Last of the Red-Hot Riders: A Hell's Outlaws Novel

by Tina Leonard

  Last of the Red-Hot Riders is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept eBook Original

  Copyright © 2015 by Tina Leonard

  Excerpt from Once Upon a Cowboy by Maggie McGinnis copyright © 2015 by Maggie McGinnis

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  eBook ISBN 9780345549310

  Cover design: Carrie Devine/Seductive Designs

  Cover photograph: Studio10Artur/Shutterstock

  www.readloveswept.com

  v4.1_r1

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  By Tina Leonard

  About the Author

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Once Upon a Cowboy

  “The battle of the sexes is pretty much all about sex. Suits me just fine.”

  —Sheriff Steel Durant to Saint Markham at Ivy Peters’ Honky-tonk and Dive Bar

  Chapter 1

  “Don’t stop,” Saint Markham said, groaning, sure he’d explode if the sexy redhead stopped doing what she was doing. He was going to explode if she kept going, too, so either way, he was in for the ride of his life. Cameron Dix was sweet, she was hot, and she was driving him mad, stroking him with sure hands, every once in a while tantalizing him with a flick of her sexy pink tongue.

  Her hands were so soft, too eagerly determined to turn the heat up to full blast on him. “Don’t stop,” he growled again, reaching for that long, red, wild hair he’d been dying to run his hands through—coming up with short, silky handfuls of softness instead.

  His eyes flew open. “Damn it, Prince!” he yelled, and the golden-furred dog greeted him with chocolate doggie eyes, gave Saint’s ear one last lick, and hopped out of his bed to head to the back door, waiting impatiently for his bowl to be filled.

  Saint cursed and dragged himself from bed, tugging on his jeans over his rock-hard erection. Dream number one thousand by now, surely. Cameron Dix haunted him, her spell on him as sure as any spell Hell, Texas, had ever seen. He couldn’t even be free of her in his sleep. Five o’clock in the morning, and the only action he was getting was from Trace Carter’s hound, whom he’d agreed to keep for a few days, slurping at his ear to wake him for breakfast.

  He wanted Cameron Dix bad. Had the hots for her like nothing he’d ever wanted before. The fine line drawn in the dirt between them had deepened somehow when Cameron’s teammate, Ava Buchanan, had taken down his buddy Trace. Neither of them had ever mentioned the new tension, but it was there. They’d always observed a professional distance, but now that distance felt more awkward than professional.

  Distance was a good thing, Saint reminded himself—especially when it came to a certain redheaded fireball with sassy opinions and a sexy ass guaranteed to stop traffic.

  “Damn dog,” he told Prince, who barked at him to open the door and get on with serving the eats. He ruffled the dog’s ears affectionately, patted his back, and pulled open the door.

  Cameron Dix stood on the other side, her red hair wild and beautiful, her pink lips wide open, as he’d clearly caught her in the act of doing something she didn’t want to be caught doing at his back door.

  Prince was going to get a treat later for alerting him to his early, early morning visitor. This woman wanted him, she wanted him bad, and now all the pretense of distance could be swept away.

  Not that she was going to get what she’d come for—but let the record note that she’d ventured onto his turf.

  “What’s up, Cameron?”

  She hid something behind her back. “Not much.”

  Ah, wasn’t she cute. She thought she was going to get away with whatever her plan was. But she was no Mayor Judy Jasper when it came to effective manipulation—and he was no Trace Carter to be worked like an easy mark. “Something’s up. Unless you make a habit of hanging out at my back door.”

  Her chin went up. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  She definitely had something behind her back. There was only one way to solve this standoff, show her he was nobody’s fool. Saint pulled her toward him, a mistake he rued when a cloud of strawberry-scented hair swirled around his face and sweet, round breasts bounced into his chest. Lust swept him like a heavenly river dragging him down.

  Oh, shit. She’s got me now.

  So delicate, yet lean and tight from all the riding she did. Cameron met him at almost eye level, which put him too close to her wide-eyed expression and moist, sweet lips.

  He had to avoid those lips.

  Just find out what she’s holding behind her back. You know you’re getting set up for something. Puncture Judy’s plan so she knows just who she’s messing with—no way in hell is she going to spring the trap shut on you the way she did Trace.

  She felt amazing in his arms, and he didn’t care about what she had behind her back. He kissed her, closing his eyes so he could absorb the impact of her soft mouth. Oh, God, it was good, better than his dreams all those tortured nights in Afghanistan when he’d fantasized about the arms of a loving woman to save himself from the insanity of the war. He had to have this woman, possess every sexy inch of her.

  Cameron’s mouth softened under his, surprising him even as he realized she hadn’t pulled away—though she wasn’t exactly trying to eat him up, either—but even if his life depended on it, he couldn’t relinquish the sweetness for which he’d hungered for for so long.

  Bed. He had to get her into bed. Wasn’t that why she was here? And wasn’t that why Mayor Judy had brought her so-called team of bullfighting riders here to Hell—to find unlucky, unsuspecting victims to drag to the altar?

  Not that he’d be going to an altar—but he could definitely satisfy the reason Cameron was at his back door at five A.M.

  “Let’s continue this inside, beautiful.”

  Cameron’s eyes widened. She kneed him in the groin and Saint doubled over, gasping for air as his eyes watered against the pain.

  She threw something at him. He thought she called him something harsh as she stalked off, but bells the size of ships were ringing in his ears. Staggering into the den, he collapsed on the sofa, groaning. The woman had aim, and she was strong. She was also nearly as tall as he, and she was athletic as heck, all of which he had to grudgingly admire as the blackness began to recede. He glanced at the offering Prince brought over, the item Cameron had flung at him.

  A basket of cupcakes, with a card that had the words Happy Birthday written on it, and signatures of his best friends in the town: Mayor Judy, Sheriff Steel Durant, Declan O’Rourke, Trace Carter; even Cameron Dix and Harper Castleberry had signed it,
among others from the town.

  Cupcakes. They’d sent cupcakes for his birthday, courtesy of the cupcake he really wanted. Prince went back to licking his ear, reminding him about breakfast, so Saint pulled himself painfully off the sofa, glanced at the pretty beribboned wood basket of now-smushed, chocolate-frosted cupcakes with tiny bulls atop them. Nice, no doubt delicious—but the one thing he really wanted had pulled out of his driveway, loudly spewing dirt and tiny rocks from under her truck tires.

  He just had to have that woman.

  It was the only way to finally get her out of his mind—but there was no way he was falling for Mayor Judy’s diabolical plan of matrimony for all in Hell, Texas.

  —

  Saint stood watching the sexy temptation school her horse, keeping a respectful, wary distance between himself and Cameron’s siren appeal. Ever since the accidental encounter with the cupcakes and kiss, he wondered how much more temptation he could take before he lost his good sense and made his move. Three days a week he was the riding instructor for Cameron and the rest of the team, a job that had fallen to him by default, since his fellow SEALs and partners of the Hell’s Outlaws Training Center, Trace and Declan, were otherwise occupied at the moment—or so they claimed. The usual routine was that Saint trained Cameron, she schooled her horse, and they parted ways amicably. Hell was, after all, a small community, requiring everyone to get along as much as possible. Professional distance was his saving grace—that, and his committed bachelor status.

  Yet his mind thought about what his body couldn’t forget: her soft curves in his arms. Cameron was tall, about five-seven in her boots, and was a great fit for him; she’d stand just right for cupping her sweet ass with his hands if he ever got to hold her again. He remembered that the springy red curls that were even now sprouting out from a tight, high ponytail felt great under his chin. She had a small nose that flared when she was annoyed, but most of the time she smiled a lot, with full, delicately shaped lips that drove him mad. According to gossip she was one of seven children, so this Hell’s Belles mission she was on was no small matter with her. He’d also heard that most of her paychecks went back home to help the family, though to be fair, her beautiful black-and-white Appaloosa horse, Charlie, could not have been cared for better by the Queen of England. As far as he could tell from his months-long perusal of her, she was the whole package, with a saucy temper thrown in to keep a guy on his toes.

  Especially a horny guy.

  Like me.

  She’d spent a little time on the wrong side of town letting Jake the Snake take her out, but that had ended badly. Anything to do with Jake Masters—or any of their rivals, the Horsemen, of which Jake was a part—was guaranteed to end badly, so Saint hadn’t been worried. With a population of around two hundred on a good day, Hell was largely a man’s town, and ladies, especially a beautiful woman like Cameron, were in demand. But then the Horsemen had once again overplayed their hand, having a little fun on the Outlaws by roofying Declan one evening while everyone was hanging out at the creek, and that had been the end of Jake the Snake’s getting anywhere near Cameron. She’d let Jake know in no uncertain terms that she considered him to be, indeed, a snake, of the lowest, most disloyal order.

  Saint’s respect for Cameron had hit a new level after that, with the unfortunate result that he seemed to be addicted to looking at her, watching her, wanting to be around her. The problem was that Mayor Judy had brought the team of Cameron, Ava, and Harper to Hell to be the Hell’s Belles, a team of female bullfighters, springing this on Saint, Trace, and Declan—knowing full well women weren’t training at the Hell’s Outlaws Training Center. This was a man’s place, something he and his buddies had planned to open when they returned from war. A place men could be men, practice bullfighting, target shooting, roping, whatever.

  Before they’d known it, the Outlaws had found themselves agreeing to let the Hell’s Belles train their horses at their training center—and that was when the wheels had slowly but steadily gone into the ditch.

  Females in a man’s place were always guaranteed to change everything.

  Which had resulted in Saint becoming the riding instructor for the team. Training Cameron kept Charlie learning, and in shape, but Saint found himself testing his professional distance theory frequently as he spent a lot more time around Cameron. He spent his days tied up like a pretzel, pretending he didn’t want her. His nights were hell on fire.

  No one had razzed him about kissing Cameron, so he figured she must not have shared their early morning encounter. Probably felt like the kneeing she’d given him had served as sufficient punishment, and truthfully, it had notched his respect up another level. Trace had gotten away with the seduction of one of Judy’s “Belles,” Ava Buchanan, only because Judy’d been dying to see some of the many men in Hell, Texas, married off.

  But Cameron was off-limits, because Judy had all her eggs stacked firmly in the redhead’s basket. Cameron was talented, she was tough and driven, and Judy felt strongly that, of all her current team, Cameron was the one with the toughness and the drive to make it in the world of bullfighting. Straight-up, right-there-with-the-boys bullfighting. Being a rodeo clown, in the public vernacular—but of course, there was nothing funny about being in an arena with a bull and a cowboy who might need the help of a fast, brave bullfighter.

  It was enough to make Saint sweat, if the Texas heat wasn’t enough to do it. He saw exactly the same thing in Cameron that Judy did—but he had a special, damning curse: He saw Cameron not only as talented and tough, but as a hot, sexy, desirable woman. One he’d kissed. And after that brief taste of her, he knew there was no going back.

  Yes, it was a cold day in Hell. And today there’d be another cold shower, and maybe even a dip in the creek.

  “That’s enough for me today,” Saint called. “I’m heading out.”

  Cameron turned. “Too hot for you?”

  Hell, yes, you are. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be interested in getting burned.

  “A beer won’t do me wrong.” He waved, turned to go.

  “Saint, hang on.” Cameron walked her horse to the side of the arena where he’d been leaning against a short wall, watching her. “If you’re going to Redfeather’s, I’ll buy you that beer.”

  This wasn’t entirely out of the blue. Any night of the week might find several of their gang crowded into a black leather booth in the dark bar and grill. Friendly enough. But as he looked into Cameron’s sparkling, clear blue eyes, Saint felt uneasy.

  She treated him like a friend, a brother, and he’d been friend-zoning himself ever since she’d arrived in Hell—except for his one momentary indiscretion. Trace and Declan said he was a dumb-ass to take himself out of the running, and that he was being unusually cowardly to consign himself to the just-friends category so soon.

  But as Declan wasn’t being brave and declaring his secret undying passion for Harper Castleberry, Cameron’s housemate and also a member of the Hell’s Belles, Saint figured his friend had no business masquerading as a romance adviser. Trace had finally gotten around to letting himself fall hard for Ava, but the process had been long and painful for all, and Saint prided himself on having learned from that experience. Better a woman who called you a friend than a woman who didn’t want to be in the same room with you.

  Hell was a very small town. Awkwardness was best avoided.

  Who was he kidding? Awkward had happened the moment he’d stolen a kiss. Not that he regretted what he’d done—even the shot to the balls she’d dispensed couldn’t make him regret kissing her. No, the regret was due to the overhang of discomfort that clouded his every encounter with Cameron now. He stayed stuck in a dimension of wanting her, remembering how sweet her mouth was, and realizing she was totally, completely off-limits.

  “Isn’t it my turn to buy the beer?” Saint asked, his voice carefully casual.

  “It might be, but I want to talk to you. Privately.”

  This was a first. He mentally re
minded himself that smart men waited for the move to be made before they showed their cards. “Sure, no problem.”

  Relaxed and casual. Easygoing Saint. No problem, because he had everything under control.

  —

  Two hours later, sitting in Redfeather’s in their gang’s favorite black leather circular booth, Saint understood that he had absolutely nothing under control. Cameron was sitting very close to him as they waited for their friends to show up for their regular gathering. The smell of burgers and beer hung in the air in a comforting cloud, and the slight scent of Stephen Redfeather’s long pipe occasionally wafted across the well-ventilated restaurant. Smoking was specifically not permitted in here, but this was Stephen’s restaurant, and so his pipe was just one of his quirks everyone had accepted long ago. The regulars were happy to have a place to sit and chat after a long workday. This was the watering hole, the gathering place, and he and Declan and Trace had promised themselves back in Afghanistan that they’d see this cracked black leather booth again, eat Stephen’s comfortably questionable cooking, and enjoy their friendships.

  Now that Cameron and the Hell’s Belles had been in Hell for over a year, the Outlaws knew more about Mayor Judy’s team. Ava was steadfast and determined, and had married Trace after a sort of scattershot courtship. Trace hadn’t been happy at all about Ava’s learning to bullfight, and his resistance had been more than token—though he’d happily caved at the end on all counts.

  Sweet kisses had been Trace’s undoing.

  Then there was Harper, and her young son, Michael, whom she loved more than anything. Harper was the hardest to read of the three teammates, and Saint feared Declan was in for a serious bruising of his heart over the gorgeous blonde. There was something about her that spoke of quiet resolve and toughness—and of absolute zero interest in his buddy. She was an excellent horse rider, one of the best he’d ever seen, even possessing a fine repertoire of trick riding skills. Far too busy with her son and her horse to have even casually glanced Declan’s way, Harper had friend-zoned him right off the bat. Declan had enough shit going on in his life that the last thing he needed was a blonde with a die-hard independent streak rocking his world, but there you had it. Love stunk on ice.