Tom’s arm was pinned against the rails as thirteen hundred pounds of horseflesh slammed into the side of the chute. Roxanne’s fingers tightened around the rolled-up program, but she managed to stifle the frightened scream that rose to her throat.
“EASY, GIRL,” Tom murmured. “Easy.” He put his free hand against the mare’s neck and pushed gently. “Move over, now. That’s a good girl,” he crooned as she shifted her weight and freed his arm. He flexed it, checking for broken bones or torn ligaments. It throbbed like a son of a bitch, but was otherwise intact. Fortunately, it was his left arm, so he could still ride. Not that he would have considered doing otherwise, even if it had been his right. He’d have just figured some other way to hang on to the reins. Like with his teeth, maybe.
“You okay?” Rooster said from the other side of the chute. “She get you bad?”
“Nothing an ice pack and a cold Lone Star won’t take care of.” Tom finished securing the saddle with one good hard yank, patted the mare one last time to let her know he was still there, then slowly eased himself over the top rail and lowered his butt to the saddle, careful not to graze her with his spurs and set her off again.
Hot Sauce, apparently over her little tantrum, didn’t so much as flick an ear in his direction.
Tom sat equally still, the reins clutched tightly in his right hand, his left resting lightly on the top rail, his attention now entirely focused on the coming eight seconds that would constitute the entire duration of a successful ride. He ran down a mental checklist—reminding himself to keep his legs stretched high, toes turned out, eyes straight ahead—while he sat there, stock-still, waiting for the moment when everything felt just right. Hot Sauce snorted and shifted beneath him, impatient to begin.
“Ready?” someone said.
Tom lifted his left hand from the railing, letting it curve up over his head, and gave one quick, decisive nod.
The gate swung open.
The flank strap pulled up tight.
Hot Sauce screamed in fury and bolted out of the chute, then jerked to an abrupt halt, head down between her legs, front hooves slamming into the ground with enough force to rattle his teeth as she kicked out with her back feet and tried to toss him off over her head. Tom swung his boots down along the mare’s sides with the first buck, letting them snap up to her shoulders as her rear hooves slammed back to earth, then bringing them back down as she bucked again. His butt stayed glued to the saddle, his free hand waved in the air, his body swooped and swayed with the wildly gyrating horse as if they were dancing an intricate pas de deux, rather than fighting for supremacy. When the horn sounded, signaling the end of the ride, he let his left leg swing up and over the mare’s neck, and jumped lightly to the ground.
“Man, that was one pretty ride,” the announcer enthused. “Probably the prettiest ride I’ve ever seen.”
The judges agreed, awarding him a score of ninety-two out of a possible one hundred.
Tom raised his hat to the crowd as they roared their approval.
ROXANNE WAS ON HER FEET and screaming with the rest of them. She wasn’t quite sure whether she was cheering because of his phenomenal score, or because he’d escaped unhurt when Hot Sauce slammed him up against the side of the chute. She suspected it was some giddy combination of both, combined with a healthy dose of lustful feelings for the conquering hero. It might be politically incorrect and unliberated of her, not to mention horribly shallow, but seeing him compete—and win!—had her creaming her jeans. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on him and show her admiration and approval in a more direct and satisfying way.
Unable to think of a good reason why she should wait, she stuffed her crumpled program into her purse, slung it over her shoulder with her shopping bag, and headed down the steps of the grandstand. There was a guard at the entrance to the livestock area, presumably checking passes, which she didn’t have. The old Roxanne would have politely waited outside the fenced-off area until Tom finally appeared. The new Roxy waited until the guard was occupied with someone else, then slipped through the rails and went to find Tom herself.
“Hi, there, sugar,” she said, batting her eyes at the first cowboy she saw. “Can you tell me where I might find Tom Steele?”
“He was headed for the locker room, last I saw him.” The cowboy motioned toward one of the out-buildings near the main barn. “I’m right here, though. Sure I can’t help you, instead?”
“You already have, sugar. Thanks ever so,” she said, mixing a little Marilyn in with the San Antonio barrel racer before she turned and headed toward the cowboys’s locker room.
“Hey, Roxy. Roxy! Wait up!”
Roxanne looked around at the sound of her name to see Clay Madison bearing down on her. “Well, hey, good-lookin’,” she said by way of greeting, and then narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion. “You followin’ me?”
“I thought you were following me. I decided I might as well make it easy on both of us—” he flashed her a good-natured, good-ol’-boy grin designed to make him look as harmless as a puppy “—and let you catch me.”
Roxanne wasn’t fooled. She’d seen that John Travolta grin before, up close and personal, and knew the lethal charms it disguised. “Well, sugar, I do appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline. I’m meeting someone.”
“Again?”
Roxanne laughed at his hangdog expression. “Tell you what, sugar. You can escort me over there. Just like you did last night.” She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “I’m headed for the cowboys’ locker room.”
“You mind tellin’ me who’s beatin’ my time?” he asked as he fell into step beside her. “Maybe it’s someone I can put out of commission.”
Roxanne had her doubts about that. “Tom Steele.” She slanted a glance up at him out of the corner of her eye. “Think you can take him?”
Clay had his doubts about it, too, but, “Hell, yes!” he said because that’s what she expected. “Would you be mine if I did?”
“Hell, yes,” she said, and they both laughed, knowing it was all in fun, knowing they had gotten past whatever attraction might have been between them last night and emerged on the other side of it with nothing more than the potential to be friends.
Tom didn’t know it, though.
He exited the cowboys’ locker room, hat in hand, just in time to see Roxanne lean in and plant a kiss on Clay Madison’s peach-fuzz cheek. That little sliver of something that might have been jealousy grew into a throbbing green monster. He slammed the screen door to the locker room just a little harder than necessary to close it. Both Roxanne and Clay turned their heads toward the sound. And then, before anyone could say a word, Roxanne whooped like a cowboy at a Fourth of July parade, dropped her purse and packages, and launched herself bodily at Tom.
He dropped his hat and caught her, automatically, easily, his hands cupping the curve of her jeans-clad bottom as she wrapped her legs around his waist and wound her arms around his neck. And then her mouth smashed into his, her lips opened hungrily, her tongue came seeking, and the big green monster that had taken hold of him turned a deep, pulsating red. He flexed his fingers against the tight curve of her butt, pressing her more firmly against the rock-hard bulge in his jeans, and kissed her back. He was just about ready to fall to his knees and take her down with him, when she pulled away and smiled into his face.
“God! You were fabulous!” She planted another one on him. Quick and hard and sweet. “You are fabulous!” Another smacking kiss. “That was the prettiest ride I’ve ever seen. Well—” she grinned, her hot whiskey-colored eyes smiling into his “—the second prettiest. Last night was the prettiest.” She hitched herself a little higher against him and put her lips against his ear. “I’m so hot for you right now, I’m practically melting,” she whispered.
He practically melted, too, right then and there. Would have, too, if he hadn’t suddenly spied Clay Madison over Slim’s shoulder, standing there grinning like a skunk eating cab
bage. Her very public display of affection—talk about cats in heat, he thought!—had gone a long way toward soothing the green-eyed monster, but the sight of the young bull rider standing there as if he were waiting his turn, brought it roaring right back to the forefront again. He let go of her butt and slid his hands up her sides to her arms, curling his fingers around her biceps to loosen her hold on him.
She let go immediately, unlocking her legs from around his waist and her arms from around his neck. “What?” she said, instantly sensing the change in him. “What is it, sugar?”
“While you’re with me, sugar, you’re a one-man woman.” His fingers bit into her biceps. “Or you aren’t with me.”
She stared at him for a full five seconds, her eyes wide and uncomprehending, her mouth half open, as if she meant to say something but couldn’t think what it might be. And, then suddenly, understanding dawned. Her eyes narrowed. Her teeth snapped together. “Just what are you accusing me of?”
Without a word, Tom dropped his hands from her arms and stepped back, jerking his chin toward someone behind her.
Roxanne glanced back over her shoulder. Clay. She’d completely forgotten he was there. “Go away,” she said, and turned back to Tom without waiting to see if she’d been obeyed.
The old Roxanne would have waited to make sure he was gone, loathe to make a scene in front of witnesses. Then she would have soothed and explained, wanting only to smooth things over before the situation escalated and feelings got hurt, before anyone yelled. The new, improved Roxy let ’er rip.
“How dare you!” she said, and there was nothing soothing in her tone. There was also nothing of the San Antonio barrel racer in it, either. It was all clipped New England indignation. “How dare you stand there and accuse me of being a promiscuous tramp.”
“I never said you were a tramp.”
“As good as. While you’re with me…you’re a one-man woman. Or you aren’t with me.” She spat his words back at him. “Just who else was I supposed to have been with between now and this afternoon?”
Tom lifted an eyebrow and shifted his gaze to the man standing behind her.
Roxanne didn’t even turn around. “And just when was I have supposed to have fucked him?” she demanded, using the most shocking, the most graphic term she could think of. “Hmm? Out in the parking lot, maybe? Under the bleachers of the grandstand during the steer wrestling event? When?”
“I didn’t say you fucked him! And keep your voice down, goddammit. Do you want everyone to hear you?”
“I don’t care who hears me.” She was right in his face now, toe to toe and nose to nose, blood pumping with righteous indignation. “I want to know what—exactly—you’re accusing me of.”
“You kissed him,” Tom said, and knew, as he said it, just how ridiculous it sounded.
“I what?”
“Kissed him,” he mumbled.
“I kissed him? Is that what this is about? I kissed him?” She turned to Clay, a look of mock confusion on her face. “Did I kiss you, Clay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Eyes sparkling, he touched his finger to his cheek. “Right here. It was quite a little smacker. Very nice, if I do say so as shouldn’t.”
“That wasn’t a kiss.” She reached out and grabbed him by the ears. “This is a kiss,” she said and pressed her mouth to his.
She gave it all she had—lips, tongue, teeth, and a good deal of squirmy body language. It was a wet, seductive, blockbuster of a kiss. When it was over, she thrust him away from her and whirled back to face Tom.
“Now you have something to be pissed about,” she said, and socked him in the stomach as hard as she could. It was a good solid jab, with her body behind it, and it took the wind out of him.
He made a surprised-sounding “Woof,” and hunched over.
She smiled evilly, satisfied she’d made her point. “See you around, sugar,” she said, and then turned away, deliberately, and bent over from the waist, her bottom pointed at him like a dare—or an insult—and scooped her belongings off of the ground.
Without a backward glance, she straightened, regal as an affronted queen, and stalked off with her head held high.
If she had a flag, she thought, she’d be waving it. She felt that high, that triumphant, that strong. She’d raised her voice. She’d created a scene and used vulgar language, and—ohmygod!—she’d actually hit another person. She’d said exactly what she wanted to say, exactly when she wanted to say it, and she felt wonderful. Almost as good as she had last night in the midst of her fifth—or was it sixth?—glorious orgasm. Or this afternoon on the side of the road, when he’d come apart in her hands.
All in all, she decided, there was a lot to be said for unbridled emotional excess. She should have tried it a lot sooner.
Behind her, Tom straightened slowly, one hand still clasped protectively over his stomach, and watched her walk away. Maybe it was best this way. He had Jo Beth to think of, after all. A man shouldn’t spend the summer tom-catting around when he was seriously thinking about getting engaged come fall. And there was the season to think about, too. He couldn’t keep riding like he had today if he was doing a different kind of riding all night. A body could only take so much.
“Man, that little gal sure packs a hell of a wallop,” Clay said, grinning when Tom shifted his gaze to glare at him. “In more ways than one,” he added, and tugged at his lower lip. “Be a shame to let her get away.”
“Hotter than a firecracker,” someone else said, and Tom shifted his gaze farther to find that Rooster had apparently been standing behind the screen door of the cowboys’ locker room the whole time and had seen the whole sorry incident. Which meant everyone else was going to hear about it before the day was over because Rooster didn’t have a discreet bone in his whole wiry body. “It’s going to take a whole heap of grovelin’ to get back on her good side,” Rooster said.
Disgusted with the both of them, Tom shifted his gaze back to the woman who appeared to be walking out of his life. Her back was ramrod-straight, her hips were swinging, the ridiculous red feathers dangling from her hatband were dancing in the breeze. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause, didn’t look back over her shoulder. Tom told himself again it was better this way. He told himself he had no intention of trying to get back on her good side. But he didn’t believe it for a minute.
She was a tall cool glass of water with a scalding hot spring inside, and he was one sorry-ass son of a bitch who had a whole heap of groveling to do if he wanted to get back in her bed.
Which he did.
In the worst goddamned way.
“Shit,” he said.
7
ROXANNE’S HIGH LASTED through the time it took her to walk across the rodeo grounds and the parking lot to her car. It lasted through the time it took her to drive to the nearest motel and get checked in. It lasted through her leisurely bath and a careful application of fresh makeup and the ritual of getting dressed for the evening—Take that, Tom Steele, she thought as she buttoned the snug little denim vest she’d bought over nothing but soft, perfumed skin. It lasted on the drive to the Bare Back Saloon, where all the cowboys hung out after the Rodeo de Santa Fe in the hopes of finding some horizontal action.
It faltered a bit when she stepped inside the smoke-filled honky-tonk and saw Tom leaning up against the bar, talking to a certified, card-carrying buckle bunny, the kind who collected belt buckles as trophies and had perfected the art of gnawing the little red tag off the back pocket of a cowboy’s Wrangler while he was still wearing them.
She felt a sharp little jab in what she hoped was only her pride, although it felt uncomfortably close to her heart. Was she really so easily replaceable? Could he share what he’d shared with her last night and this afternoon, did the things he’d done, say the things he’d said, and then blithely go out and find someone else to do them with tonight? And if he could switch partners that easily, damn it, then why was he so incensed when he thought she had? What difference could it possibly
make to him if it was so easy for him to do the same?
Were men and women really that different when it came to sex?
She was about to conclude that, yes, indeed, men were pigs and the San Antonio barrel racer had been right—rodeo cowboys were irresponsible sons o’ bitches and you couldn’t trust them—when he looked up suddenly and captured her gaze from across the room. Roxanne abruptly decided that maybe she wouldn’t pack up her poor little broken heart and head for home, after all.
He still wanted her.
Badly.
It was all there in his eyes. The burning lust that was twin to her own. The injured male pride. The determination not to be the first to give in. Roxanne felt all her confidence return at that one nakedly yearning, stubbornly male look and decided, then and there, that if Tom Steele wanted her, and she knew now that he did, he could have her. But he was going to have to make the first move. And he was going to have to grovel. And she knew just how to make him do both. Hiding a smug little smile of satisfaction, she lifted her chin and turned away, the ruffled hem of her brand-new, white-eyelet skirt swishing around the tops of her red Sweetheart of the Rodeo cowboy boots, and tapped the closest broad shoulder.
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