Big-Bucks Bachelor

by Leah Vale

  But it wasn’t enough. She wanted him to feel the same spiraling need. She tugged at his hair until he was kissing his way back up to mouth. The urgency returned to his touch, and it was only a matter of moments before he was there, inside of her, filling her so completely that she realized just how empty she’d been before.

  He groaned and held himself still. “You feel so good. Man, I—” he stopped and groaned again when she tilted her pelvis up. She couldn’t bear not moving against him. He reached down and slipped his hands beneath her hips, anchoring her to him. And when she wrapped herself completely around him with both arms and legs, as he’d wrapped himself around her heart, he gave into the intensity of their connection and made love to her like a man starved for release, like the man she knew he’d been for too long.

  His power and need took her to a place she’d never been before, shamed her for thinking she’d ever felt anything near true ecstasy.

  Or true love.

  When she couldn’t hold off any longer and wave after wave of exquisite release coursed through every cell in her body, intensified by Jack’s own shuddering climax—punctuated by an ego boosting shout—she knew in the pit of her soul that Jack Hartman, wounded or not, was the only man she’d ever want again.

  JACK IDLY RUBBED the pad of his thumb over the silky curl twined around his index finger as Melinda slept soundly in his arms. After they’d made love a second time, they’d finally crawled beneath the covers and Melinda had settled her head on his shoulder and promptly fell asleep.

  Too much had changed today for him, though. Despite feeling completely content for the first time in five long years, he couldn’t sleep. He’d known he’d find a haven of sorts in Melinda’s arms, but he was stunned by the intensity of the need and passion she stirred in him. Emotions he didn’t particularly want to examine too closely.

  He’d been set on a certain path for so long that this sudden fork, this different choice, was hard to wrap his mind around. Could he actually stay in Jester? Stay with Melinda? The possibility was too extreme, too unexpected to handle right now. Especially with her dark blond hair looking like solid honey wrapped around his finger and her soft breasts pressed against his side as if she’d never been apart from him.

  He couldn’t just up and change his plans overnight.

  But he also couldn’t deny what he’d found so unexpectedly in Melinda’s arms. Perhaps what everyone had been explaining away as him not being finished mourning Caroline was simply loneliness. Now he knew why he’d felt such a kinship with that stray dog. They’d both been left separate, alone, by circumstances beyond their control.

  If Melinda could chase that feeling away, even just temporarily, didn’t he owe it to himself to find out how long the feeling might last?

  She murmured something in her sleep that sounded remarkably like pigs, then shifted a leg up over his, wrapping herself around him yet again. A heat spawned in his chest and spread outward, warming him and filling up places that had been cold for a very long time. Whether being with Melinda was right or not, having her in his arms, in his life, was certainly worth the effort.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jack woke up the next morning and discovered he was alone in Melinda’s bed, but for the first time in years he didn’t feel an emptiness inside that was echoed by the unused pillow beside him.

  He didn’t feel lonely.

  He stretched, his back stiff from sleeping on her too-soft mattress. The rest of him felt pretty damn good, though. Good enough, in fact, that he would have preferred to have Melinda within reach.

  The flat, gray light of yet another snowy day barely eked through the crack between the pink curtains covering the window in Melinda’s bedroom, so he figured it was early enough to convince her to come back to bed. Hopefully she’d only left to go to the bathroom. Naked. Maybe she’d even climbed into the shower.

  An image of her gorgeous body all wet and sudsy had him sitting up and trying to throw the covers off, intending to hop out of bed to join her. But the covers wouldn’t budge.

  He realized he wasn’t alone, after all.

  One-Eyed Jack was lying on top of the comforter, his front paws curled under him, looking very much like a gray-and-black striped doorstop, staring at Jack with a single, unblinking yellow eye. There was something very accusatory in the way the cat stared at him.

  “What? Did I wake you up?”

  The cat didn’t blink.

  “Or maybe you think I’m horning in on your territory? That there’s only room for one Jack in Melinda’s life?” He leaned forward to bring his face closer to the battle-scarred feline, who didn’t so much as twitch a whisker. “Well, I’ve got news for you, ol’ One-Eye, you’ve got yourself some serious competition. That noise you heard last night was your mistress turning this old tomcat inside out. Twice. And I want her to do it again.”

  One-Eye finally blinked his one eye, and Jack automatically reached out and scratched the old guy’s fat cheek. One-Eye leaned into Jack’s hand and rumbled an irregular, broken sounding purr. “Yeah, I know. She’s got heart enough for both of us, doesn’t she.”

  There was a noise in the kitchen that sounded like a skillet being set on the stove, and Jack grumbled because his fantasy of showering with Melinda wasn’t going to come true just yet. He pulled himself to the other side of the bed and got out, leaving One-Eye undisturbed. After yanking on his jeans, not bothering to button them up all the way because he didn’t plan to wear them long, he headed for the kitchen.

  He rounded the wall separating the living room from the kitchen and stopped dead, heat flashing through him. Melinda stood at the counter, wearing nothing but his tan shirt with its tail brushing the backs of her toned, bare thighs and her crazy fuzzy gray socks on her feet. Her incredible hair hung in a wild mess of curls down her back and her slender calves flexed as she danced from one foot to the other to the tune she was softly humming as she stirred something in a bowl. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it might have been one of the songs they’d danced to the other night at the saloon.

  Then she surprised him by singing low in her throat just like a rock singer, “Do me, do me, do me,” gyrating her hips in time. Okay, so it wasn’t one of the songs they’d slow danced to.

  As much as he would have liked to stand there and watch her all morning, he couldn’t contain the burst of laughter her antics inspired.

  She jumped. The spoon she’d been stirring with clanked against the side of the glass bowl, and she turned toward him with her mouth and eyes wide in a mortified expression.

  She really was a kick in the pants. He crossed his arms over his bare chest all casual-like and propped his shoulder against the end of the wall. “If I’d known breakfast came with a floor show, I wouldn’t have slept so long.”

  She flushed prettily—and damn, she was pretty—but made a good effort of appearing dignified by throwing her chest out and raising her chin, which actually only served to draw his attention to her ample breasts, their hardened tips clearly visible beneath the cotton shirt. The fact that it was his cotton shirt made him incredibly hot.

  “I just happened to feel like singing this morning.”

  Testosterone producing pride surged through him for putting her in such a mood. He took a leisurely visual stroll from the top of her bed-messed hair down to her toasty looking footwear. “How about we postpone breakfast and let me entertain you for a while? In bed. Where we belong.”

  Her lips parted and her eyes took on a wistful, dreamy look like he’d offered up her favorite dessert. He made a mental note to find out what that was so he could feed it to her. In bed.

  He uncrossed his arms, pushed off the wall and sauntered toward her, the hungry look in her eyes as she checked out his bare chest and open waistband making him harder yet. “It’d be interesting to discover what else you might feel like doing this morning.”

  She finally met his gaze, her eyes heavy-lidded and her mouth wearing a smile that most definitely counted as forepla
y. “I just assumed you’d need some protein to keep up your strength. I can be pretty demanding, you know.”

  Jack slipped his arms around her waist and crowded her backward until he had her trapped between the counter and his rock hard front. She splayed her hands over his pecs, her warm touch raising delicious goose bumps across his bare skin. He dipped his head and nuzzled the silky area beneath her ear. “Man, you smell good.”

  “That’s the pancake mix. I added a little vanilla to it.”

  “Oh. Well, in that case…” He reached behind her for the bowl of batter and dipped a finger in it. He brought his goopy finger up between them, but instead of tasting it as she clearly thought he was going to do judging by her slightly curled lip, he smeared the batter from the base of her throat as far down as the opening of the shirt would allow.

  “Jack!” she protested, but when he dropped his head to lick off the batter, she giggled.

  He grunted. “Doesn’t taste nearly as good as it smells. Ah, hell. I guess I’m just going to have to haul you into the shower to clean it off.” He tugged at her waist to encourage her to move away from the counter so he could lead her into the bathroom, but she gripped the edge of the counter and firmly anchored herself.

  “Why is it I can’t seem to feed you?”

  “Because you’re way more tempting.” Because she wasn’t inclined to leave the kitchen, he slipped his hands down to the silky smoothness of her thighs, teasing his fingertips along her skin and pushing the shirt up out of his way as he went. The question of whether or not she’d put underwear on suddenly became an erotic must know.

  He searched the sable depths of her eyes, and while she might not know what he was thinking, the glint in her gaze made him hopeful that she was having erotic thoughts of her own. To think of all those times he’d glanced up from his paperwork and connected with her gaze without once having a sexual thought…

  That sure as hell would never happen again.

  When he reached the coolness of her bare bottom he grinned in triumph. Hell’s bells, she made him hot.

  He grabbed hold of her waist and hoisted her up onto the counter, her backside knocking the bowl out of the way with a clatter.

  Her eyes widened momentarily, then she raised a saucy brow. “What about the shower?”

  “Man, you’re impatient.” He nudged his way between her legs, loving the way he could feel her moist heat where he hadn’t completely fastened his jeans. Thinking all sorts of wicked thoughts, namely how much he wanted to do her right here with her sitting on the counter, he reached for the top most button on her shirt and slipped it from its hole. “Got syrup?”

  She made a half shocked, half delighted noise that had him grinning from ear to ear.

  The phone rang, and she froze like she’d been caught doing something wrong.

  “It’s okay. We’re engaged, remember?” he joked, then instantly wished he hadn’t. He’d never imagined they would end up like this when he’d asked her to help him out. But try as he may, he couldn’t make himself regret his choices.

  Did she? Before he could search her face for an answer, she slipped off the counter and tried to step away from him, but the tail of the shirt caught on one of his jeans’ unfastened button.

  “Oh, jeez.” Her laughter was nervous, maybe self-conscious. A far cry from the boasting temptress of a moment ago. He resented the intrusion from the outside world for more than one reason. He wanted to see more of this side of Melinda, and not just because it made him hot. She’d seemed as if she was really having fun, and she deserved a little fun in her life. They both did.

  As she unhooked his shirt, he took the opportunity to duck down and catch her lips in what he hoped would be a reassuring kiss. She gave him a soft smile when he raised his head, then stepped away to answer the phone.

  “Well, hello Mr. Anderson.”

  Jack dropped his chin. Roy Anderson had a very expensive horse that was very ready to foal. Because Roy had overseen more than his share of mares giving birth, his calling one of the town’s vets was a bad sign. And the fact that he was one of the good old boys who didn’t think a female vet could ever be worth her salt, his calling Melinda was an extremely bad sign.

  She listened for a moment, her lips thinning, then turned to look at Jack. “Ah, well, why exactly do you need Dr. Hartman? Maybe I can help.” Her blond brows came together sharply. “Mmm. Sure.” Her delicate nostrils flared and she suddenly resembled a pissed bull. Damn those stubborn old men. “You know Mr. Anderson, here he is now. Why don’t I just let you talk to him.” She shoved the phone at Jack.

  He blew out a breath and took the phone from her. “Morning, Roy.”

  “Jack, it’s Miss May. She’s been trying to foal for damn near thirty hours. That’s way too long for her, and she’s not looking good. I need you out here, Jack. I can’t afford to lose this mare.”

  Miss May was the last direct descendent of Jester, the stallion, and thus was worth more than just money to the folks around here. “Understood, Roy. I’ll get there as fast as I can.” Jack fastened his gaze on Melinda, who’d crossed her arms over her chest and was trying to look uninterested. “And I’ll bring Dr. Woods along for good measure.”

  Melinda glanced at him, but he couldn’t tell if he was helping or hurting.

  Roy sighed heavily over the phone. “If you need to. But I’m counting on you to deliver this foal, Jack.”

  “We’ll see to it.” Jack handed the phone back to Melinda and she hung it up none too gently.

  It looked like playtime was over.

  MELINDA TOOK the stethoscope from her ears. “The foal’s not only wedged sideways, Jack, but its heartbeat is really slow and weak. It’s definitely in distress. I think it might be tangled in its cord.” She kept her voice low to keep it from carrying to wiry, sixty-something Roy Anderson hovering nervously in the stall door.

  His sparse gray hair that must have at one time been coal-black was mussed as if he’d spent the past thirty hours running his hands through it in worry and frustration. His mare, Miss May, was extremely valuable, both financially and emotionally. Like many of the ranchers around Jester, a good portion of his income came from breeding and selling the offspring of a few animals with excellent bloodlines. Miss May’s were some of the best, traced all the way back to the original Jester, himself.

  Jack removed his hand from within the exhausted mare and sat back on his heals. His gaze troubled and his jaw rigid, he wiped the sweat from his brow with the rolled-up sleeve of his sweat darkened tan shirt. “Damn it.” He laid a rubber-gloved hand on the mare’s quivering flank. “She’s been at it such a long time, she’s used up everything she had. Even with our help, I’m not sure she can push her baby out in time.”

  Melinda grimaced, hating when things went this bad. “Emergency C?”

  He glanced quickly at Mr. Anderson, then met her gaze, his eyes shadowed with a look she’d never seen before. “By the time we prep’ed, we’d be too late for the foal, if it’s been deprived of oxygen, but we need to save the mare.” He cursed violently beneath his breath, then yanked the gloves from his hands and stood. “I’ll tell Roy.”

  Melinda ran her hands over the bulging stomach of the mare, her hide wet and quivering from pain and exhaustion. “Oh, Miss May. I’m so sorry.” The foal was so close, but Jack was right; it had been too long.

  Miss May’s chestnut coat was darkened with sweat, the flesh around her eyes and muzzle sunken. And instead of pacing around the stall, lying down only to get back up again, as would have been natural, the mare had been flat out on her side since their arrival, her pregnant belly huge.

  Melinda’s gaze caught on her own slender hand and a thought occurred to her. All might not be lost. She opened her mouth and turned to tell the men as much, but the words died in her throat. Jack was consoling Mr. Anderson with a hand on his shoulder. What if she was wrong? Was it fair to get their hopes up?

  Having spent a lifetime letting her actions speak for her, she
closed her mouth and yanked a pair of long rubber gloves from the stash she always kept in her work coat pocket. As she peeled off her coat and pulled the gloves on, she moved past Miss May’s quaking hind legs and positioned herself at the mare’s rump. With a reassuring hand holding Miss May’s top rear leg, in case she reflexively kicked, Melinda went fishing for a baby horse.

  Her small hand and slender wrist and elbow were definitely assets in this instance, allowing her to reach far enough up to feel the cord and loosen it so that she could gently turn the foal. Melinda hoped her physical strength would prove an equal measure of her stubbornness, and strained until sweat gathered between her breasts and plastered the curls that had escaped her ponytail to her neck and forehead.

  Her intrusion seemed to rouse the mare from her stupor, and with the next contraction, Miss May bore down, rumbling like distant thunder deep in her barrel chest with the effort. Melinda worked her fingers around until she felt sure she had a hold of the foal’s slender front fetlocks just above the little hooves.

  Before Melinda could position herself to pull, the mare’s huge stomach muscles tightened as she fought to expel the foal, and it felt as if every bone in Melinda’s hand and wrist was being crushed. She must have cried out, because Jack and Mr. Anderson rushed back into the stall.

  Jack dropped to his knee next to her. “Melinda—”

  “I have it, Jack! I’ve got it turned. I just need one more—” Another incredibly intense contraction gripped the mare and Melinda pulled downward at the same time. Her wrist, then two white membrane-encased hooves emerged, followed by two spindly legs.

  The mare raised her head and looked back at Melinda and Jack, her huge brown eye moist and soft. Mr. Anderson knelt down and supported her head, chanting encouragements. Jack took hold of the delicate legs also to help, and the foal was born with a steaming wet rush right in Melinda’s lap.

  The baby horse lay limp, and Melinda snatched up one of the clean towels they’d readied earlier and hurried to clear its nostrils, mouth and throat while Jack unwound the umbilical cord from around the foal’s narrow withers so it could break off naturally. But the baby still hadn’t moved, hadn’t taken its first breath. Melinda fought to contain a sob. To come so close—