Too Hot To Trot (#3, Cowboy Way)

by Becky McGraw

  The women Heather had seen him with were buttoned-up field mice, or prissy beauty queens who visited with his parents when the tour stopped in Houston. Probably women picked out by them as suitable for him, or hometown girls who thought they had a shot with him. Never had she seen one of those women visit Zack’s trailer, but he had spent nights away from the arena, which probably meant he had sex with them or with someone. In six years, he had to have had sex, he was a man after all.

  Zack tried to get up again, but Heather pushed him back and left her hand on his shoulder as she leaned in. “Stop being a judgmental bastard, Zack Taylor. I didn’t fuck your friend, because I have more decency than that when it was obvious that my best friend was head-over-heels in love with the man. He stayed over here a few times with her, they actually broke my damned bed and trashed my apartment. That is how his damned shirts got here.” Disgust filled her as she pushed against his chest to stand back.

  His eyes fell to his lap, and he huffed a breath. “I’m sorry,” his voice sounded oddly relieved. But Heather had enough of his stupid comments. It was time she set him straight, or she would be the one calling his sister to come and get him.

  Heather tipped up his chin, so his eyes met hers. “Your sorries are getting thin, cowboy,” she said, gripping his chin. “Think before you assume anything about me again, or you may not be a guest in my life, or my apartment, for much longer.” No matter that he was the only income she had now, Heather was not putting up with it a minute longer. She’d warned him about disrespecting her.

  “I’m sorry, but—” he repeated, swallowing hard when she narrowed her eyes and lifted a brow as he tried to qualify his apology. “I’m sorry, Heather.”

  Studying his eyes, she saw they backed up his words, so she released his chin to grab the shaving cream. “I’m going to shave you now, so don’t think about getting mouthy again.” She filled her palm with the cream, smoothed it over his stubbly cheek, across his chin and twisted her wrist to coat the other side of his face. His eyes flew to hers when she reached between them to wipe her hand on the towel covering his thigh. “Don’t worry,” she said with a laugh, swiping the back of her hand across the towel. “I’m not cutting your nuts off, cowboy—yet.”

  She pulled her hand back, but her wrist brushed the impressive bulge between his thighs. Zack sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, his nostrils flared and Heather’s eyes flew to his. His pupils were so dilated they almost covered the blue irises. Between the bulge, the intense look on his face, the flared nostrils and his quick breathing, it was more than obvious Zack was getting turned on by her shaving him. Her hand shook as she reached for the pink razor on the ledge. Ignoring the weakness in her legs, she leaned over him.

  To distract herself from the electricity buzzing between them, she tried to start a casual conversation. “I need to redo the bandage on your arm when I done here.” Damn, her voice was as shaky as her insides. She needed to get a grip on herself, or she would nick him.

  The scent of her cotton candy shower gel heated by his smooth, tanned skin wafted up to her. As she made one smooth track along his square jaw, she fought the overwhelming urge to lick the water droplets she saw pooled in the well of his collarbone. Instead, her hand shook as she took another irregular swipe with the blade to his chin. She raised up to rinse the blade under the sink, and the silence got as thick as the steamy air in the bathroom. Being this close to Zack Taylor, performing this intimate task made her nervous. And almost as turned on as he was.

  That could mean trouble if she didn’t do something to lessen the tension, so she started talking, as she put her hand to his cool, damp neck to steady herself. “It’s good your fever is gone,” she said, as she leaned back in to take another swipe. Zack’s heartbeat pounded under her palm and she could swear she heard him groan. Heather refused to meet his eyes, but felt his gaze burn her forehead as she made another row in the shaving cream down his cheek to his chin. When she dipped the razor into the cleft at his chin, his muscles tensed and he stopped breathing. “I’m not going to cut you,” she said, taking a backhanded swipe up the other side of his chin.

  "The mood you’re in, I’m not taking any chances,” Zack said with a sexy laugh that vibrated against her palm, then sizzled up her arm to settle in her chest and tickle her insides.

  “The next time you’re rude to me, that could very well happen, whether I’m shaving you or not,” she threatened, trying to get a grip on herself as she brought the razor back to his cheek for a final swipe on the right side.

  His quick, heated breaths fanned her throat while she carefully shaved the left side of his face. After her final pass, Heather made the mistake of letting her eyes tick upward to meet his. Zack’s gaze fell to her lips to scorch them, and Heather licked them. He brought his left hand up to cup her cheek, and her breath hitched. Zack’s heated eyes glided up to hers again and time stood still when he pulled her face toward his. When his firm lips met hers, every muscle in her body melted under the intensity of the heat he transferred through his mouth to hers. He made one slick, delicious pass over her lips, then nipped her lower lip.

  His fresh breath brushed her wet lips and filled her mouth as he said, “Thank you for shaving me, angel. I really am sorry for being a prick to you. I’ll try and do better, I promise.” He tried to pull her in for another kiss to seal his promise, but the spell was broken and Heather fought panic as she pulled away.

  She was going to make damned sure she never got close enough to Zack Taylor for him to try that again. He would just have to learn to shave with his left hand or grow a beard. Maybe if he grew a beard to hide that handsome face of his, she would be better able to keep her distance, because she hated beards. A fine tremor shook her body as Heather gathered the pieces of her shattered senses to stagger back.

  With a disgusted breath, she shoved the razor under the water to rinse it, as her heart beat out of control in her ears. “Don’t do that again, or I’ll load you in my truck and take your ass to Twyla. I won’t wait for her to come get you. I told you this isn’t about us becoming friends.” She tapped the razor on the sink harder than necessary. “That goes for anything else too—keep your hands to yourself, Zack Taylor.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. But Zack sat there staring at her stiff back wondering why the hell he’d kissed her in the first place.

  In truth, he’d been just as shocked as she was at the overwhelming urge he could not stop himself from indulging. But in his defense, having the potent mixture of her warm curves right there in his face for fifteen minutes, scented by that cotton candy bath gel, her hair swishing under his nose smelling like strawberries, any man would have lost control. Zack was just a man, and Heather Morrison was one of the sexiest women he’d ever met. There, he admitted it, but that didn’t mean he was having sex with her.

  He was absolutely never going to have sex with this woman, even if she wanted to. Which was unlikely, because she hadn’t even welcomed a friendly kiss, which was meant more as a thank you than anything else. He had pushed it on her, and his mother had raised him better. Zack owed her an apology—another one. “I’m sorry for being forward,” he mumbled, and she didn’t reply. She just bent over to pick up a towel he’d left on the floor giving him an amazing view of the bottom of her round ass.

  Zack bit back a groan, and dragged his eyes to the shower to count the tile squares, until his damned dick decided to cooperate with his brain. He reminded himself Heather Morrison wasn’t his kind of woman. That a woman like her did not fit into that plan he’d decided on when he turned thirty. She was too much like the rodeo groupies he’d managed to avoid for the last two years or so. Wild women who were looking for a good time, not a good man.

  His plan was just temporarily derailed with the injury, but as soon as he healed, Zack would get back on track to reach his goal to ride for a couple more seasons, retire on top and settle with a nice woman who would be a good wife to him and mother to his children. That woman bore no
resemblance to Heather Morrison.

  But she was helping him right now, and he owed her something for that.

  His gift to her before he left would be helping her get her life on track too. Zack would help her find a different kind of job, make sure she could take care of herself without taking off her clothes in the future. This woman was so much better than that, but she evidently didn’t realize it. As cocky as Heather seemed, her bravado must be a front. She must not have one ounce of self-confidence if she thought all she had to offer to the world was that beautiful backside of hers. Yes, it was spectacular, but not nearly as amazing as her voice. And even though she tried to hide it behind a hard shell, Heather was a caring person with a heart.

  “Sit back and let me wrap your arm,” she said gruffly, waking him up.

  Zack leaned back while she rubbed anti-bacterial ointment on the ragged looking five-inch wound on his upper arm. She was extra careful when she slathered it over the fine-black catgut stitches that closed the wound. “Doesn’t look infected, so that’s good,” she commented as she placed the end of the roll of gauze near his elbow, before winding it around and around his arm. She taped off the gauze, and picked up the ace bandage. “I can’t believe the doctor wants you to start therapy so soon.”

  “You evidently did too good a job of convincing him I’m a tough bullrider who could take it. I wouldn’t have wanted to mess with you that night either,” he replied with a laugh, and her eyes flew to his.

  “He was being an insensitive, condescending jerkwad.” Those cat-green eyes spit fire at him as she stepped back to put her hands on her hips, looking fierce. Goddamn, she was cute.

  “And you don’t like those do you?” Zack asked, biting back another laugh, knowing that she lumped him into that category too most of the time. And she was right.

  “Damned straight, I don’t. I wasn’t about to let him sit there and tell you your career was done when I know it’s not. He’s not—”

  “God—yeah, I remember what you said.” Zac’s smile finally broke, as did a chuckle he couldn’t stop. “Thanks for setting him straight, sweet thing.” His eyes locked on her full lower lip, and right at that moment, he could have kissed her again.

  The smile on her face softened her features and lit her eyes. Zack couldn’t help but notice how much younger, less harsh, she looked right then. With her face free of all the heavy makeup she usually wore and that smile on her face, Zack could almost imagine her in a soft floral sundress, her long, thick hair in a ponytail…with a blond-haired baby on her hip.

  A cold chill snaked through him, and Zack swallowed down a lump of fear as he shot to his feet. Where the fuck had that come from?

  “We need to get going,” he mumbled, as he brushed past her. “I don’t want to be late for my appointment.” That therapy would get him back on the bull, so he could get his plan back on track and get away from this dark-haired witch who was doing strange things to his mind.

  Before he did something even more stupid than kissing her.

  He was reading kindness and goodness—innocence—into a woman who stripped for men for money when he wasn’t paying her. The only reason she was taking care of him was because he was paying her. Zack needed to remember that, and he needed to hurry up this healing process, because he knew he would eventually lose this battle with himself if he didn’t.

  Chapter Six

  Zack wondered how long he’d have to tolerate being an invalid—as useless as tits on a boar hog. How long Heather would continue to treat him that way. Yeah, he was paying her damned good money to do it, but he felt like a mooch. Having to sit on the sofa listening to Mrs. Clean banging pots and pans around in the kitchen, scrubbing them was driving him crazy. His one attempt to help thirty minutes ago though, running the vacuum, had resulted in him being scolded and forced back to the sofa with an ice pack on his arm.

  The walls of the small apartment were closing in on him more every day. A man could only watch so much television before he became brain dead. Zack was bored out of his mind. And although he and Heather had reached a tenuous peace, it amounted to circling each other like caged cats. He almost wanted to aggravate her just to get a rise and have something to do. Arguing was a good brain stimulating activity, and he’d probably welcome it right now, he thought, as he flipped through channels without even paying attention to what was on.

  According to the therapist, although he was making good progress, it would be weeks, months, before he was even close to back to normal. The man said the jury was out as to whether he’d be able to ride anytime in the next millennium. He told Zack to have patience, but that was a commodity in short supply. It always had been.

  Zack needed a better sign that he was healing. All he had from two weeks of grueling and painful therapy so far was the intense itching of the stitches that would be removed at the end of the week. He grabbed the rubber ball from the coffee table and put it in his right palm and squeezed it as hard as he could, which wasn’t much. Squeezing this ball and waiting was also driving him insane. Lifting a one-pound dumbbell at therapy was not helping either, but that’s all the therapist had allowed him to do so far. On his next visit, Zack was going to tell him to up the program, because he wasn’t waiting forever. He couldn’t wait forever, or his career would be over whether he got better or not.

  Lucky and Sam had driven down to see him yesterday on their way to the first stop on the pro tour, which started next week. Sam was on top of the world, because he ended on the top of the bullrider standings in Houston. Hearing that made Zack physically ill, because that should have been him. That damned buckle and the huge payout should be his, would have been if he hadn’t chose to get involved in a fight that wasn’t his. From here on out, he was minding his own damned business, and that was riding bulls. He was safer doing that than playing hero.

  Saving her had likely cost him his career.

  Zack fought hard to keep from being bitter, but it was getting harder every day. The only thing that saved him from going off the deep end was the fact he had the herd to fall back on if he didn’t get well enough, soon enough to go back to riding. The rough stock contracts being managed by the Dixon Ranch fed at least some money back into his account every month, which he desperately needed, because paying Heather every week took out a huge chunk.

  It scared the shit out of him that those contracts would be gone very soon. At the end of the season, after the finals, he’d have to negotiate new contracts, or Zack would have no income if he wasn’t riding. He could only hope that the bulls started performing better, racking up points in the bull standings, so the amount of the contracts for next year would increase, and that the circuit would even want to use his bulls again. He could probably make that happen, if he could work with the bulls, help the Dixons like he promised. But he couldn’t even do that with his arm. And he had no idea if, or when, his arm would be well enough to be able to help.

  The best thing he could do to cover himself in case he wasn’t able to ride again was to call his daddy and tell him not to sell the ranch. In all likelihood, Zack was going to have to buy it from him. He’d held off committing to do that, because in two years he knew he’d have enough money to get his own spread, one already fenced and laid out for rough stock, a bigger one where he could start a breeding program where the real money was. There was no way he could afford a place like that now, even if he got his inheritance portion of the family ranch sale. And since his daddy retired early, he didn’t have the luxury of time to find a setup like that if he could afford one. It was time for decisions, or he’d lose both options. If he sold the herd now, before they were proven, seasoned in the points, he’d take a bloodbath of epic proportions.

  The family ranch would be fine to hold his present herd, and the sweet deal his daddy offered, owner-financing of Twyla’s portion of the ranch, was too good to pass up not knowing what his future held. He’d just have to cut corners, put up fencing as he had money to do it, because he knew the outbuildings neede
d some pretty substantial repairs first. The last time he visited, he realized his daddy had deferred a few needed repairs, because he’d sold off his own cattle and horses pending his retirement. He’d just leave the herd with the Dixons until he could get the ranch passably right for the cattle. Maybe work on the repairs and fence himself between breaks, if he did get back to riding.

  Because dammit, he wasn’t giving up on going back to riding yet.

  Zack squeezed the ball in his right fist, and his bicep muscle flexed painfully. He would call his daddy, but not today. Right now, he was going to have himself a beer and try to take a chill pill. Have a little patience like the therapist suggested. He relaxed his fist and the ball fell to bounce off the toe of his boot and roll under the table. Zack removed the ice pack from his arm and sat it on the table, then stood.

  “I thought I told you to stay on that sofa,” Heather growled, turning toward him, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Since you’re up though, make yourself useful.” She shoved a strand of dark hair from her flushed face with the back of her wrist. “Get the pack of steaks out of the freezer.” Turning back toward the counter, her whole body shook as she wiped the counter with the green and orange striped rag. This woman was a cleaning machine. He’d never seen a woman so worried about cleanliness. Not even his mother, whom he thought was the queen of clean.

  “You spent money you don’t have on steaks?” he asked incredulously, as he walked to the refrigerator and opened the freezer door. Next week, he’d add some money to her check for groceries. He hadn’t even thought about that, or the money she must be spending on gas in that gas guzzler truck to take him to therapy three times a week.