The Rancher and the Rock Star

by Lizbeth Selvig

  She cupped his roughened cheeks, running her thumbs past the corners of his mouth to stroke beneath his eyes. The ache deep inside for him was formed of respect and admiration. And mostly, at the moment, of pure lust. She couldn’t remember ever feeling safe enough for lust before. Jack had commanded the respect and admiration. And he’d had her love. But not lust. Lust was not for good girls—or even good women. She’d had a solid, respectful marriage.

  She initiated the kiss—a decadent, open-mouthed, free-for-all of tongues and murmurs and gooseflesh. When Gray pulled away, his breathing rushed over her in a swift, needy sound, and his fingers tippled at her side, playing beneath the hem of her shirt, generating full-body, shivering heat.

  “You kiss better than anyone I’ve ever known,” he said.

  She was so drugged by him she believed the hyperbole. But how many women must Gray Covey have kissed in his life? He lowered his mouth again to her parted lips, sucking her tongue into his mouth and engaging it in a sweet, wet wrestling match. The heat in her lower belly radiated downward until sharp desire sprouted full-blown and heavy between her thighs. No slow-sparking burn. No slow build up.

  Wide palms and long, dexterous, piano-player’s fingers cupped her bottom and lifted until her feet left the floor, and her legs wrapped his hips. When she fit herself against him, he groaned and twisted his mouth free.

  “Much more and this could be hard to stop.”

  The words should have frightened her. In the dim recesses of her incoherent brain, she knew she wasn’t ready. It had only been three weeks since he’d walked into her life. She had to tell him before things got out of hand . . . “I trust you.” It wasn’t what she’d planned to say.

  For a moment she was wrapped around a frozen column of a man, and she feared she’d thrown ice water on their fire. But he relaxed back into her, thrusting gently while he tugged her hips tight.

  “There’s a lot of pressure involved in trust.” He sowed kisses across her face like precious seeds. “I don’t deserve it.”

  “I think you do.”

  Unwinding her legs, she slid to the floor, took hold of his fingers and pressed them to the curve of her lips. “We have to slow down. I’m turning on the light to show you something.”

  “I liked what you were showing me just fine.”

  “We’ll get back to it.”

  She opted for the red safe light instead of the overhead fluorescents. When Gray’s face appeared, softly illuminated, her breath got stolen all over again. The firm cheekbones she’d been stroking were high and broad. His plush, cocoa hair, as rich to her fingers as the drink was to her tongue, swept back from his forehead and curled around the side of his face, ending in thick waves just below his earlobes. Heavy, handsome eyebrows slashed over his pale eyes, puzzling at the way she stared. She grinned in unabashed pleasure, amazed at how unembarrassed she was around him, at how fun it was to gawk at a male who gawked back.

  “All right, then. What was so danged important you interrupted us?”

  “I snuck in here a couple of hours ago.” She dragged her gaze from his. “I, ah, developed a new roll of film.” She reached for a photograph clipped to a drying line and turned it slowly to face him. “This is my favorite.”

  Gray, stripped to the waist, walking back from the pasture gate, his more-than-decent sixpack glistening in the early morning heat.

  “When in the world did you take that?”

  “One morning a week ago, before I left for work. You look like an ad for Calvin Klein.”

  There were seven black and whites of him working in the barn, taken surreptitiously after the first shot, some shadowed, some from unusual quarter angles. None looked like anything ever shown in a fan magazine or tabloid rag. Gray’s eyes were unreadable as she let him flip through the prints.

  “They said they wanted something suggestive for that album cover, something to make women buy the record for the cover. They should have used this one.” He held up her favorite.

  “Well, my mouth is watering, and I have the real thing right in front of me.”

  He came to a wonderful close-up of him with Dawson, laughing. “I like this one.”

  “I do, too. A lot. It’s for you. The others I took for strictly selfish reasons.”

  “Did you now?” He kissed her ear. “Can I have the other one too?”

  “So vain!”

  “I want to remember how you think I look.”

  She laughed through the shivers spreading across her shoulder blades and brushed him away. “Stop that. We’re working. Yes, you can have it. Here, what do you think of these?”

  He set his chin on her shoulder, his arms around her waist from behind, while they looked at the photos she spread on the counter. Most were mediocre, but a handful had caught the light and shadows just right, and another that should have been silly—a close-up of Roscoe’s nose emerging from the wildflower patch—had caught such a wonderful moment of doggy joy that the picture was perfect.

  “These are amazing, Abby.” His simple statement was a better compliment than any grand superlative.

  “You think?”

  He spun her in his arms. “You, who are so capable you can run a farm even when there’s no working water, need to have as much confidence about what’s in here,” he tapped softly right over her heart, “as you do about what’s in here.” He tapped again at her temple.

  His affirmations hit as powerfully as his kisses. Had she truly forgotten what a relationship could be? Or had she never known?

  “You’re right.” She tried to lower her eyes. “That’s a forgotten concept.”

  His hands slid along her jaw until his thumbs rested below her ears. Gently he tilted her head so she had to keep looking at him. “That’s your homework while I’m gone—get confident.”

  “Gone.” Stupid sadness welled in her chest, her throat, her eyes. “I hate that you’ll be gone. I hated when you were gone for two days.”

  “I’d think it would be a relief. Get things back to normal.”

  Hah. Broken wells, busted fencing, lawns to mow. You’re leaving me in the lurch, buddy. She ducked from his arms. Once again, in her desire to care for him, she’d let herself get distracted from the issues she wanted to forget. But she couldn’t afford to forget. Things like finding a new job so she could pay the well company. Things like worrying every night about creating a dinner that didn’t look like yesterday’s leftovers. Things like being scared to death of what would happen when the world did find out she was with Gray.

  He didn’t let her get far from him. Grasping her shoulders, he bent enough to look deep into her eyes. “I’m coming back. For more than a party. Whatever this crazy thing between us is, we have to finish it.”

  “Finish?”

  “Maybe you think this is how I normally conduct myself. But this is new for me. I want you to trust me to do right by you. Please?”

  She honestly didn’t know what to say. He’d touched directly on her fears. Crass as it made her feel, she had assumed she’d be just another dalliance in the life of a rock star. With a full measure of pain and longing, she realized she didn’t want it to be so. But she didn’t want his lifestyle either, and asking Gray Covey to become a farm husband was beyond ludicrous.

  “Besides. You’re keeping my son.”

  She banished her worry by cuddling into his embrace. “I’ll trust you, then. To come back. For your kid and the hot chocolate. It’s all I have to offer.”

  “Oh, love, that’s about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  He erased all space between them, lowered his head, and kissed away the last thoughts of the real world.

  Chapter Nineteen

  APPLAUSE, ROLLING LIKE distant Minnesota thunder, punctuated with whistles and calls, propelled the band off-stage. Miles Dixon, with his bear-paw hand, slapped Gray on his sweat-soaked, spang
led blue blazer, making him choke on a laugh. “Tell me before I find out I’ve died and gone to heaven what just happened!” Miles’s voice echoed like his bongos.

  The roar from the crazed audience continued to fill their ears like ocean breakers.

  “That, my friend, was the best friggin’ rock concert in history.” Gray let a wild high lift him physically off the floor. Or maybe it was Micky grabbing him from behind and hoisting him like a college frat brother. Either way, narcotic-like euphoria brought waves of laughter rolling from every Lunatic. This was the point. This was what he did for a living—and what hadn’t been happening for the past three months. Hell, the past eighteen months.

  “Hot damn that was fine!” Miles hopped with excitement to grab flushed and breathless Misty in a bear hug. Her gauzy skirt flew like wings. “Girl, you done sang like a nightingale.”

  Gray gave Misty his own massive hug. “An angel, Misty-love. An angel.”

  “And you sang like a man with a throat transplant,” Wick added. “What happened, you get some sort of magic potion at that farm lady’s house?”

  Abby. Sweet Abby—if only you were here, this would be perfect.

  “Yeah, great tonight, man.” Spark, laconic as always, offered his highest praise.

  The recorded music piped into the arenas before and after their shows swelled while the lights were going up, telling the audience Gray’s second encore had been his last. But he would have gone out again—they all would have. Not a single thing had gone wrong with this show—not a broken light, not a malfunction, not a missed lyric.

  “That is what I call an auspicious return!” Chris met them in the corridor behind the stage and offered high-fives all around. “Gray, I can’t tell you how happy you’ve made my life tonight.”

  “Then my life is nothing but complete.” Gray slapped palms with Chris and caught his manager’s hand in a full clasp. “I live to please you.”

  “Damn right. Lady and gents, well done. Sounded great.”

  “Great? It was freakin’ perfect, man!” Miles pounded Chris on the back. “Where’s the cold stuff? We got us some serious celebrating to do.”

  “Let’s get you out of here. The press is rabid. I’ve got a spread back at the hotel.”

  The hassles of security lines, limos, lucky fans who’d found the exit route, and camera flashes strobing the night were as familiar as breathing. As Gray ran the gauntlet, his adrenaline began its drop from the post-concert high. The six bandmates shared a white, super-stretch limo, and within minutes, while everyone laughed and cussed and began popping bottle caps, the close air grew redolent with body odor and beer.

  Micky and Max found packs of cigarettes in the limo’s side pockets, along with lighters, breath mints, and packages of M&Ms left from the ride over.

  “You guys are disgusting.” Misty shot them a stern warning. “Wait until we’re in fresh air to light those death sticks.”

  Micky ignored her, shook his pack, and offered it to Gray. He stared for a minute, almost reached for one but raised his palms.

  “Huh?” Micky’s brows hit his hairline. “Turning over a new leaf?”

  “Maybe.” Gray grinned at Misty. “She’s always been right. They are death sticks.”

  A pleased smiled tugged at his vocalist’s pretty lips. “There’s something different about you, Gray. I’m still trying to figure out what it is.”

  “Nah.” He sat back and took a drag on a bottle of Pilsner Urquell. “Just had a good vacation.”

  “You haven’t said much about Dawson.” Spark relaxed back as well. “He’s okay?”

  “He’s . . .” A sensation of wonder welled in him. “Great. He’s great, man. In fact, I want to talk to you about him later. There’s a reason I had you send that song file to him.”

  “Something about him playing with ProTools. You didn’t elaborate.”

  “I think he’s got talent for production. I dunno, call it a gut feeling—which is stupid, maybe, considering how little time I’ve spent with him.”

  “I’d be surprised as hell if he didn’t have some of the old man’s chromosomes.” Spark took a pull from his bottle.

  Understanding in Spark’s eyes added to Gray’s inner warmth. Spark loved to brag about his three kids—in a loving way that had always left the tiniest hole of envy in Gray’s heart.

  Miles punched him in the arm. “C’mon, boys, drink up, we got some serious catching up to do. Do you think Chris got us any girls for this party?”

  “You have a one-track mind, you pervert.” Misty stuck her tongue out, and Miles beamed. It was a regular line of teasing for the pair, and Gray laughed, too, but he also endured a shot of longing just under the surface of his excitement. He looked at his mates, satisfied, knowing he was back doing his duty and they all appreciated it. Still, when he closed his eyes, the sounds blurred, the concert high dissipated, and all he could see was the red glow of Abby’s darkroom.

  Chris had orchestrated the usual gathering of local press, officials, and wealthy super-fans ready to schmooze at a free buffet in the hotel ballroom. Forty-five minutes later, showered and back in casual clothes, Gray had to sit on his hands to keep from calling Abby to share the post-show high. It was only midnight, but that made it nearly 2 a.m. in Minnesota, and he’d talked to her just before leaving for the arena. He didn’t want to hound her. It amazed him that he had someone to think about calling, like a tenth-grader with a new girlfriend.

  Girlfriend?

  The mayor of Los Angeles was in the room. Several women for Miles to choose from hovered around the hors d’oeuvres. Chris, expansive and ebullient in his roles as mentor and maestro of Gray’s career, introduced him to thirty upstanding citizens Gray would not remember in the morning.

  The whole scene was familiar and would also take place three more nights here, then in Oakland, then in San Francisco, then in Seattle, before he could fly back to Minnesota. Suddenly he could tolerate it, but only just. It was over an hour before everyone had gotten his or her chance to meet him and get an autograph or a photo, and he finally had a moment to duck aside with Spark.

  “You havin’ fun, man?” his friend asked.

  Gray laughed. “What kind of dumb-ass question is that?”

  “Nothin’.” Spark brushed it off. “What’s up?”

  “I wrote a new song.”

  “Serious?” Genuine surprise and delight lit his friend’s face. “That’s something I haven’t heard in a while.”

  “Yeah.” Gray scratched the back of his head self-consciously.

  “So, she’s special.”

  “I . . . yeah. But it’s crazy and too new to say much. For now it’s between you and me.”

  “And the song’s about her?”

  Gray laughed and plied the back of his tired neck with tired fingers. “I’d be hard pressed to deny it once you hear it. I want your input. But I’d also like you onboard with Dawson helping when it comes time to record it.”

  “Hey, I got no problem with that.”

  “What’s this?” Chris sauntered into their twosome, a glass of whiskey in his palm and a carefree, short-of-boozy grin on his face. “Did I hear Dawson’s name? How is my little troublemaker?”

  Gray scowled, as his son’s words flashed into his memory. He’ll totally find a way to have me hauled back to England.

  “He’s not the trouble, Chris. I needed time with my son. It’s all good.” He smiled.

  “Yes, after a shitload of legwork, palm-greasing, and re-scheduling.” Chris put his hands theatrically around Gray’s neck. “Swear to me, Covey. You’ll never do this to me again. I’m too fuckin’ old.”

  “You’re a drama queen,” Spark said. “The publicity is giving you a permanent hard-on.”

  A look of pure pleasure colored his manager’s face. Gray slapped him on the shoulder blade. “Spark and I were just di
scussing something to give you even greater orgasmic pleasure. Imagine the publicity if my son gets involved with the next record. He’s a budding sound guy. I’d like to bring him along to the next session.”

  Chris’s face went blank. “Whoa, Gray, I don’t know about that.”

  “Why the hell not?” Defiance and defensiveness gripped Gray.

  Chris fidgeted. “Look. I was saving this for a quieter time, didn’t want to spoil the mood. You know we had Ron Revers onboard to produce the next record.”

  Chris had scored Revers nine months before and gloated about it since. The man was difficult and opinionated but the very best in the business and almost guaranteed gold.

  “Had?” Spark asked.

  “That picture with Jillian Harper has caused more trouble than anyone bargained for,” Chris said. “Turns out she wasn’t Revers’s intern. She’s—”

  “His fiancée,” Gray finished. “I heard that. So? She knows the picture isn’t real.”

  “Yes, but the party was, and she was there as your date. Let’s just say Ron is none-too-pleased with either of you.”

  “How the hell was I supposed to know? She never said a word.”

  “That’s not what she told Revers. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. She’s left the label to save their face, and I’ve smoothed it over so that all you have to do is apologize. You do, and he’s still ready to kick ass on the next record.”

  “Me apologize? She lies, and I’m still the bad guy? Here I was feeling sorry for her.”

  “Blow it off, Gray. One grovel, and you’ve got a gold record. The point is, you don’t want anything else pissing Revers off. This is not the time to bring in a surly teenager.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. We just know Dawson’s got some issues; you said so yourself. We’ll talk about it later, okay? Just remember this is Revers, for God’s sake.”