Brave Enough (12 page)

When Tag has helped me up into the Chiara Jeep, which we brought because we had to go get it from the half-finished cabin where we spent the night, I impulsively kiss him, too, only his I deliver on his perfectly firm-yet-soft mouth.

“What was that for?” he asks when I lean back.

“For bringing me. I had fun today.”

“I liked seeing you happy,” he says simply before shutting my door. I don't know what to make of that, or if I should make anything of it at all. Some small part of my heart wants to, though. It wants to believe that, against all odds, this could be something more. That
we
could be something more.

The problem is, I've never been a gambler and I'm not sure I even know where to start.

Tag

I'm distracted all through dinner, even with Weatherly by my side. The call that I got while Weatherly was in the shower only added to the distraction that she, herself, provides. The information that my associate gave me was a game-changer.
Is
a game-changer. My question is: How does it change the game? How far am I willing to go? It's questions like those that have taken my head out of the conversation when William O'Neal summons it back to the table.

“Would you like to weigh in, Tag? Or don't you have any reason to follow the stock market?” He's wearing a smirk that makes me want to jump across the expanse of polished wood and strangle the shit out of him.

Stromberg adds to it with his pathetic attempt at covering his laugh with a cough. It's fine if they want to get their kicks at my expense. We'll see how that works out for them in the end.

I let a smile play over my lips. It's easy to keep my cool when I know what I know.

“I dabble,” is my only response.

“What else do you ‘dabble' in, other than dirt?” Weatherly's father asks. He's making very little effort to hide his contempt. In fact, I don't know why he bothers.

“A little of this, little of that, but you're not really interested in my answers, are you?”

“Pardon me?” William O'Neal asks, his smug expression turning to one of thinly veiled anger, as if to say he's affronted that I'd dare take a tone with him.

“Let's be honest. You're looking for ways to reveal me for the ignorant commoner that you think me to be, exposing my ‘real self' to Weatherly so she'll see the error of her ways and run into the arms of your handpicked man. Isn't that about right?”

There's an eerie absence of sound, like the whole wealthy world is holding their breath as they wait for my inevitable social beheading.

He surprises me with his candidness. “I'd be lying if I said that results like those wouldn't please me. It's no secret that I want what's best for my little girl. And as much as you obviously have to offer society,” he says, his lips twitching over his droll comment, “I feel that she could do better.”

“So pairing her with a man twice her age who wants her as a trophy wife and business arrangement is what you deem ‘best' for your only child?”

“Pairing her with someone who has the means and the knowledge to care for her for the rest of her life
is
what's best for her.”

“Regardless of how she feels.”

“Weatherly is young and impetuous. She'll thank me for this one day.”

It infuriates me how he degrades her right in front of her, as if she has no feelings at all. I don't know how she turned out so well with this asshole for a father.

“And what if she never does? What if she blames you instead?”

“She won't, but if you think you know her so much better than I do, then marry her. Right now. Show her that you love her for her and not for her money. Because she'll be destitute if she marries you. Promise her that you'll care for her and your children on the salary you make here, a salary that wouldn't even afford an engagement ring, for chrissake. I'll even make it easy for you. You'll have this job for as long as you want it. I won't fire you for ruining my daughter's life. At least that way, I'll know she has a roof over her head.”

I'm not normally a particularly capricious man, especially when I can't identify and account for the consequences of my actions. Yeah, I take my pleasure where I can get it, but there's little risk. I make sure of it. And my business affairs are always well planned and researched. I've never let someone push me into anything that I didn't want to do. Not William O'Neal. Not even Weatherly O'Neal. I know what I'm doing, even if they don't.

“You know,
Mr. O'Neal
, I really would've expected a man of your intelligence and business acumen to be a better judge of character, but I suppose that's
my
mistake.” I lean up in my chair, staking Weatherly's father to his chair with my gaze, and I invite, “Look into my eyes and tell me that you're fool enough to think you can goad me into doing something that I don't want to do.”

He leans forward and glares right back at me. “I'm hoping I can goad you into leaving my daughter the hell alone.”

I stand so quickly my chair rocks behind me, nearly tipping over. I place both hands flat on the table and I bend slightly forward so that he can hear my low voice plainly. “Rest assured that this decision will be up to your daughter, because I'm damn sure not throwing her away to the selfish whims of her jackass of a father.”

For the first time since he started with his barbs, I look to Weatherly. She's sitting, still and quiet, in her chair watching me. As I walk around the end of the table and approach her, her amethyst eyes shine up into mine with something between excitement and amusement and maybe a little awe. I bet she doesn't see people stand up to her father very often.

I reach for her hand, bringing it to my lips. I kiss the very spot where a ring should be. That was an asinine oversight on my part. “How about that ride on a four-wheeler?”

Her lips twitch up into a small grin even as her pupils dilate with anticipation of what's to come. She knows what kind of a ride I mean—the kind that we spoke of last night.

“I think that sounds like a spectacular idea,” she says, standing.

“Gentlemen.” I smile and nod at both William and Michael. “Don't wait up.”

Weatherly

I'm shaking. Whether from the conflict at dinner or the idea of what's to come with Tag, I don't know, but I feel like I might spontaneously combust.

I hear the unmistakable whine of the four-wheeler engine as Tag races from the farthest building, up the path toward the main house. I descend the steps when he hits the concrete of the driveway. He stops and holds out his hand, which I take as I climb on behind him. His head is turned toward me as I situate my legs on either side of his slim hips, so I meet his eyes when I go to wrap my arms around his waist. I pause when I see him looking at me. His eyes are bright and bottomless in the glow of the moonlight, full of something that makes my insides shiver. He leans forward just enough to kiss me, a soft brush of his lips over mine. I'm not
sure what the gesture says, but my heart interprets it as something amazing and trembles with delight.

He turns and hits the accelerator, and we speed off toward the upper field and the mountains beyond. I don't know where he's taking me; I just hold on and enjoy the ride. There's something heady and unpredictable about being with Tag. He's a different kind of animal and he lights up the sky of my bland, uneventful existence. I think I'm becoming addicted to his particular brand of wild.

The night is hot and sticky around me despite the breeze rolling out from between the trees up ahead. It intensifies the scent of Tag's skin. It exaggerates the feel of his body between my legs. Everything from the passing landscape to the moon in the sky seems . . . better. New. Exciting. Nothing like what my life has held up to this point.

Tag drives us straight into the forest, darting around trees so quickly it almost makes me dizzy. It's easy to see that he's traveled this path a million times before, while I've never been in the forest once in my entire life. He has lived free from the moment of his birth. I've lived in captivity since the moment of mine.

The path forks and Tag takes the right curve, sending us climbing up a small incline and then dipping sharply down on the other side. Tag continues until the trees suddenly part, revealing a waterfall nestled in among the crags and hollows of the mountainside.

Water spills roughly over the rocks like liquid silver, and when Tag cuts the engine I hear the distant hiss of its flow. I stare out at the view with my chin resting on Tag's shoulder. Something
about the moment is familiar, as though we've been here a million times. Together. Although we've only really known each other a few days, it's as though we've known each other forever.

“Come around here,” Tag says quietly, his voice as rough and beautiful as the waterfall. I start to ease off the bike, but he stops me. “No, like this.” He holds his arm up and urges me to climb under it and then into his lap. I'm thankful that the skirt I'm wearing is loose.

When I'm settled with my legs wrapped around his waist, Tag clasps his hands at my lower back, his eyes shining down in to mine.

“Marry me,” he says quietly.

“Pardon?”

His lips pull up into a gorgeous smile that shows his perfect white teeth and reminds me why he is so irresistible. “I said, ‘marry me.' Please.”

I grin. “That's what I was waiting on. The ‘please.'”

He says nothing at my sarcasm, just continues smiling. But when he does speak again, so softly that I have to strain to hear him, it echoes through me as if he'd shouted the words. They stir something deep within me. “Marry me, my fair Weatherly. I want you to marry me. I want you to be mine.”

I'm stunned and breathless and thrilled. It's completely insane and totally, inconceivably crazy, yet I want to say yes so much it hurts. I don't know why. I don't know if I'm nuts. I don't know if it's stupid and impulsive and irresponsible. All I know is that it
feels right
.

But I have to ask . . .

“Why? Why would you want to marry me? What's in it for you?”

Tag unfolds his hands and brings them around to my front. Slowly, he unbuttons my sleeveless shirt, revealing my lacy bra underneath. “Well, there are these. These are in it for me.” He leans forward and sucks one nipple through the thin material. Heat pours into my panties.

He's not finished, though. His hands continue down my stomach, onto my thighs where they slide back up, under my skirt. Pushing my panties aside, his fingers find my entrance and he eases them inside. He presses hard and deep, his three digits rubbing me from the inside. “And this. This is in it for me.”

As he works magic from within my throbbing center, his eyes never leave mine. “B-but this is just sex,” I tell him on a pant, even though I don't believe that at all. At least not for me. But I'm quickly losing interest in the conversation.

“Is it? Is it just sex when you're all I can think about?” he asks, nipping at my bottom lip with his teeth before pulling it into his mouth. “Is it just sex when you do this to me every time you cross my mind?” He unzips his pants and frees the broad head of his erection. I can see a single drop of semen glistening on the smooth crown. “Every time you walk into a room, open those beautiful lips, capture me with those dazzling eyes?”

Curious, I reach between us and run my finger over him, swiping up the drop of moisture and bringing it to my lips. I lick the tip, savoring the flavor of him as I bring my eyes back up to his. They're darker now, serious. Vicious almost.

Without warning, Tag crushes me to him. My bones shift. My muscles give. My flesh concedes.

We are chest to chest, my aching breasts smashed to his firm pecs as he winds his arm around my waist and lifts me. My breath sticks in my throat when I feel him prod at my wet and swollen opening.

“Does this feel like just sex to you?” he growls, slamming me down on him so hard I cry out, arching against him. He picks me back up and does it again, throwing me straight into the wild, tumultuous throws of orgasm. “That's more than just sex. That's perfection,” he whispers, pumping his hips up into me as he moves me on his length.

I hear his loud groans in the fuzzy back of my mind as my body tosses me on the furious waves of release. I feel him spasm within me. I feel him pour out into me. I feel him swivel his hips as if to enjoy the feel of it inside me. “There's no better feeling than my come inside you. Marking you. Staking my claim. Making this pussy mine,” he hisses against my neck, lips and teeth and tongue nipping me as he speaks. “Tell me this pussy is mine. Tell me nobody else can have it. Say it. Say it!”

“It's yours. All yours,” I moan and mutter, my mouth dry and my throat raw. “My pussy is all yours.”

His low roar resonates in my ear at the same time that I feel the sharp pulse of him inside me, a last spurt of warmth shooting up into me. It's as though he really is marking me, sealing our deal from the inside, and the thought of it, the idea of it, is enough to send another bolt of pleasure rocketing through me.

“Marry me,” he whispers, his lips pressed to my throat, his heaving breath searing my skin. “Say you'll marry me. Not because I'm an out, not because you're trying to stick it to your father. Marry me because you need me as much as I need you. Marry me because you want my mornings as much as I want yours. Marry me because you want the afternoons and the nights, the smiles and the tears, the good and the bad. Marry me because you want all of me. Like I want all of you. All of you, every day. Every. Single. Day. Say you'll be mine.”

I consider one answer. It's the only one I want to give. So I do. God help me, I do.

“I'm already yours, but I'll marry you anyway.”

When Tag's lips find mine again, there's a sweetness to them, a reverence that causes my eyes to fill with tears of pure, radiant joy.

“This is what's in it for me,” he breathes against my mouth, cupping my face so that his thumbs make lazy passes over my cheekbones. “You. Always.”

I know in this moment that there will never be another man like this one. I'll never find someone who fits me like Tag does, who thrills me like Tag does. Who can love me like Tag just did.

—

I wake to an empty bed. After that phenomenal experience on the four-wheeler, Tag drove us back, slowly weaving through the trees and casually cruising through the fields. Something quiet and comfortable had settled between us. The house was asleep by the time we returned. We crept up the stairs to my room and washed
each other off in the cool spray of the shower before crawling between the crisp sheets and falling straight to sleep, my head nestled on Tag's chest, his arm wrapped around my shoulders.

I wonder briefly where he went, but when I roll over, my body is so pleasantly achy and sore that I forget my curiosity for a few minutes and just revel in the memories of his touch. I've had a few boyfriends in my life, boys (and in some cases men) who fit the criteria of an O'Neal match. I even really liked one of them. His name was Robert Cohen and he took my virginity. There was a time, in my young mind, when I even fantasized that he might grow up to be “the one,” even though part of me realized that was very unlikely to happen. Turns out Robert was gay, he just hadn't come out yet. I think on some level I knew, but it was much nicer to pretend.

After Robert, there was a guy in college who I thought I had great chemistry with, especially after we had sex. Turned out that he had too many mommy issues for me, though. And as good as the sex was, I never imagined it could be like this. I never dreamed I could come alive for someone this way. Tag is just different. With him,
I'm
different. I'm someone I've always wanted to be. And he's like someone I've always wanted to be with, even when the idea of him was almost too taboo to even consider. For an O'Neal anyway.

But here we are.

Together.

And we're going to get married.

I smile. I can't seem to help myself.

I carry that smile with me all through the day. And the next ones, too. Despite my father's glaring and despite Michael's
openly disapproving looks, I smile, basking in what's happening between Tag and me.

We spend our days together, in the fields, in the cabin, in the woods. Or in my room. The grapes are getting closer and closer to readiness, and I feel like I'm ripening right along with them. All my life, I've never really felt like I'm flourishing until now. Until Chiara. Until Tag.

Tag and I breakfast by ourselves and take packed lunches wherever we go. We talk and laugh and make out like high school kids who can't keep their hands off each other. We share long looks and sometimes short naps like we don't have a care in the world. And for the moment, it feels as though we don't. It's as if trouble has been suspended, disallowed entry into our happy little bubble, and I for one am going to enjoy every damn second of it.

At dinner, Tag does a great job of keeping conversation focused on Chiara, and when it's not, we talk softly among ourselves, leaving my father and Michael to do the same. They don't, though. Mostly, they just glower at us.

And then there are the nights. God, just thinking about them causes my sex to shudder hungrily. Sometimes I think I could lie next to him 24/7 and never get tired of the feel of his touch, of his kiss, of his body working magic within mine. And when he's not around, like now, it's as though I can't quite get comfortable with life until I see him again.

I jump when my phone rings. Surprisingly, I'd almost forgotten it was in my pocket. I grabbed it out of habit after dressing, before I headed down here to the lanai. It hasn't made a peep in days and I haven't checked it in just as long. It's a tie to the outside
world (and the problems therein) that I really would rather forget about. The fact that it's my assistant's number rather than my mother's tells me that my father hasn't told her about Tag yet, which gives me a nice little reprieve.

I stare at the number. I feel the weight of my trust-held-hostage bearing down on me as I move my finger over the green
TALK
button. As much as I'd like to stay in my happy bubble of oblivion, I can't ignore my biggest responsibility, so I answer the phone.

“Hi, Deana,” I answer politely, coming to my feet to walk to the edge of the water.

“Hey, Weatherly, sorry to bother you, but I have some news I thought you'd be interested in.”

I can clearly picture Deana's dark brown eyes sparkling in the rounded contours of her pretty face. Her cheeks are youthfully chubby, even for her twenty-six years, which gives her a perpetually mischievous look, like a chipmunk up to no good.

“What's that?”

“We got an anonymous donation to Safe Passage.”

I'm not sure what makes that noteworthy. We do very well with donations, but it would take ten times the
number of them
to keep us moving in the direction that I've been planning toward. The direction that would be a breeze if I could get my trust.

For the first time since all this talk of engagements and marriages, the reality of my situation hits me. If I marry Tag, I'm dooming all the kids that I planned to help. Yes, Safe Passage could still do great work, but it would be a greater, broader, more massive effort if it had a few million dollars more.

Guilt and indecision strike. And they strike hard.

“Let me call you right back, Deana,” I tell her quickly, hanging up and stumbling back to drop down onto the end of the chaise I just vacated.

I can't marry Tag. My father is right. That would be the most irresponsible thing in the world. Not just for my family in light of the Randolph takeover, but for the kids as well. I can't put my happiness before the needs of starving children. Ultimately, my mother was right. I'm not a selfish person. At least not selfish enough to throw away millions of dollars that could feed thousands and thousands of hungry kids for years to come.

Why do I feel like crying? This was all basically a ruse from the very beginning. It's not like I'm losing the love of my life.