Blame It On Midnight (The Bridgestones Of Montana #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

B enton Bridgestone was in a foul mood, and nothing could make it better. Nashville wasn’t his scene, and if it weren’t for his brother’s first concert of the new tour, he wouldn’t be anywhere near the city. Nothing good happened in a place like this.

He’d skipped the afterparty at some swanky spot on Broadway and instead wandered away from the crowds. He wasn’t much for socializing on a good day, and today was about as far from that as you could get. But the thought of staring at the walls of his hotel room wasn’t appealing either, and he found himself sitting on a barstool nursing a beer, in some off-the-beaten-path honkytonk, while a guy with more hair than a man deserved did his best to entertain with a guitar and a harmonica.

The musician wasn’t half bad, Benton thought grudgingly, as he stared down at the bottle in his hand. Absently he wiped at the condensation on the neck while his mind went to the things he needed to set aside—things that had put him in such a shit mood. But it wasn’t easy. There was a lot at stake.

Why in hell was Daisy Mae making things so damn hard? Hell, their little girl Nora was nearly six years old now, and he could count on one hand the times she’d seen her mother in the last two years. He wasn’t denying the chance for a relationship, but suing for full custody?

Fuck that, he thought with a scowl.

“You want another?”

Benton didn’t bother to look up. He grunted his answer and cracked his neck. Christ, he was strung tighter than a prairie rattler. The bartender handed him another cold one, and Benton tipped it back. He emptied half of the bottle in one shot. Planned on finishing it with the second.

“You’re too handsome to be drinking alone.”

He paused and angled his head a bit. The feminine voice had a hint of rasp that made it interesting enough for a man to take a look—but not this one. Bent hunched forward and ignored the woman who’d claimed the stool two down to his right.

“The only thing worse than a handsome man drinking alone is a pretty girl buying herself drinks.”

“Lady,” he ground out. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I can see that.”

He didn’t respond, and she kept quiet. Benton thought he was off the hook until he noticed long, tanned legs slide over the stool beside him, then dangle there like they were a treat. She wasn’t wearing sparkly pink or baby blue cowboy boots like most of the women he’d seen tonight. Instead, her dainty feet were shoved into a pair of flip flops that looked as if they’d seen better days. On her ankle was a tattoo.

“It’s a unicorn.”

“What?” Annoyed, he glanced up and was met by a pair of eyes that were the greenest he’d ever seen. Fringed by long, wispy lashes and eyebrows that arched perfectly, they were without a doubt one of the prettiest sets of eyes he’d ever encountered.

But he wasn’t looking. Women were trouble as far as he was concerned, and other than a few ladies back home that scratched his itch when it needed scratching, he wasn’t biting.

“My tattoo.” A pause. “It’s a unicorn.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, a rookie move on his part, because damned if she didn’t have the kind of lips a man had no problem visualizing wrapped around his?—

“I see you have one too.”

Benton dragged his eyes from her mouth until the whole package came into view. It was quite the package. Her long hair was a shade of caramel he’d never seen before. There were bits that shimmered among the loose waves when she moved her head. Lightening in a bottle was what it looked like.

“You’re not from around here,” he said. Her skin was flawless, her bone structure perfection, and she had a little mole to the side of her right eye. It looked like it had been painted there for the express purpose of attracting the male gaze.

“Is anybody?” she asked, flashing a smile. She finished her drink and signaled the bartender. “You want another?” she asked Benton.

Benton weighed his options. He could finish up his beer and head back to the hotel. Maybe find an earlier flight and get the hell out of Nashville. Or he could keep drinking with the aim of dulling the anger inside him.

The bartender raised his eyebrow, and Benton nodded. Guess he was drinking.

“Are you going to tell me about it?” The woman asked, taking a sip from her crystal tumbler. It was at least a double whiskey.

“What’s that?” he asked, turning toward her. She was something with the hair, those eyes, and a smile that should be bottled and sold.

“Your snake tattoo.” She pointed at his neck.

“Long story.”

“I think we have some time.”

“I’m not much for small talk.”

“We’ve moved past that, my friend. This here is a conversation.” She winked, and he tried not to smile but didn’t think he was successful.

“You’re not going to let up, are you?”

“Nope.” White teeth flashed, and she leaned closer. She wore a simple black dress that, while on the short side, fit loosely, though it didn’t hide the fact that she had the kind of breasts he liked. A little more than a handful—he had big hands.

Benton studied her in the mirror behind the bar for a few seconds and then thought, What the hell. Talking was better than brooding.

“When I was fifteen, I went to Texas to spend some time with family I have there. I was out with my cousin Cole and some of his pals. We were horsing around and acting like a bunch of fools trying to impress a pack of girls who’d come along for the ride. I wasn’t paying attention. Got too close to a rattler and paid the price.”

“Ouch,” she murmured.

“It hurt like hell, but I was lucky. Cole got me back to the ranch house, and they had a store of antivenom on hand to get me through until they could drive me to the hospital. I got real sick, and it took some, but I survived.” He smiled. “Apparently, the bite didn’t take away the stupid. A few months later I got the tattoo and my father damn near killed me when he saw it.”

“I like it.”

He stared into her eyes, then let them fall all the way down until he found that small pink and purple unicorn. “What about you?”

“I didn’t get bit by a unicorn if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No?” He cracked a small smile. There was something about her that got to him despite his being a closed-off son-of-a-bitch.

“I collect them. Have done so since I was a little girl. The first one was a stuffie my great aunt gave me when I was three. Now I probably have close to two hundred at home.” She laughed. “Lame, right?”

The pink and purple. The unicorn. All of it made Benton think about his daughter. And that made him think about Daisy Mae and their sad past and current situation. And all of that made him want to kick the shit out of something.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, a small frown furrowing her brow.

Once again pissed and tense, he downed his beer and got to his feet. Benton reached into his pocket for his wallet and withdrew a fifty. He tossed it onto the bar, then turned to the woman who was staring at him in a way she shouldn’t be.

Not tonight anyway.

That itch inside him, the one that hadn’t been scratched in so long he couldn’t remember, was back. And Benton, already riding a line too close to the edge, considered his next move.

He should leave. That’s what a gentleman would do. Go back to his hotel and lock himself away. Take a hot shower and get some manual relief.

But Benton wasn’t a gentleman these days, so he considered option number two.

“Where are you staying?” he asked, eyes direct so there would be no mistaking his meaning.

She slid off her stool, and he realized she was a lot taller than he’d expected. Benton was pushing six-four, and she had to be at least five-ten. She walked past him, a trail of honeysuckle following her. She kept walking, and a part of him hoped she’d leave him behind. But she paused and looked over her shoulder.

“You coming?” That hint of rasp was more pronounced. The eyes a darker green.

And Lord help him, but Benton was wavering.

“No strings,” she said lightly, as if sensing his hesitation.

“No names,” he responded.

She gave a slight nod, turned, and walked out of the bar. And Benton did what every other red-blooded American male would do.

He followed her out into a beautiful Nashville night. It was mid-May, and the temperature hovered around fifteen degrees. The crowds were thinner than an hour ago, and they walked in silence for about ten minutes. He realized they were nearing Broadway, but instead of heading to one of the hotels downtown, he followed her into a building with security and rode an elevator up six floors to the top.

She used a fob, and the door swung open, revealing an ultra-modern condo with an enviable view of downtown Nashville. The lighting was dim, but there was enough of it for Benton to know the place screamed money. From the fancy shit on the walls to the cream colored furniture in the open concept space.

He took a look around and was about to take off his boots when he glanced back at her, and his blood ran cold. Then hot. Then it was fucking boiling.

She was naked, the dress pooled at her feet. The dress that had done its job in hiding what was, without a doubt, the kind of body meant to be seen and stroked and kissed. Long, lean legs, slender hips, and a taught torso. Her breasts hung provocatively, heavy with perfect hard nipples, and the apex between her legs was shadowed with the barest whisper of hair.

Instantly hard he stalked toward her, but she turned, and he followed her back to the bedroom, yanking his T-shirt off along the way. By the time he got to the bed, his clothes were off, and he grabbed a condom from his wallet.

There were no words. No endearments or false lies.

This was not about that shit. Benton reached for her. He took her mouth in a kiss that went deep, while his hands made quick work of getting her ready. He didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to talk. Hell, he didn’t even want a connection.

This was about sex and nothing more.

He pushed into her, and she immediately wrapped her legs around him, ready and eager, her hands like claws on his back as she urged him on. They screwed like strangers do and came together in an intense, hot climax that left her shaking, and him barely hanging on.

After a while, Benton’s breathing normalized enough for him to roll away and head to the bathroom to look after a few things. He washed up and then walked back to the bedroom, where he found his boxers. He pulled them on and turned to her.

She sat on the edge of the bed holding a sheet against her body, that long hair of hers falling over her shoulders in tangled waves. He liked the fact that her lips were swollen from his mouth. And those eyes. They were too expressive. Too big and beautiful. She was too much and definitely not for him. He would break someone like her.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” Her voice was quiet, the rasp all but gone.

Benton paused. He was more than a little sex drunk and confused. “Should I?”

The woman slowly shook her head, but that smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “No,” she said softly. “I guess not.” She rolled off the bed and dropped the sheet. Her naked body was bathed in moonlight as she moved toward the washroom. “I’m going to take a shower.”

She disappeared without another word, and Benton knew it was his cue to leave.

He pulled on his jeans, T-shirt, and boots. His Bills ballcap was nowhere to be found which pissed him off because it had taken him four years to work in. He ran his hands over his hair and then let himself out. Twenty minutes later, he walked into his hotel and was thankful that he didn’t run into anyone he knew, save for a few crew members still celebrating the show.

By this time, it was close to two a.m. Benton poured himself a whiskey and stared into the dark. He’d never felt this out of sorts. Like he’d just done something so wrong, there was no coming back from it.

He’d been honest, and she’d known the score. There was sex. Good fucking sex. But that was it. And sure, he didn’t want to know her name, but that didn’t stop him from wondering. And the wondering was what he was afraid of, because wondering got a man in trouble. And he had no time for distractions, especially the kind that came with green eyes and a body made for sin.

He downed the whiskey and fell onto the edge of the bed. He was so far from sleep he couldn’t see it happening tonight, and when he finally leaned back and closed his eyes, it was nearly an hour later. With sleep finally looming, he thought he smelled honeysuckle. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was crazy. Or maybe he was dreaming.

In the end, it didn’t matter because the only thing Benton Bridgestone was sure about was the fact that he hoped he never saw the woman again.