Ross: 7 Brides for 7 Blackthornes (Book 3) Read online

  ROSS

  7 Brides for 7 Blackthornes (Book 3)

  LYNN RAYE HARRIS

  H.O.T. Publishing, LLC

  Contents

  Preface

  About This Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from PHILLIP by Cristin Harber

  7 Brides for 7 Blackthornes Series

  Also by Lynn Raye Harris

  About the Author

  Preface

  Ross

  7 Brides for 7 Blackthornes (Book 3)

  © 2019 by Lynn Raye Harris

  * * *

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  or text HOTTIES to 66866.

  About This Book

  Ross Blackthorne likes his cars fast and his women faster. As the third son, he’s accustomed to living his life without the pressure to succeed that his older brothers face. But when he crashes his racecar during a public event, his father decides enough is enough. It’s time for Ross to step up and join the family business.

  * * *

  Holly Brooks has her hands full running operations at the Blackthorne Distillery in Lexington, Kentucky. The last thing she needs is to babysit an unrepentant playboy who doesn’t have any interest in learning what it takes to make world-class bourbon.

  * * *

  Ross only intends to stay for as long as it takes to convince his father he’s better suited to driving fast—but working in close proximity to Holly is more interesting than he expected.

  * * *

  Can daredevil Ross convince good girl Holly that he’s worth the risk? Or is their budding relationship doomed to crash and burn?

  * * *

  Don't miss these sexy, heartwarming, emotion-filled books by seven bestselling authors: Barbara Freethy, Julia London, Lynn Raye Harris, Cristin Harber, Roxanne St. Claire, Christie Ridgway and Samantha Chase.

  Chapter One

  “THE BLACKTHORNE WHISKY car takes the lead! Ross Blackthorne is really making a run for the Cup this year and this race might just be the proof he’s got what it takes—oh no, he’s on fire! Something just exploded in there—and Blackthorne is spinning out of control as he gets clipped from behind! His spotter’s telling him to get out of there quick! But he’s got to bring the car to a stop before he can do that. Oh wow, this is a messy one, look at those cars pile up. And Ross Blackthorne needs to get out of that blaze before it gets any worse. Holy heck, now he’s airborne…”

  “I’M FINE,” Ross said, pushing away the nurse’s soft, prying hands. He could still smell burning rubber and oil. He’d be a bit stiff tomorrow, maybe a few bruises, but otherwise he’d be fine. Not that he’d expected anything less. The cars were built with plenty of protective systems and racing was far safer than it used to be.

  Drivers walked away from crashes that would have killed them previously. There hadn’t been a driver fatality on the track in almost twenty years. He was glad he hadn’t changed that statistic tonight.

  Martin Temple stood with hands on hips and stared at Ross. Temple was gray-haired and wiry, and the way he stared reminded Ross—uncomfortably—of his father. Lately, Dad had been pressuring him to head over to the Blackthorne Distillery near Lexington, Kentucky, and put in some time learning about the bourbon business. But Ross was busy with the racing team, which was headquartered near Louisville for the time being, and hadn’t managed it yet. He didn’t want to manage it.

  The nurse slipped out the door. Silence stretched until Ross broke it.

  “We were winning,” Ross said. He was still pissed about losing his shot at victory today. It’d taken a lot of fancy talking to get his father to agree to sponsoring a racing team, and now this. Just when he’d been on the cusp of proving that the expense was worth it in terms of advertising and brand recognition, he’d blown an engine on the final lap.

  And he’d done it on national television in full view of his family—if they’d been watching. He hoped like hell they had not. Especially his dad.

  Blowing an engine was one thing. But spinning out of control and flying through the air while on fire was quite another. Landing upside down was simply a bonus, especially when you had to climb through roaring flames to get out of the cage.

  These days, Ross didn’t think it would take much to convince Graham Blackthorne that it was time his son hung up the racing suit and put on a business suit. He’d been hinting at it a lot lately. If he’d been watching, the accident might be just the excuse he needed.

  “Yep,” Martin replied. “But that’s racing for you. One little thing goes wrong, and it all goes wrong.”

  “What the hell did you do to my engine, Martin?”

  Martin frowned. “Now don’t you start that crap with me, Ross Blackthorne. You were pushing the car hard. It happens. Engines blow under that kind of stress. The rest of it was bad luck based on your position.”

  Ross shoved a hand through his hair. Engine failures were definitely a part of life in racing. He knew it as well as anyone. But dammit, why’d it have to happen on the last lap when the win was within reach? When he’d been about to prove to his father that the millions of dollars poured into the racing team was money well spent? Jack Daniel and Jim Beam had pulled out of sponsoring stock cars lately. Ross didn’t want Blackthorne to follow suit.

  His brother Devlin had the yachts. Ross wanted cars. The difference was that Dad was also a sailor and he understood yachts. He didn’t understand cars. Didn’t much care. Ross had a steeper mountain to climb—and the climb had just gotten harder if his dad saw that race.

  “Yeah, yeah. Engines fail. It would’ve been nice if it could have waited another lap though.”

  Martin looked troubled. “I know, kid. I’m sorry.”

  “So we’ll win the next one. Nothing we can do about this one.”

  “That’s right. We’ll win the next one,” Martin said. But he didn’t sound like he believed it.

  Ross stood up, suddenly weary. He was still wearing his fire suit with the Blackthorne logo emblazoned on the front and he wanted to get out of it. Then he wanted to take a shower and think about how to spin this loss to his father.

  Before he took the first step, his phone rang. He picked it up, wondering when he’d gotten it from his assistant. He didn’t carry it while racing. But here it was and that meant someone had put it near him at some point during the past twenty minutes.

  He looked at the screen—and instantly wished he hadn’t. He debated sending the call to voicemail. But if his father had seen the crash, he’d probably be worried. It wasn’t fair to refuse to answer under those circumstances.

  Ross slid the bar. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Are you okay, son?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m fine.”

  He thought he heard his dad swear beneath his breath. “Good. Because that looked like a hell of a mess.”

  Great.

  “The engine blew. It happens.”

  “You could have been killed,” Dad said. “Your mother wo
uld never forgive me if—”

  He broke off and Ross’s throat tightened. Yeah, bring Mom into it. He needed to call her later. She was in Paris and it was late there, so she probably didn’t know. He also didn’t think American stock car races were broadcast on French television. He had time.

  “I know it looked bad, but the cars are safe. The systems are designed to do what they did. I’m not hurt.” Mostly.

  “It’s risky. Too risky.”

  Ross had the sensation of a noose closing around his neck. “Can we talk later, Dad? I’d like to get out of this suit and into some street clothes—”

  “No,” Graham said, cutting him off. “We’re going to talk now.”

  Ross gritted his teeth. He had a lot of adrenaline flowing through his system and he wanted to punch something. But there was nothing to punch. Except a wall. Or Martin. He felt like Martin might punch back though. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m thankful you’re alive. Incredibly thankful. But this seals it for me. You’ve been entirely too reckless with your life, Ross. It’s time you did something safer.”

  Ross froze. He’d been reckless? Dad still hadn’t admitted that Mom had left him, or why. How reckless had he been to lose Mom? And how prideful not to apologize for whatever he’d done and beg her to come back? No Blackthorne had ever gotten divorced in the history of Blackthornes. Were his parents about to be the first? What happened to the brand then?

  His cousin Brock was probably having a coronary considering it.

  Focus. “Listen Dad—”

  “No. Everything we are as Blackthornes, our history, our destiny—we owe it to the whisky. It’s our heritage, our pride, and it’s time you took more than a passing interest in just precisely what it is that keeps this family in the position we enjoy. You need to do your part, Ross.”

  Ross’s blood was turning to ice. Fury rolled inside him. He wanted to ask about Mom, but he sensed that wouldn’t go over so well.

  And do his part? He’d been doing his part as an ambassador for the brand. Ross Blackthorne the racing driver couldn’t go out on the street without being recognized in most places. He smiled and signed autographs and answered questions, because he was a damned brand ambassador who cared about his family legacy. Just like his brothers and cousins.

  “But Devlin—” he began.

  “Devlin,” his father said, cutting him off, “is building and selling sailboats in addition to racing them. Can you tell me how running cars on the NASCAR circuit is going to make the family money? Are you going to be selling stock cars, Ross?”

  “No, but—”

  “No, of course not. You can’t build and sell stock cars to the luxury market, which is something your brother can do with boats. Devlin has proven himself. But you, Ross…” His father sighed. A disappointed sound that filled Ross with a mixture of fury and sadness at the same time. As the third son, he’d always felt like a spare child. He didn’t doubt his parents loved him, but he’d never felt like they had specific expectations for him either. “I’ve indulged you too much. You’re reporting to the Blackthorne Distillery for work.”

  Ross swallowed his fury. Dad was just mad—and more than a little lost without Mom—but he’d get over it. And Mom would come home again.

  “I can’t stop driving or I won’t have a shot at the Cup this year.”

  And this year he had a chance to win it. A damned good one. He was driving better than ever. The leader board could change several times by the end, but he’d won two races already and finished in the top five six times. The rest were top ten finishes. Surely Dad wouldn’t jeopardize the opportunity with this idea of Ross working at the distillery. It would be good for the brand if Ross won the Cup. If he did, he’d been thinking about going out on his own—not that he’d told anyone that.

  Ross Blackthorne Motorsports instead of Blackthorne Racing. He’d have more freedom to do what he wanted, to expand the team and bring on younger drivers to train.

  He’d also be able to open the performance division he’d wanted to start—and build a garage where he could help people who needed basic transportation to afford reliable used cars.

  But now Dad was throwing everything into chaos. All because of a race that Ross had nearly won. Nearly, but not quite. The finish line had been within reach—just like the finish line to creating his own motorsport brand.

  Crash, burn, done.

  “I’ve given the order to Martin. You’re finished racing, Ross. Report to the distillery in two days.”

  “I need more time than that,” Ross growled. “We aren’t in Kentucky right now. I’ve got to get back there and—”

  “One week. No more.”

  The phone went dead. Ross turned to look at Martin. But Martin was already gone.

  HOLLY BROOKS SAT at her desk in the Blackthorne Distillery’s office building and flicked through the tabs on her browser. She had a meeting with the master distiller in twenty minutes to go over plans for a new line of flavored bourbons—ginger, vanilla, and cherry to complement the honey and cinnamon they already sold—and she was doing last minute research on their competitors’ offerings.

  She opened a new window to type in another competitor’s name when a headline caught her attention.

  ROSS BLACKTHORNE IN FIERY CRASH

  Holly bit her lip as she clicked the link. There was a picture of a burning car lying upside down. And then there was a picture of Ross Blackthorne in his black and gold racing suit, helmet cradled in his right arm, frowning as the emergency crew directed fire retardant at the car.

  Holly shivered. She knew what fire could do to end dreams.

  Ross was alive and apparently uninjured. She didn’t really know him, though he’d toured the distillery once. Precisely once, about three months ago. They’d been introduced. She remembered the exact moment as if it were embedded beneath her skin for all time. She’d been testing the mash and she’d been sweating in the heat of the fermentation house, a bandanna tied over her hair, no makeup, and baggy overalls. She’d heard the door open and then Uncle Evan was there with the most strikingly handsome man she’d ever seen in her life.

  Ross Blackthorne was tall, lean, with dark, slightly curly hair and brown eyes. His face had seemed carved from marble it was so pretty, with sharp cheekbones and a perfect nose. He was tanned and handsome, and he’d looked right through her as he’d shaken her hand politely. She’d stammered and blushed but he hadn’t noticed before Uncle Evan whisked him away.

  Thank God.

  Holly growled. Why was she clicking on articles about him anyway? He’d been polite enough, but she knew a rich playboy when she saw one. Spoiled, privileged, and filled with too much testosterone that made him do stupid things like drive flaming racecars.

  She told herself to close the tab, but of course she didn’t. She read the article. Then she clicked over to a related article that showed Ross in a bar, surrounded by smiling women. His mouth was open as he laughed, straight white teeth flashing in his perfectly handsome face. The article was from last week, so not an accurate representation of how he’d spent the night after the crash. Still, she imagined he spent most nights that way. He was too gorgeous and too rich not to.

  And those women were beautiful, too. Tight clothes, curvy figures, long flowing hair. Perfect makeup. They looked like movie stars to her. Nothing like a girl in a bandanna and overalls with her hands—sans manicure and polish—dipping into a lake of fragrant corn mash.

  There was a knock on her door. She minimized the browser as the door opened to reveal Uncle Evan. “Morning, Holly,” he said as he came inside.

  “Morning, Uncle Evan. I was just doing some research before our meeting.”

  Uncle Evan had been the master distiller for the past three years—ever since their family distillery had been bought out by the Blackthornes. It was a job she wanted someday, but she still had a lot to learn. She’d wanted to be the master distiller for Brooks Creek, but that brand was gone now. She felt the same pang she alwa
ys did when she thought of her family label and how quickly everything changed. They might have made it if not for the fire that wiped out their three main barrelhouses and all their best whisky.

  “Good, good,” Uncle Evan said. “I’m sure you’re going to dazzle me with your plans.”

  “I hope so.” And then she hoped he managed to dazzle the Blackthornes with her suggestion. Nothing would get done without the head office’s say so.

  “I wanted to talk to you about something,” he said, shutting the door behind him. “Before we meet with the team.”

  “Okay.” Holly nervously picked up her notebook. The spirit-making team was another name for the production staff, which these days included a lot more people than it had in the days of Brooks Creek. But that’s what happened when a major distiller bought your product and recipes and incorporated them into their own brand. The Blackthornes made some of the finest whisky Holly had ever tasted—but it wasn’t technically bourbon, though it was bourbon-style whisky.

  Buying the old Brooks Creek distillery and expanding it right here in Bourbon County was what made Blackthorne an official bourbon maker. It was a market they were primed to dominate.