Branded (16 page)

Mac sighed. “Orders, huh?” She gave the older woman a conspiratorial smile. “And what were those orders, if you don't mind me asking?”

The woman smiled. “Make you feel completely at home.”

The ping. It was back. But this time, it didn't go away. It spread warm, like honey, through her. “Well, it's nice that he treats his guests like that.”

“I wouldn't know, Ms. Byrd.”

Mac's brows drew together. “What do you mean?”

The woman's smile broadened. “You're the first guest Mr. Cavanaugh has ever had.”

•   •   •

When Deacon arrived home an hour and a half later, he was greeted with something he'd never heard before.

Laughter.

And it was coming from his kitchen.

For just a moment, he leaned against the wall in the foyer and listened. Mackenzie. She had this very specific laugh, like her whole body felt the happiness or joy or humor that had been offered to her. His gut tightened. Was it right to bring her into this world? Bring her smile and good nature, quick wit and sharp mind into ruthlessness and shadows? She laughed again, and this time his entire body felt it. Yes, she belonged here. Because she belonged with him.

As he came around the corner, Carol spotted him from her perch behind the stone island. She stood abruptly. “Mr. Cavanaugh.”

Seated on one of the barstools, Mackenzie glanced over her shoulder, and when she saw him, her eyes lit up.

Shit, he could get used to this, he thought.

“Welcome home,” she said as he walked toward them.

He came up behind her, his gaze raking over her. She was dressed simply, but sexy, in jeans, a white tank top, and bare feet. He ached to lean down and kiss her. But he didn't think she'd feel comfortable with a display in front of Carol.

She lifted her bottle of beer to his lips. “Want a sip?” she asked.

His body tightened, and his eyes locked with hers as he allowed her to serve him. He growled softly as the cold, sharp liquid hit his tongue.

From behind the island, Carol cleared her throat softly. “Can I fix you something, sir?”

Deacon's eyes clung to Mackenzie's. “Thank you, Carol. But I believe Ms. Byrd is going to share with me.”

“A sip. That was all that was promised. All you get from me, Deacon Cavanaugh.” Mackenzie grinned so wickedly, his cock swelled.

“Just one more?” he asked, his tone husky, his meaning clear.

Her cheeks flushing pink, she lifted the bottle to his lips once more. When he clamped his hand around hers and drained the thing, she gasped. “Hey! Greedy—”

Deacon had the empty bottle on the island and Mackenzie off her chair and in his arms in less than five seconds. He wanted to make her feel comfortable around Carol, but frankly, he wanted
her more. His gaze ate her up, and he lowered his mouth to hers. Gently, he shared the last of the beer with her. Moaning, she wrapped her arms around his neck and swallowed.

His entire body racked with heat-laced need. Deacon pulled her closer, his arms wrapping her so tightly, they crossed at the wrists. She tasted so good, warm and wet and crisp from the beer, and when she drew back and looked up at him with dilated eyes under lids at half-mast, he was ready to take her right there.

“Deacon,” Mackenzie uttered, then turned to look at Carol.

The woman's eyes were as big as salad plates, but even so, she refused to look at him. “I'm just going to . . .” she rambled, pointing to somewhere out of the room they were in. “Laundry and . . . there's some things to snack on here . . . but then you're going out to dinner . . .”

“Thank you, Carol,” Deacon said, his attention back on Mackenzie.

“Yes, thank you, Carol,” Mackenzie added, then, when the woman hurried out, burst into a fit of giggles as Deacon dropped his head to her neck and nibbled his way up one cord of muscle.

“Poor Carol,” she said between breaths.

She tasted so sweet. He lapped at her earlobe. “You scared her away.”

“Me?” she cried, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “Please. If it was anybody, it was you and your beer bottle shenanigans!”

His mouth moved to her ear. “Did you just say the word shenanigans in my house?”

“Damn right, suit.” She moaned as he licked the shell of her ear, then suckled on the lobe. “This house needs shenanigans and a helluva lot more country going on.”

“Then you're going to have to stay a lot longer than a night.”

She drew back and looked at him. Her eyes seemed to be studying him, questioning him. Then she shrugged. “I can do plenty of damage in a night.” She grinned, ran her fingers over his tie, then flipped it out of the top of his suit. “I have to say, Mr. Cavanaugh, you look damn fine in this getup.”

“Thank you.”

“Can't decide which way I like you best. Jeans, tee, and boots or starched collar, suit—and a tie I can use to pull you closer.”

He dropped his head and kissed her again, deep and hungry. He just couldn't seem to stop. Wanting her. Tasting her. Was this how an addiction began?

“Or maybe I like you the third way best,” she whispered against his mouth.

“What way is that?” he growled, his cock so hard he didn't know how long he could contain it.

She smiled. “Wearing nothing at all.”

“Oh.” He drew his head back. “Come on, Mackenzie,” he groaned. “Don't make me take you right here on the island.”

“I'd be tempted to make you,” she whispered sensually, “if poor Carol and her weak heart weren't going to be strolling past at any moment.”

“Carol has a weak heart?”

“I don't know.” When he laughed, she grinned. “But I don't want to risk it.”

“I like having you here.” He nibbled her lower lip. “I mean it. I think you should stay. And not just to bring in the country.”

She looked momentarily flustered. Then she cocked her head to the side and said, “Well, I do have a month's worth of dresses and shoes to wear.”

Ah, yes, the clothes he'd ordered. “Did you find something you like?”

She gave him a quizzical, almost reproachful look. “What's that all about?”

“Did you?” he pressed.

“'Course I did. I'm a girl, Deacon Cavanaugh.” She eased back, rested her elbows on the island and gave him a mock terse look. “There are two things in this life us females can't resist. Chocolate, shoes, and chocolate.”

“That's three things,” he pointed out.

“Chocolate deserves to be repeated.”

He laughed, his brain conjuring images of her in nothing but a sexy pair of heels—and him licking melted chocolate off her body. Goddamn, he was a goner.

“But I have a dress,” she said. “I brought a dress with me.”

“So wear it.” He reached out and ran his fingers through her hair. So soft.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Listen, darlin'. I didn't order all that shit to piss you off or to offend you. I just thought you might like it.”

Her mouth quirked and she just stared at him. He was tempted to start kissing her again, and if it led to stretching her out on the island and making her forget about dresses and shoes and ranches and any kind of life before now, then he would be one happy man.

“What?” he asked when she just kept looking at him.

“Two diaries.”

He lifted one eyebrow.

A small smile played about her perfectly pink mouth. “Two diaries filled up with nothing except you.” She pushed away from the island and wrapped her arms around his neck again. “I never thought we'd get here.”

His eyes burned into hers, and he said with
utter conviction, “Neither did I, Mac. But damn, I'm glad we did.”

Rising up on her toes, she kissed him. A deep kiss that matched his previous one, but this time, she dipped her tongue into his mouth and played with his teeth.

His body primed and ready, Deacon gathered her up tight and met her kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke. They were both groaning with need when Carol took that exact moment to walk through with a basket of folded laundry.

“Oh,” she exclaimed. “I'm sorry . . . I—”

Deacon drew back an inch. “Carol?” he said, his eyes pinned to Mackenzie's. She looked as fraught as he felt.

“Yes, sir?”

“Do you have a weak heart?”

“No, sir. Fit as a fiddle.”

He watched Mackenzie's wet, worked-over mouth curve into a smile.

“Wonderful,” he uttered, closing in on her once again. “Now, please take the night off.”

Sheridan O'Neil didn't fly in helicopters unless forced. And then she made sure she was medicated. The whole thing just didn't make sense aerodynamically. Or was that logically? She wasn't sure. But whatever it was, she wanted no part of it.

What she did trust to get her from place to place, however, was her Subaru Impreza. Granted, it took her a few hours longer, but it never failed. Or, she mused, as rain pelted her windshield, let her fall out of the sky to her death.

The afternoon was coming to a close, and she wondered while listening to the third chapter of
Zombie Fallout
if she would see the town of River Black come upon her soon. She'd never been in this part of Texas, but she'd heard it was incredibly beautiful. It was. Even under the shade of gray clouds and a crying sky she could see the hills of green dotted with wildflowers.

She wondered if it was raining in Dallas, too, and if it would cause problems for Mr. Cavanaugh's dinner. She knew that finally closing this deal was important to him. Maybe more than just important, though she'd never asked. She liked Deacon Cavanaugh, thought he was a brilliant businessperson, and appreciated how he supported her ambitions. But in all the years she'd known him, she'd never seen him as he was today.

As the rain downgraded to a sprinkle on her windshield, she lowered the speed of her wipers. It was no secret that Deacon Cavanaugh was good-looking. Or that every woman in the office stared and maybe even drooled when he walked by, but he never gave anyone more than a polite nod and a quick, uninterested smile.

Until today.

When he'd called and asked her to cancel things with Pamela, said he was bringing someone else to dinner instead, Sheridan had wondered about the new woman. Wondered if she was like Pamela. The same type. Ten feet tall, bone thin, artificial smile, performed well, and completely at the boss's disposal—which frankly, as a woman, kind of pissed Sheridan off. But it wasn't her business or her place to make those feelings known.

White fencing emerged on her right, a dark cloud burst overhead, and the rain started pounding anew. She turned up chapter four and settled
herself in to listen. But a few minutes in, she was completely jarred from the story when she ran over something in the road.

“Shit,” she uttered, glancing back. “What the hell was that?”

From what she could see with the lack of light and all the rain, it appeared to be a pothole. She turned back around, gripping the steering wheel, and just prayed she hadn't blown a tire. But as all cruel jokes went, she felt the lurch almost immediately, then heard the
thump
,
thump
,
thump
.

“Dammit.” She pulled to the side of the road and got out of the car. Rain fell in pinpricks all over her skin and through her clothes as she headed to the rear. The rain had slowed again, but it was still enough to soak her in a matter of minutes. Spotting the dead tire, she hurried back to the driver's side, and climbed in.

Her teeth chattering, she grabbed her cell phone and quickly dialed AAA. Then she waited. And waited. No ringing.

No ringing?

She tried again. Dialed nice and slow, then held it to her ear. But there was nothing. No ring. No reception.

“Dammit,” she said again.

She glanced around. Ranch land for miles. She was just going to have to wait out the storm, then
walk to town. Or maybe to the ranch's house. Whichever was closer.

Turning her car off and locking the door, she tipped her seat back and just let the sound of the rain soothe her frustrated spirit.

•   •   •

“Damn, Carol,” Mac uttered to herself, turning around in the full-length mirror in her ultralush bathroom so she could see the back of the navy blue strapless. “You know what you're talking about, lady.”

She turned around again and stared at herself, wondering how she'd managed to become the sexy, curvaceous glamour girl staring back at her. With its sweetheart neckline and twist-front detail, the A-line skirted dress just kissed the floor. It made her look like she was going to the Academy Awards or a very fancy dinner with an incredibly hot man.

It was just that beautiful, and boy, did it fit her perfectly.

Her eyes cut to the discarded black dress hanging on the hook on the bathroom door. Poor thing, she mused with a grimace. It hadn't stood a chance. After her shower, she'd slipped it on. She'd done her hair—soft curls, gathered over one shoulder—and smoky, sexy makeup while wearing it. Even picked out shoes from the Deacon Cavanaugh collection to wear with it. But
when she'd stood in front of the mirror, she'd just looked . . . blah.

And there was no way she was looking blah tonight.

Unable to resist the temptation of couture, she pitched the black dress and slipped on the blue.

As she was gathering up a few essentials and dropping them in her small purse, someone knocked on her bedroom door. Her heart lurched into her throat. That couldn't be anyone but
him
. Carol was gone for the night, and Deacon had let his chef and groundsman go, too.

The knock came again, and it sounded rather manly and impatient.

She grinned, then called, “Come in!” With one last look in the mirror, she took a deep breath and left the bathroom.

Deacon was walking in just as she was coming out, and
good God in heaven,
the man looked so beyond gorgeous Mac nearly fainted on the spot. Her gaze traveled up and down his body. Sure, she was a country girl. Admired a man in denim and chaps over most anything else, but right now, looking at black-haired, green-eyed Deacon Cavanaugh in his sharp, no doubt custom-made suit, which fit his long, lean, muscled body to perfection, and the crisp white shirt and cream silk tie that brought out the deep, sexy tan in his skin, she was seriously considering rethinking that.

The childhood crush that once dwelled inside her had died. What hummed through her now was a very grown-up, very serious, very dangerous sexual attraction. She wanted this man, wanted him thoroughly and completely. She wanted him naked and poised above her, those large, tanned hands spreading her legs wide before the other large part of his anatomy slid deeply inside of her.

Green eyes surrounded by black lashes moved lazily over her. Uncomfortable with her own lusty thoughts, and unsure of what he was thinking, if he liked what he saw, she blurted out, “You'd better be fixin' to start telling me I look pretty.”

Amusement flashed hot in his eyes, and a slow smile spread on his lips. “No. That wouldn't be even close to how you look tonight, Mackenzie. You are drop-dead-from-a-heart-attack stunning, honey, and it will take the most supreme effort on my part to keep my hands and mouth off you tonight.”

Her heart leaped into her throat, and she blushed happily. “Thank you, sir.”

“Shit, darlin', don't thank me. If I had my way, we wouldn't be going anywhere tonight. I'd be spending the next three hours taking that beautiful dress off you with my teeth.” His nostrils flared. “Damn, I don't mind showing you off, but I'm not sure I won't growl at anything that keeps their eyes on you for longer than five seconds.”

Her skin went hot instantly, and her breasts felt
heavy. She wanted that, too. In fact, there was truly nothing she wanted more than him. “But duty calls. Or is it business?”

She watched his strong, handsome jaw tighten. “Business,” he ground out.

She wanted to lick that rigid jaw, feel just the hint of stubble against her tongue. Taking a deep breath, she forced a calm, easy tone to her words. “So, where are we going? Somewhere fancy?”

“Yes.”

She started toward him. “And how should I act? Quiet? Demure? Sophisticated?”

He watched her every step of the way with wolfish eyes. “Just be yourself, Mackenzie.”

“All right,” she said, coming up alongside him with a grin. “But don't forget you said that.”

He took her hand and led her out into the hallway. “I don't forget anything.”

His words made her shiver as they walked toward the elevator.

“Like the crush you had on me,” he said.

“Good. That thing was epic.”

Inside the elevator, he pressed the button for the lobby, then turned to face her, held her hands in his. “I like that you had a crush on me.”

Standing so close to him, her heart stuttered inside her chest. “Do you, now?”

He nodded, his eyes hooded and sexy. He just killed her with the way he stared at her.

“I was too old for you then, of course,” he said. “But I always admired the way you handled yourself. How strong and brave and fearless you were.”

She didn't buy it for a minute. “If I remember correctly, you thought I was a pain in the ass and a bad influence on your sister.”

His eyes danced with heat and amusement. “But a strong, fearless pain in the ass.”

She laughed.

“Thank you,” he said, his fingers lacing through hers.

“For what?”

“Coming with me tonight. Coming to Dallas.”

Her heart squeezed in the wonderfully painful way that screamed,
God, I'm so desperately into this man
. “Thank you for asking. By the way, did I tell you how good you look tonight?”

He shook his head.

“Well, you do. Finer than frog hair. And you smell . . . really good, too.”

His eyes filled with amusement. “I have to kiss you,” he said. “But I don't want to muss. So . . .” He leaned in and brushed his mouth against her neck.

Her pulse jumped.

“Oh, darlin',” he uttered against her skin. “If I make it through tonight without finding a dark corner and your zipper, it'll be a goddamn miracle.”

Her skin and blood on fire, she laughed. When
the elevator door opened, he led her out—not into the lobby as she'd thought—but into the garage.

•   •   •

Sheridan woke with a start, realizing that, one—and most obviously—she'd dozed off; two, the rain had stopped; and three, she was somewhere near River Black with a flat tire and no cell service.

She sat up.

The clouds were trying to push away and make room for the impending sunset. She checked her cell again. Tried to get a signal and a dial tone. Frustration and disappointment rattled through her. She was a planner, a list maker, and look at her. In a car with a flat and no spare tire. She was thoroughly disappointed in herself.

Thunder sounded from far off, and she looked up, frowning. Another storm was really going to screw up this already screwed-up situation? She needed to get to the office, make sure everything was in order, that she had everything Deacon wanted prepared. But it wasn't the weather making that sound. Making the ground rumble and shake. She leaned forward so she could see out her windshield better.

Wow.

Horses. About a dozen of them. They were thundering across the land, coming toward her, or the fence line. Their eyes were huge, and their drenched manes slashed against their necks.

Sheridan quickly got out of the car and strode over to the side of the road where the grass met the concrete. She shaded her eyes, trying to get another look at the amazingly beautiful sight.

As they neared, she saw that there was a lone rider with them. A cowboy. Must be. He wore the jeans and the boots and the hat. And the way he rode . . . it was like he was part of the paint horse under him, an extension.

Knowing this might be her chance to get to a phone or town, she lifted her arms and waved them around until she was sure he saw her. Breaking from the pack, the man galloped over to the fence line. As his horse snorted, he stared quizzically down at her, making Sheridan's breath catch in her throat.

He tipped that hat back an inch. Eyes the color of the Mediterranean blazed down at her.

“You need some help, darlin'?” he asked.

And the voice. Heaven help her, the voice. It was husky and ultramasculine, and she'd never heard its equal. As she stared up at him, her skin tightened around her bones and she had to remind herself to speak.

“I'm looking for the Triple C Ranch,” she said, her tone reed thin.

“Well, you found it.”

Relief spilled through her. So, she was on the actual property. Thank God. “I'm here for Deacon Cavanaugh.”

Something moved over the man's face, but she couldn't guess at what it was because he'd turned his horse in a circle before she was able to study it properly.

“That so?” he said tightly. “You one of his ladies?”

Her breath came out in a rush. “No. Oh, God. No.”

His brows lifted in question. As in,
Who the hell are you, then?

“I'm his assistant.”

“Ah.” Understanding dawned. And if she wasn't mistaken, curiosity.

“Sheridan O'Neil,” she continued.

“Good.”

Good?
“Excuse me?”

The flash of understanding was now replaced by amusement. “Nothin', darlin'. I can show you the way if you'd like.”

“Right. See, the thing is, I don't have a spare tire. Which is incredibly irresponsible of me, I know. But there it is.” She was completely aware that she was babbling, but the guy unnerved her. “I've been trying to call AAA, but cell service out here seems to be impossible—”

“Easy, darlin'. We don't need wheels. We got Cherry here.” He patted the horse. “You'll sit up front.”

All the color drained from Sheridan's face, and she took a step back. “No, thank you. I appreciate
the offer, but I'll wait. Or, you know what? Actually, I could walk. How far would you say it is?”

Brown eyebrows lifted over sea blue eyes. “You never been on a horse before, Sheridan?”

The way he said her name, all warm and soft like he knew her intimately, made her stomach turn over. “I prefer to keep my feet on the ground.”

Chuckling to himself, the man slipped off his horse and came over to the fence. He placed his arms on top of it, showing off tanned, muscular forearms.