Trust Fund Fiancé (Texas Cattleman's Club: Rags to Riches 4)

Now it was his control that he clenched instead of her hair.

And when she reached back and entwined his fingers with hers as they headed across the room, he clung to the reasons why he couldn’t escort her out of this party to the nearest dark room and fuck her senseless.

“Can you believe their arrogance? Being investigated by the DEA and throwing this party as if nothing is happening. Their gall is astounding. Even for Wingates.”

Ezekiel’s steps faltered and he nearly stumbled as the not-nearly-so-low whispers reached his ears. In front of him, Reagan stopped, her slim shoulders stiffening.

But another ugly voice piped up just behind them.

A disgusted snort. “I wonder if drug money is paying for all of this. Or blood money, as I like to call it.”

“Goddammit,” Luke quietly spat beside him.

Rage, pain, powerlessness and shame. They eddied and churned inside him, whipping and stinging. A howl scraped at his throat, but he trapped it, unwilling to give anyone more to gossip and cackle over.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Reagan said, her voice hard in a way he’d never heard from her. Not until she firmly disentangled her hand from his did he realize how tightly he gripped her.

Unmoving, he and Luke watched as she turned and crossed the short distance to the two older women who had been maligning them. Reagan smiled at them, and as if they hadn’t just been ripping his family apart with their tongues, they returned the warm gesture. Hooking her arms through theirs, she led them through the crowd and toward the great room exit. She tipped her head to the club’s security who unobtrusively stood vigil at the door, and in moments, the two men escorted the women out.

Ezekiel gaped at her as she retraced her path toward him and Luke.

“Holy shit,” Luke marveled. “That might’ve been the hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life.”

“Watch your mouth,” Ezekiel muttered. “That’s my future wife you’re talking about.” But damn if Luke wasn’t right. That take-no-shit act had been hot.

“Now,” Reagan said, returning to his side, “we were headed into dinner.” She clasped his hand again and moved forward as if nothing had interrupted them.

“I need to know, darlin’,” Luke said, falling into step on her other side. Whether Reagan was his fake fiancée or not, she’d won his brother’s admiration and probably his loyalty with her actions tonight. “What did you say to them?”

“Oh, I just thanked them for coming to celebrate our upcoming nuptials. But that I refused to feed mouths that could congratulate us out of one side and denigrate us from the other. Then I wished them a good night and asked security to escort them out.”

Luke threw back his head on a loud bark of laughter that drew several curious glances. “Remind me never to cross you, Reagan Sinclair.”

Pride, fierce and bright, glowed within Ezekiel, and even if their relationship was only pretense, he was delighted he could claim this woman as his.

And that scared the hell out of him.

Nine

“Reagan, I need a word with you, please.”

Reagan paused midstep as she crossed her home’s foyer toward the staircase, glancing at her father, who stood in the entrance to the living room.

Checking her thin, gold watch, she frowned. Just five fifteen. Douglas Sinclair routinely didn’t arrive home until almost six o’clock from his law office. Had he been waiting on her?

“Sure, Dad. But will this take long? I have plans for this evening.”

She’d agreed to accompany Ezekiel to a dinner at his family’s estate at six tonight. But she’d lost track of time at the girls’ home and was now running late. That had been happening more and more lately as her responsibilities at the home had expanded from administrative to more interaction with the girls.

Ezekiel didn’t seem to mind when she called to apologize or reschedule dates. She should’ve told him by now where she spent the majority of her time, because after the engagement party three weeks ago, they’d grown even more comfortable with each other. Yet that kernel of fear that he would dismiss her efforts—or maybe worse, ask why she volunteered there—prevented her from confiding in him. As it did from admitting the truth to her parents.

But he wasn’t her father. So maybe she would tell him tonight after dinner. Not...everything. Still, she could share this. Maybe.

Her father didn’t reply to her but turned and entered the living room, leaving her to follow. Her frown deepened. What was going on? Douglas’s grim expression and the tensing of her stomach didn’t bode well for this conversation.

“Sit, please,” he said, waving toward the couch as he lowered to the adjacent chair.

Though she would’ve preferred to stand—easier to make a quick exit—she sank to the furniture. “What’s wrong, Dad?”