Seducing the Bridesmaid

God, what was she thinking? He probably did practice that grin in the mirror. Regan made a shooing motion with her hand. “Go on now, Scarlett. I already have a drink.” Did I seriously just call him Scarlett? As in Scarlett O’Hara? What the hell is wrong with me?

“I might be pretty, but I don’t have the shoulders to pull off a hoop skirt.”

Brock turned to the bartender, giving her the opportunity to eyeball the way his button-up white shirt hugged said shoulders and, holy shit, those back muscles were nothing to sneeze at. He’d gotten rid of the suit jacket he’d been wearing during their walk, and the tucked-in shirt only served to accent his slim hips and an ass that probably had lesser women salivating. Because she most certainly wasn’t. Much.

She’d gotten herself under control by the time he turned around, but it was a close thing. For his part, his grin hadn’t slipped. “Generally when a fella asks to buy a lady a drink, she doesn’t respond so vehemently.”

Probably not when he asked.

She’d dealt with Southern good ol’ boys more than once in her line of business, and she’d never been anything but cool and professional. Fifteen minutes alone with this man and she alternately wanted to slap that grin off his face and bite his shoulders. Get a hold of yourself. She took the offered drink. “I heard you had a reputation with the ladies.” It wasn’t exactly true. But she didn’t have to be a genius to realize most women would have problems being in the same room with this man without throwing themselves at him. As hot as he was, she’d never been a fan of being one of the faceless masses.

Brock leaned against the bar, entirely too close. “You seem to have heard a lot.”

“You have no idea.”

“I’d like to.”

Regan took another sip of her drink, only now registering that it was a cosmopolitan. One of her favorites. Obviously he’d been watching her for longer than she’d realized before rushing out to play her knight in Gucci armor. She propped a hip on the bar. “I bet you don’t hear no a lot.”

“It’s a dirty word. I’m not a fan of it.”

Of course not. Though he sure as hell was charming, he was also the last person she wanted to be talking to right now. Damn Logan for disappearing when she would have made her move. Yes, Brock was gorgeous, but from what she could figure out from chatting with Kady, he was content to spend his life riding on his daddy’s coattails. The man was more charm than substance.

“If you’re looking for some company, I know just the man for the job.” He leaned forward, his grin widening. “And he doesn’t have a problem with short screws.”

She just bet he didn’t. She needed to get rid of him. Now. “It just so happens that I’m looking for my friend Christine.” She’d been really quiet since they showed up here yesterday, and teasing aside, Regan was worried about her. Quiet tended to be Christine’s gig, but something had changed. She wasn’t happy. It might be the upcoming move to Maine throwing her off, but Regan didn’t think so.

“The little redhead? I think I saw Kady’s brother follow her out of Spago.”

Tyler? Now that was interesting. Maybe the torch Christine had been carrying for years wasn’t one she was carrying alone.

She shook her head. She couldn’t afford to get distracted with potential pair-ups when Brock was right in front of her, taking too much space. He exerted an almost magnetic pull, so strong it was an effort not to take that last step between them and see if his muscles felt as good as they looked. From the way the women around them were staring, she wasn’t the only one feeling that urge.

That realization shocked her back to herself. He was working her, plain and simple. This man was used to getting what he wanted, and right now he had his sights set on her. She couldn’t afford to get caught up in this.

Could she?

No, that was a bad idea. Regan knew bad ideas. They always started out sounding really reasonable and totally logical and, next thing she knew, she was half a bottle of tequila in and riding a mechanical bull in a miniskirt. Or spending a whole six weeks dating that douche Danny Levitz because he had lickable abs. Or… The list went on and on.

“Come on, darlin’.”

“There will be no coming on anything.”

“Killjoy.”

“Look at you and your fancy words. Your daddy must be so proud.”

Brock’s grin dimmed, but he reclaimed it almost instantly. “A week without is enough to make anyone cranky. I can only imagine what it would make you.”

She gave in to the urge to give his biceps a squeeze. The tense muscles beneath her hand almost made her groan. The man obviously spent an inordinate amount of time in the gym. She could appreciate that, even if the personality it represented was less than impressive. “Why, Scarlett, are you calling me difficult? I seem to remember you making irrational claims about my not being as mean as I acted.” Take that, you arrogant ass.

“God, no. I’m just pointing out that you have a mammoth stick up your ass.” He reached for his drink, effectively removing her hand from his arm. “Since I’m petitioning for saintly status, I’m willing to help you remove it.”

She set the glass down a little harder than necessary. “That’s not a stick, but it only makes sense that someone as rudderless as you wouldn’t recognize ambition if it slapped you in the face.”

He gave her a knowing grin. “Try me. The offer’s still on the table.”

God, was there no dissuading this guy? Normally, this level of dogged determination would be enough for her to dump her cosmo on his head and march out the door. “You want me to tie you up and make you call me Daddy? Maybe a little whips and chains and handcuffs. Why, Scarlett, I am positively shocked.”

He pushed the shot she’d just ordered toward her. “I’m just offering up something you desperately need. Like I said—I’m practically a saint for being willing to shoulder that burden.”

Sleeping with her was a burden. Even knowing he was trying to get a rise out of her, the she-devil on her shoulder made her want to push Brock over the edge and make him beg for mercy. Julie had always said that imaginary little bitch was going to get her into trouble, and Regan was beginning to think she was right.

She took her shot. “You’re really that eager to be ruined.”

“I think you’ll be surprised.” He didn’t touch her, didn’t move to close that last few inches between them, didn’t do a damn thing but lean against the bar and watch her, but her body heated under those dark eyes. He was looking at her like she was a sure thing. It had obviously been too long since she’d blown off some steam, because she was seriously considering taking him up on what he was offering.

There was no way he could live up to his talk. In her experience, the men who talked the most had the most to prove. Even knowing that, it was a fight to stop herself from leaning into him. Taking him up on his offer was a stupid idea, she-devil on her shoulder or not.

And she was most definitely going to hell, because she couldn’t come up with a single argument to talk herself out of it. Both times they’d talked, he got under her skin in record time. The urge to return the favor was overwhelming her common sense. Truthfully, she didn’t even want to fight it.

But, God, she was tired of thinking so much. Of constantly second-guessing herself and her reactions against what the people around her were doing. She was always on, and it was exhausting. It was time to work off some of her stress.

Regan finished her drink and set it on the bar, plan firmly in place. One night. No strings attached. No complications. “Let’s go.”

…

Brock stared at her retreating back, wondering if he’d heard her wrong. Driven by curiosity and a healthy dose of anger, he followed Regan through the bar. He didn’t bother to keep his eyes off her ass—everything about her, from the snazzy way she dressed to her sky-high pink heels to the calculated sexy tumble of her highlighted dark hair, was designed to draw attention. She knew she looked good, and she flaunted it. He could respect that,

which was part of the reason he’d approached her in the first place.

That and the way she’d completely shut him down yesterday, and then again tonight. He’d just been trying to make conversation… Okay, that was a damn lie. When she’d waltzed up to Reed and grinned at him last night, Brock felt like he’d just been struck by lightning. And that was with her barely sparing him a glance when she told him there wasn’t a single thing about her that was sweet.

Hell if she wasn’t right.

He was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the woman wouldn’t know sweet if it bit her in the ass. Who the hell summed up a person with three words? She might have been right—to a point—but then she’d had to keep going and call him rudderless. It was the same argument he’d had time and time again with his father. He sure as fuck didn’t want to have it with a near stranger.

Not to mention she was totally off base calling him the favored son. That role had always been—and would always be—Caine’s. Brock was born second, and had come in second his entire life. There wasn’t a single damn thing he could do to change it, even if he wanted to.

They left the bar, the night crisp despite its being June. Back home, the humidity would be thick enough to cut with a knife and the lightning bugs would be making an appearance right around now. He shook off the strange feeling of homesickness and grabbed her arm. “Hey.”