The Tycoon and the Texan

by Phyliss Miranda

  “Let’s just say she burst my illusion of a little old mousy lady sitting on the porch, sipping a mint julep. I see where you got your spunk. She calls it like she sees it. I like a woman like that.”

  “Good, ’cause she’s sure smitten with you.” McCall returned his kiss. “And, that’s no easy task.”

  “What’re our plans for tonight?”

  “I’ve got good news and bad news. The drive-in hasn’t opened for the season, but there’s a kickin’ band over at the Texas Moon Palace in Kasota Springs. Want to go?”

  “Sure, if that’s what you’d like to do,” Nick said.

  “Think you can steer clear of trouble long enough to do some boot scootin’?”

  “I’ll try, but don’t bet the ranch on it—”

  “Well, Slugger, you’re gettin’ that Texas thing.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Nick followed McCall through the Texas Moon Palace doorway into bedlam and thick smoky haze whirling around like dust devils on the open range.

  A size-twelve blonde wearing a size-eight sweater, miniskirt, and red ropers escorted them to a table near the dance floor.

  “Whatcha gonna have, darlin’?” The barmaid poised her pen over a napkin and cocked a smile at Nick.

  “Lone Star,” McCall said.

  “Ambassador Twenty-Five, neat.” Nick glanced at McCall and back to the barmaid. A blank look fell across her face. “That’s with no ice, ma’am.” He watched a deep frown etch her forehead as though she needed extra time to process his request.

  Before he could amend his order, McCall piped up, “Bring him a Black Jack straight up.” Then she glanced up at Nick and quickly added, “Make that a double.”

  The waitress shot her a twisted smile and sashayed toward a party of rowdies.

  McCall took up the slack. “It wasn’t the neat that bothered her. A place like this doesn’t get many orders for three-hundred-dollars-a-bottle Scotch.”

  Nick shot her a disarming smile before turning his attention to a line of dancers kicking up their heels to “Cotton-Eyed Joe.”

  “Bull-shit!” sliced the air.

  “Whatcha say?” the singer yelled.

  “Bull-shit!” the rambunctious crowd shouted even louder.

  “Bull-shit?” Nick raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s a Texas thing.” Happiness bubbled in McCall’s voice and shone in her eyes.

  The waitress returned and set down a longneck bottle of beer and a double shot of Jack Daniel’s.

  Nick handed her a twenty and said, “Keep the change.”

  McCall took a hardy sip from the bottle the waitress had placed on the table before saying, “Nick, you’ve never said much about your father.”

  “Not much to tell.” He picked up his glass. “Mother married him, had me, kicked him out when she was through toying with him, received her share of his fortune, and left me without a father. End of story.” Nick downed a slug of the Tennessee whiskey.

  “There has to be more to it. Surely Maddi didn’t just kick him out—”

  “Listen, Mac. I appreciate your concern, but don’t go there. I’m not interested in knowing her excuses. I ended up without a father and there is no justification for it.” He set his glass down. “I want to be responsible and will never put an innocent child through that, so leave it alone.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories—”

  “Let’s go enjoy ourselves and scoot those boots.” Nick pulled McCall to her feet and guided her toward the dance floor. Drawing her tight against him, he tucked her hand against his heart. A pleasant, lazy look settled across her face. She was obviously very comfortable in her element. He pressed a light kiss to her forehead and winked at her.

  “I think you’re flirting with me,” she said.

  “What if I am?”

  “Lucky me.”

  He kissed her again, but this time on her cheek.

  The band kicked off George Strait’s “Amarillo by Morning.” Nick eased her into a comfortable, smooth Texas Two-Step that turned the other dancers’ heads.

  “I didn’t know you could dance Texan.” She seemed to be enjoying the attention they were getting.

  “There’s a lot about me you don’t know.” Nick effortlessly glided her across the sawdust-covered hardwood.

  Hoots and hollers of elbow-to-elbow partygoers gathered around a mechanical bull brought the dancers to a standstill. Nick guided her toward the excitement.

  “Ride ’um, cowboy!” A flood of cheerleading came from the tanked-up crowd.

  The rider raised his hand high above his head, and yelled, “Yip-piekiyi yay, get along little doggie!” Bouncing another couple feet off the saddle, he unceremoniously landed hard on his buttocks, only to be bucked even higher.

  A buzzer sounded.

  Kerwhallop!

  Colton Jameson ate hay and concrete.

  Pulling himself up from the dusty floor, Colt slapped his Stetson against his thigh, locked onto a longneck bottle of Lone Star, and pocketed a twenty-dollar bill. “Come on boys, who’s the next hard-ass that thinks they can beat my time?” The cowboy chug-a-lugged the cold beer, and scanned the men for takers. His mouth twisted wryly as recognition came to his eyes.

  “How about it, cowpoke?” Colt moseyed toward McCall and Nick. “You been braggin’ about busting broncs, so put your money where your mouth is. Ride this pretend bull. Ain’t much difference.”

  The rowdy crowd roared and egged on the two adversaries.

  McCall grasped Nick’s hand. “Don’t do it, Nick!” She tugged at his arm. “It isn’t as easy as it looks. Colt has a lot of experience.”

  Nick shucked off her hand. “Tell you what, Colton . . . it’s Colton, isn’t it?” Nick pulled out a money clip brimming with bills. “Here’s what I’m carrying on me, and if it isn’t enough, there’s more in the bank.” He slapped the ante on the table. “Put up or shut up, Jameson.”

  Colton frowned, his eyes flattened under drawn brows. With a fiery, defiant gaze he accepted the challenge. “Sure, cowpoke, I’ll match you. Anytime. Anyplace.”

  “Not on this contraption.” Nick motioned toward the mechanical bull. “Tomorrow. Cut out two of the ranch’s toughest broncs.” He grabbed his money clip and stuffed it in his pocket. “We’ll draw for the ride.” He latched onto McCall’s hand. “Let’s get out of here, Mac.”

  Nick guided her back to their table, tossed down some bills, and carted her toward the exit.

  “Don’t be a fool, Nicodemus!” She shook off his hand and took a deep breath. As though dealing with an irresponsible teenager, she adjusted the tone to her voice. “You will get hurt. Even killed. Colt knows the stock and he’ll make sure you get exactly what you asked for—the worst bad-ass bronc on the ranch.” She turned and blindly stumbled to the pickup.

  “McCall!” He yelled after her as his gait picked up speed. “Trust me, woman! I know what I’m doing.”

  She stopped in mid-stride and whirled to face him. “You sure as hell better, because I don’t intend to bury someone else I love.”

  “You have serious trust issues.” He took a step forward and attempted to gather her in his arms, but the hurt in her eyes made him stop.

  “I don’t need to be reminded.”

  Sleep evaded McCall as she flopped over on her side, fighting with the urge to go to Nick and knock some sense into the bullheaded man. Ego! Male ego bigger than his brain.

  Her mind wandered to their parting words, and about the only words spoken on the way home. McCall had so many reasons to have trust issues. More than her share, but she wasn’t ready to share them with Nick . . . not at the moment. She couldn’t help but think back to the way Nick took to the dance floor. The warmth of his arms was so male, so bracing. McCall smiled to herself. Any cowgirl would be happy to have such a well-endowed, brown-eyed handsome man in tight-fittin’ jeans and a Stetson shuffle her around a dance floor.

  But what laid heaviest on her mind and heart was
Nick’s bet with Colt. Sure, Nick was capable of handling himself when faced with a challenge, but riding a rodeo bronc was altogether another thing. He could be hurt, mangled, even killed in an instant. It wasn’t like baseball, where he could send in a relief pitcher if the game went into extra innings.

  “Oh hell!” She rolled over. “I finally find Mr. Right and he’s intent on killing himself trying to prove our worlds aren’t that different.” Kicking off the covers, she found herself pacing the room.

  She shouldn’t have shown her anger and stalked out of the honky-tonk and to the car.

  Nick was due an apology. An apology, hell! She needed to save him from himself... save him from being injured or killed because of his macho ego.

  McCall opened her door and saw faint light coming from underneath his, so she knew he was still up.

  Stalking across the hall, she knocked lightly, then shoved open the door without considering she was dressed in only boxer shorts and a T-shirt. “Nicodemus Dartmouth, I’ve had about all of your bullheadedness that I’m going to take.” Into the darkness, she shouted, “Nick! I want you . . . now!”

  “Hey baby, you don’t have to yell,” he tormented from the darkened bathroom doorway. “I’m all yours.”

  McCall whirled and came face-to-face with Nick, who stood broad-shouldered with only a towel around his waist. She forced her eyes from his rock-hard stomach, through a thick coat of flat-ass sexy dark curly hair, until she reached his eyes. Her heart beat in a wild, erratic rhythm. She took a deep breath, savoring the scent of spearmint, musk, and Irish Spring.

  His hands gripped the top of the towel that dipped dangerously low over his lean hips. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company,” he taunted in a profoundly sexy drawl. “Want me to get dressed?”

  “You’re not bothering me.” She licked suddenly dry lips. He absolutely was not bothering her. She had seen him in underwear, and that little black job he wore on the boat didn’t exactly have a lot of fabric to it, either. So, a towel around his waist wasn’t much different. Was it?

  Stepping toward her, he tucked the corners of the towel into a makeshift knot, and unhurriedly lifted her hands, pressing them against his chest, letting her feel his unwavering wall of muscles.

  “You’re bothering me, though.” He lazily guided her fingers into slow, sensual circles. “Mucho bothering me.”

  Her legs rebelled, and her breath caught in her throat. “I, uh, need to talk with you,” she whispered.

  His chest rose and fell raggedly as he tightened his grip. Pressing her palms flat against his hardened nipples, she felt his thundering heartbeat beneath her hand. He eased his free arm around her waist and pulled her closer. Soft breath caressed her earlobe. “So, talk to me, Mac.”

  Hushed breeze stirred the curtains at the opened window. Cicadas chirped in the distance. A sliver of moonlight spread a caddy-wampus pattern on the wooden floors.

  A whisper of wind disturbed the hair around her temple.

  She was afraid to stand so near, afraid of his hot breath, afraid of his tattered breathing. Yet, being in his arms felt natural . . . right where she belonged. His warmth so male, so protective, and so distracting.

  His sorrel eyes smoldered like heated lava. Lowering his head, Nick covered her mouth, searing her with a raging, hot, needy kiss. He took full possession of her mouth, opening wide to ravish and pillage with his tongue. Deeper and deeper. Withdrawing long enough to taste her sweetness, he plundered again, drawing her into an inferno of desire, sending wave after wave of molten longing through her until her body spiked with need.

  McCall had to remember her mission. Forget flesh against flesh. Man against woman. Dueling tongues.

  She finally won the battle with her own rebellious body and scrounged up enough courage to pull away, allowing her hands to linger on his fiery flesh way too long. She lifted her face to find him studying her.

  Burning eyes held her still, while he guided her hands to his lean hips. Allowing the towel to drop, he continued down the side of his legs and back up to the naked hips thwarting her resolve somewhere along the way.

  Reclaiming her mouth, his lips were forceful and searching. He moaned when she locked her hands behind his neck, instinctively arching into his pulsating body, crushing her breasts against him. She made no protest when he released her long enough to slide her T-shirt over her head, discarding the ribbed fabric on the floor.

  Magically, his palm outlined the circle of her breast and tantalized the dusky nipples swollen to their fullest.

  “McCall, I can’t tell you enough how beautiful you are. So perfect.” His tongue explored the rosy peaks.

  Softly she moaned an invitation to continue.

  Waves of ecstasy exploded within McCall as she struggled back to reality, clawing her way out of her mist of lust. “Nick, I can’t do this.” She untangled her body from his, and stepped away. “I’m sorry . . .” She whirled, grabbed her shirt, and ran toward the door before turning back to him. “Not here. Not in the house I was raised in. No matter how badly I want you, it wouldn’t be right.”

  Nick stared out into the darkened night, listening to the stillness of Texas. No wonder McCall loved it here. He had acted such a fool. Any full-grown, red-blooded man should have known someone like McCall could never make love under her grandmother’s roof. He had been so insensitive, yet she had come to his room and tempted him. Hell, she was too tempting. Like cotton candy melting in his mouth. Dangerous and sinfully sexy, she made him lose his prospective. He wanted her more than ever.

  And, the only way? Take her away. Away from both of their worlds. Away to a place where it rains with the sun shining . . . with nary a cloud in the sky.

  Tomorrow he would do just that . . . if he was still alive to take her anywhere.

  A soft knock came from the door. “Nick, are you still awake?” McCall whispered.

  “Yes.” He turned at the sound of the door opening.

  “Here.” She laid a pair of weathered chaps and seasoned leather gloves on the cedar chest. “These were Dad’s, and you’ll need them.” She eased back out of the room and pulled the door closed, only to reappear. “Nick, I really do love you.”

  “Come here,” he said, wanting to hold her, tell her he understood.

  She walked slowly to him.

  He cradled her in his arms. “Thanks for the riding gear.” He lifted her chin. “Angel Eyes, trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  “I hope so.” She dropped her head onto his muscular shoulder and kissed his warm skin. “Are you sure I can’t talk you out of it?”

  Nick shook his head. “Mac, I realize you’ve had trust issues in the past, but please, trust me . . . please.”

  McCall kissed him lightly and left the room, softly closing the door behind her.

  Nick felt like putting his fist through the wall. Something he’d never considered doing before regardless of how mad he had gotten. He wasn’t mad at McCall, but at himself for letting Colt goad him into making the bet, but it was too late to back down now. He knew he could best the son of a bitch.

  Nick damn well planned to keep his promise to McCall and would not get hurt. He couldn’t help but laugh out loud when the thought ran through his head . . . he could bet the ranch on it.

  Chapter Twenty

  One corral over from where Nick stood, a half dozen wild mustangs pounded the dirt, leaving behind long ribbons of dust in their wake. The broncs snorted and bolted as a growing crowd of wranglers turned their attention back to the empty arena waiting for the match between Colton Jameson and Nicodemus Dartmouth to begin.

  Spurs jingling, Colt ambled toward Nick, who pulled on his gloves. “Ready, cowpoke?” Colt hollered over his shoulder. “Luther, get ’um in the chutes while we draw for first ride.”

  “I’ve been thinking, Jameson. Since I don’t know the stock, you’ll probably try to screw me over, so this is the way we’re going to settle this.” Nick rubbed the back of his gloved hand across his chin. “Get t
wo of those ornery devils over there.” He tilted his head toward the pen of mustangs. “The first to get his mount saddled up and aboard wins.”

  “That’s suicide, Dartmouth.” Colt plunged on carelessly. “But, it’s your funeral.” He shouted over his shoulder to the ranch hand. “Luther, cut out two of those Slippery Elm stallions.”

  “Jameson, they just got here and haven’t even been evaluated. We haven’t even had time to work with them. They’re still madder than hell and wild to boot. Mesa is gonna be pissed. I think you should—”

  “You don’t get paid to think. And I don’t give a damn what Mesa thinks. If she cared so much, then she’d have been here when they were delivered. Just get ’em.” Colt spoke to the wrangler but eyed Nick suspiciously before addressing him. “Better get outfitted. It’s gonna be a long day.”

  McCall came up from behind Nick and said, “Colton Jameson, it’s gonna be your head when Granny finds out that you’re using the land management mustangs for your own agenda.” She pointed a finger at him. “I’m warning you. I thought you had enough sense to use horses who are trained to buck, so I’d suggest you’d better call this off or all hell is going to break lose when Mesa finds out. These are her horses, remember.”

  “You and Mesa are just alike,” Colt said.

  McCall turned and looked Nick squarely in the eye. “And you know how I feel about it.” She stalked to the house.

  Nick wanted to go after her and make it okay, explain that he was doing what a man had to do. He couldn’t turn his back on a challenge—particularly one he could win. He had come too far in his effort to prove he was an ordinary guy capable of existing in McCall’s world to turn back now.

  The two men headed to the tack room.

  After selecting a simple western saddle, along with an array of tack, including a bridle, lariat, and a few short pieces of rope, Nick snatched up a plaid flannel shirt from a peg near the door. He headed back to the corral.

  Dropping the saddle and blanket on the ground, he tied the shirt loosely around the saddle horn.