Big-Bucks Bachelor

by Leah Vale

  He leaned toward her and whispered, “You okay?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” she insisted, becoming very interested in the straw in her soda.

  Jack remembered something she’d said when they were hammering out the details—make that, conditions—of their agreement. At the time, he hadn’t thought much of it, but now he realized he should have pressed for details then and there. The movie was bound to start any moment, but he figured he’d better try to find out as much as he could right away.

  He leaned still closer to her, the citrus smell of her shampoo more enticing than the buttered popcorn. “Hey, ah, the other night you mentioned something about having had your fill of humiliation. What happened?”

  She blinked at him. “Talk about now for something completely different. I certainly didn’t get tossed out of a theater for throwing popcorn, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  He grinned at her dry wit, but pressed, “No, I kind of figured it had something to do with a guy. A guy you were involved with. Am I right?”

  She glanced around, as if making sure they were still far enough away to not be overheard. They were. She sighed. “Yes, you figured right. I dated this other veterinary medicine student for a couple of years. I thought we were exclusively involved. Seriously involved.” Her voice held a tremor that made Jack’s insides clench.

  She pulled in a breath. “He didn’t. At least not after something better came down the pike.” She held up a hand when she saw him open his mouth to argue with her perceptions. “His words, not mine. Delivered in a very public place—the student union hall—when I came across them playing kissy face and asked what the hell was going on. People talked about it for weeks.”

  Anger swelled in Jack until the popcorn bucket started to collapse in his hand. “Where does he live now?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care. Why?” she asked before taking a supposedly nonchalant sip of soda.

  “Because I’d like to go dent his face.”

  Soda spurted out of her mouth. She laughed and wiped at her chin. “Not that he doesn’t deserve it, but your hands do too much good around here to risk injuring them on his stupid face. But I appreciate the sentiment. I really do.”

  “Please tell me you at least dumped soup on his head, or something.”

  She shook her head. “No. And sadly, I hadn’t taken the course on neutering yet, either.”

  Jack chuckled despite his outrage on her behalf. “That jerk would be in trouble today.”

  “Yes, he would.”

  Heated to the core with the unexpected surge of protectiveness he blamed on the depth of their friendship, Jack lifted his arm and slung it around her shoulders.

  She hesitated a moment, but when he pulled her toward him, she relaxed and leaned against him. She smelled so damn good, so welcoming. And she was delicate, yet solid enough that Jack didn’t worry about crushing her with the weight of his arm.

  A very primal part of him knew she’d be just fine beneath the weight of his body, also, but he squashed the thought the second it formed.

  He gave her a squeeze and vowed, “I’d never humiliate you like that, Melinda. Never in a million years.”

  “I know, Jack.” She pulled in a noisy breath and relaxed her head against his arm. “I know.”

  As if on cue, the lights dimmed completely and the trailers for coming attractions that had already come and gone in most cities flickered onto the screen.

  And even as he snuggled her tight against him, rationalizing that he was just comforting a good friend who’d been treated poorly, the whisper of a warning started in his head. He had to be careful, because no matter what, Melinda didn’t deserve to be hurt ever again.

  Especially by him.

  Chapter Seven

  For Melinda, the end of February and the first week of March were a torturous combination of heaven and hell. Her heart wept over her and Jack’s newfound closeness, knowing it was just an act, a part he was playing to keep other women at bay. But she reveled every time he draped an arm around her when they walked to the diner for lunch or opened the truck door for her when they went out on calls together.

  He made her feel special. No man had ever made her feel that way. Her father had wanted a boy, Eric had wanted someone better—in what way, she had no idea. But Jack made her feel good about who she was by doing the simplest things for her.

  So far he’d also been holding up his end of the bargain, pushing her on the ranchers and farmers as much as he could to show them what she was capable of, reassuring them that she could easily do the job as well as he could. But while he was around, many of them still insisted on deferring to him, acting as if she were nothing but his assistant. While their lack of respect gave her more time with Jack by keeping him in town, she often came back from a job with an aching jaw from gritting her teeth in frustration.

  After one such call where they failed to convince Bud Webster to let her do more than ready the vaccine for Jack to administer, Jack suggested they go home to clean up, grab a bite to eat, then head over to the Heartbreaker Saloon for a beer. Melinda rushed to get ready because Jack had insisted on picking her up under the guise of yet another date. She hadn’t actually done enough work to get dirty or work up a sweat, but she still wanted to shower. After all, the Heartbreaker featured live music to dance to as well as temper-soothing beer.

  The practical side of her felt certain Jack would be too tired to dance after a day dealing with sick livestock if he had the inclination. She doubted he would. A man who liked to dance wouldn’t have gone five and a half years without finding himself even the most casual of partners, which, according to the town gossips, Jack hadn’t come close to doing.

  She had barely pulled on the new red suede shirt she’d ordered from a catalog and that went great with the black jeans she’d put on when she heard Jack’s truck pull up in her driveway.

  They were only going for a beer, she stridently reminded herself. Two co-workers sitting in a saloon, rehashing the annoying day they’d had.

  A couple of vets who were pretending to be engaged.

  She groaned and ran a hand over her frizzy hair. Having caught the look of interest in Jack’s eye when he’d first seen her hair down, she’d taken pains to wear it that way each time they went out after work. Granted, she might be setting herself back in her bid to gain the old timers’ respect by drawing attention to her femininity, but since the weather had been so bad of late, she figured not many of them would risk the roads for a night on the town.

  Thanks to having so little time tonight, she’d been forced to use a hair dryer or risk her wet hair being frozen to her head. So instead of ending up with a head full of tempting locks, she was sporting a mass of frizz. She was about to abandon the whole idea and roll her hair back up into a knot when Jack knocked on the door.

  Pete barked and rushed to beat her to the entryway, his three legs still faster than her two. After grabbing her jacket and nudging him out of the way, she opened the door to Jack, who looked up from the toes of his fancy, fine-grained brown boots and greeted her with a heart melting, crooked smile.

  He’d showered and changed, too, into a black, western-style shirt and dark denim jeans beneath his dark brown leather coat. Her pulse increased its already rapid pace until her heart smacked against the wall of her chest. Was he hoping to impress her? No, he probably just hadn’t wanted to stink like pig wallow longer than necessary.

  His eyebrows went up and his smile faltered, and she realized she was scowling. Well, he deserved to be scowled at for looking like every woman’s fantasy in denim and leather topped with his sexy smile.

  He asked, “Everything okay?” He leaned to the side to look past her into the house. “No problems at Metro Zoo West?”

  Pulling on her coat, she answered, “No, everyone’s fine.” She gave Pete one last pat and gently edged him back so she could slip outside and close the door, using the time it took her to do it to think of an excuse for her expre
ssion. “I was just…I was just thinking about what Mr. Webster said when I showed up with you.”

  “He was paying you a compliment. At least what he considers a compliment.”

  She wrapped her coat closed against the biting cold. “Well I’m not the least complimented by the fact that he thinks I could probably cook as sweet as I look if I stayed home long enough to give it a try.”

  Jack coughed, doing a poor job of hiding his laughter. “At least he’s old enough to think with his stomach and imagine you in the kitchen instead of—”

  Her eyes went wide.

  “—thinking with…” he trailed off and grinned sheepishly.

  Did Jack think with something other than his stomach when he thought about her? The possibility sent her pulse thundering like a flash flood.

  He avoided her gaze as he opened the passenger door of his truck, the words Jester Veterinary Clinic painted in black block letters all but obscured by a layer of gravel and mud, and held it for her while she climbed in. She chided herself yet again as he shut the passenger door and went around to the driver’s side. The only thing Jack thought with when he thought of her was his brain. Thinking of all the ways his partner “Mel” could help him avoid the likes of Mary Kay and Paula and anyone else who might remind him that he still had a life to lead.

  A familiar feeling of inadequacy settled in her stomach.

  Jack climbed into the truck and fired up its big engine. Fortunately, the whopping block and a half they had to drive went by too fast to warrant conversation. The weather was too bitter cold to make for a very enjoyable walk, especially after they’d spent most of the day out in it anyway.

  They pulled up to the bar and Jack groaned.

  “What?”

  He gestured toward the plum-colored PT Cruiser. “Paula Pratt.”

  Melinda sighed in understanding. “She’ll be watching us big time.”

  He grunted, and climbed out of the cab. Melinda followed suit. Jack rounded the cab and halted when he saw her next to the truck.

  He threw up his hands with an exasperated noise. “You make it tough for a guy to be a gentleman.”

  She raised her brows. “Paula’s inside.” She looked up and down the street. “And no one’s around to see, Jack.”

  He stepped in front of her. “That’s not why a man should open a lady’s door for her.”

  “I can open the door myself.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Among other things. But I still want to open doors for you. So let me.”

  A zing of delight darted through her. Jack was seeing her as a woman. She’d spent her whole life trying to minimize the fact that she was a girl. She would have never imagined being acknowledged as such could give her so much pleasure. But the last thing she wanted Jack to know was how desperate she was for that acknowledgment from him. How pathetic would that be?

  She fought a smile and threw up her hands. “Okay, okay.” She headed for the swinging doors to the saloon, already feeling the heat rushing out to fight a losing battle with the cold.

  Dutifully stepping aside, she allowed him to push one of the old-fashioned doors aside for her. She inadvertently brushed her shoulder against the hard, unchallenged warmth of his chest as she stepped through the doorway and her pleasure turned to a poignant ache. It would be so wonderful to be held against all that heat for real.

  Inside the saloon, the Montana cold was firmly held at bay by an effective furnace, a couple dozen bodies heated up by liquor and the amorous hopes it inspired and a whole lot of good old-fashioned hot air. The warmth was a pleasant shock, and Melinda took a moment to let it seep into her, loosening the tightness in her muscles and soothing her tension.

  William Devlin, in his late-thirties with short blond hair and blue eyes that made him almost as good-looking as Jack but in a more bad-boy sort of way, greeted them with a knowing grin and salute from his proprietary spot behind the long oak bar. Dev, as he was known, owned the Heartbreaker, and had worked as hard at maintaining the old western ways as Melinda had at breaking them down.

  Everything in the large saloon was either scarred, worn oak or polished brass, and highly functional, especially in the case of the spittoons set here and there on the floor. Dev had even managed to find a bartender who looked exactly like a famous country-western singer to help out on busy weekends or when Dev couldn’t be around. Roy Gibson, who hailed them as he passed with a trayful of empty beer bottles, was a dead ringer for Willie Nelson, right down to the long, gray braids.

  With the Surgeon General’s warning considered snake oil by many in these parts, the acrid pall of cigarette smoke floated above the patrons’ heads. Melinda was thankful that she was short enough to remain below the worst of the eye-stinging fog.

  The band, whose equipment and instruments cluttered the small stage on the far wall, hadn’t started their set yet, so the nearby, multicolored jukebox had been employed to make the smoky air throb with country western music.

  While she and Jack didn’t generate near the stir they first had when they’d started showing up places together, their entrance was still marked by not-so-quick glances and speculative, whispered exchanges. Paula, sitting at the bar with a friend because Bobby Larson had to spend at least some time at home with his wife, did the most amazing job of checking Jack out while at the same time ignoring him.

  Melinda hadn’t yet grown used to so much attention and reflexively took a step backward. Reaching up to smooth her hair, she was certain she resembled a woolly sheep that had ducked into the bar to escape an overdue shearing.

  Jack bumped into her from behind, his big hands grasping her by the waist as if he thought she wasn’t sturdy enough to keep her feet. She could feel the strength of his hands through her coat and her temperature soared. She turned her heating face away from the sea of interest and glanced over her shoulder at him. He looked down at her, the glow in his green eyes as reassuring as it was unsettling. He had such a strong physical pull on her without even knowing it.

  Then she realized he was amused. Her spine stiffened to bring her back up to her imposing height of five feet four inches and she stepped away from him. He foiled her show of confident independence by snagging her hand as he stepped around her and swaggered further into the saloon. On his way past Dev, Jack held up two fingers, a universal code for two draft beers, and continued to pull Melinda toward an empty table right off the dance floor and show central.

  She felt so much more on display than when she’d been cuddled up next to Jack in the movies or at the diner. The Heartbreaker Saloon was a place of sexual ritual, where the males vied for the females through tests of their skill in darts, pool and the fine art of flirting, and the females made their choices according to denim plumage and swaggering preening that most matched their fantasies—at least for that night. Regardless of the basis or the results, the seductions played out here were real, the heady thrill of possibilities and rush of ego-stoked adrenaline shared by both players.

  Even knowing she alone would be affected by the sexual atmosphere in their particular twosome, Melinda’s pulse and temperature started to climb when the local band scheduled to play that night took to the stage to begin their set. What if Jack wanted to dance? She loved music, but she didn’t have much recent experience dancing in the presence of anyone besides her animals. Her cat, One-Eye, wasn’t nearly as disconcerting a partner as the tall, masculine, confident male shedding his coat as she was and settling into the chair next to her.

  Dev brought over their beers—poured into champagne glasses with cactus stems, no less—himself. “I was wondering how long it would take you two to come in here so I could congratulate you proper with a drink on the house. I was beginning to feel slighted.”

  Jack made a dismissive noise. “Now Dev, you know that after Melinda and I spend a full day wrestling livestock or tending to black behemoths like your Rufus, we don’t have the energy to keep up with the rowdy herd that mills around in here.”

  De
v scowled in mock indignation. “My cat is not a behemoth. He’s just large and in charge. And you’re still young enough to rally, Jack. I’m glad you finally realized that.” He gave Jack a light punch on the arm. “But if you need it, I’ll have the band play mostly slow songs so you won’t be taxed too much.”

  The thought of dancing nothing but slow songs with Jack, held close to his big, warm body while they swayed to the music, had Melinda reaching for her beer for a cooling swig.

  Dev turned his attention to her and gave a low whistle. “Melinda, you look great with your hair down that way. I’m kicking myself for not noticing earlier what a catch you are. Promise me you’ll come knocking if this joker here doesn’t treat you right, okay?”

  She knew he was just being nice, but being complimented by a lady-killer like Dev made her cheeks blazing hot. She smiled shyly and dropped her gaze to her beer.

  Jack reached over and pulled her chair closer to his. “In your dreams, Dev. Don’t you have a bar to run?”

  Dev laughed. “That I do. Have a good time, you guys, and congrats again.” He raised a hand in farewell, then went to have a word with the band before going back to the bar.

  Melinda glanced at Jack and found him watching her. “Your hair does look good down. It’s gorgeous.” But he wasn’t looking at her hair. His eyes, their green appearing much darker in the muted light, were focused on her eyes, as if he’d made the determination at some earlier date and was only now informing her of it.

  She was too unused to compliments to know how to respond when they were delivered lightly, as Dev’s had been, let alone when they were given with such seriousness by Jack. She squirmed in her chair a moment, searching for something cleaver or offhand to say in return. She couldn’t think of anything, and had to settle for a weak, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said in a husky voice. He immediately took a swig of his beer as if to wash whatever was in his throat away, the tall, slender champagne glass looking fragile in his strong hand. He returned the mostly-empty glass to the table and eyed it dubiously. “Sure doesn’t hold much, does it?”