The Braddock Boys: Brent

The Braddock

Boys: Brent

Kimberly Raye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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This book is dedicated to my mother.

Sometimes when life doesn’t turn out as planned,

the only thing we can do is hang on for the ride.

I know it’s been bumpy, but keep

hanging on for me,

I love you!

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Copyright

1

BRENT BRADDOCK HAD NEVER been the type of man to beat around the bush when it came to something he wanted. He was straightforward. Determined. Persistent.

One hundred and fifty years as a vampire who fed off both blood and sex hadn’t changed him much.

While the average bloodsucker tried to curb the lust with a little roll in the hay, Brent preferred going straight for the jugular, no pun intended.

Not that he didn’t like sex.

He loved it, and he sure as shootin’ fired off a round whenever possible. Once upon a time, he’d been one of the fastest guns in the Confederacy and the most precise. Now he called himself a bodyguard and offered his skills to the highest bidder, which meant he spent a great deal of time in the big cities.

New York. Chicago. L.A. Prime hunting ground when it came to getting down and dirty. He could fall into bed with the prettiest filly around and never run the risk of seeing her again.

But this was small town central.

If he bedded a woman tonight, he was sure to bump into her again and again before he said goodbye to this map dot. While she might not remember him thanks to his vamp mojo, he would remember her. Worse, she would become more than a face. And that he didn’t like.

He didn’t want to know that she’d been voted Most Popular back in high school or that her dad owned the local feed store or that she went to the VFW Hall every Thursday night for spaghetti dinner. He didn’t want to know her, period.

Knowing made it harder to turn his back and walk away.

And Brent Braddock always walked away.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” muttered the woman who pushed through the rear Exit of the Dairy Freeze. “I’m a waitress not a bus boy. I do tables, not trash.”

The door creaked shut behind her, muffling the whir of a shake machine and the hisss and poppp! of a burger grill. June bugs bumped against the single bulb that burned near the back door.

She wore a white button up blouse with her name embroidered in pink across the right pocket, white shorts and a pair of white sneakers. Her breaths echoed in his ears and he tuned in to the steady thump of her pulse.

A knife twisted inside of him and his muscles clenched. Heat hummed the length of his spine. His hunger stirred. He watched as she dumped an empty banana crate near the dumpster a few feet away from where he stood in the shadows.

She started to turn, but then her gaze hooked on him and she started. “Holy Toledo,” she touched a hand to her chest, “you scared me.” She eyed him. “We don’t allow customers out back.”

“I’m not a customer.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Waiting.” His words slid into her ears and just like that, her annoyance faded and her interest piqued.

Her brow smoothed and her eyes sparked. “For who?”

“Who do you think?” He stared deep into her eyes and tuned into the rush of feelings bombarding her. Her anxiety because she was only one of two carhops on duty on a busy Friday night—the other was old lady Dolly who waited tables about as fast as a Thanksgiving turkey sharpened his own ax. Her anger because she’d spotted her ex, aka The Rat Bastard, having a banana split with some tramp named Bernice. Her insecurity because she should have remembered to put on a swipe of lipstick before taking out the trash.

Talk about stinking rotten luck. In the six years since she’d graduated high school, she’d spent a fortune trying every dating service known to mankind only to meet Mr. Tall, Dark and Yummy on her way to the f-ing dumpster.

She licked her lips and tried to think of something witty to say. “Why don’t you come around front? I’ll bring you one of our new Fat Cow burgers. It’s a double decker with bacon and three slices of cheese. It sounds like a heart attack just waiting to happen, but it’s really awesome. Especially with our double deluxe strawberry malt—” “I don’t want a hamburger.” “Then what do you want? If it’s French fries, I could definitely make that happen—“

“You,” he murmured again, but this time he made sure she got his meaning loud and clear. “I want you.” He held her stare and willed away everything except the passion bubbling inside her. “Don’t talk.” He fed her lust with his own until her cheeks flushed. “Don’t think.” Her breaths quickened. Her eyes sparked. “Just feel.”

The clenching inside your body.

The wetness between your legs.

The heat licking at your skin.

He sent the silent messages and her gaze smoldered. Her hands trembled as she stared back up at him, her expression slightly bewildered. Then a light bulb seemed to go off and suddenly she knew exactly what he wanted. Her eyes sparkled as she slid the buttons free on her blouse. The material parted, revealing a white lace bra. She popped the front clasp and pulled the cups apart. Her breasts sprang free. Her nipples pebbled at the instant rush of air.

His gaze fixed on a faint blue vein barely visible beneath her translucent skin. Her heartbeat drummed in his ears, the sound as intoxicating as the ripe smell that spiraled into his nostrils. His gut tightened and his desperation stirred and then everything faded into a sweet red rush.

He leaned her back over his arm, opened his mouth wide and sank his fangs deep into the flesh just to the right of her nipple.

Soft skin cushioned his lips and liquid heat spurted into his mouth. His fangs tingled and his entire body convulsed. He drew on her harder, deeper, her essence tunneling down his throat and warming him from the inside out. She trembled and gasped and he knew she felt the pleasure as keenly as he did.

The satisfaction.

It rolled through him after several delicious seconds and the tightness clenching his muscles started to ease. The fist in his gut loosened and suddenly he didn’t hurt so much.

He indulged for a few delicious seconds before sanity sent up a red flag and a loud Enough! The beast was sated.

For now.

Easing the pressure, he retracted his fangs. He licked the tiny prick points, savoring the last few drops before leaning back. He caught her gaze and willed her to forget everything.

No tall, dark cowboy lurking in the alley behind the Dairy Freeze.

No uncontrollable lust urging her to strip down.

No fangs sinking into her breast.

Nothing but a sweet, intoxicating orgasm brought on by a very delicious daydream.

He pulled her blouse together. His fingertips lingered at one ripe nipple before he pulled away, buttoned her up and sent her back inside to finish her shift.

After that, he turned on his heel and did what he’d been doing for the past century and a half, ever since he’d been turned into a vampire on that fateful night so long ago—Brent Braddock walked away and never looked back.

2

“WHAT CAN I DO you for, sugar?” asked an ancient woman wearing a white button-up blouse, white polyester slacks and a pink apron.

“I’ll have a double chocolate malt.” Abigail Trent gave the hand-held plastic menu another once-over. “With extra whipped cream.”

Dolly—according to the name embroidered in hot pink on her left pocket—pushed up her cat’s eye glasses. “You sure about that?” She gave a pointed stare at Abigail’s plain black combat boots before shifting up, over a pair of worn Levis, to her Go Navy hoodie. “We’ve got some nice fruit smoothies, sugar. Why don’t you have one of those?” The old woman winked. “Half the calories.”

Abby ignored the pinch to her ego and held tight to her resolve. “I’d rather have a malt.”

Dolly wiggled her carefully penciled in eyebrows as if she were about to dangle a carrot. “We’ve got fresh mango banana.”

“I don’t like bananas.”

“Strawberry Kiwi.”

“I don’t like kiwi.”

Dolly gave her another once over. “You know, sugar, you’re not half bad. What I can see, that is. If I were you, I’d definitely lose that there Unibomber look you got goin’ for yourself. Especially if you want to rope a cowboy.”

Abby narrowed her gaze at the presumptuous woman. “Do I know you?”

“The name’s Dolly Cook and the real question is, do I know you?” She waved a crippled hand. “See, I know everybody in this town. Been working here for the past forty-eight years since me and my husband opened up the place. He passed on about five years ago, God rest his soul. My son took over the kitchen on account of the arthritis in my hands makes it impossible to grip a spatula. Luckily, it ain’t spread to my feet and I can still walk up a storm.” She indicated the white orthopedic shoes that she wore. “I handle the tables on account of I have a crackerjack memory and don’t need to write anything down.” She narrowed her gaze. “I ain’t never seen you here before. You’re new in town.” Dolly arched a white brow. “Visiting family?” Abigail shook her head and the old woman added, “Looking for a job?”

Abby shook her head. “A person.”

“Just what I thought.” She waved a hand. “We get it all the time, what with the divorce rate sky high and the number of good men dropping faster than the stock market on a bad day. Why, women drive in from at least a dozen counties to scope out the local pickins. It’s closer than driving to San Antonio or Austin and there’s a lot less traffic, lemme tell ya.”

“I’m not here looking for—“

“’Course when they realize the women around here are just as desperate,” she went on before Abby could finish, “they usually end up heading for the city. Take that group over there.” She let her gaze shift to a nearby table full of women nursing glasses of pink froth. “They’ll load up on strawberry smoothies and then head for the honky tonk out on Route 9. When they strike out there—and they will strike out on account of every man this side of the Guadalupe will be over at the VFW for poker night—they’ll head for Austin. They might have better luck there, but I wouldn’t put my money on it. A good man is hard to find these days.” Her gaze shifted back to Abby. “Sugar, if you want to lasso yourself a decent cowboy, you need to give yourself every advantage. That means ditching the fatty malt.”

“I’m not trying to lasso a cowboy.”

“Sugar, you can deny it all you want. But I see what’s right in front of me. You’ve got desperate, hopeful and horny written all over your face. You’re looking for a man, all right.”

Yeah, she was. But it wasn’t what Dolly thought.

Command Master Chief Petty Officer Abigail Trent wasn’t looking for just any man. She was hot on the trail of her man, aka Rayne Montana, the best of an elite group of Navy Seals that Abby had hand-picked and trained herself. He’d gone AWOL two weeks ago in the mountains outside of Afghanistan.

Her first thought was that he’d gotten himself killed. But they’d yet to recover a body. If he’d been kidnapped (her second thought), his abductors would have contacted the Navy to bargain a trade for one of their own by now.

The MPs had come to the conclusion that he’d snapped from the pressure and bailed. They were in the process of tracking a credit card trail from Afghanistan to Switzerland.

But Rayne was too smart to leave such obvious clues. Even more, he was too good to cut and run. Too loyal. Too trustworthy. Like Abby, he’d been career military. Married to his job. Proud of each and every operation. He took his duty seriously. He wouldn’t have abandoned a mission and compromised his entire unit unless he’d had no other choice.

Unless he was in serious trouble.

Despite what the higher ups were saying.

They were blaming Abby. They were convinced he’d cracked and that she’d been remiss and failed to notice. She’d been the Officer in Charge. The sole person responsible for the success of the mission and the safety of each man involved. It had been her duty to bring everyone home. To account for each and every man in her unit.

And that’s what she intended to do.

Abby had let the MPs go on their wild goose chase while she’d taken a two week leave and hopped a plane for Rayne’s hometown. It was Psych 101. When people were scared, they often gravitated back to the familiar. And if there was one thing Abby knew, Rayne Montana had to be scared. Fear was the only thing that would have pulled him away from the military.

And kept him away.

At least that was her latest theory and the one that had brought her to Skull Creek, Texas, to see if maybe, just maybe she could find a clue as to his whereabouts. Maybe he’d reached out to an old friend. Called them up. Paid them a visit. Sent them a letter. An e-mail. A text. Something.

She’d driven into town just a half hour ago and now she was here at the local drive-in, the only place open past sundown on a Friday night.

Located on the outskirts of town, the Dairy Freeze was the quintessential small town scene and the exact opposite of the various cities where her father had been stationed while she’d been growing up. Twelve of them to be exact, in as many years. He’d been a leading Naval recruitment officer back then, a job that had demanded constant travel and so they’d moved regularly. But while the address had changed, the atmosphere hadn’t. Crowded. Noisy. Impersonal.

This place was crowded and noisy, too, but it was different. People knew each other. They smiled. They talked. Her gaze shifted to the cluster of round wrought iron tables that sat in front of a sliding order-up window. At one table, a busy mother handed out ice cream cones to a group of messy youngsters. At the next, an elderly couple drank root beer floats, shared an order of onion rings and offered up a stack of napkins when one of the kids dumped his ice cream in his lap. Next to them a cluster of teenage boys in high school letter jackets and cowboy boots mingled with a handful of girls from a nearby car. Rows of drive-up stalls, filled with everything from pick-up trucks to mini-vans, lined either side of the busy courtyard area. People rolled down their windows and chatted with whoever sat next to them while the latest George Strait song drifted from the outdoor speakers. The smell of chili cheese fries and sugary sweet soft serve filled the air and stirred a strange sense of longing.

For food, of course.

Abigail had been living on powdered milk and beef jerky in the mountains outside of Kabul for the past six months. She certainly wasn’t feeling suddenly hollow because the entire scene reminded her of her late mother and the one visit she’d paid to her grandparents when she’d been five.

She pushed aside the strange sense of melancholy and steeled herself as she faced Dolly.

“Thanks for the advice, but I’d rather have the malt.” Words to live by as far as Abigail was concerned. Men were distracting. She’d learned that firsthand back in high school when she’d almost thrown away a full ride to the Naval Academy for one measly date with the captain of the hockey team. She’d lusted after him for months, dreamt about him, penciled his name on her notebook. He’d been so perfect and she’d wanted him so much. Enough to miss her application interview in favor of getting her hair done for the first—and only—time to try to impress him.

A wasted effort because the Hockey Hunk had stood her up for the head cheerleader. A girl who wore short skirts and high heels and lots of makeup. Luckily Abby had had a perfect record and so the acceptance board had rescheduled her interview and given her one more chance.

She’d realized then and there that she simply couldn’t compete when it came to all the girlie stuff. Her hair would never curl quite as much and her body didn’t fill out the sexy clothes quite as well. She’d also vowed to never let a man make a fool of her ever again. While she went out every now and then (she was a grown woman with needs, after all), she didn’t let herself get emotionally involved. She didn’t sit around dreaming of a big wedding or a happily ever after. She was living her dream—to stand on her own feet, command her own unit and serve her country.

She was good at it. She liked it. Even if it was a little lonely every now and then.

“Oh, and add a double chili dog to that,” she added, eager to ignore the sudden tightening in her gut. Real food hadn’t been the only thing she’d done without all those months in Afghanistan. It had been over eleven since she’d been with a man and she needed a really good orgasm in a really bad way. Not that a man was required in order to have one, but vibrators had yet to become standard issue special ops gear and so she’d been forced to leave her deluxe model Big Man at home. Since she didn’t fraternize with her men and in-field operations didn’t permit time or energy for fooling around, she’d done without. Add the fact that Rayne was missing, and her superiors were holding her personally responsible to the mix, and she was definitely feeling some major frustration.

“Add a double order of chili cheese fries to that, too,” she told Dolly.

“Whatever you say.” The old woman pursed her lips. “Damned young folks. Never listen to one iota of advice.” She turned and waddled toward the glass door that led inside.

“With extra cheese,” Abigail called after her before turning her attention to her surroundings.

She wasn’t asking any questions yet. She’d come off a hellacious flight and she was tired. Which meant that tonight was all about doing a little recon and memorizing the lay of the land while she ate her first decent meal in ages. Then she would check into the nearest motel, plan her strategy for tomorrow’s Q & A and get a good night’s rest in a real bed.

She did a quick visual assessment, noting the faces and the cars and the details. She was good with details. It was one thing that made her a top notch commanding officer. That, and her instincts. She could assess a situation in the blink of an eye and note any threats, and then she could take the appropriate action. Deploy. Advance. Flank.

Run!

The warning echoed the moment she spotted the cowboy who rounded the side of the building. He made his way toward a beat-up 1967 Chevy Camaro parked near the road.

A pair of black jeans outlined his long, muscular legs. A black button-down shirt, the tails un-tucked, framed his broad shoulders. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows to reveal the detailed image of a six shooter that had been tattooed on the inside of his left forearm. He wore a black Stetson tipped low on his head, shrouding the upper part of his face.

While he fit with the locals—he certainly looked the part with his boots and Stetson—he didn’t fit.

She tried to picture him swapping stories at the local feed store or hanging out here at the Dairy Freeze, and she couldn’t. His entire persona seemed much too intense, too detached, too mysterious for a small town like Skull Creek.

Too sexy.

The thought struck as her gaze hooked on his sensual mouth. An unexpected visual struck—of that mouth pressed to her throat—and her nipples snapped to attention. Need sliced through her, sharp and swift, and her stomach hollowed out.

As if he sensed her reaction, he turned. He tipped the brim of his hat back and the light illuminated his high cheekbones and sculpted nose. A fierce green gaze blazed across the distance between them and collided with hers.

Her breath caught and her heart paused. It was a crazy reaction for a soldier who made it her business to feel nothing and stay focused.

But for the next few, frantic heartbeats, her brain seemed to scramble and she forgot everything except him and the way he looked at her. Into her. As if he could see past the thick outer exterior, to the soft, vulnerable woman beneath.

As if that woman even existed.

She didn’t.

Abigail had accepted that fact a long time ago when she’d failed so miserably with Hockey Hunk. Three hours in Chicago’s top salon hadn’t been enough to transform her from a pudgy tomboy into a desirable woman.

She’d still been too stocky, too shapeless, too ballsy.

Then and now.

But that was okay. She was a commanding officer, not a Hooters girl. She didn’t need that kind of superficial attention. She needed respect.

Well, that and a really rocking orgasm to ease her current nerves.

His gaze swept her from head to toe and stripped away every scrap of clothing. Anticipation zapped her and the air bolted from her lungs.

He grinned then and she had the unnerving thought that he knew her frustration. That he knew her.

She stiffened and put up the invisible barricade vital to a special ops soldier. No expression. No emotion. Nothing. Just name, rank and serial number.

His gaze widened and surprise flashed in the bright green depths. At least she thought it was surprise. But then he turned, the car door opened and he disappeared inside. The engine caught.

A rush of panic bolted through her and she pushed to her feet.

Because Abigal Trent didn’t waste her time thinking and analyzing. She was a field operative. Paid to trust her gut and act on it. And her gut told her something wasn’t right.

He wasn’t right.

He was hiding something, and there was only one way to find out exactly what that was, and whether or not it had anything to do with her latest mission. There was always the possibility and with her reputation hanging in the balance, she wasn’t leaving any stone unturned.

Abby headed for her rental car and took off after him.

3

SHE WAS FOLLOWING HIM.

He knew it even before he saw the blaze of headlights in his rearview mirror. He felt her. He’d felt her the first moment she’d spotted him.

Her piqued interest. Her pulse-pounding lust. Her surprise. She’d never reacted so fast, so fierce to any member of the opposite sex and it had freaked her out.

He knew the feeling.