Man...Mercenary...Monarch. Joan Elliott Pickart
Читать онлайн книгу.
the four women, who were her friends as well as her employers, were floating on cloud nine as they began their new lives as the wives of the men they had chosen to be their life’s partner.
But, oh, dear, how it all accentuated the stark reality that she was so very alone. Her few relationships over the years had resulted in the frogs she’d kissed remaining frogs, not one of them turning into her Prince Charming.
Laura shivered as another gust of wind whipped around her.
The air certainly held no promise of spring warmth, that was for sure. She either had to hightail it back to the ranch, or open the dumb door to the nightclub and have an evening away from her solitude as she’d intended to do.
“Enough of this,” she muttered. “My toes are probably going to fall off if I stand here any longer. Move, Laura. Right now.”
She took a steadying breath, let it out slowly, then yanked open the door and entered the building.
Despite the noise, smoky haze and the crush of people, John’s razor-sharp senses alerted him every time the door to the club was opened and someone new needed to be checked out. His appraisal was done by rote, born of years of always being prepared for potential danger.
He glanced at the door yet again, then did a double take as an attractive woman came into view. He watched her hesitate, as though she was about to bolt right back out of the crummy place. She swept her gaze over the huge expanse in a jerky motion, her eyes widening slightly at what she saw.
She was a fish out of water, John thought rather absently. It didn’t take a genius to realize that she wasn’t a regular on the barhopping scene. She looked as if she was about to climb into a dentist’s chair.
His ability to size people up quickly had saved his life on more than one occasion in the past, and there was no doubt in his mind that this woman was way out of her element in coming here on her own.
Well, she wouldn’t be alone for long. She was pretty, in a fresh, wholesome sort of way. She had short blond hair that curled around her face, delicate features and very kissable lips. From this distance he couldn’t discern the color of her eyes, though. Brown? Blue? Ah, hell, who cared? Forget it.
He shifted his attention back to the band, then seconds later found himself looking at the woman again.
She hadn’t moved.
John chuckled and took a swig of beer.
Well, Pretty Lady, he thought, how long are you going to stand there? Ah, there she goes. She was unzipping her puffy blue jacket, apparently having decided to stay awhile.
Pink sweater. Nice. No, it wasn’t exactly pink, it was that fancy color with the weird name. Mauve. Yeah, that was it. Okay, she had on a mauve sweater and jeans that were so new, they probably crackled when she walked.
So, Pretty Lady wasn’t a true-blue Westerner. It was evident she hadn’t washed those stiff, spanking new jeans a dozen times or more to soften them up and fade them a bit before she wore them.
She was, oh, maybe twenty-seven or twenty-eight, but not single-scene savvy. She was definitely in foreign territory, and it showed like a brightly lit neon sign.
Pretty Lady had spunk, though. He’d give her that. She’d lifted her chin and started forward, making her way through the crowd at the bar. She’d probably faint dead out on her lovely face when she got over here and discovered there was nowhere to sit.
Man, John thought, shaking his head in self-disgust, he was really scrambling to keep his troubled thoughts at bay. He was actually wasting mental energy by concentrating on a city gal who had no business being in a Western bar where she didn’t know the rules of the game.
“Hey, sweet thing,” John heard a cowboy say as the man stepped in front of the woman. “I’m Pete. How about I buy you a drink?”
“Oh,” she said. “No. No, thank you very much. If you’ll excuse me, please, I’d like to go sit down and listen to the music.”
“Fine with me,” Pete said, placing one hand on her shoulder. “We’ll sit together, dance some, have a couple of drinks.”
“No,” she said, removing his hand from her shoulder. “Thank you, but no.”
Pete, John thought, what part of “no” don’t you understand? That worn-out cliché had been custom-made for jerks like Pete.
“Now, darlin’,” Pete said, shifting to slide his arm across the woman’s shoulders, “you don’t have to play hard to get with me. You’re alone. I’m alone. We’re a match made in heaven. Come on. Let’s find us a table.”
“No,” she said, attempting and failing to wiggle out of Pete’s hold.
Pete leaned closer. “Mmm. You smell real nice. Oh, yeah, you and I are going to get along just fine.”
“Let me go,” she said, an echo of panic evident in her voice.
Don’t you move, John told himself. He had his own troubles to contend with. Pretty Lady was getting her just deserts by walking into Jake’s, and she’d have to handle it herself. It was none of his damn business.
“Lighten up, sugar,” Pete said, kissing the woman on the temple.
“Stop it,” she said, nearly shrieking.
Ah, hell, John thought. He should have stayed at the motel. He didn’t need this hassle. But…ah, hell.
John slid out of the booth and pushed his way through the crowd in his path. He stopped in front of Pete and the woman.
“Pete,” he said, his voice very low and very menacing, “you have three seconds to take your arm off my woman. Are you hearing me, cowboy?”
“She’s not your…” Pete started, then met John’s gaze. The color drained from Pete’s face as he saw the ice in John’s blue eyes and the tight set to his jaw. “You bet.” The cowboy dropped his arm from the woman’s shoulders and took a step backward. “Hey, man, my mistake.”
“You’ve got that straight,” John said, then looked at the woman. “You’re late. Car acting up again?”
“Car,” she said, nodding. “Acting up. Again.”
“Right,” John said. “Come on, let’s go, before someone takes the booth I have for us.”
“Oh, I don’t think—”
“No joke,” John said gruffly. “That’s very obvious.”
He placed one large hand in the middle of her back and propelled her forward until they reached the booth. He shoved his jacket into the corner and glowered at her.
“Sit,” he said.
Laura sank onto the leather bench and scooted into the middle, acutely aware that her legs were trembling so badly, they had been about to give way beneath her. She drew a shuddering breath, then looked directly at the man who was now sitting opposite her.
He pushed his Stetson up with one thumb and met her gaze.
Blue ice, Laura thought. His eyes were cold, like chips of blue ice. He wasn’t handsome in a smooth, conventional manner; his features were far too rugged, with high cheekbones, a strong, square jaw and a straight blade of a nose.
His hair was dark brown, thick and shaggy, falling to his collar and badly in need of a trim. Broad shoulders strained against the material of his shirt, and his hands now wrapped around the bottle of beer were large and powerful appearing.
He was, without a doubt, the most earthy, rough-hewn—the most masculine—man she’d ever encountered. There was an aura of danger emanating from him, a sense of tension, of leashed strength that might explode at any moment.
Dear heaven, she thought, she could hardly breathe, and the wild tempo of her racing heart was echoing in her ears. Those eyes. Those incredible eyes of his were pinning her