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Prologue
Melville’s Cross, May, the worst day of Rafael Bennett’s life.
Rafe leanedback against the bedhead, his long legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles, a glass of bourbon in one hand and a boring, long-winded deposition in the other.
He took another swig from the glass, the alcohol burning his throat as he swallowed it down, and tried to focus. He’d been reading the same paragraph for twenty minutes and it still hadn’t sunk in.
He was distracted.
Because ofher.
“‘Abby has a new man,’ they said. ‘We want to fuck with his head,’ they said. ‘It’ll be fun,’ they said,” Rafe groused under his breath, imitating his brothers and the conversation they’d had the week before. “Fun. Right.”
He downed the shot of bourbon.
“Fun” was not a word he had much to do with these days. “Work” was the prominent word in his life now. And “tired”. That was a word he definitely associated with. So when the chance came to get out of the city and spend a relaxing weekend with his family, talking shit with his brothers, teasing his sister and sizing up her new man, how could he refuse?
Because at the time he’d agreed to join them, he’d forgotten abouther.
Jane Melville.
The woman drove him crazy with that mischievous grin of hers, and the way her hips would sway when she walked—towards him or away from him, it didn’t matter. She was mesmerising. And dangerous. As beautiful as she was intelligent, and as passionate as she was insane, she had a temper as fiery as her hair and man, could she hold a grudge.
A slow smile spread across his face as he remembered how she’d looked at the town picnic just hours before. So sexy. So enticing. Dressed like the pin-up girls painted on old World War II bombers, licking pink frosting off a cupcake with that talented tongue of hers and staring him down from across the village green, daring him to take action, to take her.
But he hadn’t.
He hadn’t walked over to her, hadn’t driven his hands through her hair, and hadn’t pulled her to him and claimed her mouth with all the passion she inspired in him. Instead, he’d avoided her, had kept his hands to himself and behaved like the staid gentleman everyone thought he was.
Everyone except her.
Jane knew him better than that.
Jane knew him better than anyone.
Rafe tossed the document aside and poured another finger of bourbon, sighing quietly as he swirled the rich amber liquid in the glass.
She was getting married soon, and Rafe had rules about that sort of thing. He was a lawyer, well respected in his profession, and most importantly, he wasnothis father.
Ulysses Bennett may have given in to temptation time and time again, dabbling with every other woman who crossed his path, but Rafe was not so foolish. He’d witnessed first-hand the destruction his father’s indiscretions had caused, the anguish and the heartbreak. So he’d always vowed to take his relationships seriously.
And he had.
Especiallyher.
“Is that drink for me?”
Jane’s small hand reached out and took the glass, her silky hair trailing over his chest as she leaned up to sip from the tumbler, her naked breasts, small and firm, pressed against his side.
Rafe swallowed hard as he fought to contain the violent emotions welling within him: the excitement and lust he’d felt at finding her in his bed dressed in nothing but a pair of his boxer shorts and silk necktie; his regret, knowing he’d never share another moment like that with her again; and the guilt of sleeping with another man’s woman.
Even one as undeserving as Sam Lyndon.
“What are you thinking about?” Jane said, reaching across him to slide the tumbler onto the bedside table.
“You don’t want to know.”
Sighing heavily, she settled back against his side and twirled her fingertip through his chest hair. “Not this again, Rafe.”
