Texas Fire

by Kimberly Raye

The word sugar echoed in her head and sent a rush of heat to every major erogenous zone.

  Charlene stiffened and tried to tamp down her fierce response. “That’s physically,” she told him. “I’m talking about an emotional fit. That’s much more important than sex. There are couples the world over who are happy together and they never have sex. What they have is a deeper connection.”

  “I’d like to see you prove that.”

  Me, too.

  The thought rooted in her head and an idea struck.

  A stupid, far-out, ridiculous idea that she quickly dismissed.

  But then Mason grinned at her and her thought process short-circuited and damned if the crazy idea didn’t find its way back in. And this time it seemed positively brilliant.

  She stared at Mason with his sexy grin and bedroom eyes and his history of pretty, empty-headed conquests. If anyone was an expert on the subject of daring divas, it was Mason. If anyone could turn her into that exact type of woman, the kind Stewart totally despised, it was Mason.

  If anyone could help her prove her theory to the women in town and, most of all, to herself, it was Mason.

  Her hands trembled at the prospect and she licked her suddenly dry lips. Her nerves went on high alert and a warning blared in her head.

  Are you crazy? This is your fantasy man, of all people. You can’t just come out and proposition him.

  Then again, it wasn’t as if she was going to act on the lust raging inside of her and ask him for sex.

  She only wanted his advice.

  Yeah? And I’ve got some beachfront property smack dab in the middle of Kansas that you might be interested in.

  “So how much is this going to cost me?” he asked her.

  Charlene shushed her raging hormones and focused on the practicality of the matter. She needed him. He needed her. Completely nonsexually, of course.

  Of course.

  She smiled. “What do you say we take it out in trade?”

  5

  “IT’S A LOT BIGGER than I thought it would be.”

  Charlene’s surprised voice echoed in Mason’s head as he killed the truck engine and stared through the windshield at the legendary building that sat just off the highway headed toward Austin.About a hundred years ago, the place had been nothing more than a two-story tin barn. Fifty years ago, its owner, a farmer by the name of Herman West, had spruced it up with a coat of red paint, installed a jukebox and opened up shop serving homemade moonshine. His daughters—all ten of them—had done the serving and Wild West had been born.

  Wild West was no longer a family affair. The girls had aged and others had been hired to take their place and the jukebox had been replaced with a live disc jockey. But Herman was still the driving force. Still standing behind the bar every night and serving up his famous moonshine—his whiskey recipe had been patented and was now bottled and distributed in all fifty states.

  “I should have expected it to be this big,” Charlene’s soft voice slid past his thoughts again and made his heart do a double thump. “It is rumored to be the largest men’s club in Texas.”

  “I don’t know if that still holds true.” Mason eyed the legendary motto painted in giant white letters on the side of the building. Beer, Babes and Barbecue! “But it’s definitely the oldest.”

  And the most notorious, which was why he’d driven Charlene out here for their first consultation regarding her diva transformation.

  A daring diva? She didn’t need to transform herself in order to prove that similar personalities were the foundation needed for a solid, lasting relationship. She would never be able to prove such a thing because it wasn’t true. Besides, she didn’t need to transform herself. He liked her just fine the way she was, and so he’d brought her here to scare some sense into her. Maybe she’d change her mind about her ridiculous plan.

  “I’ve come up with a basic plan that includes three distinct areas I’ll need to work on,” she’d told him right after she’d propositioned him—free therapy for his aunt and uncle in return for his expert opinion on all things diva.

  “First, I need to look like a daring diva. Then I need to move like one. Then I need to learn to act like one. I’ll do the research, pick out the clothes and various hairstyles and such, and all you have to do is give me your expert opinion. We can meet at the diner for lunch every day for a consultation. Then, by the end of two weeks, we should have made it through all three points. What do you say?”

  He should have said no. Instead, he’d pictured her sitting across the lunch table from any number of single, available men in town who would jump at the chance to offer their expert opinion to a beautiful, sexy woman like Charlene, and he’d heard himself say yes.

  “There are an awful lot of people here,” she continued, her soft voice drawing him back to the present. It was only Thursday night, but the parking lot was already overflowing with cars and pickup trucks. “I bet it draws a lot of tourists.”

  “Some, but it’s the locals that keep the place in business.”

  His gaze shifted to the entrance in time to see a handful of men approach. They were typical customers—all decked out in their starched Wranglers and button-down western shirts, their hair slicked back, their boots polished. Most wore cowboy hats with the exception of one who sported a Texas Rangers ball cap. The double doors swung wide and a popular country song blasted out into the parking lot, along with a cloud of smoke that quickly swallowed the group.

  Mason glimpsed the blonde working the doorway. She wore the same Wild West uniform—an itty bitty leather vest, matching bikini bottom and leather chaps—that he remembered from his last visit several years ago. A friend he’d graduated high school with had gotten married and Mason had been in charge of the bachelor party. Because there was no better place than Wild West to get loud and rowdy and out-of-control while watching the prettiest girls this side of the Rio Grande.

  Hell, they went beyond pretty. They were hot, with long legs and big breasts and plenty of curves in between just the way he liked. The kind of women who sent a man’s common sense running for the hills and made his dick stand up and holler yee-hahhh!

  His gaze slid to Charlene who stared through the windshield as if she was watching a movie at the drive-in. With her conservative gray slacks and white button-up blouse, she spelled tame with a capital T. She wore her silver-blond hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, her face void of any makeup except a flesh-colored lipstick that plumped her bottom lip and made him want to suck it into his mouth and nibble.

  Bye-bye, common sense.

  Yep, he needed to turn her off this whole cockamamie notion. She looked good the way she was. Too good if his stiff cock was any indication. The last thing she needed was to walk around flaunting herself.

  He wasn’t going to let her do it, and so he’d brought her here.

  “If you really want to flaunt your stuff, you need to see how the pros do it,” he’d told her when he’d shown up at her house to go over the details of their arrangement.

  Before she tackled the neatly-typed, three-point plan for her transformation—the looks, the moves and the attitude—she needed to do a little careful observation.

  What Mason really intended to show her was that she was about to bite off more than she could chew. She was too sweet, too classy, too wholesome to be a wanton woman. Not to mention, her whole theory about an emotional connection being the key to a lasting relationship was nothing but bunk. The only thing Charlene stood to learn with this whole transformation nonsense was how to use a can of Mace on the horny guys who’d come crawling out of the woodwork once they got a glimpse of the new Charlene.

  It was time to give her a healthy dose of reality.

  As if on cue, the doors swung wide again and two men barreled out into the parking lot, their arms locked around each other as they fought to get the upper hand. A small group followed them, hooting and hollering for their favorite, along with an attractive redhead wearing a face full of makeup and the minima
l Wild West uniform. Her ample cleavage pushed and strained against the tiny vest as she waved her arms and shouted for the men to stop.

  “Are those two men fighting?”

  “They’re not two-stepping, darlin’.” Mason made a big show of threading his fingers together and cracking his knuckles. “How’s your right hook?”

  “My what?”

  “Not that you’ll have to use it. But things can get sort of rough in there and I’d feel better if I knew you could hold your own.”

  “I’m sure I can. I mean, it’s been a while, but the last time I used it, it worked pretty good.”

  His gaze swiveled to her. “You actually hit someone?”

  She nodded. “My cousin Ronnie. We were teenagers and he was forever calling me names when our folks would get together for Sunday dinner. Then one Sunday, I’d had enough. He opened his mouth and I let him have it.”

  “You actually hit someone.”

  “I gave him a bloody nose and knocked out a tooth. He never called me another name.” Charlene’s gaze shifted back to the men grappling near the entrance. Excitement lit her gaze. “I’ve never actually seen a real fight before. I mean, there was me and Ronnie, but it wasn’t much of a fight. One punch and he went down for the count.” Her hands went to the door handle. “Let’s get closer.”

  Closer? Wait a minute. Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute.

  This was the part where she was supposed to realize that being in a place like this could be dangerous. She was supposed to change her mind. Then she would demand that he take her home where a sweet, classy good girl like her belonged.

  Charlene was halfway to the entrance when he finally caught up to her.

  “Wait a second.” He grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around. “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

  “It’s great.”

  “It’s stupid. You don’t belong here.”

  “That’s the whole point. I need to see how the other half really lives—how they walk and talk and dress—if I want to join them.”

  “You’ll attract all kinds of jerks.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t look so happy about the prospect.”

  “But I am. That’s the whole purpose of this. If I’m attracting men, then I’m right on target with the transformation. Wild, wanton women attract men. It’s what they do.”

  “It’s also a damned sight dangerous. You could find yourself in a compromising position.”

  “Like what? Having two men fight over me?” In my dreams, her gaze seemed to say. That same insecure gaze he’d glimpsed when she’d been rambling about her underpants in the parking lot. As if she’d never believe any man could be that attracted to her.

  Mason barely resisted the sudden urge to pull her into his arms and prove her wrong.

  “I’m a grown woman with a Ph.D. in psychology,” she told him. “I can handle myself.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then let’s see how you handle this.” And he kissed her.

  MASON WAS TRYING to scare her because he thought her plan was ridiculous.

  Charlene knew that. She also knew that on a rational level it was a bit far-fetched, but it would work. She knew it. She felt it.While he hadn’t refused her offer, the startled look on his face when she’d proposed her three-point plan had made it perfectly clear that he thought she stood about as much chance of morphing into a daring diva as he did of becoming a monk.

  And so the offer to take her on a field trip in the name of research had merely been a ploy to get her to the most notorious strip club this side of the Rio Grande and dissuade her from the transformation. He obviously thought if he surrounded her with a roomful of real hotties, she would realize she wasn’t outrageous enough to be one of them.

  He still saw her as the girl who’d gotten caught with underpants around her ankles. The girl who’d run out of that bathroom and fled the party as fast as her cheap designer knock-off tennis shoes had been able to carry her.

  But she wasn’t that girl. She’d grown up. She wasn’t as easily embarrassed or discouraged. And she certainly wasn’t scared.

  Not at this particularly moment, anyhow.

  There wasn’t anything frightening about the way Mason’s lips covered hers, his tongue pushing deep to tangle with hers. For several frantic heartbeats, she couldn’t think or breathe, much less react. She just stood there, her heart pounding in her ears, shock gripping her senses as his mouth ate at hers.

  And then he growled low and deep, as if he hadn’t had anything quite so good in a long, long time.

  The sound struck a chord inside of her and her mouth opened.

  His arms slid around her and he pulled her flush against his hard length. She pressed even closer, sliding her hands up his chest and curling her fingers around his neck. His skin was rough and warm beneath her palms and heat vibrated through her, pausing at several major erogenous zones along the way—her nipples and her belly button, the insides of her thighs and the backs of her knees—until her entire body burned. He tasted every bit as good as she’d imagined he would all those years ago. As good as all the rumors claimed.

  Better, in fact, because this wasn’t hearsay or some teenage fantasy. He was real, right here, right now, and he was really kissing her.

  Mason McGraw was kissing her.

  The thought sent a surge of satisfaction through her, followed by a rush of disbelief.

  Mason McGraw was kissing her?

  Just as the question rushed through her mind, the kiss ended and he pulled away.

  Disbelief lit his gaze before his expression closed, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d done. As if he regretted it.

  She didn’t blame him. All she’d done was kiss him back and already she wished she hadn’t.

  It was one thing to think about kissing him and quite another to actually do it. To feel his lips on hers. To want to feel them again even though she knew the kiss had been nothing more than a way to emphasize the truth—she didn’t belong here. Not at a strip club, and certainly not in his arms.

  Not yet.

  “I told you I can handle myself.”

  “That wasn’t handling. That was giving in. Participating. Christ, Charlie, if a guy comes on to you, you’re supposed to knee him in the groin or ask for help. You’re not supposed to kiss him back.”

  She shrugged and tried to ignore the way her nerves buzzed when he said her nickname. “What if I want to kiss him more than I want to knee him?”

  “Do you?” If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn there was a trace of desperation in the question.

  But, of course, she knew better. Men like Mason McGraw weren’t attracted to women like Charlene Singer. It was just wishful thinking on her part. A fantasy come to life. Now if she’d been wearing a teeny, tiny leather vest and some chaps…

  She turned just as a giant-sized cowboy pushed between the two men and broke up the fight.

  “You all settle down, come on back inside and have a drink. Either that, or get on home. We ain’t toleratin’ any of that here.”

  “He was lookin’ at my gal.” One of the men pointed around the cowboy to the other man who’d staggered back a few steps, his shoulders hunched as he fought for air.

  “She ain’t yore gal,” the man managed to say, after he’d sucked down some oxygen. “She’s mine. We’re going out.”

  “You ain’t going out with her ’cause I’m going out with her.”

  “Are you saying my gal is a two-timer?”

  “I’m saying she ain’t yore gal. She’s my gal.”

  “Is not.”

  “Is too.”

  The men rushed at each other, sandwiching the bouncer as the fight broke out all over again.

  “I mean it,” the bouncer shouted above the commotion. “Y’all either get on back inside and get yourselves a drink, or get on home!”

  “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all night,” Maso
n’s voice came from behind her.

  She nodded, her heart still pounding from the kiss, her lips tingling, as if it had been a real kiss and not a ploy to sway her from her plan. “I don’t usually drink, but it does sound good.”

  “I was talking about the second suggestion.” Before she could protest, he took her hand and tugged her around. Determination carved his handsome expression as he hauled her back toward his pickup. “We’re going home.”

  HE’D KISSED HER.

  Of all the lame-ass things…Mason gripped the steering wheel and did his best to ignore the woman who sat next to him, her expression mutinous. He couldn’t blame her. He’d hauled her all the way out there, only to act like a crazy man and drag her back home. She had a right to be mad.

  At the same time, if she would have just realized how silly the whole thing was, the way she was supposed to, he wouldn’t have had to pull a Dr. Jekyll on her. And he sure as hell wouldn’t have had to kiss her.

  The kicker was, he’d wanted to kiss her.

  Hell, he still did.

  But he knew she wouldn’t likely welcome the advance again. He’d caught her off guard the first time, but Charlene Singer had made no secret that she didn’t believe in lust and she surely wasn’t going to gamble her future on it.

  Mason tried to concentrate on the road instead of the thoughts rushing through his brain. Like how good she’d tasted and how sweet she smelled and how delicious she would look naked and draped across his hood, her nipples hard and ripe, her legs open and welcoming and…

  “Damn, this truck is slow,” he muttered as he pressed on the accelerator.

  “Slow? You’re driving like a bat out of hell.”

  “Are you saying you don’t like my driving?”

  “I’m saying you could slow down a little.”

  “I suppose you could do better.”

  “I don’t know about better, but I could do it slower.”

  He’d meant to piss her off and stir a little animosity between them. But then she said do it, and the it sparked his imagination even more. Forget the hood. She was kneeling on a blanket near McGraw Creek, the moonlight playing off her gorgeous ass as he came up behind her…