One
A man had a few pleasures in life.
For Ezekiel “Zeke” Holloway, they included kicking back on the black leather couch in the den of the three-bedroom guesthouse that he and his older brother, Luke, shared on the Wingate family estate. He had an ice-cold beer in one hand, a slice of meat lovers pizza in the other and Pittsburgh playing on the mounted eighty-five-inch flat-screen television. Granted, he might’ve been born and bred in Texas, but his heart belonged to the Steelers.
And then there was this. He lifted the dark brown cigar with its iconic black-and-red label and studied the smoldering red tip before bringing it to his lips and inhaling. A hint of pepper and chocolate, toasted macadamia nuts and, of course, the dark flavor of cognac. It could be addictive...if he allowed it to be. These cigars cost fifteen thousand dollars a box. Which was why he only permitted himself to enjoy one per month. Not because he couldn’t afford to buy more. It was about discipline; he mastered his urges, not vice versa.
And in a world that had suddenly become unfamiliar, cold and uncertain, he needed to believe he could control something in his life. Even if it was when he smoked a cigar.
He sighed, bracing a hand on the balcony column and slowly exhaling into the night air. Behind him, the muted hum of chatter filtered through the closed glass doors. Guests gathered in the cavernous parlor behind him. James Harris, current president of the Texas Cattleman’s Club—of which Ezekiel was a member—hosted the “small” dinner party. As a highly successful horse breeder in Royal, Texas, and a businessman, James commanded attention without trying. And when he invited a person to his elegant, palatial home, he or she attended.
Even if they would be rubbing elbows with the newly infamous Wingates.
Bringing the cigar to his lips again, Ezekiel stared out into the darkness. Beneath the blanket of the black, star-studded night, he could barely make out the stables, corrals and long stretch of land that made up James’s property. He rolled his shoulders, as if the motion could readjust and shift the cumbersome burden of worry, anger and, yes, fear that seemed to hang around his neck like an albatross. It was ludicrous, but he could practically feel the hushed murmurs crawl over his skin through his black dinner jacket and white shirt like the many legs of a centipede. He could massage his chest and still nothing would alleviate the weight of the censure—the press of the guilty verdicts already cast his and his family’s way.
Not even the influence and support of James Harris could lessen that.
Lucky for Ezekiel and his family that the denizens of Royal high society hungered for a party invitation from James more than they wanted to outright ostracize the Wingates.
Ezekiel snorted, his lips twisting around the cigar. Thank God for small favors.
“And here I thought I’d found the perfect escape hatch.”
Ezekiel jerked his head to the side at the husky, yet very feminine drawl. His mouth curved into a smile. And not the polite, charming and utterly fake one he’d worn all evening. Instead, true affection wound through him like a slowly unfurling ribbon.
Reagan Sinclair glided forward out of the shadows and into the dim glow radiating from the beveled glass balcony doors. It was enough to glimpse her slender but curvaceous body. The high thrust of her small but firm breasts. The fingertip-itching dip of her waist and intriguing swell of her hips. As she drew nearer to him and a scent that reminded him of honeysuckle and cream teased his nostrils, he castigated himself.
At twenty-six, Reagan was only four years his junior, but she was good friends with his cousin Harley, and he’d known her most of her life. She was as “good girl” as they came, with her flawless pedigree and traditional upbringing. Which meant she had no business being out here with him in his current frame of mind.
Not when the dark, hungry beast he usually hid behind carefree, wide grins and wry jokes clawed closer to the surface.
Not when the only thing that usually satisfied that animal was a willing woman and hot, dirty sex. No...fucking.
Ezekiel blew out a frustrated breath. Yes, he’d had sex, but made love to a woman? No, he hadn’t done that in eight long years.
If he had any sense or the morals that most believed he didn’t possess, he would put out his cigar, gently grasp her by the elbow and escort her back to her parents. Away from him. He should—
Reagan touched him.
Just the feel of her slim, delicate hand on his biceps was like a cooling, healing balm. It calmed the anger, the fear. Leashed the hunger. At least so he could meet her thickly lashed, entirely too-innocent eyes and not imagine seeing them darken with a greedy lust that he placed there.
“I know why I’m hiding,” he drawled, injecting a playfulness he was far from feeling into his voice. “What’s your excuse?”
Those eyes, the color of the delicious chicory coffee his mother used to have shipped from New Orleans, softened, understanding somehow making them more beautiful. And horrible.
He glanced away.
On the pretense of finishing his smoke, he shifted to the side, inserting space between them. Not that he could escape that damn scent that seemed even headier with her so close. Or the sharp-as-a-razor’s-edge cheekbones. Or the lush, downright impropriety of her mouth. The smooth bronze of her skin that damn near gleamed...
You’ve known her since she was a girl. You have no business thinking of her naked, sweating and straining beneath you.
Dammit. He narrowed his gaze on the moon-bleached vista of James’s ranch. His dick wasn’t having any of that reasoning though. Too bad. He had enough of a shit storm brewing in his life, in his family, in Wingate Enterprises. He refused to add screwing Reagan Sinclair to it.
In a life full of selfish decisions, that might be the cherry on top of his asshole sundae.
And regardless of what some people might think, he possessed lines he didn’t cross. A sense of honor that had been drilled into him by his family before he’d even been old enough to understand what the word meant. And as a little dented and battered as the Wingate name might be right now, they were still Wingates.
That meant something here in Royal.
It meant something to him.
“Let’s see.” She pursed her lips and tapped a fingernail against the full bottom curve. “Should I start alphabetically? A, avoiding my parents introducing me to every single man here between the ages of twenty-two and eighty-two. B, boring small talk about the unseasonably hot summer—it’s Texas, mind you—gel versus acrylic nails and, my personal favorite, whether MTV really did need a reboot of The Hills. Which, the only answer to that is no. And C, karma—I avoided every one of Tracy Drake’s calls last week because the woman is a terrible gossip. And now I find out that I’m seated next to her at dinner.”
He snorted. “I’m pretty sure karma starts with a K,” he said, arching an eyebrow.