He wanted her so much he had to fight not to grab her. "Had enough of Jose's cooking for a while?"
"If that's an invitation to visit your bedroom, I accept." His heart beat loud and fast. "It was a solid-gold, engraved invitation."
She stood and held out her hand. "Then let's go get it on, cowboy."
* * *
Chapter 8
«^»
"So I end up in your bedroom, after all." She let go of his hand and surveyed the space, admiring the sturdy four-poster and matching mahogany dresser. If she'd been given this room to start with, she would have known instantly that a cowboy lived here.
There were framed pen-and-ink drawings of cowboys on the walls, for one thing, and a brown felt cowboy hat lay brim-side-up on top of the dresser. But the dead giveaway was a pair of worn boots sitting next to a ladder-back chair in the corner.
Crossing to the chair, she picked up the boots. "Yours, I presume?"
"Mine." He watched her from the doorway of the bedroom. "That's sort of kinky, seeing a naked lady holding my boots."
"Want me to put them on?"
"I don't want you to put anything on. I like you exactly the way you are."
"That's nice to hear." She studied the scuffed boots and inhaled the scent of leather, dust and horse sweat. Funny what a thrill she got from knowing that Clint wore these boots while doing his cowboy thing. Mel had scoffed at the idea that there were any real cowboys left, but she believed she'd stumbled upon one.
"I hate to disappoint you, but I don't wear them to bed."
She set down the boots and smiled at him. "Aw, shucks. How's a girl supposed to fulfill her fantasies?" She glanced across the room toward the hat lying on the dresser and lifted her eyebrows.
He laughed. "No, I'm not wearing my hat to bed, either."
"You're no fun." But she was only teasing him. She didn't need props to fire her imagination. Gazing at him standing there in all his lean-hipped glory was fantasy enough for her.
"If a cowboy experience is what you crave, maybe instead of the bedroom we should head on down to the barn and do it on a hay bale, with the horses looking on."
The idea kicked up her pulse a notch. "Are you serious?"
"Not really. The barn's close to the bunkhouse, and neither one of us can take that kind of risk. But I like the way your eyes lit up when I suggested it."
"Because it sounded pretty darned exciting! But you're right. We can't take the chance that someone would be out wandering around." But now that he'd mentioned it, the image of having sex in the barn had a permanent spot in her mind.
Horses on the loose scared her. Her mom had taken her as a rambunctious four year old to a parade in New York City, and she'd accidentally darted in front of a giant police horse. Although she'd only been knocked to the ground, the image of that horse looming over her still gave her nightmares. But these horses would all be safely put away in stalls.
"Have you ever had sex in the barn before?" she asked.
"Not for a long time."
"But you have done it?" She was fascinated by the concept.
"Sure. When you grow up out in the country, it's a fairly safe place to go make out with a girl, and the horses won't tell on you. I used to keep a condom stuck in a little space between two boards."
"Ingenious."
"I thought so until one night when I reached for it, it was gone. What a nightmare."
For his girlfriend, too, she thought. "I can imagine. All worked up and no place to go."
"That wasn't a problem—we just switched to plan B. The real nightmare was that I was afraid it had fallen on the floor and a horse had swallowed it, and I didn't know what that might do to its digestive system. Horses have delicate stomachs."
"So what happened?"
"My dad let me sweat for days until finally he told me he'd found it, and that I was damned lucky a horse hadn't found it first. After that I carried them in my wallet, like everybody else."
"And what was plan B?"
His smile grew lazy and sensuous. "Oh, I'll bet you can guess."
"I suppose so." To think that as a teenager, he'd known all about oral sex. Meg envied every country girl who had been privy to a literal roll in the hay with Clint. The idea seemed so much more exotic than fondling each other in the back row of a movie theater. Her dates hadn't been very adept at plan B.
"Meg, stop looking like that. I can't take you out to the barn, and you know it."
"You're right. But now I'll always want to."
"Yeah, well…" He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't have to finish it. She knew what he hadn't said, that she'd chosen a life that didn't leave room for sexual adventures in barns.
As if to change the subject, he walked over to an archway, reached inside the darkened space and flipped on a light. "Bathroom's in here, by the way."
She looked through the archway and glimpsed a large shower stall that ran across the entire back wall. It was covered in the same bright flower pattern as the rest of the tiled surfaces in the house. Instead of being blocked by a shower curtain, the space was partially enclosed by a tiled wall about five feet high.
"Great shower." She walked toward the arched doorway for a closer look.
"Thanks. I put it in last year. Got sick of squashing myself into the tiny one that used to be there, so I made it bigger."
"You did this yourself?" She stepped into the bathroom so she could inspect the tiling job.
"Yeah." He followed her in. "I work cheaper than anyone I know."
"I'm impressed with how professional it looks." She ran her hand down the smooth tile. "I can barely change a lightbulb."
"I like working with my hands." His voice was husky. "I know." She met his gaze and smiled. "You have real talent in that area."
His blue eyes grew hot. "Glad you think so, because I have the urge to do some work with my hands right now."
"Hold that thought." Slowly she turned back to the shower, her imagination set on high. She might not be able to have sex in the barn with Clint, but she could have sex in the shower that he'd created. That was almost as good.
"Come on in and bring a condom." She stepped over the tiled edge of the shower and reached for a chrome handle marked with an H. "We're going to make a memory."
* * *
Even though Clint joined Meg in the shower, even though he was eager to get his hands on her again, he knew he'd live to regret it. No one had used this shower except him, and once he'd had sex with her in it, he'd never be able to wash up here without thinking about her body, her kiss, her scent.
Nevertheless, he wasn't going to give up the chance, just as he hadn't been willing to give up anything she'd offered from the moment she'd arrived. But when she left the ranch, her vibrant memory would be everywhere, haunting him for as long as he stayed in this house.
He wouldn't think about that now.
Instead he laid the condom packet in the soap dish, adjusted the water temperature and stepped under the warm spray. She wrapped her arms around him and wiggled in close, allowing the water to cascade over her head and soak her hair. With him, she seemed to have no concern about her looks.
As he gathered her in and dipped his head to kiss her wet mouth, he wondered if her unconcern was a compliment because she felt at ease with him. Or maybe she didn't care enough to be worried about her appearance.
It didn't matter. He'd always dreamed of a woman who would leap into experiences without first spending a half hour in front of a mirror. Meg obviously had enough self-confidence to do that.
He'd never kissed a woman while standing smack-dab in the middle of the shower, and he liked it. The warm water tapped on his skin with a gentle massage, and the kiss was wet and warm.
The water skimmed over and between their bodies, lubricating the tiny spaces between them so they could slide against each other like oiled machinery. He rubbed every inch of her he could reach, loving the way his hand slipped over her skin without resista
nce, but with enough friction to make her moan against his mouth.
Then her touch joined the dance of water over his skin. Her liquid caress moved over his shoulders, down his back, following the curve of his spine. When she cupped his butt and squeezed gently, his penis twitched and his balls tightened. She seemed to know exactly what he needed next, bringing both hands around, grasping gently, stroking and fondling as the water sluiced over his belly and between his legs.
He could come like this in no time at all, but he wanted to hold off. He knew something about this shower that she might not have noticed. Easing away from her kiss, he backed out of reach.
"More." Dark lashes spiked with water framed her smoldering gaze. Her hair was plastered to her head and her makeup was completely gone. She looked fantastic. "Come back here," she murmured.
"Not yet." He reached up and detached the shower head from its holder.
She glanced at it. "Massage?"
"Uh-huh." He played the fine spray over her aroused nipples. "Want to play?"
"Sure." She licked her lips, and her breath came faster.
"Ever used one?"
"Mmm."
He should have guessed she had, in her sex-deprived state. "Ever had someone else do it?"
She shook her head.
"Good. New experience. Maybe you'd better lean against the wall."
She nodded and backed up to the tile.
As if he were spray-painting a statue, he swept the shower head slowly back and forth. He covered her breasts, fascinated by the pattern of the water pouring over that beautiful landscape. "Turn the dial," he murmured. "Find out what feels the best."
She grasped the outer rim of the shower head and twisted. The fine spray became a pulsing beat of water against her rosy skin. Closing her eyes, she moaned softly. "That's good."
"Then here we go." He moved the spray down, anticipation making him hard and ready. He wondered if he could come simply because he knew she was about to.
At first he waved the spray across the tops of her thighs, teasing her. "Talk to me. Tell me what to do."
Her eyes fluttered open and she drew in a ragged breath. "Are you a good shot?"
"Some say I am."
"Then aim that thing, pardner. Hit the target."
He grinned. "Done." He pointed the shower head and watched her gasp and arch into the pulsing jets.
"Harder," she whispered.
He turned up the pressure and felt as if he'd twisted some internal dial on his own lust. The faster the water beat against her, the more he wanted to replace that pulsing spray with his aching penis. But he knew better than to interrupt at a moment like this. A wise man finished what he'd started.
He nudged the spray closer, and she began to quiver. Then, with a deep groan, she grasped the shower head in both hands and took exactly what she needed. That moment of complete abandon would be seared into his brain forever, along with her cries and the staccato beat of the water caressing her to climax.
She was the woman he'd waited a lifetime to find—open about her needs, unself-consciously sexual, eager for adventure. The combination made her wildly attractive, inspiring a lust he could barely control.
When at last she sagged against the tile and released her grip, he let the shower head dangle free, shut off the water and gathered her quaking body close. His raging body demanded satisfaction, and he wasn't ready to take a chance on a slippery shower stall. Mattress time.
After lifting her into his arms, he carried her out of the shower, through the archway and over to his bed.
She gazed up at him. "We're all wet. We'll soak your bed."
"I don't care." He plopped her down on his quilted bedspread, grabbed a condom from the box he'd left on the nightstand and put it on. "I can't wait until we're dry." Then he climbed onto the bed. "Don't expect technique."
She still seemed dazed by her recent orgasm. "What … should I expect?"
"Basic sex. And excellent aim." He thrust deep and began to pump.
Her sigh was rich with pleasure. "Good."
Sad to say, he wasn't concerned about that. Later he would concentrate on her, but he was too far gone to do anything but gaze down at her flushed face as he stroked. Ah, like that. Yes. And faster. The bed squeaked. The headboard hit the wall. So close… There.
As he erupted, he was amazed to feel her contractions as she followed him over the edge. Fast and furious worked for her, too. That was good news. He'd focus on that and forget that there was any bad news at all.
* * *
Throughout the rest of the night, Meg shoved away thoughts of morning. She couldn't be concerned about morning when she was having the best sex of her entire life. Her sense of responsibility would alert her when the end of this outstanding experience was approaching.
She didn't count on her sense of responsibility taking a powder for the night. When her cell phone rang in her bedroom, she didn't hear it. She'd fallen into the deepest sleep she'd known in years. She was aware of nothing at all until Clint shook her gently, and she opened her eyes to find him holding her phone and looking worried.
"Your phone rang. I didn't dare answer it, but I'm afraid we … overslept."
He might as well have hit her in the chest with a sledgehammer. She bounded from the bed and grabbed the phone to retrieve Jamie's message. He sounded frantic. She speed-dialed his cell. "Jamie! Hi!" Searching wildly for a clock, she found one on the dresser. Past seven.
"Where are you?" Jamie sounded agitated, as well he should. They had twenty-five minutes before they had to be on the bird. That was barely enough prep time.
"I'm on my way." Cell phone to her ear, she ran naked into her bedroom. "Get the foreman, what's-his-name, and make sure he's ready to be interviewed."
"He's been ready for an hour. I thought you'd be here by now. We need to—"
"I'll be right there." She punched the button to hang up the phone and tossed it on her still-made bed.
"What can I do?" Clint asked from the doorway.
"Better stay out of my way." She threw open the closet door and grabbed the first thing she found, a black fringed jacket and black cropped pants. The pants were creased. "Can you iron?"
"Yes."
"Here." She threw the pants in his direction and rummaged in a drawer for underwear. By the time she barreled through the door headed for the bathroom across the hall, he'd disappeared with her pants. "Thanks!" she called after him.
Her first glimpse in the mirror made her leap back in shock. Her hair stuck out like the bristles of an old paint brush, and her chin was deep pink from whisker burn. And she had ten minutes to pull herself together.
No time for a shower, no time to shampoo her hair. She knelt down by the bathtub, turned on the faucet and stuck her head underneath. Then she dripped her way back to the sink, snatching a towel from the rack on the way.
With the towel around her shoulders, she yanked a comb through her hair and swore loudly. This couldn't be happening. She should have asked Clint to set an alarm, but she'd never overslept before. Never. She was so used to waking up early five days a week that she did it automatically on Saturday and Sunday, too. But not today.
After pulling her blow dryer out of the cosmetic case, she held the plug and searched for an outlet. There had to be an outlet. No outlet. She whirled in a circle, fighting hysteria. "Clint! Help!"
He came running. "What? What's the matter?"
"No outlet! I have to dry my—"
"Right here." He took the plug and pushed it into an outlet attached to the light beside the mirror.
"If that isn't the craziest place for it!" She snapped the blower on high.
He shrugged and started back down the hall.
She hadn't even thanked him. Turning off the dryer, she yelled out "Thanks!" but got no response. She didn't have time to worry about whether she'd hurt his feelings or not. Her entire career hung in the balance.
By the time he came back holding her pressed slacks, she'd dried and s
prayed her hair into submission. It still looked bad, but not as bad. "Thank you," she said as he hung the slacks gently over a towel rack. Then she started smoothing makeup over her whisker-burned chin.
"Anything else?"
"I guess not, unless you can get me a new face."
"What's wrong with yours?"
"Whisker burn." She hadn't meant it to be an accusation, but it sounded like that, anyway. "It's not your fault," she added, dabbing more coverup on the area.
"I know it isn't," he said quietly. "This is your job, not mine."
"That's for sure." She sighed and put down the tube of coverup. Maybe powder would take care of the rest.
"If there's nothing more I can do, I'll get dressed and go down to the bunkhouse."
"Clint, I'm sorry to be so abrupt, but I—"
"Don't worry about it." Then he was gone.
Obviously he was unhappy with her, but she couldn't deal with that now. Hell, she was unhappy with herself. But she couldn't indulge in self-recrimination, either. All that mattered was getting down to the bunkhouse in time.
* * *
Chapter 9
«^»
After quickly shaving off the stubble that had caused Meg so much anxiety, Clint hesitated only a moment before pulling on his jeans. Once he got to the bunkhouse he'd tell the guys that his original plan had been scrapped. Trouble was, he had no plan to put in its place.
A few hours ago he'd been in heaven, and now he was in hell. The carefree woman he'd spent the night with had morphed into a career-driven maniac. He didn't blame her for it—in a few minutes she would appear before millions of her fans and she didn't feel ready. That could throw anyone into a frenzy.
But the transformation had been a slap of cold reality, reminding him that no matter how perfect she'd seemed while she'd lain naked and willing in his arms, she was not the woman for him. Never had been, never would be. Just as well. He didn't need a woman in his life. He had his hands full worrying about the future of the Circle W.
Even so, he mourned the loss of that special feeling he and Meg had shared. For two people to fall into sync so quickly had to be unusual. No matter how many times he'd told himself the feeling couldn't last, he hadn't been prepared for it to end like this. He felt emotionally cut off, amputated from all that was warm and sweet.
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