by Desiree Holt
But Grace Delaney wasn’t ‘some woman’. She lit his fire in places he didn’t know could be heated. In his dreams she tantalized and tormented him, her soft lips whispering to him as their bodies moved in an erotic dance. When he competed each night, he found himself having to work hard to blot her out of his mind and concentrate on the competition.
All for a woman who was too fastidious to take him into her own bed in her own home. Make love with him in her own house. Fuck him in her own home, because that’s what he wanted to do to her. His hotel room was fine, but she had a big invisible fence around her life.
Well, that was what he’d wanted, right? No strings? Just sex?
What an ass he’d made of himself tonight, barging into her house that way. Demanding to know who she’d been with and what she’d been doing. Acting as if he owned her, for chrissake. Probably frightening the life out of her.
Good going, Ben. Way to seduce a woman.
So what? he answered himself. She is just ‘some woman’ and he needed to get that straight in his mind. In frustration he banged his fist on the steering wheel. The hell with her. What did he expect, anyway? Maybe that blonde who kept giving him the eye was still hanging around the hotel bar.
Taking the on ramp to the Interstate, he gave the truck a little extra gas as he headed downtown.
* * * *
Grace was exhausted by her tears, stunned by her reaction to what had just happened. She could still hear Ben’s angry words vibrating in the air, see the rage mixed with hurt in his eyes.
You stupid old woman. What have you done?
Given in to her fears, that’s what she’d done. Fallen right back into rigid Grace Delaney mode. Safe mode. Practically insulted a man who’d made her feel even more like a woman than Joe Delaney ever had.
And that was the problem.
She made herself move, picking up her purse she’d dropped on a chair, climbing the stairs to her bedroom on leaden feet. She flicked the switch that turned on the bedside lamp and stood in the doorway, studying the room.
Pristine, Ben had called it. Without ever even having seen it, he’d been so right.
Thick white carpeting. Oyster white walls, unrelieved except for one pastel waterscape. Furniture such a pale shade of blue it almost looked white. She’d bought it when she found she could no longer sleep alone in the bed she and Joe had shared before his death. In the bed where they’d conceived two children in quick succession, children who never got to know their father, thanks to a drunk driver. A framed photo of those children—Bridget and Ryan—sat on the top of a dresser whose only other adornment was a gold-rimmed tray that held a brush and comb set at precise angles.
Even her wedding picture had been put away long ago, as she’d shut every vestige of emotion out of her life.
She’d done the same with everything else. Clung to the apartment as long as she could then moved only when she forced herself. Investigated schools for the children more intensively than the Secret Service. Kept a calendar on the refrigerator with everything in all their lives neatly printed in squares.
Pristine barely began to describe this bedroom. Or her life.
She realized, with sudden shock, the reason she loved accounting so much was its neat and orderly structure. Little numbers went into little columns. Nothing messy. Nothing vital. Nothing she couldn’t control. As long as she stayed within the lines, her life was perfect.
Horseshit!
She could hear Melanie’s voice in her head.
Had she organized her life this way to eliminate the possibility of another catastrophe like the accident that took Joe’s life? Did she think by controlling everything, nothing bad would ever happen again? If she didn’t feel anything she couldn‘t possibly get hurt?
She wondered what her children, now in their early twenties, thought of her. How they saw her.
Her scared self had just thrown away the most enervating, soul-enriching thing that had ever happened to her. Sex with Ben wasn’t dirty or seedy. He made her feel cherished, as if every act they performed together was a homage to her. Instead of embracing it fully, she’d run to a dull date with dull Curt and practically told Ben he wasn’t good enough to be in her house.
What in hell was wrong with her?
Nothing. I made a stupid mistake that I won’t repeat. That’s what I get for reading erotic romances, daydreaming about posters and letting Melanie try to turn me into something I’m not.
Very carefully, she undressed, hung her dress on a wooden hanger, took down her hair and brushed it thoroughly and washed the makeup from her face. With a sigh, she slid a nightgown on then folded back the covers and climbed into bed.
And sobbed until she had no more tears left.
Chapter Eight
Morning didn’t make things look any better. Grace finally dragged herself to the office, hoping to bury herself in work. About mid-morning, Joyce came in, carrying a very large florist box and grinning broadly.
“I wish you’d let me in on your tricks,” she joked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of these things quite so big. It’s got to be from the guy with the hot voice.”
Grace her breath caught in her throat. Was it possible? Was this his way of moving past the night before?
“I can’t tell until I open it,” she told her secretary.
Her fingers shook as she opened the book, separated the green tissue paper and pulled out the card. Hope fell in her like a rock in her stomach.
Thank you for a lovely evening. I hope it’s the first of many. Curt.
She shoved the box at Joyce. “Here. Find a vase for them and put them in the reception area where everyone can enjoy them.”
Joyce frowned. “But—”
“Just do it,” Grace snapped then softened her voice. “Sorry. I’m just a little edgy this morning.”
“Big night?” Joyce winked at her.
“Not exactly,” she muttered and waved her hand. “Go on. Let me get back to work.” She bent her head over the file on her desk, effectively shutting out further conversation.
“Those flowers can’t be from Ben,” she heard Melanie’s voice say. “Not with the mood he was in last night.”
Grace lifted her head and looked up.
Melanie tossed her purse on the couch and dropped onto the soft leather next to it. “So, are you going to tell me what happened?” she demanded. “I thought you two were setting the city on fire.”
“I don’t want to discuss it.” Grace turned away from her friend. “And what do you mean by ‘the mood he was in’?”
Melanie shrugged. “He never hangs out at the usual bars the cowboys do after each night’s events. He’s kind of a loner. Doesn’t run about with the buckle bunnies or pour down the booze. He’s very, oh, I don’t know, focused. That’s it. Focused.”
Grace knew she should just ignore the whole thing, but she couldn‘t help herself. “So what does that have to do with last night?”
“He showed up at the Last Mile, a place near the arena everyone hangs out at, in the foulest mood I’ve ever seen anyone wear and proceeded to try to drink the bar dry.” She snorted. “I think he was already well on the way when he got there, because he mumbled something about the hotel bar.”
Grace’s eyebrows flew up to her hairline. “Ben? Are you talking about Ben Lowell?” In the short time they’d been together she’d been aware of that fact he measured his alcohol consumption very carefully.
“The very same. Care to tell me about it?”
Grace cast her eyes back down at the file folder again. “Not really. And I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got a lot of work piled up. This isn’t a good time for me to visit.”
“Visit?” Melanie was off the couch and in front of the desk in seconds. “Did you say visit? I’m not here on a social call. I want to find out what my friend, who I thought was finally letting herself live a little, did to screw things up.”
“What I did?” Grace snapped the pencil in her hand as ang
er raced through her. “Why do you automatically assume I was the one who did something wrong? How do you know Ben Lowell isn’t the culprit?”
Melanie leaned across the desk and cupped her hand under Grace’s chin, forcing her to look up. “Because I know you, sweetie. And I bet I can put my finger on it. You decided you were having too good a time, right?”
“I don’t—”
“Those new duds that show off a very sexy figure and a couple of nights tangling the sheets with a man I’d give my eye teeth for scared the hell out of you, didn’t they? Look at me, Grace. Don’t shift your eyes away.”
Grace threw the pieces of the pencil onto the desktop and tugged her head from Melanie’s grasp. “You’re wrong. That’s not it at all.”
Liar!
“Then tell me what did happen? God knows Ross said he’s never seen Ben in the state he was in last night. Any man in the world would have given a year’s winnings to have all that naked flesh thrown at them.”
Images flashed across Grace’s brain of a very naked Ben on a king-sized bed with two or three or even four equally naked women doing things she probably hadn’t even thought of yet. A sour taste filled her mouth and her stomach cramped. Well, it was her own damn fault. What did she expect? That he’d wait faithfully like some old dog for her to get over her jitters?
“I-I just asked him for some space,” she protested. “That’s all. What’s wrong with that?”
Melanie huffed her impatience. “Space, huh? The man’s in town for five more days. After that, you’ll have all the space you want. Did you stop to think of that?” She stared at Grace and the hard look on her face softened. “Don’t worry. He didn’t go off with anyone last night, but it sure wasn’t for lack of trying on anyone else’s part. Ross and the chute master finally dragged him out of the bar and back to the hotel. I promise you he’s got a hangover this morning the size of Texas.”
Grace closed the folder on her desk and turned to her computer, effectively shutting Melanie out. She couldn’t show any interest. She just couldn’t allow herself.
“It’s none of my business, anyway. Thanks for coming by, but I really have to return to work.”
There was a long silence, then she heard Melanie moving to the couch and picking up her purse. “Suit yourself, kiddo. It’s your funeral. And I do mean funeral. The death of what little fun you were allowing yourself. Me, I’ve got a lunch date I don’t intend to miss.”
“Have a good time,” Grace muttered, banging away at the keyboard.
She heard the door open then Melanie saying, “Give yourself a break, will you? Life is for the living, not the dead.”
Then she was gone.
Grace leaned back in her chair, the headache she’d woken up with now pounding furiously behind her eyes. Again, she thought of what Ben had said last night and her introspection about herself. She hadn’t buried herself with Joe. She hadn’t. But she wasn’t living, either, and she’d just begun to realize it. And she’d probably killed the only chance to break free she’d had.
* * * *
When Ben arrived at the arena, he’d finally pulled things together enough to ride tonight without killing himself. At least tonight’s event for him was roping, not bull riding, and Hotshot would do most of the work. He just needed to make sure he concentrated.
Enough aspirin had reduced the pounding in his head from jackhammer strength to a dull throb. What a dumbass thing that had been, trying to drink the bar dry. He hadn’t been that stupid in ten years. Of course, he’d also been trying to forget what an jerkwad he’d almost made of himself with the blonde bimbo in the bar, hoping he could erase the taste and scent of her with enough booze.
Why in the hell did he think he could blot out the impact of Grace Delaney, a true original, with a plastic blonde and her equally plastic boobs? If he’d had the courage, he’d have taken an axe and chopped off his head. No, better yet, his cock. Thank God he’d gotten the hell out of the bar before the bimbo could convince him to take her up to his room.
But that still didn’t solve the problem of Grace. Too bad he’d let his stupid macho hormones blow it. He didn’t own her. And he sure wasn’t looking for a long-term relationship. He’d been very clear about that. But he thought they were both on the same page about enjoying each other while he was here. She’d agreed to the Rules, hadn’t she? Grace was like a furled flower ready to open and taking her on a sexual journey was the most erotic thing he’d ever done.
He made his way into the huge dining hall, knowing he needed something light in his stomach before his event. The noise nearly took his head off, assaulting an already abused part of his body. He managed to get some coffee and a small bowl of stew and find himself a corner to hide in, careful to avoid Melanie and Ross. He needed to settle himself, get his event over with then figure a way out of this mess.
Shit, shit, shit. He’d really screwed himself this time.
* * * *
Grace leaned back in the tub, letting the bubbles tickle her chin, and sipped the glass of chilled white wine. She hoped it would settle the very bad case of nerves that had her stomach jumping and her body trembling.
Well, isn’t this a fine mess?
The last thing she’d expected when she let Melanie drag her to the rodeo and dump her into that large vat of testosterone was to meet someone like Ben and find herself in the middle of a sexual explosion. She couldn’t avoid facing the fact that the intensity of her reaction to him, the things she responded to, had scared the hell out of her and sent her running once more to the likes of Curt Sanderson.
She couldn’t figure out if she was being sensible or a coward. She was only glad neither of her children lived at home to tune in to her mental chaos. They were better interrogators than the Grand Inquisitor. The problem was, she was sure she knew what they’d say. Both of them.
Bridget, in her first job with a law firm, reveling in the pleasure of living alone, would tell her to get out and live life. Enjoy herself. Not let middle-age take her over before it got there. Bridget herself was enjoying life sometimes to a point that Grace suffered anxiety attacks about it. Now she wondered if it wasn’t a rebellion against the tight rein Grace had kept on both kids all these years.
Ryan, although immersed in the fieldwork for his job as a geologist, would tell her not to fall for any phony-baloney story and let some smooth-talker get his hands on her money or her business. But then he’d tell her that at least once in her life she needed to take a chance. Just be careful.
Grace sighed. She’d left her office when her headache became unbearable, tired of trying to concentrate on work when all she could think about was Ben’s hands and mouth on her, Ben’s cock inside her. Time to pull her courage together and stop being a fraidy-cat. It was all right to like sex. Even to love it. And when would she ever have a chance like this again?
Of course, for all she knew, he’d found someone else to hook up with already. He’d been pretty angry last night, to a degree that really puzzled her. If this was just a here-and-now thing, why would he care if she saw someone else?
Stop it. You know why. He won’t let you hide behind yourself, and that’s exactly what you were doing.
She finished the wine and let the water out of the tub. She used one of the big fluffy towels she loved so much to dry herself. Then, she rubbed her favorite fragrant cream onto every inch of her skin and into every crevice of her body. Sprayed a matching cologne at all her pulse points. On the way home, she’d stopped at a boutique Melanie had once told her about and splurged on frothy pale-peach lingerie, skin-tight jeans, a peach-colored shell and an embroidered blouse that she left open and knotted at the waist.
She brushed her hair until it shone and fell in loose waves around her shoulders, then settled her western hat on top of her head. The last thing she did was pick up the little pin, glowing in the tray on her dresser, and pin it to the collar of her blouse.
All right, Grace. Here’s where the rubber meets the road. Nothing ventur
ed, nothing gained.
God, could she possibly think of any more clichés?
She picked up her purse, gave herself one final look in the mirror and headed for the garage.
* * * *
Ben took his time putting away his gear after his event. Somehow he’d found the grit and discipline to push everything from his mind the moment the chute door opened and he and Hotshot were after the calves. Another first place and hard won at that. The points were piling up. His last investment statement had shown a bigger growth than he’d expected. That meant he could move his plan forward. If he could just keep it together until the finals in Las Vegas, he’d finally have enough to buy that ranch, stock it and weather some lean years in the beef market. That’s what was keeping him going.
But now he was facing the empty hours of the night, hours he’d hoped he’d be spending with Grace. Doing things that made his cock hard just thinking of them.
Maybe his mistake had been in pushing her so hard. In asking so much of her. In pushing her for a commitment to stay with him until the rodeo was over. She’d asked to take it one day at a time and he’d agreed then tried to change things. She’d run back to her regular life, sending a message loud and clear.
After surviving the mother of all hangovers, getting through his event this evening—and winning, however the hell that had happened—and putting Hotshot away, he’d finally realized a fact that should have been staring him in the face.
Grace Delaney was flat-out scared. Not shy, not hesitant, but totally freaked out. And not of him, not even of the things they’d been doing, but of herself. Of the sexuality she’d kept hidden all these years.
This was all uncharted waters for her. She needed the safety of her barriers. The separation of the different parts of her life. And she’d run once again to whoever-the-hell the old goat was last night because he represented that safety to her.