The Cowboy Way. Candace Schuler
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on his head. “I really would,” he said earnestly, as if he actually meant it. “But my dear sainted ma raised me up to be a gentleman like my pa—”
Jo Beth snorted inelegantly.
“—like my pa,” he reiterated, giving her a doleful look of mock censure, “an’ she’d roll over in her grave for sure if I was to just up and leave you out here by your lonesome, all unprotected and vulnerable-like. Some fella who ain’t nearly as well-mannered as me might come along an’ try to take advantage of the situation.”
The attitude, the words, the tone, the ridiculously thick aw-shucks-ma’am-I’m-just-a-dumb-cowboy accent were all calculated to make him sound as innocent as a wet-behind-the-ears farm boy. Even the way he was wearing his hat, well back on his head with the brim framing his face like a halo, contributed to the impression of a harmless good-natured hayseed bent on doing the right thing.
But the heated look in his eyes, his sly Cheshire-cat grin, even the casual loose-limbed way he sat his horse was a blatant, unabashed sexual come-on, a challenge of the most sexual sort.
I’ve got what you want, he said, without saying a word. All you have to do is ask.
And, oh, it was tempting.
He was tempting.
Too tempting.
And he knew it.
The arrogant jerk.
That’s what came of having legions of panting, dewy-eyed buckle bunnies throwing themselves at his feet every time he so much as flashed that lady-killer smile of his. It gave a man an exaggerated impression of his appeal and made him think every woman he met was just dying to get down and dirty with him.
There was only one surefire way to regain her dignity and show him he had absolutely no allure for her.
“Well, then, if you won’t leave, I will.”
She put her palms on the rim of the tank behind her and pushed herself up. The movement was swift but unhurried, as natural as if she were rising, unobserved, from her bath. And then, using every last bit of self-control she possessed, she stood there for a moment, knee deep in the trough, and calmly, efficiently sluiced water down her arms and torso with the flat of her hands, just as she would have done had she been alone.
That would show him how unimpressed she was with his cowboy charm.
He didn’t say a word, didn’t so much as move a muscle, but she could feel him watching her, could feel the heat of his gaze following her hands as she briskly skimmed them over her own body. Without looking at him she knew he was completely, absolutely, utterly focused on her. Handsome-as-sin, four-time Pro Rodeo bull-riding champion Clay Madison was looking at her. And practically drooling with lust. The sensation was as physical as a touch, as heady as brandy fumes, as irresistible as a soft, sweet kiss in the dark.
Almost without conscious volition, she raised her hands back to her chest, placing her palms flat against her skin, and moved them downward for a second time, outlining the sleek wet lines of her body as she brushed the water from her skin. Her palms slid over the gentle swell of her breasts…caressed the firm, flat plane of her midriff and stomach…brushed ever so lightly across the patch of dark silky hair covering her pubic mound…
He made a strangled sound, something between a moan and a growl.
Jo Beth looked up at him, square into his eyes. What she saw there caused her to cross her hands over her pubic mound, instinctively, as if to hide it from him. But her shoulders remained straight and square, and her chin was well up. “What?” she said belligerently, trying to pretend she wasn’t the least bit intimidated.
He didn’t move his gaze from her face. “Do you want me to climb down off this horse and get into that tank with you?”
For one brief, delicious, insane second, she actually thought about saying yes. What could it hurt, after all? One hot, fast bout of slap-and-tickle with the fantasy cowboy who’d been driving her crazy for the past week might do her some good. It would get him out of her system, relieve the itch, and settle her down for the wedding tomorrow so she could concentrate on her maid-of-honor duties. No one would know. No one would care. And he’d be gone in a couple of days, so it wasn’t like she’d be in danger of actually getting involved in any kind of messy public relationship that would need explaining somewhere down the line. She could screw him and forget him, and that would be that.
On the other hand, he had the look of a man who might not be all that easy to forget. And that could be plenty messy in its own way, even if nobody ever found out.
“Well?” he demanded, his glare both furious and fascinated.
She opened her mouth. “Ah…” The word stuck in her throat, and the horror of it was, she didn’t know if that word was yes or no. “Ah…”
Clay tightened his hand on the reins, pulling the pinto’s nose up and around with one quick twist of his wrist. “Let me know when you make up your mind,” he said, and touched his spurs to the horse’s sides so that it sprang into a gallop from a standing start.
Jo Beth stood in the water tank, her hands still shielding the dark hair at the top of her thighs, her shoulders still square, and watched him until he disappeared up and over the hill. And then she sank down onto the side of the concrete tank because her knees were trembling too hard to hold her up anymore, and wondered just what the hell she would have said if he’d waited for her answer.
3
“LADIES. LADIES. PLEASE. Let’s have a little decorum here.” Jo Beth rapped the top of the coffee table with her empty glass. “And another shot. I need to make a toast.”
A slender blonde in a hot-pink, lace-trimmed satin chemise peered at her through an untidy fringe of spiky bangs, a half-empty bottle of tequila clutched protectively to her chest. “You just made a toast.”
“Well, I’m gonna make another one. I’m the maid of honor. It’s my job.” Jo Beth rose unsteadily to her knees and thrust her empty glass out across the table, waggling it back and forth under the blonde’s nose. “Come on, Roxy. Pour me another shot so I can do my job.” She waved her free hand expansively. “Pour everybody another shot.”
“Everybody” consisted of all six bridesmaids and the bride-to-be. They were ranged around the glass-topped coffee table in Cassie’s living room in various states of dishabille, from Roxy Steele’s pink satin and black lace chemise, to Cassie’s white eyelet baby doll with embroidered forget-me-not blue flowers, to Jo Beth’s yellow cotton knit tank top and green plaid boxer shorts. Thanks to the professional manicurist Roxy had hired as her contribution to the festivities, they all wore Juicy Peach polish on their toenails and sported matching French manicures.
The table was littered with cold slices of half-eaten pizza, barbecued chicken wings and baby back ribs on paper plates, chocolate-smeared sundae glasses, an empty Sara Lee cheesecake box, and a pile of squeezed-out lime wedges. A phallic-shaped saltshaker sat, strategically placed, atop the centerfold of the most recent issue of Playgirl magazine.
They’d started the evening with two unopened bottles of Jose Cuervo’s finest. The first lay on its side under the table, its contents sacrificed to the evening’s merriment. The second bottle was barely half-full.
Roxy obligingly served it up, pouring shots all around. Most of it ended up in the glasses, but some sloshed over onto the table. Not much, though, considering the bartender was halfway sloshed, as well.
Jo Beth bent her head, licking stray drops of tequila off her fingers, then raised her glass and waited until all five of the other bridesmaids—and the bride—had raised theirs, too.
“To Rooster Wills, the groom-to-be.” Her tone was somber, her manner solemn and almost respectful, as if she had something of particular gravity to say.
“To Rooster Wills,” they echoed, equally somber and serious.
They clinked glasses. More