by Joanne Rock
Promising herself she would learn to drive and buy herself a car very soon, Greta flicked out her thumb to hail the oncoming truck. She’d met some interesting people while hitchhiking, but she knew every time she hopped in a car with a stranger she was taking a ridiculous risk.
And jet-set, international models might take risks, but settled women who lived in houses with picket fences did not.
The truck slowed to a stop beside her. The passenger door swung out, pushed from inside. Greta stepped on the running board to pull herself up into the shiny, midnight-blue vehicle, wishing she could have had a better visual of the truck’s driver before she committed to getting in.
She recognized the scratchy Southern drawl at almost the same moment she came face-to-face with the tall, weathered cowboy in the driver’s seat.
“Doesn’t a city girl like you know better than to take a ride with a stranger?”
8
HORSE BREEDER Clint Bowman had always been a gentleman. Treating women with courtesy and respect had been a cornerstone of his strict, Alabama backwoods upbringing and he’d implemented those teachings with every woman he’d ever met.
So it made no sense to him that he would be sitting in his truck cab stifling a chuckle at seeing Greta Ingram’s million-dollar cover-girl smile morph into a red-cheeked huffy pout today.
But then, nothing about Greta Ingram made him feel much like a gentleman.
“Do you have any idea who I am?” she asked, nose tilted in the air as she settled into his passenger seat and fastened her seat belt.
Clearly, she didn’t consider him a threat to an unsuspecting hitchhiker.
Reaching across her world-famous legs, he yanked her door shut. “Two Sports Illustrated swimsuit covers in a row sort of makes you a household name, doesn’t it?”
All of America had seen her face on countless magazines over the past five years. Her perfect features, dominated by her generous, trademark lips. The woman was a walking sexual fantasy.
At the mention of her well-known status, she preened with a vengeance. Greta sat up straighter, angled her shoulders, tossed her head...Clint lost track of her flurry of movements, all no doubt designed to make a man drool.
“Good.” The hair-fluff thing she did was pure diva. “Then perhaps you won’t mind dropping me off downtown. Preferably near the Gasparilla events.” She didn’t ask. She issued orders.
“And do you find that trading on your famous face makes people more inclined to forgive the bad manners?” Shifting the truck into gear, he pulled out onto the main road.
He expected her to get all puffed-up and indignant again, but this time she only rolled her eyes and started digging through her mammoth purse. “My manners surely aren’t any worse than yours. But then, the world rather expects me to be haughty. I’m rich and pampered and I find that conceit makes a damn good weapon in a cutthroat business. What’s your excuse?”
He wasn’t about to share his excuse. Lust—pure and simple—didn’t seem like a wise thing to own up to right now.
“Nothing nearly so rational as yours, I guarantee you.” He watched her wave a silver cigarette case in one hand while she excavated shiny compacts and lipstick tubes from her handbag with the other. “Need a light?”
“Would you mind?” She dropped her handful of lipsticks back in the purse. The look of gratitude she flashed his way hit him like a thunderbolt. He caught a nanosecond glimpse of what it might be like to be on the receiving end of other, more sensual gratitudes....
Scavenging through a pile of roadmaps in his truck console, Clint refused to let his mind wander impossible paths. He found a long unused lighter and flicked up a flame after two dry runs.
She leaned close to catch the fire, holding his hand steady with her own. A spark jumped from her flesh to his that had nothing do with the combustible vial of fluid he clutched.
When she glanced up at him with shock scrawled in her bright green eyes, Clint flattered himself to think maybe she felt that bit of electricity, too. Although, judging by how fast she scrambled back into the far recesses of the passenger side, it was pretty damned obvious she didn’t appreciate the connection.
“You want one?” she extended the case across the cab, her hand a little unsteady.
Did he make her nervous? Hard to believe the woman who thought nothing of hitchhiking on an isolated Florida back road would be unnerved by old-fashioned sexual chemistry.
Still, he didn’t see the need to say as much. At least not yet.
“No thanks. I quit.” Across the spectrum of his bad habits, smoking had been the easiest to kick.
“Really?” She rolled down her window halfway and exhaled into the sultry Florida air. “I find recovered smokers to be the most sanctimonious.”
She seemed to relax a little behind the weapon of her sharp tongue.
“Not this one.” He tossed the lighter back in his console and half wished he hadn’t discovered touching Greta was even more explosive than talking to her. “I’m a firm believer in ‘to each his own.’”
She cast him a cynical look over one shoulder before staring out the truck window again. Engaged in constant, jittery movement, Greta was either nervous as hell around him or severely caffeine-addicted.
Either way, Clint couldn’t help wondering if there was any way to slow her down for a few minutes.
Or for a few days. Nights.
“I’m Clint Bowman,” he offered, remembering the manners she’d suggested he didn’t have as they sped by local produce stands advertising oranges and boiled peanuts. “Want to have dinner with me tonight and I’ll behave at my non-sanctimonious best?”
He probably shouldn’t have subjected his ego to looking across the cab at her, but he’d never been a man to take the easy way out. Sure enough, her eyes widened in surprise—at least he hoped it was surprise and not mild horror—her jaw dropped open, and her cigarette fell from her hand, straight out the truck window.
Not exactly good signs for his suit.
“I don’t think so.” Shaking her head with more vehemence than was strictly necessary, she folded her arms across her body and shouted her refusal with every facet of her body language.
“You have better things to do with your time than hang out with an Alabama cowboy?” Normally, he wouldn’t needle a woman about that sort of thing. But Clint’s psychology degree and every instinct about human nature told him Greta Ingram felt more comfortable conversing under the shield of verbal sparring.
“I’ll be with Jesse Chandler. I assume you know him if you’re familiar with the Crooked Branch?”
He was familiar all right. “We met this morning when he was having a conniption over me getting too close to Kyra Stafford. Guess I assumed they were a couple.”
Steam practically hissed from Greta’s ears as they rolled through a construction site near the interstate.
“Hardly. Jesse and I have been an item for months.” Her mutinous look dared him to contradict her.
“Then it strikes me as damned funny I saw him roaring away from the ranch on a Harley not ten minutes before I found you hitchhiking on the side of the road.” Clint would stake his horse-breeding business on the fact that Jesse Chandler was tied up in knots over Kyra.
Which, to Clint’s way of thinking, left Greta very much available to a man with a little bit of patience.
Or ingenuity.
“He must not have known I was at the ranch then, I suppose.” She sniffed. Tilted her perfect nose high in the air.
“Dinner with me might make him jealous as hell.” So he was ten kinds of no-good for tossing that out there to serve his own ends. But it was definitely in keeping with today’s lack of manners.
The notion caught her attention.
She arched a curious brow in his direction. “You think so?”
“Nothing like a little competition for a woman to make a man get his head out of the sand.”
She pursed her perfect lips. Clint stared at her mouth, so mesmerized by
the sight he nearly took out a few orange construction cones on the side of the road.
“Okay,” she finally agreed. “But we’re only going through with it if we can find a time Jesse will be around to notice. And you need to behave like an attentive gentleman.” She flashed him a narrow look as if still debating whether or not he could pull off such a thing. “If we’re going to do this, we do it on my terms.”
Yes.
“Honey, I’m all yours.” Clint swallowed the smile that tickled his mouth.
He’d just talked himself into an evening with a walking, talking spitfire who also just happened to be one of the world’s hottest women.
Which only proved that sometimes it didn’t pay to be a gentleman.
* * *
NEARLY TWO WEEKS LATER, Jesse put the finishing touches on a custom-made strip of crown molding with his jigsaw and realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to think of another woman.
God knows, he’d been trying—hard—for days now.
Switching off the saw, Jesse brushed a fine layer of sawdust from the elaborately carved piece of wood before leaving his workshop for the day. Ten days had passed since he last tore out of the private driveway that led to the Crooked Branch, kicking up gravel in his wake. Yet for long, torturous days on end, the only woman he’d been able to conjure seminaked in his mind had been Kyra Stafford.
Not good.
Out of desperation, he’d finally hightailed it out of town over the weekend. His older brother Seth had asked him to deliver his boat to the sleepy Gulf coast town of Twin Palms and Jesse had jumped at the chance for temporary escape.
Too bad the trip hadn’t helped him take his mind off Kyra. If anything, seeing his brother’s newfound happiness with artist Mia Quentin had only hammered home the fact that Jesse didn’t have a clue how to make a relationship work.
As he checked his watch, he realized he needed to haul ass if he wanted to make it over to the ranch in time to say goodbye to Sam’s Pride.
And to Kyra.
He couldn’t put off seeing her any longer. And he couldn’t delay a serious conversation in which he unwound the complications of their relationship and put them back on firm “just friends” footing.
Shoving a helmet on his head, he straddled his Harley and headed north, grateful for the long ride to the Crooked Branch so he could get his head in order. For days he’d made excuses not to think about the ramifications of his night with Kyra, telling himself they hadn’t really done anything anyway.
Of course, in some long-buried portion of his conscience, he knew that was a lie.
They had done something monumental that night. Had touched each other in ways that scared the hell out of him if he let himself think about it for too long.
That’s why tonight had to be a quick, efficient case of get in, get out.
And not in a sexual way, damn his freaking libido.
He’d say goodbye to Sam’s Pride because the three-year-old was a damn good horse. Jesse and Kyra had been at the ranch together the night Sam’s Pride had been born. And for some reason, the horse had always followed Kyra around like a shadow, had even rescued her from the river one night when another horse had thrown her.
Jesse sort of owed it to that animal to at least be there when he got booted off the Crooked Branch so Kyra could make enough profit for her controlling partnership.
Damn, but that bothered him.
Half an hour later, as he pulled into the drive leading to the Crooked Branch, Jesse wasn’t any happier with the situation, but at least he had a plan for his approach. Balancing his helmet on his bike’s seat, he coached himself on the basic principles he needed to remember. As he walked toward the exercise arena, he could already see Sam’s Pride trotting in circles and he ran through the mission in his mind.
Give Kyra her controlling percentage and say his own goodbyes. To the horse, to the ranch and—much as it didn’t feel right—to her.
Get in. Get out.
Figuratively, damn it.
And—above all things—try not to think of Kyra naked.
Rounding the corner of the private stables, Jesse caught a better view of the exercise area and the fence surrounding it. Two figures leaned up against the rails, much as he and Kyra had earlier last week.
He didn’t need to see the tall guy’s face under the Stetson to know Kyra’s companion was Clint Bowman—Sam’s Pride’s personal psychologist and Kyra’s obvious admirer. The guy wasn’t touching her right this second, but give him two minutes and he probably would be.
The oddly foreign sense of jealousy that he’d experienced the last time he saw them together roared back with a vengeance. All his “get in, get out” mental coaching was lost in a firestorm of “get your hands off Kyra and get the hell out of my way.”
Clint noticed him then and nudged Kyra to let her know they had company. Jesse might have bristled more at the physical contact of that nudge, but then Clint took an obvious step back away from Kyra.
Smart man.
“Hey, Jesse,” Kyra called, her faded jeans skimming gently curved hips and covering a pair of worn red cowboy boots she’d had since high school. Her red tank top was new, however. At least to his eyes. It bore little resemblance to the men’s T-shirts she usually favored for working and it definitely showcased the amazing body he’d only just recently discovered she possessed. “Sam’s Pride is in great form tonight.”
Sam’s Pride wasn’t the only one. Kyra looked so good it hurt.
As Jesse neared, he could see the animation in her blue eyes, the restless energy of her movements. She was genuinely excited about starting a new chapter in her life. One that didn’t involve him, or the horse they’d helped deliver.
Not that he intended to care all that much. She was entitled to be independent, to kick up her heels a little, right?
“He looks good,” Jesse agreed, forcing his eyes to move over the sleek black three-year-old instead of the thin sliver of bared skin between Kyra’s jeans and the hem of her tank top.
“Clint says he’s been responding really well all week, so I’m pretty optimistic about tonight.” Her gaze settled on him. Lingered. “You okay?”
He was walking away from the one steady friendship he’d managed to form in his life tonight and he hadn’t been able to work up desire for any woman but her in over ten days.
Hell yeah, he was just peachy.
“Never been better.”
She eyed him critically while Clint called to Sam’s Pride behind her.
Thankfully, the sound of tires crunching on gravel and the squeak of a trailer in tow saved Jesse from further questioning.
“Looks like your customer has arrived.” Jesse steeled himself for the easier of the two goodbyes he planned to make tonight.
A shiny black pickup truck with two cherry-red racing flames down the side slowed to a stop on the other side of the stables. Kyra strode forward to shake hands with the newcomer—a crusty rancher with a mountain-man beard and a black-and-red jacket to match his truck.
She looked utterly at ease with the horse buyer. Jesse watched her nod in response to something he said. She smiled. Laughed.
Her anticipation for the sale was palpable and not because she was a fan of a healthy profit margin. No, Kyra wanted to sell Sam’s Pride to cut a few more ties with Jesse and claim the controlling partnership in the Crooked Branch as her own.
When had she developed such a thirst for independence?
Of course, maybe it had always been there and he’d just never been in town long enough to see it.
Now, Kyra waved to Clint, spurring the cowboy into action. She stared at her horse, the horse who was never far from her side while she was at the ranch, and seemed to send him a silent message with her eyes. Behave.
Funny that Jesse could hear it some thirty yards away.
Clint steered the horse toward the driveway and the waiting trailer. The glossy black three-year-old had been washed and brushed and
adorned with his best bridle. He looked like a candidate for a horse magazine cover—until he neared the trailer ramp.
The horse danced sideways and stopped.
Jesse launched into motion, ready to help. He might not agree with Kyra’s decision to sell the horse, but he knew how important this was to her and he’d do whatever he could to make sure Sam’s Pride went up that trailer ramp.
He stood on the other side of the horse so he and Clint were flanking him. Sam’s Pride balked, stepped backward, snorted.
“Maybe if you lead him?” Clint called out to Kyra even as the horse started tossing its head and stomping his hooves.
“I don’t think so.” Jesse took the reins from Clint, unwilling to let Kyra come between nine hundred pounds of willful horse and the trailer. Already, Sam’s Pride was twitchy and nervous.
Kyra sidled closer anyway, reaching for the bridle as she cooed to the animal. “I can take him, Jess,” she whispered, maintaining eye contact with Sam’s Pride as she reached to help.
Jesse tugged the horse to one side to keep Kyra out of harm’s way. “He’s too unpredictable, damn it.”
As if to prove his words, Sam’s Pride bucked and jumped, yanking his reins from Jesse’s hands so hard the leather burned and sliced both his palms.
While Sam’s Pride pawed the air and then galloped into the woods, Kyra’s customer let a string of curses fly and Clint whistled low under his breath.
Jesse, on the other hand, could totally identify with the three-year-old. He couldn’t help thinking the horse didn’t want a noose around his neck any more than Jesse ever had.
“Deal’s off,” the bearded customer huffed, clomping back to his fancy truck. “I don’t have time to kowtow to a temperamental horse.”
“Wait!” Kyra called, hastening to catch him.
But the pickup truck’s engine drowned her out as the old guy shifted into Reverse and sped away from the Crooked Branch.
“He’s not temperamental!” Kyra shouted in the man’s wake in a rare display of anger. “He’s just...”