside to assess Brock’s condition.

Did Brock really not remember her?

She squeezed her temples, trying to figure out what that meant. Because while she’d started this day wishing she could have a chance at a do-over with Brock, she had never wanted him to be hurt.

Tension balled tight in her stomach as the EMS workers took his vitals and asked him questions, gathering information about the blow to his head. Hannah paced circles nearby, willing herself to think. To figure out what it meant that Brock didn’t recognize her.

He’d stared at her as if she was a total stranger. As if they hadn’t been naked together less than twenty-four hours ago.

Her gaze skittered toward him, her heart rate jumping at the sight of him. She couldn’t imagine forgetting their time together. Forgetting him. She watched as he tried to wave off the woman taking his blood pressure. Brock reached for his phone, insisting he would call his own physician.

A good sign, right? Except his movements seemed a bit stilted. And when the other EMS worker asked him what day it was, Brock seemed confused.

Worry twisted inside Hannah. For a moment, she considered walking away, before his memory returned. No one would be the wiser that she’d bailed on him.

Except she wasn’t that kind of woman. Besides, she should stay close to Brock in case he knew more about Antonio Ventura. Hannah’s mission to help her sister came first.

If Brock had forgotten about his night with Hannah, maybe she didn’t need to remind him of how far things had gone between them. She could have her chance at a do-over, only this time, she’d be his friend and not his lover.

There would be no expectation of more. No suspicions about why she’d backed away from a relationship so fast. And if a little voice inside her head warned her that it wasn’t going to be easy to pretend she wasn’t attracted to him?

She’d simply have to ignore it, along with the man’s red-hot appeal.

* * *

Brock just lay in a hospital bed, skull throbbing, hypoallergenic pillowcase crinkling as he shifted. Some of the pain he attributed to the knot on the back of his head. But the bigger ache came from not knowing how he landed in Cheyenne Regional Medical Center.

There’d been other times in the past he’d woken up to an EMS worker hovering over him. During his rodeo years, he’d broken enough bones and taken enough blows to the head that ER trips had been regular occurrences.

But in the past, he always remembered the fall.

Today? He didn’t have a clue what had happened to him. And it didn’t take a medical genius to know something was really wrong, considering all the docs who’d come through his exam room to ask him questions and frown over his chart. Where was his family? Not that he expected his older brothers to come running when he fell off a bull. Or his father either, for that matter. But his half sisters normally showed up for him. Maisie, Madeline and Scarlett had always been good to him.

This time, Maisie and Madeline had both texted him their regrets that they couldn’t be there because they needed to be by their mother’s side before “the scandal broke.” Whatever that meant. Scarlett’s response was even more puzzling, since she said Cheyenne was too far to drive, but she hoped he felt better soon.

Where in the hell was his youngest sister if not in Cheyenne? He wanted to look back over his texting history—to see if he could make sense of his world again, but he was having the damnedest time operating the cell phone, which was a different model than he remembered.

He stabbed at the touch screen, wondering where the home button had disappeared to.

The door to his room opened and one of his attending physicians entered—a tall, genial guy with a thick Eastern European accent. Brock slid his phone onto the bedside table, anxious to be released so he could get home and wait for his head to clear. The whole world felt off-kilter, but if there was some kind of scandal brewing that could hurt his family, Brock needed to be with his brothers and sisters, not sitting in a hospital bed.

Brock straightened, sliding his feet to the floor.

“Whoa, Mr. McNeill.” Dr. Kreshnik hurried closer, his clipboard clattering to the tile as he reached for Brock’s arm to steady him. “You’ve had head trauma. We don’t want you moving too quickly on your own.”

“I’m fine,” Brock protested, knowing he would feel better at home. “I don’t know who decided I needed the ER visit, but I’m definitely ready to be discharged.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mr. McNeill.” The physician frowned as he retrieved the chart from the floor. “We want to evaluate you further.”

“I’ve been here for five hours.” Time might be fuzzy for him, but he’d messaged his sisters from the ambulance so he knew he’d been at the hospital that long. The room spun a bit, but then stopped. He was still wearing his street clothes and they’d already done a CT scan. He could have the results sent to his specialist.

“You’re exhibiting signs of amnesia...” The doctor continued speaking, rattling off words like “short-term episode” and “more tests.”

But Brock’s brain stuck on that word. Amnesia.

Was that why he couldn’t recall what was going on in his family? Why he didn’t remember the accident that brought him in here? But he knew his own name. Could remember his friends. His family.

His head throbbed harder.

While the medical expert spouted something about care plans, a soft knock sounded on the exam room door. One of his sisters, maybe?

“Come in,” Brock called, needing an ally to bust him out of the facility.

But the woman who stepped into the room juggling two steaming foam cups wasn’t a sister. And he thanked his lucky stars for that.

Her generous curves and platinum waves were the stuff fantasies were made of, although her outfit made her look like she’d just stepped off the prairie. Her long, flower-dotted skirt was something from another era and modest in the extreme. But the shirt she wore with it was another matter altogether, the stiff fabric as tight as a corset, nipping her waist and drawing the eye upward to her breasts.





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