Abruptly Polly let go of the quilt. "Fine. I'll get you a clean towel. The bathroom is right next door. It's the only one on this floor and everyone uses it. It's not what you're used to, I'm sure."
"It's fine."
"Do you have a bag out in your truck?" she asked, and when he nodded, she said, "I'll get it. You stay here." Leaving him in her room, she hurried back downstairs, grabbed her jacket off the hook, stuffed her feet into her boots and let herself out into the snowy February night.
It had just gone two. Bad timing, as the Dew Drop was just closing.
Pulling up the hood of her jacket, Polly ducked her head and trudged up the hill, hoping that she wouldn't run into anyone she knew.
She was almost to Alice's when a voice hailed her. "Pol'? That you?"
Within seconds a pair of longer legs than hers caught up with her. It was Jace. "Hey. What're you doin' up?"
"I, er, had to get something at Alice's. No time before. I've been dealing with reporters and film crews and groupies all day. I've never seen so many groupies."
Jace grinned. "They're somethin', aren't they? Got a couple of 'em stayin' with me."
"I heard."
Celie had been appalled, but whether she was more disgusted by the women or by Jace's offering them a place to stay, Polly hadn't figured out.
They had reached the corner by Alice's, and Polly could see a white pickup parked out front. It was pretty battered and nondescript, a regular ranch truck with Montana plates, but not local ones. She was sure it was Sloan's.
But she couldn't figure out what she was going to say to explain why she was getting into it when Jace said, "Want me to move Gallagher's truck?"
"What!"
Jace dipped his head in the direction of the pickup. "I could put it in Artie's garage."
"How do you know—I mean, what makes you think that's Sloan Gallagher's truck?"
"I saw him get out of it. I was just headin' down to the Dew Drop when he was headin' down to your place."
There was clearly no way to deny it had been Sloan. "Did anyone else see him?"
"Don't think so." He grinned wryly. "Only damn fools or cowboys would be out on a night like this."
"And you are…?"
Jace's laugh was rueful. "Both? One of the girls stayin' at Artie's was gettin' drunk an' flirtin' with a couple of guys she'd have regretted in the morning," he explained. "So I kinda cut in an' took her home. I figured she'd just go to sleep and she'd be better off, y'know? But when we got there, she sorta thought we'd be doin' somethin' else and—" he grimaced and scuffed the toe of his boot in the snow "—I didn't figure that was such a good idea, so I left again."
Which explained, too, why he'd been heading to the Dew Drop thirty minutes or so before closing. Polly looked at him, impressed. It was hard to tell in the dim pink light of the low cloud cover and snowfall, but it almost seemed as if Jace Tucker was blushing.
"You rescued another damsel in distress?" After all, he'd rescued Sara just the week before.
"Cripes, don't go sayin' that." He scowled at her. "It's no big deal," he muttered. "Do you want me movin' Gallagher's truck or not."
"That would be great."
"How's he gonna get around?"
"He isn't."
"Where's he stayin'?"
"With us."
"Swell." Jace kicked at the snow packed against the curb.
Polly unlocked the truck and took out the black duffel bag on the front seat. Shouldering the bag, she shut the door and held out the keys. "If you wouldn't mind?"
"I didn't know he was staying with you," Jace said.
"Is it a problem?"
"Oh, hell, no. Why would it be a problem?" Jace snatched the keys out of her hand and jumped in the truck. He flicked on the engine, spun the tires in the snow and shot away.
What on earth, Polly wondered, was that all about?
Since he was fourteen years old, Sloan had fantasized about being in Polly's bedroom.
He'd imagined what it would be like—how he'd kiss her the way he'd seen Lew kiss her—only better, how he'd ease her clothes effortlessly off her with no adolescent fumbling, how he'd know precisely what to do to make her melt in his arms. And how he wouldn't disgrace himself by doing something stupid.
For years he'd thought the stupidest thing he could do would be to get so excited at actually being here that he would turn into the poster boy for Premature Ejaculations R Us.
He was wrong.
He shrugged off his jeans and his shirt, sat down on the bed to wait for her to come back with his duffel bag, and then he did something even stupider than he had ever imagined.
He fell asleep.
All the way back to the house Polly rehearsed. Cheerful smile. Here's your duffel bag. I'll just get you a clean towel. Remember, there's only one bathroom upstairs, so be sure to lock the door or you might regret it. I'll see you in the morning. Good night.
Or a variation thereof.
Actually she rehearsed six or seven variations as she slip-slid her way back down the hill, clutching his duffel bag against her chest. But even as she said the words, she couldn't believe it. It was the middle of the night, after all. Maybe she had just dreamed she'd led America's heart throb, Sloan Gallagher, up to her bed.
But when she got back, the first thing she saw were his boots by the door. So she practiced her lines one more time as she climbed the stairs.
Here's your duffel bag. I'll just get you a clean towel…
When she got to her bedroom door, she stopped and tapped.
He didn't answer.
She tapped again, a little more forcefully. No response. She glanced around to see if he might be in the bathroom, but the door was ajar and the night-light was on. He wasn't in there. So, knocking one more time and getting no answer, she pushed the door open.
He was sprawled facedown, asleep on her bed.
She should have tiptoed out. But she couldn't do it. He had spied on her a long time ago. Turnabout was fair play, she told herself. Besides, she wasn't really spying, she was just looking—and after all, he was in her room!
So she stepped quietly into the room and pulled the door shut behind her. He didn't stir. He was lying on top of the quilt, clad in a pair of boxer shorts and a white T-shirt. His head was pillowed on one arm, while the other was flung out across the bed. His dark hair was tousled and brushed his forehead. Over a day's worth of dark whiskers shaded his jaw and chin. Another man would look seedy and unkempt. Sloan Gallagher just looked sexy as hell.
Polly's fingers itched to touch his soft thick hair. They wanted to rub down the line of his jaw, smooth one way and sandpapery rough with stubble on the way up. Involuntarily she pursed her lips as if they, too, wanted to touch.
Suddenly aware of the direction of her inclinations, Polly pressed them together in a hard, thin line between her teeth. Enough!
It was more than enough. And she had no doubt that if he didn't bother to shave until after the auction, the women wouldn't mind a bit. They would love it.
They loved him.
Hadn't they already come from countless places near and far—just for the chance to see him? Surely all of them weren't intending to bid. Most, she was willing to bet, knew the price would skyrocket right out of their league in the first few seconds.
But they came, anyway.
She ought, Polly thought with a wry smile, to charge admission to the auction. And, for that matter, to her bedroom. For five dollars come and watch Sloan Gallagher sleep!
She could probably raise a few more hundreds or thousands of dollars for Maddie's mortgage payment just by doing that, she thought and stifled a laugh. The sound made him draw his brows down, and Polly froze, afraid of waking him. But then he sighed, fisted his fingers around a handful of quilt and slept on. Polly stepped back warily, still afraid he might wake, not wanting him to find her staring down at him.
Here's your duffel bag. I've brought you a clean towel… Somehow she couldn't make it soun
d convincing.
She started to leave, but couldn't—not without covering him up. It was hardwired into her, apparently. Over the years she had covered up too many sleeping children—not to mention drunken cowboys—to let anybody lie uncovered in the middle of winter—even if he had been named the sexiest man in Hollywood three years running.
Sloan sighed again and smiled slightly when the warmth of the quilt settled over him.
"C'mere," he murmured, still smiling, eyes closed.
I'll bet you say that to all the girls, Polly thought, for just an instant more tempted than she would have thought possible.
Then sanity prevailed, and she grabbed her robe and nightgown and hurried out the door.
When the alarm clock buzzed in her ear, Celie was more than half tempted to switch it off, pull the pillow over her head and go back to a very lovely dream—a Sloan Gallagher dream—the first she remembered having since she'd learned he was actually coming to Elmer for the auction. She'd been kissing him. Better still, he'd been kissing her. They'd been standing right there in the middle of Gilliam's Hardware Store with their arms around each other—and when Celie had opened her eyes long enough to look past Sloan's ear, she'd seen Jace Tucker staring at them in openmouthed astonishment.
That had made the dream all that much better!
She did not want to get up and go to the hardware store and deal with Jace Tucker on her own again this morning. She didn't want to watch him flirt with all the groupies. The man had no discrimination. No taste!
But if she didn't get up, she would have to see his knowing smirk later. He would believe she didn't come in because she was avoiding him. Doubtless he would drop by to find out what had happened to her. And he would probably even bring a couple of those floozies with him.
She couldn't believe he was letting them stay in Artie's house!
But Artie had thought it was a good idea. "Hell, why not let 'em stay," he'd said when she'd called him to complain. "Good for the town. They stay there, they spend money there. Eat at the Bee, drink at the Dew Drop. Maybe even get their hair done," he suggested.
"I don't think so," Celie said. She would dye their hair puce if they came in. "Well, I hope you have a house standing to come back to," she'd said sharply.
Of course she regretted her words the minute she'd hung up.
Artie was ill. He needed calm and rest and cheerful thoughts. He didn't need her growling at him and giving him reasons to worry. So she'd called back and told him she was sure everything would be fine, that she'd just been working hard and was a little out of sorts.
"You shouldn't oughta work so hard," Artie had said. "You let Jace handle things. He'll take care of you."
Over my dead body, Celie thought. If anything was capable of getting her out of bed and moving this morning, leaving behind a perfectly wonderful Sloan Gallagher dream, it was the notion that if she didn't turn up, Jace would start thinking he was now supposed to "take care of her."
The bathroom door was shut and the shower was running. Polly must be getting an early start. Celie sighed and headed downstairs to start the coffee and use the bathroom down there. When Polly was finished, she'd take her own shower.
She put on the coffee and stood staring out at the snow-covered town and the stirring of people—strangers, mostly—already moving on the normally deserted streets of Elmer. They were people who had come from all over because of Sloan. People who had come to see him, to ogle him, to bid on him.
People who were doing something—unlike Celie who had spent her life dreaming.
"And what's wrong with that?" she asked herself.
Dreams were good. Graduation speakers always talked about dreams, didn't they? They told you not to lose your ability to dream, to hope, to plan.
For what?
Celie poured herself a cup of coffee and stood staring out the window and thought about her dreams and her plans. She had dreams, but somehow the plans had vanished years ago. She had dreams, but she didn't have hope anymore. She had lots of fantasies of her perfect man—a man like Sloan—but that was all she had.
Even that damned Jace Tucker had more than she did! He had a woman he wanted. A real woman.
Sloan Gallagher's real, she reminded herself. And he'd be here tomorrow. The embodiment of her dreams was coming to Elmer. For a brief period—in real life—he would be available.
And then he would be gone.
And Celie would be left behind, knowing that she'd had a chance—one brief opportunity to make her fantasy into reality—and that she hadn't taken it.
"What am I going to do?" she murmured, wrapping her fingers around the mug, breathing in the steamy-hot coffee smell.
Sid the cat nudged at her ankles, demanding breakfast. She reached down and scratched him behind the ears. Then she opened a tin of food and gave him some. Sid purred his appreciation. Celie watched him eat and wished that life were as simple for her as it was for him. Sid didn't care about anything but his next meal.
Maybe she should just take life meal by meal. She smiled. "Ah, Sid. You inspiration, you."
Sid, apparently thinking a treat might be in the offing, butted her softly with his head.
"Not now," she told him. "Tonight."
"Mrowww," Sid complained.
But Celie, glancing at the wall clock, knew she didn't have time to listen to his complaints. She had to get a quick shower, get dressed and get over to Artie's where she could do battle with Jace Tucker for another day.
Battle by battle, she told herself as, clutching her coffee mug, she climbed the stairs. Groupie by groupie. She would just take the day as it came.
The bathroom door was still closed. "Come on, Pol'," she said. "You've hogged the bathroom long enough."
In a one-and-a-half-bath household you didn't take more time than necessary, and if you really wanted privacy you hooked the latch at the top of the door. Otherwise you simply got used to being burst in upon. It was Polly's own fault, Celie thought, for taking so long.
She pushed the door open—and stared into the mirror image of Sloan Gallagher's shocked, half-shaved face.
For a split second neither moved, their eyes locked in mutual astonishment. Then Celie's hand jerked, the coffee flew everywhere.
Sloan leaped to avoid it.
And that was when she noticed that he wasn't even wearing a towel!
* * *
Chapter 12
« ^ »
Dying didn't seem to be an option.
Too bad, Celie thought, as it was definitely the best solution.
Hyperventilation didn't have much to recommend it, either. It made her dizzy and light-headed and caused her to do things that a sane Cecilia Margaret O'Meara would never in a million years do—like grab a towel, kneel down and begin patting Sloan Gallagher's naked coffee-splattered body, gabbling all the while, "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean—"
"I'm sure you didn't," he replied in that whiskey-rough voice that nearly sent her toppling right over. He had reached for a towel, too, and was slinging it around his waist and tucking it in even as he spoke.
A very good thing, too, Celie thought, because by kneeling to mop up the coffee, she had managed to put herself basically on eye level with, er, it … er … him.
She could only stare—until the terry cloth towel intervened and her gaze was shielded from Sloan Gallagher's very, um, impressive masculinity. Even then her heart was going like a piston in her chest, and the sudden surge of hormonal activity she was experiencing seemed to have robbed her of sensible thought all together.
"Are you all right?" He sounded concerned, but at the same time almost amused. As if he often had women throwing themselves at his feet.
Which, she thought, mortified, he probably did.
"Of … of course." That the words came out hoarsely mortified her further. Celie took a couple of desperate swipes with the towel at the little puddles of coffee, then giving up, she tried to struggle to her feet and tripped over her robe.
Her knees felt like pudding. She clutched the towel rack to stop them quivering and tried to get a grip. But one look showed her that now she was right on eye level with the pulse that beat at the base of his throat.
Desperately she cleared hers. "S-sorry," she muttered, averting her gaze fast, before she did something totally unseemly, like lean forward and press her lips to the spot or start licking the coffee droplets off his chest. She shut her eyes as a shudder overcame her.
"You sure you're okay? You're shaking."
"I'm f-f-f-f-ine. Fine!" God, she had to stop this! "Are … are you?"
"I'm okay," he said easily, rubbing a hand towel over his chest, drying his shoulders, drying himself off. "I should've locked the door."
"I shouldn't have barged in. I thought you were Polly." She was talking to the wall now, unable to even look at him.
"I'm not Polly," he said gravely, but still with a hint of amusement in his tone. "I'm Sloan Gallagher." As if she didn't know!
But then Celie realized that he had introduced himself because he expected her to do likewise. She wondered if she dared use an assumed name. Probably not. She took a desperate, steadying breath. She pasted on what she hoped was a polite smile but which was probably a rictus of horror.
"I'm Celie O'Meara. Polly's sister." She dared to flick one quick glance his way in the vain hope that she would see recognition in his face—that somehow he would betray an awareness that at last he'd met his one true love.
"Hey, nice to meet you, Celie," he said and held out his hand.
She took it and waited for electricity to arc between them. Nothing happened. His hand was large and warm and strong—and damp.
There was no electricity. Only coffee.
"Look," Celie said desperately, dragging her hand out of his grasp. "I'll just get out of here and let you have another shower to wash the coffee off. I'm really sorry. I … I need to talk to Polly."
She bent and snatched the mug off the floor, then backed hastily out of the room and banged the door shut after her.
The Great Montana Cowboy Auction Page 15