Brave Enough (15 page)

Time slows, spinning in a hazy circle around us, blurring out the rest of the world. Tag's silvery eyes turn dark and stormy. I know that look. I don't know all the things that it means, but I know how it makes me feel. It makes me feel loved. Wanted. Like I'm the only girl in the universes that he can see.

Tag raises his hands to cup my face and inches closer until his nose is almost touching mine. “Say it again,” he breathes.

My pulse thunders. My lungs freeze. My hands tremble. “I love you.”

And then he's kissing me. Like we aren't in front of a crowd. Like we didn't just ruin the ceremony. Like we are the only two who matter.

And I kiss him back.

Because we are.

A muffled
whoop
and the resulting laughter draws us back to where we are and what we're supposed to be doing. Tag lifts his head and smiles down into my face. I glance behind him to an
innocent-looking Rogan, whose wink at me is his only admission of guilt as the whooper.

The minister clears his throat, drawing my eye back to him. “Taggart Gregory Barton, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?” he begins again, as if there was never an interruption in his service. I slide a sidelong glance over to Tag. He's still smiling at me. And I'm still falling deeper in love.

Tag

“What's going through that beautiful head of yours this morning?” I ask Weatherly as I come up from behind to wrap my arms around her waist and lay my chin in the curve of her neck. I love how she tips her head to the side. I love how she arches back into me, like a cat rubbing her slinky body against my leg.

“That of all the great vacations I've been on, of all the exotic places my family has traveled to, I've never seen a sunrise like this one.”

“It's the company,” I mutter, dragging my lips over the smooth skin of her shoulder.

“It is?” she asks, a smile in her voice.

“Definitely. Being with me makes everything better.” I let one hand slide down her bare, flat stomach to the elastic band of her panties. When I feel her crease and slip a finger inside, I find that
she's already wet.
Her
readiness is all it takes to inspire
my
readiness. With a light groan, I press my cock against the curve of her ass as I explore her more deeply. “And don't bother denying it. I can
feel
how much you agree.”

“I wouldn't dare deny it,” she assures in a breathy voice that makes me want to bend her over the balcony railing and let her bask in the view of Tuscany as I pound into her from behind.

“Good, because you'd be a liar,” I tease, licking the lobe of her ear before I sink my teeth into it.

“I'd never lie to you,” she pants, working her hips over my hand.

That cools my ardor a little. I believe her when she says she'd never lie to me. She's better than that. But I'm not.

Not that I've
lied to her
, per se. I just haven't told her everything. Omission isn't lying.

Or at least that's what I keep telling myself.

“Weatherly, there's something I need to tell you.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wonder why the hell I said them. I have to think this through. I can't let my feelings for her mess up everything. Too much is at stake. But I
do
have feelings for her. Strong ones. Stronger than I expected to have, especially so soon. But admitting them would be a disaster. I can't do that yet. And when I do, I don't want there to be these secrets between us, things she can't know anything about at this point. When I tell her I love her, if that's what the hell this is, then there won't be anything else between us. Nothing to stand in our way.

My movements have stilled, so Weatherly reaches behind me to
dig her nails into the side of my thigh as she rubs her plump little ass against my cock. “Can it wait?” she asks softly.

My balls tighten and thoughts of lies and omissions, of guilt and burden fade away into the early Tuscan sun.

“Do you
really
want to be doing that
here
?” I ask, pulling her tighter against me as I look around at the few other villa balconies. They're all empty, the French doors shut, the curtains drawn. “Someone could easily look out and see us.”

As a spot of moisture is forming on my boxer briefs, I'm praying she'll say she doesn't give a shit and beg me to take her right here, right now.

Her pause is so brief I might've imagined it. “I don't care if you don't care.”

That's all the permission I need. With my thighs pressing against the backs of hers, I nudge her upper body forward until she's resting her forearms along the cap of the railing. I lean back only long enough to jerk her panties down over the curve of her perfectly rounded cheeks. I take out my cock and rub it through her slick folds before I drag up between those cheeks to coat the crease with her own juices. I dip back down and ease into her slowly, inch by inch, until my shaft is buried all the way to the balls in the silky fist of her body. I close my eyes and revel in the feel of being so deep inside her. I open them again to watch as I pull out. “Ah hell,” I groan when the light hits the wet sheen on my cock.

That's when my intentions of giving her an easy morning ride leap off the balcony and fly away with the exotic birds.

“Remind me to thank Rogan for this trip,” she murmurs between quiet, breathy moans.

That's the last time either of us speaks until I carry her limp body inside a few bone-melting minutes later. But as I lie beside her, stretched out behind her as she sleeps, the guilt returns tenfold. What the hell am I doing to this incredible woman? And will she hate me when she finds out?

Weatherly

Some part of me is very nervous on our return to Chiara. The way we were during the time we spent here, and even when we left two weeks ago for our honeymoon, was quite different than the way we are now. We are married. Husband and wife. Looking out at an eternity together. An eternity of normal life. What worries me is the fear that Tag might find that “normal” is actually “boring.”

One of the part-time Chiara workers, Sam Wyman, drops us off at the bottom of the front steps. He was kind enough to pick us up from the airport and bring us home.

“You two go get settled. I'll get your bags.”

“Are you sure, Sam?” Tag asks.

He nods, his smile genuine. “I'm sure. Go on, now.”

Tag startles a squeak out of me when he sweeps me up into his arms and carries me up the steps. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“Carrying you over the threshold.”

“I'm pretty sure the steps aren't part of the threshold.”

“I'm hedging my bets,” he responds, bending to push open the heavy front door. “Besides, I like any excuse to have you in my arms.”

He carries me through the door then kicks it shut behind us and stands, holding me, in the foyer. “Welcome home, Mrs. Barton.”

His eyes flash with a happy affection that warms me all the way to my toes. My heart soars with hope and optimism. Maybe this can work. Maybe this can really, really work.

“Why thank you, Mr. Barton, my handsome husband,” I reply, batting my eyelashes at him.

His smile slowly fades to a gentle curve of his lips. “Say it again,” he requests quietly.

“Mr. Barton, my handsome husband,” I repeat obediently.

“Says my beautiful wife,” he whispers, pressing his lips to mine in a sweetly chaste kiss that shoots all the way into my soul.

“Let me look at you two,” comes Stella's voice from the dining room doorway. She must've been waiting for us.

Tag turns toward her and starts to set me on my feet, but she stops him, bringing her praying hands to her mouth. I can plainly see the tears in her eyes. “Don't put her down yet. I want to remember this.”

He doesn't move a muscle, just stands still for his mother. She stares at us, trying to control her tears, for at least two minutes. Content to remain in Tag's arms forever if need be, I let my head rest on his shoulder. In a featherlight touch, he brushes his lips over my hair. The gesture is intimate and familiar and achingly tender. And it brings a smile to my mouth that I wouldn't even
begin to know
how to
fight. The pleasure comes from somewhere deep inside me, a place where all the hopes I've carried since I was a little girl have lived quietly dormant all these years. Once I was old enough to see what my family expected of me, all my wistful dreams shriveled up and slept.

“You're happy, aren't you?” she asks softly, her eyes silently pleading.

“I am,” Tag replies, his words rumbling through his chest and into my ear.

She closes her eyes in relief, and when she opens them again, they are fixed on me. “You, too?”

I don't hold back. I raise my head and I let my happiness shine from my face. “Very much so.”

At that, she rushes toward us as much as her ailing body will allow and pulls on Tag's arm until he bends enough that we are both within kissing distance. She presses her lips to both of my cheeks then to both of Tag's, her powdery lilac scent enveloping us in a cocoon of maternal love.

“Be good to each other, babies,” she warns mildly, just before my phone rings from my pocket to interrupt.

Tag sets me on my feet and I dig out my cell. “It's probably my parents,” I explain, checking the screen to see whose call I missed.

“Talk to them,” Tag says, giving me a quick peck on my forehead. “I'll catch Mom up and then meet you upstairs. I'll bring our bags up in a few.”

I nod, hitting Dad's number and heading for his office. He answers on the first ring. “Hey, Dad, we're back. I just wanted—”

“Are you alone?” he interjects, his voice dripping with restrained urgency.

“Yes, why?”

“Weatherly, I have to tell you something, but you have to promise me that you won't let on like you know just yet. I need to talk to Donald and see what our options are.”

Donald? Donald is Dad's lawyer.

“Talk to Donald? About what?” There's a pause that really isn't all that long, probably, but my father's behavior has managed to marinate the seconds in trepidation. “Dad, what is it?”

“We had an investigator look into Tag. Just as a precaution.”

My heart sinks. I can feel it thumping in the pit of my stomach, stirring up enough dread to make me queasy.

“And?”

“One of the first things that he found was a tie to a shell corporation. The same corporation that tried to buy Chiara.” I say nothing. My mind is spinning too fast for me to respond to him right away. “We refused, of course, but he must've hired someone who knew his way around business holdings because he somehow managed to discover that neither me or my company holds the majority of the interest in Chiara.”

“Wait. What? You don't hold the . . . Then who does?”

“You do. I put sixty-two percent of the stock in your name when you were just a little girl. When I saw how much you loved it there, I wanted it to be part of my legacy to you, and part of your future. She was to be a gift to you on your wedding day. I didn't mention it because, obviously, you didn't marry someone I approved of, but it seems he already knew. The second offer, that time from another shell company between him and someone named Kiefer Rogan,
was directed to you as the primary shareholder. But still, he didn't give up. He just changed his tactics.”

“Dad, what are you saying?”

“I'm saying that Tag tried to buy Chiara. And I'm saying that when his offer was refused a second time, he didn't give it up. He found a way to get it anyway. By marrying for it.”

My head is pounding so hard I have to sit down and rest my head in my hand. I know what he's getting at. The knowledge of it, the understanding of it is glaring at me, laughing at me, screaming at me like a living presence in the room. A cruel, vicious, inescapable presence that lurks in every dark, dusty corner.

“Are you absolutely certain about this, Dad? I mean, I know you don't approve of Tag, but—”

“Weatherly, I would never make something like this up because I disagree with your choices. You're my daughter,
my child.
I'll do everything in my power to protect you. Even if that means protecting you from yourself.”

“Is that what this is? You think I've made a mistake and you're trying to—”

“I'm not trying to do anything. These are the facts. I'm simply informing you that your husband had an ulterior motive for marrying you and I'll be damned if I'm going to let him worm his way into getting what he wants at the expense of my daughter.”

His voice is angry, but I know it's not all because of me. William O'Neal is likely much more upset that someone has nearly gotten the best of him in a business deal and he never saw it coming.

He didn't see it coming and neither did I.

Ohgod ohgod ohgod! How can this be happening? How can this be true?

I feel like a child who has walked outside her charming woodlands cottage and stumbled onto a bloody battlefield. Inside my bubble there was this surreal sense that all these unexpected things were working out so perfectly. But now I've been pushed out the door by my father, pushed out into a reality that tells me I've been a pawn all along. The realization is beyond devastating.

“Weatherly, listen to me. You
cannot
let on that you know just yet. You have to let me get together with Donald on this. Damage control is imperative.”

I feel sick. Literally sick. My stomach can't decide if it wants to hurt or swim, and my chest feels tight with carefully bottled emotion. And I can hardly think past the black hole of devastation that's sucking at my heart, threatening to pull me into weightless oblivion.

“I won't say anything, Dad. But what am I supposed to do? I mean . . .”

I don't know how to assimilate this information. Yes, my relationship with Tag began as a farce, but somewhere along the way, it became very real to me. I fell in love with him, with the way he looks at me, the way he laughs with me. The way he makes me feel. The way I can see our future in his eyes. A future spent raising our children between the rows of grapes at our favorite place in the world. And now, to find out that he was playing me the whole time just to get his hands on Chiara . . . I don't know what I'm supposed to think, what I'm supposed to do. How I'm supposed to act.

“You keep your chin up. You're an O'Neal. And nobody pulls a stunt like this with an O'Neal. He'll pay, sweetheart. He'll pay.”

Although he can't see it, I give my father a watery smile. While I appreciate him championing me, I don't want revenge. At least not yet. Right now, I just want to crawl into a hole and die. Only I can't. I have a husband who I'm supposed to be making a new life with. Enjoying. Getting to know on a deeper level. That sounded a whole lot different ten minutes ago. Ten minutes ago, it sounded wonderful to spend more time watching Tag tease and care for his mother. Ten minutes ago, it sounded rewarding to see how Tag would introduce me as his wife to his closest friend. Ten minutes ago, it sounded exciting to see how my husband will manage the vineyard during harvest season. Ten minutes ago, I was deliriously happy to be a part of his future. But now . . . now it just sounds heartbreaking. It sounds like a list of things I'll never get to see because he isn't who I thought he was. He was just a dream.

How will I be able to look at him without feeling betrayed? How will I be able to let him touch me without feeling dirty? How will I be able to spend time with him without feeling devastated?

I can't. I can't stop the way I feel. My only option is to try and control the way I express it. I can feel all the awful things; I just can't show them.

For the first time in my life, I have found a use for the cool, emotionless way in which I was raised to comport myself. I'll be involved because I have to be. I'll be detached because I
need
to be. For self-preservation. That's the best that I can hope for.

Tag appears in the doorway, a grin on his face and our luggage
in his hands.
All
of our luggage. I look down at his long fingers, fingers that have teased and thrilled me more times than I can count in the last weeks.

A near-crippling wave of sadness floods me. I try not to let it show on my face, but I'm not quick enough. I wasn't expecting him to show up before I was ready to face him.

I know he knows something's wrong. His expression turns to one of concern and he drops all our bags on the floor and ambles in to me. “What's wrong?” he asks when he kneels down to put himself at eye level.

Fighting back tears, I shake my head and point to the phone. I see his lips thin in anger. That's fine if he thinks my father has said something to bother me. Whatever he thinks, whomever he blames will be a perfect and convenient red herring that I can use until this gets resolved.

“I'll just talk to you later, Dad, okay?” I say into the phone.

There's a moment of silence during which my perceptive father is no doubt deducing that my abrupt ending is a result of unwanted company.

“We'll talk soon,” he says in his clipped way. All business. That's my dad. But after his pause, he adds something else. Something long overdue and as rare as a night-blooming orchid. “Love you, Weathervane.”

Tears flood my eyes. I'm already emotional, but to hear my father say that, something that he hasn't said to me in years, is my undoing.

“Love you, too,” I respond brokenly.

I hear the click of the line just before I let my phone fall from my
ear into my lap so that I can cover my face. I wish Tag would just leave me alone in my grief, but he doesn't. Instead, he scoops me up with a gentleness that burns my poor heart like hot wax to new skin, and carries me silently up the stairs. He doesn't ask questions. He doesn't pry. Obviously, he's drawing his own conclusions about my distress. He just takes me to our room—what used to be only
my
room and has ceased to feel like that since the first time we made love in it—and lays me on the bed. He pushes the hair back from my face and kisses my forehead. And my eyelids. And my nose.

“Whatever he said, I'm sorry. I never wanted our marriage to bring you pain,” he says kindly.

Liar!
I want to shout. But I don't. I let my eyes tear and my chin tremble and I just nod at him, keeping my mouth shut until I can say the word aloud. However long that might be.

With a sigh, I turn onto my side, away from Tag, until I hear him creep quietly out the door and pull it shut behind him.