Cowboy Fantasy. Ann Major
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Maria.” North took his sweat-stained Stetson off, raked brown fingers through his black hair, set his hat back on. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” His deep voice lacked enthusiasm.
“We’ll cook ’em steaks, take ’em ridin’ around on the ranch, show off the spread, impress ’em and bed ’em,” Jeff reminded him. “Just like old times…before her.”
“Right. Just like old times.”
Jeff resented Melody more than anybody else on the ranch. North and he had gone to college together, double-dated together. They’d been inseparable until Melody.
“Don’t you worry none about Little Camel, King.”
North showered and changed into a pair of faded jeans with razor-sharp creases, a long-sleeved white shirt and his best boots—his uniform, Melody used to say. Then he stomped out to his white pickup. First thing he saw was his Colt in its holster on the seat.
He was licensed to carry. Quickly wrapping the belt around the holster, he got inside and jammed it into his glove compartment.
Once he left the ranch, the flat, familiar highway was clogged with speeding NAFTA trucks all the way to Robstown where he turned off for Corpus Christi.
The drive through flat, unremarkable countryside was so familiar it soon grew boring. Maybe that’s why he noticed the bumper stickers peeling off the eighteen-wheeler in front of him. One was about beautifying Texas and the need to put a Yankee on a bus.
The other was about Humpty Dumpty being pushed.
North grinned. Melody loved bumper stickers.
Melody. He’d been thinking about her way too much. He should have canceled dinner at the Woodses’.
Too late. Dee Dee was a superb cook. Sam knew everything there was to know about football. North’s own father had died young. Too young. Not that North let himself dwell on that.
Hell, his own mother certainly didn’t dwell on it. She was in Europe blowing her fortune on the immense schloss of a Bavarian count she’d met in Paris.
The Woodses had always made a helluva fuss over North, a helluva lot more of a fuss than Melody or his own mother or even Gran ever had. Besides, he did have appointments with his accountant and cattle buyer in Corpus Christi. A frozen dinner in his bachelor apartment there held no appeal.
But the Woodses were her parents, and he was dating Maria now.
Only one date so far.
Not counting next Saturday.
An hour later, he was knocking briskly on the front door of the Woodses’ two-story home, fighting to pretend he felt cool and was in control. When nobody answered, he jammed his fist on the doorbell. He turned to go when he heard lightly racing footsteps.
The door was thrown open by a slim hand with glossily white fingernails that had ridiculous little silver moons etched into them.
Little silver moons.
They sparkled, winking at him. Even before he saw the rest of her, the jolt of male-female awareness that shuddered down his spinal column told him to bolt.
Instead he drawled lazily, “Hello there, Melody.”
Two
“Smile, Bertie boy. It’s the second best thing you can do with your lips.”
Something about Melody’s low, Southern voice, something in the images she conjured was so damn sexy, so damn blatant. He began to dream about how good it could be if she put those lips to work.
“Naughty, naughty,” she whispered, reading his mind.
“What the hell…”
“Relax. I didn’t mean anything. I got that line off some bumper sticker when I was driving home today.”
So, she’d been reading bumper stickers, too.
He moved closer. Big mistake. She smelled too good.
“I’ve got one for you, too, darlin’. Humpty Dumpty was pushed.”
She laughed.
To keep from grinning back, he bit his tongue till he tasted blood.
Peeking from behind the door, Melody batted her long, burnished lashes at him, just as she had that night when she’d come looking for him at his apartment. When the lash work got no visible reaction, her impish smile brightened, and she began to tease him in earnest.
His palms dampened. The smile was overkill. Her lash work had done the trick. So had the comment about what he could do with his lips.
No wonder the ambitious Dee Dee had called this morning. A mother knew when her daughter was in the mood to start something. In Dee Dee’s mind he was a prize catch and a big enough dope to fall for her little girl all over again.
“What the hell are you doing home?” he demanded.
“Hi there to you, too—Bertie.”
His mouth thinned. “Don’t call me that unless…”
“Then, hi there, Rancher Black,” she said sassily.
“North will do just fine.”
“Aye. Aye.” Instead of saluting, she touched her lip with a fluttery white fingertip and blew him a kiss.
Little moons sparked.
His lips actually got hot.
Hell, it was August.
His sneer was slow and deliberate, “So, you’ve come back—” Then he added, “What the hell for?”
She flinched at those secret code words, just as he did. Her beauty upset him even more. Her long, straight, reddish-gold hair framed the slender oval of her flushed face. Her golden skin was damp as if she’d just stepped from the shower. And those half-scared, flirty, smoky-blue eyes ate him alive. Why, oh why, did she have to smell of soap and perfumed bath oils?
Even without makeup, she was naturally, heart-wrenchingly beautiful, more beautiful and innocent looking and yet voluptuous than he remembered. She’d come looking for him after her little dance in Shorty’s, after their wild kisses in the parking lot. No sooner had he pulled her inside his place that night, the night he’d wanted her so damn much, he’d felt as if he’d die if he couldn’t have her.
She’d let him take her to bed. But first, she’d actually stripped for him.
“You say I only want to perform in public. Not tonight. Tonight I want to dance just for you. Do you want to dance with me?”
“I’m not the exhibitionist. I’ll watch.”
“You’re gonna have fun. I promise.” Her eyes had gleamed, teasing him, luring him.
She’d put a CD in his player, turned his lights way down and had begun to move in the velvet shadows. For a long time all she’d done was sway back and forth to the heavy beat and run her hands over her body. When he’d joined her, she’d let him grasp her by the waist, pull her close, let him put his hands wherever he wanted, let him strip her ever so slowly. She hadn’t even fought him when he’d undone the buttons of her blouse, one by one. She’d danced and smiled and lured them both to their doom.
The ground rocked under him as he stood on her porch. His heart thudded.
“You look too damn good, darlin’,” he whispered.
“So do you,” she said in a sad, lost tone that matched his own.
Just those words, and he wanted to touch her so bad he hurt. But he remembered the dangerous place that desire had led them to so many times before, so he knotted his callused hands, slipped them into his hip pockets. He took a deep breath and a long step backward.
Instead of her usual grunge attire, she wore some