His Illegitimate Heir (8 page)

“Who, Marco?” She snorted. “He proposes every time I see him. And since I have season tickets...”

“What does your dad think of that?”

That got him a serious side-eye. “First off, Marco's joking. Second off, my father is many things, but he's not my keeper. And third off—why do you care?”

“I don't,” he answered quickly. Maybe too quickly. “Just trying to get a fuller picture of the one person responsible for keeping my company afloat.”

She snorted as a pop fly ended the inning. “Come on,” she said, standing and stretching. “Let's go.”

Slowly, they worked their way out of the seats and back to the concession stands. He got a stout for himself and Casey got a porter. Marco flirted shamelessly but this time, Zeb focused on Casey. She smiled and joked, but at no point did she look at the young man the way she'd looked at him earlier. She didn't blush and she didn't lean toward Marco.

There was no heat. She was exactly as she appeared—a friendly tomboy. The difference between this woman and the one who'd blushed so prettily back in the seats, whose eyes had dilated and who'd leaned toward him with desire writ large on her face—that difference was huge.

With more beer and more nachos, they made their way back to their seats. As odd as it was, Zeb was having trouble remembering the last time he'd taken a night off like this. Yeah, they were still talking beer and competitors but...

But he was having fun. He was three beers in and even though he wasn't drunk—not even close—he was more relaxed than he'd been in a long time. It'd been months of watching and waiting to make sure all the final pieces of the puzzle were in place, and he was pretty sure he hadn't stopped to appreciate all that he'd accomplished.

Well, sort of relaxed. There was something else the beer vendor—Marco—had said that itched at the back of Zeb's mind.

“Did you mean what you said?” he blurted out. Hmm. Maybe he was a little more buzzed than he thought.

There was a longish pause before she said, “About?”

“That it didn't matter if I was black or not.” Because it always mattered.
Always.
He was either “exotic” because he had an African American mother and green eyes or he was black and a borderline thug. He never got to be just a businessman. He was always a black businessman.

It was something white people never even thought about. But he always had that extra hurdle to clear. He didn't get to make mistakes, because even one would be proof that he couldn't cut it.

Not that he was complaining. He'd learned his lesson early in life—no one was going to give him a single damned thing. Not his father, not his family, not the world. Everything he wanted out of this life, he had to take. Being a black businessman made him a tougher negotiator, a sharper investor.

He wanted the brewery and the legitimacy that came with it. He wanted his father's approval and, short of that, he wanted the extended Beaumont family to know who he was.

He was Zebadiah Richards and he would not be ignored.

Not that Casey was ignoring him. She'd turned to look at him again—and for the second time tonight, he thought she was seeing more than he wanted her to.

Dammit, he should have kept his mouth shut.

“You tell me—does it matter?”

“It shouldn't.” More than anything, he wanted it to not matter.

She shrugged. “Then it doesn't.”

He should let this go. He had his victory—of sorts—and besides, what did it matter if she looked at him and saw a black CEO or just a CEO?

Or even
, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered,
something other than a CEO? Something more?

But he couldn't revel in his small victory. He needed to know—was she serious or was she paying lip service because he was her boss? “So you're saying it doesn't matter that my mother spent the last thirty-seven years doing hair in a black neighborhood in Atlanta? That I went to a historically black college? That people have pulled out of deals with me because no matter how light skinned I am, I'll never be white enough?”

He hadn't meant to say all of that. But the only thing worse than his skin color being the first—and sometimes only—thing people used to define him was when people tried to explain they didn't “see color.” They meant well—he knew that—but the truth was, it
did
matter. He'd made his first fortune for his mother, merchandising a line of weave and braid products for upper-class African American consumers that had, thanks to millennials, reached a small level of crossover success in the mainstream market. When people said they didn't see color, they effectively erased the blackness from his life.

Being African American wasn't who he was—but it was a part of him. And for some reason, he needed her to understand that.

He had her full attention now. Her gaze swept over him and he felt his muscles tighten, almost as if he were in fight-or-flight mode. And he didn't run. He never ran.

“Will our beer suddenly taste black?” she asked.

“Don't be ridiculous. We might broaden our marketing reach, though.”

She tilted her head. “All I care about is the beer.”

“Seriously?”

She sighed heavily. “Let me ask you this—when you drink a Rocky Top beer, does it taste feminine?”

“You're being ridiculous.”

That got him a hard glare. A glare he probably deserved, but still. “Zeb, I don't know what you want me to say here. Of course it matters, because that's your life. That's who you are. But I can't hold that against you, and anyway, why would I want to? You didn't ask for that. You can't change that, any more than I can change the fact that my mother died in a car accident when I was two and left me with this,” she said, pointing to her scarred cheek, “and my father raised me as best he could—and that meant beer and sports and changing my own oil in my car. We both exist in a space that someone else is always going to say we shouldn't—so what? We're here. We like beer.” She grinned hugely at him. “Get used to it.”

Everything around him went still. He wasn't breathing. He wasn't sure his heart was even beating. He didn't hear the sounds of the game or the chatter of the fans around them.

His entire world narrowed to her. All he could see and hear and feel—because dammit, she was close enough that their forearms kept touching, their knees bumping—was Casey.

It mattered.
He
mattered. No conditions, no exceptions. He mattered just the way he was.

Had anyone ever said as much to him? Even his own mother? No. What had mattered was what he wasn't. He wasn't a Beaumont. He wasn't legitimate. He wasn't white.

Something in his chest unclenched, something he'd never known he was holding tightly. Something that felt like...

...peace.

He dimly heard a loud crack and then Casey jolted and shouted, “Look out!”

Zeb moved without thinking. He was in a weird space—everything happened as if it were in slow motion. His head turned like he was stuck in molasses, like the baseball was coming directly for him at a snail's pace. He reached out slowly and caught the fly ball a few inches from Casey's shoulder.

The pain of the ball smacking into his palm snapped him out of it. “Damn,” he hissed, shaking his hand as a smattering of applause broke out from the crowd. “That hurt.”

Casey turned her face toward him, her eyes wide. There was an unfamiliar feeling trying to make its way to the forefront of Zeb's mind as he stared into her beautiful light brown eyes, one he couldn't name. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

“You caught the ball bare-handed,” she said, her voice breathy. Then, before Zeb could do anything, she looked down to where he was still holding the foul ball. She moved slowly when she pulled the ball out of his palm and stared at his reddening skin. Lightly, so lightly it almost hurt, she traced her fingertip over the palm of his hand. “Did it hurt?”

That unnamed, unfamiliar feeling was immediately buried under something that was much easier to identify—lust. “Not much,” he said, and he didn't miss the way his voice dropped. He had a vague sense that he wasn't being entirely honest—it hurt enough to snap him out of his reverie. But with her stroking his skin...

...everything felt just fine.

And it got a whole lot better when she lifted his hand and pressed a kiss against his palm. “Do we need to go and get some ice or...?”

Or
?
Or
sounded good.
Or
sounded great. “Only if you want to,” he told her, shifting so that he was cupping her cheek in his hand. “Your call.”

Because he wasn't talking about ice. Or beer. Or baseball.

He dragged his thumb over the top of her cheek as she leaned into his touch. She lifted her gaze to his face and for a second, he thought he'd taken it too far. He'd misread the signals and she would storm out of the stadium just like she'd stormed out of his office that first day. She would quit and he would deserve it.

Except she didn't. “I live a block away,” she said, and he heard the slightest shiver in her voice, felt a matching shiver in her body. “If that's what you need.”

What did he need? It should've been a simple question with a simple answer—her. Right now he needed her.

But there was nothing simple about Casey Johnson and everything got much more complicated when she pressed his hand closer to her cheek.

For the first time in a very long time, Zeb was at a loss for words. It wasn't like him. When it came to women, he'd always known what to say, when to say it. Growing up in a hair salon had given him plenty of opportunity to learn what women wanted, what they needed and where those two things met and when they didn't.
Smooth
, more than one of his paramours had called him. And he was. Smooth and cool and...cold. Distant. Reserved.

He didn't feel any of those things right now. All he could feel was the heat that flowed between her skin and his.

“I need to cool down,” he told her, only dimly aware that that was not the smoothest line he had ever uttered. But he didn't have anything else right now. His hand was throbbing and his blood was throbbing and his dick—that, especially, was throbbing. Everything about him was hot and hard, and even though he was no innocent wallflower, it all felt strange and new. He felt strange and new because Casey saw him in a way that no one else did.

He didn't know what was going to happen. Even if all she did was take him back to her place and stick some ice on his hand, that was fine, too. He was not going to be
that
guy.

Still, when she said, “Come with me,” Zeb hoped that he could do exactly that.

Eight

W
as she seriously doing this? Taking Zeb Richards back to her apartment?

Well, obviously, she was. She was holding his not-wounded hand and leading him away from the stadium. So there really wasn't any question about what was happening here.

This was crazy. Absolutely crazy. She shouldn't be taking him back to her apartment, she shouldn't be holding his hand and she most especially shouldn't be thinking about what would happen when they got there.

But she was. She was thinking about peeling that T-shirt off him and running her hands over his muscles and...

His fingers tightened around hers and he pulled her a step closer to him. He was hot in a way that she hadn't anticipated. Heat radiated off his body, so much so that she thought the edges around his skin might waver like a mirage if she looked at him head-on.

She swallowed and tried to think of things she had done that were crazier than this. Walking into the brewery and demanding a job—that had been pretty bold. And there was that summer fling with a rookie on the Rockies—but he'd been traded to Seattle in the off-season and their paths didn't cross anymore. That had been wild and a hell of a lot of fun.

But nothing came close to bringing the new CEO of the Beaumont Brewery home with her. And the thing was, she wasn't entirely sure what had changed. One moment, they'd been talking—okay, flirting. They'd been flirting. But it seemed...innocent, almost.

And then she had told him about her mom dying in a car accident and he caught that ball before it hit her—she still didn't know how the hell he'd managed that—and everything had changed.

And now she was bringing her boss home with her.

Except that wasn't true, either. It was—but it also wasn't. She wasn't bringing home the ice-cold man in a suit who'd had the sheer nerve to call a press conference and announce that he was one of the Beaumont bastards. That man was fascinating—but that wasn't who was holding her hand.

She was bringing Zeb home. The son of a hairdresser who liked baseball and didn't look at her like she was his best friend or, worse, one of the guys.

She was probably going to regret this. But she didn't care right now. Because Zeb was looking at her and she felt beautiful, sensual, desirable and so very feminine. And that was what she wanted, even if it was for only a little while.

They made it back to her apartment. She led him to the elevator. Even standing here, holding his hand, felt off. This was the part she was never any good at. Sitting in front of the game with beers in their hands—yes. Then she could talk and flirt and be herself. But when she wanted to be that beautiful, desirable creature men craved...she froze up. It was not a pleasant sensation.

The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside. Casey hit the button for the fifth floor and the door slid shut. The next thing she knew, Zeb had pressed into the back of the elevator. His body held hers against the wall—but other than that, he didn't touch her and he didn't kiss her.

“Tell me I didn't read you wrong back there,” he said, his voice low and husky. It sent a shiver down her spine and one corner of his mouth curved up into a cocky half smile. He lifted one hand and moved as if he were going to touch her face—but didn't. “Casey...”

This was her out—if she wanted it. She could laugh it off and say,
Gosh, how's your hand?
And that'd be that.

“You didn't,” she whispered.

Then he did touch her. He cupped her cheek in his hand and tilted her head up. “Do I really matter to you?” he whispered against her skin. “Or are you just here for the beer?”

If Casey allowed herself to admit that she had thought of this moment before right now—and she wasn't necessarily admitting to anything—she hadn't pictured this. She assumed Zeb would pin her against the wall or his desk and seduce her ruthlessly. Not that there was anything wrong with being seduced ruthlessly—it had its place in the world and her fantasies.

But this tenderness? She didn't quite know what to make of it.

“At work tomorrow,” she said, squinting her eyes shut because the last thing she wanted to think about was the number of company policies she was about to break, “it's about the beer.” She felt Zeb tense and then there was a little bit of space between their bodies as he stepped away from her.

Oh, no. She wasn't going to let him go. Not when she had him right where she wanted him. She locked her arms around his neck and pulled him back into her. “But we're not at work right now, are we?”

“Right,” he agreed. Her body molded to his and his to hers. “Nothing at work. But outside of work...”

Then he kissed her. And that?
That
bordered on a ruthless seduction because it wasn't a gentle, tentative touch of two lips meeting and exploring for the first time. No, when he kissed her, he
claimed
her. The heat from his mouth seared her, and suddenly, she was too hot—for the elevator, for her clothes, for any of it.

“Tell me what you want,” he said again when his lips trailed over her jaw and down her neck.

This was crazy—but the very best kind of crazy. Carte blanche with someone as strong and hot and masculine as Zeb Richards? Oh, yeah, this was the stuff of fantasies.

She started to say what she always said. “Tell me—”

Just then, the elevator came to a stop and the door opened. Damn. She'd forgotten they weren't actually in her apartment yet.

Zeb pushed back as she fumbled around for her keys. Hopefully, that would be the last interruption for at least the next hour. Quickly, she led him down the hall. “It's not much,” she explained, suddenly nervous all over again. Her studio apartment was certainly not one of the grand old mansions of Denver.

She unlocked the door. Zeb followed her in, and once the door was shut behind them, he put his hands on her hips. “Nice place,” he said, and she could tell from the tone of his voice that he wasn't looking at her apartment at all. “Beautiful views,” he added, and then he was pulling the hem of her shirt, lifting it until he accidentally knocked her hat off her head. The whole thing got hung up on her ponytail and, laughing, she reached around to help untangle it.

“What would you like me to tell you?” As he spoke, his lips were against the base of her neck, his teeth skimming over her sensitive skin.

She couldn't stop the shiver that went through her. “Tell me...” She opened her mouth to explain that she wanted to feel pretty—but stopped because she couldn't figure out how to say it without sounding lame, desperate even. And besides, wanting to feel pretty—it didn't exactly mesh with her fantasy about a ruthless seduction. So she hedged. She always hedged. “...what you're going to do to me.”

In the past, that had worked like a charm. Ask for a little dirty talk? The cocky young men she brought home were always ready and willing.

But Zeb wasn't. Instead, he stood behind her, skimming the tips of his fingers over her shoulders and down her bare back. He didn't even wrench her bra off her, for crying out loud. All he did was...touch her.

Not that she was complaining about being touched. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she leaned into his touch.

“You still haven't told me what you want. I'm more than happy to describe it for you, but I need to know what I should be doing in the first place. For instance...” One hand removed itself from her skin. The next thing she knew, he wrapped her ponytail around his hand and pivoted, bringing her against the small countertop in her kitchen. “I could bend you over and take you hard and fast right here.” He pulled her hair just enough that she had to lean back. “And I'd make sure you screamed when you came,” he growled as he slipped his hand down over the seam of her jeans. With exquisite precision, he pressed against her most sensitive spot.

“Oh,”
she gasped, writhing against his hand. Her pulse pounded against where he was touching her and he used her ponytail to tilt her head so he could do more than skim his teeth over her neck. He bit down and, with the smallest movement of his hand, almost brought her to her knees.
“Zeb.”

And then the bastard stopped. “But maybe you don't like it rough,” he said in the most casual voice she'd ever heard as he pulled his hands away from her ponytail and her pants. What the hell?

Then his hands were tracing the lines of her shoulders again.

“Maybe you want slow, sensual seduction, where I start kissing here...” he murmured against her neck. Then his lips moved down over her shoulder and he slid his hands up her waist to cup her breasts. “And there.”

This time, both hands slid over the front of her jeans and maybe it was shameless, but she arched her back and opened for him. “And everywhere,” he finished. “Until you can't take it.”

And then he stopped
again
.

What was happening here? Because in the past, when she told someone to talk dirty to her, it got crude
fast
. And it wasn't like the sex was bad—it was good. She liked it. But it felt like...

It always felt like that was the best she could hope for. She wasn't pretty and she wasn't soft and she wasn't feminine, and so crude, fast sex was the best she could expect any man to do when faced with her naked.

And suddenly, she realized that wasn't what she wanted. Not anymore. Not from him.

“Maybe you want to be in charge,” he went on, his voice so deep but different, too, because now there was that trace of a Southern accent coming through. It sounded like sin on the wind, that voice—honey sweet with just a hint of danger to it. He spun her around so he was leaning back on the counter and she had him boxed in. He dropped his hands and stared at her hungrily with those beautiful eyes. “Maybe I need to step back and let you show me what you want.”

It was an intense feeling, being in Zeb Richards's sights.

“So what's it going to be?” But even as he asked it—sounding cool and calm and in complete control—she saw a muscle in his jaw tic and a tremor pass through his body. His gaze dipped down to her breasts, to her lucky purple bra that she wore to every home game, and a growl that she felt in her very center came rumbling out of his chest. He was hanging on to his control by the very thinnest of threads. Because of her.

He was waiting, she realized. It was her move. So that was what she did. She reached up and pulled his hat off his head and launched it somewhere in the middle of her apartment. He leaned toward her but he didn't touch her.

“What about you? What do you want?” she asked.

He shook his head in mock disappointment even as he smiled slyly at her. “I have this rule—if you don't tell me what you want, I won't give it to you. No mixed signals, no mind reading. I'm not going to guess and risk being wrong.”

This wasn't working, she decided. At the very least, it wasn't what she was used to. All this...talking. It wasn't what she was good at. It only highlighted how awkward she was at things like seduction and romance, things that came naturally to other women.

She appreciated the fact that he wanted to be sure about her, about this—really, she did. But she didn't want to think. She didn't want each interaction to be a negotiation. She wanted to be swept away so she could pretend, if only for a little while, that she was soft and sultry and beautiful.

And she'd never get to hold on to that fantasy if she had to explain what she wanted, because explaining would only draw attention to what she wasn't.

Which left only one possible conclusion, really. She was done talking.

She leaned forward and grabbed the hem of his shirt. In one swift motion, she pulled it up and over his head and tossed it on the floor. And right about then, she not only stopped talking but stopped thinking.

Because Zeb's chest was a sight to behold. That T-shirt hadn't been lying.
Muscles
, she thought dimly as she reached out to stroke her hand over one of his packs. So many muscles.

“Casey...” He almost moaned when she skimmed her hand over his bare skin and moved lower. As she palmed the rippling muscles of his abs, he sucked in a breath and gripped the countertop so hard she could see his arms shaking. “You're killing me, woman.”

That was better, she decided. She couldn't pull off seductive, but there was a lot to be said for raw sexual energy. That, at least, she could handle.

So she decided to handle it. Personally. She hooked her hands into the waistband of his jeans and pulled his hips toward her. As she did so, she started working at the buttons of his fly. His chest promised great, great things and she wanted to see if the rest of him could deliver on that promise.

“What do you want to hear?” he asked in that low, sensual voice that was summer sex on the wind.

Tell me I'm pretty.

But she couldn't say that, because she knew what would happen. She would ask him to tell her she was pretty and he would. He would probably even make it sound so good that she would believe him. After all, she thought as she pushed his jeans down and cupped him through his boxer briefs, what guy wouldn't find a woman who was about to sleep with him pretty?

She'd been here before, too. She might be pretty enough in the heat of the moment but the second the climactic high began to fade, so did any perceived beauty she possessed. Then she'd get her decidedly unfeminine clothes back on and before she knew it, she'd be one of the boys again.

She didn't just want him to tell her she was pretty or beautiful or sensual or any of those things. She wanted him to make her believe it, all of it, today, tomorrow and into next week, at the very least. And
that
was a trick no one had been able to master yet.

So she gave the waistband of his briefs a tug and freed him. He sprang to attention as a low groan issued from Zeb's throat.