One Night Scandal

The woman who’d so thoroughly captivated Brock last night was hiding something, and he was determined to find out what. The family suspected the blackmailer might be working on the film or have a close connection to someone who did. Could Hannah Ryder be capable of blackmail? Anger flared at the thought she might have used sex to get closer to him. He was certain the attraction was real, but the possibility of deception rankled.

He was so caught up in those dark thoughts he didn’t hear anyone approach him as he held the side door open for a woman pushing a catering cart of fruit, breakfast pastries and coffee.

“Brock.”

The sound of Hannah’s voice behind him sent a spike of unwanted heat up his spine. He really needed to get his attraction to her under control until he figured out where she stood in this mess with his family.

Pivoting on his boot heel, he faced her.

She was even lovelier than he remembered. Her hair was pinned up on either side, the back falling in curls that struck him as a vaguely historical style—maybe because the curls were so carefully molded. She wore a frontier-woman kind of gown, too. It was cream-colored and dotted with tiny flowers. The bodice shaped her torso in an exaggerated manner that looked sort of painful—cinching her waist and lifting her breasts in a way guaranteed to draw the eye. The full skirt of her dress would have reached the floor if she didn’t have the fabric tucked into the waist, probably to keep it clean when she wasn’t filming.

Even her black lace-up boots with tiny heels were from another era.

He battled the urge to touch her. To greet her with a kiss, or a whispered word about how beautiful she looked. Instead, he needed to come straight to the point. He was running out of time to help his family. He needed to know why his name had upset this West Coast actress who shouldn’t care about his identity one way or the other.

“Hello, Hannah.” His nod was as terse as his tone, but it couldn’t be helped. “We said we’d talk more today. Can we go somewhere to speak privately?”

“My next scene is supposed to start filming soon.” She seemed different. More guarded.

Which was to be expected, he supposed, even if she didn’t have anything to do with the blackmail scheme. He ground his teeth against the frustration of the past few weeks. He was a horse breeder and trainer, damn it. Not a sleuth.

“I need to ask you about last night,” he pressed, unwilling to let it go. He simply lowered his voice more and drew her into a dark corner of the barn, between the side door and the open front doors. “About the way you reacted when I told you my name.”

There it was.

A tiny flinch. A slight flare of her nostrils.

He’d been with a woman who kept secrets before. He recognized the signs, and it was an experience he refused to repeat.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied smoothly enough, but the words didn’t erase that moment of honest response he’d seen on her face.

“Yes, you do.” He wasn’t going to drop it. And he wasn’t going to let her off the hook. “My family is going through hell right now, Hannah, and if you know something about that—about the threats leveled against the McNeills—”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She shook her head, the curls brushing her shoulders, catching on the lace detail of her sleeve. Her face paled. “What threats?”

Behind him, another dolly rumbled past with electronic equipment, but with the shouting and noise made by the crew, he wasn’t worried about being overheard.

He plowed ahead. “Someone has been threatening my family. Time is running out for me to figure out who’s behind those threats.” He stepped closer to her, sensing movement behind him as the set workers adjusted lights overhead. “We’re being blackmailed—”

His speech wavered, then halted, as something heavy cracked the back of his skull. He had a flash of awareness that he was falling. A moment to see panic on Hannah’s lovely face before...

The world went black.

* * *

“Brock!” Hannah watched in horror as the big, strong man beside her crumpled to the ground.

It took her a moment to process what had happened. One of the overhead lights had broken free of the grid, hitting the back of Brock’s head. The light lay smashed on the floor behind him, the heavy black housing bent on one side. Already, people were shouting, grips and gaffers scrambling to secure the grid and clear the set.

“Brock?” Hannah sank to her knees beside the fallen rancher, her fingers tentative as she touched his shoulder, fear icing her insides. “Are you all right?”

He was breathing, but he remained stone-still.

Two production assistants were suddenly beside her, leaning over him, informing her not to move him.

Because she was flustered and scared, it took her a moment to process why. He had a head injury. He could have a concussion or much worse. A spinal injury would be...

Oh, God. She laid her hand over his, taking his fingers—careful not to move his arm—and squeezing them gently.

“Call 911!” she shouted, even as one of the wardrobe assistants flashed a thumbs-up sign as she spoke into her phone.

Someone was already taking care of that.

The minutes stretched out endlessly as they waited for an ambulance. In the background, Hannah heard the second director yelling at the production staff while someone swept up broken glass. Hannah debated how to reach Brock’s family to let someone know what had happened, but she couldn’t seem to let go of his hand.

He’d told her someone was threatening his relatives. Blackmailing them. He’d been upset about it—to the point there was even suspicion of her in his eyes—before that light had hit him. Did he suspect her of blackmail?

The thought chilled her even more.

Had he told his family about them? About his night with her or the way she’d reacted when he mentioned the McNeill name? What if they blamed her for the accident?

None of it should matter now when Brock was hurt. But she couldn’t afford to get caught up in a scandal that had nothing to do with her. Brock might suspect her of something, but she knew she wasn’t a blackmailer. She only wanted evidence against Antonio Ventura, but she couldn’t possibly share her secret agenda with his family. Not even to clear her name, if it came down to that.

In the distance, she heard the wail of a siren. The ambulance was getting closer.

Relieved that help was on the way, she let one of the director’s assistants know that she was going to follow the ambulance to the hospital. Because no matter how awkward things had gotten between her and Brock, this was still the man who had kissed her senseless the night before. The man who’d publicly told off Antonio.

She needed to be there for him until someone from his family arrived.

“You’re going to be fine,” she assured him even though he couldn’t hear her. She stroked her free hand over the subtle bristle of his jaw. “The ambulance is almost here.”

The siren grew louder. Nearby, the production team cleared a path between the doors and Brock, moving aside equipment.

Hannah told herself she should step back out of the way, too. But before she could, she felt Brock stirring.

Relief rushed through her.

“He’s waking up!” she shouted to no one in particular, her eyes remaining on him. “He’s coming out of it.”

She squeezed his hand tighter, watched as he lifted his head ever so slightly. Then, as if he found it too heavy, he rested his head back on the ground, but blinked his eyes open and stared up at her.

“Are you okay?” she asked him, tilting her head to meet his gaze. “It’s probably better if you don’t move just yet.”

She searched his face, looking for clues to any sign of discomfort or injury. Needing him to be okay.

Brock frowned, a scowl wrinkling his forehead as he studied her. When he spoke, his voice was gravelly and deep, his tone oddly distant.

“Who are you?” he asked, his blue eyes never wavering from her face. “Do I know you?”