One-Click Buy: March 2009 Harlequin Blaze

by Alison Kent

  His expression made her decide not to mention the massage ramada, changing room and meditation garden she planned.

  “They’re your springs,” Deck said wearily.

  She could explain her reasoning, but what was the point? Deck loved the ranch as it was. She wouldn’t change his mind any more than he could change hers.

  So, she simply turned Wiley toward home.

  Catching sight of the barn, the tired horse lunged into a lope. Callie tightened her body and leaned forward, enjoying the free feeling and the speed for a few lovely moments.

  Making the corral a few yards before Deck, Callie started to dismount to open the gate, praying her jeans had stretched out enough to allow her to do so with dignity. She was halfway down when Brandy arrived. She must have nipped Wiley’s hindquarters, because her horse whinnied and barreled forward. Callie landed on her butt in the dirt, biting her tongue and bruising her rear.

  Deck was off Brandy in an instant to help her. “You okay?”

  “I’b vine,” she managed, over her burning tongue. She grabbed her hat, pushed to her feet, then shoved the hat down hard, not allowing herself even a grimace from the pain. She moved for the gate, but her legs had that first-ride stiffness and she stumbled a bit.

  Deck caught her arm, then brushed the dust from the back of her jeans. It was an innocent Eagle Scout gesture, but his hand was on her and he stood so close that the cedar, leather, sunshine smell of him made her go weak in the knees.

  She stepped back to collect herself. “Thanks. I’m fine. Really.” She moved as if to loosen the saddle.

  “I’ll put up the horses. Go on to supper,” Deck said, his voice rough, telling her he’d been affected, too.

  “Okay, then. Thanks. Again.” She backed up, then bumped into the fence, flustered by the moment.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, his gaze not letting go.

  “Tomorrow. Sure.” She turned to walk away. Was he watching her? What was he thinking? And why did it matter?

  He thought her plan was nuts. He was wrong and she intended to prove it to him. If he would just stop being so damned sexy all the time. And smelling so good. And the touching had to stop. Absolutely.

  In fact, if she didn’t need his ranch expertise, she’d be half-glad if he decided not to stay at all.

  4

  DECK SLAPPED his gesso-loaded brush in big aimless strokes across the solitary rider he’d painted, covering it up for good. The piece was as wrong as Callie was about the ranch. She planned to turn the Triple C into a place where the guests bitched if the ice came cubed instead of crushed.

  Deck itched to take the place in hand, fine tune the operation, start raising certified organic beef, despite the tough requirements. The challenge appealed to him.

  He could buy a spread elsewhere, but Deck loved the Triple C, knew every acre of it like home. He might still have a crack at it—if Callie and Cal decided they’d had enough.

  Tastes change, she’d said, like he was some rube lost in the past. He knew all about change. People left, they died, they disappeared behind their eyes, as his mother had done for months after his pop passed. Deck stuck with what he could count on.

  If Callie went through with her scheme, Deck had to leave. He wouldn’t strand her or Cal, of course, but as soon as he could see his way clear, he was out of there. Maybe it was a good thing. Maybe every man nearing thirty needed a shakeup, regardless of how well situated he was.

  Deck finished the primer coat on the canvas, then left the brush to soak. He scrubbed his hands, his thick ranch calluses stained with a rainbow of acrylic colors. The same hands that dug post holes and wrestled steers to the ground could dab a hair’s width of light on a saguaro spine. He liked that.

  He’d been painting more lately, getting lost in the work until his shoulders ached and his vision blurred. He had the urge to stay busy. He wasn’t sure why.

  Painting had been a refuge since that terrible time when his dad died and Callie had gone and he’d taken that curve too fast, saw how easy it would be to end it all, be done. Only the thought of his mother made him yank the car back from the rail.

  Since then painting kept him sane. It felt like his heart on the canvas, bad or good, but not to be denied.

  Drying his hands on a paint-stained towel, he looked over the pieces he’d hung in the old Airstream he used as a studio. Most of his work fell short—too much paint, bad use of light, out of proportion, overpainted. Sometimes he wasn’t good enough to paint bar scenes on velvet. The triumphs were his private joys.

  He didn’t have the focus to paint tonight. The planning and zoning meeting hadn’t helped. As chair, he’d had to cancel for lack of a quorum. Banging the gavel, he’d noticed the triumphant smirk on Taylor Loft’s face from his seat in the audience. He’d definitely had something to do with three commissioners who’d unexpectedly no-showed.

  Loft was wearing them all down on the tax exemption. Go-along-to-get-along was too often the way in small towns, where you had to work, play, love and live with the people in power. Loft was the law in Abrazo and no one wanted him as an enemy.

  But right was right and Deck expected people to stand up for it. Tax money was life blood to the small town. Why should Loft be exempt? Because his ancestor had founded the place? Named it Harriet, after his wife. He’d been cheated out of his holdings, according to Loft legend—and when the town incorporated they changed the name to Abrazo, Spanish for “hug.”

  Insult to injury to Harriet’s progeny, in Taylor’s mind, and he wore that chip on his shoulder with the same authority he wore his badge.

  The man was trouble. A friend of Deck’s, a county supervisor, had told him stories. Loft had been a security guard in Phoenix before he became sheriff. Working a convention for state officials, he’d covered up career-killing indiscretions for some pretty important people. As a result he had his hands in so many pies his fingers were permanently stained. “He’s a malevolent little shit,” Deck’s friend had said.

  Deck had to stop thinking about Loft. And Callie, for that matter. The burning in his gut had started up again.

  Get over it.

  Deck closed the studio and started for the trailer he called home, then stopped. Hell, he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He needed a couple of beers and a soak in the springs.

  Callie would be long gone, if she’d taken his advice, which was doubtful. She didn’t give a damn what he thought. He’d better get all the use out of the springs he could before she turned it into a tiled hot tub. Dammit to hell.

  He grabbed two Coronas, a towel and his bedroll and set off for the springs. The ranch house lights were mostly out. He zeroed in on Callie’s window. Still lit. She was reading, no doubt. She’d been a big reader in high school. What did she sleep in? Something lacey and small, he’d bet.

  These days women were too obsessed with their underwear. Those thongs had to be irritating. Naked was just fine with him.

  Back then, Callie had worn bras that matched her panties. His favorites were white with hearts. She’d worn them the first time they’d made love in the springs and slept under the stars together. He could still picture her breasts spilling out of the half cup of that heart-dotted bra, innocent and brazen at once.

  Deck took the turn through the rock formation. The springs steamed in the moonlight. He kept going to the private spring, where he laid out his bedroll and towel, cracked one of the Coronas, stripped to the skin and slid into the water.

  The heat felt good. He lay back and let out a long, slow breath. Sipping cold beer, he let his mind go.

  It snagged immediately on the sight of Callie loping toward the barn on Wiley. This was the Callie he remembered as a kid, racing on Lucky, hair flying, a little scared but pushing on. He’d loved her determination, her energy. She’d been so lively, so full of fun. She just made him grin.

  He missed her. Maybe she was still there under the big city act, the rush and self-importance. She said she’d missed riding. Probabl
y missed the ranch, too. Would she stay?

  Never. She needed more. That was why he’d let her go once she’d gotten through the worst of her sadness. She’d been bored. She wanted to be in town, hanging at the diner with the cheerleaders and football players.

  He had better things to do than watch guys fling French fries down girls’ blouses or race each other in their tricked-out trucks. He’d let ranch chores slide to be with her, blown his grades.

  Callie had gotten what she needed from him, so he sent her back to her life. It hurt like hell, but he’d done the right thing. She’d seemed stung. He didn’t get that. What was the point of dragging it out?

  He pictured her in that goofy cowgirl outfit, the jeans so tight that Deck could hardly mount Brandy without causing himself injury. Holding her, brushing the dust from her ass, he felt the old hunger times ten. In fact, if she were here right now, he’d—

  “Deck?”

  He popped up, startled to find his fleeting fantasy standing there at the edge of the spring in a silky-looking black robe and flip-flops. She held towels and champagne in a bucket, a mason jar over the neck.

  “I didn’t think anyone would be here this late,” she said, her gaze jerking around, telling him she was embarrassed.

  “You took my advice,” he said, surprised by that fact.

  “I don’t suppose you’re wearing a suit…?”

  He shook his head, grateful the water was opaque with minerals. “You?” He nodded at her robe, so thin he could make out her nipples. She was naked under there, all right.

  She shook her head.

  Great. Just that slight bit of cloth between him and her bare beauty. He had a hard-on so fierce he feared it might break the surface. “I’ll leave.” As soon as he lost his erection.

  “No, no. You were here first.”

  “It’s your springs.”

  “Don’t be silly.” She bit her lip, uncertain as she often was around him. “You shouldn’t have to leave.”

  “We could…share,” he said. “I’ll stay on my side.” He held up his hands. Like, what, he was going to jump her? His face felt hotter than the spring water, which hovered at one-oh-five.

  “I…guess so.” She laughed nervously.

  “I’ve got another beer….” He nodded toward it.

  “I have a whole bottle of champagne we can share.” She bent to set down the bucket and her towels, the robe parting to show the curve of one breast, the top of a thigh.

  She stood and started on the knot, then looked at him pointedly, circling a finger. Turn around.

  “Oh. Yeah.” It was just that he wasn’t quite sure he hadn’t dreamed her. She seemed ethereal, like she could drift away like the mist of steam off the springs.

  He pivoted to brace himself on the rough stones and waited, catching the quiet swish of fabric, the grind of her bare feet on the sand, then the small splash when she let herself into the water, her soft moan as the heat hit her.

  God. He recognized that moan. He’d made her do that many times. Fighting to look neutral, he turned back. He had a great poker face, but with Callie all bets were off.

  She’d filled out a little, her breasts were rounder and she was a half-inch taller, but her shape was the same.

  Touching her had been heaven.

  “This feels so good,” she said, leaning her head into the concave place in the rocks where they used to make love.

  Don’t think about that….

  He cleared his throat. “So, champagne…You’re celebrating.”

  “Trying to.” A smile flitted across her face. “I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me.”

  “True,” he said. It was nuts, but he’d keep his asshole blurts to himself. Instead he reached across the water for her bottle. “Shall I open it?”

  She removed the mason jar and let him take it. “We can share the glass or you can drink from the bottle.”

  “The bottle’s fine for me.” Deck popped the cork, the sound sharp in the desert silence. He poured Callie a dose, then tapped the neck of the bottle against her glass.

  “To old times,” he said.

  Her eyes flared and she shivered. No way was she cold in this water. Something else was going on and when she echoed his toast, her voice shook.

  SIPPING THE CHAMPAGNE Deck had poured, Callie felt hotter inside than the steaming water that lapped at her shoulders. Deck’s eyes locked on, gleaming in the moonlight. Startled, she backed into a hollow in the rocks, the perfect indentation…

  Uh-oh. This was where they’d made love.

  Did Deck remember? He was looking at her that way.

  The last thing she needed with water wrapping her in warmth like the best of all hugs, was Deck naked, a mere arm’s length away. She gulped more champagne, realizing too late that its fizzy deliciousness would unravel her inhibitions, making things worse.

  Deck gave her a slow, big-as-the-sky smile. “Very nice…”

  It wasn’t until he lifted the bottle that she realized he’d meant the champagne, not her. Whew.

  “I robbed the ranch’s supply. I’ll have to replace it. Ernie’s carries champagne, right?”

  “Even hicks enjoy the finer things. We don’t all toss back a brew, then go shoot up highway signs for a good time.”

  “Come on. You know I don’t think that.”

  He shrugged. “You left.”

  “And you stayed,” she snapped back, defensive suddenly.

  “To each his own.” Was he jabbing at her, defending his choice, or being nice?

  “As long as you’re happy.” Did that sound condescending?

  “Exactly.” Picking up the tension, he softened his next words. “Cal says your company’s doing well. You set up parties for celebrities, right?” He lifted an eyebrow, like he couldn’t believe she did that for a living.

  “I do events, not just parties. There’s more to it than cocktails and tenderloin satay.” She held out her glass for more champagne. In Manhattan, top event planners were movers and shakers. Out here, though, she could see how it might sound, well, silly. “Human culture is built around points of celebration.”

  “Okay….” Another eyebrow shift.

  “Events can make or break a new company, a product, hell, a relationship. In the right atmosphere, the right combination of people, food, setting and entertainment, deals can be cut, business ties forged, critical negotiations conducted. My mission is to bring people together for meaningful outcomes.”

  “I didn’t realize parties could be so, uh—”

  “Complex? Crucial?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  Was he laughing at her? Probably. They both drank more.

  “Maybe you could explain that some,” Deck said, clearly trying to be polite.

  “Okay,” she said, deciding to pretend he was honestly curious. “First we consider the client’s goals and determine the proper venue and approach. Sometimes direct mail, product placement, print and broadcast advertising will do. Other times, viral marketing works. Often, and this is where I come in, entertaining key clients, opinion leaders, media or city officials are a linchpin to the campaign.”

  She realized Deck’s eyes had dipped to where the water met the top of her breasts. Caught, he yanked his gaze upward and cleared his throat. “Please go on,” he said, gulping champagne, then refilling her glass.

  “There’s the budget,” she said, fighting her response to his roving eyes. “That’s huge for client satisfaction and my revenue stream. Clients want the world. You should try creating an elaborate, sumptuous reception for five hundred on a shoestring. It takes artistry, attention to detail and fierce negotiation skills.”

  “I’m sure you’re good at what you do, Callie.” Deck leaned closer. “You wouldn’t take a job if it didn’t challenge you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, distracted by the sexual sparks flying between them. Funny how the pale light of the moon was all she needed to read him now. In broad daylight he’d been a mystery to her.

/>   “You’re only as good as your last event,” she said to distract herself. “There’s a lot of pressure, and word of screwups travels fast.”

  Her mind wandered to Deck, naked beneath the water. Was he aroused? She’d begun to feel the champagne. She had to keep them talking. “How about you? What else do you do besides the ranch? Not that that’s not plenty.”

  Deck chuckled. “It’s okay, Callie. You don’t have to watch every word. We got off on the wrong foot.”

  He reached across and touched her arm, his fingers warm from the water. She couldn’t help but sink lower and suck in a breath. “Okay. That’s good.”

  Deck withdrew his hand slowly. “I stay busy. Civic BS in town—chamber of commerce, planning and zoning. I also consult with horse breeders and buyers all over the West.”

  “And in your free time…?”

  “I hang with friends. If I want music, I go into Tucson or up to Phoenix. For that matter, New York’s just a couple bags of salted nuts away. I’ve been there.”

  “You were in the city? You didn’t call.”

  “It was a long time ago. I was with someone.” He shrugged.

  “But I would have taken you to dinner. We’re friends…”

  “It was last-minute.”

  He was right. With their history, a double date over martinis and sushi would have been awkward.

  “So is New York all you expected?” he asked.

  “All that and more.” She stopped herself. Why cheerlead? Naked in the springs, here with Deck, who’d always accepted anything she said, she told him the truth. “Is anything ever what you expect?”

  “Maybe not.”

  “New York is indescribable. Intense. Vital. Important. The people are fascinating. There’s so much to do—theater, museums, clubs, any kind of food you can imagine. It’s the heartbeat, the pulse of the country. There’s so much I love there.”

  “And…?”

  She felt a twinge, like a new toothache, and took a big swallow of champagne before she answered. “It can wear you out. It’s crowded. It’s expensive. It’s noisy and complicated.”