Bidding on Brooks: The Winslow Brothers #1 (24 page)

“I love you, too,” he whispered, overcome with the sheer force of his love for her.

She held out her free hand, which trembled, and said, “Yes.”

“Yes?” he gasped.

“Yes,” she said, the sound soft and joyful, and his heart thundered with victory as he tore the ring from its little velvet bed and slipped it on her finger.

“You’re going to marry me,” he said, gathering her into his arms and standing up. He looked down at her lovely, upturned face, so damned grateful for this woman and the future she’d just promised him. “I swear you won’t regret it, Skye. I may not be the man of your dreams anymore, but I’m going to try like hell to make your dreams come true.”

***

And in his eyes, Skye saw the truth.

She wasn’t at all like her mother. She was loved and respected. Protected, desired, and wanted. She was worth fighting for and worth staying for, and she’d never be left behind.

Relaxing into the safe in the harbor of Brooks Winslow’s strong arms, she remembered the little girl who’d stood on the dock of her father’s marina in the setting sun and watched him sail away, whispering just loud enough for the wind and the water to hear,
I’m gonna marry you someday.

Drawing back just enough to look into his beloved eyes, she grinned at him, “You already have, Brooks. You already have.”

Two months later

With her bare feet propped up on the metal deck railing, Skye Sorenson looked out over the golden sand of La Jolla to the glistening blue Pacific. She hadn’t expected to love San Diego quite so much, and she had to admit that she was a little sad that she and Brooks would be  moving back to Havre de Grace on Sunday. It had been a heavenly eight weeks at their little villa by the sea, helping Brooks train the Pacific Pointe Club sailing team during the day and having him to herself every night.

He’d been right, she thought, slicing another piece of apple and slipping it between her teeth. The scandal about her mother had died down quickly after the press had gotten a look at her ring; it had taken all the wind out of their sails, and Brooks’ lawyer had taken care of any further character assassination of his future wife. Skye Sorenson—
almost
—Winslow was off-limits; either that, or the press seemed to recognize that there was simply no dirt to dig up on Skye and as quickly as her name had appeared, it disappeared.

As for her mother…there was some speculation about Brooks meeting Skye through her mother (ridiculous) or using her services at one time (again, ludicrous.) But when they failed to find any record of Brooks spending time in Los Angeles over the last ten years, that rumor faded quickly, too.

Because no escort service came forward to claim an association with Brooks, Guy Hunter’s entire article hinged on the comments of a jealous ex-boyfriend and two cabbies, one of whom had been arrested for DUI twice and couldn’t seem to remember at which marina he’d dropped off and picked up his fare.

Patrick, who had sent Skye an apologetic text she hadn’t answered, was probably somewhere near California now. She looked out at the water. She didn’t know. She didn’t care. She’d never forgive him for the information he shared with Guy Hunter, though she grudgingly understood that it was his feeling of rejection that had probably goaded him into it. Perhaps he’d drop off Inga in Sweden, she mused…and hopefully he’d decide to stay there for good.

It probably helped that they’d left the east coast within a few days of the story breaking, with her father’s somewhat dubious blessing.

He’d pulled her aside once she and Brooks returned to Maryland together.

“You’re engaged to him? Are you crazy, Skye? How could you get engaged to him now that you know who he is?”

Feathers soundly ruffled, she’d looked at her father squarely and answered, “I got engaged to him because I know
exactly
who he is. You can generalize him into someone who spent time with escorts now and then, but he’s more than that. Much more than that, Dad, and you know it. He had his reasons…and those reasons are… well, they’re not a part of him anymore. But I am.” She’d softened her voice and given her father a small grin. “And besides, I’m in love with him.”

“I never had a problem with Brooks Winslow,” her father had answered. “Except for the girls. He’s a damn good sailor, pays his bill on time, and he’s brought a lot of business to this marina over the years. But marriage, Skye? Are you sure?”

She’d caught sight of Brooks, stepping onto the dock after checking on the Prim, his dark hair thick and shiny in the late-afternoon sun. The tan, muscular arms that held her so gently, so tenderly, flexed as he checked the bow line. Those strong arms had pulled her out of black water and delivered her to safety. They were going to hold her children one day. They were going to hold her when she was old and gray.

“I’m sure, Pop,” she’d whispered, her heart full and certain. “Can you manage without me for a few weeks?”

“If you’re happy, I’m happy, Skye. I can manage.”

Her father’s business hadn’t been affected at all by the article, and with no one to interview or harass—and much more interesting people in the world to pursue than an ex-Olympian and his mechanic girlfriend who were planning a quiet wedding sometime soon—the story faded almost entirely.

Almost
, because Skye had had to reconcile her own feelings about Brooks’ anonymous lovers, which—despite her deep feelings for him—hadn’t happened overnight. It had taken at least
five or six
nights, all spent with his body worshipping hers, his vows of love and fidelity unceasing, his plans for their future bright and not the least bit overwhelming, because he would be standing right beside her, her partner and lover, every step of the way. She understood how lonely he had been, because she’d been lonely too. And she had also learned this: finding the right person didn’t mean finding a perfect person. Brooks had made mistakes, and she had too. And they’d make ten dozen more before their life together was through. And that was okay. That was just fine. That was a life she—

“You ready, skip?”

She turned to find Brooks standing just inside the sliding glass doorway between the living room and outdoor porch, his hair wet and skin smooth after a shave and shower. He’d gotten tanner during their time in California, and his green eyes sparkled as he smiled down at her.

“If we hurry, we can catch the sunset,” she said, grinning at him as she set her apple and knife on the table beside her.

“My woman loves a sunset,” he said, closing the door and offering her his hand.

She took it, standing up on bare tiptoes to press her lips to his as he pulled her against his chest. “That’s not all she loves.”

He laced his fingers through hers, leading her down the steps to the warm sand and asked, “How’d I get so lucky anyway?”

“You were in a jam. And I was your friend. And you asked me to bid on you.”

“What a story,” he said, squeezing her fingers.

“If we ever write our story,” she said, keeping her voice as calm and level as she could, “let’s call it ‘Bidding on Brooks,’ okay?”

He stopped walking, chuckling softly as he pulled her back against his chest and rested his chin on her head. His arms held her tightly, keeping her warm as the sun neared the horizon and they watched it sink slowly, closer and closer to the sea.

“Who’d want to read our story, anyway?” he whispered softly into her ear, biting the lobe in a way that made her lean her neck to the side, wanting more. Always wanting more.

Skye reached for his hands and slid them just a few inches lower, and then laced her fingers together, resting them over his. “Our daughter…or son.”

It took him a second before he gasped next to her ear and she beamed, giggling softly—as softly as she could—so she’d still hear the hiss when the sun hit the water. Once it was gone, she turned in his arms, looking up at him expectantly. His hands reached for her cheeks, cupping her face so tenderly, it made her want to weep.

“I’m only eight weeks along,” she said, smiling up at him. “Remember that morning in Myrtle Beach?”

He nodded, searching her face with such pure and undiluted love, she felt a tear slip down her cheek.

“I thought I would die alone. But you’ve given me everything. You. Your heart. Your love.” His eyes glistened with tears, dropping briefly to her still-flat belly, before finding her eyes again. “A family.”

She smiled at him. “
Our
family.”

“
Our
family,” he repeated softly, “with a mother who stays…”

“…and a father who lives.”

He took a deep breath and nodded, his eyes brimming and glistening, full of gratitude and wonder.

“A father,” he murmured, and then, in a stronger voice, “I’m going to be a father!”

Joyful laughter erupted from his throat as he tightened his arms around her, swinging her around and around on the sand.

And Skye Sorenson—
very, very soon to be—
Skye Winslow, laughed joyfully right along with him.

Because this is the life she’d longed for, and it had suddenly and gloriously arrived—with full sails and gentle lulls, sunny skies and flash storms, blue seas and black waves…the wind and the water running through both their veins and binding them together forever.

THE END

Chapter 1

Three years ago

“Oh, my dearest darling…when I say that I love you with all my heart, I mean that my heart is a canyon, a cavern, with hidden recesses, perilous cracks and dark corners. And yet somehow, your love, like the sweetest and brightest light, has found every secret part of me and claimed them all as your own. Yes, my heart is belongs to you, my darling, but only because I have given it to you freely—shredded, doubting and hard, though it was—it comes to you warm and vibrant, made whole by the force of your love, the warmth of your light.”

Preston Winslow shifted uncomfortably in the narrow, stiff theater seat, unable to look away from the young woman on stage who was over-acting like a Tony depended on it. Her costume was a white, lace, high-necked Victorian dress that he suspected was quite a bit tighter over her voluptuous breasts than Victoria, herself, would have approved. Every time the actress gasped dramatically for breath, her flesh pushed provocatively against the straining fabric. After almost two hours of watching her breasts instead of this godawful play, Preston’s seat wasn’t the only thing that felt uncomfortably stiff.

“I have used you and abused you, been fickle and frivolous and flighty. But, now I know, my darling. Now I see. It was—ever and always—you! Pray, tell me that I’ve still a chance to win your heart, sweet Cyril. Tell me that I haven’t lost my heart’s dearest wish: another chance to deserve your love!”

Cyril, who was doing as poor a job of ignoring, um—he looked at his program again—
Elise Klassan’s
knockers as Preston, lifted his glance quickly and focused on her face.

“My dear Matilda…” he began, straightening his glasses and tuxedo bow tie. Preston really couldn’t care less if Cyril and Matilda lived happily ever after, so it was strange that he held his breath as he waited for Cyril to give her his answer. “If you were the last woman on earth, I could not be troubled to give you the time of day.”

Cyril took one last lascivious glance at Matilda’s rack, then turned on his heel and exited to stage right. Good riddance. Any man who’d give up a chance to fall asleep beside those epic ta-tas—even in a high-necked Victorian nightdress—was a complete moron.

Preston slid his eyes back to Elise Klassan—um,
Matilda,
and sat up, sliding, almost unconsciously, to the edge of his seat.

Her face.

Oh, God, her face.

It was like watching a silent, slow-motion movie of a derelict building filled with dynamite—one moment it’s standing upright. Then the slow collapse, the dusty-clouded demolition, the complete destruction. And suddenly it didn’t matter that the play had been terribly-written and he’d been dragged to it by his on-again, off-again girlfriend, Beth, who snored lightly beside him. Preston sat helplessly, staring at Elise Klassan’s desperation with a sympathy that felt profoundly…real.

Her face crumpled in agony, but not all at once. First blank, as though processing Cyril’s rejection, her brows furrowed a little and he saw her lip quiver. Her eyes fluttered, like they were trying to stay open, then she closed them tightly, as though the mere action of keeping them open was too painful to bear. Her hand rose slowly to her throat, flattening above her heaving chest, and the theater was so silent, he could hear his sharp gasp as a tear rolled down her cheek.

“Cyril,” she murmured in a lost, broken voice that sounded nothing like Matilda, and Preston’s lips parted, moved by her terrible sorrow.

She took a deep, jagged breath, her body swaying listlessly for a second before collapsing to the stage with one hand still on her chest and the other flung over her head.

Preston stared at her for a long moment, then lifted his eyes, his gaze darting around the stage to see if someone was coming—if stupid, pretentious Cyril was coming back to tell her that it wasn’t too late and he was a jackass for letting her go. But no one came. She just…lay there. Unmoving. Dead? Oh, God, was she dead? Preston’s heart clutched as the lights faded slowly to black and the curtain silently closed. He stared at the slightly rippling red, velvet, wondering when they were going to re-open it, wondering when he was going to have one last glimpse at Elise Klassan’s lovely smile as she took her bow.

He waited, staring, breathless, but nothing happened.

Finally, the house lights came up and there was a weak smattering of applause from behind him, filling the small theater with lackluster approval, and the fifty or so patrons in attendance stood up, mumbling about the show, shrugging into their coats and shuffling from their seats to the aisles.

Beth started beside him, yawning loudly and sitting up. “It’s over?”

Her voice jerked Preston’s eyes away from the stage and he stared at her like she’d appeared from out of nowhere.

“Thank God,” she sighed, plucking her tan pashmina wrap from the back of her seat and wrapping it around her shoulders. “Sorry, Pres. I had no idea it would be so…
bad
.”

He had an overwhelming urge to tell Beth that it
wasn’t
so bad—even though, by and large, it
was
—because he’d been riveted by Elise Klassan, even when she was overacting. He shifted his eyes back up to the stage, focused on the curtain, as if the very force of his longing to see Elise Klassan one more time would be enough to make the edges suddenly part.

“Pres?” nudged Beth, her hand falling lightly over his and squeezing. “Ready to go?”

“Uh…yeah,” he murmured, finally pulling his gaze away from the stage and looking at his date. “Why didn’t they bow?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t actors and actresses usually take a bow after the play’s over?” he asked, gesturing at the stage with annoyance.

Beth raised an eyebrow, then made a big show of looking around the almost-empty off-off-Broadway theater, before catching Preston’s eyes again. “Umm….not if there’s no one to applaud.”

Giving one last troubled glance at the curtain, Preston stood up, pursing his lips. “Well, it doesn’t feel like a show without that part.”

“I doubt it’ll be around for much longer anyway,” she said dismissively, taking her bag from the floor by her seat and standing up. “Really awful.”

“Not
really
awful,” said Preston thoughtfully.

The material was admittedly bad, but Elise Klassan had done her best and given a performance that was sticking with him—almost like it had hitched a ride on his back and was following him up the aisle and out of the theater. There was something about her. Something…well, he didn’t know. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her either.

As they neared the exit, Preston was surprised to find one last audience member still sitting in his seat, his expression a mirror of the way Preston felt—staring at the stage thoughtfully, as though waiting for more—and Preston paused for a moment.

“I’m going to freshen up. Meet you in the lobby?” asked Beth. She kissed his cheek and made her way out the theater door.

The man in the last row looked up at Preston. “Is she dead?”

“Excuse me?”

“Matilda. Is she dead?”

Preston chuckled, but the man didn’t.

“I don’t know,” he replied softly.

“What did you think?” asked the man.

“Not good.”

“Hmm. And yet you were the last to leave,” observed the man.

“Actually,” said Preston, looking down at him, “you’re the only one still sitting.”

“What was ‘not good’? The play itself?”

Preston nodded.

“What about the actors?” The man opened his program. “Mark, uh, Smithson. He played Cyril.”

Preston shrugged non-committally. He didn’t have a good opinion about Mark Smithson’s performance and he wasn’t going to make one up for the sake of conversation.

“Paige Rafferty?” He glanced down at the program again. “She played Constance.”

Preston looked out the small window in the door to the lobby, but Beth hadn’t come out of the bathroom yet. Again, he really didn’t have an opinion of Paige Rafferty’s performance other than that he wouldn’t remember it by tomorrow. “She was fine, I guess.”

“But unremarkable.”

Exactly.
Preston nodded.

Up until now, the man’s tone had been convivial, almost playful. But now, he fixed his dark eyes on Preston’s, hawk-like and narrowed, and Preston wondered—for the first time—who he was. A reviewer? The director? Someone else associated with the play?

“And what about…Elise Klassan?”

Preston flinched. He didn’t feel it coming, but he felt it happen. Then he licked his lips, which made his cheeks flush with heat, and he dropped the man’s eyes in embarrassment.

“Mm-hm,” rumbled the man, his voice smooth as warm honey. “Me too.”

“She was good. She was…” Preston’s voice trailed off, and he looked back at the stage for a moment, disappointed that the curtain was still closed and no longer rippled. The theater was so quiet and empty, it almost felt surreal, like there hadn’t been a play at all.

What was it about it her that was affecting him so deeply?

He suspected that she was pretty under all that stage make-up, bouffant 1890s hairdo and neck to ankle dress, but he wasn’t sure he’d recognize her if he passed her on the sidewalk. And, as duly noted, her high, pert chest was undoubtedly a thing of beauty. But—he grimaced—his feelings really weren’t about beauty or attraction. They were about something else far less quantifiable or easily explained. The only words that came to mind?
Under his skin.
She’d gotten under his skin. The way her face had crumpled, the way her voice had broken when she whispered “Cyril,” the profound sorrow on her face, and how terribly discomfited he felt at not seeing her alive and smiling one last time.

There was something about Elise Klassan that was special. Compelling. And she shone more brightly than hammy lines and mediocre co-stars. He was affected. He was moved. He was touched. And though he knew this was the point of theater, he found he didn’t like it.

When Preston looked back down, the man stood up, his lips spreading into a wide, satisfied smile. “You’ve helped immensely.”

“Have I? With what?”

The man nodded, reaching down for his umbrella and chuckling softly to himself before looking back up at Preston. “I wasn’t sure if I was right. But now…I know I am.”

He nodded once more, as if in thanks, then he sidestepped out of his row, winked at Preston and exited the theater.

LOVING THE WINSLOW BROTHERS?

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Preston & Elise

Proposing to Preston

The Winslow Brothers #2

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