One Night Scandal Read online

  He took the question seriously, mulling it over for a minute before he nodded. “There was something in the way they looked at each other. Like they would gravitate toward each other even in a crowded room.”

  “Oh.” The idea stole her breath. Especially coming from this man, who drew her toward him in spite of her best efforts. “That’s very romantic.”

  Suddenly too warm, she leaned forward to retrieve her water, craving a cool drink. Brock’s gaze followed her. She could feel it, even if she didn’t look his way, focusing instead on the fire.

  “I suppose it is,” he agreed. “I haven’t seen many couples look at each other that way.”

  “Not even your father and stepmother? They’ve been together a long time. Or your brothers? I’ve heard rumors that both Carson and Cody have found the women of their dreams recently.”

  “You probably know more about my family than I do since I don’t remember the last six months.” He tipped his head back against the headrest, frustration lacing his voice. “Carson’s girlfriend showed up at my father’s house the other night and I would have sworn I’d never seen her before.”

  “I can’t imagine how maddening that feels,” Hannah admitted, returning her drink to the table. “The only reason I know about your brothers is because of gossip on the set. The McNeill men have been an ongoing source of feminine interest and speculation since I arrived in Cheyenne.”

  “No one was more surprised than me to learn the twins have settled down.” He shifted on the love seat to face her, his knee grazing hers. “And as for my father and stepmother, I always viewed their marriage as one of convenience until I saw them together the other night. My father seemed almost...tender with her. Maybe because of her accident and the coma that she’s still recovering from, or maybe he feels bad for her about the scandal.”

  The warmth of his leg heated her skin right through her dress, the memory of where they’d touched enough to elicit tingly sensations up her thigh. She finally had the conversation directed in a way that might yield useful information about Antonio Ventura, but all she could think about was the awareness pooling inside her. The magnetic draw every time their eyes met.

  She had to do better than this. She needed to put Hope first.

  “Do you think your father knows why Paige turned her back on her birth family? Or why she left home in the first place? Over twenty years is a long time to stay away.”

  Hannah had asked herself those questions many times since the scandal broke. Did the McNeill family hide the connection on purpose? Had they even known about it?

  Brock shook his head. “I couldn’t say. Paige told us she never meant to deceive us. That she just needed a fresh start. And my father supported her, saying her name didn’t change who she is on the inside, which I respect.”

  Hannah searched his eyes, hungry to know more. Perhaps he simply didn’t know. Or maybe the amnesia had compromised his ability to remember the details of the scandal in the days leading up to the breaking news. But no matter how the incident had unfolded, she believed him now. She trusted that Brock hadn’t known his stepmother was a relation to Antonio Ventura. Trusted that he wasn’t helping Ventura hide behind his famous name and Hollywood power.

  Brock’s sole concern was for his family. And it hurt to think she’d lost out on a chance to have something more with him—to follow this heat where it led for a second time—when he was an honorable man. A simple rancher who also just happened to be a member of one of the wealthiest families in the country.

  “Your father sounds like a good man.” With an effort, she blinked away the haze of attraction, needing to leave before she did something foolish, like kiss him again. “You’re lucky to have grown up with that kind of role model.”

  “You’re not close with your father?”

  “Not at all.” She shook her head, sitting forward on the love seat and sliding her feet back into her shoes. “He walked out on my mother when we were young. He’s always been more interested in his career than his family.”

  “You said ‘we.’” Brock fingered a purple silk ruffle where it rested on the love seat, smoothing his thumb along the fabric. “Do you have siblings?”

  “Just one sister. Hope.” She regretted that the filming, and her absence from LA, was hurting her sister so much. But she couldn’t just pack up and go home when someone on this set might know Antonio’s secrets. “She’s lived with me in LA for the past two years. I’d do anything in the world for her.”

  Brock’s smile was quick and genuine. Understanding. “I’d slay dragons for my sisters, too. So it kills me to think how much this scandal is turning their world upside down.” He shook his head, a sadness making his eyes turn a shade bluer. “The legal battles they’ll have to fight to maintain their portion of the family lands and inheritance.”

  The knowledge of how much they shared in common, despite the surface differences, helped Hannah to better understand why she’d been so drawn to him that first night. She might not have known all those layers of his character, but she had sensed a connection immediately. What would have happened if she’d trusted that instinct? If she hadn’t lied to him after he’d awoken with amnesia, and instead admitted that they had started a relationship?

  Would things be any different now?

  “I’m sorry they will have to fight those battles.” She reached for him, unable to stop herself from laying her hand on his knee. “I know how much it hurts when you can’t fix things for the people you love most.”

  She’d only meant to empathize. But as she stared into his eyes in the firelight, she felt the current between them strengthen. Deepen.

  Flare hotter.

  Tugging her hand away, she straightened before things got even more complicated between them.

  “I should go,” she announced, not surprised that her voice was a throaty rasp. She’d used all her restraint to prevent herself from touching him more. She didn’t have anything left to hide the hunger in her tone. “That is, I have an early call tomorrow.”

  “Of course.” Standing, he extended his hand to her and deftly helped her to her feet. “It’s been a pleasure having dinner with you.”

  Was it her imagination, or did he linger over that word pleasure a fraction longer than the others? Memories tumbled through her. Touches. Tastes. Whispers.

  She remembered all of it so thoroughly she couldn’t imagine how he’d forgotten.

  Her throat was so dry she couldn’t answer. Settling for a nod, she knew she needed to get outside, away from the romantic firelight and the allure of Brock’s undivided attention.

  Ten minutes later, as the truck pulled up to her cabin, she all but sprinted out, not waiting for him to help her down.

  “Thank you for everything,” she called over her shoulder, her whole body still on fire from that briefest of touches back at his place. The night air hadn’t done anything to cool things down. “Dinner was lovely. I had a nice time.”

  Brock was beside her a moment later, his long legs and loafers covering ground faster than she could in her open-toe stilettos.

  “If the evening was so lovely and nice, Hannah Ryder, I’m not sure why you’re racing away like the hounds of hell are at your heels.”

  He opened the screen door for her, pinning it with his body while she fumbled for her keycard.

  “I’m not sprinting.” Although if she’d had her running shoes on, she would have definitely moved faster. “I’m just...not in a good position to take things any further.”

  “And have I done anything to give you the impression I’m the kind of man who would press the issue?” Even in the dark, his eyes flashed with a hint of anger. Hurt.

  She’d offended him without intending to.

  “Absolutely not.” She backed up a step, leaning on one side of the doorjamb while he bracketed the other side with his broad shoulders and brooding looks.
She’d tried hiding her feelings and clearly that hadn’t worked out well. There was nothing left but to be honest. “My speed has to do with me trying to outrun my own desires, Brock. Not you.”

  Some of the tension slid from him. “And if you’ve already explained that to me, keep in mind, I can’t remember. Just like everything else that happened between us that first night—my memory of it is gone.”

  The scents of meadow grasses and wildflowers wafted across the fields, the breeze catching the silk of her dress. She didn’t know what to say, but she couldn’t talk about that night anymore. Her conscience wouldn’t let her misrepresent the truth more than she already had.

  “We didn’t discuss it that night.” She squeezed the metallic gold clutch harder to keep herself from touching him. “But I’m very involved in my sister’s life right now, helping her deal with the fallout of a...traumatic experience. This probably wasn’t a good time for me to take a movie role, but I’m committed to getting home as soon as I can.”

  “My sister is in LA, too.” He frowned slightly, looking thoughtful. “Scarlett is frustrated with the family for not protecting her mother more, and I worry about her making major life decisions about her future when she’s angry.”

  Hannah was grateful he understood. That he didn’t dig deeper into her reasons for not indulging the attraction between them.

  “That gives me an idea,” Brock said suddenly, straightening from where he’d been leaning against the doorframe opposite her and stepping closer. “If you end up with more days off in the shooting schedule, let me know. We could fly to the West Coast for the day. Check on our siblings.” His eyes glittered with unspoken possibilities. “Share another dinner.”

  The thought of spending more time with him tantalized her even as she knew he needed to be off-limits that way. Licking her lips, she readied an automatic “no.” But then, feeling herself sway on knees weak with want, she wondered how foolish she was being to deny herself the pleasure of his touch when he could wake up tomorrow and remember everything that happened that first night anyhow.

  One day Brock McNeill would resent her for lying to him. Deservedly so. It wasn’t like he would think any more kindly of her if she refused every kiss until then.

  Or was she rationalizing wildly for the chance to be with him again?

  “Maybe,” she said finally, the word scarcely a whisper between them since they were standing far closer than she’d realized.

  Drawn together. Gravitating toward each other.

  He didn’t touch her. And wouldn’t, she knew, after how she’d pulled away from him earlier. If she wanted more, she would have to make the next move.

  One kiss wouldn’t hurt.

  She wondered if she’d spoken the thought aloud because his eyes darkened with desire, his gaze moving to her lips. Staying there.

  Her heart pounded harder. Faster. Propelling her to take just one taste...

  Fingers landing on the bristle of his jaw, she traced the hard edge toward his chin. Swaying closer, she skimmed her hand down the warmth of his neck, curving around the back to where his hair curled against his collar.

  And then, she was kissing him. Gently. Sweetly. She nipped and tasted, remembering the feel of his mouth even as the kiss was completely different from that first, no-holds-barred night together. He let her feel and explore, get wrapped up in the taste and textures of their lips brushing. Only when she sighed with pleasure did he give her more. His hand splayed on the base of her spine, a welcome, seductive weight that anchored her against him. Sensations bombarded her, from the warm strength of his chest under his jacket, to the taut muscle of his thigh where it pressed lightly against the inside of her hip.

  She clutched at his lapels, straining closer, losing herself in the kiss. His tongue stroked over hers in a way that made her shudder with need. In a way that reminded her how quickly he could take her to the brink, and push her over...

  He pulled away then. Slowly. It took her a moment to even register what had happened. Her gaze was fuzzy and unfocused. Her fingers still clenched the silk of his tuxedo as if he was the answer to everything she wanted. Needed. As her senses returned to her, she spied the regret in his eyes that echoed the sentiment tightening in her chest.

  With an effort, she disentangled herself from the fabric, easing away from the scent of his aftershave and the taste of his lips. Her skin tingled, and her body hummed with thwarted anticipation.

  “I would never press the issue,” he reminded her, his fingers lightly combing through her hair before he stepped back, breaking the spell. “But the offer to go to LA is open.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the palm before closing her fingers over the tender place he’d just touched. “Think about it, Hannah.”

  He settled her forgotten keycard in the door lock and opened it for her before he turned and strode down the steps and back to his truck. Hannah could almost swear she’d forgotten how to breathe until then. Finally, dragging in a gulp of night air, she forced herself to step inside the cabin. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against the barrier for a long moment, knowing she wasn’t going to be able to get that kiss out of her mind.

  Brock had told her to think about a trip to LA.

  Tonight, she’d be lucky if she could think of anything else.

  Eight

  Gaining access to the Ventura family estate hadn’t been as difficult as Scarlett feared.

  She’d watched the Beverly Hills home for a day, to acquaint herself with the various entrances and to watch who went in and out of the property. There was a guard at the gate that led to a handful of exclusive homes, but getting past him was the easy part since she’d noticed he didn’t ring through to the owners for service deliveries. So she’d bought a box of organic produce and claimed she was delivering it to a house at one end of the street. Sure enough, the guard waved her through the gate, and she went to the Ventura home instead.

  There, she only had to wheedle her way past an elderly gardener, who gladly opened another gate for her when he saw her fake delivery. She might have regretted taking advantage of the older man’s kindness if she wasn’t so thoroughly convinced her mission was just. The Ventura family had done something to alienate Scarlett’s mother when Paige—Eden—was just a teen.

  Scarlett wasn’t leaving until she discovered the truth.

  Now, as she lugged two hemp bags full of apples, peaches and Valencia oranges toward the delivery entrance of the expansive French chateau–style home, she wished she had a hand free to text Logan and let him know she’d made it this far. He hadn’t wanted her to enter the property alone, but as a rising star in Hollywood, Logan was too well known to sneak in anywhere.

  Besides, she didn’t want him to compromise his standing with the director of Winning the West. Not that he seemed to care what Antonio Ventura thought of him. Ever since the director had held Logan’s phone captive on a movie set in the Congo, preventing Logan from messaging Scarlett for weeks, he had no use for the critically acclaimed film guru, even though he was the director of Logan’s current movie.

  Which, she had to admit, she really liked. She’d been so hurt when she thought Logan had ghosted her. But ever since they’d reconnected, things were looking up. At least, with her relationship. But now her family—her family name—was in jeopardy.

  Before she could step up to ring the bell on the delivery entrance—which consisted of ornate double doors slightly hidden by a magnolia tree—Scarlett heard a tuneful whistle from the side yard. Curious, she peered through a gap in the boxwood hedge into the European gardens full of paths, statues and fountains. At the far end of the property, a raised gazebo housed a well-dressed older man with his back turned to her.

  The gray-haired occupant of the garden pavilion stood at an easel, a paintbrush in hand as he carefully shaded purple flowers with dark smudges on the canvas. Something about his bearing, or maybe i
t was the perfectly tailored blue shirt with cuffs perfectly turned up, announced his wealth and status. This was no servant. She’d bet her last dollar that the serene painter in the manicured gardens was the owner of the house.

  Emilio Ventura, Antonio’s adopted father.

  Scarlett’s biological grandfather.

  Emotions sideswiped her like a rogue wave. Anger and resentment topped the list, total indignation that this man had done nothing to reach out to his daughter in a quarter of a decade.

  “Excuse me,” she called, marching toward him with a sense of righteous purpose. “Mr. Ventura?”

  She was halfway across the central courtyard of the elaborate gardens, a wood nymph fountain blowing water through a shell beside her, when the man stopped painting. He slowly turned toward her.

  He didn’t seem surprised, or worried. He seemed to silently take her measure before he settled his brush in a clear glass container on the tray in front of the easel. Then, as she continued to charge toward him, he picked up a piece of white linen and wiped his hands on it, taking extra time to clean around his nails.

  The action only served to provoke her more. Surely she wasn’t related to this fastidious old bon vivant living in an ostentatious mansion, too full of himself to care about anyone else? She strode faster, ready to give him a piece of her mind.

  “Do you know who I am?” she asked, arriving in his shaded gazebo at last, only to realize she’d brought her organic grocery bags with her for the confrontation.

  She set them down a little too quickly, spilling a few Valencia oranges. They rolled along the cool marble floor, one of them landing right in front of his Italian leather loafer.

  He stared down at it in bemusement, his bushy eyebrows lifted in surprise.

  “I have a general idea,” he answered as he bent to retrieve the orange, inspecting it as he straightened again.

  Before she could reply, he peered behind her, giving an angry flick of his wrist, seeming to gesture to someone else. Turning, she saw the security guard from the front gate in a golf cart. He was parked on the lawn, speaking to a young woman dressed in a sharp red business suit, her hair piled on her head in an efficient chignon. The woman apparently knew how to interpret Ventura’s wrist flick, and she returned to her conversation with the guard.