by Savanna Fox
Kim smiled. Dirk sounded a lot like Ty. No wonder Marty admired him.
Dirk was finally talking to her. Last night, things had changed. In the beginning there’d been mutual lust but he’d seen her as an annoyance, maybe an adversary, and she’d been on guard. Now, there was mutual respect—as well as the lust.
Today, she’d ridden beside him off and on, asking questions about the cowboy way of life in this modern age. He talked about how ranching today differed from that of the past. She learned about types of cattle, markets, the impact of Mad Cow disease, dietary and cuisine trends, the kinds of jobs and people that made up an operation like his.
She learned other things from her own observations. His hired men were more than just employees; they were a family of sorts. Each man had strengths and weaknesses, and so long as they were loyal to Dirk, he’d support them.
Cattle ranching was more than a business, it was a way of life for these men. One that was threatened by a number of factors, and struggling to adapt and survive. Dirk told her that cattle drives like this were virtually a thing of the past, but at the Lazy Z, they liked to do some things the traditional way.
“That article of yours,” he’d said, “what was that title again?”
“The Modern-Day Heroes of the West.”
“That’s the kind of thing gets my back up. We’re not heroes. Not fools either, though some folks call us that. We’re just people doin’ something we love, tryin’ to make a decent living and provide for our families. We’re no different from anyone else.”
She mused on that now as she gazed at Dirk in the dancing firelight. Tonight, she’d deliberately not sat beside him. Her attraction to him was so strong, how could she resist touching him? But it wouldn’t be good for either of them if his men knew that the boss and the journalist were having a fling.
A fling. It sounded like such a frivolous thing, out here where everything was timeless and elemental. “Frivolous” was the last word a person would apply to Dirk Zamora. What was he doing with her?
What was she doing with him? Somehow, it didn’t feel like just sex anymore.
She picked thoughtfully at the label on her beer bottle. On day one, it had been sex, period. Last night, there’d been respect and liking. Now it was day three, and she felt more than liking. She was beginning to care about this man.
It was different than when she’d fallen for her soldier in Afghanistan. There, people could die any moment. It gave everything an edge, an intensity. Lust and love had come hand in hand, strong and sudden and overwhelming. Changing everything.
Out here on the range, the feelings had crept up on her over the course of the past three days as she observed Dirk, talked to him, made love with him. She shouldn’t allow herself to care. He didn’t feel the same way. To him, she was a passing amusement.
Except . . . that took her back to where she’d started. Dirk wasn’t frivolous. Was it possible she meant something to him? And if that was true, what on earth might they do about it?
Kim shook her head. Marty wasn’t a naïve kid. She knew better than to fall for a man whose lifestyle was totally different. In the Lady Emma novel the club had read, Emma had kept a practical head on her shoulders even as she’d reveled in the Comte de Vergennes’s sexual attention. Kim could now relate to the allure of a cowboy, but a woman had to be ruled by her brain, not by lust or romantic notions. Unlike Ty’s birth mother.
She read on, to another hot sex scene. As Dirk stimulated Marty with his fingers and tongue, Kim thought of Ty and the things they’d done together. Her body humming with need, she slipped her hand between her legs to where the flesh was tender from lovemaking. When she stroked herself, she imagined the callused pads of Ty’s big fingers.
Hmm. Maybe there’d be no harm in seeing him again.
* * *
Kim spent much of Monday working on UmbrellaWings and was buzzing with excitement when she headed off to book club. Yes, she wanted to discuss the book, but she also wanted to get her friends’ input on her business concept.
It was Lily’s turn to pick the location. Kim enjoyed seeing what each woman came up with. They had somewhat different tastes, but were willing to experiment. Kim had discovered some great places. What a pity she’d soon be leaving this city.
This afternoon, they were meeting at the lounge at MARKET in the Shangri-La hotel on Alberni Street. Classy, as Lily’s choices usually were. Walking toward the entrance, Kim saw Marielle hurrying toward her.
“Have you been making art?” she asked the other woman. Marielle’s pink tee had splotches of paint on it.
“If finger painting with preschoolers counts.”
Finger painting with a naked adult male was a lot more fun! She bit her tongue and instead said, “Preschoolers? Do you have a new job?” Marielle was forever changing jobs.
“I’m a substitute nanny. This girl I know’s a nanny and she has to take time off to go to the Philippines and help look after her grandmother, who’s having a hip replacement. I’m filling in. The dad’s a lawyer and the mom’s an architect with a home office. As long as she isn’t disturbed between eight thirty and four, she’s flexible about the rest. Like letting me come to book club or go out most evenings.”
“Sounds perfect for you.” Marielle was vivacious, generous, and fun; kids must love her.
“The tough part is playing the disciplinarian, but believe it or not, I’m okay at it. I just remind myself that it’s in the kids’ best interests to learn about structure, rules, boundaries.”
“You sound like my parents,” Kim complained. Then she admitted, “But yeah, I agree. I’m kind of surprised you do, though.”
Marielle winked. “You need to learn the rules as a kid, so when you’re a grown-up you can choose just how you want to break them.”
“Like having blackberry pie for breakfast.”
“Ooh, you’re a bad girl, aren’t you?” Marielle teased.
Laughing, they walked into the elegant, simply decorated lounge, where purple orchids graced each table. Lily and George were perusing menus. Blond Lily was dressed in her usual classy but drab tailored style, and redheaded George wore a green and white patterned blouse with her sage green suit. Both looked like they belonged here, and Kim didn’t feel too out of place in leggings and one of her floaty tops. Marielle’s paint-splattered tee sure wasn’t standard attire, but she was so confident, nothing intimidated her.
After greeting each other, they ordered drinks. As always, Lily had a martini, George went with wine, and Marielle picked a fruity cocktail. Kim decided to change things up and not select a fancy beer. Instead, she picked a sparkling wine called Prosecco Breganze Rosa di Sera, simply because the name was so great. For snacks, they chose sushi, Thai chicken wings, and a small pizza topped with tomato, mozzarella, and basil.
Orders placed, Lily said, “Kim, you’ve caught up on the reading?”
“Yes. I’m sorry about last week.” She glanced around. “How do you like the book?”
“It’s different than Lady Emma,” George said. “Emma knew she had no future with the Comte, and never developed strong feelings for him. But Marty’s falling in love.”
“This is the interesting thing about reading erotica,” Marielle said, “rather than erotic romance.”
“What?” Kim asked. “There’s a difference?”
The brunette nodded vigorously. “In romance, you know they’ll end up together. With erotica, there’s more suspense. It’s all about the woman’s sexual journey—like, think of Lady Emma and the Comte. The heroine may or may not end up with the guy, or guys, who’re her partners on that journey.”
“I didn’t know that,” Lily said. “I’ll get on the Internet and read more about the distinction. But for now,” she went on briskly, “focusing on our book, I think it’s foolish of Marty to fall for Dirk. There’s no future for those two, any more than there was for Emma and the Comte.”
“I agree,” Kim said. “They live in different worlds, and she
should be sensible enough to recognize it.”
“Wow,” George said. “Two cynics. Lily, who’s happily married—”
“Lily,” the blonde said, “who knows Marty and Dirk aren’t destined for a romantic happily ever after.”
“O-kay.” George’s brows arched. “Kim, you too? You’re all about commitment and long-term relationships.”
Kim’s cheeks warmed. She grabbed the flute glass of bubbly pinkish-peach liquid the waiter put in front of her and took a gulp. The flavor promptly distracted her. “Oh my, that’s yummy.” She lifted the glass again, smelling peaches and berries and maybe roses, and took another appreciative sip. It was so summery, and she loved the bubbles.
When she put the glass down, she realized the other three women had tasted their own drinks and were waiting for her to respond to George’s question. “Yes, I think love and marriage are what really count.” She glanced at Marielle. “I know you like getting to know different men and don’t want to settle down, but I want a life partner.” A Hong Kong man who looked, and made love, like Ty Ronan.
“And because you don’t think Marty’ll find that with Dirk,” Marielle said, “you don’t think she should sleep with him?”
With Ty on her mind, Kim thought about her answer. “Maybe there are times in a woman’s life when it’s good to not think seriously. To have fun, enjoy the moment. Without giving your heart the way Marty’s in danger of doing. Then, after, you both move on and no one gets hurt.”
“Hey,” Marielle said. “I didn’t think you related to that, girlfriend.”
“Live and learn, I guess.” Speaking of which . . . “You can learn different things about yourself by doing different things and knowing different people, right? Having no-strings sex can help you figure out your own sexuality and what you ultimately want out of a relationship.”
“Well said,” Lily commented.
“That reminds me of the Amish book we read,” George said. “Where the young people have that rumspringa time. They get to do things that adult members of the community aren’t allowed to, and figure out who they really are.”
Lily nodded. “So they can decide whether to be baptized into the community or to leave.”
Marielle giggled. “Me, I’ve declared rumspringa for my whole life.”
“That’s not for me.” Kim glanced around the table at the three women. A year ago, she hadn’t met them. For the first few months of book club, they’d mostly talked about the books, then personal bits slipped in. Their discussions turned from purely literary to discussing the themes in the books, topics like male-female relationships. Yes, she now thought of these women as friends. Though it wasn’t her habit to discuss intimate emotions, she would value their opinions on her and Ty. She hadn’t made up her mind whether to see him again.
Besides, maybe she wanted to, for once, be the one to shock them. “I have six weeks before I go back to Hong Kong—”
“No, is it that soon?” George broke in. “Oh Kim, we’ll miss you.”
“You can’t go,” Marielle said. “We won’t let you.”
Kim smiled in gratitude, then leaned back as their appetizers were served.
They all dove in, then Lily asked, “Kim, what were you saying?”
She pressed her lips together, then released them in a smile. “I think I’m declaring a Chinese rumspringa.”
“Way to go!” Marielle said. “I could hook you up with some great guys.”
“No, thanks. I found my own. You’re not the only one who likes hot cowboys.”
Lily’s pale blue eyes widened, George almost choked on a bite of sushi, and Marielle whooped. “After Blake and I left the bar, you and Ty got it on! And you didn’t tell us?”
“I felt like I’d done something slutty. I mean, not that I think you hooking up with Blake was slutty, but that’s not me. Or it never has been. My parents would definitely think it was slutty.” She frowned, then brushed that thought away. A six-week Chinese rumspringa made sense to her, and her parents would never find out. “Anyhow, Ty got in touch, we had dinner Friday, then I went out to his ranch, rode a horse—”
“Rode Ty,” the irrepressible Marielle broke in.
“In a Stetson,” a devil made Kim say. Then, “No, sorry, it was a Resistol. Rodeo cowboys wear Resistols because that company’s a big sponsor of rodeo. They wear Wrangler jeans for the same reason.”
“You,” Lily said, “are a big surprise.”
Another flash of doubt made Kim bite her lip. “You don’t think I’m slutty?”
“You couldn’t be slutty if you tried,” Lily said.
“It’s not in your nature,” George said. “Having sex with a nice guy is not slutty.”
“Hear, hear!” Marielle raised her cocktail glass in a toast.
“But,” George said.
“Oh-oh,” Marielle teased. “Here it comes.”
“It’s not a criticism,” the redhead said. “Just a warning. When I started out with Woody, I thought it would be casual. We’re so different, I couldn’t imagine him being my soul mate.”
“And look how that ended up,” Marielle said.
“Exactly.” George’s hazel eyes were serious. “My heart got involved. Fortunately, so did his, and it turned out we were soul mates and”—she raised her hand so that her engagement ring caught the light, sending sparkles dancing—“all’s well that ends well. But you see what I’m saying, Kim?”
She nodded. “Sure. But that’s not going to happen. I’ll be in Hong Kong in a month and a half, and Ty will be at his big family ranch.”
“You’re positive about going back to Hong Kong?” George asked.
“Oh, yes. Whatever happens with my art plans—and I want to talk to you about that—there’s one sure thing in my life. Hong Kong. No way are my parents going to let me live anywhere else.”
“Parents don’t rule your life,” Marielle said.
“That’s not really what I’m saying. We’re a family. They’ve given me everything, and I love them. I love Hong Kong too; it’s my home. Of course I’ll go back.”
Lily nodded. “I admit I don’t see you living on a ranch and wearing a Stetson—excuse me, Resistol.”
“Exactly.” And why should those words, true as they were, give her a twinge? The country might be surprisingly nice to visit, but she wasn’t into toting hay and dodging cow pies. “Ty’s great, and he deserves a perfect ranch wife. Like I deserve a perfect Hong Kong husband.” Her parents would try to find her one. And Ty would fall in love with some superwoman who toted hay, tended horses, grew veggies, baked pies, and raised kids. And probably didn’t have a creative bone in her body, and would never dream of painting his naked body.
Feeling unsettled for no good reason, she took another drink and determinedly changed the subject. “Before we get back to the book, could I take five more minutes and get your feedback on something? How do you feel about umbrellas?”
* * *
When she got home from book club, Kim dove into Chinese rumspringa by e-mailing Ty to say she’d love to see him again. But when? Her fingernails tapped the table beside the keyboard. She’d like to visit the ranch again, this time with art supplies. But that was his world, and she wanted her turn. He’d made her ride a horse, which, admittedly, had been okay. Now she needed to challenge him. What would most challenge a cowboy?
Hmm . . . A group of Emily Carr grads was having an exhibit, opening Wednesday. She’d learned not to invite Henry to art events. He politely pretended interest, but was bored and restless. Why not ask Ty? How would he respond? She typed,
I’ve seen yours; how’d you like to see mine? World, that is. There’s an art exhibit opening Wednesday night. Want to come?
She added the link to the exhibit, then shut down her e-mail and got to work on her business research. The book club members had been enthusiastic and provided great input. Tomorrow, Kim would visit Vancouver’s umbrella shop, and she wanted to have a comprehensive list of questions and ideas to dis
cuss with the owner.
When she was done for the night, she checked her e-mail and found Ty’s reply.
Bull in a china shop? But I can deal. When should I pick you up?
Grinning, she provided the details. Then she shut down her computer, stood, and did a twirly spin. She’d be seeing Ty in less than two days! Let rumspringa begin!
Twenty
Ty didn’t have a clue what to wear to an art exhibit opening. His mother might know; she was the one who went into Vancouver for events. Tuesday morning, after he and his mom wound up a discussion of new markets for their ostrich meat, he said, “I’m going into Vancouver tomorrow night to meet Kim. There’s an art exhibit she wants to go to.”
His mom’s strangled expression told him she was fighting to hold back a laugh.
“Yeah, fine,” he said, “so I’m not exactly the arty type. But hey, if I don’t have any culture, it’s your fault and Dad’s for raising me that way.”
“I wouldn’t say we don’t have any culture, but I see your point.”
“Anyhow, I wondered, since you go in to the theater and stuff, if you have any idea what I should wear.”
This time, the chuckle escaped her. “How old are you? Twenty-nine? This is the first time you’ve asked me for clothing advice.”
“Because jeans and a hat pretty much always worked, with a fancy shirt or a plain one, depending. I’m guessing that might not be the dress code for an art exhibit.”
“Probably not. Why don’t you ask Kim?”
Because he was trying to demonstrate that he wasn’t a total bumpkin. He shrugged.
“Right,” his mom said dryly. “Okay. I’m sure you’ll be relieved to know, I wouldn’t suggest a suit either.”
“Thank God.” He occasionally wore one to a business meeting, but hated every moment.
“Black pants and that black, lightweight Henley sweater. Shoes, not boots.”
“Henley sweater?”