Tango & Lace

by Misty Dietz

  TANGO & LACE

  A Hard Men of the Rockies Novella

  BY MISTY DIETZ

  The entire Hard Men of the Rockies novella series:

  Red Lace by Kym Roberts

  Tango & Lace by Misty Dietz

  Leather & Lace by Brynley Bush

  Beyond Lace by Mia London

  Blackmail & Lace by Tracy A. Ward

  Other Titles by Misty Dietz

  Flirting with Fire

  Come Hell or High Desire

  TANGO AND LACE

  COPYRIGHT © 2016 by MISTY DIETZ

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  MISTY MEDIA

  September 2016

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-943716-04-3

  Print ISBN: 978-1-943716-05-0

  Cover illustrator: Jaycee DeLorenzo,

  http://sweetnspicydesigns.com

  Edited by: Pam Dougherty,

  http://www.thewriteactor.com

  Interior design by: Polgarus Studio,

  http://www.polgarusstudio.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Special Thanks

  In this solitary writing business, you meet some of the coolest people online. This book was a hoot to write because our series ended up being a bit more collaborative than we’d planned, so I got to know several of the new Chick Swagger writers in ways I hadn’t imagined. Our hilarious group texts should be made into a book itself—X-rated of course! Thank you Kym, Brynley, Mia, and Tracy for making this Hard Men of the Rockies journey so memorable.

  For Grampa Art, for teaching me how to dance.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Sample: Leather and Lace

  Sample: Flirting With Fire

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “Turn it up, Natalia!” Mya Castillo pushed out of the wicker chair, her hips and shoulders already rolling to the Reggaeton beat dropping from the wireless speaker perched on their elderly neighbor’s backyard bar.

  Mya’s sister, Natalia, grinned and set down the latest copy of TeenVOGUE as she uncurled from her chair in the shade. “Yeah, let’s wake all the neighbors.”

  Mya gently pulled seventy-eight-year-old Rosie Strickland to her feet. “I love this song. Dance with me, chula.”

  The Colorado morning sunshine struck Rosie’s shoulder-length, pewter hair. “I’ll take my broom after old man Peters if he growls about the noise.”

  Mya laughed, her heart lighter than it had been in weeks. After Rosie’s heart attack last month, they weren’t sure she’d survive. Mya had been in Rosie’s garden when Rosie had collapsed in the dirt. Can’t lose another one I love.

  Mya and Nat’s older brother, Cole eased toward the edge of Rosie’s leaky roof where he and two other men had been sweating under the July sun for three hours already. “I doubt Rosie’s doctor prescribed exertion in heat like this. Get her in the shade, Mya. You know better,” he scolded.

  Rosie smiled up at Cole, the healthy pink on her Navaho cheekbones a welcome sign after her pallor the last couple of weeks. “The heat and movement feel good, honey.” She took seventeen-year-old Nat’s hand, forming a circle of three with Mya. “I’ll petrify if I sit in my recliner another hour.”

  Mya winked at Cole. “Get back to work, hermano. We’re busy.” He shook his head, turning back to the other shirtless men ripping the last of the shingles off the roof. When the song ended, Mya returned Rosie to her chair and raised the table umbrella. She was walking toward the bar to refill her lemonade when someone started yelling.

  Mya swung around, her gaze flying upward. Arturo Gutierrez was head-first on his belly, slipping down the uppermost pitch of Rosie’s roof, gravity quickly pulling him toward the leaf gutter which couldn’t possibly hold his weight. “Cole, mira! Artie’s falling!” she screamed, pointing and running toward the edge of the patio where Arturo would drop in seconds.

  Cole scrambled sideways in a crouch down the roof, then went to his knees, grabbing Arturo by his pant leg and countering backwards to stop his descent. When they both started sliding, Ty Beckinsale, one of Rosie’s grandsons, grabbed Cole around the waist and went to his ass on the roof.

  “Nat, grab Rosie’s stack of blankets inside by the rocking chair!” Mya barked, scrambling to collect all the outdoor cushions. Cole’s grunts mingled with Ty’s world record number of ‘fucks’ delivered in five seconds. Arturo’s head appeared over the edge of gutter, his right cheek bloody. Nat flew out the back door, her arms full of blankets, and tossed them in a pile underneath the roof’s edge. Mya tossed the last of the cushions on top of the blankets, then raised her arms to break Arturo’s fall, her heart pounding in her chest. “If you break your neck or kill me in the process, I’ll be seriously pissed off, cabrón.”

  Arturo’s hand came over the edge—shit!—arms, shoulders—

  And stopped.

  He hung mid-air, half his chest on, half off, the roof. In the next instant, Cole and Ty hauled him back up, clipping his chin on the gutter on their last brute tug.

  All the air evaporated from Mya’s chest. She sank to her butt on the pillows and blankets piled on the flagstone patio. She’d told Artie he shouldn’t be taking any chances right now. Roofing was dangerous, and with their Argentine Tango USA Championship coming up in three weeks, neither of them could afford to get sick, maimed, or killed. But of course, his big Cuban heart had insisted he help Cole and Ty with Miss Rosie’s roof.

  Mya closed her eyes and laid back on the cushions, listening to the men follow up their fears with machismo. Ty wasn’t Cuban like Cole and Arturo, but being ex military and a grandson of Rosie’s meant he had alpha male written in his DNA just as fiercely. Mya brought her arm across her eyes, letting her heart rate return to normal.

  “You alright, Mya?” Rosie called.

  As Mya lifted her arm in a thumbs-up, a shadow slid across her closed eyelids. Nat and Rosie gasped at the table behind her. Goosebumps skated over her skin as she shot up to a sitting position, her gaze feasting on six feet of hard-bodied, left-brained genius.

  Damnation.

  Jackson Whiteside.

  What was HE doing here? He’d gone and messed her up something good when he’d left two years ago on a prestigious international grant to unearth more Dead Sea Scrolls in Israel’s West Bank. He looked even more wow today than he had when she’d slammed the door in his face after he’d shared his achievement. His mahogany hair looked thicker, standing up with artless masculinity, reminding her how much she used to love running her fingernails across his scalp. How he’d groan and nuzzle into her breasts like a wild beast tamed by her touch. The perfectly criminal lips, the ever-present five o’clock shadow, the bronzed skin, and t
hose eyes.

  Those damned steel-blue eyes behind those brainy tortoiseshell glasses. Balls.

  “Hello, Mya.”

  Oh my god, and that voice.

  Her eyes closed on a slow blink as her gray matter swooned. Nat and Rosie swarmed around him—touching him as though to reassure themselves their Ivy League idol had actually returned. Sick. Mya pushed up to her feet, ignoring his outstretched hand.

  “Ty finally guilted you enough to come back?” she asked, sounding even more bitchy than she’d planned. Nat glared at her. Well, too bad. He deserved a good rebuke. Rosie had needed help from her family long before her heart attack, but had he stepped up to answer repeated calls from his older cousin?

  Hell, no.

  At least until now.

  Mya’s stomach fluttered, her skin hot and prickly. Rosie grabbed hold of Mya and Jackson’s wrists and brought each of their hands to her bosom, tears welling in her eyes. When their skin connected, Mya felt the heat of Jack’s hand down to the tips of her bare toes.

  Don’t look at him. Don’t. You. Dare. His potent stare could trap her soul and not let go until he’d wrung her out and left her panting on the wall of his chest.

  But of course, she looked at him.

  Her lips parted with the pain of memory. Then he blinked, and his I-remember-everything look was gone. She pulled her hand from Rosie’s grasp and turned to walk unsteadily back to the bar, this time adding a shot or three to her lemonade. The guys on the roof had made it safely down and were greeting the geoarcheologist extraordinaire.

  Mya leaned her butt against the bar, drinking half the lemonade in one swallow. She knew he’d eventually come home. Ty mentioned that he and Rosie’s four other grandsons were working out a schedule so each of them would come to Fort Collins to help look after Rosie and give some TLC to her wonderful, but neglected stone house. She’d been dying to ask Ty when Jack’s turn was, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. Funny Rosie hadn’t mentioned anything…

  She narrowed her eyes at the sweet old lady.

  Rosie looked up as though sensing Mya’s gaze—aaand she freaking winked. She’d known Jackson was on his way home, but the little shit hadn’t said a word. Heat flooded Mya’s face. She opened her mouth to give Rosie a piece of her mind about how this—

  “Mya, would you mind running over to your place to grab the slow cooker you borrowed last week? I’m going to make a roast. Let’s have a party tonight!” Rosie clapped her hands with keen eyes, looking ten years younger and twenty times tougher than she had fifteen minutes ago.

  “Sure, let me get right on that! Nothing like welcoming the prodigal grandson home,” Mya lobbed the words like a grenade, but everyone was so enamored with the rock-star scientist, they didn’t hear. Or they didn’t care. Idiots with short memories.

  Well, not her. She remembered everything—whether she wanted to or not.

  She swiveled from the sappy reunion, but before she could cross the lawn between her and Rosie’s yards, a hand touched her elbow. She shook off the grip and swung around. “No touching!”

  One side of Arturo’s lips raised, his chocolate brown eyes understanding and…sad. “If that’s the case, you might as well start looking for a new dance partner right away.”

  “Sorry, Artie. I thought…” Her voice trailed off, but she didn’t need to finish. Arturo already knew all about her and Jack’s messy ending. Unfortunately, he’d been a pawn in her bid to keep Jackson stateside.

  Yeah, damn.

  That was the part she always wanted to forget. It was so much easier being angry with Jackson for leaving. But the older she got and the more time passed, the harder it was to excuse her callous treatment of both men while in the depths of her heartache. Artie had forgiven her, but she didn’t deserve it.

  She had no idea how Jack felt. This was the first time she’d communicated with him since he’d left.

  “Sorry,” she repeated, reaching up to pick a dandelion seed off his blood-encrusted cheek. He still hadn’t put his shirt on because of his shingle road-rash. “Come with me, let’s get you cleaned up.”

  He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll get the slow cooker and take care of myself. You stay here and get things squared away.”

  He really was a prize. Kind, sexy, hard-working, and committed to family. She was obviously flawed not to fall in love with him. She glanced where Jack stood with the others. He was frowning at her. She frowned right back and stormed across his gramma’s yard to her own. “Andale, Arturo!”

  Artie ran to catch up. “If you walk away, you’re going to look weak to him.”

  “Rosie gave me an order,” she huffed.

  “Right. Since when do you follow anyone’s orders? Come on, you need to deal with this now. If you don’t, your concentration on the dance floor will suffer, and then we’ll lose the competition. You know damn well I’m right.”

  She stopped. He was. If her thoughts were preoccupied with Jackson, there was no way they’d perform well enough to place in the competition’s top three. A local sports retailer had offered to sponsor her very own dance studio if they placed. Aspire Athletic would not only give her the money, but also the credibility she needed to establish herself in an already-crowded dance-instruction marketplace.

  She had to have a top-three placement at Nationals.

  She pressed her palms to her temples. She was being selfish. Not only did Rosie need looking after for at least another month, her house needed numerous repairs. If Rosie’s family was stepping up to the task, Mya could deal with her Jackson Whiteside hangups. Then maybe she’d be free to find love again.

  “You’re right.” She kissed Arturo’s intact cheek, hoping he could sense everything she couldn’t put to words. How she was sorry they couldn’t be more, how much she appreciated his friendship, how badly she wanted them to place at Nationals. She pulled back, ignoring the warmth in his eyes. “Thanks for the pep talk. The slow cooker is in the pantry on the second shelf. Gauze and antiseptic are in my bathroom. If you need stitches, I’ll drive you to the clinic.”

  Her shoulders dropped as Artie walked to her back door. As good as they were together on the dance floor, she knew she danced better with Jackson. Dancing with Jack was like making love in public. All his massive brainpower focused on her body, his intensity all-consuming. A drug that left her high and needy.

  Never again.

  She inhaled, then exhaled heavily—twice—before turning around with the most devil-may-care smile she could muster.

  Jack had been laughing at something obviously colorful Ty had said, but as soon as his eyes met hers, his smile melted away, and his gaze went shuttered.

  Mya’s heart went lub-dub. Cole’s girlfriend, Ivy, had a mantra, Never let’em see you sweat.

  Yeah.

  Game on, professor.

  Chapter Two

  A trickle of sweat slid down Jackson’s spine, his tongue like sandpaper in his mouth. Breathe. It was only natural that seeing Mya after all this time would jack his blood levels of adrenaline and cortisol. A purely physiological reaction, and therefore, something that made sense. Hormonal response could be picked apart, compartmentalized, and ultimately ignored.

  Still, though, he couldn’t tear his gaze from those narrow, arching brows over her wide, hazel eyes with their thick black lashes. Smooth, caramel skin with the bewitching little mole one inch from the edge of her lips that were always parted in laughter or mockery. That fall of shiny black hair and compact, flexible body that his hands and mouth would remember until the day they put his bones in a box. Her tiny frame was still lean, but more lush somehow. His gaze swept across her breasts pressed snugly against the red, spaghetti-strap tank top.

  Her breathing seemed to still. His heart hammered double-time in his chest.

  Christ.

  It’s dopamine.

  That’s all that was happening right now. Another neurotransmitter hormone dumped into this biological miasma. How Mya’s beauty could grow
even more hypnotic since—and in spite of—the last time he’d seen her was damned irritating. Especially seeing her with Arturo again.

  This science of love bullshit was why he’d driven hard into the geosciences instead of straight up archaeology. Archaeology delved into the impact of emotion on people’s lives. Earth sciences, on the other hand, made no emotional demands on his work. And that was exactly how he liked it.

  He turned to Rosie to give his neurotransmitters time to cool off. “Gramma, don’t go to any trouble for me. I need to take my gear to the research lab at the university. I don’t know how long it’ll take, so don’t worry about supper.”

  “Nonsense! It’s not even noon. You can work for several hours before we eat.” Her eyes twinkled. “I’m so happy you’re home!”

  He smiled and wrapped her in a hug, unfortunately turning in the direction where Mya stood with one of her infamous You’re-Going-Down smiles. Great.

  When he released Rosie, Mya crossed her arms in front of her, drawing his gaze back to her bewitching cleavage. “Why don’t you take tu abuela with you to CSU while you get settled in? The doctor doesn’t like her to be alone for long stretches of time yet.”

  It was a challenge if he’d ever heard one. He really couldn’t blame her. She’d gone over and above to care for his gramma when he and his other family members had been out of state, or in his case, out of the country. Mya did nothing half-way, whether it was dancing, fighting, or fucking. It was what he’d loved best about her even as it simultaneously drove him crazy.

  He resisted the urge to look at his watch, wishing those bluish-gray altostratus clouds hovering over the foothills would start dumping buckets of rain so there could be a natural, non-awkward end to this discussion. “I appreciate everything that you, Cole, and Nat have done for Rosie. It means a lot knowing she has neighbors like you who treat her more like family than a friend. I plan to keep close tabs on her, but I don’t know what to expect this afternoon.” He turned from Mya’s raised eyebrow to Rosie. “I don’t want you to get bored or tired, which I would imagine might be the case, at least for today. I promise, I’ll bring you to work with me when I have the lay of the land.”