Beauty's Beast Read online

  She was all ready to read him the riot act about not wanting to get caught in a compromising position by – God forbid – her brother, or Luke or anyone else who might wander through at this hour of the morning.

  But then he leaned a bit away from her and asked in a tone rife with care and concern, "Are you all right?"

  Damn, the man made her blush at the drop of a hat! Taren tried to walk away from him, but he wasn't having any of it, both hands splaying at the small of her back to hold her against him so that he could grind his huge erection against her front, but it was distracting her so badly that she finally put her hand on his chest and said, "Stop."

  He did so instantly.

  "Answer me, Taren."

  There was just the slightest domineering edge to his command.

  "I'm fine." Her eyes flitted to his then away.

  "Are you sore?"

  Before she could stop him, he was cupping the area he was expressing concern for. She tried to dance away from his touch, but got nowhere, as usual. She had to stand still for him to possess her like that. Blatant. Covetous. His fingers far from idle as they parted her lips and discovered her clit, in spite of the clothes she was wearing.

  Blushing brightly, she answered breathily, "A bit, yes."

  "I'm sorry." He patted her there then withdrew his hand.

  Taren bit her lip and met his eyes. "Don't be. I'm not."

  His smile was entirely too unholy for that hour of the morning. "I'm glad."

  He allowed her to go, and she began the breakfast prep.

  This morning had been much the same routine, only he'd gifted her with one red rose. How he'd come by it out here, she'd never know, but she couldn't help but be tickled by it.

  "Don't forget we have a date tonight. Wear something nice. Be ready at six – and I don't take kindly to tardiness."

  "Neither do I" she said, ignoring his threat in favor of measuring out the baking mix for pancakes, and wondering where exactly it was that he was going to take her. He had said he wanted to surprise her, and she had no idea where they were going to end up. "But do you still want to do that?"

  His eyebrow rose. "Why wouldn't I?"

  Taren shrugged, wishing she hadn't asked. "Well, we've already slept together…"

  She found herself surrounded by him, pressed up against the counter from behind. "But that doesn't mean I don't want to take you out – I do. So be ready."

  Taren gave him a funny look – as if she wondered why he was trying so hard when she didn't consider it necessary for him to any more, but he was adamant.

  He was going to date her.

  He was going to date the crap out of her – he was going to eek out every second he could grab of time alone with her. Not just so they could have sex, but because he enjoyed her company, and, if his plan worked, he'd be taking her with him on location in Texas when he left…if he played his cards right.

  Chapter Seven

  Taren wasn't sure exactly what it was that she expected from their date. She'd been surprised that he was still so gung ho about them going on one, but he was.

  And when she appeared downstairs in a pretty, lacy black dress, heels and the diamond earrings her mother had left her, Sam was there to whistle appreciatively at her.

  "Damn, Taren, you look great – what's the occasion?"

  Not really sure how he was going to react, Taren, nonetheless, didn't pull any punches. "Bruce asked me out."

  Her brother's eyebrows met his hairline. "He did? I didn't even think you liked him, much less would go out with him."

  She knew she was blushing, but did her best to ignore it. "Well, I do."

  Sam's expression softened somewhat. "I'm glad, but be careful."

  "Careful?"

  Her brother didn't normally have to be protective of her, although in certain situations he definitely was, and this was one of them. "Careful, because he's a star."

  "And I shouldn't be with a star?" she bristled.

  But Sam refused to rise to her bait. "You know I would never think like that. I'm just saying that he's not average folks like we are. He has lunch with Scorsese and Spielberg, and he's probably a billionaire or something like it – plus he's an actor."

  "And he doesn't really want to be with me – he's just acting?"

  Sam was a wonderful Greek chorus, even if he didn't really understand that was his role in this conversation, allowing her to play devil's advocate and give voice to the concerns that had been keeping her up at night. And they didn't sound any better out loud than they did when said insistently by the little voice in her head.

  What was she doing with a megastar actor who could buy and sell this place – and her along with it? Hell, even if she was picture perfect gorgeous – and just not famous – she would still have a slew of insecurities about just being around him, much less dating him.

  She was on the verge of girding her loins to tell him that she didn't want to go when he appeared before them – in full Highland regalia, looking even better than he had when attending the barn dance, if that was even possible.

  He took her breath away.

  But his eyes were only for her – she didn't even think he knew that Sam was there as he crossed the room and bowed low in front of her, saying in a deep, throaty tone, "Good evening, milady. May I say that you look ravishing tonight?"

  She wasn't really wearing a skirt that would do it justice – there was nothing for her to hold out as she did so – but she executed a reasonable curtsey to him. "Good evening, milord. And you look unbelievably handsome, as usual."

  Her smile was just what he needed to see – broad, bright, and happy. He extended his gloved hand to her, and she put her much smaller one in his as he drew her to him. "You are the most beautiful woman on Earth," he whispered huskily as he kissed her, surprised when she stepped away from him deliberately.

  "Sam is here, Bruce," she said by way of explanation as to why she was disengaging from him.

  "He is?" he asked blankly until she pointed towards her brother. "Oh, he is."

  Sam felt he needed to say something to break the somewhat awkward silence. "You both look gorgeous. I should get a picture." He made as if to reach for the phone he kept in his front pocket, then dropped his hand. "No."

  "That sounds like a splendid idea," Bruce agreed, drawing Taren to his side proudly and waiting for the younger man to find his phone.

  But Sam's eyes were not on him. They were on Taren, who was eying the floor with great interest, biting her lip and looking distinctly uncomfortable.

  He might be occasionally dense, but he understood immediately what the problem was, and, Sam or not, he was going to talk to her about it, turning towards her as he turned her to him, and using the tip of his finger to tilt her chin up so that she had no choice but to look at him. "Taren, I take it you don't do pictures."

  She shook her head, still trying to look down rather than at him.

  "Well, I for one, would love to have one to remember this night by. Would you do me the honor of granting me that wish? Just one. I'm so proud to have you on my arm, Taren."

  If she blushed any harder, she was going to end up in an ungainly heap at his feet. What a lovely picture that would make! She knew Sam – who had begged and pleaded for her to take a picture with him a zillion times – was look at her with amazement that she was even entertaining the idea instead of shutting him down immediately.

  Taren drew in a breath, murmuring softly, "All right, if we must."

  Bruce knew she was hoping that he was going to say that they didn't 'must,' but he did want a picture of them together like this – it wasn't every day that he wore a kilt – although he seemed to be making a habit of it here – and he knew she almost never dressed up.

  In the end, Sam took four pictures. He'd've taken more if he hadn't seen that Taren was getting restless, and Bruce – he was glad to see – had noticed it, too.

  "Well, we should be going. We don't want to be late."

  As he was
ushering them out the door, Bruce caught him and said out of the side of his mouth, "Email me those pics, dude, before she changes her mind and tells you to delete them."

  "Done," Sam agreed, patting him on the back.

  Taren had forgotten her wrap, and as she passed by him on her way back from retrieving it out of her room, he murmured, for her ears only, "You must really love him if you'll let him take your picture."

  She gave him a look, but didn't say anything more.

  And fortunately for Bruce, he had excellent hearing, but the only betrayal that he had heard Sam's comment was a small smile on his face.

  This was when she learned exactly why it was that he had them dressed for the red carpet. They didn't just go to any old restaurant in Albuquerque. They did go into the city, but to the airport, instead, where he had rented a private jet.

  When they were ensconced very comfortably inside and taxiing down the runway, she still didn't know where they were going.

  He laughed, liking the way her eyes sparkled with excitement at the surprise. He had hoped this would make her happy, although he really hadn't known whether or not she liked this kind of thing.

  "So?" She leaned towards him, practically in his lap, and he found himself enjoying the view of her pretty breasts as they were displayed – cupped by both the lace of her bra and the lace of her dress – before him.

  "Huh what?"

  "Stop staring at my boobs, and tell me where we're going!" she yelled, although she was grinning when she did it, smacking his arm and regretting it immediately, certain she had broken her fingers in doing so.

  He waggled his eyebrows at her. "Did you bring your passport, lass?"

  He just adored teasing her – her reactions tickled him every time. "I did not – I don't have one to bring!"

  "Well, we'll fix that soon enough. Eventually, I'd like to show you the McCullough ancestral estate." She looked suitably impressed, until he added, "It's a council estate in the cheap streets of Edinburgh. A little two bedroom flat with a shared lavvy that I grew up in."

  She'd watch enough BBC America programming to be able to translate the British vernacular – at he'd grown up, not in some lavish Downton Abbeyish countryside estate, but rather in the UK equivalent of government housing, in a not very good neighborhood, in a two bedroom apartment with a shared bathroom.

  "As luck would have it, you won't need one on this trip. I figured we'd skip over to Vegas, where I can spoil you rotten in the style to which I'm hoping you'll become hopelessly accustomed and never want to leave my side again."

  She was giggling, something he had a good idea she didn't do nearly enough. And although he'd said it to make her laugh, it was, almost uncomfortably, close to what he actually wanted to happen. If 'things' made her happy, he'd be delighted to buy her whatever her little heart desired if she'd agree to stay with him.

  He knew she wasn't that kind of a person, though, he'd encountered enough of that type as he was coming up in the world – she was someone of much simpler tastes – as was he. But he would do just about anything to keep her close.

  And for now, he intended to do exactly as he'd said. What good was all this money he was raking in as one of the highest paid actors in the world if he couldn't spend it on someone he…

  He forced himself to finish the thought.

  He loved.

  Taren Cavanaugh was that someone.

  Once they had taken off, he undid the seatbelt that he'd insisted they both use, even though, it didn't look as if anyone else ever had. But he'd given her that look that set her bottom to stinging, even though he hadn't touched it, and she had complied, if a bit grudgingly – and he gathered her to him, onto his lap, and there she spent a large portion of the flight, being fussed over and held and fondled mercilessly – among other things – until they touched down.

  Taren did something she'd never really done before and was trying her very best to simply turned herself over to him. She let him take her where he wanted to. They were both starving – neither had eaten since lunch at about noon – so he brought her to the very expensive restaurant of an extremely well-known chef.

  They didn't enter through the front door, either, where there was a truly impressive line, but were escorted through a private entrance to a private dining area. The chef himself – who Bruce knew personally – came out to see them, and he treated them to a tasting menu that he had created for them, each course more rich and extravagant than the last.

  Bruce loved a woman who enjoyed her food. He hated sitting down to dinner with someone who picked at her food or barely ate any of it, especially considering what something like this cost. But he had hoped he knew Taren well enough to know that this was something she would enjoy. He certainly knew that she enjoyed watching food competition shows and cooking, and it seemed as if he had guessed correctly.

  "My word, Bruce, you can't possibly eat like this all the time," Taren groaned, dabbing at her lips with the napkin then folding it and laying it on the table.

  He chuckled. "Oh the contrary. When I'm getting ready for a role – one that's going to be particularly athletic or physically gruelling – I'm on a very strict regime of disgustingly healthy food, and even when I'm not I eat pretty conservatively, pretty healthily. My body is my instrument, and I need to know I can count on it, so I have to feed it well. But, as you may have noticed," he lowered his voice and teased, "I'm a bit of a hedonist, too, and when I get a chance to indulge myself a bit, I do. You liked it, then?"

  "I liked it too much – you're going to have to roll me out of here!"

  "Don't be silly, lass," he corrected. "If you can't walk, I'll carry you. The paparazzi would love to get a photo of that, I'm sure."

  Her face fell at the mention of the hoards of photographers that must follow him everywhere. She knew that – even on the ranch – there were pictures of him on everyone's Twitter and Facebook and Instagram accounts, and there were even, occasionally, girls at the entrance to the ranch who would have given their eye teeth just to meet him.

  She had to admit that they were able to skirt at lot of that kind of fuss by entering and exiting through private entrances. He took her to a big casino, and they were shown to a private, V.I.P. gaming area. She'd never done any gambling, and although, she would have been interested in playing a slot machine, she couldn't even see where it told you how much it was per pull, and she hadn't brought any money with her, anyway.

  He saw her eying one of the machines and encouraged her to sit down at it, putting a card into the slot for debit cards and taking the empty seat next to her. "Try your luck, little lady."

  "But it doesn't even say how much it costs to play!"

  Bruce's curled finger found her chin and turned her face towards him. "That's nothing you need to worry about when you're with me." She frowned fiercely, and he knew she didn't like him saying that at all. "For the rest of our little respite before roundup, here, I don't want you to worry about anything. Let me take care of you and show you a good time." He held up his hand as if he was solemnly swearing something on a stack of bibles. "I promise that nothing we do tonight will cause me any financial hardship in the least." He leaned over to whisper in her ear, "I would never allow you to do anything like that, anyway, lass."

  She had been so relaxed on the plane with him – thanks to a few glasses of what she was sure was horribly expensive champagne – that they had discussed a few things he'd had on his mind since they had made love. And he had coaxed and cajoled and teased her, his hand slipping beneath her dress as she sat on his lap without so much as a 'by your leave.' Frowning at finding she'd worn nylons, which he proceeded to divest her of and ban her from ever wearing again – those big fingers of his tucking themselves under the waistband of her undies and finding that which he sought, that which he considered to be his.

  And then he'd proceeded to ask her the most embarrassing questions about what she'd liked and not liked about when they'd made love, and what she thought she'd like or not
like a man to do to her in general. It came as no surprise that she'd flat out lied to him and told him that she didn't like being spanked one bit.

  "If you did then I'd be doing it all wrong," he'd quipped, completely unrepentant.

  "I'm not kidding."

  "Neither am I." He took a sip of his champagne and met her eyes. "But you do love being spanked. Perhaps not at the time, but your body does, even when I'm laying into you." His finger found its way past her opening as it was drenched in her juices. "And the proof is right here."

  She breathed his name, suddenly weak with remembered passion, leaning against him and leaning her face against that thick neck.

  "What else do you like, I wonder, Miss Cavanaugh? Do you like it when I scold you? When I say no? When I control you and tell you what you may or may not do? When I tell you that you must obey me?"

  Whether she knew it or not, her body contracted strongly around his finger every time he mentioned something, although she was also shaking her head, 'no,' emphatically each time, too.

  "I think you like to be teased, to have your pleasure drawn out, and be a bit tortured by it."

  More and stronger contractions and protestations, although, she had also been moving her legs restlessly and arching her breasts against his chest.

  He removed his finger from inside her and dragged it slowly up to that already swollen and rigid clit of hers, rubbing it lazily and driving her crazy, from the sounds she was making; they were what was driving him out of his mind. He delivered his words as slowly and carefully as he was caressing her. "Because, from now on, I'm the only one who can make you cum. Your fingers are officially retired from that pursuit unless I'm there, telling you to touch. And the only way you'll be allowed to cum in any way is with my permission."

  He was hitting every hot button she owned – one more than any of the others – and she was amazed to find herself literally seconds from an orgasm when he withdrew his hand completely and reached for his champagne glass.