About That Night

One night...and a whole lotta trouble!

When it comes to men, Ivy Rutherford never loses her cool. Ever. Then she meets wealthy, green-eyed cowboy C. J. Bartasavich, and desire burns out of control. Yeehaw. So for one night, Ivy will indulge in a passion neither of them will forget...and walk away without a backward glance.

Except now Ivy’s pregnant. And even worse, C.J. has come to her hometown of Shady Grove determined to get to know her and be part of their baby’s life—even if she’s convinced their attraction is purely physical. Because Ivy can’t let herself rely on a sexy cowboy...or worse yet, fall in love with one.

“Gotcha...”

Ivy Rutherford’s gaze snapped up to the cowboy’s. Her throat was dry. Her palms damp.

She could still feel the warmth of his breath against her skin; the single word was triumphant. A challenge.

Oh, she was in so much trouble here.

Something passed between them. Something heated and tangible and, on her part, wholly unwanted. Damn it. Damn it! She wanted him to touch her again. Wanted to do some touching of her own.

“It’s cute that you think so,” she murmured, keeping her tone even. Her eyes steady on his. “But don’t be getting delusions of grandeur.”

If possible, his grin amped up a few degrees, all cocky and pleased with her response. She shouldn’t have found it so attractive. “Aw, darlin’, you wound me.”

“You don’t seem like the kind of man who cares much for being subtle.”

“You’re right. I prefer the direct approach.” He scanned her face, taking his time before meeting her eyes again. “Makes it that much easier to get what I want.”

There was a strange fluttering in her chest, just under her heart. It was clear enough what he wanted...

Dear Reader,

I’m thrilled you picked up a copy of About That Night. When I first started writing the In Shady Grove series, I had planned to focus solely on the four Montesano siblings—a close-knit Italian-American family with strong ties to their beloved hometown. But something happened during What Happens Between Friends, the second book in the series, that changed everything.

Kane Bartasavich arrived.

As soon as he appeared on the page, I knew he was perfect for Charlotte Ellison. What I didn’t know was that during the writing of their story (Small-Town Redemption) I’d fall head-over-heels for Kane’s three brothers. I love family dynamics, and writing their stories gives me a chance to explore the relationships between the brothers. As with most families there are frustrations and irritations, sibling rivalry, shared memories and genuine—though at times, grudging—affection.

C. J. Bartasavich, the eldest brother, is a man in control of his life. Until he gives in to desire and spends a passionate night with sexy, cynical waitress Ivy Rutherford. When he learns Ivy is pregnant, he returns to Shady Grove. But he has his work cut out for him trying to convince Ivy they should build a life together and be a family. Luckily for him, he’s a man used to getting what he wants!

I had such fun writing C.J. and Ivy’s story. The sparks flew between them from the moment I put them on the page together. I hope you’ll look for the next In Shady Grove book later this year featuring handsome attorney Oakes Bartasavich.

Please visit my website, bethandrews.net, or drop me a line at beth@bethandrews.net. I’d love to hear from you.

Happy reading!

Beth

About That Night

Beth Andrews

Romance Writers of America RITA® Award-winner BETH ANDREWS writes edgy, emotional contemporary romance for Mills & Boon Superromance. She loves coffee, hockey and happy endings. Learn more about Beth and her books by visiting her website, bethandrews.net.

For Andy

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

CLINTON BARTASAVICH JR. tipped his Stetson in thanks to the toothy brunette who’d escorted him from the front desk of King’s Crossing Resort—Shady Grove, Pennsylvania’s equivalent of a four-star hotel. They stopped outside closed wooden double doors, the placard to the right stating Bartasavich/Ellison Party. “I appreciate the help...” He glanced at the small nametag on her chest. “Allison.”

He probably could have figured out how to get to this room—a distance of about a hundred feet straight down the main hallway—on his own. But when a pretty woman offered to lead the way, he didn’t argue.

Allison let out a high-pitched giggle that was grating enough to make a man’s ears bleed. “Oh, you’re very welcome, Mr. Bartasavich.”

He bit back a grimace. He hated having his name butchered. “Actually, it’s Bart-uh-sav-itch.”

Not Bart-as-a-vitch.

With a soft gasp, complete with a hand to her heart, she blinked at him so rapidly, he half expected her to start hovering above the ground. “How silly of me.” Sending him a look from under her eyelashes, she edged closer, her voice turning husky. “Maybe there’s...some way I could make it up to you?”

He’d eat his hat if she meant extra mints on his pillow.

“No harm done. It’s an honest mistake.”

One not made in Houston where the Bartasavich name was well-known. Even revered in certain circles.

Her lower lip jutted out in a pout no one over the age of six should attempt. “Well, if there’s anything else I can do for you,” she said in a whispery tone, “—and I do mean an...ee...thing—you just let me know.”

He cocked an eyebrow. Seemed Houston wasn’t the only place where his family’s name, power and wealth were known.

While he didn’t have any objections to casual sex—the more casual the better—he didn’t play games. No subtle hints about what either of them wanted. No coy looks or innuendos trying to convey what could be easily said with a few simple words.

And definitely no simpering.

But even if she’d held his gaze and told him in no uncertain terms that she was interested in him, attracted to him and ready, willing and eager to prove how much, he’d decline.

Having women throw themselves at him because of his name had long ago lost its thrill. He was his father’s son. Not his clone. And while Senior had always been more than happy to take whatever was offered to him, C.J. preferred knowing, for certain, that a woman was in his bed because of him.

Not his money.

“I’ll keep your offer in mind,” he said. Then he pulled off his hat and used his free hand to open the door.

And stepped into his own private version of hell. A very crowded, very loud, very pink hell.

It was as if Valentine’s Day had exploded, leaving hearts everywhere. On the walls. Dangling from the ceiling. Scattered on the tabletops. There were big ones, small ones. Flat ones, poufy ones. Some with scalloped edges, some with straight. But all were shiny or sparkly and in shades ranging from the palest pink to the brightest fuchsia.

A long banner draped across the doorway wished the happy couple Heartfelt Congratulations on their engagement. Long streams of twisted pink, red and white crepe paper hung from the rafters.

Any hope he’d held on to of missing the entire party died a cruel and violent death. Because the ballroom wasn’t just filled with hearts. It was also filled with people.

Damn. He should have gotten a later flight.

He turned to his right, scanned the bar where several men and women gathered, talking and laughing, ignoring the hockey game that was being shown on the large TV on the far wall.

No hearts there. Not one flash of pink. He could set his ass on that empty stool in the corner, have a drink or two and pretend he wasn’t here. That most of his crazy family wasn’t in the next room creating only God knew what sort of havoc.

But pretending had never been his style. And he didn’t ignore his problems. He faced them head-on.

Anytime the Bartasavich family was together, there were problems. The only questions were how many—and what did C.J. have to do to fix them.

“You,” a familiar female voice said, the tone dripping with scorn, “are, like, in so much trouble.”

C.J. turned to find his seventeen-year-old niece glaring at him. Always happy to see her—even when she was giving him the stink eye—he grinned. “Now, darlin’, everyone knows getting into trouble is your daddy’s job. Not mine.”

From the time Kane had been born, it’d been C.J.’s job to watch over him. To keep his younger brother out of the trouble he attracted like a freaking magnet.

He’d failed.

“You’re three hours late,” Estelle Monroe said, the very picture of an affronted, pissed-off female who knew she was right—a man’s worst nightmare. “Three. Hours. That is, like, so rude.”

“Some of us have to work. Keep the family living in the style to which you all have become accustomed.” Ever since his father’s stroke ten months ago, it’d been up to C.J. to make sure Bartasavich Industries continued to run smoothly.

Estelle rolled her eyes. She was a beauty like her mother. Long, blond hair, big blue eyes and the face of an angel. Her scowl, on the other hand, was all her father. “It’s Saturday.”

“A Bartasavich’s work is never done.” There were no weekends off. Running a multimillion-dollar company took commitment, dedication and full-time focus. Every goddamn day.

At least for him. His eyes narrowed as he took in her dress. “Does your father know you’re wearing that?”

She tossed her hair back. Smoothed a hand down her hip. “Of course. He isn’t the one who’s three hours late. Why?” she asked, her tone daring him to actually answer.

“It’s too...” Short. Tight. Revealing. Adult. “...red.”

“How can something be too red?”

He wasn’t sure, but hers qualified. Did she have to wear such high heels? And so much makeup? “I’ll give you a thousand dollars to change,” he told her, only half kidding. Hell, he’d offer her two grand if he thought it would work. “Preferably into something with a high neckline, a boxy shape and a floor-length hem.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve had, like, a hundred compliments on this dress tonight. Evan even thought I was twenty-two.”

“Who is Evan?”

She nodded toward the five-piece band rocking a cover version of Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer.” “Chimps on Parade’s drummer.”

“No drummers,” C.J. growled. “Ever.”

“Evan says age is just a number and that I have an old soul. Besides, nine years really isn’t all that big of a difference.”

C.J.’s hands closed into tight fists. “Excuse me,” he ground out from between his teeth. “I’m just going to go and have a little chat with Evan.”

She gave a life-is-so-hard-and-unfair-for-a-pretty-pretty-princess-such-as-myself sigh. “Don’t bother. Daddy already said something to him, and now Evan won’t even look at me.”

“Good to know your father can be counted on for something.” They must have taught him how to act big and tough in the army. Christ knew he hadn’t learned it growing up.

“Come on,” Estelle said, slipping her arm through C.J.’s. “Grandma Gwen’s been asking about you.”

She tried to tug him along but he planted his feet. “I think I’ll grab a drink first. Get ready to face all that pink.”

Though he’d been joking—a little—her lower lip jutted out. Trembled. She could give Allison lessons on the proper way to make a man feel like shit. “You don’t like the decorations.”

“Of course I do,” he said, remembering too late that Estelle was, officially, the hostess of this little shindig for her father and his fiancée. “They’re very...festive.”

“They’re supposed to be romantic!” she wailed loudly enough to make several of the bar patrons glance their way.

He put his arm around her shoulders. Squeezed. “Hey now, you know I’m clueless about decorating.”

She sniffed and shrugged him off. “It’s not just that.”

He glanced around, but no one was there to explain what the hell he’d said wrong. “Then what is it?” he asked, not sure he really wanted to know.

“You don’t even want to be here.”

He’d flown halfway across the country, left the civilized world of Houston—where he had work, work and more work—to be in this small town thirty miles south of Pittsburgh to celebrate his brother’s engagement. A brother he’d barely spoken to in the past fifteen years. An engagement C.J. highly doubted would make it to the altar.

Hell no, he didn’t want to be here. But he was. He always put his family first. Didn’t that count for anything?

“What I want doesn’t matter,” he told her.

“It’s just—” she threw her hands into the air, beseeching the heavens to help her cope with the disappointment “—I tried so hard to make this party special for Daddy and Charlotte, but it’s a disaster. First Uncle Zach texted me that he wasn’t coming and then you were late. Granddad’s been an absolute grump all night, making angry noises and thumping his good hand. I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to be here or because Carrie’s drunk and been hanging on Uncle Oakes. Then there’s Grandma...” Estelle shivered dramatically. “Well, you’re going to have to see that for yourself.” Her eyes welled. “I just wanted everything to be perfect, and instead, it’s ruined.”

He sighed. Hung his head. Women. Care about one of them too much and they’d get their hooks into you—either by the balls or by the gut. Either way, once they had you, you were never free.

He hoped like hell that, if he ever had children, he followed in his father’s footsteps and had all boys.

He held out his arms, but Estelle lifted her chin.

Stubborn as her father.

C.J. amped up his grin by a few degrees. “Come on, darlin’. Don’t tell me you’re going to stay mad at your favorite uncle.”

“At the moment, Uncle Oakes is my favorite,” she said, prissy as a princess to a peasant. But then she relented enough to step into his embrace. Wrap her arms around him for a hug.

He squeezed her hard. Kissed the top of her head. Damn, but he was crazy about her.

“Oakes is everyone’s favorite,” he said, not offended in the least to be usurped by his brother. If she’d wanted to go for the jugular, she would have picked Zach.

There wasn’t anything he could do about his youngest brother not showing up, but he could take care of the rest for her. He looked over her head and scanned the room. People laughed and conversed around the round tables or stood in small groups, eating hors d’oeuvres and sipping tall flutes of champagne brought around by the waitstaff. Others had paired off, swaying to the band’s acoustic rendition of Guns N’ Roses’ “November Rain,” the lead singer’s smoky voice giving the song a slow, seductive quality.

Among the dancers, it was easy enough to find his brother Kane and his new fiancée, Charlotte Ellison. Hard to miss Charlotte, with that bright beacon of short red hair. Usually more cute than beautiful, she was a knockout tonight in an emerald-green dress that showed off her long legs and gave her thin figure the illusion of curves. For his part, Kane still looked every inch the badass he pretended to be. One of only a few men without a suit, he’d tied back his too-long hair into a stupid, stubby ponytail and wore dark jeans and a white button-down shirt that covered his tattoos.

“For a disaster, everyone seems to be having a good time,” C.J. said.

Estelle stepped back and nodded toward the room. “Look again.”

He followed her gaze to the far window where Carrie was pressed like a second skin against a pale, grim-mouthed Oakes. Though Carrie was doing her best to get a reaction, Oakes stood still as a statue, his eyes straight ahead and not on her impressive breasts, which were spilling out of her pale yellow dress.

Poor bastard looked as though he’d been cornered by a pissed-off bobcat and not a perky blonde.

C.J. would have laughed if that perky blonde hadn’t also happened to be married to their father.

Problem number one.

“You say Carrie’s drunk?” C.J. asked Estelle.

“The way she’s been groping Uncle Oakes all night, she’d better be drunk. God. It’s, like, completely disgusting. And with Granddad right there, too.”

It was then that C.J. spotted his father, his once robust form slumped to the side of his wheelchair. The stroke Senior had suffered almost a year ago had stolen his ability to speak and paralyzed the right side of his body. But judging from the glare he was shooting at his wife and third son, his mind was still in working order. Behind him, Mark, his large bald nurse, took a hold of Senior under the arms and lifted him straight.

Senior slid down again. His mouth moved, his body jerked, and C.J. knew he was trying to say something, more than likely giving Mark, Oakes and Carrie hell.

Problem number two.

“But that’s not the worst of it,” Estelle said.

C.J. sent his niece a sidelong glance. “It gets worse?”

“Much.” She looked so solemn. So serious. Not expressions she wore often. C.J. bit back a groan. What sort of fresh hell had he walked into? “Like, catastrophically worse.”

She pointed to the dance floor. The band had started another song, this one an upbeat pop song. People bounced and danced along.

And there, surrounded by a circle of dancers, his mother did a slow bump and grind against a tall, dark-haired man.

C.J. grabbed the back of his neck. Squeezed hard. Worse, indeed.

Estelle nodded. “I know. It’s gross.” She made the mistake of looking at the dance floor again only to whirl back, horrified. “Ugh. Grandma Gwen just totally, like, groped him. In front of God and everybody.” Estelle leaned forward, her voice a harsh whisper. “Like, her hand was on his butt squeezing and—and stroking. I’m going to have to have my brain sprayed with bleach in the hopes of taking the memory out of my head. You have to do something, Uncle C.J. You’re so good at fixing things.”

He snorted. Right. He should be good at it. He’d had enough practice. He wouldn’t mind a night off every now and then, but he couldn’t refuse his niece. Couldn’t refuse to do what had been his responsibility since birth.

Take care of his family.

“What would you suggest?” he asked.

“Make her stop.”

If only it was that easy. But then, for Estelle, life was simple. She asked for something and got it. She was indulged at every turn, her every wish granted.

Tonight was no different.

He patted her hand. “I’ll handle it.”

She smiled and threw her arms around him for another hug, this one more enthusiastic and warmer than before. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I know Daddy and Char will appreciate your help, too.”

C.J. doubted that, but it wouldn’t stop him from doing what was right.

His mother took that moment to rub her ass against her date’s pelvis.

C.J. winced. He’d have to tag along when Estelle had her brain scrubbed.

“Excuse me, darlin’,” he drawled to a teenage waitress as she passed. “You wouldn’t happen to have any forks on you, would you?”

“They’re just mini quiches...” Frowning, she tipped her head to the side, her ponytail of light brown corkscrew curls bouncing with the movement. “Is that the proper plural form of quiche? Or is it one of those words like deer or fish?”

It took him a moment to realize she was talking about the food on her tray. And that her question hadn’t been rhetorical.

“I think either form is correct,” he said.

“But you don’t know for sure. What if it’s one of the questions on the SATs? I mean, I doubt it, but you never know. Leighann—my best friend—took them last fall, even though you really don’t need to take them until the spring of your junior year, but she’s always trying to be The First, you know? Which is why I think she finally gave in and slept with her boyfriend, so she’d be the first of our group to lose her virginity.”

C.J. blinked. Blinked again. “Uh...”

“My stepmom says it’s because deep down, Leighann’s insecure, and she overcompensates by acting overly confident. Like men with little—”

“I hope like hell you’re about to say wallets,” C.J. said quickly. “Or brains.”

“No,” she said slowly. “But if it’ll make you feel better, I can just say men who aren’t quite as endowed—”

“No. That doesn’t make me feel better at all. How about we skip that part in its entirety?”

She lifted a shoulder, then switched the tray to her other hand. “Anyway, Leighann said there were a ton of arbitrary questions on the SATs, most of them not having to do with real life at all. What if the plural form of weird words is one of them?”

“Sorry, darlin’. Quiche isn’t exactly a word I use very often. In any form.”

She nodded sagely. “That’s good. They’re pies of death, if you think about it. All those eggs. And cream. And cheese. Really, it’s a heart attack waiting to happen. Or at least, high-cholesterol levels. Plus, it’s not natural—humans eating products made from cow’s milk. Except I’m not allowed to—” she made air quotes with one hand “—preach about my personal views to guests.” Another set of air quotes as if closing what must have been a direct order from her supervisor. “So I’ll just say I’m sure these appetizers are extremely delicious. At least, I’m guessing they are. I wouldn’t know personally, as I don’t eat any animal products.” She frowned. “Usually. And, best of all, you don’t need a fork to eat them. They’re small enough to just pop into your mouth.”

She lifted the tray higher, obviously expecting him to do just that.

How she managed to get so many words out with so little breath was beyond C.J. But get them out she did, all the while holding his gaze innocently.

Amazing.

Back in Houston, people treated him with a certain...reverence. Because of his father’s last name, his father’s money. The old man had always eaten it up. Had loved having servants fawn all over him, unable to make eye contact, bowing and scraping as if it was all nothing less than expected. Deserved.

But Clint’s ego was just fine. It didn’t need to be stroked.

No matter what Kane said.

“I don’t need the fork to eat. I wanted to use it to stab my eyes out.” He nodded toward the dance floor where his mother gave a loud whoop and threw her arms in the air, lifting the hem of her short dress so high C.J. quickly averted his gaze lest he see parts no one but Gwen’s gynecologist should see. “Anything sharp and pointy will do.”

The waitress followed his gaze. “Yes. That is disturbing.” She shifted the tray to her hip. Studied him closely. “Is she your date?”

He flinched, but he couldn’t blame the kid for thinking Gwen was younger than her actual age. She saw her plastic surgeon more often than her own sons. “My mother.”

“Oh.” Then she shocked the hell out of C.J. by giving his forearm a quick squeeze. “I’m sorry.”