“I know,” Tate said.
Vickie’s jeweled fingers fluttered at her tanned throat. “You know about Kathy, the Indian princess?”
First time she’d heard her called that. Did Nathan prefer dating women with a similar ethnic background? It made sense, but the thought didn’t sit well with her. “Not everything,” Tate admitted with a tiny shrug. “Just the basic breakup story. Did you all know her well?”
Tina scowled, tracing the condensation from her highball glass with a violet fingernail. “Enough to be glad she didn’t get her hooks into Nathan, although she tried.”
“And she’s still trying,” Vickie pointed out.
“Yeah, she sure bitched about him working all the time, but she was more than willing to spend his hard-earned money. Luckily, Nathan wised up.”
Nancy signaled for another round of drinks. “Let’s not waste another breath on her when I want to hear the details about you and Nathan.”
Over the chorus of oohs, Tina winked. “Fair warning. As Nathan’s friends, we feel entitled to ask you anything.”
“And I thought Val was bad,” Tate grumbled.
“No, I think Nathan’s got it bad. He can’t take his eyes off of you,” Vickie said slyly. “And either he’s got a broken pool cue in his pocket, or he is very happy you are here.”
“He does look more relaxed.” Nancy gestured with the mangled straw. “How you managed to get him to borrow Steve’s boat this week is a major miracle. Did you guys have fun?”
Tate nearly choked on her beer. Surely Nathan hadn’t confessed to one of their husbands what had transpired between them on the boat?
“Are you or are you not…?” Vickie gestured vaguely.
“Sleeping with him,” Tina supplied. “We’re curious how that killer bod moves between the sheets.”
How was she supposed to answer? If she couldn’t spill the particulars to Val, Nathan wouldn’t appreciate her telling the skimpy details to them. She shifted on the barstool. “Umm—”
“He’s probably sweet, tender and romantic,” Nancy offered.
Tate gave her a wry look, which was completely lost on her.
Vickie’s bleached-blonde hair stuck to her Miller Lite bottle as she vehemently shook her head. “No. Nathan has too much raw male power. I’ll bet he’s an animal.”
“True. With his Native American genes I’ll bet he has the single-minded concentration of a warrior on a buffalo hunt,” Tina said dreamily.
They looked to her raptly and waited. Tate kept her expression bland. “He’s very sweet and only exhibits animal behavior when I tie him up. He hates that.”
By their raucous hoots, she knew she’d given the right answer. Tate laughed herself silly listening to their exploits. Although she spent time with Val and occasionally Grace, she realized how much she’d isolated herself since leaving Denver. There was nothing on earth like female camaraderie. For a while she’d even forgotten she was on a pseudo date.
But Nathan hadn’t forgotten.
Tate was distracting as hell. Her bare legs dangled enticingly from the barstool, making him ache to run his tongue from her toe to her hip. The marathon pool game finally ended, and he yanked her back toward the jukebox, amidst the lewd suggestions and wolf whistles of his friends.
In a darkened corner of the dance floor he dropped his lips over hers and devoured her. Yearning dulled his senses. Nathan didn’t know how much more he could take and not take her right there in the dimly lit bar.
Tate pulled back and blinked up at him with drowsy satisfaction. “What was that for?”
“For looking so damn sexy that you totally blew my concentration. We lost. You are hell on my pool game, Tate.”
She smirked. “Sorry.”
“No you’re not.” He backed her against the wall. One whiff of her shampoo crowded reason from his head. Bracing his hands next to her shoulders, he kept his mouth a mere kiss away.
Panic momentarily flared in her eyes. “Let’s dance so it doesn’t look like we’re screwing in the corner.”
When she tried to duck under his arm, he boxed her in. “Does it bother you what my friends might think?” Or have you noticed I’m the only red-skinned guy in the place?
“No.” A tight smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I implied we were boinking like bunnies anyway.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Remember?” Her eyes became unnaturally bright. “That’s part of what this deal is about, right? To prove that you’re not lousy in the sack?”
He stared at Tate for a moment with an acute sense of loss, forgetting that was what she believed—he was using her to recoup the supposed crushing blow Kathy had leveled to his manhood.
His eyes burned, and embarrassment tinged his cheeks. Christ, he was a heel. No, lower than a heel. The lowest, worn-down tread of his cheapest pair of cowboy boots type of heel. A liar that had taken advantage of the sweetest, sexiest woman he’d ever known.
Without waiting for his reply, Tate wrapped herself around him and they swayed to the wailing steel guitar.
“I like touching you.” His hand pressed into the small of her back. “All over body touching.”
“Not here,” she murmured. “However I’m not surprised that slow dancing appeals to your romantic streak.”
Tate stared up at him with blue eyes so deep and clear a man could dive right in and never get out. “It does.”
“Mine too,” she whispered, snuggling closer.
The slow song segued into two, then three. They remained entwined. But the minute “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” started, Tate leapt back. “No way.”
A teasing grin spread across his face. “Opposed to fast dancing?”
“Nathan, Nathan,” she chided. “The only fast moves I want to witness from you are done horizontally.”
It was the soft, unsure, girlish kiss on the cheek that undid him. He wanted her. She wanted him. The path of romance could only carry them so far, and they’d finally reached the end of the road.
Nathan clasped her hand and led her back to the table, nearly tripping over his own cowboy boots in an attempt to drag her out of the bar.
Except his friends wouldn’t let them leave. The women whisked Tate to the other end of the table before Nathan could protest.
While discussing an upcoming job with the guys, Nathan glanced up at the clock impatiently and saw Kathy surveying their table. He froze. Her quizzical gaze flicked from Tate back to Nathan. A sneer twisted her lips.
The women bent their heads together, and Tate leaned back slightly to give Kathy a once-over that was anything but casual.
Nathan stood and knocked his stool over in his haste to reach Tate. He ignored her startled look, hauled her to her feet and crushed their mouths and bodies together so tightly a flimsy bar napkin wouldn’t have fit between them. He kissed her until all the oxygen exited his body, rendering him lightheaded.
Tate broke the kiss with a huge gasp for breath and staggered backward, her face and chest the color of an overripe tomato.
Applause broke out. Steve shouted, “Way to show the rest of us how it’s done, LeBeau. Better check her butt to see if your brand took.” Deep rumbling chuckles mixed with feminine giggles.
Nathan swallowed his automatic grin at Tate’s furious eyes.
“Take me home. Now.” She grabbed her purse, spun on her heel and stormed outside.
He followed Tate to his pickup, keeping a safe distance from the purple handbag she’d started swinging like a mace.
The warm night breeze was a refreshing break from the stale air in the bar. Inside the truck, he left the windows open but turned off the radio, waiting for Tate to chew his ass.
But she remained aloof. After he shut off the engine in her driveway, he started to apologize for his idiotic behavior. “Tate, can we talk—”
“No.” Then she raised her hand to forestall any further comment. “Goodnight Nathan, I’ll see you later.” Within seconds, she’d bolted from the t
ruck cab.
At the arbor, Nathan caught her shoulder and spun her to face him. “I’m sorry I acted like an ass. I don’t know what else to say.”
Confused, hurt blue eyes studied him for an eternity. She said, “Whatever.” Then she started toward her front door.
Nathan turned her around again. “Why are you being like this? I said I was sorry.”
“I know. It’s late, and I’m sure you’re planning an early start in the morning.”
His stomach churned at the sight of her usually sweet mouth drawn into a grim line. “I planned on staying with you tonight.”
Incredulity flashed through her eyes. “Why would you think that?”
“Because when—”
“When what? When a mere fifteen seconds after you spot your ex-girlfriend this whole ‘you-need-romance’ line of bullshit isn’t enough anymore? Now you’re anxious to burn up the sheets with me?”
The heat of her anger sucked the breath from his lungs, and his hope for the evening whooshed out right alongside it. His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists against the urge to grab her and make her see reason. “That incident has nothing to do with me wanting to stay with you tonight.”
“No?” she challenged. “But then again it’s always been about what you want, hasn’t it? Have you ever wondered what I want? How I feel?” Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “Let me tell you. I feel like the most undesirable woman on the planet. You can’t even bring yourself to have sex with me when I am a sure thing. Forget the humiliating way you conk out when I’m touching you, or that you can’t be bothered to call me when we’ve made tentative plans.” Her chin quivered briefly, but she firmed it and defiantly thrust it out. “Dammit, Nathan, I know this isn’t a relationship, but I entered this…deal in good faith.”
Nathan was speechless.
Her voice dropped another octave. “If you didn’t want me or weren’t attracted to me, you should have said no to the landscaping proposal and the rest of my stupid suggestion in the first place.”
Frustrated, he kissed her. All thrusting tongue, knocking teeth, a wet, hot, carnal swamping of the senses that left them both weak and clinging. Through his uneven breathing, he demanded softly, “Did that feel like I don’t want you?”
She stepped away and swiped her mouth with the back of her unsteady hand. She wrapped her arms around her upper body in a self-hug.
Guilt flooded him. She looked small and fragile. Hurt. It was entirely his fault. He pleaded, “Then let me stay tonight and make it up to you, Tate.”
“I can’t,” she said, finally raising her miserable blue gaze to him. “I need to respect myself more than I need an orgasm.”
He could only watch helplessly as Tate raced up the sagging porch steps, slammed and locked the heavy oak door behind her.
Now what should he do?
Beating on the screen hollering her name, à la Brando in Streetcar, wouldn’t seem romantic; it’d smack of desperation. Instead he climbed into his truck and burned rubber like the finest NASCAR driver.
Harsh reality slapped at his conscience. Her anger was not misplaced; his was. He’d known exactly what Tate had wanted—what they’d both agreed to—with her every hot look, sweet smile and tentative touch. And he’d completely disregarded it, choosing his own agenda. The wave of sickness intensified as he remembered her troubled eyes, her wounded expression, her voice filled with pain. Pain he alone had caused.
Even now he couldn’t tell her the truth. She’d be even more distraught if he confessed entering the Maxwell Competition was the impetus of striking the bargain with her, not the promise of free art lessons or free-for-all sex.
A souped-up orange Camaro screeched up beside him at the red stoplight. He glanced over at the teenaged couple who’d taken the opportunity to plaster their mouths together in a full-body kiss. Hormones, he scoffed.
Yeah, like he had room to pass judgment. Male pride, testosterone, whatever it was called, the Neanderthal behavior he’d exhibited in the bar proved his idiocy. He didn’t own Tate. They weren’t really even dating. What right did he have to embarrass the shit out of her? He had no rights with her, that seemed to be the crux of his problem.
The light changed, and he hit the gas. His grungy silver thermos crashed to the floorboard. No, the crux of the problem was Tate wanted hot sex and he wanted the silly things that defined a normal relationship: coffee, conversation, a few stolen kisses and promising touches before they became intimate. Late-night phone calls, long walks in the park, leisurely dinners where heartfelt discussions weren’t used as a precursor to lovemaking.
Had he made time to attempt many of those things he professed to need?
No.
He scowled and turned the music up. From the moment they’d met, Tate had brought feelings to light he didn’t believe existed. Why? Why her? Why now?
Nathan didn’t need a high-priced shrink to point that gem out. Tate was unattainable. She didn’t want a relationship. So by denying her the only thing she craved—lots of steamy sex—he retained the upper hand.
Add in the fact he’d entered her landscaping project in the Maxwell Competition without telling her… Ah hell. Was he really such a controlling bastard?
Damn. Nothing with Tate could be long term, no matter if he longed for a permanent connection. She’d hightail it back to the Mile High City the day her landscaping was finished and passed inspection. With his business based in Spearfish, moving was not an option for him. He doubted she’d consider a long-distance relationship.
Not that she’d hinted that direction. Tate hadn’t pretended for even one brief shining moment that there was—or ever would be—anything but hormones and hot looks between them. She’d offered little of herself because in the end it didn’t matter. She was leaving.
Real cool, convincing himself that he could handle anything besides a purely sexual relationship.
This wasn’t a relationship, no matter how much that idea appealed to him. Nope. He mustn’t forget this was a business arrangement. No way was he letting this deal fall through. These strange, unwanted feelings would disappear the minute he climbed out of her bed. Yeah that’s all it was, he assured himself angrily, as he blew past the carnival lights on the edge of town, just lack of sex.
Nathan decided he’d rectify the situation tomorrow. To her complete and utter satisfaction.
The first load of dirt landed right beneath Tate’s open window at six a.m.
She tossed back the duvet, intent on chewing Nathan out for his uncivilized wake-up call.
Except he probably expected histrionics. Well, she’d show him her civilized side by not rising to the bait.
Hunkering back in bed, she shut her eyes and leveled her breathing in hopes of drifting back to sleep. Unfortunately neither the comforter nor the puffy pillow over her ears blocked out the grinding machinery. She hurled back the bedcovers with a resigned sigh because it was impossible to ignore the scattered thoughts racing around in her head anyway.
Tate wasn’t sure which of them was the bigger idiot. Her, for agreeing to Nathan’s stupid, slow pace regarding the bonus sex lessons in the first place. Or him, for using Kathy as the catalyst to act on his supposed undying lust.
Last night she’d been tempted to yell at him. She, who had always prided herself on her even temperament. How she managed to leave the situation with her dignity intact remained a mystery. However, the reasons for Nathan’s behavior had become abundantly clear: he’d repeatedly held her off because he could. Not necessarily in a power play. Evidently the frequent invitations to her bed didn’t mean much to him. Add in the wanton way she’d been acting, and well, he probably assumed she issued the invitation lightly.
Not so.
The number of men she’d entertained all night and into breakfast the following morning numbered a whopping three. Should she have confessed her sexual inexperience from the start? Had he guessed? Was that the problem?
Tate sighed. Pondering the male psyche
was pointless.
Sex with Nathan was inevitable. He’d be chomping at the bit to prove her accusations wrong, probably tonight. Traitorous tingles of anticipation aside, she felt the perverse need to hold him off. Play hard to get. Drive him to the brink and leave him hanging. Being one hundred percent accessible hadn’t worked so far. She deserved some control in this situation. So how could she experience delicious sex and keep him at arm’s length?
An idea clicked. If she insisted on banning their sexual antics from her bedroom and proclaimed herself a restless sleeper—which wasn’t entirely untrue—Nathan couldn’t argue with her refusal to let him spend the night. Most likely he’d be relieved. In her limited encounters, men searched for the closest exit right after the action ended anyway. Besides, waking up together was the ultimate intimacy in her mind. God forbid she got used to having him in her bed or in her life.
Clouds of dust floated under the window shade on the brisk breeze, reminding her that Nathan wasn’t the only one with work to finish this morning.
A pot of strong coffee and two bowls of Cap’n Crunch later, Tate hauled out the old, ugly extension ladder to prep the dining room ceiling for paint. Once the stained tarps were spread out, she relocated her portable Bluetooth speaker and set her playlists on the Pandora app on her phone to random before she got to work.
Lost in the tedious task and the loud music, she didn’t notice Nathan’s presence until he shouted, “What the hell are you doing?”
“Baking cookies,” she muttered, realigning the paint-filled brush she’d nearly dropped on his head.
He switched off the music. “What are you doing?”
“Working.” She dipped the brush into the can, arcing a cream swath over the grungy gray-white ceiling. “Why?”
“Because you shouldn’t be up that high. You could easily slip and fall—”
“When someone barges in unannounced and scares the crap out of me?” she said sweetly.
“You’re hilarious. I’m especially busting a gut about the funny way you’re teetering on that rickety-ass ladder.” Heavy footsteps shuffled across the crinkly blue tarp. “Why didn’t you ask for my help?”
Dirty Deeds: Standalone sexy romance Page 14