Renegade: A Taggart Brothers Novel (16 page)

Suddenly, she was scrambling to pull the cotton shirt from his belt so that her fingers could plunge beneath to explore the hair-roughened skin. She fumbled with the buttons until she managed to undo them. The minute her hands spread wide over the hard ridges of his abs, then higher to flatten over his pecs, to the taut buds of his nipples, Jace’s arms snapped around her waist and he was carrying her toward the back door.

Without conscious thought, her legs wrapped around his waist, even as she began her own delicious tasting of his jaw, his neck, the curve of muscle leading into the breadth of his shoulders. She was barely aware of the way he carried her through the kitchen and beyond, somehow reaching a hall that led into a room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a huge oak desk, filing cabinets, and a long leather couch.

He slammed the door behind them and she heard the click of a lock snapping home.

As if the sound released the last of her inhibitions, she lowered her feet to the ground, lifted the hat from his head, and tossed it in the general direction of the desk. Then, grasping the hem of her T-shirt, she quickly pulled it over her head and threw it to the side before smoothing his own shirt off his back.

Jace’s chuckle was low and sweet as honey. His gaze burned a path over her bare shoulders and down to where a white satin bra cupped the fullness of her breasts. There was no disguising the hardened points of her nipples.

“Holy shit. What’s come over you?”

She countered with, “Do you mind?”

“Hell, no.” He smoothed his hands over her shoulders, then down her back. “I don’t want you to rush into anything you’re not ready—”

She touched a finger to his lips. “I’ve never felt this way before. Ever.”

He couldn’t hide the flare of passion and pleasure that appeared in his eyes at her words.

“So we’ll take it slow.”

She smoothed her palms over the warm flesh of his chest.

“Why?”

“So we can enjoy it longer.”

She couldn’t argue with that.

“We’ve only got an hour before the school bus arrives,” she reminded him, reaching to unhook her bra.

“I can work with that.”

*   *   *

AS
soon as Bronte’s bra dropped to the floor, Jace had serious doubts about his most recent pronouncement.

She was so beautiful.

It wasn’t merely the round globes of her breasts bared in front of him. It was everything. The dark hair tousled around her shoulders, her beautiful creamy skin. A wild light had entered her gray-green eyes and he still marveled at the fact that she looked at him that way.

At him.

Her expression alone was enough to bring him to a fever pitch. He’d never known a woman who was so responsive to his touch. Even now, as he trailed a single finger across her lips, down her jaw, the slender stalk of her neck, and down, down to the hollow between her breasts, he saw a trail of gooseflesh rising in his wake. When he strayed to
circle her nipple, she shuddered, the tiny bud becoming rock-hard beneath his touch, her eyelids growing heavy with sensation. A rosy flush stained her cheeks, but not one of embarrassment. No, the color was due to arousal, pure, unadulterated arousal.

Bending, he took the dusky pink nub in his mouth, licking, tasting, before sucking on it with a gentle pressure.

Bronte arched against him, her breath catching, her whole body seeming to hang suspended. She ground her hips against him even as her hands wrapped around the back of his head, pulling him even closer. Then, to his infinite delight and astonishment, she gasped, her body convulsing in a way that left no doubt that she was climaxing.

Jace held her tightly, letting her absorb the sensations, watching as the pleasure washed over her in a molten wave. Then, when she grew still in his arms, he kissed her, deeply, forcefully.

They parted only briefly enough for her to gasp against his lips, “How do you do that to me? How can you make me feel so . . .”

“Horny?”

“Wonderful.”

He didn’t even bother to check his words—couldn’t have done so if he tried. “Maybe because we’re meant to be together,” he murmured, his lips straying down to the place where her neck swept into her shoulders. Again, she shivered, and he made a mental note to remember that spot.

“Jace?”

“Mmm.”

“I don’t think I want to go slow anymore. I know you said we should, but . . .”

He drew back to see that her eyes were feverish. She moved restlessly against him, and he realized that she was already so on fire that she could come apart. This time, she wanted them to be together.

He didn’t bother to answer, just reached for the buttons to her jeans—and she was doing the same, wrestling with his belt and zipper.

“Hold on,” he whispered when she reached beneath to sweep the fabric away.

As quickly as he could, he reached into his pocket and took out his wallet, fumbling clumsily with the worn leather until he felt a familiar packet. Placing the condom on the desk, he returned his attentions to Bronte, trying to tug down her jeans. But her pants were tight—a plus when he watched her moving from across the room, but a definite drawback when he wanted her out of them.

She laughed softly, kicking off her shoes, then wriggling out of the denim in a way that was far more titillating than any harem dancer’s routine. Then she straightened . . .

Jace forgot to breathe. Never in his life had he seen anyone more perfect. She was lithe and slim, her hair spilling over her chest, her breasts arching into the air. He followed the gentle sweep of her waist to the fullness of her hips. Here, he could see the evidence of her motherhood in the faint remnants of stretch marks and a sliver scar left from what must have been a Caesarean.

Bronte flattened her hands over the area self-consciously, but he moved them away again, pulling her toward him, murmuring, “God, you’re gorgeous. All of you.”

He thought he saw a glimmer of tears in her eyes—and wondered at their cause. Had that prick, her ex-husband, made her feel that she was somehow “less-than” because she’d borne two children? What kind of man did that? Especially considering the two beautiful girls in question?

Jace felt a primal surge of possession, knowing that if he ever found himself in the company of Bronte’s ex, Jace would willingly pound him into the ground for the sheer pleasure of it. But then, Bronte was reaching to stroke the length of him through his jeans and all coherent thought scrambled. He could only arch his head back and wallow in the sheer pleasure that galloped through his veins and seemed to center on that point of contact. He couldn’t think of anything but her stroking his bare flesh.

He reached to push his pants down, but she held him at the wrists.

“Uh-uh,” she breathed, lifting on tiptoe to press her lips against his. “I want to be in charge of the reveal.”

What the hell?
Did she have any idea what she was doing to him? She’d always come across as rather prim and proper, controlled, reserved. But as soon as they were alone, she morphed into a sex kitten with a mind of her own.

She eased his zipper down with the leisurely pace of a connoisseur, then reached to push his pants down around his hips. Before he could summon enough presence of mind to kick free, she grasped him in her hands.

This time, it was Jace who nearly came unglued. Her expression of rapt enjoyment was enough to push him over the edge, and the steady pressure of her fingers . . .

Growling, he quickly reached for the condom while he still had the presence of mind to do so.

Bronte released him only long enough for him to prepare himself. Then, she was reaching to pull him down for her kiss, even as the warmth of her body pressed tightly against him.

Suddenly, it was Jace who felt out of control. Her kisses, the sweeping arcs of her hands, the way she ground against him, were more than he could bear.

“Damnit,” he rasped against her. “I can’t hold on much longer.”

“Then don’t,” she said with a temptress’s smile. “Next time, we’ll be slow.”

Next time.

The words were his undoing. Lifting her against him, he strode toward the nearest wall. Clearly interpreting his intent, she wound her legs around his waist and . . .

In one thrust, he was sliding home. Bronte’s head arched backward. Her lashes formed dark half-moons against her cheeks. Then a cry of utter abandon escaped her lips and—
damnit all to hell!
He could feel her coming around him.

The sensations pushed him over the edge and he felt his own release come hard and fast as he thrust into her again and again, his whole body seeming to explode in sheer passion. Never in his life had he felt like this with a woman. Sure, he’d enjoyed sex. But this . . .

This was an atomic bomb of pleasure that robbed him of reason. His entire being was swallowed up in sheer sensation. Even when it was over, when he stood trembling, holding her weight, pressing her into the paneling of the wall, he couldn’t release her—didn’t want to release her.

Distantly, he felt her fingers sift through his hair, but his eyes remained closed as he soaked in every last detail of her skin against his, her moistness surrounding him. She smiled against him and he felt her lips move to his ear.

“Wow.”

This time, it was his turn to smile—an idiotic grin that he couldn’t seem to control any more than he’d been able to control his passion.

“Yeah. Wow.”

She laughed softly, an intimate sound that was husky and oh so enticing.

“I’ve never done that before.”

He managed to crack open an eye, then became immediately contrite when he realized that he’d been pounding into her against the wall.

Damn. Had he hurt her?

“Sorry, I—”

She stopped him with a finger against his lips. “I wasn’t complaining. I was . . . congratulating you.” Her smile became even more wicked. “I’m looking forward to exploring your repertoire.”

Instantly, he felt his body reacting to the challenge.

“How much time do we have left?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

Against her lips, he murmured, “I think I can rise to the challenge.”

L
ONG
after Bronte had raced out the front door to hurry home, Jace strode through the back, intent on meeting Barry’s school bus at the end of the lane. He had business in town, and he was pretty sure Barry would want to come. If he hurried, he could make it in time.

As he stepped outside, he realized that his chances of an easy getaway were gone. Elam and Bodey sat at the picnic table, the remains of the Vern’s containers scattered in front of them.

Hell.

“Thanks for lunch, Jace,” Bodey said with a grin.

Jace’s eyes narrowed in warning, even as he wondered how much they knew. Damnit, he didn’t think that Bronte and he had been loud enough to be heard outside, but . . .

“What the hell are you two doing here, anyway?” Jace ground out between clenched teeth.

Bodey stood, scooping his hat off the table and settling it over his brow with leisurely care. Beneath the brim, his eyes sparkled with obvious humor. “I came to see what was taking you so long with the seed totes. But when I saw lunch
was provided . . .” He shrugged. “I couldn’t let the goat get it.”

As if giving credence to the statement, Bitsy bleated from her spot under the trees. It was obvious from the goat’s hopeful expression and wagging tail that she was hoping to receive the leftovers.

Jace’s hands curled into fists, waiting for Bodey to say more and be his usual asshole self. But miraculously, he refrained.

Elam was the next to stand. “I came to get something out of the safe and find out why Bodey was taking so long.”

Jace felt a surge of panic. The safe was located in the office. Had Elam made it as far as the door?

But Elam didn’t seem inclined to give him a hard time. Instead, he said, “Once I saw another whole lunch going to waste . . .” He patted his taut stomach. “I never could resist one of P.D.’s brisket sandwiches—especially when it’s been left outside where the raccoons can find it.”

Jace consciously relaxed his hands, not wanting to transmit his tension to his brothers. “Glad you both liked it. Now get the hell back to work.”

Bodey laughed and sauntered to the edge of the porch, then jumped over the steps to the ground beneath. “Your wish is my command,” he called as he headed toward the flatbed truck that was already loaded with the necessary seed totes.

Elam, however, didn’t move. He waited until Bodey was out of earshot before he stood and squinted up at the clear blue sky.

“Seems you’ve been taking some awfully long breaks the last couple of days,” Elam remarked in a tone that could have melted butter.

Jace instantly bristled, already taking a breath so that he could mount his defense. But before he could think of a crushing rejoinder, Elam slapped him on the back and said, “Good for you. It’s about time you did something for yourself. Let me and P.D. know if you’d like Barry to spend some evenings with us. With Bodey heading out of town soon to compete
on the cow-cutting circuit . . .” He paused, glancing back at Jace, his eyes warm and filled with something that looked like approval. “. . . you simply might want some privacy.”

Then he grinned, touching his finger to the brim of his hat. “We’ll see you later,” he drawled as he headed into the house.

Jace wasn’t sure, but there seemed to be extra emphasis placed on the word
later
.

*   *   *

AS
she waited at the end of Annie’s lane for the school bus, Bronte relaxed against the headrest, one hand draped loosely on the steering wheel. Her body still thrummed with the effects of Jace’s lovemaking. She would probably have a few new aches and pains to contend with come tomorrow. But she truly didn’t care. Her entire being seemed a study in contradictions. She felt exhilarated, yet peaceful. Vulnerable and oh so powerful. She only had to think about Jace—about the things they’d shared—for a warmth to pool deep inside her.

Is this what she’d been missing all these years? She’d married Phillip so young—too young. There had been passion between them, sure. But she could now see that her relationship with him had been borne more out of curiosity and an impatient need to be considered an adult. Having come from a broken home, she’d been so sure that she knew exactly what—and who—she wanted.

But now?

Now, she realized that she’d jumped at the first man she’d felt would propose. She’d been so focused on marrying and forming a solid family of her own, she hadn’t noticed that she’d been building that pipe dream on shifting sand.

The signs of Phillip’s addictive nature had been there from the beginning—first in his obsessive eating habits, then his nonstop exercising routine. Then, there had been the nightly whiskies, which had soon become two or three. At one point, when he’d been working to get a second branch of his clinic off the ground, she’d suspected that he might have been using more than caffeine to keep him alert during
the long hours, but she’d never been able to find definitive proof.

Then he’d been in the accident, which had torn up his knee. Two surgeries later, he was popping pain meds like they were candy. From there, it had been a downhill slide from prescription drugs to street drugs, until she hadn’t even recognized the man who staggered into their bedroom each night.

Her brow creased at the memories, at the flood of pain and anger that came rushing back. She remembered the bitter fights, the countless visits in rehab, the crushing defeat when she realized that he was using again.

Finally, there was the night when she’d awakened from a dead sleep to find Phillip had jimmied the lock connecting the basement apartment to the rest of the brownstone. He’d crept through the dark house to her bedroom and slapped his hand over her mouth. Clearly high, he’d snarled at her, blaming her for everything that had happened to turn his existence into a living hell. He’d claimed that she’d never loved him enough, never helped him enough, never given him enough—in bed or out—for him to be happy. Pulling a pistol from his waistband, he’d struck her across the cheek so hard that she’d felt herself losing consciousness, Phillip disappearing down a tunnel of darkness as his face seemed to rearrange itself like scrambled pixels.

The only thing that helped to keep her from disappearing into that void was the fact that he was armed and her children were in the next room. If he was willing to hurt her, what might he do to them?

For the first time, she fought back, striking him hard with one of the pretentious marble sculptures kept on the bedside table. He’d fallen to the floor, stunned. His eyes filled with childlike tears and he began sobbing, piteously asking, “Why, Bronte? Why?”

It had taken every shred of strength she possessed to wrench the gun from his hand and push it as far as she could under the bed. Then, she’d called Phillip’s business partner and insisted that if he didn’t come and take Phillip away, she would call the police.

When Jeremy Montero’s taillights disappeared into the darkness, Bronte had known what she had to do. Feverishly, she’d begun to pack. By the time her children awakened, the van was loaded with the most necessary items, and all that remained was for them to gather their clothes.

Then, she’d left the brownstone, her husband, and the life that she’d known.

And she’d come to Bliss.

Her eyes blinked open, seeing the school bus moving like a lumbering bumble bee that slowly went from stop to stop.

Bliss.

How could she have known that she would find more than a haven here? The town had lived up to its namesake, because for the first time in years, Bronte felt . . . happy. Even more, she was beginning to feel comfortable in her own skin again. She was realizing that Phillip had been wrong. She wasn’t the weak, incompetent, colder-than-ice woman that he’d claimed her to be.

She was strong. Resourceful.

And if the last few hours were anything to go by, she was far from frigid.

The bus had stopped in front of the mailboxes belonging to the Taggart brothers. Although she couldn’t make out much detail from this distance, she recognized the white truck that came skidding to a stop at the end of the road, and the gangly frame that jumped from the steps of the bus. Her heart thudded against her ribs when she realized that
she
was the reason that Jace was late in picking up his brother.

Sliding out of the car, she stood with her arm shading her eyes, wondering if he could see her in the distance. As the flashing lights of the bus shifted from red to yellow, she heard the quick honk of his horn.

In that instant, as she offered a broad wave, she experienced a brief jolt of uncertainty.

What was she doing here? Was she leaping from the arms of one man into those of another? Hadn’t she learned yet that you couldn’t know a person’s true character in the space of a few days or weeks?

Even as the thought appeared, she purposely shoved it away. Jace wasn’t Phillip—and she wasn’t looking for marriage. Maybe this . . . fling . . . would fizzle out as quickly as it had raged to life. It didn’t matter. She would enjoy it while she could. But if there was one thing she’d learned from her marriage to Phillip, it was that she didn’t ever want to live her life hiding the truth. If she and Jace were going to enjoy a relationship, they were going to do it in the open. She wasn’t ashamed of the time they’d spent together and she refused to live as if she were. So that meant that she needed to have a heart-to-heart with her daughters. Since she had some money in her pocket and the prospect of more paychecks to come, she decided that for the first time in years, she and her daughters were going to splurge. She would take them out to dinner in Logan—nothing too expensive, pizza or burgers. Then . . .

She’d been thinking it was time to switch phone carriers. She and Phillip were divorced. According to their agreement, any arrangements he might want to make to see the children had to be made through her lawyer. So there was no reason to endure his constant efforts to force her to respond. Instead, she would change her phone, her number . . .

And she would add a second phone to her plan. She wanted Kari to have the ability to contact her, anytime, anyplace, so that her daughter would have the freedom to spend time with her new friends. Lily, on the other hand, needed new pants and shoes. The fresh air of Utah seemed to be agreeing with her, and she’d had a growth spurt. Maybe she would like a pair of boots like Barry’s. As for Bronte . . . she was feeling the urge to write poetry again. All she needed was a notebook and her children’s smiles.

Once their shopping was done, they could go see Annie and still get home at a reasonable time for a school night. Through it all, Bronte would talk to them, really talk to them. If there was a question they wanted answered, she would tell them the truth, no matter what. Hopefully, by the end of the evening, she could gently make it clear that they wouldn’t be returning to Boston anytime soon. Even more
important, Jace would become a regular visitor at their home.

The bus rumbled to a stop, its red lights flashing. Bronte’s eyes skipped to the white truck that had rolled to a halt behind it. Her gaze tangled with Jace’s through the windshield—and he must have interpreted the thoughts that raced through her brain. Because even as she experienced a flashing montage of memories—the way he touched her, tasted her, filled her with his heat—he offered her a slow smile filled with his own remembered pleasure.

Then, her girls stepped off the bus and her attention was diverted. But that didn’t mean that she couldn’t feel the brand of his gaze as he drove past and looked at her one last time.

*   *   *

IT
was nearly eight o’clock that night when Jace was roused from mindlessly gazing at the television set. It was Barry’s turn to pick the program, so they were watching
Star Trek: Into Darkness
. Again. Sometimes Jace felt like he could recite the script from memory. Normally, Jace would find something to do in another room. But Barry had been restless and out of sorts all evening, and Jace was trying to head off a meltdown before he could get his brother into bed.

The doorbell rang and Jace waited for a minute, since Barry usually insisted on racing to get it first. But clearly, he was in a sci-fi coma, so Jace pushed himself to his feet.

“What do you say I go get that?” he muttered to himself.

He wasn’t exactly dressed for company. After returning from Logan, he and Barry had spent another couple of hours feeding cattle. So once they’d come inside, Jace had showered and dressed for comfort in sweats and a T-shirt. He grimaced when he caught his reflection in the entry. He quickly tried to comb his hair back into place with his fingers, without much success.

Hopefully, whoever it was wouldn’t be staying for long.

But as he opened the door, Jace immediately regretted the thought when he found Bronte silhouetted against the headlights of her van.

Jace immediately flipped on the porch light.

“Bronte. Is something wrong?”

She stood with her hands shoved into her pockets for warmth against the nighttime chill.

“No. But I wondered if I could talk to you a minute.”