One Night Scandal

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The woman who’d so thoroughly captivated Brock last night was hiding something, and he was determined to find out what. The family suspected the blackmailer might be working on the film or have a close connection to someone who did. Could Hannah Ryder be capable of blackmail? Anger flared at the thought she might have used sex to get closer to him. He was certain the attraction was real, but the possibility of deception rankled.

He was so caught up in those dark thoughts he didn’t hear anyone approach him as he held the side door open for a woman pushing a catering cart of fruit, breakfast pastries and coffee.

“Brock.”

The sound of Hannah’s voice behind him sent a spike of unwanted heat up his spine. He really needed to get his attraction to her under control until he figured out where she stood in this mess with his family.

Pivoting on his boot heel, he faced her.

She was even lovelier than he remembered. Her hair was pinned up on either side, the back falling in curls that struck him as a vaguely historical style—maybe because the curls were so carefully molded. She wore a frontier-woman kind of gown, too. It was cream-colored and dotted with tiny flowers. The bodice shaped her torso in an exaggerated manner that looked sort of painful—cinching her waist and lifting her breasts in a way guaranteed to draw the eye. The full skirt of her dress would have reached the floor if she didn’t have the fabric tucked into the waist, probably to keep it clean when she wasn’t filming.

Even her black lace-up boots with tiny heels were from another era.

He battled the urge to touch her. To greet her with a kiss, or a whispered word about how beautiful she looked. Instead, he needed to come straight to the point. He was running out of time to help his family. He needed to know why his name had upset this West Coast actress who shouldn’t care about his identity one way or the other.

“Hello, Hannah.” His nod was as terse as his tone, but it couldn’t be helped. “We said we’d talk more today. Can we go somewhere to speak privately?”

“My next scene is supposed to start filming soon.” She seemed different. More guarded.

Which was to be expected, he supposed, even if she didn’t have anything to do with the blackmail scheme. He ground his teeth against the frustration of the past few weeks. He was a horse breeder and trainer, damn it. Not a sleuth.

“I need to ask you about last night,” he pressed, unwilling to let it go. He simply lowered his voice more and drew her into a dark corner of the barn, between the side door and the open front doors. “About the way you reacted when I told you my name.”

There it was.

A tiny flinch. A slight flare of her nostrils.

He’d been with a woman who kept secrets before. He recognized the signs, and it was an experience he refused to repeat.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied smoothly enough, but the words didn’t erase that moment of honest response he’d seen on her face.

“Yes, you do.” He wasn’t going to drop it. And he wasn’t going to let her off the hook. “My family is going through hell right now, Hannah, and if you know something about that—about the threats leveled against the McNeills—”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She shook her head, the curls brushing her shoulders, catching on the lace detail of her sleeve. Her face paled. “What threats?”

Behind him, another dolly rumbled past with electronic equipment, but with the shouting and noise made by the crew, he wasn’t worried about being overheard.

He plowed ahead. “Someone has been threatening my family. Time is running out for me to figure out who’s behind those threats.” He stepped closer to her, sensing movement behind him as the set workers adjusted lights overhead. “We’re being blackmailed—”

His speech wavered, then halted, as something heavy cracked the back of his skull. He had a flash of awareness that he was falling. A moment to see panic on Hannah’s lovely face before...

The world went black.

* * *

“Brock!” Hannah watched in horror as the big, strong man beside her crumpled to the ground.

It took her a moment to process what had happened. One of the overhead lights had broken free of the grid, hitting the back of Brock’s head. The light lay smashed on the floor behind him, the heavy black housing bent on one side. Already, people were shouting, grips and gaffers scrambling to secure the grid and clear the set.

“Brock?” Hannah sank to her knees beside the fallen rancher, her fingers tentative as she touched his shoulder, fear icing her insides. “Are you all right?”

He was breathing, but he remained stone-still.

Two production assistants were suddenly beside her, leaning over him, informing her not to move him.

Because she was flustered and scared, it took her a moment to process why. He had a head injury. He could have a concussion or much worse. A spinal injury would be...

Oh, God. She laid her hand over his, taking his fingers—careful not to move his arm—and squeezing them gently.

“Call 911!” she shouted, even as one of the wardrobe assistants flashed a thumbs-up sign as she spoke into her phone.

Someone was already taking care of that.

The minutes stretched out endlessly as they waited for an ambulance. In the background, Hannah heard the second director yelling at the production staff while someone swept up broken glass. Hannah debated how to reach Brock’s family to let someone know what had happened, but she couldn’t seem to let go of his hand.

He’d told her someone was threatening his relatives. Blackmailing them. He’d been upset about it—to the point there was even suspicion of her in his eyes—before that light had hit him. Did he suspect her of blackmail?

The thought chilled her even more.

Had he told his family about them? About his night with her or the way she’d reacted when he mentioned the McNeill name? What if they blamed her for the accident?

None of it should matter now when Brock was hurt. But she couldn’t afford to get caught up in a scandal that had nothing to do with her. Brock might suspect her of something, but she knew she wasn’t a blackmailer. She only wanted evidence against Antonio Ventura, but she couldn’t possibly share her secret agenda with his family. Not even to clear her name, if it came down to that.

In the distance, she heard the wail of a siren. The ambulance was getting closer.

Relieved that help was on the way, she let one of the director’s assistants know that she was going to follow the ambulance to the hospital. Because no matter how awkward things had gotten between her and Brock, this was still the man who had kissed her senseless the night before. The man who’d publicly told off Antonio.

She needed to be there for him until someone from his family arrived.

“You’re going to be fine,” she assured him even though he couldn’t hear her. She stroked her free hand over the subtle bristle of his jaw. “The ambulance is almost here.”

The siren grew louder. Nearby, the production team cleared a path between the doors and Brock, moving aside equipment.

Hannah told herself she should step back out of the way, too. But before she could, she felt Brock stirring.

Relief rushed through her.

“He’s waking up!” she shouted to no one in particular, her eyes remaining on him. “He’s coming out of it.”

She squeezed his hand tighter, watched as he lifted his head ever so slightly. Then, as if he found it too heavy, he rested his head back on the ground, but blinked his eyes open and stared up at her.

“Are you okay?” she asked him, tilting her head to meet his gaze. “It’s probably better if you don’t move just yet.”

She searched his face, looking for clues to any sign of discomfort or injury. Needing him to be okay.

Brock frowned, a scowl wrinkling his forehead as he studied her. When he spoke, his voice was gravelly and deep, his tone oddly distant.

“Who are you?” he asked, his blue eyes never wavering from her face. “Do I know you?”

Four (#ubdd54d39-9d0e-591e-8751-1677370f3200)

Was he serious?

Vaguely, she became aware of movement around her, the EMS crew laying a stretcher next to him before gently shuffling her aside to assess Brock’s condition.

Did Brock really not remember her?

She squeezed her temples, trying to figure out what that meant. Because while she’d started this day wishing she could have a chance at a do-over with Brock, she had never wanted him to be hurt.

Tension balled tight in her stomach as the EMS workers took his vitals and asked him questions, gathering information about the blow to his head. Hannah paced circles nearby, willing herself to think. To figure out what it meant that Brock didn’t recognize her.

He’d stared at her as if she was a total stranger. As if they hadn’t been naked together less than twenty-four hours ago.

Her gaze skittered toward him, her heart rate jumping at the sight of him. She couldn’t imagine forgetting their time together. Forgetting him. She watched as he tried to wave off the woman taking his blood pressure. Brock reached for his phone, insisting he would call his own physician.

A good sign, right? Except his movements seemed a bit stilted. And when the other EMS worker asked him what day it was, Brock seemed confused.

Worry twisted inside Hannah. For a moment, she considered walking away, before his memory returned. No one would be the wiser that she’d bailed on him.

Except she wasn’t that kind of woman. Besides, she should stay close to Brock in case he knew more about Antonio Ventura. Hannah’s mission to help her sister came first.

If Brock had forgotten about his night with Hannah, maybe she didn’t need to remind him of how far things had gone between them. She could have her chance at a do-over, only this time, she’d be his friend and not his lover.

There would be no expectation of more. No suspicions about why she’d backed away from a relationship so fast. And if a little voice inside her head warned her that it wasn’t going to be easy to pretend she wasn’t attracted to him?

She’d simply have to ignore it, along with the man’s red-hot appeal.

* * *

Brock just lay in a hospital bed, skull throbbing, hypoallergenic pillowcase crinkling as he shifted. Some of the pain he attributed to the knot on the back of his head. But the bigger ache came from not knowing how he landed in Cheyenne Regional Medical Center.

There’d been other times in the past he’d woken up to an EMS worker hovering over him. During his rodeo years, he’d broken enough bones and taken enough blows to the head that ER trips had been regular occurrences.

But in the past, he always remembered the fall.

Today? He didn’t have a clue what had happened to him. And it didn’t take a medical genius to know something was really wrong, considering all the docs who’d come through his exam room to ask him questions and frown over his chart. Where was his family? Not that he expected his older brothers to come running when he fell off a bull. Or his father either, for that matter. But his half sisters normally showed up for him. Maisie, Madeline and Scarlett had always been good to him.

This time, Maisie and Madeline had both texted him their regrets that they couldn’t be there because they needed to be by their mother’s side before “the scandal broke.” Whatever that meant. Scarlett’s response was even more puzzling, since she said Cheyenne was too far to drive, but she hoped he felt better soon.

Where in the hell was his youngest sister if not in Cheyenne? He wanted to look back over his texting history—to see if he could make sense of his world again, but he was having the damnedest time operating the cell phone, which was a different model than he remembered.

He stabbed at the touch screen, wondering where the home button had disappeared to.

The door to his room opened and one of his attending physicians entered—a tall, genial guy with a thick Eastern European accent. Brock slid his phone onto the bedside table, anxious to be released so he could get home and wait for his head to clear. The whole world felt off-kilter, but if there was some kind of scandal brewing that could hurt his family, Brock needed to be with his brothers and sisters, not sitting in a hospital bed.

Brock straightened, sliding his feet to the floor.

“Whoa, Mr. McNeill.” Dr. Kreshnik hurried closer, his clipboard clattering to the tile as he reached for Brock’s arm to steady him. “You’ve had head trauma. We don’t want you moving too quickly on your own.”

“I’m fine,” Brock protested, knowing he would feel better at home. “I don’t know who decided I needed the ER visit, but I’m definitely ready to be discharged.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mr. McNeill.” The physician frowned as he retrieved the chart from the floor. “We want to evaluate you further.”

“I’ve been here for five hours.” Time might be fuzzy for him, but he’d messaged his sisters from the ambulance so he knew he’d been at the hospital that long. The room spun a bit, but then stopped. He was still wearing his street clothes and they’d already done a CT scan. He could have the results sent to his specialist.

“You’re exhibiting signs of amnesia...” The doctor continued speaking, rattling off words like “short-term episode” and “more tests.”

But Brock’s brain stuck on that word. Amnesia.

Was that why he couldn’t recall what was going on in his family? Why he didn’t remember the accident that brought him in here? But he knew his own name. Could remember his friends. His family.

His head throbbed harder.

While the medical expert spouted something about care plans, a soft knock sounded on the exam room door. One of his sisters, maybe?

“Come in,” Brock called, needing an ally to bust him out of the facility.

But the woman who stepped into the room juggling two steaming foam cups wasn’t a sister. And he thanked his lucky stars for that.

Her generous curves and platinum waves were the stuff fantasies were made of, although her outfit made her look like she’d just stepped off the prairie. Her long, flower-dotted skirt was something from another era and modest in the extreme. But the shirt she wore with it was another matter altogether, the stiff fabric as tight as a corset, nipping her waist and drawing the eye upward to her breasts.