Rio: Man Of Destiny. Cait London
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you are.”
The lady could drive. Paloma expertly wheeled the tour bus over the winding, hilly road and onto the interstate as morning slid through the tinted windows. The excited passengers chattered and sang and debated their favorite bingo games—Dot’s winning streak was unequaled and the last bingo caller, a youth of seventy-five, had a thing for Bev. Mavis needed to remember to turn up her hearing aid and Martha wasn’t happy about anything. Linda forgot her good luck set of dentures with the gold tooth, and Totie brought snore-quelling nose patches for everyone because she hated bus snorers.
Madeline had to promise that she’d wash off her latest perfume of the month at the first rest stop. The big debate was the color of lucky felt tip markers...or the “daubers” that the bingo palace supplied.
Rio settled back onto the seat, badly needing sleep. When someone lifted his head and tucked a satin pillow beneath it, and the weight of a crocheted afghan covered his chest, Rio glanced at Paloma in her rearview mirror. He’d been dozing comfortably—he looked down at the elderly woman who with her back turned to him, her ample behind jiggling, had just stuck his left leg between her thighs. While she was busily tugging off his boot, another woman brushed a kiss across his forehead. “Sleep tight, our prince. You’re big enough to be good luck for everyone,” she whispered, patting his chest.
When Rio attempted to sit up, she pushed him down. “Just let Emily take off your boots, sonny. She has seven boys. I see you didn’t bring an overnight bag. We’ll have to stop and get you some clean underwear. You never know when an accident will happen—oh, not with Paloma driving, but you never know about crossing streets nowadays. You wouldn’t want to have to go to the hospital in unsightly underwear. Do you wear those little tight things, boxer shorts or just regular briefs—is that white or black?”
“I’ll pick up new underwear while you’re playing bingo,” Rio muttered and wondered if all women had formed a sisterhood devoted to seeing if his underwear was in good shape. His sister, Else, seemed to have X-ray vision.
In the mirror, Paloma’s silver sunglasses revealed nothing, until Rio spotted the humorous turn to her mouth, softening it “You think this is funny?” he demanded.
She didn’t answer, but held out her cup, which a woman sitting near hurried to fill from a thermos. “Thanks,” Paloma murmured, and focused on the drive.
“I’ve forgotten what kissing a man without dentures feels like,” hinted Posey Malone, eyeing Rio. He blinked as Susie asked him to hold her cane while she took a snapshot of his “sexy cowboy look.”
Rio hurried to remove his right boot before Emily could clamp her thighs around his leg; he handed Susie’s cane back to her. “I think I’ll take a nap now,” he announced loudly and shot a meaningful glance at the ladies behind him. A chorus of the ladies began to sing “Lullaby and Goodnight.”
Sarah, in the seat directly behind him, reached to smooth his hair. “That’s right. You rest. We need our good luck charm fresh and bright-eyed.” Paloma continued to drive, her expression impassive.
At the breakfast stop, Rio swung outside to help the ladies down and they hurried inside the café. After the first pat to his rear, he flattened his back to the open bus door. Mrs. Malone withdrew her comb and reached up to fix his hair. “Better,” she said, satisfied.
The last one to leave, Paloma ignored his outstretched hand and stepped down, eyeing him through her sunglasses. “Having fun?” she asked, stripping away her gloves and tucking them into her back pocket.
“It’s an experience. Are we talking now?” As she smoothed her hair quickly and checked her watch, her fingers tapping on the practical design, Rio watched closely. The hunter in him measured and watched. Her hands were feminine, graceful and lovely-tapered pale fingers with neat short nails and covered with silky soft skin. Rio’s body tensed at the absolute beauty of movement and shape. He wanted to slide his fingers between hers, testing the fit and the feel but jerked himself from the fascinating, restless movement as she stretched, rotating her shoulders. Just then, in the morning light, Paloma’s lean body was delicate, womanly, as though she needed to be held close and protected by a lover. He caught the slightest fragrance—an exotic tropical scent, previously overshadowed by diesel fumes and the other women’s perfumes.
She flicked an impatient glance at him, her slender, agile fingers smoothing the wisps of silky hair back from her face. “You die hard, buddy.”
“The name is Blaylock. Remember it.”
She leaned back against the bus, her glasses glinting up at him. “I know about the Blaylocks. I lived with Boone Llewlyn for a while and Jasmine is stuffed with Blaylocks. I can outlast you. Why don’t you make it easy on yourself and go home now?”
The unnerving impulse to wrap her braid around his fist and draw her head up for his kiss startled Rio. He inhaled sharply, dismissing the impulse. He was too tired and his body was protesting the long drive followed by the bus trip. Paloma. He couldn’t be attracted to Paloma, the woman. He reached over to push her glasses up, to rest upon her head. He wanted to see her eyes, that bright, cutting glare, locking with his gaze. On base level she didn’t like him, she didn’t trust him, and her expression was wary. “Why don’t we talk over breakfast?”
“I’ll bet you’ve said that line a few times in your life,” she purred and walked from him into the café. Her odd stride did not distract from the sensuous sway of her long braid above her slender hips and endless tight jeans.
Rio leaned back against the bus, studying her. Paloma wasn’t feminine or sweet; yet for an instant, her fragrance had caught him. The beauty of her hands had startled him, fascinated him; the sleek sway of her braid had hitched up his sensual interest, surprising him.
Nettled, tired and uncomfortable with that brief attraction, he shoved away from the bus. He preferred soft, easygoing women with curves.... Rio grimaced—not at the ladies waiting to surround him in the café, but at himself. He had to get out more often. His brother, Roman’s, recent marriage had stirred Rio’s own mating instincts. Admittedly a romantic, Rio had prowled through potential mates, dating frequently. He hadn’t found a woman who excited his nesting urges, who could take his breath away. An adult Blaylock male, he knew the difference between lust and caring, and he needed to cherish and be cherished. He couldn’t settle for less.
He glanced warily at Mrs. Reeves, who was waving to him from the café, and settled into his thoughts: he wasn’t feeling delicate and alone. Oh, hell, maybe he was. He wanted a woman to hold, to wear his ring, to continue what Blaylocks were bred to do—make families and lives and love one woman for eternity. Just looking at Roman and Kallista, now expecting their first child, caused Rio to want his own child...with the right woman. He admitted reluctantly to the nesting urge, a biological need to create a home and a family, to protect them. Else, his sister, had stopped pushing unmarried women at him and Rio understood—Else had spotted that nesting urge in him and had decided to let nature take its course, just as it had with Roman, Dan, Logan and James. The youngest Blaylock, Tyrell, was too busy in New York as a top corporate financial officer to think about a long-term nest; Tyrell liked corporate games, fed upon them.
Rio lifted his face to the cold wind, aching for Wyoming, and hurting for the little boy who plagued his nightmares... he’d been too late to save little Trey Whiteman. He had to find peace—and Paloma Forbes wasn’t it.
Later at the bingo hall, the ladies played, concentrating with deadly intent upon the caller’s numbers and then yelling when they won—or didn’t. Rio settled back to watch Paloma. Obviously enjoying herself, she moved between the players, sometimes sitting to chat and help, but never played herself. A restless woman, Paloma had ignored him. Now, her sleek blue-black hair loose and swaying around her shoulders and back as she moved, she looked relaxed, her laughter almost melodic and gone too quickly as if it had escaped her locked keeping. That odd dimple in her left cheek appeared and deepened as she grinned. She touched the women as if cherishing each one, amusement softening her face. She’d given them a gift—driving the bus and caring for them—and she enjoyed