Just Be Her Read online

  After breakfast, I decided if I couldn’t ride a cock to satiate my desire, at least I could ride a horse and have some innocent fun while distracting myself.

  As I let myself out the back door, George came around the corner.

  “Going riding?” He fell into step with me.

  “What gave it away? The riding pants?” I rolled my eyes. Apparently rich people couldn’t ride horses in regular pants

  He laughed. “Are you always this sarcastic?”

  “Probably.” I shrugged. “I think it just comes out more with you because I have to rein it in with everyone else here. Also, do you know how fucking hard it is to watch your language when you haven’t had to since high school? Sometimes all I want to do is scream ‘cunt,’ just to get it out of my system.”

  We both laughed, and then he asked, “Your parents didn’t mind you cussing?”

  “They did. Before they died. I’ve been on my own over eight years now.”

  “Shit.” His smile fell. “I knew that. I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

  “Fucking stalker.” I gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s fine. But maybe stop stalking me?”

  “Too late.” He didn’t sound even remotely apologetic. “I already know everything a private investigator could’ve found out.”

  “Fucking rich people.” I shook my head but kept my voice down. We’d nearly reached the stables.

  “Toni.” He halted me with a hand on my arm, his voice even lower than mine. “How are you handling this? It must be a lot of pressure. Alexandria really wants this, but she wouldn’t hesitate to shut it down if you needed to.”

  And shut down my payday with it. “It’s all good, big guy. I’m handling my shit. And Andre already gave me the ‘you can back out at any time’ spiel.” I didn’t know why everyone felt the need to tell me I could bail. I was not a quitter, and I needed that money.

  Jack came out of the stables and waved, cutting off whatever George was about to say. George wiped the frown off his face and folded his hands behind his back.

  “Thank you for the update, George,” I said a little louder, letting Jack hear.

  “Have a good day, miss.” George nodded, turned on his heel, and walked back toward the house.

  “Good morning.” Jack stuffed his hands in his pockets and smiled, his full attention on me.

  “Morning.” I walked the last few steps to stand in front of him. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Not at all. Ready for a ride?”

  I chose not to read a double meaning into his question. “Yes, I’d love to try if you’re not too busy?”

  “I’m all yours.” His grin definitely had a hint of mischief in it that time, his eyes lingering on mine just a bit longer than what could be considered polite.

  “Great.” I cleared my throat and walked past him. But of course, he hardly moved, and my shoulder brushed against his chest. He smelled manly—like hard work and a hint of something sweet and musky.

  I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, doing my damnedest to ignore the way my nipples hardened.

  He overtook me and led the way inside to Honeymustard’s stall. She was just as beautiful as the first day I saw her, and she seemed to remember me, nuzzling her head against my hand.

  I smiled, cooing, “Should we go for a ride, girl? Would you like that?”

  “I’d love that.” Jack’s voice was almost a whisper. He was standing behind me, one arm coming around to rest on the stall.

  “Excuse me?” I paused my pats but didn’t turn to look at him.

  “I said, I think she’d love that. She loves to go past the exercise yard, and I can’t take each one of them out every day.” There was no hint of teasing in his voice, but I was positive I’d heard him right the first time. This asshole was looking for trouble. If only I wasn’t so attracted to trouble . . .

  “Let’s get her saddled.” He walked away and came back with riding gear in hand, the muscles in his arms straining from the weight. I did my best not to stare.

  “You said you haven’t ridden in a few years?” he asked as he let himself into the stall.

  “Quite a few.” I leaned on the wall. “In fact, just pretend I’ve never been on a horse. Treat me like a total newbie.”

  “I have a feeling you have more experience than you’re letting on.” When I didn’t respond, he kept speaking. “I mean, riding horses can be like riding bikes—some things you don’t forget. It’ll come back to you once you get goin’.”

  “I hope so.” I smiled, getting excited despite the struggle to contain the sexual tension between us. I had to keep telling myself to behave.

  When Honeymustard was ready, he placed a block next to her, and I climbed up, swinging my leg over. He laid an unnecessary hand on my waist to steady me—I didn’t waver. His hand lingered on my ankle as he adjusted the height of the stirrups, then came dangerously close to my ass as he fiddled with the saddle.

  It took all I had to keep my poker face on, to not let it show that I wanted him to drag that hand up from my ankle, over my knee to my inner thigh.

  I shook my head to clear it as Jack took the reins and led Honeymustard out of the stables. For the next fifteen minutes, the sexual tension eased, and his passion for his work shone through. He talked me through how to pull on the reins to get Honeymustard to go where I wanted her to, told me when to take more control and when to let her do what came naturally, warned me that she liked to stop and snack on every bush she could get close to, so I’d have to move her along firmly. He reminded me how to bounce up and down in the saddle in rhythm with her movements, then let me practice while he got her into a trot around the fenced yard.

  A massive smile split my face when I got it. The few times I’d gone riding with my friend as a preteen were coming back to me, my body remembering how to move.

  “See? You’re a natural.” Jack beamed at me from under his cowboy hat. I couldn’t help smiling back.

  “All right, let’s go for a ride.” His voice dropped a little and his eyes narrowed—the flirt was back. He ran back into the stables and came out moments later riding Benson.

  I followed him out of the gate and rode out toward the back of the property, alternating between a leisurely pace and a trot—when Honeymustard didn’t get distracted by delicious bush snacks.

  “How big is this place?” I asked as the house disappeared behind us.

  “Around ten thousand acres.” Jack looked so natural on horseback, his body moving with the animal so seamlessly it was like poetry in motion. “Didn’t your fiancé tell you about it?”

  “He didn’t mention it,” I said, then kicked myself. Maybe he did—to the actual Alex. I quickly added, “Or I forgot. We’ve had a lot to discuss lately.”

  “Oh?” Jack kept his focus on the path ahead, but he was listening intently.

  The motion of the horse under me, the sun poking through the trees, the birds flitting from one branch to another, the warm fresh air—it all put me at ease, and I nearly said something about negotiating the terms of our marriage as a business contract. But I caught myself and deflected. “What time is it? Should we head back? I’m sure you have work to do. It must be nearly lunch.”

  OK, so I rambled more than deflected, but it worked . . . kind of. He dropped that track of conversation but picked something much more dangerous to put my focus on.

  “We’ve got plenty of time.” He grabbed Honeymustard’s reins and pulled her through a narrow gap in the trees. “I wanna show you somethin’.”

  I had to duck as we passed under a low branch and leaves brushed against my arms.

  We emerged into a clearing that led down to a slow spot in a small river. Crystal clear water ran over rocks and glistened in the sun, and colorful wildflowers near the edge of the trees climbed twenty or so feet into the air, blocking the rest of the river from view as it curved around.

  The scene was picturesque, untouched.

  Jack got off Benson and came to
stand next to me. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” He patted Honeymustard’s rump gently, his chest bumping my leg.

  “It’s stunning,” I breathed. The sun was climbing higher in the sky, bringing more heat with it, and the water looked so inviting.

  “Mr. Winthrop wouldn’t even know it was here.” Just a hint of a hard edge sharpened his tone. “We’re at the very edge of the property. The other side of the river belongs to someone else. I don’t think he’s even been out of sight of the main house.”

  I cleared my throat, wishing I’d brought a bottle of water.

  “Want some help getting down?” He smiled up at me, his eyes crinkling from the bright sun, his tone light and friendly.

  “Uh, no thank you.” I shifted in the saddle. He must’ve thought I was about to get down myself, because he backed away.

  “Hoowee, it’s hot! I’m goin’ for a dip,” he called over his shoulder as he whipped his T-shirt off over his head, heading for the river.

  He had a massive backpiece—a horse rearing up, the artwork so beautifully done I could see the movement, the detail in the animal’s body and mane, even from this distance.

  Jack toed his shoes and pants off at the edge of the water and waded in in his underwear, diving under and emerging facing me. He flicked his hair, the water flying, and gave me a brilliant grin. “You comin’ in?”

  His eyes narrowed just slightly, flicked down to my chest for a split second. I was breathing hard, my mouth open.

  I was thirsty. I wasn’t entirely sure what I wanted more—to cool off in the river, have a long drink of it, or have Jack . . .

  I cut that thought off and made myself square my shoulders.

  “I have to head back,” I called and turned Honeymustard just like he’d shown me.

  I didn’t wait for his reaction, didn’t give myself a chance to give in to my desire. I set a quick pace down the same path we’d come, every bounce in the saddle reminding me of the ache between my legs.

  …

  T: Did you know that they have a chef on call 24/7 here??

  A: Yes, I told you that, didn’t I?

  T: And there’s a pool and the AC is always on!

  A: OK?

  T: Is this what it’s like to stay in a fancy hotel with room service? Except you don’t have to pay for the room service when you check out?

  A: Haha! I guess.

  T: BTW all your clothes fit me perfectly.

  A: Of course they do. We’re identical.

  A: Wait! Why were you trying on all my clothes?

  T: *shrug I was bored.

  T: Man, this place is amazing!

  A: I’m glad you’re having a good time :)

  T: I bet their heat’s never even gone out in winter.

  A: ??? Why would their heat go out?

  T: When we couldn’t afford to pay the gas on time, they’d cut the gas. No gas, no heat. It’s one of the reasons I moved south after my parents died. Winters aren’t so harsh.

  A: Shit, Toni. That’s awful.

  T: Happens more than you realize, princess. All over the country.

  T: Hey, you get laid yet?

  A: OMG! No.

  T: WTF are you waiting for?!

  Eight

  Alex

  After the dramatic start to my life as Toni Mathers—aloof bar chick with intimacy issues and a mysterious past—it was a relief to settle into a kind of routine.

  The jerk who’d called me a bitch hadn’t been back with his band, but Andre had a different live show on almost every night. With his help, I started to get the hang of this bartending thing and even learned how to make a few cocktails. On the rare occasion someone ordered wine, I was all over it.

  The aches and pains from suddenly doing so much physical work were constant, but after a day off, they started to feel a bit better. I was too exhausted to be up before midday most days, but I made the most of it.

  I checked in with my mother daily, feeding her the bare minimum of information, loosely based on Toni’s text updates about what I was supposedly doing with the Winthrops. I also spent a few hours each day working—returning emails, making sure everything was OK at the winery, keeping the debt collectors at bay. But George helped with that too, and my property manager was fantastic, so I was mostly free to enjoy my taste of freedom.

  I put on one of the few dresses I’d found in Toni’s closet. It was emerald-green light cotton with lace skulls all over it, but it went OK with her sandals. Pulling my hair back into a ponytail, I reminded myself to get more green tea from the corner store on the way back from my walk. In my spare time, I was exploring the neighborhood—enjoying the little voodoo shop I’d discovered a couple of blocks over, the balconies with ferns hanging off that seemed to be a staple of half the buildings in the area, the market near the bus station that had the juiciest oranges I’d ever tasted.

  A knock sounded on the glass door. I took another bite of my toast and opened it to find Andre on the other side, dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt, his feet in high-tops. He was freshly shaven, had probably just gotten out of the shower—I could detect the fresh smell mingling with his cologne and resisted the urge to lean forward and take a deep breath.

  I swallowed my bite of toast. “Hello, Andre. What can I do for you?”

  He chuckled. “You’re so fucking polite. I don’t know how I didn’t pick up on it immediately.”

  I frowned “Why is that bad?”

  “It’s not. It’s actually kind of refreshing.”

  I just eyed him with suspicion and took the last bite of my toast.

  “So I noticed you’ve been wandering around the neighborhood.” He leaned in the doorway and crossed his arms over his chest, making the biceps pop out even more.

  “That’s not a crime, is it?”

  “Not at all.” He chuckled again. Why did he keep laughing at me? “I was actually wondering if maybe you wanted to see some of New Orleans past this neighborhood.”

  “Yes, I’d love that.” I crossed the room and closed the balcony doors, suddenly feeling awkward about admitting why exactly I couldn’t explore farther, but I’d promised Andre I’d be honest with him. “I can’t exactly afford it. With my current financial situation, I’m stretched to my limits, and I don’t feel right using any of Toni’s money. So I’m just making the best of it.” I finished straightening the sheets on the bed and turned to face him, putting a bright smile on my face.

  He watched me for a beat. “I can understand that. Admire it even. You know what? You’ve been working damn hard these past few days. Harder than Toni does half the time.” There was that deep, sexy chuckle again; this time I laughed with him. “How about I show you around? Would you like to see the French Quarter?”

  “I would love to see the French Quarter. But I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “You’re not asking. I’m offering. The bar’s closed tonight, so it’s not like we have to rush back. I’ve got the afternoon free, and I’m craving beignets anyway. Plus, I figure I should get to know you if you’re hanging around for a while.”

  “Beignets?”

  “Yeah. Those fluffy pastry things covered in sugar. Really bad for you, but really damn delicious. We could even get some coffee while we’re at it.”

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  He rolled his eyes. “So get an iced tea. Are you coming or what?” He raised his eyebrows expectantly and gave me another tempting smile.

  I chewed on my bottom lip, hesitating, but I really did want to see more of New Orleans, and his invitation seemed genuine. I grabbed my bag off the bed. “All right then, let’s go.”

  The bright sun beamed down on us, though it wasn’t as startlingly hot as it had been recently. It was a perfect afternoon for a walk, but we didn’t walk far. Andre led the way to a bus station, waving and yelling hello at several people he knew along the way. He bought tickets for us both and pointed things out through the window as we took the twenty-minute trip into the French Quarter.
/>   When we got off in a busy section, I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. I loved to travel, and up until a year ago, when the extent of our financial issues became apparent, I’d done it as often as possible.

  Something about the charm and atmosphere of New Orleans reminded me of certain European cities, but it still had a unique energy. Every once in a while, the sound of a big band would come drifting on the breeze, making me want to chase it until I found the parade.

  “You hungry?” Andre asked as he took the lead down a narrow street.

  I shrugged. “I could eat.” As we navigated the busy streets, I realized I was actually ravenous and had only been distracted from it by the sights and sounds.

  We emerged on a main street lined with stores and restaurants. Andre took a left, then opened the door to a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant. It was basic, with stiff chairs and linoleum floors, but packed, not a free table in sight.

  “Andre Stevelo?” A short woman with dreadlocks down to her waist came out from behind the counter. She enveloped him in a hug, her stubby arms wrapping around his middle. He was nearly twice her height.

  She released him and whacked him in the stomach. “You never come to see me. Where have you been? Sit down, I’ll make you lunch,” she said in a Creole accent, shuffling us into stools at the counter. As we settled in, she asked Andre a million questions, which he answered in rapid succession.