Cowboy's Texas Rescue. Beth Cornelison
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She said it as if getting jolted by a stun gun was nothing, but he heard the telltale warble of fear in her voice.
He muttered an invective under his breath.
“Hey, w-we’re alive,” she said, putting steel in her voice. “That’s all I c-care about.”
“True that.” In his head, he began working through the possibilities for getting them out of the trunk. “Does your bra have an underwire?”
“Wh-what?”
He chuckled under his breath. “That sounded skeevy, didn’t it? Sorry. I need something I can use it to pick the lock and get us out of here.”
“Oh. Uh…yeah. It d-does, but how—”
“Permission to manhandle your bra?”
Chapter 3
Brady pressed a hand to his throbbing leg. The duct tape bandage the cowboy had fashioned over his wound had worked for a while, but fresh blood was seeping from under the tape. As his adrenaline receded, his pain grew, along with his impatience.
Gusts of wind battered the pickup and made it difficult to control the truck. He swerved as if he were drunk and battled to stay in his lane. The last thing he needed was to let erratic driving draw the attention of a passing cop.
Squinting through the windshield, he spotted a farmhouse ahead and tried to remember how far the GPS voice had said they were from the brunette’s house. Damn it, he should’ve brought the GPS with him, but he’d gotten in a hurry.
Get a grip, man! You’ve come too far, risked too much to screw up now! Brady squeezed the steering wheel. He refused to go back to prison. Confinement was sucking the life from him. He’d eat a bullet before he let them cage him up again.
He pulled into the driveway of the farmhouse and surveyed the scene. An old pickup was parked out front, and a small stable sat a hundred yards or so behind the house. A black-and-white dog noticed his arrival and started barking from behind the fence of its pen. He glowered at the dog, knowing the ruckus was likely to attract unwanted attention.
Sure enough, he’d just cut the engine, intending to take a look around, when an old man stepped out of the stable and sent a curious look his way. Brady cursed under his breath and pulled the cowboy’s gun onto his lap. He rolled down the truck window and waited as the old man ambled closer.
“Can I help you?” the white-haired man asked.
Brady sent him a friendly smile and curled a finger around the trigger of the pistol. “I’m afraid I’m lost. I’m looking for a friend’s house.” Brady called an image to mind of the brunette’s key chain, dangling from the Caddy’s ignition. The miniature Texas license plate clipped to the ring read Chelsea. “Chelsea said her parents were on vacation, and she was house-sitting for them. I’m supposed to meet her for dinner, but I think I missed a turn.”
The man’s face brightened. “You must mean the Harrises. I heard they were taking a cruise or some such.” The old man walked a few steps closer. “Their place is the next driveway on the left. About four miles, I think.” He grinned. “Nice girl, that Chelsea. How did you meet her?”
Brady shoved down his rising impatience. “Mutual friend.” He jerked a nod. “Thanks for the directions.”
He moved his hand from the gun to the ignition key, then hesitated. The old man could identify him if the police did a house-by-house search. He glanced back at the old codger, who wore a bright orange hunter’s cap, and his brain started clicking.
Wrapping his hand around the cowboy’s pistol again, he called to the man, “You’re a hunter?”
The old man flashed a crooked grin. “Yep. Have been since I was six, and my daddy took me deer hunting near Tyler.”
Brady smiled. A hunter would have rifles, shotguns, maybe even a bow. Weapons he might need.
“Good to know.” He popped the driver’s door open and slid out, keeping the pistol hidden from the man’s view.
The old guy frowned. “Whatcha doing? Shouldn’t you be gettin’ to the Harrises’ before this storm hits?”
“I’ll be heading out soon enough. Anyone inside? A wife? Kids?”
“Who wants to know?” The man’s gaze dropped to the bloodstains on Brady’s leg, and he narrowed a suspicious look toward him. “Who are you? What happened to you?”
Brady swung the gun up. “I’ll ask the questions. Who’s inside?”
The man tensed when he saw the pistol, then gave Brady a defiant glare. “What do you want, boy? You think you can frighten me with that thing? I saw combat in World War II. Spent weeks under fire in a trench in France. I’ve already survived hell on earth.” The man straightened and squared his shoulders. “You’re nothing but a punk. I’m not scared of you.”
Brady sneered at him. “Maybe you should be, gramps.”
Permission to manhandle her bra? A strangled sound rose in Chelsea’s throat. Humiliation and modesty warred with her common sense and will to survive. The cowboy’s request made sense. His idea was inspired, logical.
But she couldn’t help the prickle of self-consciousness. Bad enough that her nearly naked size 14 body was pressed intimately against his male perfection. Awkward. Stripping in front of the convict and being discovered by Jake wearing only her skivvies had been mortifying enough, especially knowing the extra weight she’d gained in the past year gave her love handles and unsightly cellulite on her thighs.
Maybe if you hadn’t let your appearance go— Todd’s voice echoed in her head and lanced her heart.
“Chelsea?” Jake said, still waiting for her answer.
She swallowed hard, and mustering her practicality like a shield, she shoved down the twinges of embarrassment. “All right. Should I take it off?”
“Let me see what I can do with it on. I’d hate for you to lose even the tiny scrap of protection from the cold it’s giving you. Hold still, okay?”
She tried not to move, but when his warm fingers slid under her bra and nudged the side of her breast, a current of sensation, a hyperawareness of the übersexy cowboy’s touch charged through her. And she flinched. She bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a moan of pleasure.
Oh, Chelsea…so inappropriate under the circumstances.
Their lives had been threatened, they were trapped in a car trunk, and she was literally freezing to death. But, oh, heavens, the brush of his fingers on her bare skin, the press of his hard chest spooned next to her back, the juxtaposition of his groin against her tush…
How could she not react to him?
He tugged on the fabric at the end of the underwire, flexing and twisting the material until the wire poked through. He pulled the wire, but it held fast.
Chelsea’s breath hitched in her chest as he slid his hand around to the other side of her demi-cup and repeated the process.
“I usually don’t p-put out like this on a first date,” she said with a nervous chuckle. “You owe me d-dinner and a movie when we g-get out of here, pal.”
He gave a short laugh, his breath fanning the back of her neck and sending a thrill to her core. “You got it, darlin’,” he said with a lazy Texas drawl.
She heard the pop of a seam, then felt the tug, as the underwire slid free, and the vibration at her back as he gave a low growl of satisfaction. Maybe it was wrong for such simple things to turn her on, given the gravity of their situation, but tell that to her crackling nerve endings. The cowboy had her every skin cell charged and her heart racing.
“Got it,” he said. “I don’t suppose there’s a flashlight in here, is there?”