One Night, Two Consequences

‘Remy?’

It was the voice from her dreams—the one she still heard in her ear, against her skin. The one she heard in the memories she relived over and over again every night.

‘Bo?’

He was dressed in battered jeans and an open-neck white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms. He was here, all six-foot-something of pure, angry male. He got up slowly and she saw that his eyes were slate-grey and as hard.

‘What did you just say?’

What had she just said? She was so flabbergasted by his presence that she couldn’t remember … Oh, hell. Pregnant. His baby.

Oh, heavens, why did these things keep happening to her? Remy bit her bottom lip and folded her arms across her chest, thinking about damage control. ‘Um … obviously I didn’t mean to tell you like that …’

‘You’re pregnant?’ Bo shouted, and she winced as his words bounced off the walls.

‘Yes.’

Was it hot in here? she wondered as the floor rose and fell. Along with heat there was suddenly no air. Instinctively she reached out her hand and grabbed the edge of the bar to keep herself from falling over. She saw dots behind her eyes, felt the blackness coming closer.

The last thing she heard before crumpling to the floor was Eli’s amused comment. ‘Well, now, isn’t this interesting?’

JOSS WOOD wrote her first book at the age of eight and has never really stopped writing. Her passion for putting letters on a blank screen is matched only by her love of books and travelling—especially to the wild places of Southern Africa—and possibly by her hatred of ironing and making school lunches.

Fuelled by coffee, when she’s not writing or being a hands-on mum, Joss—with her background in business and marketing—works for a non-profit organisation to promote the local economic development and collective business interests of the area where she resides. Happily and chaotically surrounded by books, family and friends, she lives in KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa, with her husband, children and their many pets.

One Night,

Two Consequences

Joss Wood

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

REMY DRAYCOTT LOOKED at the open brochure in front of her as she sipped her glass of Belleaire Chardonnay. So this was the town of Bellevue, she thought, looking across the swish wine bar through the floor-to-ceiling windows onto the main street of the town. Cosmopolitan, sophisticated, quietly rich, it had an air of European elegance.

She liked it. A lot.

From what she’d seen so far on her brief tour of the towns of the Napa Valley, Bellevue—right at the north end of the valley—seemed to be a mixture of the best of the rest. It had take-your-breath-away views of the Palisade Mountains, a smidgeon of the old-world charm of Calistoga, a little of the casual elegance of St Helena and, if she had to judge by the superb gourmet burger she’d eaten for lunch at the glossy diner down the street, the same passion for food as Yountsville.

It was a pity she was only passing through … The town was begging for her to stay a little longer, explore a little more.

No, she couldn’t, she thought, pushing temptation away. For the first time in—well, years, she actually had a deadline to be in a place at a specific time. And the reminder of why she had to be in Portland in three days’ time had her throwing back the rest of her wine and signalling the barman for a refill.

In seventy-two hours, give or take, her mother was due to give birth to her half-sibling and Remy had promised to be there. Not in the hospital waiting room or waiting at home, like a normal person, but in the delivery room itself. With her mum—obviously—her grandmother, and her brand-new stepdad, who was just seven years old than herself.

Remy lifted her glass to her lips. She was amazed and terrified and confused about the entire situation.

Amazed that after a lifetime of being a single parent—well, that wasn’t entirely true … Grandma Rosie had been her other parent in every way that counted—her intense, brilliant and fiercely feminist mother had settled down with a high school sports coach. Terrified for her because she was, in medical terms, an elderly mother—which essentially meant that a lot more could go wrong in a forty-four-year-old body than in a seventeen-year-old one. And confused because … Well, there was more than a quarter of a century’s gap between her and her nearly here sibling.

Twenty-seven years … That was more than confusing—that was a tad bizarre.

It was all very weird and unsettling. Remy desperately hoped that Jan would take a different approach to raising this child than she had to her. Dear God, she could only pray. Just be normal, she told her still baking sibling. Normal would be perfect.

Remy felt the mood in the wine bar shift, felt the energy change. Grateful to be distracted from her thoughts, she turned her head to look at the new arrival into the elegant space. The man had stopped to talk to a couple sitting at a table close to the front door. His back was to her, so she admired the broad shoulders the white dress shirt covered, and the spectacular butt beneath the tailored, expensive black suit pants.

Finished with that conversation, he moved on to the next table, shaking hands and kissing cheeks, and Remy waited for him to turn around so that she could see his face. She rested her chin in the palm of her hand—at ease, as always, with flying solo.

In the corner a short brunette strummed a guitar and crooned into a microphone, while a group of women her age sat in a booth, laughing raucously and slamming tequilas. Groups of people were gathered around the horseshoe-shaped bar, and Remy couldn’t help noticing the interested and predatory female eyes tracking Hot and Sexy’s progress to the bar. In a room brimming with handsome and successful men he had the ability to capture a lot of attention without doing much at all.

He eventually made it to the general vicinity of where she was sitting and Remy could—finally!—see that face up close and personal: wavy dark brown hair, almost black, a long nose, and deep-set, mysterious eyes. Strong jaw, sexy mouth.

Oh, yeah. Very hot. Incredibly sexy.

Remy tipped her head as he was pulled into yet another conversation and noticed that while he didn’t seem to say much when he did people listened. Really listened. Even in silence he exuded confidence and control. More than his face or his body—both of which were panty-droppingly attractive—it was that control and confidence that intrigued her. Alpha male, she decided quickly: powerful, wealthy, in charge.

She’d known many alpha men. They had littered the offices, bars and pavements of New York. ‘Arrogant’ and ‘entitled’ hadn’t turned her head for a long, long time. He did. And she had to wonder why. Something about him made her lady bits quiver—and quivering was a not a good thing. Not good at all.

She was passing through Bellevue and she didn’t need any distractions. This man, she realised instinctively, was the type who women made themselves look silly over, changed their plans for, embarrassed themselves with.

Remy was too smart to do any of the above.

Too smart, period.

Bo Tessier had noticed her as soon as he’d pushed through the glass doors to his family’s wine-tasting bar in the heart of Bellevue town—a venue that both locals and tourists flocked to for their evening entertainment. Her elbow was propped on the bar and her hand held up her head. Her hair was a long fall of rich brown messy, loose curls, shot through with chestnut streaks too subtle to have come out of a salon. She had sculpted cheekbones, a stubborn chin, and a body that was long and lean—almost scrawny.

‘You heard that Bella passed away?’

He pulled his attention away from the beauty at the bar and looked down at the expectant faces at the table he was standing next to. He’d been answering the same question all day. Yes, of course he’d heard that Bella Abram, his neighbour and owner of Bella’s Folly—a Queen Anne mansion on five acres, bordering the east side of Belleaire—had passed away in her sleep the night before last.

‘We’re wondering who will inherit. Bella was quite well off.’

And there was the other comment he’d been hearing all day.

As for the heirs—who knew? Bella had kept the valley entertained with her many torrid affairs, but she’d never married, and since as far as anyone knew she was the only child of only children … dead end. When her heir was identified he’d be first in line with an offer to purchase. He could do without her monstrosity of a house, filled with rubbish, but he wanted that land. More land meant more vines, and there would be space for tunnels to grow organic exotic fruits and vegetables to supply their restaurants—and others in the area.

He was very aware that the land, being on the main tourist route leading into town from the more southerly towns in the Napa Valley, was also a prime spot to be developed. Belleaire did not need a housing estate or a golf course or a shopping mall on its doorstep. He couldn’t think of anything worse.

Extricating himself from the conversation, he moved towards the busy bar as a tourist group seated in a circle rose and, gathering their jackets and bags, drifted towards the exit. Bo stepped up to the bar and raked his hand through his hair.

‘Your usual, sir?’ the barman asked, and Bo nodded.

The barman scuttled across the area behind the bar and Bo winced when an expensive bottle of whiskey nearly slipped from his hand. Resisting the urge to climb over the bar and pour his own drink—he’d worked behind this bar during his college years—he drummed his fingers against the surface before abruptly stopping when he recalled his sister Ginny’s words.

‘You intimidate the hell out of our staff, Bo. You’re so distant, so unapproachable. Loosen up, smile at them occasionally. Crack a joke, compliment them.’

Years ago—before he’d lost Ana and long before he’d assumed the enormous responsibilities of running the Belleaire Group—he would have found that easier to do. These days he didn’t have the time or the energy or the inclination to soft-soap people into doing their jobs.

Communication was not his strong point—as Ginny frequently reminded him.

‘You can only take strong and silent so far, brother darling. No man is an island and all that …’

Bo gave a mental shrug. It worked for him, and since he worked crazy hours running their multimillion-dollar group of companies, comprising vineyards, a winery, farms, a hotel, restaurants and more than a few wine bars, he didn’t see the point in fixing what wasn’t broken.

Bo lifted the glass of whiskey on ice and closed his eyes as the first sip slid easily down his throat. His business might be built on wine, but there was nothing like a good shot of Irish whiskey to soothe.

Looking across the bar, he caught the eye of the barman again. ‘Has my cousin been in?’

‘Eli has come and gone, sir. He waited for you, but said to tell you that he’d catch up with you in the morning.’

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the woman’s head lift, knew that she was listening to their conversation. He felt her eyes on his face, sensed her interest. He didn’t mind—hell, she was gorgeous.

But many, many gorgeous women strolled in and out of this wine bar, through the tasting rooms back at the vineyard, through their restaurant, their art gallery, hotel … his office, his life. He never picked up random women. If he required female company—he was only thirty-five and he frequently did—he had a couple of women on speed dial. Women he knew, liked, was comfortable with. Women who understood that he only wanted a couple of hours’ strings-free fun.

Bo placed his forearms on the bar and looked at his foot resting on the gold rail, resisting the temptation to look her way and initiate conversation. He should be heading back to the estate, to the first of the four luxury houses they’d had built when they’d decided to turn the Belleaire mansion and family home into a boutique hotel. The houses were tucked into the east end of the estate, beyond the vineyards, and were far enough away from each other so that he didn’t feel as if he was living in his sister’s or his cousin’s pockets. The fourth house, smaller than the rest, they kept for visiting family and friends.

He had a full day tomorrow, a crazy week ahead, and he was nuts to be even considering chatting up this beauty with shadows under her eyes. He knew instinctively that she wasn’t his type. He liked women like himself: cool, collected, calm. He could tell from the short sundress she wore with kick-ass cowboy boots, from her curly down-to-the-waist hair and make-up-free face, that this woman was a free spirit.

He always ran as far and as fast as he could away from free spirits, adventurers, women who marched to the beat of their own drum. He preferred women who were uncomplicated, undemanding, easy-going. Calm … He really liked calm.

He just knew that this woman was anything but …

So toss back your whiskey and get out of here, Tessier. And there’s no point in running pickup lines through your head. You are not going to use them on her or anybody else.

Smart, very successful—rich, if she had to judge by his subdued designer threads—and a little or a lot lost, Remy thought. His broad shoulders looked tight and his thumb tapping against his tumbler suggested tension. His hair held the furrows of frustrated fingers raking through it.

She recognised stress when she saw it—after all, she’d once been the living, breathing embodiment of it—and she sympathised. He needed more than one hastily thrown back whiskey and some conversation. He needed to relax, to laugh, and probably a healthy bout of really good sex.

She could help with one and two, and she couldn’t emphatically state that three was out of the question. She was that attracted to him …

Here’s hoping you have a sense of humour, cutie, because if you don’t I’m about to fall flat on my face …

‘You are just the way I like my coffee. Tall, dark and strong.’

He half turned towards her and she sucked in her breath at her first proper look at his eyes, which were gunmetal-grey, framed by dark, spiky lashes.

His straight, dark eyebrows pulled together. ‘Excuse me?’

Remy made a clucking noise and pretended to think. ‘Didn’t work? Well, what about this …? I’ve been looking for a man with a VCR and I’ve finally found the perfect one … That’s a Very Cute Rear, by the way.’

He rolled his eyes but she saw humour flash in them. Thank God.

His strong face remained impassive, and if it hadn’t been for that flicker of fun she’d noticed she would have run for the hills.

‘Seriously?’

Remy flashed her naughtiest grin. ‘Really cheesy, huh?’

That sexy mouth tipped up just a little at the corners. ‘Very.’

‘Okay—last one. Aren’t you the guy who’s going to buy me my next drink?’

He stared at her for a moment, before releasing a smile which took him from cool and remote to vaguely accessible.

Oh, cutie, you definitely need to smile a lot more.

‘Not great, but tolerable.’

His voice was low, melodious, and as smooth as the expensive whiskey he was drinking, she thought as he turned away to order her a drink. Then he took the vacant seat next to her and, as she’d expected, blinked when he noticed her eyes. Instead of commenting on the pale golden colour, as so many people did, he just crossed his arms, big biceps pulling the sleeves of his dress shirt tight across his arms. She longed to loosen that perfectly knotted red tie, to undo the top button of that blindingly white shirt. She wondered what he would look like in lived-in jeans and a T-shirt … how he looked naked. Fantastic, she decided.

‘So, do those dreadful pickup lines usually work for you?’ he asked, his eyes unreadable again.

‘You bought me a drink, didn’t you?’ Remy pointed out.

‘This is true.’ He pushed the glass of wine in her direction. ‘Got any others?’

‘Pickup lines? Sure.’

‘Hit me.’

‘They are pretty dreadful,’ she warned him, her expression inviting him to flirt a little, laugh a lot.

‘I don’t know … the VCR one was dated and dreadful.’

Remy tapped her finger against the bar and pretended to think. ‘Okay, what about … your body is a wonderland and I want to be Alice?’

He groaned.

‘Could you please step away from the bar? You’re melting all the ice?’

There was that smile again.

‘Are you a dictionary? Because you just gave me the definition of gorgeous?’

Yeah, the smile’s growing bigger. C’mon, I know it’s in there somewhere.

‘You’re so hot a firefighter couldn’t put you out.’

His unexpected laughter rumbled over her and Remy couldn’t help her shiver, which was quickly followed by heat flowing through her veins. She’d got him to smile properly, to laugh. She felt as if she’d won a seriously important prize.

She sent him another dazzling smile. ‘I’m Remy.’

‘Robert, but most people call me Bo.’

Robert was too uptight, too formal, Remy thought as she took a sip of her wine, but she supposed it suited his cool, calm, Lord of the Manor attitude. ‘Bo’ suited the laughing man she’d seen behind the stick-up-his-ass façade.

And she really found that man far too attractive.

This is a good time to get up and leave, Draycott. Before you do something really stupid like inviting him to inspect your panties—which just happen to be red and barely there. Take your reality pill, honey. Remember the last time you had sex? Which happened to be your first and only one-night stand? Two years ago? It was so unfulfilling that you swore you’d never do it again … Is this ringing any bells yet?

It was, but she really, really didn’t want to listen to Sensible Remy. She wasn’t any fun …

‘How long are you staying in Bellevue?’ he asked, distracting her from her crazy thoughts.

Remy looked at the functional, no-frills watch on her wrist. ‘Ten hours or so? I’m hitting the road at first light. Do you live in the area?’

He nodded. ‘Are you travelling alone?’

She knew that he was fishing—could see the attraction she felt echoed in his eyes. ‘Yep, just me.’

‘It’s a nice holiday … touring the wine country,’ he replied, his tone so bland that she wondered if she was perhaps reading him wrong.

Then his hand moved across the bar and his thumb stroked over the pulse-point of her wrist, which instantly bolted at his touch.

Holy hell, she was playing with fire, she thought, staring at his strong, broad hand on her pale wrist. Unable to pull away from his touch, so simple and so devastating, she used her other hand to pick up her wine glass and lubricate her mouth.

‘So, how has your trip been so far?’

Same voice, but his eyes were on her mouth and the gunmetal-grey had turned smoky with passion. How could he keep his voice so smooth while she was a maelstrom of nerves and lust and attraction? Kiss me, already, she wanted to beg.

No begging allowed, Sensible Remy whispered in her ear.

‘Oh, I’m not on holiday … I’m a professional vagrant.’ That sounded better—a little breathy but there had been words in a sentence. Pretty impressive, really.

His thumb on her wrist stopped. Noooo!

‘Want to explain that?’ he asked.

She couldn’t. All she could think about was the effect he was having on her and her desire to get him naked, to have her hands on that warm, muscled, masculine flesh. There was no way to verbalise that three years ago she’d lived in New York, that her doctorate in computer science had landed her the position of youngest Chief Information Officer of a Fortune 500 company. Ever.

She’d had an apartment in Manhattan, worked eighty-hour weeks, had an ulcer the size of a fist and had been prone to panic attacks. She’d been discontented, unhappy, unfulfilled. Bitchy, demanding, impatient. She could never tell him that it had taken her landing up in hospital to realise that she was working herself to death. And for what? A fat pay cheque and her mother’s approval?

Could he even begin to understand why she’d given up everything because she hadn’t liked what she’d been doing or who she’d been doing it for? That she’d run? To Europe, and then Africa, Asia? And when she hadn’t found what she was looking for in foreign places—that nebulous, indefinable something that would make her life make sense—she’d come home to see if she could find it by travelling through her own country.

Seeing that he was still waiting for an answer, she shrugged and bit the inside of her lip. ‘I’ve been travelling for a long time.’

‘Why?’

She tipped her head and shoved her tongue in her cheek. ‘I’m trying to find myself—to work out why I do the things I do and make the choices I make.’

His lips quirked at her dramatic tone. ‘Any luck with that?’

‘Absolutely none,’ Remy replied in a mournful voice. And even while she was mocking herself she silently admitted that she was starting to become slightly concerned that she never would.

‘And how do you support yourself and your gas habit?’

That amazing thumb had resumed its rhythm on her wrist. She could no more pull her hand away than she could adjust the temperature of the sun.

Savings, investments, property … She’d worked so hard that she’d never had time to spend any of her ridiculously huge salary. She earned enough in interest and dividends and rental, and from the occasional virtual consulting job she took, to allow her to keep travelling for a long, long time. If she was really lucky she would find whatever it was that she was looking for soon—in Portland, maybe, or in the next town she visited.