JAMES (7 Brides for 7 Brothers Book 6)

  Good God, she was stunning.

  “I needed…” Air. Time. You. So much more of you.

  “Space,” she supplied when he couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “No.” He took a step forward, reaching to draw her closer to him, aching already to touch her.

  “Then why did you leave me?”

  Because I know you’ll leave me.

  The realization gutted him for a moment. “I had some things to work out.” Like the fact that he had been planning to sell the winery. It would be so easy to tell her now, but he couldn’t bear to see the hurt and shock and disappointment on her face. Not when she looked so beautiful and well-loved.

  When she found out, would she leave?

  Better to tell her later, when it was an idea he’d killed, not a plan he had.

  “Just for the record, James Brannigan, you’re not my type, either.”

  He thumbed her cheek, aware of the mist hovering over the two of them as the rainstorm got closer. “I bet I’m not,” he agreed. “For one thing, I don’t do fun.”

  She smiled at him. “What we just spent the last hour doing? Epic fun.”

  “You probably like a guy who’s passionate and colorful. Someone who’ll jump on a motor scooter, pick olives, and…and…kiss in the rain.”

  “Rain’s coming, big guy. Now’s your chance.” A breeze lifted a strand of her hair, the air cooling, either from the pending storm or the slight hitch they’d just hit in their fledgling romance. “But that’s not what I meant about my type. I meant what you are, who you are, what you…represent.”

  He frowned, trying to figure out what he represented to her. “I could go so many ways here. A foreigner? An investor? A chickenshit scooter rider?”

  She laughed. “I can teach you not to be scared of that,” she said, but her laugh faded. “But I can’t teach you how to…” She put one hand on his bare chest. “How to use this incredible heart of yours.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  She slowly dropped her hand and turned to the vista, sighing. “When I was a little girl,” she finally said, “I used to have my nannies buy me every shade made of colored Post-it Notes.”

  He lifted his brows, the statement so out of left field, he wasn’t sure where she could be going with this.

  “My first introduction to them was through my mother,” she said. “They would be stuck all over the many piles of paper she had from work, like brightly colored flower petals, pink and neon green, yellow and baby blue. They meant something to her, I realized at a young age. I would lie in bed next to her in the evenings while she was on the phone with her bosses reporting in from a day’s work, and she would write words on those little papers and stick them somewhere to be noticed and remembered.”

  Her voice hitched a little, and she blinked, as if caught off guard by the emotion this revelation caused.

  “So I used to ask my nannies to buy Post-it Notes for me, in the wildest possible colors they could find. And then…” She looked at him, a little embarrassment in her expression. “I would leave a pack of them next to my mother’s bed with a pen because I wanted her to write me a note before she went to work. So I would have it all day.”

  “Did she?”

  “Once or twice. When I’d have a nanny who knew what was what and reminded her. Once I tried leaving her a note, a pale pink Post-it shaped like a heart that Miss Susan found…” Her smile grew wistful and her gaze moved from him back to the view, but focused on another place and time. “I put it on a document that she needed, and I must have covered something important.” She shook her head. “She was not thrilled with me for that.”

  He stroked her bare shoulder.

  “I stopped waiting for those notes after a while,” she whispered. “And when I finished high school, a few days after I turned eighteen, I left home and started traveling the world.”

  He considered that, scanning her face, taking in the weird way their histories were similar, but different. “She sacrificed a lot for work.”

  She gave a mirthless laugh. “Precisely. She sacrificed me. And I will never give my heart to someone who puts work and money before me.” She leaned into him. “My body? Yes, I obviously am willing to do that. But nothing else.”

  He got the subtext of what she was saying, not that there was anything too subtle about it. He was a workaholic, he was coldhearted, and she’d slept with him but would never feel anything. And if she found out he’d done it while considering an opportunity to sell the winery?

  He didn’t even want to think about how much that would hurt her.

  After a moment, she glanced at him again. “So we have that in common with our mothers.”

  “I doubt mine ever saw a Post-it Note,” James said. “But if she did, it was to remind her of football practice.”

  “I meant our mothers screwed us both up.”

  He frowned at her, not following. “I must have given you the wrong impression, then. She never screwed me up.”

  Had she? He looked away, back to the foggy clouds building and bringing rain, but he didn’t see this new take on the postcard view. He just saw…Kathleen Brannigan. Turning, rushing, flipping her hand to wave good-bye.

  That moment when the Brannigan family cracked in half, at least in his opinion. The moment when he learned that if he didn’t control everything…everything could disappear.

  So maybe she did screw him up a little.

  “James,” she whispered, sidling closer to him. “Here comes the rain.”

  As if on cue, the first drop hit his bare shoulder. And her face. And his head. “And you want to stand out here and kiss in the rain.”

  She threw a glance at the chaise lounge. “Why stop with kissing?”

  The wind picked up as the rain fell in earnest, wetting her hair and sending an unexpected chill over both of them. He tangled his fingers in her pale gold locks, as lost in her hair as he was in her eyes. “You want to stay out here and get soaking wet for the sheer fun of it.”

  She loosened her grip on the sheet. “No one can see us.”

  His body stirred at the thought, but his brain immediately took over. He reached for the material she held, taking it from her fingers to knot the fabric securely around her. “There,” he said. “I’ve got it.”

  “You like things safe, don’t you?”

  He considered that, then nodded. “You take care of six hooligans under the age of ten when no parents are around. You’d get cautious, too.”

  She angled her head toward the chaise. “Come on, Brannigan. Sex in the rain will cure what ails you.”

  “Sex…in the rain.”

  With a slow, sweet, sly smile, she flicked the knot he’d just made and let the wet material fall to the balcony floor. Naked, she looked up at him with a dare in her eyes, as if to say…lose control. Lose it, James.

  And he did.

  He pulled her naked body into him and kissed her hard on the mouth, closing his eyes, not caring that the rain drenched them.

  Not caring about anything, really.

  “You cure what ails me,” he murmured as he pulled them both down on the chaise.

  She just let out one of her musical laughs and climbed on top of him while the rain fell and washed away everything but Kyra.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kyra drifted out of a deep sleep, a slow, easy, lazy awakening that gave her a chance to appreciate every sensation her body was experiencing. Cool, expensive cotton sheets grazed her arms and legs. A heavy, possessive arm rested around her waist, nestling her back into warm skin and hard muscles. Masculine, sleep-heavy breaths ruffled the back of her hair and told her James was still asleep. Opening one eye to gauge the light between the closed shutters, she guessed it was not yet five in the morning.

  The sun would be up around six, which was when she normally rose, took coffee outside on the veranda, and watched the day unfold with golden rays over acres of grape vines, lemon trees, and olive groves. But today? All she wan
ted to do was stay in this bed, in these arms, with this man.

  She probably should have slipped away in the middle of the night, just to avoid the questions Anamaria would ask when she found Kyra’s bed untouched. No judgment, just questions. Kyra was thirty years old, and no one at the winery expected her to live like a nun, despite the fact that she’d done exactly that since she’d arrived in Positano.

  But James Brannigan was their boss. The owner. The caller of the shots and the keeper of their future. She was taking a huge risk sleeping with him.

  She didn’t care. She’d take any risk necessary for another night like this past one. Her body was sore and spent, touched and kissed and caressed in places that she’d practically forgotten about. She ached from hours of making love and tingled from the need to do it all over again.

  He’d already broken his personal “no overnight” rule with her. Surely he had a limit on how many times he could be with a woman before it became too much like a commitment. And no doubt he put strict parameters on what could be said outside the bedroom and how close and honest and intimate they could be.

  She smiled sleepily. Well, they’d been awfully close and honest and intimate last night. Her stomach did a little flip just thinking about how beautiful it was to watch James’s walls tumble down.

  With each confession and kiss, his expression softened. With each memory and secret they shared, his laugh grew easier and more frequent. With each exchange of pleasure they gave to each other, his icy exterior melted into affectionate and…loving.

  Could that last, or was it merely the aftereffects of ridiculously good sex?

  Her eyes popped open at the sound of a loud hum and a ding from somewhere on the floor.

  James groaned.

  “That’s your phone, I think,” Kyra said, knowing hers didn’t make any sounds like that.

  “What time is it?” he mumbled, instinctively pulling her closer and sliding his hand up to possessively cover her breast.

  “Five-ish.”

  “Mmm. Eleven at night in New York. Can’t be important.” He rubbed his thumb over her nipple, which was sore and tender from all the attention, but beaded under his fingertip anyway. “Not as important as this.”

  Against her backside, she felt his erection grow, closing her eyes and sighing as he started moving against her, the rhythm already natural. After one night. How did that happen?

  The phone quieted, and they contentedly lay in the dark, in a sweet, comfortable silence.

  And the phone hummed and dinged again.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, pushing away to roll out of bed and poke around on the floor. Kyra turned, her eyes adjusted enough to appreciate his naked body as he bent over to seize the phone and fell back into bed with her, squinting at it.

  “FaceTime?” he said, scowling at the device. “Freaking Luke is FaceTiming me?”

  “Your brother?” she asked, snuggling closer. “Does he normally do that?”

  “No. None of us does. Email and text are our preferred forms of communication unless it’s…” His voice trailed off, and she nudged him.

  “Take the call, James. It could be important. I’ll stay over here out of camera range.”

  He snorted and pulled her closer, then threw a look at her. “Or would you prefer that?”

  She nodded and slid away to the other side of the bed as he tapped the phone.

  “James! Bro, good morning!”

  “How’s Italy, big guy?”

  “Did we wake you?”

  It was more than one brother, that was for sure. Kyra scooted a little closer to get a peek at the small phone screen.

  “What the hell is up with you two?” James asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “If you know I’m in Italy, you know it’s five in the morning.”

  “Eight at night here in Yosemite.”

  “Knox? Is that you?” James peered at the phone. “Oh, that’s right. Gabe told me you and…Erin”—he said the name with extra emphasis, as if to prove he remembered it—“are staying at Algoma in Yosemite with Luke.”

  “We are,” he answered. “The girls all went out horseback riding today, and then they wanted a night out for dinner. So Luke and I, uh, might have put back a few shots of Bushmills 21. It was Dad’s favorite whiskey.”

  “So you thought you’d drunk-dial me.” He rolled his eyes and threw a glance at Kyra, who bit back a laugh, slipping closer to see the faces and somehow know more about this mysterious band of Brannigan brothers.

  “How can I thank you, Knox?” James asked wryly.

  So that was Knox. Kyra squinted to get a better look, instantly seeing the family resemblance with dark hair and dark eyes. Knox’s hair was much longer, though, nearly grazing his muscular shoulders, and his whole demeanor was utterly chill. Although that could have been the Bushmills 21.

  “So, how’s that bike running?” James asked.

  Ah, yes. Knox was the one who inherited a vintage motorcycle when their dad died. Last night, during one of their long conversations, James had told her stories about each of his brothers, detailing their “legacies” from Colin Brannigan and sharing their distinct personalities.

  “It cruises nicely around Cinnabar,” he said, reminding Kyra that Knox was the brother who loved nothing more than a good time. “You know I’m living there with Erin now.”

  “Yeah, I know,” James said. “No more secret businesses you haven’t told us about owning?”

  Knox laughed, that same easy laugh she heard from James in his looser moments. “Dude, I’ve found my calling. I still have a lot of investments—no hedge funds like yours, but the restaurant, a surf shop, and that trendy shoelace company. Don’t judge.”

  “Judge? I never mock a smart investment, my friend. What about that card game? I’m still ready to drop some dollars into it.”

  Knox smiled at that, a sly smile that took any edge out of his handsome face and made him seem far more approachable than James when she’d first met him.

  “I’ll hit you up when I need you,” Knox said. “Fact is, I’m the one getting proposals for small businesses, and I happen to love investing in them. Erin really helped me realize that.”

  “My little brother the capitalist.” James sounded truly proud. “Couldn’t be happier. What’s Luke up to?”

  The phone got handed to the other man, giving Kyra a chance to surreptitiously meet yet another Brannigan, even if it was in 2-D. Jeez, were they all hot as hell?

  Luke had the same dark hair and dark eyes, but even without the scruffy cheeks that Knox had, he somehow looked more rugged and outdoorsy than either James or Knox. Not a man who cared about investments at all, but…what had James told her last night?

  Adventure was his drug of choice and what drove Luke to create life-risking documentaries. Right this moment, he didn’t look like he was risking anything but another shot of whiskey.

  “We’ve been talking about you, man,” he said, his expression far more serious than Knox’s. “We know why you’re in Italy and called because…” Luke glanced next to him and reached the phone out farther, so the screen showed both men.

  “You’re dealing with your legacy,” Knox finished.

  Instantly, James sat up, going from sweetly sleepy to fully alert. “Yep. Dealing with it right now.”

  “How?” Luke demanded.

  “Just checking it out.” He was out of bed in a second, swooping up boxers from the floor, his body tense as his gaze moved to his desk and his jaw tightened. “Figuring out what to do.”

  A chill tingled her skin. Figuring out what to do?

  What did that mean?

  She couldn’t see the screen but heard Knox say, “You gotta listen to us, dude. Luke and I have had a revelation.” He dragged the word out, making Luke laugh as if they’d shared an inside joke. Or were drunk.

  James was already in the hall. “Listen, maybe you two ought to call someone who might be drinking as much as you, cause this is not a good time to discuss this.” His voi
ce was cold and humorless, the way he was on business calls.

  Even to his family?

  Their voices and response drifted off as James walked down the hall into the living room. In a second, she heard the balcony doors open and close, silencing Kyra’s ability to hear any more of the conversation.

  She pulled the fluffy comforter higher over her naked body, a sense of foreboding pressing on her. What did he mean by figuring out what to do with the winery? Why wouldn’t he talk to her about it?

  And why had he stared at his desk with a little bit of…terror? That’s what it was. That same look she saw in the rearview mirror on the motor scooter. What was on that desk?

  Kyra slipped out of bed with none of the purpose that had just driven James away. No, she moved in raw fear, not surprised that she trembled a little as she stood and looked at the papers piled up on the wooden surface that ran almost the width of the room under a row of windows.

  She eyed his closed laptop. A soft-sided leather briefcase. Documents…with Post-it Notes.

  Her heart dropped. How much like her mother, the cold and calculating closer, was he?

  Didn’t she have a right to know about the man who held the future of the winery in his hands? About the man who held her in his hands?

  She tiptoed to that desk and visually skimmed the papers. There was just enough visible to read without actually touching anything that didn’t belong to her. Spreadsheets and memos, letters and contracts. It all reminded her so much of her mother.

  And there, partially under a stack of other papers, was some letterhead that said Whitehouse Wineries.

  She knew who they were, of course. Anyone remotely connected to the winemaking industry knew Whitehouse. A company known to be huge, faceless, driven by the bottom line, and known for swallowing up…

  “Oh God.” She put her hand over her mouth as the reality of this hit her. She had to know. Had to. Reaching a trembling hand, she lifted the papers that covered the page with the letterhead and squinted, leaning closer to read just the first few words, knowing that what she was doing was so very wrong.