Still, she’d come too far to give up now.
She reached for the phone and dialed the local real estate office. “Colt Grainger, please,” she said when the receptionist picked up.
“This is Meg,” she said when she heard his deep “Yes?” “I’d rather not wait until next Saturday. Why don’t we see each other tonight?”
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN two months, Dillon Cash was alone on a Friday night.
He sat at the bar, a bottle of beer in front of him, a lively two-step number bouncing off the walls around him. The Roundup was one of about a half-dozen honky tonks that lined the interstate between Skull Creek and Junction.
The perfect place to pick up a warm, willing woman.
All he had to do was scope out the sea of hot bodies that filled the dance floor and pick whichever one caught his fancy. A blond bombshell with a nice ass or a brunette with big breasts or a redhead with long legs.
The trouble was, he’d already slept with most everyone in the place, and so he’d settled for a beer.
He took a deep swig of Coors, but the liquid didn’t ease the tightening in his gut or sate the thirst that clawed at his throat. He needed to feed, to drink in enough sweet, rich blood to fortify him on top of the heavy dose of sex he’d had last night.
Then he could think again.
Concentrate.
He had a ton of things on his plate right now—the handlebars he’d started last night on the new chopper, his blog, the background checks on his list of possible Joes. Which meant he should give it up, head for a spot farther down the interstate where there were sure to be a few new faces, and get busy.
He knew it, but damned if he could make himself move. Instead, he downed another swig of beer and wished with all his heart that he could punch something.
His gaze fixed on the woman currently two-stepping her way across the dance floor with another man.
His woman.
She wore a brown leather vest that didn’t have anything underneath it except skin, and a pair of tight, stonewashed jeans. Add a pair of high heeled cowboy boots, her jeans stuffed inside, and Meg Sweeney was definitely the hottest thing on two legs.
But her appeal went deeper than the clothes. Her long, blond hair was slightly mussed and flowed down around her shoulders. Her eyes sparkled. Her skin glowed. She looked as if she’d just rolled out of bed after a night of incredible sex.
Which wouldn’t have been a problem if she’d been with the man responsible for said night.
Dillon downed another gulp and barely resisted the urge to haul ass across the room and inform her that she was making a fool of herself.
Why, she was hanging all over the guy.
Her arms looped around his neck. A smile tilted her full lips as she drank in his every word. She slid this way and that, her boots kicking up sawdust as she danced and had the time of her life.
She looked happy, vibrant, and completely oblivious to Dillon.
Not that he cared. Hell, no. Last night had been his final challenge and he’d proved himself. She’d been all over him, and she was now history.
End of story.
Bye-bye.
Sexually, that is. They were still friends. Hell, he’d sat at the vet half the friggin’ night for her and he’d even dropped by her place on the way to The Roundup just to see if Babe was feeling better. Meg hadn’t been home, of course, and so she hadn’t known he’d sat for a full fifteen minutes, talking and petting the animal who’d toddled out her doggie door to see him until he’d felt certain the dog was on her way to a full recovery. Still. He was thoughtful and considerate and, basically, a great friend. The least she could do was look at him.
And if she doesn’t know you’re here?
That thought bothered him even more than the notion that she just didn’t want to acknowledge him.
They’d slept together, for Christ’s sake. He could still feel her hot, tight body pulsing around him. He could hear the soft breaths that sawed past her lips and the excited beat of her heart. He could smell the intoxicating aroma of warm, sweet woman. Her memory haunted him.
She, on the other hand, wasn’t sparing him a second thought. Otherwise she would have looked as bad as he felt.
So much for leaving a lasting impression.
No, he was the one left with the impressions and damned if he’d had a moment’s peace since he’d walked away from her. There’d been no consuming sleep that day. No smothering blackness to rejuvenate him. Instead, he’d tossed and turned and mentally kicked his own ass for leaving so abruptly.
He should have written a note or said goodbye or something.
But the something he’d had in mind had involved a lot more kissing and touching and so he’d gotten the hell out of there.
No seconds.
Garret had warned him and Dillon knew what would happen should he violate the rules. He’d barely made it out without biting her last night. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself the next time. He would sink his fangs in as easily as he sank his cock deep, and the damage would be done.
They would be forever linked.
Like Jake and Nikki.
A pang of envy shot through him. One he quickly ignored by downing the rest of his beer. He wasn’t Jake. When the cowboy reclaimed his humanity, he would still be the ultra-cool guy he was now and Nikki would still be in love with him.
But Dillon…
He would go back to his life before and he already knew that Meg didn’t find that guy the least bit attractive. As for her falling in love with him…That was an even bigger long shot than Roxy Thompson agreeing to dance with Herman Tremaine.
Dillon’s gaze shifted to the short man picking his way through a maze of tables toward a tall, leggy brunette wearing a miniskirt and tube top.
Herman was six years younger and while Dillon didn’t know the man personally, he knew he’d been president of the chess club and the captain of the chemistry team, and he’d gone to the state spelling bee championships both his junior and senior year, an accomplishment that no one other than Dillon, himself, could claim. Meanwhile, Roxy had been homecoming queen and dance squad commander. She’d since gone on to pose in three different Hooters calendars and had done a recent commercial for the local Piggly Wiggly. She’d also made eight out of the last ten Hot Chicks list.
Dillon’s ears prickled. The music and laughter faded as he tuned into Herman’s trembling voice.
“Hi, Roxy.”
“Hey,” she murmured. Her forehead wrinkled. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Herman. We went to grade school together. And junior high. And high school. We work together.” When she didn’t look anymore clued in, he added, “At the bank.”
“You’re a teller, too?”
“A loan officer.”
“Oh.”
“I, um, was thinking maybe we could, you know, dance or something. If you want,” he rushed on. “We don’t have to. It’s just a thought. But since the music’s pretty good and you’re not dancing with anyone and I’m not dancing with anyone, I figure we could dance with each other. That is, if you want.”
“Sorry, Harry. My feet are really hurting.”
“It’s Herman.”
“That’s what I meant.” She touched her temples. “And I’ve got this splitting headache, too,” she added before turning to her friends and putting her back to him.
“Okay.” He shifted nervously. “Um, well, I guess I’ll see you at work tomorrow then.” He turned and her soft voice followed, “Not if I see you first.”
Talk about a crash and burn. One that hit much too close to home. Dillon had dealt with the same rejection for most of his life, and he had no doubt he would deal with it again.
It was just a matter of time.
All the more reason to push last night completely out of his head and get his ass out of here.
His gut tightened and his stomach grumbled.
He was hungry.
That was the only reason he was thinking
such crazy thoughts, like how Jake and Nikki seemed so happy and how he might—if he tried really hard—be able to explain things to his parents in a way that wouldn’t send his mother to an early grave. And how maybe, just maybe, he might forget all about finding the Ancient One, and he and Meg might forge their own bond.
Too late, a voice whispered. That same voice that had played at the back of his head all evening, reminding him of the strange woman who’d been asking around town about him.
She’d been at it again today. Nikki had left a message on his cell while he’d been in the shower.
“She’s still here.”
But even if she hadn’t warned him, Dillon would have known.
He couldn’t shake the awareness that rippled up and down his spine, the certainty that someone was there. Watching. Waiting. And while Dillon had meant to hunt down the Ancient One, he couldn’t shake the feeling that, instead, he’d somehow drawn him out.
That he’d drawn him here.
Uneasiness rushed down his spine and he felt a tap on his shoulder. He put on his most charming grin and gave a polite “Thanks, but not right now” to the woman who’d come up behind him. She was the cousin of a cousin of a cousin visiting for the weekend and the only woman in the entire place—with the exception of Bobby Sue Montgomery who was here with her husband, Walt, celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversary—that Dillon hadn’t slept with.
She was sex trophy, pretty with pouty lips and long, dark hair and a curvy figure and he forced himself to take a second look. Other than the slow, steady rumble gnawing at his gut, he didn’t feel even a ripple of desire for her.
Nothing intense.
Nothing like what he’d felt last night.
He signaled the bartender to bring him a second round before shifting his gaze back to Meg.
The minute his attention fixed on her, she stiffened and missed a step. She teetered and the man caught her. His hands slithered around her waist and he pulled her close and—
No.
Hell, no.
He pushed to his feet and, just like that, Dillon forgot the hunger raging inside of him and gave in to a fierce swell of possessiveness.
Regardless of what happened tomorrow, right now, at this moment, Meg Sweeney was his.
He knew it.
She knew it.
And it was high time everyone else knew, as well.
14
DON’T LOOK.
Meg told herself that for the countless time since Dillon Cash had walked into The Roundup and turned what should have been the most exciting night of her life—Tilly was here, cloistered at a table in the far corner with a group from the Skull Creek Gazette and Colt Grainger was practically drooling all over her—into an agonizing exercise in self-control.
Don’t even think about looking.
She ignored the urge to turn toward the bar and the man who’d been warming the stool for the last half hour, tightened her hold on Colt’s neck, stared up into his eyes and kept swaying. And smiling.
The trouble was, she didn’t have to look to know that Dillon was headed straight for her. She saw him out of the corner of her eye, a black shadow that pushed up from the barstool, bisected the dance floor and closed the distance between them. Even more, she could feel him.
Her skin prickled and heat skittered up and down her spine. It was all she could do not to turn when she he stepped up behind her.
“We need to talk,” his deep voice slid into her ears, pushing aside the music and laughter and the frantic beat of her heart.
She stiffened against the urge to turn, wrap her arms around his neck and see if he tasted half as delicious as she remembered. But she was with Colt, she reminded herself, twining her fingers around the man’s neck and giving him an apologetic smile. “I’m really busy,” she told Dillon.
But Dillon wasn’t giving up so easily. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“I’m on a date.”
“I can see that.” He sounded none too pleased and a traitorous slither of hope went through her. Ridiculous because regardless of what he had to say, she knew what her answer would be—a great big no. No more lessons. No more sex.
She wasn’t blowing a friendship over a few hours of mindless pleasure.
Even phenomenal mindless pleasure.
She wasn’t losing Dillon, too.
“Give me five minutes.”
“And miss my favorite song?” She gave Colt another Sorry about this smile. “I love George Strait.”
“This is Tim McGraw.”
“Close enough.”
“Look, buddy. The lady doesn’t want to talk to you,” Colt cut in. “So get lost.”
“Mind your own business.”
“This is my…” Colt stared past her and his words faded, along with his expression. A strange light glimmered in his eyes and then they became empty. It was as if he’d spaced out. His hands loosened on her waist and fell away.
“Colt?” She stared into his blank expression. “Are you okay?”
“He’s fine. Let’s go.”
“No.” She snapped her fingers in front of Colt and waved a hand. Nothing. “Colt?”
“I mean it, Meg. You’ve got five seconds to move.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’m carrying you out of here.”
Before she could draw her next breath, Dillon caught her arm and whirled her around. “Time’s up.” He hooked her knees and folded her over his shoulder, and in the blink of an eye she found herself dangling upside down.
Meg squealed and dozens of curious stares swiveled their way.
But Dillon didn’t care. He strode toward the nearest Exit. He hit the bar on the door, carried her out behind the building to the gravel lot where the employees parked and dropped her to her feet.
She blinked away a sudden rush of dizziness as he pulled off his cowboy hat and ran a frustrated hand through his dark blond hair.
Where she’d avoided taking a good look at him inside, she couldn’t help but look now.
He wore a black T-shirt, faded jeans and a look that said he was royally pissed. Tension rolled off his body and his jaw clenched. A muscle ticked wildly near his left cheek. His eyes glittered dark green, so dark that they seemed almost black in the dim lighting.
Almost purple.
She blinked and the color faded.
Obviously a trick of the light or her own frantic mind. She was dizzy, not to mention pretty well pissed herself.
Planting her hands on her hips, she glared. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
He set the hat back on his head and inched closer, making her crane her neck to look at him. “You wanted a man to make the first move. Well I just made it.”
“That’s not what I was talking about.”
His voice lowered a notch. “Wasn’t it? You wanted a man to act on his feelings, to take the lead, to be so insane with lust that he can’t keep his hands off you. Well, here you go.”
Excitement bolted through her, followed by a rush of doubt because no way—no way in hell—was Dillon Cash really and truly coming on to her.
Sure, she looked really hot in a new outfit she’d picked up at the boutique, but she had a closet full of hot clothes and they’d never made a difference.
Deep down, she knew she was a fake. A fraud. The entire town knew it and he was no exception. She wasn’t sexy enough for him to make the first move.
Not in the past few days when they’d been smack-dab in the middle of the most provocative lessons. Not last night when she’d stripped off her clothes and dropped to her knees in front of him.
And not now while they were standing in the middle of a parking lot, the air stagnant with the smell of French fries and stale beer from a nearby Dumpster, the stark light from a bare bulb gleaming overhead.
It was her imagination. Wishful thinking. Desperate hormones.
She’d gotten a taste of the richest, most decadent sex of her life, and she couldn’t help but want a
nother.
She knew it.
At the same time, there was no denying the fierce gleam in his eyes or the fact that he’d physically picked her up in the middle of a crowded honky tonk, in front of God and half the town, or the fact that he was staring down at her now, his eyes blazing with jealousy and a hunger that kicked her in the chest and sent the air whooshing from her lungs.
She swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat. “What exactly are you trying to say?”
“This.” And then his mouth swooped down and captured hers.
Meg’s heart beat double-time, the sound thundering in her ears, drowning out her conscience and every reason why this couldn’t be happening. Even more, why it shouldn’t—they were friends and she could fall for him too easily. He would inevitably break her heart because he wasn’t the least bit interested in anything more than sex, and she would wind up alone and broken.
Again.
She slid her arms around his neck, stopped thinking altogether and just felt. The purposeful slant of his lips. The tantalizing dance of his tongue. The strong splay of his hands at the base of her spine. The muscular wall of his chest crushing her breasts. The hardness of his thighs pressed flush against hers.
Yum.
The kiss was hot and wet and mesmerizing, and much too brief.
The last thought struck as she felt every muscle in his body go rigid. She opened her eyes just as he tore his mouth from hers. His head jerked around, his gaze fierce and searching and—
Nuh, uh.
She blinked once, twice, but his gaze didn’t cool. Rather, his eyes gleamed like hot twin coals. Bright and intense and bloodred.
Her heart pounded, echoing in her head, drowning out the whoosh of cars from the nearby interstate, the crack of pool balls from inside, the crunch of gravel from behind a nearby Buick.
Her mind stalled on the thought and her gaze swiveled in time to see a shadow scramble away from the car.
A growl vibrated the air and her attention shifted back to Dillon in time to see his lips draw back. His fangs glittered as he whirled—
No.
Shock hit her like a thunderbolt and she clamped her eyes shut. The air rushed from her lungs and every muscle in her body froze.
Drop Dead Gorgeous Page 15