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“I’m…I…” A crease appeared between her brows as if she were trying hard to locate the information. “I can’t remember.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “That’s all right. We’ll worry about that later.”
The sucking sound of feet hitting wet earth drew Grant’s attention back toward the ditch’s embankment. Dr. Theo Montgomery was making his way down, wearing a pair of pajama bottoms and an open oxford shirt, and holding one of the well-stocked first-aid kits from The Ranch. Red marks, no doubt from Janessa’s flogger, marked his bare chest.
“Status,” Theo said, all business.
“Name is Charli. She just woke up. Breathing is fine. Probably concussed—can remember her name but nothing about what happened. Contusion on her forehead. I haven’t moved her.”
“Good.” Theo moved in when Grant stepped out of the way. He introduced himself with the short, quick style of an ER doctor and started his examination. Charli would be in good hands.
An hour and a half later, the sun was starting to peek over the horizon as an EMT checked Charli over one last time and discussed the situation with Theo. Grant stood off to the side, watching as the beautiful redhead tried to stay focused on the conversation these people were having about her.
“Looks like it’s only a mild concussion. We can bring her back to Graham Regional and keep her for observation,” the EMT told Theo.
“I don’t want to go to the hospital,” Charli said, her voice low and hoarse. “I just want to go home and rest.”
The young guy frowned down at her. “Ma’am, do you have someone at home who can keep an eye on you for the next twenty-four hours?”
She closed her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose, like it hurt to think. “Uh, Tom Brady.”
The EMT’s head tilted. “The quarterback?”
“My cat.”
The ever-serious Theo smiled a bit at that. “Charli, I don’t think your cat can call 911 if you go unconscious again.”
“He’s very smart,” she said, not opening her eyes, but her mouth twitching at the corner. “Could probably…figure it out.”
Her voice was fading a bit, her exhaustion evident.
“No, I think you’d better let them take you in,” Theo said. “You need to have someone with you for a little while. And you can’t drive home right now, anyway. It’s not safe and your car is trashed.”
She raised her gaze then, a flicker of fight-or-flight passing through those green eyes. “Please, don’t make me. I hate hospitals.”
The underlying quiver in her voice hit Grant square in the sternum. He prided himself on being able to read even the subtlest of clues in others. It had served him well when extracting information from people in his days in the CIA and made him quite the formidable dominant now. And what he was sensing was honest fear in this woman. It was more than not wanting the inconvenience of a hospital—she was genuinely freaked out at the thought.
Before he could think it through, he stepped forward. “If the lady doesn’t object, she can stay here for the day. I have unoccupied cabins at my vineyard. She’s more than welcome to use one, and I can check on her every few hours.”
Charli’s attention slid to him, her eyebrow lifting beneath the knot on her forehead. “You have a vineyard?”
He chuckled. No doubt his muddy jeans and plaid work shirt didn’t scream that in addition to his covert side business, he ran one of the most successful wineries in Texas. He held out his hand. “Grant Waters, owner and operator of Water’s Edge Wines.”
She took his offered hand, and Grant felt the slight tremor go through her fingers, caught the quick-as-lightning glance at the open collar of his shirt, the slight hitch in her breathing. Well, well. His body warmed in a wholly inappropriate way at her subtle signs of interest. He quickly dropped the handshake and stepped back. She’s had a blow to the head, horn dog. Reel it in.
Theo crossed his arms and nodded in Grant’s direction. “I can vouch for Mr. Waters. I’m a guest at his…vineyard cabins all the time. You’ll be comfortable and safe here.”
“And I can drive you back to town tomorrow,” Grant offered, trying not to sound as eager as he felt. “I have to go into Dallas for a business meeting anyway.”
She smirked and the faint freckles on her nose twitched. “You’re not some serial killer rapist, right? Because I’ve had a shitty enough night already.”
The unexpected comment made him laugh. No, he wasn’t a serial killer rapist. But the way she bit her lip after making that comment had his less-than-pure thoughts driving up to an NC-17 rating.
“Nope. Just a rancher and winemaker.” And owner of the most elite BDSM resort this side of the Mason-Dixon. But that wasn’t something she needed to know about him.
At least not while she was concussed.
But later…well, later was ripe with possibilities.
He’d always had a thing for freckles.
TWO (#ulink_f23c0706-934c-56a3-9d0f-b7591c1c52f6)
In the depths of Charli’s sleep she felt warmth against her skin, a gentle caress, but it took her a few minutes to clear the cotton in her brain and fully awaken. When she finally opened her eyes, she was graced with the true reason Wranglers were invented bending over the small dresser on the far side of the bedroom. The soft, well-worn denim molded over Grant’s backside as if the material was simply another layer of his skin.
Knowing he hadn’t noticed she was awake yet, she took the moment to drink him in. And, my, what a big gulp he was. Six-six at least, maybe six-seven. Basketball height with a baseball player’s body and the corded forearm muscles of someone who came by their strength the old-fashioned way. She felt the urge to have his hand against hers again—that big paw closing over her smaller one. His handshake had made her feel…dainty and delicate—something she damn sure never felt around most anyone.
He set down a plate of sandwiches and peeked over his shoulder, those killer blue eyes crinkling a bit at the corners when he noticed her looking back at him. “Well, look who’s awake. I wasn’t sure if you were going to crack an eye open before the sun went down.”
She pushed up on her elbows, fighting past the slight wave of nausea the movement caused. “Have I been sleeping long?”
“It’s almost six,” he said, pushing an escaped lock of his wavy dark hair off his forehead. “I didn’t want to wake you, but Doc said to check you every few hours by touching your arm to see if you moved. Plus, I thought you might be hungry.”
So he had touched her. Even knowing that sent rosy warmth coursing through her veins, a warmth that seemed to be zeroing in on the juncture between her thighs. She shifted her weight in the bed, suddenly all too aware that she was only wearing panties and her T-shirt beneath the blanket. She tried, unsuccessfully, to fight off the blush that rose in her cheeks.
God, what was wrong with her? She’d just been in an accident and all she could focus on was the way this man got her hormones hopping. Maybe she’d done damage to her brain with the accident and had reverted to crushing on someone like a damn teenager. She should take his picture and hang it on her wall so she could draw hearts on it.
“I’m not sure I should eat. I still feel kind of queasy.”
“Yeah, you’re pale.” He grabbed a few saltines off the plate and handed them to her. “Maybe try some crackers first. Might help to put something dry in your belly.”
“Thanks.” She didn’t bother telling him she always looked pale—compliments of her mother’s Irish genes, the only thing her mother had bothered to give her. She bit into one of the crackers and it crumbled, covering her and the bedcovers with crumbs. “Oops, sorry. Guess that’s why crackers in bed are a bad idea.”
He laughed, a deep tenor of a chuckle. “I promise I won’t kick you out of my bed for that.”
Her chewing paused, and a hot shiver went through her, drawing her nipples tight against her T-shirt. She couldn’t tell if Mr. Handsome Cowboy had intended that to come across as flirty as it sounded; his expression gave no indication either way. But her body sure wanted to take the comment down a certain path.
She almost laughed at the thought. Who was she kidding? Guys who looked like him didn’t flirt with girls like her—especially considering she probably looked like a midnight mug shot with a lump on her head, her hair in a tangle, and no makeup—not that she ever bothered to wear makeup on a normal day anyway.
She needed to get her concussed head out of lusty la-la land and focus on getting back home. She had work to do. “What time do you plan to head to Dallas tomorrow?”
He leaned back against the dresser, crossing his ankles, and creating a nice frame for the healthy bulge in his jeans. His gaze flicked down briefly, no doubt noticing the now-hard points beneath her shirt. He wet his lips. “My appointment isn’t until two, but I reckon we can head out a bit earlier so we can get you home.”
She swallowed past the dryness in her throat, not sure if it was the saltines or the view making her mouth so arid. “Sounds good. I really appreciate this. I’ll pay you whatever the fee for the cabin would’ve been for the night.”
“You won’t,” he said with the simple authority of someone used to getting no argument. “You’re my guest. Your money’s no good here.”
She sat up straighter, his tone pushing her least favorite button. “Then I’ll pay for the gas to get back to Dallas.”
He shoved off the dresser, rising to his full height, a smirk hiding beneath his five o’clock shadow. “And my grandmother would flip in her grave. Women in my world don’t pay for anything.”
Her hackles rose. “Well, now wa—”
He took her hand and rubbed a thumb across the top of it, his touch incinerating the thoughts in her brain. “You’ve had a rough twenty-four hours. I don’t need your money. And you don’t owe me anything. Though I do have one small request, Ms….”
“Beaumonde.”
“Beau— Wait a second,” he said, cutting off whatever he’d been planning to ask her and dropping her hand like she’d become contagious. “Do you know Max Beaumonde?”
She frowned, trying to pull herself from the hypnotic state his touch had induced. “Yes. He’s my older brother.”
Grant tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling. “Ah, hell. Of course he is.”
Charli had no idea if her head injury was messing with her focus, but she had trouble following the shift in Grant’s demeanor and the conversation. “You know him?”
Grant sniffed. “Yeah, you could say that. He’s got a bullet lodged in his shoulder that was meant for me.”
Charli stared at him, the words taking a few moments to register. “You’re Ice?”
A dark cloud seemed to cross over Grant’s face. “Was. Gotta love those army nicknames.”
Her brother had told her stories about his army buddy, Ice. Had told her the guy had gotten his name because nothing seemed to get to him or scare him. But when one of their missions had gone awry, Max had ended up being the one to protect Ice from a fatal shot. Her brother had gotten a medal for it, but no one in her family had ever met the guy Max had saved.
“Wow, Max will be thrilled to know you’re only a state away. He lives in Baton Rouge.”
Grant went to the tray of food, turning his back to her. He busied himself pouring a bottle of water into a glass. “He knows where I am. We’ve kept in touch. He’s mentioned he had a sister a few times, but I assumed you were in Louisiana with the rest of his family.”
The air in the room had changed directions—awkwardness replacing the electricity she’d felt moments before when he’d held her hand. She cleared her throat. “Uh, you were saying you had a request for me?”
He headed back her way and set the glass of water on the bedside table. “Never mind. Wasn’t important. Now you rest up, and I’ll check on you later tonight. My cell number is next to the phone if you need anything.”
What she needed was him touching her again, but apparently that buzz of sexual energy had only been one-sided.
“Grant?”
He turned around in the doorway. “Yes, ma’am?”
“If you do talk to my brother anytime soon, don’t mention this, okay? His heart’s in the right place, but he’s a little…overprotective.” And bossy and overbearing. And thinks she can’t handle the big, bad city alone.
“Yeah, sure, no problem.” Grant’s gaze traced down the length of her, lines of strain around his mouth. She thought she heard him mutter—who could blame him?—but he walked out before she could ask.
Grant shifted on the too-short couch, trying to find a comfortable position, but only ended up twisting his blanket into a knot around his thighs. With a groan, he yanked off the blanket and sat up. The clock had already crossed over to four a.m., so falling asleep had sort of lost its point anyway. He rolled his shoulders, trying to coax out the tension that had embedded there the moment he’d caught Charli looking at him with interest in her eyes.
Charli-freaking-Beaumonde. He’d been on the verge of asking her out—a stupid move in the first place because he didn’t mess with women who weren’t part of the scene. That was setting up disaster from step one. Nothing like springing on a vanilla person—Hey, I’m a dominant and a sexual sadist. Oh, and I run a BDSM resort where I have submissives offering themselves to me daily. Yeah, fun conversation.
But it would’ve been even worse if he had found out afterward that she was Max’s sister. The guy had saved Grant’s life and was a real friend—even if they didn’t talk often these days. And Grant knew that Max’s protective streak ran deep enough to rival his own.
That killer protective instinct was why Max had been there the day Grant had ended up walking right into a trap. Grant had wandered from camp, needing to be alone after realizing it was the one-year anniversary of something he couldn’t bear to remember but couldn’t ever forget. He’d been numb and honestly not caring if he lived or died—but Max had followed. Had watched Grant’s back and, ultimately, had jumped in front of him when Grant had found himself on the bad end of an enemy soldier’s gun.
Max had risked his life without hesitation to protect him. So Grant could only imagine how protective and not-cool-with-it Max would be if Grant had made a move on his baby sister.
No, Grant had to do the right thing. Even if that meant he’d gone to bed with a headache and a case of blue balls. He just needed to get Charli back to her own place and out of his line of sight. Then he needed to get over his picky tendencies and take up one of the submissives at The Ranch on her offer and indulge his starved libido.
He’d let himself go too long and had gotten to the point where he wasn’t thinking straight—where he’d actually considered asking a girl on a date.
He didn’t do dating. Or relationships. Or vanilla. What exactly had he thought he would do with a girl like Charli? Take her out for a movie and then what? The minute she found out how dark his cowboy hat could get, she’d hightail it like a jackrabbit running from a bobcat.
A muffled cry filtered through the quiet of the cabin, breaking Grant from his thoughts. In an instant, he was on his feet and heading to Charli’s closed bedroom door. He’d checked her an hour or so before and she’d been in a sound sleep, but another whimper of distress had him rapping sharply on the door. “Charli, you okay?”
When she didn’t answer, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. Charli was on her side, sheets tangled around her and one long leg exposed from ankle to hip. Resisting the urge to stare, he dragged his attention upward and crouched next to the side of the bed. Sweat soaked her hair, plastering strands to her forehead and the swollen knot.
He laid a hand on her shoulder to give her a gentle shake. “Charli, wake up, darlin’.”
She moaned again, and her face twisted into a scowl. “No, stop, go around…”
But he could tell she wasn’t talking to him. Some nightmare had taken hold. He jostled her a bit harder, calling her name. At that, she screamed and launched herself upward, knocking her head into his before he had the chance to back off.
Her eyes snapped open, wide with panic as she scanned the room.
“Shh, Charli. You’re okay,” he said, rubbing his own forehead. “You were having a bad dream.”
She glanced over at him, blinked. The wildness in her eyes seemed to dissipate as she stared at him. “Grant?”
“The very one.”
“Ow.” She put her hand to her head, and he tried not to notice that she’d sweated right through the white T-shirt he’d let her borrow. The dark shadows of her nipples peeked through, sending a rush of his blood decidedly south. He forced his gaze upward. He couldn’t get a hard-on right now. He was already enough of an asshole for thinking about her that way when she’d clearly woken up from a nightmare.
He cleared his throat. “You all right?”
“Yes. No.” She shook her head slightly, like she was still trying to clear the cobwebs. “I think my memory is coming back.”
“About the accident?”
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, either unconcerned or unaware that she was only in a T-shirt and what looked to be grandma-sized panties. “I need to go home.”
“Whoa,” he said, stepping closer. “What’s wrong? What do you remember?”
“I don’t want to rehash it. I just—” She glanced down at her state of undress and even in the predawn light he could see her cheeks darken. “Shit. Where are my pants?”
“I washed everything and hung your stuff up in the bathroom.”
She hurried past him, a bit unsteady on her feet, and went into the bathroom. The sink turned on and off. When she stepped out again, she had her jeans and her own shirt back on and had twisted her long locks into some kind of makeshift bun. “Since we’re both up anyway, do you mind taking me now?”
“I don’t mind, but I’d sure like to know why you’re moving so fast all of a sudden. Tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s not important,” she said, grabbing her purse.
“The hell it isn’t.” He crossed his arms over his chest, squaring off with her. Her agitation wasn’t simply a need to get home. She’d remembered something bad. He could almost taste her fear, like the air had been flavored with it. “Take a breath. I’ll take you home. But tell me what’s got you scared.”
