From Montana Savior

CHAPTER ONE

TRAVIS GIBSON

“He had no right to touch you.”

Owning a nightclub is a real bitch sometimes.

Aside from working odd hours, patrons can be straight-up assholes who assume they’re God’s gift to humanity and deserve to be treated as such. My staff knows how to handle these kinds of customers—quickly, efficiently, and without drama—so why the hell am I inserting myself into a situation where I don't belong?

Because from the moment I spotted the gorgeous woman draped in blue satin step into The Charleston Cellar, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off her.

As the CEO of a conglomerate of upscale lounges around the country, beautiful women frequenting my business aren’t an anomaly. Tall, short, thin, round. I’ve seen them all. Been attracted to many of them. And while at forty years of age I rarely indulged in my attraction to guests, my younger self wasn’t as discerning.

So, in theory, this woman shouldn’t have caught my attention and held it for the past hour. Nor should a wave of protectiveness have propelled me forward when a man at the bar touched her bare back.

Yet here I am with my hand wrapped around the bastard’s wrist, tempted to snap it backward in a painful break if not for the woman’s fearful gaze and my bouncer’s stern look of reproach.

“Mr. Gibson, I’ll take it from here,” Jared says, settling a firm hand on the man’s shoulder and forcefully guiding him away from the curious crowd watching our altercation.

“You’re going to let him get away with that?” An indignant protest rises from the man as he tries to get free of Jared. “He could’ve broken my wrist!”

“But I didn’t. Pity, since it’s what you deserve.”

Another furious glance back at Jared. “He just threatened me! Do you know who I am? My father is George Hildebrand, and I demand to be released. That maniac should be kicked out, not me!”

Jared and I share a look over the guy’s head. There’s always a rich prick shouting about his powerful daddy. The sad part is that it's not always college kids either. Grown adults, like this man who looks about my age, use their wealthy parents as a protective shield, too.

“This really isn’t necessary.” A small hand tentatively tugs on my sleeve, and I face the woman at the center of the debacle. Scarlet flushes the pale skin of her cheeks. Dark pupils eclipse the bright blue of her eyes.

“It is.” My hand covers hers and draws it into mine to massage the palm with my thumb. “He had no right to touch you.”

Neither do I, but I’ve never considered myself a ‘good’ man. It’s tough building a business in New York City. Tougher still when you start at the bottom with no connections and even less cash. But I scraped and clawed my way to the top of a luxurious entertainment empire, so now money and connections lay at my feet like sycophants, though an annoying emptiness still gnaws at the edges of my life.

And with each new club I open, it only burrows deeper rather than disappearing. I’ve become a cliché about the wealthy businessman unsatisfied with his golden lifestyle.

“Didn't we say men would be all over you in that dress?” The woman behind her grins. “You’re irresistible, Brooke.”

“I agree.” The low murmur is only meant for Brooke’s ears, and I know she hears me when the tips of her ears turn pink. “Why don’t I take you somewhere more private for a breather? Let everyone calm down without having you to focus on.”

The crowd of onlookers still hasn’t dissipated, and once Brooke notices, her gaze bounces between me and her friend.

“You got some ID on you, big guy?” her friend asks.

Pulling out my wallet, I let the woman snap a picture of my license before she shoos us away. “I’m going to wait for Adeline to get back, then fill her in. You get some fresh air, hon… It’ll do you good.”

I don’t know why Brooke’s friend is so gung-ho for us to hang out alone, but I’m not going to question it. She’s got my name and address if anything goes sideways, not that I’d ever harm a woman, let alone the curvy one I’ve had my sights on all evening.

“Um, okay.” Brooke shyly peeks up through her lashes, and I use my hold on her hand to tug her behind me through the mass of people dancing and drinking.

With a swift ascent to my office, we’re soon locked away in a private cocoon overlooking the club below. Special windows allow us to look down on the crowd without them being able to see us.

Reluctantly, I released her hand and headed toward the bar across from my desk. Maybe a little alcohol will help Brooke relax because right now all I see are nerves radiating from her pores like a bunny running to ground.

“There’s nothing to worry about. I don’t bite.” Unless asked. “My name’s Travis Gibson, and I own this club. It’s my duty to take care of all my guests and see to their comfort and safety.”

Perhaps not to this extreme, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Brooke Stanley.” She thanks me as I offer her a tumbler of brandy. Her face pinches at the taste, and I bite the inside of my cheek in an effort not to laugh at the adorably innocent reaction.

“So, Brooke Stanley,” her name rolls off my tongue, simple and sweet, “what brings you to The Charleston Cellar? Girls’ night out?”

Nodding, she licks her lips, immediately drawing my attention to the glistening bow of her mouth. I shift to the side as we both stare out the windows—my cock swelling at the image of her plump lips circling the tip, her eyes holding my gaze as if waiting for approval.

Damn. I swallow the entire glass of expensive liquor with no thought toward savoring it. Brooke on her knees for me would be a hell of a sight.

“We’re celebrating my last night in New York.”

What? My hand clamps around the empty glass tumbler, the knuckles turning white.

In sixth grade, I got in my first fistfight. Johnny Levinson laughed at the haircut my mom gave me, so I decked him in the jaw. A haphazard brawl broke out between us, and Johnny landed a punch to my gut.

That’s how Brooke’s declaration feels.

Like the wind has been knocked out of me—my stomach caved in after a brutal blow.

“Oh?” My tone conveys none of my inner turmoil. A skill honed across decades of hiding my true emotions before someone chose to view them as a weakness and take advantage.

Come to think of it, my neutral mask began forming not too long after that fight in sixth grade. Too many bullies found pleasure in making a poor trailer park kid’s life hell. Mom was already overworked and running on fumes. Patching my split lips and black eyes only wore her down more.

So, I learned to control myself.

Learned not to react. Outwardly, at least.

It’s served me well in life and business.

Brooke nods and sweeps a curl behind her ear. “Adeline and Samantha came to help me with movers and everything before our flight back to Montana tomorrow.”

Fucking Montana?

This time I can’t stop the grinding of my teeth at her casual announcement.

I may not look like the typical Montanan with my three-piece suits, Aston Martin, and penthouse overlooking Central Park, but it’s where I grew up. Where I began my journey to the top of the corporate world, despite humble beginnings.

“Big Sky Country,” I murmur, listing the one detail people tend to remember when they hear Montana. “Is that where you’re from originally?”

“Close… Just a little more west. Boise, Idaho. But Guardian Valley will be home now.”

I cover a cough of shock with my fist. So much for my legendary control. Brooke shattered it with a well-placed tap of her pink-tipped nail.

Because my business partner and I bought land in Guardian Valley two years ago. An idyllic estate meant to wipe out all the bad memories of my past in that beautiful but godforsaken state.

What are the fucking odds?

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