Bravo Unwrapped (9 page)

B.J.
sighed.

Good, Buck thought. He wanted her sighing. He tasted her lips—the softness, the sweetness. He kissed her with care, with tenderness. With barely leashed desire.

Much too soon—within seconds—she pulled away. He looked down at her kiss-pink lips, her flushed cheeks. Her eyes were softer than ever now. Those eyes betrayed her. They begged him to kiss her some more.

But then she said in a husky whisper, “I mean it. I want to go back now.”

He rose and held down his hand to her. She let him help her to her feet.

 

That night, B.J. and Buck met his two middle brothers at the Nugget for dinner. A couple of big,
good-looking bachelors, Brett and Brand each possessed an actual sense of humor—unlike the morose and temperamental Bowie.

“We were the boring Bravo brothers,” Brand, the lawyer, told B.J. Brand had gold hair a shade darker than Bowie's and hazel eyes.

“Meaning we worked hard in high school and then went on to get our degrees and do our internships,” Brett explained. He had darker hair than Brand's, though not as dark as Buck's. “And we now have—wait for it—real jobs.”

“Bowie and Buck are the wild ones,” Brand said. “As you've probably noticed, Buck has succeeded in shocking the hell out of everyone in town by turning out okay, after all.”

“Gee, thanks,” said Buck.

“The jury's still out on Bowie,” Brett added, sounding rueful.

“Signs are not favorable.” Brand looked somber.

Buck said, “Give the kid time. He'll work through all this crap.”

His brothers only looked at him, their expressions frankly skeptical. Buck shrugged and asked Brand how he liked being in partnership with their uncle Clovis.

“It's all right,” said Brand. “I have the office pretty much to myself. Uncle Clo is all but retired now….”

B.J. let the brothers talk. She was busy with her salad, anyway. Raging hunger had struck out of nowhere again, same as last night. Her salad was incredible. The best she'd ever tasted.

Brett lifted an eyebrow at her. “This girl can really pack it away.”

Beside her, Buck chuckled. B.J. only grunted and went on shoveling in the food. When her steak came,
she ate it all. And two dinner rolls slathered with butter. And her baked potato with sour cream and chives, as well—oh, and the salty, crumbly bacon bits. To die for. She ate every last yummy one, pressing her fork on them to get the last few off the plate after the potato was gone.

She'd be running down the hall in her silk sleep shirt tomorrow morning, on her way to give the toilet a big hug. But that was tomorrow. Right now, while she could, if it wasn't nailed down, she was eating it.

It was all gone much too soon. Nadine cleared off their plates and served coffee to the men, herb tea to B.J.

Brett said, “I hear you work at
Alpha
magazine.”

B.J. nodded. She was still chomping her final piece of bread. She swallowed it and caught Nadine before she got away again. “About the rice pudding?”

Nadine nodded. “Lots of cinnamon and raisins. You want some?”

“Oh, yes. Please.”

Nadine glanced around at the Bravo boys. “Anyone else?”

The men all shook their heads. The waitress trotted off.

Brand said, “I understand that L. T. Carlyle's your dad?”

“That's right.” B.J. dunked her teabag in the little metal teapot and wished that Nadine would hurry up with that pudding.

“L. T. Carlyle,” said Brett in a musing tone. “A living legend, and that is no lie.”

Buck said, “B.J.'s the features editor at
Alpha.
One of these days—and it's not going to be all that long, trust me—she'll be running the whole enterprise.” He sounded so…proud.

B.J. forgot all about the rice pudding as she felt her face start to color.

Omigod. The horror. She was actually blushing with pleasure.

She had to face it. The guy was getting to her. They were barely twenty-four hours into her two weeks of virtual slavery to his every whim—and she
blushed
when he said something nice about her?

And what about that kiss?
a disapproving voice in her head inquired.

What kiss?

You know what kiss.

The kiss she'd been trying not to think about since it had happened—out there on that icy rock by the river in the afternoon.

But that hardly counts, she tried to reason. It was only a little, tiny, brushing breath of a kiss….

Stop,
the disapproving inner voice commanded.
No more excuses. You've done what you've done and a kiss is a kiss, no matter how brief.

She had to quit kidding herself. Her situation was nothing short of dire. A slippery slope and she was on her way down.

He'd have her in one of those bondage collars before you knew it. In a bondage collar, on a lead. He'd be trotting her up Main Street. It would be,
Sit, B.J. Stay.

She took great care not to look at him, to concentrate instead on dunking her teabag until it sank. If she looked at him, she just knew she'd grin like an idiot and drool like a fool.

“
Alpha
's great,” Brand was saying. “In-depth articles. I like that.”

“And don't forget the
Alpha
Girls,” said Brett.

B.J. sighed. “Nobody forgets the
Alpha
Girls.”

Hey. That hadn't sounded half-bad, now, had it? Cool and collected and totally unconcerned.

And her blush was definitely fading.

On second thought, she shouldn't let herself over-react. Altogether, she was handling herself fine. Doing splendidly, really.

Nadine appeared with her pudding. B.J. dug in. Oh, it was good! For a minute or two, she didn't hear a word any of the Bravos said, she was so busy having an orgasm in her mouth.

Then Brett said, “
TopMale
's not bad, either.”

B.J. sat very still, a bite of pudding halfway to her mouth. Had Brett read the man-eater article? Did he
know?

But then Brand said, “Oh, come on.
Alpha
sets the standard. It's been that way for twenty years.”

 

Outside the restaurant, B.J. and Buck said goodbye to his brothers. Then, just as the night before, they headed down Main side-by-side on their way to Commerce Lane and the bridge that would take them to the Sierra Star.

Buck said nothing until they'd walked between the rows of unlit pumpkins and up the steps to the front porch. Then he caught her hand.

She stiffened. But she didn't pull away.

Truthfully, it felt so…

Well, there was no other word for it:
right.
It felt right, to have his hand clasping hers. Exciting. And yet companionable, too—slippery slope, be damned.

“B.J.?” He pulled her over to one of the wicker settees and tugged her down beside him.

Careful, she thought. No idiot grins. And absolutely no drooling. “What now?”

His white teeth flashed in the darkness. “You're so tough.”

His teasing gave her the excuse she needed to pull her hand from his. “Believe it.”

“Don't worry,” he said. “Brett knows nothing…”

She felt her cheeks flame—and not from pleasure, this time. At least, in the dark, he couldn't see her shame.

What to say now?

Play dumb. Maybe he'll take the hint and drop the subject. “About?”

“That obnoxious article by your ex-boyfriend.”

Deny everything,
cried a desperate voice in her head. But somehow, she couldn't. She looked out toward the rows of pumpkins marching away from them down the walk and heard herself say in a very small voice, “I really know how to pick 'em, don't I?”

He touched her chin. She let him guide her face around until she was looking at him. “Hey, you picked me. Once.”

She pushed his hand away. “And look how beautifully that turned out.”

“We had some good times, you know we did.” He sounded so hopeful. His dark eyes gleamed.

And he was right. They'd had some very, very good times. Sundays in bed sharing
The Times,
afternoons in the park strolling the trails by the carousel, talking late into the night about any-and everything…

And the sex. That had been spectacular. Unforgettable. The best of her life.

And why was she thinking about sex? “What was the question?”

“I said, we had some good times.”

She heard herself make a low noise of agreement—after all, he was right.

He declared, “And it's not your fault that Wayne Epperstall is a weasely little bastard.”

“Wyatt.”

“What?”

“His name is Wyatt—and yes, he is a weasel. He's even got a slight overbite. I thought it made him look sweet and sensitive when I first met him. I thought he
was
sweet and sensitive, if you must know.”

“You thought wrong.”

“Yeah—and I guess this means I can't kid myself any longer. You did read the damn article, didn't you?”

“That's right. I read it. And after I read it, I considered having a long, up-close and personal talk with what's-his-name.”

“Wyatt.”

“Yeah. Him. I considered beating the everlovin' crap out of Wyatt. But then I thought again. I decided he wasn't worth the effort.” He took her hand once more. She let him have it. Yes, it showed weakness. But at that moment, she just didn't care. He turned her hand over and stroked her palm and she let him do that, too. It felt really, really good—much better than it should have. Electric. Warm. Wonderful. He added, “But I'm open to suggestion. Say the word. I'll rearrange his overbite for you.”

She sent him a look from under her lashes. “If I wanted his teeth broken, I'd do it myself.”

“That's the spirit—and take it from me. Though it's possible that someone in the Flat could have read that article, it's not possible that anyone could know it's about you.”

“Half of Manhattan knows.”

“This isn't Manhattan.”

“No argument there.”

“And the good news is, by the time you get back to the city, everyone will be talking about something else. Wyatt and his spiteful article will be seriously old news.”

She slanted him another glance. “Are you trying to make me feel happy I came here?”

“Do you think you
could
feel happy about it?”

No way she would cop to that one. “Let's go in. Okay?”

“Whatever you want.”

So completely not true. But since she felt downright affectionate toward him at that moment, she let the remark pass without a word of argument.

 

“Dear, you haven't touched your breakfast,” said Sidney Potter.

B.J., seated next to Buck at one of several folding tables in the dining room of the town hall, looked down at her paper plate. It held two rubbery flapjacks drowned in syrup, a glob of dry scrambled eggs and a matched pair of greasy sausages.

Her stomach did a nasty little roll at the sight.

Swiftly, B.J. looked up and forced a big smile for Sidney, who stood across the table wearing rubber gloves and a chef's apron and carrying a wet rag.

“I'm a light eater as a rule,” B.J. explained. “And I had a huge dinner last night.” A lot of which she'd lost earlier that morning, but Sidney didn't need to know that.

“Breakfast is the most important meal,” Sidney declared with a firm nod of her wiry gray head and a sharp snap of her rag.

“Oh, Sidney. That's so true.” B.J. nodded right back, and wished the sweet old lady would go wipe some tables off.

“Eat, eat,” said Sidney.

So B.J. picked up her plastic fork and looked down at her plate again.

No. She couldn't do it. And it wasn't a good idea to continue focusing on the congealing puddles of syrup, the soggy-looking…

She glanced up again—fast—and sucked in a big breath through her nose.

Sidney Potter's eagle eyes were waiting. “Dear. You look a tad peaked. Are you feeling well?”

“Just fine.” B.J. glanced brightly around. “Nice turnout.” The citizens of New Bethlehem Flat had shown up in full force for the Annual Methodist Ladies Auxiliary Pancake Breakfast. The rows of folding tables were half-full. People got in line, got their food, grabbed a seat, ate and then cleared out to make room for the next wave of happy pancake eaters.

Sidney smiled her beatific smile. “Yes, we get a great turnout every year. We're always so pleased—Buck?”

Buck, seated to B.J.'s right, was having no trouble getting
his
food down. He swallowed a mouthful of pancake, took a gulp of coffee and lifted an eyebrow at Sidney to show he was listening.

“I do hope you and B.J. will come on over to the service at ten.”

“We just might do that, Mrs. Potter,” Buck said with a wink and went back to his pancakes.

“Now, that would be lovely—and I'd best get to work, now hadn't I?” Sidney clucked her tongue in a good-natured way and turned to the next table over where empty plates waited to be carried to the trash bins. B.J., still scrupulously avoiding eye contact with her plate, watched Sidney work her way down the table, clearing and wiping as she went.

Across the room, Glory sat with a big group, Old Tony among them. Judging by certain physical similarities—lots of dark hair, dimples and brown eyes—B.J. pegged them as the Dellazola clan. Glory, looking a little glum, brightened when B.J. caught her eye. The girl waved. Old Tony looked over and gave B.J. a nod.

And right then, Bowie, carrying his tray of flapjacks, eggs and sausage, reached the Dellazola table. The men, their expressions severe, nodded at him. One of the women slid over to make a space between herself and Glory.

Glory shot upright, grabbed her tray, and headed for the trash cans lined up along the kitchen wall. One of the men—her father, Little Tony, B.J. guessed—shouted after her.