Branded (The Cavanaugh Brothers, Band 1) - Softcover

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Laura Wright is passionate about romantic fiction. Though she has spent most of her life immersed in acting, singing, and competitive ballroom dancing, when she found the world of writing and books and endless cups of coffee, she knew she was home. She is also the author of the Mark of the Vampire series, including Etermal Beast, Eternal Demon, and Eternal Sin. Laura lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two young children, and three lovable dogs. 

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PRAISE FOR BRANDED

PRAISE FOR LAURA WRIGHT AND HER NOVELS

Also by Laura Wright

SIGNET ECLIPSE

Diary of Cassandra Cavanaugh

May 12, 2002

Dear Diary,

Today it took five dollars to get the cowboys to look the other way when Mac and I saddled up one of Daddy’s prize cow horses. They’re so darn mean and greedy. And it’s my birthday too! Thirteen years old, people! So, you know, shouldn’t I at least get a discount from them boys or something? Jeez. Mac came through, though. She always does. She gave them a piece of her mind, and lots of curse words, too. But they wouldn’t budge, so she flipped them her middle finger, paid them off, and told me happy birthday.

She’s so funny and crazy.

Mac’s been wanting to give Mrs. Lincoln a spin forever. Well, ever since the gray mare came to the Triple C, anyway. Between you and me, I think Mrs. L’s a little too much horse for Mac to handle. But o’course Mac doesn’t think so. She’s as hardheaded as they come. She says what she wants and does what she wants, and she ain’t afraid of anything.

I wish I could be like that.

I wish I could be tough.

Mac and me rode out to the Hidey Hole o’course. We had lunch and swam a little bit; then we sunbathed. I’m a total sun worshipper. I wish it were sunshine all day and night and never dark. I don’t like the dark. Mac wanted to just wear our underwear and bras while we lay out, but I said no way. The Hidey Hole was always top secret, real hidden down in the gulch, but lately I’ve been getting the feeling someone might know about it. And I was right!

Not an hour and a half into our fun, my oldest brother, Deacon, found us. He was in a mood, too. He’s seventeen and pretty much has his own life. He hates having to come look for me. ’Course, so do James and Cole. But when Mama says move, we all move. Anyway, Deac barked at me to get home and get ready for my birthday party. I told him I’d come along soon. The thing wasn’t for another five hours, for goodness’ sake! But he wouldn’t have any of that. He was in a real snit. Bossy as hell. Which, o’course pissed Mac off to no end. She gave it to him good. She sounded like the cowboys when they’re working cattle. Definitely R rated! And Deacon hates it. He thinks Mac is a bad influence.

I don’t know if I’m right or wrong, but lately, I get the feeling that Mac might have a crush on Deac. Not that she doesn’t tell him to take a hike in her colorful way and all, but lately, when she does it, her cheeks go all red. And her blue eyes get all shiny like gemstones. She also plays with her hair, wraps it around her finger into a long brown snake. I don’t think she knows she’s doing it.

Maybe I should tell her?

Ugh, I dunno.

I don’t want her to be mad at me. She’s my best friend, but she’s also like my sister. And my family is like her family. All she’s got at home is her pops, and he ain’t nothing to sing songs about in the parenting department, if you know what I mean.

Maybe I can go roundabout with it? Talk about all the girls who call our house wanting to speak to Deacon during dinnertime and see how Mac reacts? Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll know if she’s jealous or not. But, Lord, what do I do if she is?

I’ll write again tomorrow and let you know what happens. Wish me luck!

Cass

One

The glass doors slid open and Deacon Cavanaugh walked out onto the roof of his thirty-story office building. Sunlight blazed down, comingling with the saunalike air to form a potent cocktail of sweat and irritation. The heat of a Texas summer seemed to hit the moment the sky faded from black to gray, and by seven a.m. it was a living thing.

“I’ve rescheduled your meetings for the rest of the week, sir.”

Falling into step beside him, his executive assistant, Sheridan O’Neil, handed off his briefcase, iPad, and business smartphone to the helicopter pilot.

“Good,” Deacon told her, heading for the black chopper, the platinum Cavanaugh Group painted on the side winking in the shocking light of the sun. “And Angus Breyer?”

“I have no confirmation at this time,” she said.

Which was code for there was a potential problem, Deacon mused. His assistant was nothing if not meticulously thorough.

Deacon stopped and turned to regard her. Petite, dressed impeccably, sleek auburn hair pulled back in a perfect bun to reveal a stunningly pretty face, Sheridan O’Neil made many of the men in his office forget their names when she walked by. But it was her brains, her guts, her instincts, and her refusal to take any shit that made Deacon respect her. In fact, it had made him hire her right out of business school. When he’d interviewed her, the ink on her diploma had barely dried. But despite her inexperience, her unabashed confidence in proclaiming that she wanted to be him in ten years hit his gut with a hell yes, this is the one I should hire. Forget ten years. Deacon was betting she’d achieve her goal in seven.

“What’s the problem, Sheridan?” he asked her.

She released a breath. “I attempted to move Mr. Breyer to next week, but he’s refused. As you requested, I told no one where you’re going or why.” Her steely gray gaze grew thoughtful. “Sir, if you would just let me explain to the clients—”

“No.”

“Sir.”

Deacon’s voice turned to ice. “I’ll be back on Friday by five, Sheridan.”

She nodded. “Of course, sir.”

She followed him toward the waiting chopper. “Should I ask Ms. Monroe if she’s free to accompany you on Friday?”

Only the mildest strain of interest moved through him at the mention of Pamela Monroe. Dallas’s hottest fashion designer had been his go-to for functions lately. She was beautiful, cultured, and uncomplicated. But in the past few months, he’d been starting to question her loyalty as certain members of the press had begun showing up whenever they went out.

“Not yet,” he said.

“Mr. Breyer is bringing his . . . date—” Sheridan stumbled. “And he’s more comfortable when you bring one as well.”

A slash of a grin hit Deacon’s mouth. “What did you wish to call the woman, Sheridan?”

She lifted her chin, her gaze steady. “His daughter, sir.”

Deacon chuckled. His assistant could always be counted on for the truth. “I’ll let you know in the next few days if I require Pamela.”

He stepped into the chopper and nodded at the company’s pilot. “I’m taking her, Ty. Bell’s been instructed to deliver another if you need it.”

The pilot gave him a quick salute. “Very good, sir.”

“Mr. Cavanaugh?”

Deacon turned and lifted an eyebrow at his assistant, who was now just outside the chopper’s door. “What is it, Sheridan?”

Her normally severe gaze softened imperceptibly. “I’m sorry about your father.”

Deacon waited for a whisper of grief to move through him, but there was nothing. “Thank you, Sheridan.”

After a quick nod, she turned and headed for the glass doors. Deacon placed his headphones on, stabbed at the starter button, and checked his gauges. Overhead, the rotor blades began to turn.

He’d been to River Black nearly once a month over the past six years. In the first two,...