The Bachelor Contract Read online

  Quietly, she closed the door behind her and tried to mentally prepare herself.

  It was always a bad idea to dig up the past during a massage. It wasn’t fair to the clients; they didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of her anger—and strangling the man in front of her was probably a good way to get fired.

  Or sent to prison.

  “Where would you like me to focus our session?” she asked in a soothing voice as she slowly ran her hands up and down the sheet, pressing her palms against his skin.

  “Hurt my back in the last game of the season, so if you could fix that I’d love you forever.” His southern drawl was thick. “I think my IT band is ready to snap too, but that’s nothing new.”

  Nikki took a deep breath and ran her hands down the man’s back. A violent memory surged forward the minute her fingers came into contact with his warm skin.

  Hands. His hands on her body.

  His hips. Driving into her.

  “Miss?” the guy grunted.

  “Sorry.” She shook her head and rubbed the oil down, massaging it into his skin.

  There was something very wrong with the fact that for years she’d been able to exhume him from her daily thoughts—he was her past, not her future.

  Maybe it was the hours. The stress. The rejection.

  A man who didn’t even care that she existed was prying his way into her only safe place—her job.

  And instead of leave her wanting or sad, it pissed her off.

  She dug her fingers, massaged, kneaded, and the more she thought about the power Brant had over her, the deeper she dug, until a bead of sweat ran down her temple.

  Done.

  She was done.

  Brant Wellington could go to hell for all she cared.

  Chapter Four

  The familiar burn of whiskey trailed down Brant’s parched throat as he stared out the window. Rain slammed the glass and blurred his reflection, making it look as if tears were staining his face.

  But his cheeks were dry. Just like his throat.

  He learned four years ago that crying didn’t fix things. It didn’t change the fact that he’d walked away. It didn’t make the dead live again.

  It was easier to hold on to anger and ignore the sadness.

  He sucked in a breath and dropped the empty glass on the floor; it shattered around his bare feet. Reminding him of that night. The night his life had been changed forever.

  “Sorry I’m late, baby.” Brant had been watching the sexy brunette for the last hour—it was bordering on creepy, so he needed to make his move. The only problem? He wasn’t sure what to say other than hi.

  Hi?

  Did that work on a woman so attractive that the minute he set eyes on her his entire world had tilted?

  He’d watched her turn down the last five guys without as much as blinking. What made him any different? Sure, he was good-looking, and eventually he’d be rich thanks to his trust fund—but right now he didn’t have anything more to offer her than any of the other sad, pathetic guys who’d tried to stake a claim; in fact he probably had less. He’d been working his ass off just to get through his junior year, and at this rate he was so stressed that most of the time he didn’t even sleep.

  He had dark circles under his eyes to prove it.

  When he was stressed, he couldn’t sleep—even medicating himself didn’t work.

  Yeah, he was a real winner.

  “Um, hey.” The gorgeous woman’s face broke out into a smile before she glared at the guy currently hitting on her and said, “As you can see, my boyfriend’s here.”

  “Right.” The guy sized Brant up and must have decided she wasn’t worth it, because he walked away.

  “First things first.” Brant turned back around to face the woman. “If a guy isn’t willing to punch another guy in order to have a conversation with you—he’s an idiot.”

  “And you aren’t?”

  Brant grinned. “Of course not, because I was completely ready to break his nose—just so I could say hi.”

  Her eyes lit up. “That’s a good line. Does it work often?”

  “You know, this is the first test run I’ve done with it, so I’ll have to give you my conclusive results later.” He winked.

  “So you’re saying there’s going to be a later?”

  “Oh, absolutely.” Brant pulled out a stool. “I’m actually from the future, so I know everything that’s going to happen from here on out.”

  “Fine.” She crossed her arms. “I’m game. Hit me with it.”

  Brant waved over the bartender, took one look at her, and guessed. “Beer?”

  “IPA.”

  “Done.” He pulled a bar stool toward her and sat. “We don’t go home together.”

  He must have shocked her, because she jerked back from him and frowned. “We don’t?”

  “No. Because I don’t just let any woman take advantage of me on the first date.” He grinned at her stunning smile. “But we do exchange numbers, I send you some flirty texts, and you respond with a terrifying amount of smiley faces.”

  She laughed harder.

  “And we go on a date. It’s horrible, because even though I’m from a very wealthy family, my grandfather thinks its comical to only give me enough money to eat fast food and fill my gas tank.” He sighed. “So I buy you a hot dog.”

  “And I like this hot dog?”

  “Nope.” Brant sighed. “You choke on it. I save your life, and you thank me by giving me a kiss.”

  “And this is after I’m done choking up food?”

  “You brush your teeth. I offer floss, silly details, can I go on?”

  “Please.” She leaned in. “So how’s this kiss?”

  “You say it’s the best kiss of your life, and I tell you that I plan on making the next one even better.”

  “And do you?” she whispered.

  “What do you think?”

  Her gaze sharpened. “I think a man who likes to talk as much as you must be good with his mouth.”

  “I love it when strange women compliment me.”

  “Now I’m strange?”

  “Can I finish my story?”

  “Sorry.” She covered her mouth with her hand and giggled. “Please go on.”

  “We date for at least six months. You fall in love with me despite my twin brother’s best efforts to steal you away. We get married, have ten kids and a dog named Fido. I inherit my grandfather’s multi-million-dollar fortune, and with you by my side, we solve world hunger.” Brant took a long sip of his beer and waited. “That being said, you should probably give me your number now.”

  She hesitated and then reached for his hand. “I’m too intrigued not to.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah, but…” She pulled a pen out of her purse and scribbled a number on the palm of his hand. Then she blew across the wet ink on his palm, causing his entire body to go up in flames. “There’s one part of that story that’s wrong.”

  “You sure about that? I mean I did live through this once already.”

  “Yup.” She stood. “It’s just a slight alteration.”

  “Rewriting history. I like it.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned in. “I give you the best kiss of your existence.” Her lips pressed against his, then her mouth slightly parted as her tongue slid into his mouth only to pull back. “And you lose sleep wondering if I’m going to call you back.” She shrugged. “Everything else…spot on.”

  “Yeah.” Brant didn’t know what else to say. He was still thinking about the kiss when she walked out of the bar, just as Bentley tugged open the door, checked her out, and rolled his eyes at Brant’s expression.

  “Who the hell was that?”

  “Your future sister-in-law.”

  Brant squeezed his eyes shut. He never forgot that kiss. And she didn’t call right away, but when she did…

  When the first date happened.

  When a second date followed.

&
nbsp; Life clicked into place.

  Brant’s focus shifted. His world was altered because suddenly everything wasn’t about him, it was about them.

  And just like that, the sadness of the memory, the burn of her lips, quickly switched to anger.

  At her. At himself. At the world.

  Twelve hours. He had twelve hours before he had to report to the resort, and he was already drunk and well on his way to breaking something else in his apartment. With a curse, he picked up the documents and started to read, only to throw them back down and walk into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

  It was going to be a long night.

  By the time the limo picked him up, he was exhausted. The seventy-minute ride was too short. When they pulled into the massive driveway with its twenty-foot water features and hacienda-style architecture, his eyes burned and he was shaking.

  Unsure whether it was nerves or the fact that he’d gone through a twelve-hour period without drinking anything but coffee, he bit back a curse and cracked his neck.

  He was staying at the resort for one week, and he had only that week to assess operations and give his suggestions to the team at Titus before they made any big decisions with the resort and its staff.

  And even though he was exhausted, he was also excited.

  And a hell of a lot relieved. He’d escaped his grandfather’s clutches and joined forces with the one woman in the world who could probably rule and unify every nation out of fear alone.

  Funny how things worked out.

  His lips twisted in a satisfied smile. It was like a working vacation.

  Every guest was given a printed itinerary, from the minute they arrived until the second they left. Then again, Azul was known for four things.

  Their exceptional service.

  Their high-end clientele.

  Food.

  And last, their spa.

  The resort was part of a twelve-chain boutique that was newly acquired by Titus Enterprises in order to expand its rapidly growing luxury hotel brand.

  Brant covered his mouth with a yawn and glanced at his watch just as the car was put into Park. The door was jerked open after four seconds.

  Not bad. Anything under six was acceptable. He made a mental note and took a step out onto the Spanish-style blue tile.

  Interesting.

  The minute he locked eyes on the staff he knew something was wrong. One woman’s eyes widened, while the man next to her stiffened.

  All in all, four employees were staring at him like…they were afraid.

  Of him?

  The guy who’d lately been doing nothing but sleeping around, drinking, and eating leftover pizza?

  Sure, four years ago he’d had a reputation as a hard-ass, but he didn’t think it would precede him, not after all this time. Besides, he’d been young, stupid, and out to prove to his grandfather and everyone else in his life that he could take care of himself—and his family.

  His chest tightened.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” A tall man with broad shoulders and dark, slicked-back hair held out his hand. “Pardon our…shock, we just—” He cleared his throat, and was it Brant’s imagination, or was the guy sneering? “That is, we were expecting Nadine Titus.”

  “Too bad.” Brant gripped the man’s hand tightly. “Because you’ve got Brant Wellington.”

  He could have sworn he heard swearing from the staff. His eyes darted in the direction of the valet. Nobody moved an inch.

  In fact, it didn’t look like anyone was breathing.

  Why the hell hadn’t Nadine called ahead?

  And why hadn’t he thought to at least try not to look hungover?

  That same apprehension that gripped him in the office was back full force. No catch. She said there was no catch. He had a job to do. This wasn’t personal. It was business.

  “Well?” Brant’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you going to hold my hand all day, or should we get on with it?”

  The man’s teeth clenched before he dropped Brant’s hand and forced a smile. “Of course, sorry. As I’m sure you already know, we’re very understaffed. Your presence must have slipped through on our end.” He emphasized your as if to say Brant’s presence was unwelcome.

  He had to give the man credit—it was always the resort’s fault, never the client’s. He was off to a good start.

  Though something about the man seemed off. He seemed…angry.

  Brant would know—anger recognized anger. And he was the angriest of them all.

  “My name’s Cole Masters.” The man led Brant through two large double doors, pulled open by white-gloved staff members who made eye contact with the air right in front of them. “And I manage both the spa and the concierge service at Azul. I’ll be in charge of your daily itinerary as well as anything else you may need during your stay.” He swallowed convulsively and forced a blinding smile. “Why don’t you sit at the bar?” He led Brant to a small, chic lobby bar with leather wingback chairs and small glass-topped tables with lanterns. “And I’ll grab your room.”

  “Thanks, Cole.” Brant tried to keep eye contact with the man, but he quickly stomped off like he was seconds away from firing whichever asshat hadn’t known Brant was coming.

  “What can I get ya?” An elderly gentleman with bright white hair and a wrinkled face wiped the bar in front of Brant and dropped a napkin on the table with a small leather-bound menu. “Our specialty is a whiskey margarita.”

  Brant’s stomach rolled. Yeah, still hungover. How the hell was that possible?

  “How about soda water and a lime?” Those words. They actually came out of his mouth. Bentley would shit himself and probably look over Brant’s shoulder just to make sure the zombie apocalypse hadn’t in fact just started.

  “Coming right up.” The man’s knuckles tapped the glass bar before he quickly made the drink and set it in front of Brant.

  Brant stared at it. For longer than necessary.

  Water. He was basically drinking water.

  With a slight shake of his head, he picked up the cool glass and brought it to his lips, surprising himself when he nearly chugged the whole thing and asked for another.

  Embarrassment washed over him when he tried to recall the last time he had a drop of anything nonalcoholic.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  “Sorry?” The bartender leaned in. “What did you say you wanted?”

  Brant’s eyes flickered to the bartender’s name tag. “Well, George, I sure don’t want shit even though that’s what I just said, so how about another soda?”

  With a chuckle, George grabbed a new glass. In Brant’s experience, the talkers were always the bartenders; they were like therapists but better, because they gave you alcohol when you poured out your feelings, whereas a damn psychiatrist just tapped a pen against a legal pad and charged three hundred dollars for heavy sighing and a few Uh-huhs.

  The point was, he’d probably get more out of George than he would from Cole… speaking of, shouldn’t his room already be ready by now?

  Brant glanced over to where Cole had disappeared. There was only one desk at reception. It was freestanding, with several iPads and a few staff members tapping away while guests checked in. But no Cole.

  “How long have you worked at Azul?” Brant asked, bringing his attention back to the bartender.

  “Ah, ’bout fifteen years. Best job I’ve ever had, though lately the hours have been a little rough. As you can see, we’re at capacity, and it’s like that all the time now. It will be nice to have more help.”

  “Hmm.” Brant sipped his soda. More help would be nice. It would also be costly. And even though the hotel was raking it in, they were able to do so because their employees worked long hours. Folks weren’t given overtime, but they did have a bonus structure that kicked in once employees worked a certain amount of extra hours.

  Expensive.

  Brant made a mental note to look at the books to see where they could cut costs, especially since Nadine was hell-b
ent on keeping the same staff rather than restructuring and starting the hiring process over again—which typically saved a newly acquired business a lot of money. There was always someone willing to do the same job for less—always.

  “Mr. Wellington.” Cole approached in three long strides. “My apologies, I had to”—he coughed—“alter your itinerary a bit. I figured a bikini wax probably wouldn’t intrigue you.”

  Brant nearly spit out his drink. “Thanks for that mental picture.”

  The old bird still waxed? He shuddered.

  Colt pressed his lips together in a smug smile. “Yes well, we’re completely booked, though I was able to get you a massage for later this evening.”

  Brant stiffened. The last time he’d gotten a massage had been from Nikki. God, those hands. He suppressed a shiver and begged his body not to betray him as his memory conjured up images of her hands on his stomach, straining lower, a giggle, and then her hands gripping him.

  “Mr. Wellington?” Cole tilted his head. “Are you okay?”

  “No.” Brant stood and unfortunately found himself thinking about bikini waxes and eighty-nine-year-old women in order to stifle his obvious arousal. “And Mr. Wellington is my grandfather; please, just Brant.”

  “Great.” Cole’s nostrils flared. What the hell was his problem? One minute he was polite, the next it looked like Brant was about to get strangled. Whatever. “Your printed itinerary.” He gave Brant a thick packet. “And your room key to the ultimate luxury—the presidential suite. It’s on the top floor, includes twenty-four-seven room service, and boasts one of the best views in Arizona.”

  Brant slid out the room key and flipped it over. It was shiny blue with a giant black A on one side.

  “Now.” Cole cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a staffing matter to attend to. If you need anything please don’t hesitate to call. As you know, you have free rein of the entire resort. Welcome…home.”

  He turned on his heel and walked off, without a clue as to what those words did to Brant.

  He hadn’t had a home in a long time.

  Home meant family.

  Home meant her.

  “You sure you don’t mind?” He kissed her rounded belly. “That I can’t access my trust fund yet?”