Texas Fire

by Kimberly Raye

  He held up another book. “Have you braided your own rug?”

  “No.”

  “Baked homemade bread?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Made your own jelly?”

  “No. I told you, I’m really busy.”

  “You don’t do any of these things, but you read about doing them.”

  “I like knowing things.”

  “Seems pointless to me if you’re never going to use the knowledge.”

  It did to her, too, now that she heard him say the words. A wasted effort. Like all the years she’d spent lusting after Mason McGraw while he’d paid her absolutely no attention. Like the way she’d rushed up the stairs to change just to impress him.

  She dismissed the notion. The clothes weren’t for him. They were for her. The woman she was transforming herself to be.

  “I really wasn’t expecting anyone.” She busied herself gathering up the magazines that she had spread out on the coffee table. She stacked the clippings and scissors off to the side near the magazines before turning to find that Mason had shifted his attention from her bookshelf to the pictures that lined the mantel.

  “Your folks?” He indicated the one and only wedding picture her mother had kept.

  “Once upon a time.”

  “They look really happy.”

  “They do, don’t they?” She came up beside him and studied the picture that had been sitting on the mantel for as long as Charlene could remember. “I guess that just goes to show that looks can be deceiving. One minute everything seemed fine and the next, they were getting a divorce. But then it only stands to reason. They were too different. You have to have common ground for a marriage to work.”

  “Is that what you teach your college students?”

  “As a matter of fact, it is.”

  “My parents had plenty of common ground and their marriage didn’t work.”

  “Your parents didn’t get a divorce,” she added.

  “True. They were married right up until my mother died, but they weren’t really married. My father cheated and my mother looked the other way. The only time they ever actually spent together was on the back of a horse.” At her questioning glance, he said, “That was their common ground. The horses. The ranch. That was it.” He eyed the picture of her parents, their arms wrapped around each other. “There was no fire between them.”

  “You think that would have made a difference?”

  His deep, green gaze met hers. “I know it. It’s all about the fire that burns between a man and woman. The hotter, the better. That’s what keeps a marriage together.”

  “It didn’t keep my parents together. My mother’s down in Florida and my father lives in Pennsylvania. They avoid each other like the plague.”

  “Maybe it hurts too much to see something you can’t have.”

  “Or maybe the fire fizzled and they just can’t stand the sight of each other.”

  His gaze shifted back to the picture. “They definitely look like two people who can’t stand each other. If they were any closer, he’d be wearing that wedding dress.”

  “Back then.” She eyed the young couple and blinked back the sudden tears that stung her eyes. “When I was little, I remember them cuddling and kissing on the couch every night like a couple of teenagers.” The memories played in her head and she smiled for a brief moment. “But then one day it just stopped. I came home to find that my dad had packed his things and left. My mother didn’t seem the least bit surprised. I heard her crying that night—every night, actually, for the next few months—but for the most part, she seemed okay with it.” Her throat tightened, but then she felt the warm press of Mason’s fingers and she managed to swallow.

  “Doesn’t sound like fizzling to me,” Mason said after a long moment.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Fizzling is something that happens slowly.” He let his hand fall away from her. “One day he forgets to kiss her goodbye. The next day she stops holding his hand while they watch television. The next he stops holding the door open for her. The next she stops making his favorite dinner. They both get older and they drift apart. I think that’s what happened with Aunt Lurline and Uncle Eustess. They fizzled. But in your parents’ case, it sounds like their fire—” he motioned to the picture, “—got snuffed out.”

  The possibility lingered in her mind as Mason turned his attention to the next photograph.

  Snuffed out meant something sudden and unexpected and monumental had happened, like an extramarital affair or the death of a child. Something big enough to kill the fierce attraction her parents used to have for each other. But there’d been no major event in the Singer household. One minute they’d liked each other and the next, they’d been in court claiming irreconcilable differences.

  Which meant Mason McGraw didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

  That’s what she told herself. The trouble was, she wasn’t quite sure she believed it.

  “I didn’t know you played for the girls’ basketball team the year we went to the state play-offs.” Mason’s voice drew her attention from her conflicting thoughts and she stared at the framed 5x7 of a tall, awkward girl in a green Romeo Rangers basketball uniform.

  “I didn’t actually play. I sprained my wrist during practice. I was decent at dribbling and passing the ball, but I could never actually shoot it. Two left hands.”

  “What?”

  “The coach said I had two left hands when it came to hitting the net. I was really awkward and uncoordinated.”

  “You obviously grew out of it.” His gaze roamed over her and if she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn she saw a glimmer of appreciation.

  But she knew better. He was Mason McGraw, after all. Her fantasy.

  “I’m really not prepared for the hairstyle discussion tonight.” Eager to change the subject, she motioned to the coffee table and the stack of magazines and clippings. “I wanted to have at least a dozen samples to choose from.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Five. Look, if you’re too busy tomorrow, we could do it the following day…” she said, but he’d already settled himself on her couch.

  “Five’s plenty,” he told her. He reached for the small stack and leafed through them.

  “See anything that might work?” she finally asked, perching on the edge of an armchair on the opposite side of the coffee table. The dark cherry wood surface separated them, putting enough space between them that she was no longer overwhelmed by the warm pull of his body.

  Mason stared at the samples and shook his head. “These are too high maintenance.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t mind putting in the time. I know I’ll have to, if I want to make this work.” When he glanced up, a questioning look on his face, she added, “You’ve heard of a bad hair day? For me, it’s more like a bad hair decade.”

  He grinned. “What’s wrong with your hair?”

  “It’s straight. Very straight. Meaning, I have to use a load of rollers and lots of hairspray to get it to look any other way but straight. It wouldn’t be a problem, except I don’t do rollers and hairspray very well.”

  “So why did you pick out these styles?”

  “I figured I could take the picture over to the Hair Saloon. I’ll let them fight with the rollers and hairspray.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but there’s nothing sexy about rollers and hairspray.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that one of the major requirements of being a daring diva isn’t having a can of Aqua Net and knowing how to use it?”

  He grinned. “Maybe for the wannabes in this town. But I think you need something a little different.”

  “As in?” A different head, a voice whispered. Along with a different body.

  But even as the doubts rolled through her, she didn’t believe them the way she usually did. Not with him looking at her so intently.

  Wanting her.

  Yeah, right. She tried to d
ismiss the thought, but she couldn’t. Not this time.

  “Real divas don’t tease and spray their way to sexy.” He pushed to his feet and walked around the couch.

  Before she could draw her next breath, he came up behind her and his strong fingers went to the clasp of her ponytail. He tugged the fastening loose and let her hair spill down around her shoulders.

  “They work with what they have.” His deep voice slid into her ears. “It’s about relaxing and cutting loose.” He threaded his fingers through her hair and massaged her scalp. “You’re not relaxed.”

  “No, but if you keep doing that, I’m sure I’ll get there.”

  His laugh was warm and almost as lulling as his hands. He continued to massage her and she closed her eyes. She actually relaxed for the next few moments and forgot all about her doubts. Instead, she focused on the bubbles of warmth that rippled along her skin and the mesmerizing way he kneaded her scalp.

  “There,” he finally said, his deep voice pulling her back to reality long enough for her to open her eyes. “I think this works.”

  She pushed to her feet and walked over to the small mirror that hung on a nearby wall. Her reflection stared back at her, her pale blond hair long and unkempt, as if she’d just rolled out of bed. But even more than her hair, it was the flush to her cheeks and the brightness in her eyes that made her look sexy and wanton and…daring.

  “I can promise you it won’t stay this way without at least a half can of hairspray,” she argued.

  “Being a real diva isn’t about what you look like.” He came up behind her. “It’s the attitude.”

  “I know that’s part of it, but I want to get the looks and the moves—”

  “Attitude is all of it,” he broke in. “It’s about turning loose your inhibitions and going with what you feel inside. If you want to kiss me, you should stop thinking about it and just do it.”

  She caught his stare in the mirror. “Who says I want to kiss you?”

  “Do you?” His gaze seemed to stare straight through her, past all the doubts.

  No. The lie was there in her head, but with him staring at her, into her, she couldn’t seem to push it past her lips.

  She shrugged. “Maybe I do, but it doesn’t matter because I’m not going to.”

  “Then I guess I’ll just have to kiss you.” Before she could protest, he whirled her around and his mouth covered hers.

  10

  MASON’S TONGUE swept and plundered Charlene’s mouth as he pulled her close. He tasted of sweet tea and warm male and…yum.

  For the next few moments, she forgot her disbelief that he really and truly wanted her. He felt too hard and hot and right, and so she kissed him back.She opened her mouth and tangled her tongue with his. Her arms curled around his neck and she pressed herself up against him.

  His hands swept down to cup her bottom and rub her against the hard bulge of his jeans. “Charlie, you feel so good,” he murmured against her lips. “So damned good.” He kissed her again, hard and hot and deep.

  His hands skimmed down her body and slid beneath her tank top. Warm fingers dipped inside her bra to cup her bare breast. He caught her nipple between two fingers and squeezed just enough to send a sharp spike of desire through her.

  Raw, brazen, I-need-you-now-or-I’ll-explode desire. The kind she’d envisioned in her fantasies. The sort they wrote about in novels and glorified on the big screen. Fiction, or so she’d thought until she’d felt it for herself.

  Right now. Right this moment. Real.

  “Knock, knock!” A woman’s voice pierced the haze of pleasure that surrounded Charlene and zapped her back to reality. “Anybody home?”

  “I’ll be right there,” she called out, grasping at the hem of her tank top which had slid up to her chest thanks to Mason’s strong, purposeful hands and her momentary lapse in judgement.

  He wanted her.

  The realization echoed in her head and sent a rush of excitement through her, followed by a surge of nervous anxiety.

  Because he wasn’t some fantasy. He was the real thing. And he really wanted her.

  “I—I have to go.” She pulled away and rushed toward the foyer just as her neighbor, Janice Owens pushed the front door completely open. Charlene needed to think. To understand what had just happened between them. One minute she’d been convinced he’d been putting on a show to scare her from her plan and the next—bam—he really wanted her, no hidden agenda required.

  “Well, hello,” Charlene blurted, reaching the door just in time to keep the woman from stepping inside. After all, she didn’t understand what had just happened. The last thing she needed was an outsider speculating about it, as well. “So nice to see you, Mrs. Owens.”

  The woman tried to peer past Charlene, as if she suspected something had been keeping her from the door. Or someone. “It’s about time you opened up.”

  “I—I’m working on a special project and I must have lost myself.” Amen. “What can I, um, do for you?”

  The woman gave her a knowing look and waved a pink box. “You said you’d stop by for cookies.”

  “I did, didn’t I? It must have slipped my mind.”

  “No problem. We’ve made the rounds on the block, but we’ve still got plenty left. Don’t we, Susie?”

  Charlene’s gaze darted to the pint-sized version of Janice Owens who stood just to her right.

  Twelve year-old Susie wore the traditional brown and green Happy Campers uniform, complete with camouflage beret, and carried a cardboard carton brimming with pink boxes of Mint Creme Extremes, Peanut Butter Pinwheels and Chocolate Chipper Doodles.

  “We’ve got a whole case on account of Mom ordered too much ’cause she wants to win the three day, all expense paid trip to this fancy spa that they’re giving away to the leader of the troop who sells the most cookies,” the child said without taking a breath.

  “Now, now, Susie. The trip is just an added incentive. The real prize is all the new camping equipment the troop will be able to purchase with the proceeds.” Janice smiled at Charlene. “It’s all about the girls.”

  “Of course.” Charlene drew a deep breath, grabbed her purse that hung on the coatrack just inside the doorway and retrieved her wallet. “I’ll take a box of each.”

  “That would help tremendously.” Janice motioned to Susie who handed over the boxes. “And speaking of help, isn’t that Mason McGraw’s truck parked in your driveway?” Janice tried to stare past Charlene. “Why, I bet he’d love to buy a few boxes and help out the girls.”

  “On second thought,” Charlene stepped out onto the porch and pulled the door closed behind her, effectively blocking Janice’s nosy stare. “Why don’t I just take the whole case?”

  After writing out a check for the cookies, Charlene watched Janice and Susie disappear next door. Once they were out of sight, she drew a deep breath and turned toward her front door. Her hand paused on the handle. Her heart pounded in anticipation.

  Because she knew what would happen once she stepped back inside. He would step up to her, kiss her, and she would lose all rational thought.

  Yeah, right.

  The old, familiar doubt reared its ugly head, but it didn’t ease her anxiety the way it usually did.

  Mason did want her.

  And if she opened the door right now, she knew she would find out exactly how much.

  As much as she wanted him?

  She wasn’t sure. She only knew that the truth waited on the other side and she just wasn’t sure if she could face it just yet.

  A few frantic moments later, Charlene sank down onto the porch swing, a box of Mint Creme Extremes in her hands. Five percent mint and ninety-five percent chocolate. Which put them right up there at the top of her Hands Off list.

  Right beneath Mason McGraw who’d occupied the number one spot for as long as she could remember.

  The thought stirred an image of him naked and panting, over her, surrounding her, inside of her…

  She opened th
e box.

  The first cookie was good, but she needed great. Delicious. Decadent. Satisfying.

  She reached for number two. And then number three.

  She was on her sixth cookie when she heard the front door open.

  The porch swing sat at the end of the porch, beyond the reach of the porch light and she sank back into the shadows, praying that he didn’t see her during such a weak, pitiful moment. That would surely kill any lust he might actually be feeling.

  A daring diva wouldn’t be hiding on the front porch with a box of cookies when she had a red-hot man waiting for her inside.

  “Those must be some cookies.” He pulled the door closed and stepped toward her. A few seconds later, the swing dipped as he sat down next to her.

  “They’re all right,” she said after swallowing her mouthful and trying to calm her frantic heart. As nervous as he made her, there was something oddly comforting about his shoulder resting against hers. As if they were old friends who’d been sitting side-by-side on the swing for ages, eating cookies and listening to the crickets buzz. “Want a taste?”

  “I definitely want a taste.”

  “Help yourself.” She held out the box to him.

  He took the cookies and set them aside.

  “What are you doing?” she asked as he pushed to his feet. The swing bounced and shook as he turned and dropped to his knees in front of her. He reached for the waistband of her miniskirt.

  “Helping myself,” he murmured as he tugged her zipper down, his gaze locked with hers. There was no mistaking the heat that fired his eyes.

  “But y-you can’t. I mean, we’re on my front porch. Someone might see.” Someone might see? What happened to You’re not my soul mate, therefore this is a bad idea?

  He was her fantasy. She’d dreamt of him too many times not to indulge herself when faced with the real thing.

  “You’re right,” he murmured. “Someone might see. Does it really matter?”

  It did. She was Dr. Charlene Singer, for heaven’s sake. She preached about emotional attraction instead of physical as the foundation for any and all relationships. And she believed what she preached.

  Or she used to.