THE COWBOY FLING Read online

  "And you like your women straight up, like your whiskey." She saluted him with her shot.

  "Those things sneak up on you, Lacey," he warned.

  She frowned. "Like I said—"

  "I know – you know what you're doing. But do you know how many fingers I'm holding up?" He held out three.

  "Never you mind. I feel fine." She gulped the drink and banged the empty glass on the table. "Smooth as water. Now, as I was saying, with sex you like things simple. She wants you. You want her. Honest lust. And when it's over, it's over."

  "Yeah…" he said slowly. He didn't like where this was going…

  "That's great," she said, holding out her beer stein to clink shakily with his, "because that's 'xactly how I like my men."

  Her eyes met his, surprisingly steady and hot. Very hot. A jolt of lust shot straight to his equipment. Holy moley. "That's the whiskey talking," he said.

  "Somebody had to do it," she said with a lopsided grin. "I'm not nearly so nervous now." She paused, took a deep breath, exposing an inch more of breast as she did so, and said, "I'm much more com-for-tab-le." She had trouble with the syllables. "So how about it? You game?"

  "Game?" He lifted an eyebrow at her.

  "For a roll in the hay."

  "A roll in the…?" He gulped.

  "Yeah. Getting it on. The wild thing. You know – the horizontal mambo."

  He shook his head in wonder, chuckling despite the charge he was getting at the prospect. "Lacey, you are something else."

  "I just know what I want. And I want you." She pointed at him, but the way her finger wavered and she closed one eye, he'd bet she saw two of him. "You know, I don't think I need any more of those boiler thingies." She hiccupped. "So, do you want me, Maxie?"

  Maxie? "You're three sheets – or should I say shots? – to the wind, Lacey."

  "I'm perfickly fine," she said. "Look, I can touch my nose." She closed her eyes, tilted her head back and extended her pointed finger. It wobbled around a little, then she gave up, dropped her hand and looked at him.

  "Never mind. I'm not driving and you're not a cop." She leveled her gaze at him. "Lez quit talking and jus' do it."

  He fought the urge to take her up on the suggestion and went for a reasonable approach. "You don't want to get involved with me, Lacey. Like I said, I'm a loner. And a rolling stone. And I'm broke. And I chew snoose and, um, I have bad hygiene."

  She leaned forward and sniffed twice. "You smell pre'y good to me. None of that shtuff matters – whaz snoose, anyway?"

  "Chewing tobacco."

  "O-kay … but not in bed. Anyway, thizzis jus' a fling. We'll be ships pashing in the night. Cazzzz-ual."

  "No woman ever means that," he said. "They say 'casual' and the next thing you know they're registering at a Neiman Marcus store." He rushed on before she had a chance to wonder what a ranch hand would know about registering or Neiman Marcus stores. "The point is, this isn't going to happen. I can't take advantage of a woman in your condition."

  "I'm not in a condition. I'm just a li'l ruhlaxed." As illustration, she let her arm flop like a rag doll.

  "Honey, you're practically in a coma."

  "Why do you have to be sush a … sush a … genelman."

  "You make that sound like something you'd smash with a shoe. Look, I'm going to the john, and then I'm taking you home. Wait right here."

  On the way to the men's room, Max paid their tab, smiling to himself. She sure was cute when she was looped. All he had to do was drive her back to her place and he'd be home free – no harm, no foul and nothing to not report to Wade.

  Except when he emerged from the restroom Lacey wasn't where he'd left her. Instead, she was at the other end of the bar on a stool next to a hulk of a cowboy who was definitely not giving her directions to the ladies' room.

  Max walked up to her and gripped her arm. "Lacey, let's go," he said and started to hoist her off the stool.

  "Hold it, buddy," the cowboy growled, eyes narrowing. "The lady and me are talking here."

  "That's right," Lacey said, completely oblivious to the macho threat in the air. "Randall here's been telling me all about the rodeo and his scars and such. It's jus' fasc-'nating."

  "Enough, okay?" Max growled. "Let's go."

  "I just ordered the lady a beer, man," Randall said menacingly.

  "The last thing she needs is a beer," Max replied, matching his tone.

  "What she needs is for you to leave her alone." Randall stood off his stool, puffed out his chest and shifted his weight threateningly. Uh-oh. If he wasn't careful Max would shortly be invited out to have his candy ass whupped.

  Lacey's eyes opened wide, and he realized she'd finally noticed the tension between the two men. She hopped off her stool, her knees giving a little. "Maybe I should be going," she said to Randall.

  "You stay right there," Randall said, blocking her with an arm. His cold eyes stayed on Max and he spoke in a low warning tone, like a snake's prestrike rattle. "I don't like to see women get pushed around."

  Lacey's eyes went wide. "He wasn't pushing me around. He was just—"

  "Don't let this guy scare you," Randall, Cowboy Defender, snapped. "You sit down and drink your drink, and this guy can take a hike."

  Great. The invitation to step outside was about two comments away, Max judged – a prospect he dreaded. His fist-fighting days were limited and long ago. It should have been easy to outwit this cretin, but his synapses were misfiring like mad. His brain was Lacey soaked and completely besotted.

  He settled for the briar-patch approach. "Okay, pal, you win," he said, in an I-hope-you-know-what-you're-doing tone. He snugged his hat on his head. "I just hope you have your parking fines paid up and your shotgun registered." He leaned close to the guy's ear. "Her dad's a cop and he gets real cranky when his daughter comes home smelling like whiskey. If you get my drift."

  The heat in the cowboy's demeanor faded and his jaw lost its lock. "Her dad's a cop?"

  "Not a problem really," Max continued, "as long as you don't mind being strip-searched, urine-tested and fingerprinted on a spot-check basis. Oh, and no tattoos. He hates tattoos." He looked pointedly at the eagle on the guy's forearm, turned and started to walk away.

  "Hold it!" the cowboy called to him.

  Max turned around.

  "You can take her," he said grudgingly. "Just don't push her around. I mean it."

  "Ooookay," Max said in a long-suffering tone. "Come on," he said to Lacey. "Let's get you home to papa. Got any breath spray in your purse? You smell like you downed a pony keg all by yourself." Max tucked Lacey firmly under his arm and quick-stepped them out the door.

  "Smooth, Lacey," he said, once they were outside. "You practically got me slammed into a garbage bin."

  "Sorry," she said, sounding chastened. "I didn't realize it would get so macho all of a sudden."

  "Good lord. You could float a boat on the sea of testosterone in there." He put his hands around her waist and hefted her onto the truck bench, noting that his fingers almost met around her narrow frame.

  She caught his gaze, wonder in her eyes. "So you would have actually duked it out over me? That's so heroic, so primitive, so—"

  "Stupid. It would have been stupid. See these?" He gave her his toothiest smile. "I like them right where they are. Next time you want to wave a red cape in front of a meathead like that, get somebody else to shove a sword in him."

  By the time he got to his side of the truck he was sorry he'd snapped at her. He glanced over at her as he started the engine. She'd rested her head on the back of the seat and seemed to be pouting about his lecture. It was probably better for her to be mad at him, anyway, so he held the silence.

  A minute later, when her head thumped softly onto his upper arm, he realized she hadn't been sulking, she'd been sleeping. She brought with her a wallop of scent – under the whiskey was flowery shampoo, spicy perfume and woman. Automatically, his parts went on red alert. Damn. Testosterone was so predictable.
<
br />   Listening to her soft breath whoosh in and out, though, eased the sexual tension a tad. Max felt the urge to put his arm around her, tuck her against his chest and rest his chin on the top of her soft hair.

  In a few minutes, he stopped in front of her trailer, letting the smell of desert creosote blend with Lacey's spicy woman smell, and the cricket buzz mix with her slow breath sounds. He'd have to wake her up to get her inside. He could only hope she'd forgotten all about her wild suggestion because right now his self-control was worn to a nub … a hot, throbbing nub that made his jeans feel too tight.

  "Mmm," she mumbled, then smacked her lips and lifted her head from his chest, a little drool at the corner of her soft mouth. Sweet. "Where are we?" she asked in a sleepy voice.

  "Home," he said firmly. "Safe and sound." And to keep it that way, all he had to do was get her inside her door. And stay outside himself. He went around and opened the truck door to help her down.

  She blinked sleepily at him. "Oooh, I feel funny."

  "You gonna hurl?"

  "Hurl? Oh, no. I never hurl," she said primly. "It's too scary."

  "You'd feel better if you did. Have less of a hangover."

  "Can't do it." She shook her head stubbornly and slid off the bench, clutching her handbag. "Whooo," she said and sagged against him.

  He caught her and swung her into his arms. This was the second time he'd held her, though yesterday she'd been over his shoulder. This position was much more tempting. Her top had dipped so low that two ripe half moons of soft breast surged upward. Here we are, come and get us. She linked her fingers behind his neck and tucked her head under his chin. He began to walk, gritting his teeth against how damnably good it felt to have her firm little shrink-wrapped body in his arms.

  "This is nice," she murmured as he walked. Her handbag tapped a rhythm on his thigh. "Like a rocking chair."

  He'd like to rock her, all right, and there would be no chair involved.

  They reached the door. She pawed around in her purse for a key and handed it to him.

  Holding her one-armed, he opened the door, stood her on her feet and propped her against the wall inside. "There you go, Lacey," he said. "Take some aspirin. Get some sleep. Good night."

  Her head against the wall, she turned her face to him. "Aren't you going to take me to bed?"

  He gulped at the invitation. "Can't," he said and shut the door quick against all that voluptuous woman – a bright red, tempting piece of candy and him a diabetic.

  He was about to walk away when he heard a thump and knew she'd slid to the floor. He couldn't leave her like that. He'd have to get her safely into bed. Safely, he reminded himself.

  She hadn't passed out, just slid to a dazed sit. Again he lifted her into his arms. The small trailer smelled of her perfume, along with flowers, vanilla and sweet lemon. He carried her down the narrow hall – his footsteps thumping on the thin floor, making the tiny trailer quiver – and into a bedroom barely large enough for a bed and a bureau.

  He tried to lay her on the bed gently, but he tripped on something, lost his balance and slammed them both onto the mattress. There was a crack and a thump and the wall side of the bed abruptly hit the floor.

  Great. He'd broken her bed.

  Quickly, he climbed off her. There she lay on the dark blue spread, a red pistil in a dark flower, so inviting, so soft. She started to roll on the downward slope toward the wall, but he blocked her with a pillow. He looked down at her, fighting the urge to lie down and take her in his arms. What he should do was call Wade and resign his post as Lacey's guardian. He felt like a fox in a henhouse, with a well-built hen offering herself up for dinner.

  "G'night," he said finally and turned to leave.

  "Don't go," she said, rolling over to look up at him, her curls a halo around her sprite's face. "You're supposed to have sex with me."

  He ignored the suggestion. "It's not too late to make yourself hurl," he said. "You'll feel better afterward."

  "Aren't you attracted to me, Max?" she asked in a small sober voice. She sounded so sad his heart softened. He sat on the edge of the bed near her face and his fingers instinctively pushed her hair away from her alcohol-fevered cheeks. "Of course I'm attracted to you, Lacey. You're a knockout."

  "Good," she said, sounding relieved. "I guess I overdid it. I was nervous about going out with you and then I started worrying about the café…" She met his gaze, heat sizzled, and she put her arms around his neck, pulling herself up until she was pressed against him. "So, let's get started," she said and put her mouth on his.

  He stilled against her mouth. Every fiber of his being wanted to do what she asked. After watching her all evening, his self-control was tissue thin. He hungered to taste all of her. His hands itched to slide forward to hold those perfect breasts.

  Against his will, his mouth moved against hers. Just a little. She made a helpless sound in the back of her throat. His blood surged and his pulse began to pound in his ears. Uh-oh. If he moved his tongue or hands a millimeter more, he'd be a goner. He'd have her out of that rubber-band dress and be inside her in a heartbeat.

  But he'd hate himself if he did. She was drunk as a skunk and he had an obligation to her brother. And anyway, it wasn't really him she wanted. She wanted the rough-and-ready cowboy she'd guessed about over a sea of emptied shot glasses – not a CPA dropout who kept falling off his horse.

  With the last of his self-control he broke the death grip she had on the back of his neck, lowered her to the bed and stood up. "Let me get you some aspirin." He thumped down the hall, banging from side to side in the narrow passageway, blood and lust pounding through him, forcing himself to think about the Diamondbacks' pitching prospects to get control below decks, while he pawed through the narrow medicine cabinet. By the time he carried the aspirin and water to her, she was sound asleep. Thank God.

  He set the water and pills on the bedside table, tugged her stiletto heels from her feet – noticing those plump toes begging to be kissed – and dropped the shoes on the floor. That tight dress would cut off her circulation, but before he could attempt to loosen it, she wiggled into the pillow, making her breasts swell and him surge, and he decided he'd have to let her blood flow fend for itself. Instead, he covered her with half the bedspread and tucked the fringed edge under her chin.

  Well, that hadn't gone well. Lacey wasn't interested in his advice; she was interested in his equipment. He had sudden empathy for the women who said men only wanted them for their bodies.

  He sighed. If Wade knew what a bad job Max was doing of watching over Lacey, he'd fire him for sure. For one clearheaded moment in that cricket-noisy night, he realized that would be the best thing that could happen.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  «^»

  Lacey woke up with a huge headache and a regret to match. She'd blown it last night. She'd meant to be sexy and alluring. Instead, she'd been so nervous with Max and then worried about the coffeehouse that she'd gotten drunk and thrown herself at Max like a drunken bimbo. Bimbo was the right name for a woman who sashayed into a cowboy bar in a minidress and flirted with dangerous rodeo guys with tattoos. It had been one boilermaker over the falls. Or maybe two.

  As fitting punishment, she now had a crushing headache, cottonmouth, and for some reason she felt so squeezed she couldn't catch a solid breath. Ah, she still wore her bimbo dress. That explained the lack of blood flow. Then she noticed the world looked crooked and realized her bed sloped toward the wall. Vaguely, she remembered the thud when it had broken.

  She caught sight of a glass of water and two aspirin on her nightstand. Holding her head, she rolled slowly toward it, the movement making her brain rattle in her skull. With immense gratitude, she popped the pills and swallowed the water. Where had this come from?

  Oh, yeah. Max had done it. She had a vague memory of him saying something about "aspirin" and "hurling," and then lumbering down the hall. After they'd kissed. Most of the details from the drunken end o
f the evening were fuzzy, but she remembered that kiss down to the last twitch. That kiss had had all of cowboydom packed into it – hot and strong, wild and independent, manly and fierce. Ooooh, it made her shiver.

  Ouch. No shivering. Shivering made her head hurt. Still, that kiss had been amazing. It had arrowed right through the alcoholic numbness, to the heart of her … and parts below. She'd been right when she'd guessed he'd be nothing like Pierce. He'd been nothing like any man she'd ever known. Pure fireworks.

  She had to have more. Lots more. More kissing. More touching. More Max. The only problem would be that after the way she'd behaved, she'd never be able to face him again. That threw a definite kink in her plan to have sex with him.

  Max or no Max, the café needed her, so Lacey had to get going. She dragged herself out of bed and into the bathroom. When she saw herself in the mirror, she realized it probably wasn't just chivalry that had kept Max from sleeping with her last night. She looked like an extra from Night of the Living Dead. Her mascara was smudged under her eyes, her face was gray and her hair ratted and wild. He'd probably thought she looked disgusting. She'd certainly acted that way. Her face flamed.

  She climbed gingerly into the phone booth of a shower and opened the faucet to a gentle stream. Each drop still felt like a needle on her overly sensitive skin. As she showered, the full extent of her screwup began to dawn on her. Not only had she looked and acted trashy, but she'd been the aggressor. Big boo-boo. Alpha males like Max McLane liked to call the shots where sex was concerned. She vaguely remembered suggesting they "just do it." What had she been thinking?

  Competing in the business world had made her a tad pushy, she guessed. But when you wanted something, you had to go out and grab it, didn't you? Sure. Unless, of course, what you wanted was a cowboy. That required some feminine restraint. You had to be demure, let him make the first move. You could still be a self-actualized feminist and let the man take the lead now and then, couldn't you?

  It was just as well, she told herself, as she gently patted herself dry. She should set aside the sex-with-a-cowboy plan for now and focus on the far more important proving-herself-to-Wade plan.