Branded (17 page)

Sheridan inwardly sighed.

“Come on now, darlin'. Come over here.”

Sheridan glanced back at her car. At the sad tire. Then turned and walked over to him, stopping when she got to the fence. She could see him up close and personal now, and if it were possible, he was even better-looking than he'd been on that horse. And those eyes . . . liquid-blue fire. For the first time in her life, Sheridan thought she might actually enjoy being burned.

“Let me give you a ride up to the house,” he said. “You got my word nothin'll happen to you.”

“Your word,” she repeated. “I don't even know you.”

He stuck his hand through a gap in the fence. It was big and tan and callused, and Sheridan just knew that if she touched it, certain parts of her body were going to tingle uncontrollably.

“My name's James Cavanaugh.”

Sheridan froze, her mind running that big reveal over and over again. Until it came up with, “Deacon's . . .”

“Brother,” he finished.

His hand was still extended, and she didn't want to be rude to her boss's kin, so she placed her hand in his and pumped it a couple of times. Yep. There it was, she thought madly. Something far past tingling. It was actually a lot like what she imagined a bolt of lightning through the gut felt like.

Her eyes lifted to meet his. Deacon Cavanaugh's brother. She didn't know much about Deacon's family, as he rarely, if ever, shared anything personal. But she knew he had two brothers. This one, James, and another, Cole. But they were pretty different. Where Deacon was dark and imposing, this man was like something you saw on a movie screen. Thick, tousled light brown hair, high cheekbones, heavy mouth, straight white teeth, body like a god, and eyes so startling blue-green, she wondered if they were real.

“Come on,” he urged, still holding her hand. “Come through the fence and let's go for a ride.”

She gestured to the car. “My bags.”

“We'll get them later.”

Once again, Sheridan looked back at her car. What else could she do but walk or wait? With a
trepidatious heart, she slipped through the fence, and followed the man to his beautiful paint horse.

But before she got on, she turned to face him, pointed at him. “No trotting.”

“Promise,” he said, then placed his hands on her waist and lifted her up in one ridiculously easy move.

It made her feel feminine and not at all worried about that bag of mini peanut butter cups she'd inhaled on the drive from Dallas.

“Or galloping,” she said, looking down at him. Jeez, she was high off the ground. “Or cantering.”

He jumped up and slung one leg over the horse's bare back, then settled in behind her. “How 'bout a nice, easy walk?” he said close to her ear.

Good Lord, was that more tingling?

She managed to nod. “A walk sounds good.”

He made a soft clucking sound, then grabbed the reins in one hand and wrapped his free arm around her waist.

For the first time in Sheridan's life, she stopped breathing.

If he thought she'd looked hot in his chopper this afternoon, it was nothing compared to the way she looked in his car with the city lights flickering around her.

Deacon had given his driver the night off and taken the Aston Martin instead. It was his favorite. The car that had never seen a driver other than himself, or a passenger for that matter. He'd been anxious to see Mackenzie in it, her long legs extending to the floor, her curves against the leather seat. But instead of the excitement he'd read on her face during the ride in the
Long Horn
, she now seemed pensive.

“You all right, darlin'?” he asked as they raced down the street toward the restaurant.

“Of course,” she said unconvincingly.

“You're not nervous, are you?”

“No. No nerves.”

Okay. This wasn't good. He came to a stoplight
and brought the car to an easy halt. “Look at me, Mackenzie.”

She blew out a deep breath and turned to find his gaze. If it was possible, she was even more beautiful than she was a moment ago, despite the worry he saw flicker in and out of her blue eyes.

“What is it?” he asked. “Are you feeling okay? Because we can turn around and go back to the house. I'll deal with Breyer another night.” Deacon couldn't believe how easily those words had just rolled off his tongue. A deal he'd been wanting done for far too long.

“No. I'm fine. Really.” She released a breath, shook her head. “I'm just having some crazy anxiety.” Her eyes cut away from him. “So far away from where I'm in control, you know?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

“I know tonight's important to you, and I just don't want to make a mistake or get all country with these fancy—”

“Hey.” Deacon reached over and touched her cheek. “I meant it when I said be yourself. And I really meant it when I said I'm glad you're with me.”

Her eyes lifted. “What about when you said I looked amazing? Did you mean that?”

His lips twitched, relief moving through him as her anxiety seemed to dissipate and her teasing humor took its place. “Oh, yeah.” He took her hand, lifted a brow. “Help me drive?”

Her eyebrow drew up questioningly. “You'd trust me with this ultrafine piece of machinery?”

“Honey, I think I'd trust you with a lot more than that.” Even though he wanted to keep his eyes on her, he had to turn back to the road as the light turned green.

“Like what?”

He gunned the engine. “You really going to make me say it?”

Her voice softened. “Only because I think I need to hear it tonight.”

Damn, the woman was killing him. Bit by bit, piece by piece. Tearing down what used to be and rebuilding him different, happy, maybe even vulnerable. He wasn't sure how he felt about that last bit. But he was plenty sure how he felt about her. He put her hand on the gearshift, then covered it with his own. “My heart, Mackenzie. I think I'd trust you with that.”

Under his palm, he felt her take control of the shift and slip his car into first.

He groaned and squeezed her hand. “Damn, darlin'. You really are the perfect woman.”

Then he hit the gas and took off down the street.

•   •   •

After the momentary blip of apprehension back in Deacon's ridiculously beautiful Aston Martin, Mac had returned to her usual confident self. Deacon's words, his vulnerability on the drive
over, had touched her like nothing else could, and as they sat side by side at the restaurant's best table, she found herself either gazing at him stupidly or rubbing her leg against his.

Deacon, however, was the very essence of cool, unruffled business mogul. Over drinks and appetizers, he'd already gifted his prey with a new and improved offer. An offer Mr. Breyer had taken a glance at, then put aside to focus not on Deacon but on Mac.

“No Ms. Cutter tonight?” Deacon asked him, turning his attention away from Mac.

“Not tonight,” Mr. Breyer said, taking a drink of his scotch and water.

“Well, no date required,” Deacon said.

“Oh, I have a date.” Breyer grinned at Mac. “She's running a little late.”

Mac liked Angus Breyer. Somewhere in his early sixties, the tall, good-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair was funny and charming, and though he clearly enjoyed the company of women, it wasn't in a creepy way.

“Seeing someone new, Angus?” Deacon asked, one hand on his drink, the other finding Mac's thigh under the table.

“I think so,” the man answered. His gaze returned to Mac. “How's the wine, Mackenzie?”

Mac smiled at him. “Best I ever had, Mr. Breyer. You have excellent taste.”

He laughed, his eyes flashing. “I like this gal, Cavanaugh.”

“Join the club,” Deacon said, squeezing her thigh, making Mac pull in a quick breath.

As the waiter placed salads before them, Angus picked up his fork and asked her, “Do you prefer Mackenzie or Ms. Byrd?”

Taking a bite of tomato, she told him, “Mac actually.”

“Oh, I like that. No frills.” After a few more mouthfuls of salad, he continued with his questions. “And is it true that you're the foreman of a ranch, Mac?”

“I am.”

“And you enjoy it?”

Deacon's hand stilled on her thigh as she answered. “Very much. Nothing else I'd rather do.”

“That's good,” Angus said, his eyes flickering toward Deacon. “I'm a firm believer in doing what you love. No matter what the costs, what the risks, or even what you're paid.”

Deacon pulled his hand from her leg altogether and reached for his drink. “Mackenzie will always do what she loves,” he said. “She's not one to be swayed by money.”

Angus raised one graying eyebrow. “Unlike the two of us, eh, Cavanaugh?”

His salad completely untouched, Deacon regarded the man across from himself with cool
eyes. “Money has never interested me. It's just a by-product. Power on the other hand . . .”

“And destruction?” Angus cut in. “That can certainly be a draw.”

The man's tone held zero malice. In fact, Mac detected a thread of sympathy there and wondered about it. Wondered what he knew. She looked over at Deacon. He seemed completely at ease, though his eyes were pinned to Mr. Breyer.

“We all have a need to fill,” Deacon stated. “Or a score to settle. Or a deal to make. And when the offer becomes too great to resist, the motivation behind it is usually forgotten.” Deacon's brows lifted. “Same goes for the risk of losing possible future dealings to something as insignificant and foolish as sentimentality.”

Her breath suddenly caught in her lungs, Mac turned and stared at Deacon. She'd never seen him like this. So detached, so pointed. It made her shiver. Not with awareness anymore, but with concern. This was the business Deacon, the mogul, the shark. And she thought that if this man was the one who was brought out to take down the Triple C, she didn't stand a chance against him.

Mr. Breyer turned to regard her. “What do you think, Ms. Byrd? Are future dealings—and perhaps great ones at that—enough to sway your heart away from all that it knows, all that it's created?”

Mac wasn't sure what to say, or what was truly being insinuated or threatened by either one of them. Breyer could've been talking about her and Deacon and the Triple C. And for the first time since the reading of Everett's will, she didn't have a quick answer. She was falling in love with Deacon. And she'd fallen in love with the Triple C forever ago. What would win out—power, destruction, or sentimentality? She had no idea. Frankly, in that moment, she wasn't sure about anything.

“I think this conversation is moving in an uncomfortable direction,” Deacon said, his cool tone lifting, easing into practical gentleness.

Still looking at Mac, Mr. Breyer's eyes warmed. “I apologize if I've made you uncomfortable, Ms. Byrd.”

Picking up her salad fork, she stabbed a tomato and smiled. “No need, Mr. Breyer. I think we all understand the reason for this dinner and that you and Deacon are at an impasse. I'm just along for the ride.” Her grin widened. “And, of course, the food.”

Angus chuckled and turned to Deacon. “I really like her.”

“Yes, I see that.”

Once again, his voice changed. Heat and possessiveness threaded it now, confusing her, yet drawing her back to him again. And when Mac glanced over at him and caught that hungry stare,
her skin went predictably hot.
Oh, this man
, she mused. Who was he really? The stone-cold dealmaker from a moment ago? The man who'd been so worried when he'd thought she was sick during the barbecue, the man who'd brought her flowers, flew her to Dallas? Or the man who thought bulldozing his childhood ranch was truly going to change anything?

The first two she could accept. But the third . . .

“Ah, there she is,” Mr. Breyer exclaimed, glancing past them. “Far later than I'd hoped, but I think I'll forgive her this once.”

Deacon eased Mac to him and whispered close to her ear, “Prepare yourself for something barely out of her teens.”

Mac laughed softly.

“Good evening, everyone. So sorry I've kept you waiting.”

Deacon's head came around so fast Mac was sure he must have pulled a muscle. When he cursed softly, she wondered what was going on.

“Pamela?” he said in an icy tone.

The woman who stood to Deacon's left was—in a word—fabulous. Tall, reed thin, straight blond hair cut smartly to her chin, and eyes the rich and sensual color of honey. She wore her black dress like a second skin, and the way she carried herself hinted at a fashion model background.

Mac didn't feel any pangs of jealousy for the
way the woman looked. After all, she was also wearing couture. She did, however, feel a few jolts of irritation for the way the woman was staring at Deacon. Pretty much like she wanted to simultaneously throttle him and tear his clothes off.

“Hello, Deacon,” she said, her voice as smooth and sugary as caramel.

Mac touched her molar with her tongue to see if she had just developed a cavity.

The woman turned her attention to Mac then. And after taking in her dress, face, and hair, she gave Mac a perfectly lovely smile. Super demure. Super-supermodel fabulous.

“And who is this?” she asked.

“Mackenzie Byrd,” Mac said, extending her hand.

“Mac, this is Pamela Monroe,” Deacon said in a strangely sour tone.

Mac turned to Deacon with a silent question mark in her eyes. He clearly knew the woman. How well, she had no idea, but he either didn't like her or he had gone out with her before or had a fling and was pissed that she was here.

Mac hoped it was the first one.

The woman slipped her tiny mannequin hand into Mac's slightly callused one. “It's nice to meet you.”

Mac nodded. “Likewise.”

“Pamela is one of Dallas's premier fashion
designers,” Angus said, his eyes moving between his supposed date and Deacon as the small group of musicians near the dance floor began to play.

So, it was true,
Mac thought with a groan. Ms. Monroe was in the fashion industry. Lord, she prayed the dress she was wearing wasn't one of that woman's creations. Once again, she wondered just how well Deacon knew her. He looked annoyed as hell that she was there, and frankly, she didn't seem like she gave a rat's ass about hanging out with Angus.

“Would you care to dance, Mac?” Mr. Breyer asked, pushing out his chair and coming to his feet.

Mac turned to the man and gave him a grim smile. Something told her he'd arraigned this. That asking Ms. Pamela Monroe to join him for dinner was a way to mess with Deacon. And damn if she didn't want to find out why.

She turned that grim smile into megawatt charm. “You know the two step, Angus?”

He looked positively insulted as he came around and held her chair. “I'm a Texan, young lady.”

Mac laughed and stood up. Even with the desire to know what was going down with Deacon and Pamela Monroe, there was something inside of her that didn't want to go, didn't want to leave Deacon alone with the woman. But she pushed
that silly girl bullshit away and took Mr. Breyer's arm.

“All right, Angus,” she said as he led her toward the floor. “Let's see what you got.”

•   •   •

People dealt with rage in different ways. Cold, calculated words, silence, or physical confrontation. Deacon subscribed to the former. When Angus and Mackenzie were safely out of earshot, the older man's arms around her, guiding her across the floor, Deacon's gaze came to rest on Pamela Monroe, who was sitting in the vacant seat to his left.

“What do you think you're doing, Pamela?” His voice called to mind Antarctica in the dead of winter.

His tone clearly unnerved her, but she tried to hide it. She raised her ultrathin shoulders a centimeter. “Angus called and asked me to join him.”

“Try again.”

“Fine.” She released a breath and seemed to relax into her standard sophisticated demeanor. “I wanted to see her. The woman you replaced me with.”

“There was no replacing anyone. You and I have been each other's plus one for several years. It was a mutually agreeable arrangement with no shelf life.”

Her eyes flashed with heat. “And what is this? You and the gussied-up cowgirl? True love?”

Deacon stared coldly at her. He wasn't going to discuss his relationship with Mackenzie with anyone. Least of all Pamela. “Because this is the last time you and I will be speaking, I'm going to apologize for canceling without explanation or proper notice. And I'm going to wish you the best of luck in all your future endeavors.”

She looked stunned. “You can't be serious.”

“Oh, I'm very serious,” he said, his gaze cutting to Mackenzie on the dance floor. She was dancing with Breyer, smiling. He ached to be with her, touch her.