Montana Rogue (Big Sky Mavericks Book 7)

by Debra Salonen

  A thought struck her. No matter the motivation behind the gesture, she would be part of this place forever. “Hey,” she quipped. “It’s not my handprint immortalized at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, but I’ll take it.”

  Five or so hours later, Tucker settled in the stupidly plush upholstery of the old car, letting his head loll against the headrest. The dash was cracked in a few places, and in the dim blue hue of the instrument lights he spotted a cassette player option. “Can you even buy cassettes, anymore?” he wondered out loud. “How many generations of technology have come and gone since cassettes were popular?”

  Amanda, his designated driver, didn’t answer, but she did reach for the buttons on the console. A moment later, the deep, immediately identifiable voice of Johnny Cash emanated from the premium speakers hidden about the interior.

  “There’s a box of them in the trunk,” she told him a minute or so later. “I grabbed pretty randomly. Most of the names and groups I didn’t recognize.”

  “Johnny Cash works. He was one of my granddad’s favorites.”

  The music helped calm Tucker’s jangled nerves. He hadn’t felt this mellow in weeks. Which made no sense because something had changed today between him and Amanda and he couldn’t wait to see where this thing was going. As far as Tucker was concerned, he was “in for a penny, in for a pound of crabs,” as Ona would say.

  “That wound up being quite a party tonight,” Amanda said.

  He’d been making a concerted effort not to stare at her patrician profile. “Classic beauty” was the phrase that kept going through his brain. Did someone use that expression to describe Amanda tonight? He didn’t think so, but once the zip line construction crew joined them in the commons tent, things got interesting.

  “Yeah. I didn’t see that coming. Are you okay with everything? Hotdogs roasted over a campfire isn’t exactly the dinner I had in mind when I told you I’d take you out for driving me to the pole raising.”

  “Best dog I’ve ever eaten. Schooled by a ten-year-old, no less. Who knew one of the most prestigious summer camps on the east coast teaches the wrong method of roasting hotdogs?”

  He groaned. “Brady’s an old man in kid’s skin. Did I tell you he beat me at Clue?”

  Her chuckle sounded throaty and indulgent. “A couple of times. You’re not used to losing, are you?”

  “Nope.” He thought a moment, debating about whether sharing Flynn’s near miss last fall went against the guy code. “Flynn and Justin and I call ourselves the Montana Hot Shots. We were the Wildfire Hot Shots, but, at the moment, none of us are working fires. Anyway, one might say we were a little cocky...until Flynn had a close call that left everybody pretty shaken up.”

  “What happened?”

  “The old woman Flynn was trying to rescue wound up dying in his arms on the way back to safety, and we lost one of her horses, too. Sometimes, the fire wins.”

  She didn’t say anything for a minute. “My father’s not used to losing, either. When I broke off my engagement, both of my parents acted like someone in the family died. To Andrew Heller, a broken engagement was the loss of face.”

  “Why?”

  “I wound up losing my job, too. Double whammy. My old boss and my father sit on a couple of boards together. The gossip was embarrassing.”

  Neither spoke for a few miles. Tucker, because nothing he had to say about her parents would have sounded very nice. Amanda, because...he didn’t know. Was she sad about disappointing her folks or happy to be half a country away from them?

  “They sent me here to fail,” she said, her tone flat, as if she’d delivered the time of day, not a poignant bombshell Tucker hadn’t the slightest idea how to handle.

  He went with dispassionate optimism. “Well, that isn’t going to happen. You’re taking Molly to all her appointments, and getting her in to see the best doctors while I whip her house into shape. I think it’s pretty obvious she can’t live alone, anymore. But your parents can afford to hire a caregiver to keep an eye on her. You’ll be able to go back in triumph.”

  She shook her head.

  “Actually, they’re looking for any excuse to ship Molly off to an old folks’ home and sell her house.”

  That explained the realtor who’d shown up sniffing around the other day. “Well, that’s not right. Molly loves her house. Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you stay in Montana? Open up your own business. You could move in with Molly or maybe stay in the guesthouse so you can check up on the quality of her care.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. My work is in New York City. Period. Yes, I can apply my skill set to a zip line grand opening, but moving to Marietta, Montana, is not exactly a sound career move.”

  He didn’t argue. What did he know? Nothing, except a job was just that. He would set aside everything he was doing if Ona needed him. That’s how different they were. Yin and yang. Hotdogs and hamburgers.

  The car crested a small plateau and the valley spread out before them. The view was one he never tired of seeing. Usually, he pulled over and sat a few minutes, just to pay homage to the greatness of Nature, God and the Universe.

  Amanda didn’t slow down.

  He let out a sigh.

  “What?”

  “Tired.”

  “How tired?”

  The hint of mischief in her voice made the ever-present guy part of his brain sit up and take notice. Yes, they’d shared a look or two tonight that made him wonder if he had a chance of getting past first base, which had been damn nice, now that he thought about it.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “A game of Clue?”

  He groaned. He couldn’t help himself.

  She laughed and reached out to touch his thigh. “Kidding. I was thinking more along the lines of hot sex.”

  “Hell, yea...” His enthusiastic reply petered out when he looked at the ugly black boot on his foot. “No.”

  Her hand jerked back. “No?”

  He muttered a few expletives. “I like you, Amanda. A lot. You’re hot, gorgeous and, hell, yes, I want to make love with you. But not with a six-pound Frankenstein boot on my foot. Talk about a turn-off. Shit.”

  He opened the window to cool down the sudden heat between them.

  She eased off the gas. “That’s funny. I see you on crutches, but I don’t think of you as handicapped. You should take that as a compliment.”

  “Thanks. I’d rip off the damn brace and go for it, except my doctor said if I don’t let this heal completely, I may not dance again.”

  “And that’s important to you.”

  “It was the most important thing in my early twenties. Then I got into firefighting and the two sort of duked it out for my affection. Now, I’m a little sick of them both, but it’s hard to give up a job that’s helped you define yourself as a man.”

  “How does taking your clothes off in front of a thousand screaming women do that?”

  He tried not to let her tone bother him. After all these years, he was used to people judging him.

  “Did you see the Magic Mike movies?”

  “No.”

  “Just as well. My character isn’t like any of them, but there’s something about the biz that the filmmakers got right. Doing what I do is hot fun. My dances celebrate heat, sex, sweat, temptation and being so naughty you can’t help but blush and groan. That’s the art of titillation. There’s just not enough titillation in the world, in my opinion.”

  Her laugh sounded more interested than judgmental. “I’d never thought of it that way.”

  “When was the last time you were titillated?”

  She shook her head. “Um...I honestly don’t know.”

  “Here’s what we’ll do. Drop me off at the guesthouse. When you get settled in your bed at the Graff, open your laptop and give me a call. I’ll send you a video of one of my routines and we’ll...talk about it. You can tell me what part—if any—turns you on.”

  He could tell by her expression
she wasn’t convinced this was a good idea, but he had his pride, damn it. No way was their first time going to be half-assed. After four hours of hobbling around, he needed to take a pain pill and elevate his leg. How sexy was that?

  But phone sex?

  He could do that lying down.

  Chapter Six

  As Amanda stood at the bathroom mirror brushing her teeth, she studied her reflection.

  Other than a few lines that may or may not be new, she looked the same as she had a year ago when she agreed to marry James. And, yet, she felt completely different on the inside.

  “Major disconnect,” she mumbled through a froth of minty white bubbles.

  She spit and rinsed.

  What does Tucker see when he looks at me? she wondered, wiping her lips.

  She pictured Tucker’s mouth. Wide, always smiling—even when she knew his ankle was bothering him. Was his grin a brave attempt to convince himself he was in control or a mask he wore to convince others nothing could touch him?

  She didn’t know, but she liked his mouth. The most kissable mouth she’d run into in a long time.

  I kissed him. Twice.

  Nobody who knew Amanda would call her an impulsive person. “You have a brain, so use it,” her father would snap if she did something he considered irresponsible or inappropriate for a Heller.

  “Maybe I’ll cut my hair,” she said aloud. She twisted her hair up and turned sideways.

  Nope. Didn’t work.

  “Highlights?”

  The thought made her stomach turn. Her sisters both had standing appointments at one of the priciest salons in the city to get their drab brown locks converted into shimmering strata of autumnal perfection. Julia even had a technique for mixing reds and golds named after her: the Julia Heller-Donaldson glitz.

  Amanda let her hair drop and left the bathroom. She approached the king-size bed resting on its elevated platform with reluctance.

  Had Tucker emailed the link to his dance video? Probably. Was he lying in bed at the guesthouse waiting for her to call? More than likely.

  Men like Tucker Montgomery were used to women wanting them. No doubt, The Full Mountie—his exotic dancer persona—had a flock of groupies. She didn’t intend to become one of them.

  Nope. Not happening.

  She ignored her laptop, which she’d plugged in beside her bed so she could update her resume. Instead, she picked up the fashion magazine she’d brought with her on the plane. She fluffed the bevy of pillows before hopping atop the classy silver and black comforter. She kicked out her legs, wiggling her bare toes. Her pale pink silk pajamas were almost too warm since spring had finally arrived, but this set was the only nightwear she’d brought.

  She crossed her ankles and opened the magazine.

  Not a single dress or outfit looked as if it belonged in Montana. In fact, the only page that contained “real” people was an advertisement for Montana. A blond cowgirl in cutoffs and a sleeveless shirt tied to expose her bare midriff sat bareback atop a palomino overlooking a vista so beautiful it almost looked fake. Beside her, a ruggedly handsome cowboy on an equally impressive mount pointed to an azure blue lake in the distance.

  Amanda barely noticed the scenery—it wasn’t a bit more impressive than what she saw every day around Marietta. No, her focus was drawn to the cowgirl with golden blond tresses spilling across her shoulders.

  “Maybe I’ll dye my hair.”

  She’d made an appointment to have her hair professionally bleached when she was fifteen, but her sister had talked her out of it. “Mom will throw a hissy and Dad will cut you out of his will.”

  Amanda had canceled the appointment. Not because she was afraid of being cut out of her father’s will—she probably wasn’t in it, anyway—but because she didn’t have the stomach for the drama.

  “Just how long do you plan to be a people-pleasing good girl?” she imagined Molly asking. “Your whole damn life?”

  Her phone made a dinging sound. She picked it up, expecting to see a text from James or her mother.

  Chicken.

  “Am not,” her inner twelve-year-old cried. “I’m not afraid of semi-naked men.” One, in particular.

  She typed a quick reply. “Been busy.”

  “Reading a fashion magazine?”

  “How...?” A squiggle of nerves passed down her spine until she recalled telling him about her pre-sleep habit. “Some people read novels. If I start something that grabs me, I’ll read all night. To avoid that, I flip through Vogue or Condé Nast Traveler.”

  The phone chimed again. “Try me. I don’t bite.”

  Why did the words sound more like a little boy’s heartfelt “pick me, pick me” over a cocky man’s come-on? she wondered.

  She typed OK and hit send, then she opened her laptop and clicked on her email queue. Three new messages from her mother, two of which included attachments. One from the office of Andrew Heller. And one from TuckerM.

  Family business could wait for the morning.

  She followed Tucker’s instructions and a few seconds later, a YouTube video appeared on the screen. The title read: New Dance #2.

  As she waited for the requisite ad to finish, she took stock of her situation. Her palms were sweaty, her heart rate elevated. Her breathing seemed a little shallow. Anticipation and excitement, she realized.

  She startled slightly when Tucker appeared on the screen and started speaking directly into the camera. His voice sounded exactly the same as the last time they’d spoken. A sort of hushed intimacy she couldn’t quite explain. She felt as if whatever happened next was just between the two of them.

  “Hey. It’s me. Duh. This is a work-in-progress, okay? Go easy on me.”

  Did he make the video for someone at American Male?

  When he stepped away, the camera panned an empty stage. That told her someone was manning the camera. A woman, she wondered, shocked by the sudden bite of jealousy she had no right to feel.

  The camera pulled back slightly when three or four spots jockeyed for position across the back curtain. Tucker, dressed in form-fitting black pants and a plain white T-shirt, trotted to the stage, hopped from the street level up as if clearing a fence, and then did a sort of float-like-a-butterfly-sting-like-a-bee footwork to warm up until he reached the position he wanted on center stage.

  As if by magic, a black satin cape, black top hat and a shiny, silver-tipped walking stick flew into his hands. He turned his back to put on the cape then nodded to someone at the camera’s left. “Cue the music.”

  She recognized the song as one that played on the oldies channel James favored when they were cleaning the apartment: “Abracadabra.” This version included a twangy synthesizer that gave the tune a modern vibe.

  The opening refrain immediately grabbed her and made her toe start to tap.

  Tucker spun around, top hat cocked rakishly over one eye. The lining of his cape was crimson silk, she realized. The color was a perfect contrast to the short-sleeve white T-shirt that hugged his muscular torso like frosting. His low-on-the-hip, skintight black pants emphasized the size and power of his thighs. His waist looked smaller than hers.

  His bare foot tapped out the beat. His hips ground and shook. Her mouth went dry. The same wasn’t true for other parts of her body.

  The lights synced to the song, a flash of reds and yellows appeared like a dancing flame when the lyrics mentioned a fire that went higher and higher. Tucker moved like a true dancer, interpreting the lyrics as if telling a story. She sat forward, completely drawn in by his facial expressions.

  The cape moved in and out like a sexy partner—now you see him, now you don’t. The provocative invitation made her want more. Made her desire...more.

  She swallowed hard.

  The cape left his shoulders and swirled like a flame, suddenly flying toward the non-existent audience. She could imagine the swooning effect that might have on some women.

  His cane became the more important prop—naughty and suggestive.
He danced with it, around it and used it to simulate a long, slick penis. “Oh, my God,” she cried, licking her lips.

  She realized she was grinning like a fool but she didn’t care. This was fun. Hot fun. Good grief, I’m turned on, she realized.

  The words “black panties” in the song lyrics made her squirm. Did I pack black panties? God, she hoped so.

  She swung her head back and forth to the music.

  He tossed the cane stage left and took the hat between both hands. Standing sideways to the audience, he held the hat at groin level, thrusting his hips and shaking his ass, all the while giving the camera a naughty boy grin that made her want to kiss him. She couldn’t deny it: she was turned on. She wanted to be the hat. She wanted that man’s body pushing up against her. She wanted him.

  When he tossed the hat, her heart staggered in anticipation. One fist grabbed a handful of material just below his heart. He yanked and...rip...the white T-shirt went flying, too. He spun, dropped to the floor, working the camera, the audience, and her. He did some crazy dancer move to levitate back to standing. He spun so his gorgeous, ripped back faced the audience, and then he bent over as if to bow.

  Amanda, who’d moved into a sitting position with legs crossed at the ankles, clapped.

  But, a second later, when he stood up, his pants were gone. Like magic. Wet-looking black panties slightly bigger than a G-string showed her—and anyone else watching this—butt cheeks without an ounce of fat or an inch of clothing.

  “Oh,” she peeped. “Oh.”

  She bit her lip and held her breath for the rest of the performance. Little dots flashed in front of her eyes. She sank back against the pillows, turned on, a little spent and so damned horny she was tempted to get dressed and drive to the guesthouse to demand satisfaction.

  She grabbed her phone. “Bastard,” she typed.

  His reply came back with a string of emojis. A thumbs-up. A smiley face with dark glasses. A pulsing red heart. And a smiling devil.

  She stared at the read-out, debating what to do. She felt turned on and unsatisfied.