Despite Brock's seemingly blase tone, she would bet his mom's continued defection stung. No wonder he was so determined to meet the requirements of his father's will; no way, no how a man of with his sense of honor and decency would allow evil to win.
Lyndie patted his hand in a show of support. "The sanctuary is empty. Let's go sign those papers so we can walk to the inn. We shouldn't keep our guests waiting."
"Only husbands," she thought she heard Brock mumble as he followed her directions.
*
Brock gulped back two fingers of whiskey and watched his wife flitter around the ballroom, chatting and laughing with different groups of people. She outshone everyone and everything. Not even the chandeliers with thousands of teardrop crystals shaped and colored to resemble strawberries could compare.
She was confident and carefree. He'd rarely ever seen her like this, but hoped this side of her remained at the helm for the rest of their live--
Marriage.
He motioned to a waiter, requesting another whiskey. The new drink arrived. Down the hatch. His fourth shot of the night, yet his thoughts continued to whirl, refusing to settle.
Brock remembered the day he'd met Lyndie. He'd gone to the Scratching Post, desperate to find a woman and get out of his head. Wasn't long before he'd met a thirty-something single determined to celebrate her divorce.
They decided to go back to her place and made their way to the exit. Then Lyndie walked in.
The summer day had been early yet. Only six p.m. The sun had only just begun to set, bright golden light haloing her. Brock had stopped in his tracks, every cell in his body waking up in a flash and sizzling. Honestly, he'd felt as though he'd been hit by lightning.
How cliche. But truth was truth. A hard punch of desire had slammed into him, making a mockery of everything he'd ever felt before.
He remembered thinking: She's a hallucination. Has to be.
Then she'd paused and their eyes had met and time had slowed, and the rest of the world had disappeared. He'd thought: Hallucination or not, I want her.
He'd actually reached for her, intending to trace his fingers over her lips and prove she existed outside his head. The movement had ruined the moment. She'd flinched before hurrying to get away from him, leaving him reeling in more ways than one. What struck him the hardest? Besides the shock of her beauty. The fact that she'd flinched, as if she'd expected him to hurt her. A reaction he would rather die than see again.
The divorcee had noticed his moment with Lyndie, complained for a bit, then stomped away in a huff when she realized he wasn't listening. He'd thought, Good riddance. He'd stuck around the Scratching Post, entranced by the redhead...who'd left about five minutes later.
During their next meeting--and the next and the next--she'd wanted nothing to do with him.
Everything changed a few months ago, however, when she'd begun attending group therapy sessions. Sessions she'd shared with their group. Brock had a front row seat to her transformation from caterpillar to butterfly, and his admiration for her had only grown.
Why couldn't she see? She hadn't gone through this alone. She'd needed others.
She needs me.
With him, she was happy and at ease and had a teasing glint in her amber eyes. And Brock would do whatever needed doing to ensure she remained comfortable with him. He would kill to ensure she stayed safe.
She had no idea Rick Lambert had tried to bust into the church in the middle of the ceremony. Or that he was caught hiding in the bushes outside the inn only an hour ago, taking photos through the window. Brock's men had handled the situation without a hitch.
He knew she had a protective order against Lambert, but calling the cops would have ruined the wedding. And really, Lambert could have claimed not to know Lyndie had been inside the church. He might have been fined, but with the current judicial system, he wouldn't spend a single night in jail. His record was too clean.
Brock had checked. Lambert worked as a self-employed accountant. His neighbors liked him. There were no complaints filed--though Brock suspected there had been multiple complaints, which was why Jim Rayburn had chosen Lambert as Lyndie's tormentor. Only, Rayburn must have made those complaints go away.
The protective order wasn't going to stop Lambert from trying to get to Lyndie. Why would it, when threats of bodily harm hadn't done any good? Not that Brock had issued a threat. No, he'd issued a promise.
Lambert would have to be dealt with, and soon.
At least Miranda hadn't tried to break up the party. Yet. Give her time.
As Jude and Daniel danced with their wives, Brock made his way to a shadowed corner in back of the room, thinking to continue watching tonight's episode of Lyndie TV. She glanced in his direction, not meeting his gaze but staring at his...glass? A frown pulled the corners of her mouth downward, and the color in her cheeks drained.
He stopped short of his destination, remaining in the light, wanting to know if she would--
Yes. She continued to glance at the drink.
Before she'd said yes to his proposal, she'd stipulated he could never drink inside her home. At the time, he'd assumed she thought he would lose all sense, wander off, and cheat on her if ever he got wasted. But thinking back, he realized she'd always stayed off to the side, away from drinkers, whenever she'd visited Ryanne at the Scratching Post. And every time their group had met, she'd maintained distance from Brock and even Daniel while they'd nursed their beers. Jude wasn't a drinker.
So. Alcohol was a problem for Lyndie. No, rephrase. Men drinking alcohol was a problem for her.
She must be keeping count of Brock's drinks, expecting him to...what? Get drunk and rage?
Yeah. That.
Had James Carrington beat her after drinking? What about her father?
Brock's grip tightened on the glass. Careful. As one of the catering staff walked past, he placed the empty container on a tray.
"Would you like another, sir?" the waiter asked.
"No, thank you."
The color returned to Lyndie's cheeks, and she turned to smile at her cousin Pearl.
Brock smiled. Making his Scottie happy had that effect on him.
"Never thought I'd see the day." Jude sidled up to him with hard-won grace, considering he wore a metal prosthesis. Smirking, he bumped Brock's shoulder. "Brock Hudson. Married. What were the odds?"
"Yes, pigs are flying and hell has frozen over," he muttered, unsure why his chest constricted.
His friend snorted. "Dude. Up is down and down is up. You haven't seen your face when you look at your wife. You're like a starving man who's finally found an all-you-can-eat buffet."
Wife. A commitment lasting longer than a month would give Lyndie time to get to know him and grow to hate him. When the time came, Brock would let her go.
In the meantime, he wanted to learn everything about her.
Her gaze returned to him. When she noticed his hands remained empty, her posture softened. Her eyes lifted, met his. In an instant, he shot to full hardness.
Cursing, he hurriedly adjusted his suit to mask the problem.
Jude snickered. "I'm pretty sure I should rest my case--before you beat it with the hammer in your pants."
"Where's my unconditional support?" he asked, his gaze staying on his wife. He couldn't bring himself to complain about Jude's ribbing. He loved when the former curmudgeon acted like a mischievous child.
Lyndie winked at him, as if she'd guessed the topic of conversation, and his heart nearly burst past his ribs. Multiple overseas tours, hails of gunfire, bombs, and enemy ambushes hadn't gotten the best of him, but a tiny little redhead just might.
"I will always support you," Jude said, deadpan. "Unless I'm tired. Or hungry. Or my favorite movie is playing."
Please. Jude would die for him, no doubt about it. Once, the guy had carried an injured Brock over his shoulder while dodging enemy fire. And, even though Jude hated alcohol because of what had happened to his wife and daughters, he'd ne
ver begrudged Brock a drink. Now he even worked at the bar with Ryanne. Showed what a big heart he had.
"If you and Ryanne have a girl," Brock said, "you'll need me around when she starts dating. I'm a much better shot than you."
Jude snorted. "This is true."
"Brock." A former soldier who now worked for LPH Protection approached. "Your mother attempted to sneak in through the kitchen. We're holding her in one of the rooms until we receive further instruction."
A muscle jumped underneath his eye, anger, satisfaction, and frustration converging inside him. "Thank you. I'll take care of her." Though he was loath to leave Lyndie. Gaze on Jude, he said, "You'll watch over my wife, yes?"
"As if you even need to ask. Go."
With a final glance at Lyndie--she'd turned to watch him openly--he followed the soldier to the first hallway of rented rooms. Two other soldiers stood in front of a closed door.
"Has she--" Brock quieted as the click-clack of heels echoed behind him. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't have to look to know who'd followed him.
"What's going on?" Lyndie called.
Yep. Her.
He heaved a heavy sigh as he turned. She jogged closer, holding up the hem of her dress, revealing her shoes and two lace garters threatening to fall past her knees. Someone save me. Then he realized he was missing an even better view and lifted his gaze. Her breasts bounced. Up, down. Up, down. Mesmerizing.
He had to tear his gaze away before he started drooling.
Jude stood at the end of the hallway, his arms spread, all what was I supposed to do?
Brock nodded in acknowledgment, all trust me. I know how persuasive Lyndie can be.
"What's wrong?" she asked when she reached him. Exertion had left a fine sheen of perspiration on her brow, making her glow. "I'm kind of, like, your wife now, so you have to tell me everything always. It's a rule."
Concentrate. Right. How much to reveal and how much to hide?
Wait. Why not divert the conversation? "Is that how marriages work?" he asked, his tone teasing.
"That is how our marriage works."
He arched a brow. "For the first few months of our acquaintance, you refused to speak to me. Now you're pursuing me into narrow hallways. I need a moment to adjust."
She hiked her delicate shoulders in a shrug. "Marriage changes people."
He rolled his eyes. But...hadn't he changed as well? Ever since he'd heard the terms of his father's will, he'd been unable to think of anyone or thing except making this woman his wife.
"I'm asking you to return to the party, Scottie. Please. For me."
"Thank you for asking, but my answer is still no. I'm staying with you. Now, do you want to continue doing what you were doing, or continue talking?"
"Talking." No way he wanted her to meet his mother. "Why do you not want me drinking?" Maybe, if he got personal, she'd back off.
Wrong. She said, "Because my dad and James drank. And I know, I know. You've never displayed a temper while drinking around me. But we've never been shut up inside a house after you've been drinking, just the two of us, either."
Nailed it.
"So, what are we doing here?" she asked.
He sighed and motioned to the correct door with a tilt of his chin. "My mother is here."
"Wait. She's here here?" As Lyndie bobbed her thumb in the direction of the door, he nodded. To his astonishment, she grinned. "I want to meet her. Please, Brock. Let me. I've got to see the woman who squeezed you out of her va--"
Brock pressed a hand over her mouth. Her soft, lush mouth. Mirth glittered in her amber eyes as her warm breath fanned his palm. He led her over to the side, away from his men, wishing so badly he could find humor in the moment too.
"You don't want to meet her, Scottie." Dread crawled up his spine. "She's an elitist snob, and she will insult me at the first opportunity. Then she'll turn her venom on you." Even the idea ticked him off. No telling how he'd react if--when--Miranda proved him right. "For everyone's safety, return to the party and let me handle this. Okay?"
Refusing to back down, she cupped his jaw with her soft, soft hands, and he comprehended a very real truth: whatever she wanted, he would give her. I'm putty. "You are not the person she says you are. Understand? You are worth something. You are valued. You are...mine. For now."
She is mine, and I am hers.
Rocked to the core by her words, Brock had no defense. Pleasure was a tidal wave crashing through him. Not just physically, but mentally and emotionally too. Suddenly he was standing taller, prouder, his shoulders squared, his spine ramrod straight.
"Look," she added when he remained silent, "I know you were disappointed when I said I wouldn't take your last name. When you pout, you get the most adorable crinkle between your eyes." She traced the spot in question, sending white lightning shooting through him. "Introduce me to your mother, and I'll reconsider hyphenating while we're together."
Lyndie Scott-Hudson. Yes! For this, he would do anything. Although, why it so important to him, he didn't know.
"Deal," he said. "And for your information, I do not pout. I brood, all dark and manly like."
She snickered, and his heartbeat seemed to...warp. Early onset arrhythmia? He should probably seek medical attention ASAP. Nah. If his number was up, he'd die with a smile. Hopefully in bed with Lyndie.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready."
Was he? Didn't matter, he supposed. Introductions were happening. He led her to the door, and one of his men turned the knob. Though a gentleman would have let a lady go first, Brock entered ahead of Lyndie, just in case Miranda decided to attack.
His mother had been sitting at the edge of the bed but leaped to her feet as soon as she spotted him. Her pale green eyes narrowed. Jet-black hair without a single strand of gray was cut in a stylish bob. Her skin had few wrinkles. By the time he'd hit his teens, she'd undergone every kind of lift, peel, and laser money could buy. She looked young for her age, but even still, she looked old. Bitterness always demanded its due.
A formfitting black suit-dress highlighted a slender frame. Too slender. She was nothing but skin and bones.
"This is kidnapping," she snapped. "I'll have you--" Her gaze landed on Lyndie, who moved to his side and linked her fingers with his--in a show of support? Whatever the reason, the action shocked him to his core. And affected him in a way he'd never before experienced. Warming him. Softening him.
Miranda quieted, her mind clearly whirling with possible ways to play this. Finally she settled on a plan and said, "To marry someone like him, you have to be as dumb as a box of rocks. And you aren't even his type. Or maybe you are. For all I know, you're as trashy as the rest of them."
Red winked over Brock's line of sight.
And his mother wasn't even done. "Whatever he's paying you, it's not enough. No amount of money is worth putting up with him. How about I pay you double to get an annulment?"
Brock tensed. He hated this woman--so why did her words have the power to wound him?
"I'm super smart. The smartest!" Lyndie blinked at her, all innocence, as she twirled a lock of silken hair around her finger. "But sometimes when I close my eyes, I can't see."
Just like that, Brock's tension eased. He had to press his lips together tight to stop a laugh. A laugh in the midst of a terrible family drama. A few seconds ago, he couldn't even crack a smile. His wife was a miracle worker as well as a soothing balm.
"Miranda, meet my wife, Lyndie Scott-Hudson. Wife, meet the candidate for worst mother of the years."
"Years?" Lyndie asked. "Plural?"
He nodded. "All the years."
Unabashed, Miranda jutted out her chin, her focus remaining on Lyndie. "I've done my homework. I know you've suffered at the hands of men, Miss Scott."
"Mrs. Scott-Hudson to you," Lyndie grated, and pride nearly burst Brock's chest. "I'm considering dropping the hyphen though. If Brock proves particularly enjoyable in bed, I'll definitely drop it. Only time
will tell."
He grinned. He would ensure she dropped the hyphen by the end of the night.
Miranda humphed. "Trust me when I tell you that you'll suffer worse at my son's hands. His temper is legendary. The only reason he isn't in jail for assault is because his father always bailed--"
"Enough!" Brock roared, and Lyndie jumped.
He deflated instantly, hating himself for frightening her. How dare his mother spread such lies! But then, she had done her homework. She knew just where to strike to drive a wedge between them.
He expected Lyndie to run out of the room. Astonishingly enough, she remained in place.
He squeezed her hand in reassurance, gratitude, and thanks. "I came to tell you that all your efforts to ruin me will be in vain." His tone was flat, even deadened. She hated him because she'd hated his father. Loved Braydon because she loved his father. The fact that Brock was half hers had never been a factor. Now he wondered why.
Did she hate...herself? What kind of childhood had shaped her into this?
Did it really matter? She'd made her choices. Now she would live with the consequences.
"I will claim my rightful place at the company, and I will restructure as I see fit," he added. "There's nothing you can do to stop me."
Cold calculation twisted Miranda's expression before she burst into tears. "Please, Brock, please don't do this. I know I haven't always been the best mother, but I've changed. All I need is a chance to prove it."
Are you kidding me?
Did she think him such a fool he would fall for such an obvious act? Or perhaps she considered him so desperate for a mother's love he would willingly override battle-honed instincts?
Even if he were a fool, even if he were desperate, he would not go against his instincts. Besides, he and his mother had passed the time for reconciliation.
"Goodbye, Miranda. Go home. But not to any of my homes. The moment you reached Strawberry Valley, I had the locks changed at every property."
Outrage turned her into a missile. She launched at him, fist raised.
With one hand, Brock tugged Lyndie behind him. With the other, he caught Miranda by the wrist.
"You won't get away with this," his mother snarled, wrenching free.
He offered her a cold smile. "I already have." Turning on his heel, he ushered Lyndie toward the door. He'd known how this meeting would go down. He shouldn't be hurt. And he wasn't...much.