He turned south at Dumas to roll past arrays of blinking red lights atop ghost-white windmills and between jagged, shadowy arroyos. At the highest point between Dumas and Amarillo he steered into a pullout, put the truck in park, and turned off the lights. Ahead and to the north, small towns sparkled like star clusters in a sea of black, while the lights of Amarillo blared to the south. They ate barbecue, listened to the radio, and talked about music and trucks and whether the Rangers would have a decent closer out of the bullpen this year.
She licked her fingers and gave a deeply satisfied sigh. “Damn, I missed this. Doesn’t matter how hard they try, barbecue never tastes the same anywhere else.”
“Is that all you missed?” he asked, then wanted to swallow his tongue because it sounded like he was fishing. “I mean, you mostly grew up here. Didn’t you ever get homesick?”
She took a sip of her sweet tea, then twiddled with the straw, looking thoughtful. Finally, she said, “Pecans. There are big ol’ trees at the ranch, and when the nuts dropped, the cook would send me out to gather them. She made the most awesome pralines and pie. Plus the nuts were fresher or something.”
Delon understood. Food harvested with your own hands always tasted best. “Miz Iris used to pay us a dollar a bucket to pick apples off her trees and Steve would make hand-cranked ice cream to go with whatever she baked with them.”
“Mmmm.” Tori tilted her head back against the seat, her expression dreamy. “Now I want pie and ice cream—but only if it’s handpicked and homemade, so I guess I’ll have to settle for a cookie.”
Delon laughed at her tragic sigh. Their gazes caught as she handed him his cookie and he felt the click of a new kind of connection. He’d spent so much time focusing on all the ways they were different and yet, at the heart of it, the memories they cherished were very much the same. Unlike him, though, the good times hadn’t been enough to keep her in the Panhandle.
He brushed the cookie crumbs off his jacket and fired up the truck, heading in the direction of Earnest. A few miles out of town, he turned off the local highway onto a narrow gravel road and stopped.
“Your turn.”
Tori’s eyes went wide. “I’m not licensed to drive a truck.”
“This is a private road. The ranch belongs to friends.” He slid out of the driver’s seat and stood. “So if you want to give it a try…”
“Bet yer ass.” She popped up and angled past him in a flash, wiggling her butt into the driver’s seat and placing both hands on the wheel. “All right, master. School me.”
He had an intense pang of…envy? She was so gung-ho. Unguarded. He’d never been able to drop all his defenses that way and just let go. Except with her. As long as he’d kept her separate from the rest of his life, for those few months, those amazing hours, he could be different. Daring. Shameless. Exciting. In other words, not himself. But if the fake Delon was the man she wanted, they were both out of luck.
They bumped down a two-mile stretch and back again, no problem. She’d driven enough manual transmissions to easily handle the truck’s lower gears. The washboards and potholes in the gravel road didn’t allow for anything above third, which left Delon free to watch her face, as intent in the glow of the dashlights as if she was bringing the space shuttle in for a landing. When they had completed the round trip, she slowed to a stop and cast a wistful look at the highway. “I bet it’s amazing out on the interstate, sitting way up here, looking down at the little people.”
“I dunno. I’m still debating whether sunroofs are the work of angels or the devil. The things I’ve seen…” He gave a mock shudder.
She laughed. Then she traced a finger all the way around the steering wheel. “I wouldn’t mind running away for a few days. Just drive and drive…”
“Is that what you’ve decided to be?” he teased. “A tough truckin’ mama?”
“Tempting, but since I don’t want to actually be the death of my own mother…” She caressed the steering wheel with both hands and gazed out the windshield, her chin lifting as if she’d come to a conclusion. “This is how I want to be, though. The way I feel sitting here. Bold. Powerful.”
“Fearless.”
“Everyone is scared. The people we call fearless are just the ones who don’t let it stop them.” Her eyes sparked with humor. “Or psychopaths incapable of emotion.” She gave the steering wheel another pat. “I guess the word I’m looking for is unstoppable.”
He opened his mouth to tell her that some days trucking was all about sitting in one place—road construction, traffic, loading docks, mandatory rest breaks—but he didn’t want to extinguish any part of that fire in her eyes. Instead, he yearned to hit the highway with her. See it from her perspective—always searching for openings, seeing only detours where he saw roadblocks. Besides…he grinned, imagining how Tori would react when Gil tried to tell her where she should stop to pee. That alone would be worth the price of admission.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Make another U-turn, then take that road to the right.”
Road was a generous description. The ungraded track angled off to skirt the edge of a bluff above the Canadian River, worn by the tires of generations of local teenagers who’d used the place they called The Notch as their Lovers’ Lane and party spot. Like most everything else, the lawyers had ruined it for the current generation, the threat of liability forcing the landowners to put out the word that they’d prosecute anyone they caught trespassing there. Which meant even on Valentine’s night, it was deserted.
Tori pulled up where Delon indicated, put the truck in neutral, and set the parking brake. Before them, the river breaks were a shadowy, silver-edged maze in the moonlight.
Tori gave an appreciative sigh. “Nice.”
“Come on. We’ll take a better look.”
Before climbing down he doused the headlights, plugged in his MP3 player, and rolled down the windows. When he stepped outside, the effect was exactly as he’d hoped. The lights along the front bumper, the top of the cab, and the running boards created a pool of amber. The first song began to play, soft, romantic, with just the right touch of Texas twang. A guy couldn’t ask for a better wingman than George Strait, with Stoney Larue and Randy Rogers for backup.
Tori turned from where she’d gone to stand at the edge of the bluff, staring out over the breaks. Her hair spilled loose around her face and she looked younger, softer, more like the girl than the woman. She didn’t speak, only cocked her head in question.
“I never took you dancing. And now, with all the publicity…this’ll have to do.” He held out his hand. “Dance with me?”
Her smile bloomed, slow and full. “Again…I thought you’d never ask.”
She slid into his arms, her body melting against his as they swayed together on their own private dance floor, lit by the moon, the stars, and the glow of the truck lights.
Chapter 33
She’d done it again—completely misjudged him. She’d accused him of dropping in without a thought, when in truth he must have been planning this for days. Maybe weeks. He’d remembered how she’d rather order in barbecue than pizza. Noticed her fascination with the truck even when he was half-drunk and hurting. Found a way to take her dancing without all the looky-loos ruining the mood. Thank God for Shawnee—and wasn’t that just a kick in the ass—or Tori would’ve missed it all.
Her heart spasmed, opening like a flower bud, the tightly curled petals unfurling with the sharp ache of an atrophied muscle. This. This is everything I wanted from you. She pressed her cheek into the curve of his shoulder because words would break the spell of the music, the night, his body so strange and familiar against hers. So alive.
She swallowed against the rush of sorrow that welled in her throat. It had to happen. Had to. She couldn’t exist without the heat and torture of need, the ecstasy of release, those quiet moments of simply being. If someone h
ad patted her shoulder and said, Willy would want you to be happy, she would’ve kicked them. Because…no. Willy would want to be the one here right now, though she wasn’t absolutely sure whether he’d be more jealous of Delon for having her or that totally kick-ass truck. But he’d left her no choice except to scrape up the pieces and move on.
A part of her—the small, scared, guilty part—clamored at her to pull away. Run home to her safe little nest of blankets and the cold comfort of isolation. The rest of her clamored in a whole different way, her body straining at the leash, reveling in Delon’s closeness and frustrated by the layers of cotton and leather that separated them. The tug-of-war raged inside her—a push and pull of conflicting emotions. If she was going to do this, she had to do it fast. Rip off the proverbial bandage before the cowardly part of her won.
A Staind song began, low and slow, the lyrics raw yearning set to music. They winnowed down into her soul and pricked the edge of a truth buried so deep, the barest glimpse of it made her shy away. No. She wasn’t ready to examine just how tangled up she was in Delon.
Enough thinking. She tugged her fingers free from where they were laced between Delon’s and slid her hand inside the open front of his jacket. Her fingertips found the slight ripple of his abs, without a hint of fat to hide them. So not like Willy—
No! She pulled her mind back from the comparison and concentrated on pure sensation. On leather and spice, warm skin, and eau de truck. A mixture so potent, so utterly Delon that simply inhaling sent pulses of heat through her. She burrowed in closer and his arms came around her, his hands stroking the curve of her back. Her hips tilted in response, bringing them snug against his, a signal he couldn’t misinterpret. He pulled back slightly to gaze down into her face. In the dim light his eyes were unfathomable. She skimmed her thumb across his chin, then higher, across the full curve of his lower lip. Back and forth. He stared at her, mesmerized, as she tilted onto her toes and replaced her thumb with her mouth, her tongue tracing that same path. She felt a shudder ripple through his body.
“I thought you wanted to take this slow,” he said, his voice rough.
“I took the time I needed.” She touched the tip of her tongue to the crease at the center of his upper lip. “Now we can move on to what’s next.”
His feet slowed, losing the rhythm of the music. “I wasn’t planning…I’m not…ready.”
“I am.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the condoms.
He didn’t reach for them. She shoved the condoms into the pocket of her sweatshirt and moved in close again, sliding her hands up and over the glorious contours of his chest. “It’s going to happen, sooner or later. We might as well get it over with.”
His body stiffened under her touch. “Get it over with?”
“I didn’t mean…it’s just that I haven’t…” For someone who’d turned into the poster child for Too Much Information, she found the words surprisingly difficult to say.
“Since Willy,” he said flatly.
She nodded, misgiving prickling the back of her neck at his grim expression.
“I’m sorry. It’s hard, you know? But it’s time.”
He slid his fingers into her hair and lifted it away from her face to study the effect as the ends trickled free. “Are you sure?”
She picked these ever-so-important words with care. “I trust you. I always have. Even when I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again, I never worried that what happened between us would end up as a crude joke you told all of your buddies behind the bucking chutes. You just…wouldn’t.”
“I wanted to call,” he said abruptly. “A hundred times. From Denver, Tucson, Red Bluff. All the nights in between. I was afraid if I pushed, it would change everything, and you wouldn’t…we wouldn’t…” He trailed off, then lifted his hands to cup her face, his gaze boring into hers. “Every time you agreed to see me, it was a miracle. I kept hoping you’d ask…anything. When I’d be back. How long I could stay. If you could come watch me ride somewhere…”
“I did. Watch, I mean.”
He blinked in surprise. “Where?”
“Houston. San Antonio. Fort Worth. Any place I could squeeze in around school and nab tickets through my father.”
“You never said. Never came down…”
“To hang out with the rest of the groupies?” She shook her head. “I didn’t know where I stood, and I didn’t want to see that look in your eyes. Embarrassed. Awkward. Or worse. I mean, if there was another girl.”
“Never. Not while we were…together. There was only you.”
“Oh.” Wow. She’d hoped, of course. Dreamed. But never assumed, or demanded. How much difference would it have made if she had? “You, too.”
He smiled, the kind of wide open, no-holds-barred smile she hadn’t seen since she’d been back. She lifted her arms to lace her fingers behind his neck, their lips only a breath apart.
“Can I at least get a proper kiss?”
He laughed softly. “I thought you’d never ask.”
And then he kissed her, but it wasn’t the explosive, mind-blowing collision of the past. This kiss started easy and heated up slowly, very deliberate, very thorough but restrained, as if he was alert for any hint that they were moving too fast. But she wanted speed. Heat. Passion faster than her churning thoughts. She wanted to dig her fingers into his flesh, drag him to her and set off the powder keg that had once sizzled between them. Blast away her ability to remember. Compare. Regret.
Their bodies swayed as one to the music that went on and on, each song more perfect than the next. He must’ve spent hours putting together this playlist. Picking this song, discarding that one, creating a soundtrack just for this night. Lord. He was destroying her, one thoughtful gesture, one song, one kiss at a time. She could’ve gone on forever, just kissing, stroking, being stroked, but her leg bumped against the running board of the truck, and she realized he’d danced her up to the door.
“It’s getting cold.” He laid the backs of his fingers against her chilled face.
As if his words had conjured it, a shiver pebbled her skin. She leaned her cheek into his touch. “This was…special. Thank you.” She hesitated, then inched out onto the limb. Asked for more. “Maybe we can do it again sometime, when it’s warmer.”
“It might be tough to get my hands on this truck.”
She leaned in and kissed the spot where his jaw met his earlobe, letting her breath whisper over his skin. “I’ll settle for getting my hands on you.”
“That, I can arrange.” He stepped up to open the door, then handed her in like a lady into a carriage. “Scoot on over.”
“I don’t get to drive home?” She paused, standing between the seats, to give him a mock pout.
He climbed in behind her, shut the windows, and cranked up the heat. “Over my badly beaten body, if either Gil or my dad found out.”
“Well, we can’t have that.” She couldn’t resist. She feathered her fingertips down his chest. “I prefer your body just how it is.”
For an instant, he was utterly still. Then in one swift move he whipped the seat around and stood, his grip hard on her shoulders, his eyes hot. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
“I…uh…yes.” The intensity of his gaze, the tightly leashed desire in his voice was like a flash fire across her nerves. “Yes,” she said again. Louder. More certain.
He closed his eyes, his eyelashes a dark smudge against his cheeks. Then he nodded slightly, as if agreeing with a voice inside his head. When his eyes opened, his gaze was softer, and his grip loosened. He edged her into the sleeper and pulled the curtain, plunging them into darkness. “If you change your mind…”
He would stop. No matter what it cost him. And that, she realized, was why she could say yes. Because she did trust him. A weird conundrum. He’d unleashed her wild side before because she’d sensed she was safe wi
th him. Well, that and he looked like Zorro and made love like…well, hell, she had nothing to compare. Not even Willy. Sex with him had been rambunctious and fun, occasionally tender, but it wasn’t like…
She jerked her mind back again. This man. This moment. But her vision wavered, images of past and present flickering like an old filmstrip behind her eyes, and she couldn’t find the off switch for the projector. Willy, laughing. Teasing. The feel of his big, bearlike body engulfing her, even as her hands pushed the jacket off Delon’s shoulders and reacquainted themselves with the fantasyland of skin and muscle beneath. Smooth, taut, nearly hairless, where Willy had been furry. Navajo blood. Hadn’t she heard Native Americans tended to have less body hair?
Stop. Thinking. Dammit. She stepped back to yank her sweatshirt over her head and her elbow made solid contact with some part of Delon’s anatomy. He swore.
“Sorry.” She reached to touch his face and nearly poked him in the eye. “Shit. Sorry again.”
“I’ll get the light—”
“No.” She made a blind grab and managed to catch his arm. “The dark is…good.”
For this night, when she couldn’t hide the visions wheeling behind her eyes. Get it over with. Move on.
“Okay.”
She heard uncertainty in his voice. Retreat. No time to think. For either of them. She found his waist and tugged at his shirt while her mouth sought and found his. Don’t think. Just do. Like Shawnee said about roping. Oh God. Shawnee. Leering at her. As if her head wasn’t full to bursting already. The kiss turned frantic, trying to drive everything out but the taste of him.
He cupped her face, his thumbs caressing her cheeks. “Shhhh,” he whispered against her mouth.
She was trembling, tiny earthquakes deep in the fibers of her muscles. Could he feel them? He took command and changed their tempo to match his caress, deep and drugging kisses that first calmed, then stirred her. Her body relaxed, became fluid and malleable, flowing into him. He kept kissing, kept stroking, pushing away his clothes and hers and drawing her down onto the narrow bed. His body was hard and urgent, but his touch was distilled tenderness. The truck was toasty warm, Delon a wonder of taut skin and heat against her nakedness. So long. It had been so very, very long since she’d been touched. Held. Treasured.
Tangled in Texas Page 24