Nymphomania (Erotic Romance Bundle)

by Dalia Daudelin

  "I don't know. It's probably impossible." She's fully in the role now, even as they walk together, arms intertwined.

  "Anything. I'll do anything. How's dinner sound?"

  "Dinner? Oh, you'll have to do more than just that."

  "In too deep for dinner, huh? Dessert, then, too."

  "You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Callahan."

  "I know, but that's part of what makes me so charming, you see."

  "You're right about that."

  He slips into the truck, and to his surprise she slides into the passenger seat. It's so strangely unlike her—she's always been in that red speed machine of hers, always been driving herself.

  He doesn't ask her about it. If she's decided to ride with him, that's her prerogative. He drives her out. There's no reason to mention that of course he already had a reservation. You hardly need them out here, even if you go into the city.

  Of course, if they're celebrating—whatever they're celebrating—then you can't stay just in town, but Wyoming isn't exactly the bustling social scene of a place like New York or Vegas. Does she expect that sort of thing? He doesn't know. But there's no use in getting nervous about it now.

  Morgan takes his arm again automatically when they climb down from the truck. It must have been strange, sitting so high up after having her butt only a few inches off the ground every day.

  "Sir?"

  "I called ahead? Phil Callahan, table for two."

  The girl at the front is small, barely five feet tall and she looks like she could still be in high school. Maybe just outside of it. She looks down the list studiously and taps next to where his name shows up on the list, near the top of the page. Maybe he'd called a little early.

  "Got you right here, sir." She picks up a couple menus and tucks them under her arm. "Right this way, sir."

  He follows her, Morgan only a step behind, to a quiet little section of the restaurant. The place isn't dimly lit—not the romantic lighting that the last one had.

  But you can get one hell of a burrito here, and to his very great surprise, their steaks aren't half bad either. Maybe if he'd gotten into raising cattle, rather than raising horses, he'd have a stronger opinion on the matter.

  Then again, Wyoming territory, they probably have access to the best steaks in the country, and local to boot. So who the hell knows, any more.

  Morgan picks up a menu, and he does the same. He doesn't particularly need to look it over. He's been here plenty of times.

  But his eyes drop to the pages, for a minute or two. Running over everything to see what he can see, and that's probably why he doesn't notice when a man walks up until he speaks.

  "Hey, Callahan. Small world. Who's your friend here?"

  Phil looks up, a little tired and not in the mood to talk to Glen Brand tonight.

  "Glen, this is Morgan Lowe. She owns those, ah, factories going up? I'm sure you heard about 'em."

  "Sure. You two close?"

  Philip looks to her for guidance. Close? Sure. Close according to who? And who would they be close for? He might as well let her decide.

  "We've been getting to know each other over business dinners. And you are?"

  Chapter Forty

  Morgan Lowe doesn't know a whole lot about cattle ranching, and she knows less about racing them. She's not an old hand in running a company—she's only been doing it a year now in any capacity at all, and only six months or so from top to bottom.

  But men? She's got a lot of experience meeting men, and a lot of experience learning which ones she wasn't interested in dealing with any more.

  When the guy introduces himself, and she takes his hand lightly, it doesn't take long to know that she's found another one that she's not particularly interested in meeting again.

  The newcomer leans in close and says something to Callahan that she can't hear. How they're related, she's not sure. But that they know each other, that much isn't a question. She knows they do. They must.

  Business partners, very possibly. But friends? It's hard to say. And the difference is an important one. She tries to get a sense for the relationship, but it's untenable at best. They've got something going on, that much is clear.

  What it is, what it has to do with her—if anything—is less clear. Morgan closes her eyes a minute. She shouldn't be concerned. She shouldn't let herself be concerned. If she's got anything to be worried about, she can respond to it when it happens.

  When you start preparing, when you start hedging bets, that's when you start to run into problems. That's when you start to have serious issues. She's got no interest in giving herself fits, and she's not going to, not if she has any choice in the matter.

  Whatever it was that Glen said to Callahan, he closes his eyes a minute and tries to straighten his face. It's not a reaction that Morgan likes. It speaks to a discomfort on Philip's part, and if it's going to make him uncomfortable then it's almost certainly going to do the same for her.

  "Would you like to have a seat?"

  Callahan moves over a little, and the other man slides in next to him.

  "Miss Lowe, how's business? I've heard that you're really knocking out the construction on your new plants."

  "My boys are doing good work," she responds. What's this guy's play, anyway?

  "Good to hear it. So how are you liking Wyoming?"

  Philip's silence isn't comforting, either. He's looking at Glen, and he's not smiling. The way his elbows sit on the table, he looks like he's trying to cover himself. Or perhaps restrain himself. Everything about his posture is wrong.

  "It's fine," she says. She tries to send her best 'buzz off' signals, but if he sees them he seems to think he can get around them through force of will.

  "I run a few race horses, around the state. Been having some good successes around.

  "Good for you." She doesn't want to turn this into an ugly situation. Not on her life. But the novelty of the situation is beginning to wear thin, and he continues not to get the message.

  "You don't mind my joining the two of you, do you?" He says it as if he's just noticed that she doesn't like him being there. If he didn't notice, then he needs to have his head examined.

  "Actually—"

  "It's fine," Callahan says. His jaw's set in a way that immediately sends a signal to Morgan—not that she can tell exactly what it is.

  He's not pleased, but he's not saying no either. In spite of the fact that he seems to want to. Whatever the younger man has on him, it must be something he doesn't want to lose.

  She doesn't particularly have any interest in playing along. If he's got some creep over his head, then he should just tell him to buzz off. If he won't, then that's not her problem. Or it shouldn't be.

  But 'shouldn't be' is nowhere near the same thing as 'isn't' in the real world. Not in business, and not in her personal life. So in spite of herself, she settles back.

  "No problem at all."

  If he's got something on Philip, then the question isn't what she wants or doesn't want. It's what she is willing to put up with for him. And in spite of the fact that he's just about a converted deal, and she could walk away as soon as the papers are signed, she doesn't want to walk away.

  Which means that she's got to put up with whatever he's got on Philip, too. Deep breath. Nothing to worry about. She's going to worry either way, because if she doesn't, then she can get run over.

  That's how it is for a woman in business, and like all women in business—like Andrea Neill, who called her just to make sure that she hadn't forgotten the lesson—she was going to have to be proactive.

  Proactive enough to react to problems before they can even become problems, and at the same time, keep it in her pocket as long as she can.

  Not prepared enough and you're weak and waifish. Too prepared, and you're a cast-iron bitch.

  Which is she going to be? She doesn't know. All she knows is, she wants what she wants, and she doesn't want to get herself—or Philip—hurt if she can avoid it.

/>   Everything else is secondary.

  Chapter Forty-One

  If he wants to sit and talk, if he wants to spend some time chatting with them, then Phil Callahan isn't going to argue. It's worth twenty grand. It's worth five. It's even worth it, he thinks in spite of himself, if he's going to get boxed out of the conversation a little.

  After all, some people are more talkative than he is. He's never been much of a talker. He's always been the sort of guy who is either doing something or waiting to do something. Not the type to do a whole hell of a lot of talking about it.

  But if he's going to sit here and watch Glen damn Brand flirt with Morgan Lowe—a frog catches in his throat, a feeling he doesn't want to begin to unpack. All he knows for sure is, he's not interested in seeing it continue.

  Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, it's easy to feel as if Glen is a big guy. He is. His shoulders are as broad as a barn, even as his hips are fairly narrow and tight. He looks like the kind of guy who pulls up his shirt sometimes when he's working out just so you catch an accidental peek at his abs.

  There's the difference between the two of them, though, too. Glen looks like he's got a body that he put together in the gym. Philip's got a body that grew out of the work he did. It takes a real force of will to recall that he's not a small man himself.

  "What you doin' here, anyways, Glen?"

  "I was just on my way to sittin' down, and I saw my good friend Mr. Callahan."

  "Good friend?" his molars push against each other. "You're my good friend, now?"

  "Well, sure."

  "Then go on, get out of here. I'm here with the lady."

  He hadn't really expected to feel quite this jealous, when Glen walked up. He hadn't known how the conversation would go, for one thing. But for another, there was certainly something more to it than that. A feeling like he was more possessive towards Morgan than he'd realized.

  What had this thing between them become, in the time since he'd last seriously considered it?

  Lovers? Sure. But the way that the radio makes it sound, the way the news on the internet talks about it, that's how kids are these days. Twenty-year-olds who think that a hug and a kiss is more intimate than slipping it to a girl.

  Maybe these days lovers didn't mean a thing to other people. Maybe he should see it that way, too. Maybe it was just something they did because it was fun and because they could. Because nobody was going to stop them.

  But that wasn't how he felt. That wasn't how he thought about it, regardless of what he should be thinking and should be feeling.

  They were lovers, sure. But did that mean that he was in love with her? And if he was…

  "Get on out of here." Callahan's voice sounds dangerous and carries an edge, even to his own ears.

  "I'm not going to do that," Glen says.

  "I don't want to take this outside," Philip says. He doesn't add that he will if he has to.

  "Then don't."

  Philip steals a glance over at Morgan. What does she think of all this? Is she going to be furious with him for pushing this?

  "You ought to go, Mr. Brand." Her voice should be the one driving reason. The one that makes everything sound copacetic. Instead, she sounds firm. Which, as it happens, he realizes is so very much like her.

  She's never been the voice of reason. She's always been right there, fighting, too.

  "You owe me, Callahan. Don't you play this shit—"

  "Then the deal's off, you pompous ass. Now get on outta here."

  He sputters a minute and stands up. He doesn't walk away, though, which is the real mistake. He should have walked away. Then it would have been a nice, comfortable evening.

  They'd have both worked the frustration off somehow. It wasn't as if an attractive guy like Glen was lacking for female attention.

  "You son of a bitch, you don't—"

  "Shut up." Glen fumes a second, and in that second Philip drops the napkin off his lap and draws up to his feet. An inch or two shorter, Philip might have seemed a little less intimidating if he didn't have twenty solid pounds of muscle on the man in front of him. "I'd like you to leave."

  "Philip, don't." It's almost a surprise. She seems like the kind who likes a good fight. Feisty as all hell, and with a little wicked streak running through her. Fight might be just what she wants.

  For a minute he debates backing down. And then, without a word, Callahan slips back into the booth. It's not going to be a fight on his account.

  He sees the blow coming by an instant, but it's still a surprise when the hit comes and lands right on his chin. Glen's hit throws Callahan back a little. He catches himself, sprawled over in the booth, with his elbow before he lifts himself back up straight.

  His jaw hurts a little where the punch caught him, left of his chin.

  "You finished?"

  Glen's fuming above him. The man doesn't like being shown up like that, and he sure as hell didn't like getting the no-sell treatment. But Callahan wasn't going to play around. He'd been told to back off, and until he got different instructions, he'd back off.

  Glen turns and stalks off. Callahan's jaw hurts, but in the end, he won the fight.

  "Y'alright?"

  "I'm fine," she says. "Are you alright?"

  The thought in his head isn't about his jaw hurting. It'll ache a little, for a time. It's not even really about how much better he'll feel when he gets his 'reward' later, the one that women tend to pay out to guys they like who get hit for 'em.

  It's the realization that Callahan doesn't mind the idea of her and him being an item one bit.

  A year ago, if he'd told himself it would happen—hell, six months ago, he'd have thought he was crazy. He'd had his chance once.

  That was over now. You don't get to go around the wheel twice.

  But even still, here he was. And now that he had realized it, now that he'd tasted that freedom, he wasn't going to let himself fuck it up now.

  He smiles at her. "You're pretty when you're flustered, you know that?"

  She about punches him right there, to even out his jaw. Which might have been a good idea, in the long run.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Whatever is going on, Morgan only knows that she isn't a fan. That, and that whatever was happening seems to have terminated in Philip getting his eggs scrambled.

  "Is something wrong?" It seems as if he's noticed that she's a little weirded out. He sets his fork down.

  "What was that all about?"

  "I don't know. Not all of it."

  "But you know some of it."

  "Sure I do."

  "And?"

  "That black horse. The one you saw the boys riding. Need to get it sold. Simple as that."

  "That seems like an awful lot of complication for a sale."

  "Horse is a little older than anyone would like. I made a deal, and he says he'll meet my price, but I owe him a favor. He wants to have dinner with me, fine. I don't like it, but fine."

  "Ah." So that was it. For a moment, she'd almost grown concerned that he had made a very different deal altogether. One that was somewhat more disturbing. The thought won't leave her head, though. What if he had? What if she was some sort of sacrificial… something or other? And he'd just gotten cold feet?

  "Sorry you had to get involved in it."

  No kidding.

  What was she even doing here? What was she thinking, trying to… what, get some kind of relationship going?

  The thought that she ought to have known better had run through her head more times than she could count, the past couple of days. The thought that maybe she should have realized what this always was, from the very beginning.

  It was a business deal. That business arrangement went too far the minute that her clothes had come off. If he was just some guy, someone she'd met and never wanted to do any business with, and never planned on doing any again, then that would be something different.

  But that wasn't the case. She was here to work, and she knew him because she wa
nted to work through a deal with him. She wanted something of his, and so she'd decided, what…

  She'd decided to pay for it with her body? To grease the wheels a little? And now she was getting funny ideas about it.

  Well, that was how it always was with women in business, wasn't it? They let their feelings get in the way of making smart decisions. Men don't have that problem, and when they do have that problem, they can excuse it.

  They can just wave their hands and the problem goes away. Not for her, though. Not for her and not for other women like her. She should have been more careful, should have known what she was getting herself into and she should have known to avoid it.

  But she hadn't. Instead, she'd just gotten herself involved further, just made decisions that would ultimately hurt her more in the long run.

  And now, just like she should have known it would, it was biting her in the ass. He was using their relationship as some sort of strange bargaining chip.

  Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was being completely honest. After all, he seemed to believe that his answers were all completely believable. He'd picked his fork back up and went back about eating, as if there was nothing more to discuss.

  But if he hadn't told her the truth, if there was still plenty left to discuss, what would the difference be?

  None at all. She'd be getting the same answer, he'd be trying to play it off as if it meant nothing. But she knew the truth. It didn't mean nothing. It meant something, and what it meant, in the long run, was that she was the idiot who believed that it was going to turn into something real.

  She was the one who shouldn't have been such a God damned fool. She'd sign away the check on his property, she'd transfer deeds, and then she'd figure out a way to forget any of this had ever happened.

  She was an idiot and a fool. If she should have learned anything from the call Andrea made to her, at five in the fucking morning, she should have learned that you don't get to be a big success, not on the level of Andrea Neill, not as a woman, and get to have feelings.