The Trouble with Temptation (9 page)

“But—”

“I’m not done,” Brannon said gently. “Now, I know we’re at a crucial time and I’ll still give this place what I can, but you two are going to pick up the slack—you’ll be compensated accordingly and I am already looking for extra staff, including an assistant manager to help Tag out and more help for you. But priorities
have
changed for me and that means
I
have to change how I’ll be doing things.”

A vein started to pulse in Marc’s right cheek and he opened his mouth, only to snap it closed.

Brannon lifted a brow. “Say what you need to say.”

“If I’d known you were going to flake out on me right before the big day, I’d have thought long and hard before I left my job in California, Brannon. I’m serious about what I do—I thought you were, too.” Marc said those sentences in a rush, folding his arms over his chest and glaring at the sky overhead as though the heavens were to blame for everything going on.

Brannon rubbed the back of his neck. “Look … I…”

The need to explain then hit hard, and fast. He had promised Marc—and Tag—a big opportunity. And he was letting them down.

But there were business responsibilities and personal ones.

Brannon could get somebody else to help hold up his business obligations. “Things have changed,” he said again. “I’ll explain it when I can, but there are circumstances, Marc. Things I didn’t plan on, but they have changed. Nothing can be done about it.”

As Marc’s eyes came back to his, Brannon said, “I’ll get you more help out here. This place is
going
to be a success. I want that, you know I do.”

He paused and turned, staring out over the fields.

A hundred years ago, this place had belonged to the McKays. It had eventually been sold off, but now it was theirs again. It was only right, Brannon thought, that it had been the right place for the winery. When it came to wine making, location was everything. The soil a few miles south was worthless. A few miles north? The same. This spot here? It was prime.

“I know you’re aggravated. You’ve got a right to be,” he said, glancing back at Marc. “I had every intention of being right here with you and Tag, and I promise, once Hannah is feeling stronger, I’ll be back out here as often as I can. And I
will
make sure you’ve got what you need to make this place a success.”

“You are what we need,” Marc said sourly. He skimmed a hand back over his thinning hair, but the aggravation was fading from his voice.

“No.” Brannon cocked a brow at him. “My land, my money—that is huge chunk of what you need, and you’ll still get that. I’m sorry, Marc, but I can’t live and breathe this place anymore. I can’t.”

“Fine,” Marc said after a long, tense moment of silence. “Just … get some help out here, okay? I can’t do the creative shit, Brannon. I need you for that.”

“I will,” Brannon said. “I’m already looking at resumes. There’s a woman who worked at one of the big wineries over in Georgia—I think she’d make a great fit.”

Marc gave him a hangdog look. “Okay.”

Brannon slid inside the Bugatti. “Chin up, Marc. We’ll be celebrating opening day before you know it.”

CHAPTER SIX

He was too big.

He was too beautiful.

Even after the past few days, Hannah was hard-pressed to come up with any other summation of Brannon McKay.

She wasn’t talking about his physical appearance, either, although he sure as hell didn’t lack for that either.

Everything
about him was larger than life.

He was the kind of guy you’d read about in some torrid romance book. She had more than a few of them in her house. Apparently, Hannah was big on her romances, even if she couldn’t remember a single one of them.

With those wide shoulders and gleaming red hair and blue-green eyes, he just didn’t seem real. She knew he was loaded and she wasn’t relying on faulty memory for that. She’d done what any rational person would do—she’d Googled him.

The
net worth
figure next to his name had almost tangled her tongue into a knot and now, as she watched him moving around in her kitchen, she tried to wrap her mind around the fact that the man who had fathered her child was worth
millions
—as in
multi-millions
.

“You don’t have anything here to eat except ramen noodles,” Brannon said and he turned to look at her, bracing his hands on the counter behind him.

The action pulled a faded gray shirt tight across a well-muscled chest and her mouth went a little dry. Had she run her hands across that chest? Did he have any hair on him or was he smooth? She had a sensory memory in the next moment—light hair, just a little, running down the middle of his chest, down his naval …

She tore her gaze away and glared out the window. “Look, Mr. Mega-bucks, I’ll have you know I probably
like
ramen noodles.”

“Look, Ms. Parker,” Brannon said, his voice mild. “I love ramen noodles. But you’re pregnant and you’ve lost weight. You need some healthy food in you.”

She wasn’t in the mood for logic. She was antsy and edgy and in the mood for something that was probably very
illogical
, considering how much of a mess her life was. She wanted to go to him and pull him to her, touch her mouth to his. She thought she remembered how he tasted, thought she remembered the hard press of his body against hers.

No, she wasn’t in the mood for logic or food or anything that didn’t involve kissing him. But there was a wariness inside her, a caution that confused her and kept her from moving toward him the way she wanted.

Since she wasn’t going to let herself close the distance between them, touch him, she busied herself picking at one of her cuticles.

“How about we go across the street and get something from the pub?”

*   *   *

Damn but he wanted to kiss her.

Hannah’s gaze had slid to his mouth, lingering for a long moment before she looked away again. Heated, heavy currents passed between them and he’d half-held his breath for a moment, but then she’d looked away, focusing on her hands.

I’ve been in love with you since I was in high school.

Her voice, those softly spoken words, were like fresh gouges in his heart. She couldn’t remember telling him that, or the fight, or anything else but there was still caution in her eyes when she looked at him.

She’d dropped it for a moment when she’d been looking at his mouth and he wondered what she’d do if he went to her, touched her, kissed her.

Would she still love him if—no,
when
she remembered?

He didn’t know and the only thing he could think to do was make sure she understood that he wanted her, needed her. That he had messed up. He wanted her with him in so many ways, in
all
ways.

She hadn’t answered him about grabbing some food, so he pushed off the counter and moved closer to her.

“Come on,” he said, smiling easily. “We can grab a burger or some soup, or whatever. If that doesn’t sound good, you can tell me what does and I’ll have them figure something out.”

“Just like that, Mr. McKay?” Something fired in her eyes.

She wanted to pick a fight for some reason.

He wasn’t going to rise to the bait. “I figure if a pregnant woman can’t make a special request, then who can?”

“The man who owns half the town?”

“I don’t own half the town,” he said. “And whatever I
do
own—it’s not just me. My sisters own equal parts. And what does that have to do with anything anyway? Are you hungry or not?”

On cue, her belly grumbled. Brannon lifted a brow.

She flushed.

“Well, I guess that answers that.”

“Fine,” she said, a flush crawling up her cheeks. “I’m hungry. We can go eat.”

She glanced at him and again, her gaze dropped to his mouth.

Heat gathered inside him, a storm raging to be loosed.

Then, slowly, her eyes lifted and their gazes locked.

For a few seconds, heat and need threatened to drive him insane.

She was the one who broke the eye contact and when she pushed her hair back, he saw the faint tremor in her hands.

Maybe it wasn’t a fight she was in the mood for.

He was tempted, so damn tempted, to touch her, see if he couldn’t do something about the energy he could all but feel burning through her.

Patience, Brannon
.

*   *   *

“Well, well, well…”

The voice sent a whisper of warning down her spine.

Hannah had been studying pictures on her phone, hoping something would remind her, but it was proving to be an exercise in futility. Brannon had gone to the restroom and in an effort to dissuade anybody from talking to her, she’d fixated on the phone.

As a shadow fell across her table, she slowly lifted her gaze to see a tall, rail-thin man studying her, a cruel smile twisting his mouth. Nothing about him jogged her memory, although he stared at her as though he knew all sorts of secrets.

He also stared at her as though he wanted to cause her all sorts of hurt.

Hannah casually reached up and put her hands on the table, one of them covering the napkin—and the knife tucked inside it. “Hello. Can I help you?”

“I heard you was out of the hospital.” Opaque brown eyes ran over her. “Looks like you’re healing up good enough.”

“I heard you
were
out of the hospital,” she corrected. “And yes … I am healing up fairly well, thank you. Mr…?”

He snorted. “You’re a jumped-up bitch, Hannah.” Then he leaned down, bracing his hands on the edge of the table.

She surged upward, her hand closing around the knife.

But it wasn’t necessary.

Brannon appeared at her back even as a tall, bearded man came up to grip the man’s elbow. “Mr. Hansen, it seems you’ve gotten lost on the way to your table.”

The hot guy with the beard was Ian. Brannon had reminded her of his name. Ian ran the pub and he was dating Brannon’s sister, Neve. He was big, bearded, and Scottish. Although he was smiling, the grin on his face had a hard edge as he moved to put his body between the skinny man and Hannah.

“I’m not lost, you stupid foreign fuck.”

“Then you’re not hungry,” Ian said, his voice going hard.

“Are you okay?” Brannon asked, the words low and soft in her ear. He cupped a hand over her shoulder as he eased in closer.

That light, casual touch sent heat sliding through her and she turned her head, staring at his face, his mouth. Just a breath away.

He was so close, she could have kissed him. The idea of it sent a wash of heat rushing through her and her nipples went tight just thinking of it. “I … um.” She looked down at the roll of silverware she still clutched.

The knife was still wrapped up in the napkin and abruptly, she felt foolish.

What had she been planning to do? Beat the guy with a set of silverware?

Brannon took it away and she watched as he put it down.

Behind them, Ian was still speaking although the man—Hansen—was no longer exactly
talking
. Yelling was more like it.

“I just wanted to have a word with that high-and-mighty bitch—thinks she can go around poking her nose in other people’s business!” he snapped.

Hannah looked back at him.

Voices emerged from the gray fog of her memory.

“You need to keep your nose out of my fucking business, you crazy bitch!”

“Femi-Nazi.”

She looked past him and saw the woman who was all but cringing in the background. His wife.

Joanie. The name popped into her head, just like that.

Hannah said, “When are you going to leave him, Joanie? When Lloyd kills you?”

The words shocked the hell out of her.

They infuriated the man—
Lloyd
.

She remembered that and pieces of a puzzle fell into place.

His name was Lloyd and he beat his wife.

As if she’d pulled out a crucial support, a stream of memory tumbled free.

She could see this skinny, evil bastard bent over his wife, holding her down with his hands hooked and cruel, biting into soft flesh. Like Hannah’s stepfather had done to her mama.

Lloyd went to lunge to for her—Brannon protectively blocked her even as Ian caught the miserable little man, but Hannah dodged to the side.

Her body—still weak, still tired, didn’t want to cooperate, but she forced it to move. “Leave him alone,” she said, sneering at Lloyd. “The coward wouldn’t put his hands on me anyway—not here. He might come after me in the dark or when I’m not looking. That’s his idea of
real
fight. His targets are always women anyway.”

“No man goes after a woman in my place,” Ian said.

“Lloyd, please, don’t,” the woman with him whispered.

And abruptly, Hannah felt ashamed.

This woman, Joanie, she’d pay the price.

Because they always did—the victim always paid. Shaking her head, she looked at Joanie again. “I helped you
leave
him, didn’t I?” She rubbed her temple, shaken by the memory she could
almost
see. “I did … I know I did.”

Ian was dragging Lloyd to the door—it wasn’t much of fight. Lloyd was snarling and tearing at Ian’s hands and arms, but he might as well have been a gnat butting up against a stone wall.

“Joanie! You stupid bitch, get out here!” Lloyd yelled.

She flinched, unable to look at Hannah. “I have … I have to go,” she whispered.

“Why?”

The question came from a slim redhead.

Hannah blinked in surprise as Neve McKay moved in to block Joanie’s view of Lloyd Hansen and then, as Ian wrested him outside, the man’s furious bellows were muted as well.

“He’s my…” Joanie frowned. “We’re married.”

“The man beats you,” Brannon said, shaking his head. “You didn’t sign up for that when you said your vows, did you?”

“I made a promise.”

“So did he,” Neve said, speaking before anybody else could. “It looks to me like he breaks that promise all the time. Are you going to stay until he puts you in the ground?”