Brylee was uncharacteristically jittery, sitting so close to Zane, fit to jump right out of her skin, in fact. And the worst thing about that was, she was starting to enjoy the vague sense of danger, the intangible force pulsing between his body and hers.
Oddly, the sensations reminded her of her first barrel race, in her first real rodeo, albeit the junior variety, when she was no older than ten. She’d been scared to death and thrilled to the marrow of her bones at one and the same time, anxious in a way that, ironically, made her want to shout for joy, certain she’d burst wide-open if she tried to hold it in.
The food and drinks came, but there was still no sign of her and Amy’s pals.
Brylee began to wonder, as paranoia set in, if this was a setup. Had Margie and the others ever even intended to gather at the Boot Scoot for beer, gossip and the best tacos in Montana? Or had Amy pulled off some kind of BFF maneuver aimed at getting Brylee back on the figurative horse that had thrown her?
It was a crazy thought, of course, because Amy couldn’t have known Zane and Landry would be there, for one thing. Still, she was acting as though everything was going according to some plan Brylee had never been privy to. She chatted with Landry and he finally quit trying to burn a hole in Zane with his eyeballs, picked up the conversational ball and ran with it. The man could charm the socks off a department store mannequin, Brylee observed to herself. Odd that he did less than zip for her, drop-dead gorgeous as he was, but the needle on her bring-it meter wasn’t even twitching.
She and Zane, neither of them able to get a word in edgewise, began to eat. Then, midway through the meal, Landry asked Amy if she wanted to dance, and she almost tipped over her chair, she was in such a rush to get to her feet.
In seconds, she and Landry were out there on the floor, their food abandoned.
Brylee watched them for a few moments, realizing only when Zane laughed and nudged her upper arm gently that she’d narrowed her eyes to suspicious slits.
“Is he safe?” she asked, completely serious. She was protective of Amy—had been since school-bus days, when her undersize friend had had braces and a lisp and some of the bigger kids had taken to picking on her during the rides to and from town.
“Safe?” Zane echoed, looking mystified.
“Amy’s still half in love with her ex-husband,” Brylee explained earnestly, in a rapid undertone, one word tumbling over the next. “She’s especially vulnerable right now, that’s all, because Bobby is dating a flight attendant from Missoula.”
Zane grinned, setting his burger back in its plastic basket, where it nestled among fries and a few pickle slices. “Landry and I aren’t close,” he said, in that mild, irritatingly sexy way he had, “but I can honestly swear to you that he’s not an ax murderer.”
Brylee picked up her second taco, unwilling to dignify Zane’s remark with a response. She hadn’t said his brother was an ax murderer, hadn’t even suggested as much.
Still, stranger things had happened. All a person had to do was watch the ID network on TV for a half hour to get a new insight into deviant behavior.
Zane chuckled again, unwilling, it would seem, to let her off the old hook. “Lady,” he said, in a drawl that raised her body temperature, “you are something else in that red dress. Are you planning on wearing it again tomorrow night, when I drop in at your place for supper?”
He just had to remind her that they’d be thrown into close proximity again within twenty-four hours, didn’t he?
Brylee was thrilled, and infuriated, by the way he’d gotten under her skin, and she did her level best to hide all of that. “Of course I’m not,” she snapped. “I shouldn’t have worn it tonight, either.”
“I’m glad you did,” Zane said, in a honeyed, sleepy murmur.
Brylee’s face heated up in an instant, and her heart raced like an overenthusiastic Thoroughbred busting through the starting gate ahead of the gun.
Zane saw his advantage and pressed it; he leaned in a little, dropped his voice to a rumbling, throaty whisper. “That’s your cue to say thank you.”
Brylee pushed her plate away, dizzied by the speed of her thoughts, never mind her heartbeat. Everything inside her seemed to be careening wildly, with no particular destination. This was totally embarrassing.
“I need some air,” she blurted suddenly, no longer able to keep her cool.
Before Zane could answer, she pushed back her chair, shot to her feet and fled, squeezing between the dancers and the serious drinkers lining the vintage bar, a relic from an old saloon, the Broken Boot, that had burned to the ground sometime around 1910. Her shoes hurt and she kicked them off the moment she was outside, in the parking lot.
The gravel would probably ruin her panty hose but, oh, well. She had another pair at home and, anyway, she only wore them at church and the national sales conferences she held for her Décor Galore people once a year.
Brylee breathed deeply for a few moments, drawing in the night air and the sky full of stars. At first, she was afraid she might hyperventilate, with no paper bag in sight, but after a minute or so, she began to calm down.
She did this just in time to see Zane standing beside her, arms folded, head tilted to one side, expression curious—and still amused.
“Are you all right?” he asked, and his tone indicated that he expected her to answer no, if not ask him to call 9-1-1 for an ambulance, though the look on his face belied any such urgency.
He knew. He knew she was attracted to him, and fighting against the feeling every inch of the way. Brylee was mortified, and she didn’t know the answer to his question any more than he did. Was she all right?
“I don’t know,” she finally admitted, and then—and this was really unlike her—she started to cry.
“Hey,” Zane said, his voice husky. He moved closer then, took her in his arms and held her. He smelled of grass and rivers and sunshine, and his chest was warm and hard against the side of Brylee’s face. A flash of pure wanting slashed through her, sundering bone and muscle, lodging in her very soul. His raspy chuckle echoed to her core and melted something there, something hard and chilly and very, very old. “Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”
Brylee struggled valiantly to regain her self-control—this wasn’t her, she must be possessed, or suffering from multiple personality disorder.
“I didn’t expect to see you here!” she sobbed, probably staining his shirt, as well as her face, with liquefied mascara.
Zane hooked a curved index finger under her chin and lifted gently, so she had to look him in the eyes. That impossibly sexy grin played at the corners of his mouth.
“Obviously,” he said. “I must admit, though, that it’s something of a disappointment, given the way you look in that dress. I’d hate to think of you wearing something that hot for anybody else.”
“Don’t say that!” she commanded, after a few inelegant sniffles.
“Why not?” Zane asked reasonably. Here she was, falling apart at the seams, and he seemed to be enjoying her meltdown. Adding fuel to the flames, as a matter of fact.
“Because I’m not some Hollywood woman, that’s why!” she burst out.
“That’s for sure,” he said, eyes twinkling even more than before.
Brylee stiffened, indignant. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
Zane laughed. “It means this,” he said, his voice low and gruff.
And then he kissed her.
Thunder clapped and the earth moved and Brylee went from stunned to stun-gunned, in two seconds flat. When she should have pushed Zane away, she slid her arms around his neck instead and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him right back.
When she did those things, Zane held her even closer and kissed her even more deeply.
The gears of Brylee’s private universe ground to a stop, then lurched into sudden motion again, and all the stars in that big Montana sky overhead seemed to coalesce into billions of silvery particles, drifting down all around them, but only them, like some kin
d of baptism of angels.
Just when Brylee thought she might actually drown in this man—this impossible, unsuitable, infuriating man—he lifted his mouth from hers and made a hoarse sound low in his throat. If he hadn’t been holding Brylee up, one hand on either side of her waist, she was sure her knees would have buckled.
Zane averted his eyes then, apparently fascinated by the beat-up propane tank on the other side of the lot, and his breathing was fast and shallow.
“Okay,” he said, as though something vital had been decided and there would be no turning back.
Brylee was irritated, not so much because he’d kissed her—twice—but because she’d let him do it, even encouraged him. He was an actor, she reminded herself, with belated and bitter practicality, and she, despite her education and her successful business, was still a country girl at heart. Compared to Zane, she was utterly naive.
The sexy Mr. Sutton was not only out of her league, he was a threat to her emotional well-being. He’d already breached barriers even Hutch hadn’t been able to get past, hadn’t he?
Brylee remembered her shoes—discarded in the rough gravel—and jammed a foot into one, then the other. “Okay, what?” she demanded.
Incredibly, he smiled. Granted, it was a sad smile, not his usual obnoxious and slightly arrogant grin, but that didn’t make her feel one bit better—or worse, for that matter.
Unsettled as she was, some part of Brylee was soaring, and there were wings beating inside her heart and in the back of her throat.
Before Zane could say anything more—a blessing in disguise, no doubt—Amy and Landry wandered out of the Boot Scoot and into the coolness of the evening, both of them looking concerned.
“Bry,” Amy said gently. “Are you sick or something?”
“No,” Brylee said, too quickly. Then, “Yes.”
Zane wasn’t gripping her waist now, but he’d looped one arm around her shoulders, and she knew it was because he wasn’t entirely sure she could remain upright under her own power. She both resented and appreciated the gesture, and she felt drunk, even though she hadn’t had a drop of beer or wine the whole night.
“Shall I drive you home?” Amy asked, searching Brylee’s face anxiously. The worry in her friend’s eyes was genuine.
Brylee shook her head and limped off toward her SUV, rummaging in her purse for the keys as she went.
Amy hurried after her, caught hold of her arm. “Bry? What’s going on?”
Brylee paused, shook her head again, unable to explain since she didn’t entirely understand what was happening herself, and forged on toward her vehicle.
Amy let her go this time, but Zane wasn’t so accommodating.
The whole way back to Timber Creek Ranch, he was right behind her, he and his big truck and his brother. Only when she’d pulled off the road and started up the long, winding driveway leading to the house she’d lived in all her life did he go on his way, the headlights of his truck beaming bright in the darkness.
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT WASN’T ZANE’S style to back out on a commitment, any commitment—which was probably the main reason he so rarely made one to begin with—but for Saturday night supper at Timber Creek Ranch, with Brylee and her whole clan, he knew he’d better make an exception. He’d lost his head back there at the Boot Scoot Tavern, testosterone levels ratcheted way up by the sight and scent and feel of Brylee Parrish in that damnable, sex-on-wheels red dress of hers, and he’d just hauled off and kissed her—definitely a tactical error, in hindsight. She’d gone all wide-eyed afterward, like a doe startled in the woods, and practically loped to her car, she was in such a hurry to get away.
From him.
Seeing Brylee again so soon might make her feel cornered, and he didn’t want that. Still, he wished he didn’t have to cancel, and not just for selfish reasons. Nash’s chance to meet Brylee’s nephew, Shane, a boy about his age and thus a potential friend, would be postponed. Even Cleo, the human dynamo, could have used a night out of that old house and a taste of someone’s cooking in place of her own.
Damn, Zane thought. When had his life gotten so complicated? He’d come to Montana partly to simplify his existence, but in retrospect, L.A. seemed peaceful by comparison. Probably an illusion.
All too aware of Landry, slumped sullenly in the passenger seat of Zane’s truck, he suppressed an audible groan. His brother had witnessed most of the debacle at the Boot Scoot, and what he hadn’t seen for himself, he’d probably guessed, because whatever Landry’s other shortcomings might be, he wasn’t stupid.
Zane swore again, silently. He’d kissed a lot of women in his day, and some of those women were beyond hot, no denying it, but he’d never felt anything more than normal, if pleasant, heat with any of them, not even Tiffany, and he’d truly believed he loved her. Once upon a time, that is.
The warm and receptive sweetness of Brylee’s mouth under his, by contrast, had caused a seismic shift inside him, a sort of violent connection—or, more accurately, a collision—of their two souls, and the aftermath felt alarmingly permanent. Oh, the shock had let up a little, all right, but the echo of that was tattooed on every cell in his body and branded on his heart and mind.
Was this love? Damn, he hoped not, because it was too soon for that, too. Seemed like it was too soon for just about everything, and he wasn’t a patient man.
Landry, having been on the peck since Zane had practically shirt-collared him away from the Boot Scoot and into the truck, determined to make damn sure Brylee got home without incident, given how upset she’d been. Leaning forward on the seat, Landry twiddled with the sound system on the dashboard, producing fragments of songs and newscasts, but mainly ear-splitting static, before giving an exasperated growl, low in his throat, and, mercifully, shutting the noise off again.
Something ventured, nothing gained, Zane thought. They’d just made the U-turn at Timber Creek’s front gate, and Zane was heading for home. Nights at Hangman’s Bend were relatively quiet, but the days were pure chaos, with Cleo and Nash and the dog and the contractors all vying to see who could raise the most dust and clatter and all-around annoyance in general.
Now, damn it, Landry would be tossed into the mix, nasty-assed attitude, drugstore-cowboy getup, and all.
Frustrated, Zane shoved a hand through his hair, reminded himself that the man riding with him wasn’t some troublesome hitchhiker but his own blood, his brother. He didn’t see where he had any choice except to suck it up, concentrate on finding the man a place to sleep for the night and try hard not to go for his throat. Landry, being Landry, would inevitably decide to go back to Chicago, where he belonged. If he wanted a change of scene, why not New York? Boston? Or L.A.?
In the meantime, the situation simply had to be endured.
“I never figured you for a knight in shining armor,” Landry said dryly, in the dimness of the rig’s fancy interior, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had prevailed, for the most part, since they left Parable. Out of the corner of his eye, Zane saw his brother cock a thumb over one shoulder, presumably indicating Brylee’s turn onto her driveway. “Guess you missed it, big brother, but the lady clearly did not want you to escort her home. Following her the way you just did is called stalking, where I come from.”
Zane’s back molars locked together, and he purposefully relaxed the muscles in his aching jaws. He had crossed at least one line with Brylee that night, but he wouldn’t have put the indiscretions into that particular category. Stalking? “Thanks for that observation,” he finally ground out on a raspy breath, keeping his eye on the dark and winding country road ahead because, when this edgy and all-too-familiar energy arced between him and Landry, it generally led to a fistfight, the bare-knuckle, no-rules kind. “I really appreciate your expertise. Not to mention the benefit of a doubt.”
Landry’s laugh was raw and a little ragged around the edges. “What? You think you’re the only one around here who knows a thing or three about women?”
Zane made a c
onscious effort to go all Zen on the inside, but it didn’t work, possibly because he didn’t know spit about the process. Nobody—not even Tiffany—had ever been able to get under his hide the way Landry did, always with a minimum of effort, too. Like he was born for it.
“Look,” he said, with a quiet but unmistakable warning in his voice as well as his manner, “I’d just as soon not discuss Brylee, if it’s all the same to you.”
“The woman is seriously hot,” Landry went on, undaunted. “If you’re not planning to go after the delectable Ms. Parrish in earnest, kindly step aside and let me give it a shot.”
That did it. Zane slammed on the brakes and brought the truck to a dust-roiling, tire-screeching stop alongside the road. “Make a move on Brylee,” he said, sounding deadly calm, which he damn well wasn’t, “just one move, and you’re going to need a brand-new set of teeth, little brother.”
Landry pretended to cower slightly against the truck door, putting both hands up, palms out in a gesture of mocking capitulation, but the glint in his eyes told the real story. He’d have enjoyed a good row himself, Landry would have, right then and right there, in the ditch or even on the road, and avoiding a potential melee wasn’t on his priority list.
“All right, all right,” he said, with notable irony, “I get it. Brylee is off-limits.” He paused while Zane, white-knuckling the steering wheel with both hands, tried to defuse the ticking bomb in his middle. Landry, of course, chatted merrily on. “Of course, there is the matter of the lady’s obvious reluctance to have anything whatsoever to do with you, so that might mean I’ll get my chance, after all, at some point. I trust you noticed how jumpy Brylee was, from the moment she came through the door and caught sight of you? I was watching her—who could help watching her, with looks like that?—and she would have done a disappearing act, pronto, if her friend hadn’t grabbed her arm and forced her to stay.”
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