Brock

  Brock

  7 Brides for 7 Blackthornes

  Book 5

  Roxanne St. Claire

  Meet the Blackthorne men, who are as hot, fast, and smooth as the whisky that built the family fortune, and the yachts and race cars that bear their name. From proud Scottish stock, Blackthornes never lose. But, one by one, the seven sexy men in this family are about to risk everything when they fall for strong and beautiful women who test their mettle in life…and love.

  Devlin by Barbara Freethy (#1)

  Jason by Julia London (#2)

  Ross by Lynn Raye Harris (#3)

  Phillip by Cristin Harber (#4)

  Brock by Roxanne St. Claire (#5)

  Logan by Samantha Chase (#6)

  Trey by Christie Ridgway (#7)

  For more about all of the 7 Brides series and a complete list of books by Roxanne St. Claire, go to www.roxannestclaire.com.

  Brock

  7 Brides for 7 Blackthornes

  Copyright © 2019 South Street Publishing

  ISBN print: 978-1-7339121-3-6

  ISBN ebook: 978-0-9993621-9-8

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. All rights to reproduction of this work are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means except for brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews without prior written permission from the copyright owner. For permission or information on foreign, audio, or other rights, contact the author, [email protected].

  Table of Contents

  BROCK

  Meet the Blackthorne Men

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from LOGAN by Samantha Chase

  More Books by Roxanne St. Claire

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The transition from King Harbor to Boston was never nice and easy for Brock Blackthorne, but tonight it felt particularly wrenching. Leaving the family estate on the peaceful, picturesque coast of Maine and making the two-hour drive to the pressure cooker of Blackthorne Enterprises in the heart of the city always felt a little like crashing through a plate-glass window very much like the one behind him. Although, as always, the shades that covered the commanding view of Boston were closed tight, making sure Brock didn’t catch even a glimpse of the skyline or harbor, a nausea-inducing fifty-three stories below.

  In Maine, where he’d spent most of the past month, Brock always felt the tension ease from his shoulders and any anxiety melt from his chest. A razor rarely touched his face, and he ignored the fact that his hair grew over his collar. He wore his glasses instead of stinging contacts, dressed exclusively in jeans or shorts and old T-shirts, and spent half of every day out on a boat sucking in the salty summer air of King Harbor, where being a Blackthorne was a privilege rather than a “responsibility.”

  But all that changed when he reached the outskirts of Boston, and especially here at corporate headquarters in the Hancock Tower, where he worked tirelessly to protect and polish the Blackthorne brand. Here—starting again tomorrow morning—he had to be on. Shaved, trimmed, suited, tied, and ready to slay the dragons that threatened the family name and business he revered.

  Flipping through the stacks of papers his admin had so neatly left in rows on his desk during his three-week absence, he focused on what was ahead for tomorrow, when he’d suit up for his job once again.

  Despite the pileup of work, he didn’t regret his choice to stay in King Harbor for most of July. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t worked at all up there. Keeping an eye on Phillip, especially with his oldest brother so deeply involved in that high-profile fund-raiser—and the woman running it—was always a full-time job.

  But as July had slipped into August, he’d known he had a few brand management issues to deal with at corporate headquarters, and it wasn’t just that someone dropped that pesky “e” into the word whisky where it didn’t belong. Although that would piss off any Scotsman worth his kilt.

  Phillip was under control—thanks to Ashley—but there was still the cloud of…Claire. His aunt’s sudden decision to abandon the family by waltzing out of her own birthday party, claiming to be the keeper of some big secret, was an image crisis waiting to happen.

  Since Brock couldn’t do anything from King Harbor to get her back, at least he could be in Boston to manage any bad press or squash any unwanted rumors. Because, with Claire Blackthorne gone for three months, even though Blackthorne Security had tracked her to Paris, people in the company and the industry were bound to gossip.

  Was Claire and Graham’s marriage on the rocks? Would it affect the company? And what was the secret she’d flung at her husband?

  Brock didn’t have any answers—his aunt’s replies to his texts were brief, airy, and uninformative. But finding answers wasn’t his job. His job was to fend off the questions.

  So, he’d left Maine late that afternoon, hit wretched Sunday-night traffic as everyone who’d escaped Boston for a blistering summer weekend all returned at the same time, and didn’t get to his condo until after eight. Early enough to drop off his bags and walk one mile through oppressive Back Bay humidity to a silent, empty office to ease himself into the work that he faced in the coming week.

  And there was plenty of it, he realized as he skimmed the lists and agenda Karen had left. His admin had lined up back-to-back appointments, four lunches, two staff meetings, and one entire day previewing logo misuses and copyright infringements. Monday morning looked busier than usual, starting early with a ten-minute “courtesy session” with J. Gillespie, whoever that was. Courtesy usually meant Karen had been pressured into the meeting—sometimes by family, sometimes by outside forces—that she knew Brock didn’t want to take.

  Then it wouldn’t be considered discourteous to make Mr. Gillespie conduct his business while Brock’s barber came in to give him a haircut and shave to start the week. He texted his admin to add that to his schedule.

  Once he finished reviewing everything on his desk, Brock headed out to the private elevator that took occupants of the executive suite down to Clarendon Street, intending to walk back to his condo. But when he stepped out of the elevator, he realized maybe he should have looked out the window at least once. Now, he just stared at the city street and let out a soft curse.

  Torrential rain turned the pavement black, wet, and slick, while cars sprayed rooster tails as they sped by. His driver, Hoyt, would be home with his family on this weekend night, and Brock wasn’t about to yank the man away just because of a rain shower.

  Only, this wasn’t a rain shower…this was a downpour.

  He opened the door and winced when rain splattered his T-shirt and jeans and turned his glasses into wet windshields without wipers.

  Just as he backed into the building to get an Uber, he spied the white light of an open taxi cruising down Clarendon. Without hesitation, he made a run for it, instantly blinded by sluicing, splashing, relentless water.

  Squinting into the rain, Brock saw the cab slow down even before he raised his hand. When the car stopped completely, he jumped a puddle and snagged the passenger-side back door, whipping it open at the
very moment that someone did the same to the door on the other side.

  “Oh no!” A woman as wet and bedraggled as he was sputtered the exclamation. “Didn’t you see me?”

  He swiped at his lenses. “Can’t see a thing. It’s okay,” he said, backing away. “You take it.”

  “No, no. I hailed it, but I guess you technically opened the door first.”

  “It’s fine,” he assured her as the water seeped into his docksiders. “I’ll catch the next one.”

  “Tonight?” She slipped into the seat, the light of the cab giving him the first real look at plastered hair and streaky mascara. “We can share. I mean, unless you’re a serial killer.”

  “I can assure you—” A bolt of lightning flashed white and sudden, illuminating a look of shock on her face and giving him a millisecond to see her big blue eyes pop with surprise at the flash. “I’m not a serial killer.”

  She waved him in. “Quick, then. Get—”

  “In or out, buddy,” the cabby called in a thick Boston accent, making no effort to hide his exasperation.

  “I’m only going to the Colonnade Hotel,” the woman said, blinking away some water. “Please get in out of the storm.”

  Making a snap decision spurred by the cold rain soaking through his shirt and shoes, as well as the tantalizing spark in her eyes, he climbed into the cab and pulled the door closed.

  “One Dalton,” he said to the driver. “But take this lady wherever she wants to go first. I’ll pay.”

  “That’s not—”

  He held up a hand. “Please. It’s the least I can do to be saved from drowning.”

  She gave him a smile, but the inside of the cab was too dim for him to take a better, longer look. He caught a whiff of something fresh and floral and noticed she wore a skirt or dress—something that had ridden up high enough to show half a bare thigh—toned, tight, and wet from rain.

  “It was clear skies when I left New York.” She scooped up a handful of what was probably light blond, but soaking wet, hair and squeezed it so some water dribbled down her top.

  “It was clear skies an hour ago when I left home.” He threw her another look as the cabby cut off a van to get back into traffic. “You from New York?” he asked.

  “I am, but I’m in Boston on business. I take it you’re a local?”

  “Born and raised.” A lifetime of self-protection adopted by anyone saddled with a recognizable last name prevented him from saying more, but he could feel her curious gaze on him.

  “Where’s your Boston accent?”

  “I travel a lot,” he said quickly. “Where’s your New York accent?”

  “My mother was in television and insisted I lose it,” she told him with just enough of a smile for him to notice how attractive she was, despite what the weather had done to her hair and makeup.

  He let his gaze linger a moment, then asked, “So what brings you out on a night like this?”

  She squished her nose as if she didn’t really want to say why she was there. “Had to…get the lay of the land.” Her tone was vague enough to be intriguing. That bare thigh was intriguing, too, come to think of it.

  “What business are you in?” he asked, wanting to keep the conversation going.

  “Publishing.” The single-word answer trumpeted disinterest—or a plea for privacy—so he nodded and tried to look out his window, but sheets of rain blocked any view as the driver made a wide right turn onto Stuart.

  What the hell? Was this guy’s vision more blurred than Brock’s? Leaning forward, he peered out the front windshield and frowned. “Hey, man, you’re going the wrong way.”

  “This is fast—oh damn!” the man exclaimed as a set of headlights blinded him.

  “It’s one way,” Brock insisted through gritted teeth, gauging the speed and distance of the oncoming car and praying like hell the other driver could see through the shimmering wall of rain.

  “I screwed up.” The cabby slammed on the brakes, making the back wheels fishtail wildly, knocking the whole back bumper into a mailbox, bringing them to a noisy, sudden stop.

  “What the heck?” The woman next to Brock grabbed his arm as the driver swore again.

  The oncoming car lay on the horn for a deafening five seconds as it careened by, clipping the side-view mirror and earning a stream of foul language from their driver.

  “Whoa, buddy, take it easy.” Brock automatically put a calming hand over the one clutching him. “This is why I hate cabs,” he muttered, looking around to figure out exactly where they were.

  The other car came to a stop as their cabby shoved his door open, letting in a spray of water.

  “Good God.” Brock and the woman both backed away from the water and sounds of an escalating argument. “This is going south fast.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “They’re going to fight in this weather?”

  “Never underestimate a ticked-off Boston cabby.” He was only half kidding, but cringed when the F-bombs started exploding outside. “Want to make a run for it?”

  She took less than two seconds to decide, giving him a quick nod in the direction of his door, away from the escalating argument.

  “Stay with me.” Brock took her hand, wrapping his fingers around her slender ones, and got an unexpected jolt from the touch of wet, warm skin. He tugged her toward the door, flipping the handle, and stepping into yet another three inches of water from Back Bay’s notoriously crappy drainage system.

  As they ran, another bolt of lightning flashed brightly, making her gasp and stumble. Instantly, Brock put an arm around her and guided her close to a building, under an awning that protected the front door of a bakery. He let the rain hit him, but at least she was somewhat protected.

  “Here, there’s room,” she said, pulling him under the tiny overhang, even though it meant he ended up pressing against her.

  “We have to get inside somewhere,” he said, looking left and right, partly to get his bearings but mostly because it allowed him to avoid looking right into the eyes of a completely wet stranger less than a centimeter away.

  She reached behind her and shimmied the large handle of the glass door. “Locked.”

  “It’s Sunday night,” he said, giving up the fight to look down at her.

  “We could—” The suggestion was cut off by another bolt of lightning, making her smash her face into his shoulder and muffle a soft scream.

  “It’s okay,” he said, automatically putting his hand on her head. “The storm isn’t that close.”

  Slowly, she pulled back with an embarrassed laugh. “I hate lightning. Hate storms.” She squeezed his arms as a rumble of thunder punctuated her announcement. “Hate.”

  “Got it.” He did get it, too. Storms certainly didn’t bother him, but he felt the same kind of stress on bridges and in skyscrapers and, hell, the widow’s walk at the estate. He used his forearm to wipe water off his glasses so he could get his bearings of the neighborhood. “Okay, there’s an Irish pub on that corner,” he said, thinking of a place that Blackthorne employees were known to frequent after work. “Can you make it?”

  “If we don’t get struck by lightning.” She bit her lip and blinked more water out of her eyes, suddenly looking incredibly…beautiful. Drenched, scared, but something about her reached into him and flicked a switch that sent way too much juice firing through him.

  “I won’t let you get struck by lightning,” he said under his breath.

  Her expression softened, and her eyes widened just a tiny little bit like she’d been struck by a whole different kind of lightning. “You can’t promise that,” she whispered.

  But in that single, crazy flash of an instant, he wanted to promise her…something. A kiss, a touch, more time in the rain.

  “How about a drink if we make it to safety? I can promise that.”

  She gave in to a slow smile that showed some dimples and genuine interest. “Yes, please.”

  He studied her for a moment, knowing all too well that Brock
Blackthorne, keeper of an untarnished reputation, didn’t hook up with sexy strangers he’d met in the back of a cab. But tonight, in the rain, with the freedom of Maine still clinging to him and the constraints of his Boston life still one more night away…well, this was a hell of a good way to end the week.

  Just then, another bolt of lightning lit the night sky, making her squeeze her eyes shut and let out a squeal. “If we live that long.”

  He chuckled and eased her a little closer, hyperaware of every curve as she pressed into him. “No more than a hundred and fifty steps,” he said. “Don’t let go, and I promise you that lightning is ten miles away. Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  “Three…two…”

  “One!” She wrapped her arm around him, and they took off, the rain like curtains of water in their faces, making them both gasp a little for air and laugh and tighten their grip around each other.

  They leaped over a puddle, stepped to the side when a car rumbled by to make things worse, and finally reached a door with the requisite shamrock etched in frosted glass.

  Brock pushed it open, and a blast of air-conditioning and the smell of beer and corned beef wafted out, along with the noise of a crowded restaurant and a bar packed with locals watching a Red Sox game.

  But it was blissfully dry, and they both stood in the vestibule, dripping, staring, and, suddenly, laughing.

  “We survived to tell the tale,” she announced, throwing her drenched head back with a musical giggle.

  “A couple of Boston rats nearly drowned, but not…” He leaned closer to whisper in her ear. “Struck by lightning.”