by Ann Roth
“Then why are you here?” he asked, not hiding his displeasure.
“I was hoping I could see the house.”
Right, and he was a ballet dancer. “You’re telling me Phillips wants to sell this place? Too bad—a couple of months ago, I signed a nine-month lease. I’m not leaving until the contractor finishes my house, and he just broke ground.”
His bad leg was beginning to ache. He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms.
“You’re building a place in Saddlers Prairie.” She frowned. “I thought you lived in Billings.”
“I relocated.”
“You’re not riding anymore?”
She hadn’t followed the stories, then. Just went to show how far he’d slipped from the radar. “Nope,” he said. “I retired a year and a half ago.”
The ache in his leg advanced to low-level pain, a sure sign that hell was on its way. He shouldn’t have pushed himself so hard this morning.
“Thanks for stopping by.” He backed inside and started to close the door.
“Wait—please!”
Her voice had a desperate ring to it he couldn’t ignore. He hesitated.
“If I could just peek at the house,” she said. “I won’t stay long, I promise.”
Vulnerability he hadn’t noticed the last time they’d met made her look softer and even more attractive. Leaning heavily against the jamb, he eyed her. “Give me one good reason why I should believe you.”
“How about the truth? I’m researching my family roots, and I found out that my mother and her parents once lived in this house.”
He barely hid his surprise. “Can’t you just ask them what you want to know?”
“I would, but both my parents are gone now—my adoptive parents, that is—and there are no other relatives to ask. This was my biological mother’s house.” Shadows filled her eyes. “Until recently, I didn’t even know about her.”
Interesting. “Closed adoption, huh?” he guessed.
“Something like that.” She ducked her head, as if wanting to hide from him.
Curious, he cautiously flexed his bad leg. “When did she live here?”
“Twenty-nine years ago—when she was pregnant with me.”
“And you’re looking to learn something about her in this house, after all that time.” Clay didn’t buy it.
“I know it’s a long shot, but it’s all I have. Tyler Phillips bought this place from Bob and Judy Becker—my biological grandparents. The private investigator I hired said that Mr. Phillips still lived here. His phone number is unlisted, so I wrote to him for information, but he never replied. I thought that if I came in person, if he talked to me and showed me around, I might...never mind. Thanks for your time.”
She turned away, but not before Clay saw her crestfallen expression.
Hell. He wasn’t doing anything right now, anyway, so what could it hurt to let her in? “I’ll give you ten minutes. Then you have to leave.”
She brightened right up. “Thank you.”
Chapter Two
Not knowing what to expect, Sarah followed Clay through the door. She couldn’t help admiring his broad, straight back and wide shoulders, the way his jeans hung lovingly on his narrow hips and the powerful legs that were slightly bowed. Once, just once, she’d run her palms up his back and over his shoulders, while enjoying the kiss of her life. A huge mistake, she’d quickly learned.
He walked with a slight limp she didn’t remember, probably from a bull-riding injury. She had no idea when that had happened, hadn’t even realized he’d retired. But then, over the past year she’d barely had time to eat and write the articles that paid the bills, let alone keep up with what was new on the rodeo circuit. “You’ve seen the living room,” he said, his deadpan face more expressive than any dirty look. “Kitchen’s this way.”
With its worn yellow linoleum and blue-and-white tiled counters, the small kitchen looked original. Sarah’s excitement mounted. A built-in table and two benches filled a windowed nook that faced the big backyard.
She tried to picture Tammy and her parents eating there. Having no idea what they looked like made imagining them difficult.
“You’re staring at the table like you expect it to talk,” Clay said.
“It looks like it’s been there a long time, and I was thinking about Tammy—my biological mother—sitting there.”
His hands on the counter behind him, Clay regarded her solemnly. “What do you know about the Becker family?”
“Not much, except that at some point after Tammy got pregnant, her parents sold the house to Mr. Phillips. She was sixteen.”
“My mom was eighteen when she got pregnant with me.”
Sarah nodded. “Your parents got married the day after they graduated from high school, about five months before you were born. And they’re still married.”
“You remember that, huh?”
The corner of his mouth lifted, making him oh, so appealing, and she had to glance away. “You’re lucky they didn’t give you up, and that they didn’t hide their past from you. I only learned the truth six months ago.”
She wasn’t sure why she told him. Probably because despite his initial hostility, he listened as if what she said mattered. It was one of the qualities that had first attracted her to him. He’d no doubt discovered that women were drawn to a man who paid attention.
“I guess I was lucky,” he said. “If my folks had given me up and separated, I wouldn’t have a sister and brother-in-law or two nieces.”
“You have a second niece now?”
“Fiona. She’s almost two, and a real pistol. And my parents did hide the truth from me. They never told me squat about their shotgun wedding. My aunt is the one who spilled the beans, to get back at my mom for something or other. After that, they didn’t speak for years.”
She hadn’t known that. Clay rubbed his leg above the knee and winced.
“Your leg hurts,” she observed.
“It’s fine.” He straightened and gingerly flexed his knee. “You don’t know where the Beckers went?”
He seemed genuinely interested, and Sarah wanted to talk about it. She’d told her friends back home everything she knew, mulling over what-ifs and possibilities ad nauseum, and they’d quickly grown tired of the subject. They didn’t even think she should be here, thought she should forget all about Tammy Becker and get on with her life.
Sarah agreed, and once she learned the answers to her questions, she intended to do just that. She shook her head. “They seem to have vanished.”
“I hope you find them.”
“You and me both.”
His eyes beamed warmth and sympathy, making him all but irresistible. Her stomach flip-flopped just as it had the day she’d first met him in person and seen how his high-wattage grin caused the corners of his eyes to crinkle.
All right, she was attracted to him, had fallen a little in love with him three years ago. At the time, she’d stupidly thought he felt something, too. Ha. She’d quickly realized that any interest Clay had shown her was short-lived. He didn’t really want to get to know her for who she was—or any other woman, for that matter.
It hadn’t taken long for her to discover that, aside from bull riding, Clay Hollyer specialized in playing the field. No doubt, he probably still did.
Which was why she wasn’t going to pay any attention to the feelings flirting with her insides. She was only drawn to Clay because, for one thing, he was gorgeous, and for another, she hadn’t been with a man since she and Matthew had broken up over a year ago. Between caring for her mother and her freelance magazine work, Sarah simply hadn’t had time for a boyfriend and had ended the relationship.
She wasn’t about to let Clay’s charm and good looks affect her pulse rate—even if she did dre
am about him from time to time. Steamy dreams that led to restless nights.
The past few months, she’d all but banished him from her thoughts. And now here she was, standing in his house, fighting those same feelings. “Shall we continue with the tour?” she asked in a far cooler tone.
In a blink, the warmth disappeared from his eyes and his expression blanked. He nodded toward the hallway beyond the kitchen. “Head back down the hall.”
As she turned and exited the room, she swore she felt his gaze on her rear end. Resisting the urge to tug her blouse over her hips, she gestured for him to lead the way. Instead, he fell into step beside her. The hallway was barely wide enough to accommodate them both.
Familiar smells she thought she’d forgotten teased her senses—the clean soap Clay used, and underneath, his masculine scent. Edging closer to the wall, she trained her gaze on the worn carpet.
“There isn’t much to this house—just the kitchen, living room, bathroom and two bedrooms,” he said.
Struggling with herself to pay attention to the house instead of the man beside her, she managed an interested nod.
What was the matter with her? She’d come here to find out what she could about Tammy Becker and her parents, not dredge up the one-sided emotions she’d once felt for Clay Hollyer.
“This is where I sleep,” he said, pointing to a bedroom. The bed was unmade, the covers thrown back. “The house came furnished, but I brought my own king-size bed. I like to stretch out and get comfy.”
Sarah just bet he did. Images of wild sex all over that bed filled her head. She glanced around the room without really taking in the furnishings. “May I see the other bedroom?”
“Sure. It’s right across the hall.” He opened the closed door of the second bedroom and stood back for her to pass.
This room was smaller, and the air smelled stale. A twin bed stood against the wall, much like the one still in Sarah’s bedroom at Ellen’s house. Judging by the yellowing striped wallpaper that curled along the seams, the flowery bedspread and lacy pillows that looked as outdated as the faded pink curtains, the decor hadn’t been changed in ages. No wonder Clay kept the door closed.
Obviously, this had been a girl’s bedroom. A white desk and wicker chair, the kind a teen might use to do homework, faced a window that overlooked the backyard.
Sarah sucked in a breath. “Do you think this room is the same as it was when Tammy lived here?”
“I wouldn’t know, but why would the family leave the furniture behind when they moved?”
Sarah had no idea. “It’s awfully girlie and really dated. I wonder why Mr. Phillips never stripped the wallpaper, or at least replaced the bedding and curtains.”
“Maybe he likes pink. Tour’s over.”
Sarah wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but she hadn’t anticipated even more unanswerable questions. She let out a disappointed sigh. “Thanks for letting me come in.”
In the hallway, something made her glance up. A short pull rope hung from a door in the ceiling. “Is that an attic?”
“Probably.”
“You haven’t been up there?” When Clay shook his head, she said, “Could I take a peek?”
“Some other time.” His mouth settled into a grim line.
He wanted her gone. Sarah understood—she was uncomfortable around him, too. Yet some sixth sense told her that she might find something important in the attic. If only she could talk with Mr. Phillips...
“I’d like to ask Mr. Phillips about the Beckers,” she said. “Would you mind giving me his number?”
Clay shrugged one shoulder and supplied it as she input the information into her phone. “You won’t be able to reach him, though,” he said. “He doesn’t own a cell, and right now he and his wife are someplace in Europe.”
That explained why he hadn’t answered her letters. “Does he have an email address?”
“Nope.”
“When will he be back?”
“In the fall.”
Her hopes plummeted. “If he contacts you, will you let him know I’d like to talk? Here’s my contact information.” She handed Clay her card.
Without a glance, he slid it into his hip pocket. “How long are you in town?”
“Two weeks.”
“That’s a long time to search for your biological mom who probably lives someplace else. Besides ranching, there isn’t much to do around here. If I were you, I’d leave a lot sooner.”
He really wanted her gone.
Not about to let him intimidate her, she pulled herself up tall. “Actually, I’m also here to research and write an article on ranching life in Montana. I only hope two weeks is enough.”
Clay’s face was unreadable. “Interviewing anyone in particular? I’ll warn them to watch out for you.”
“What does that mean?” Sarah asked, though she knew.
“It means that you act all sweet and caring about a guy and then you trash him in a magazine story.”
She had cared, and thought he cared, too. Especially when, a few days before she was leaving, he’d kissed her. Not just a little peck, but a long, heady kiss filled with feeling and promise. Even now she remembered the hot flare of desire inside her, and the certainty that standing in the warmth of his arms was exactly where she belonged.
Some scant hours later, while sitting in the bleachers, watching a crew set up for an upcoming rodeo, she’d overheard two buckle bunnies nearby.
“I had sex with Clay last night,” said the one with the fake red hair and size double-D breasts.
“Way to go.” Her friend had high-fived her. “Is he as good as they say?”
“The best I’ve ever had. But don’t trust me, knock on his door tonight and find out for yourself.”
Sarah raised her chin. “Everything in that article was true.”
Clay’s expression darkened, and he swore. “I’m not shallow and my ego isn’t that big. You spent ten whole days with me, Sarah. You know that.”
He was and it was, but she wasn’t going to stand there and argue. She wanted to get far, far away from Clay, and forget all about him. If he would just let her look around the attic...
She glanced up. “Let me see what’s up there, and then I promise I’ll go.”
Clay checked his watch. “We agreed that you’d leave after ten minutes, yet you’ve been here for over thirty.”
That long? “I can’t shake the feeling that there might be something up there of Tammy’s,” she said. “Please.”
Clay blew out an exasperated breath. “Don’t tell me you’re going to pull that again.”
Having no idea what he meant, she frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Making your eyes extra big and biting your bottom lip.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. One look around the attic is all I ask. Then I’ll go, and you’ll never see me again.”
“Is that a promise?”
Sarah bit back a retort, which wouldn’t help. “You won’t have to do a thing. Just point me to a stepladder and I’ll take care of the rest.”
He muttered something about her stubbornness.
“You’re right,” she said. “When I want something, I am stubborn.”
“Will you quit doing that?”
She was biting her bottom lip again, she realized. She rolled her eyes and forced a smile. “Is this better?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
He advanced toward her with an intent expression she felt clear to her toes.
Swallowing, she stepped back. “The stepladder?”
“I think there’s one in the utility room,” Clay said, moving closer still.
Her heart pounding, Sarah retreated another step, but the wall stopped her. “I-is it off the kitchen?”
&nbs
p; “You’re driving me crazy,” he said in a low voice, and leaned in even closer.
“Clay, I don’t—”
He silenced her with a kiss.
* * *
CLAY DIDN’T TRUST Sarah, didn’t want her there and sure as hell shouldn’t go near her. But there was something about her he couldn’t resist.
Her eyes were huge and a little scared, but as soon as he brushed his mouth over hers, the look in them softened and her eyelids drifted closed.
Clay also closed his eyes. Her perfume, flowery and as fresh as a spring day, was different from before, but every bit as seductive. She’d cut her hair short, but it felt just as silky as when it had reached her shoulders.
If there were other differences, he didn’t sense them. She felt good in his arms, tasted sweet.
Just as he remembered.
With the little sigh he’d been waiting for without realizing it, she gave in and kissed him back. Her hands slid up his arms and wrapped around his neck, bringing her soft breasts tight against his chest.
Wanting to get closer, he shifted his weight. Wrong move. His leg screamed, snapping him out of his haze of desire.
What was he doing? Was he nuts? He dropped his hands and stepped back.
Looking slightly unfocused, Sarah tugged at her blouse. “Why did you do that?”
Because he hadn’t been able to stop himself. “I wanted to find out if you tasted as good as I remember,” he drawled. “And you do.”
Good enough that for a brief time he’d forgotten the searing pain in his knee. He needed to pop four extra-strength aspirin now, and then prop up his leg.
Not in front of Sarah. It was only out of sheer willpower that he managed to stay on his feet.
She as good as ran for the door.
Gritting his teeth, he strode after her and banged it open in time to let her out. “Goodbye, Sarah Tigarden.”
She left without a backward glance.