To Love a Wilde. Kimberly Kaye Terry
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he answered her question, infusing as much of a casual note into it as he could. “After Dad died my senior year in college, I came home for the summer and helped my brothers with the ranch. Things were hectic around the place for a while, but we pulled together, got everything back on target.”
“I was sorry to hear about his death. He was a good man,” she said softly, placing her hand on his arm. Immediately she drew back.
He knew the gesture had been instinctive to her, she’d always been a warm person and didn’t mean it as anything but a way to show comfort. But he felt the heat of her soft hand through his jacket as though she had made direct skin-to-skin contact, sending a jolt of electricity from his arm directly to his groin.
“Yeah, he was. He’s still missed. The place isn’t the same without him,” he said, remembering the man he’d called father for nearly ten years. The only man he’d ever been able to call that name.
“I’m sure he would be proud of you … you and your brothers,” she murmured, sympathy in her voice. “Proud of what you all have done with the ranch.” She paused and lightly massaged his arm. It was all Holt could do to keep it together, keep his mind on the conversation.
He turned to her, his glance falling first to her hand and then to her blouse. The button that had been threatening to come loose had finally slipped free of the fastening, and he caught a peek of the lace that covered the crests of her breasts.
Taking his hand off the wheel briefly, he covered her hand, squeezed it, before casually removing it.
He wanted to curse when he saw the crestfallen look on her face, the way her cheeks again bloomed with color, this time, he knew, from embarrassment. He realized instantly she perceived his action as some kind of rejection. But damn if he could allow her to continue her innocent, yet stimulating, massage. Not without slamming into the car in front of them and causing an accident.
As it was, he was having a hard enough time keeping his erection in check around her, and had been since the moment he saw her bending over, her round little butt filling her jeans to perfection, and the peek he’d gotten of her slim waist as her shirt lifted away from the waistband of her jeans … He drew in a deep breath.
“Anyway, after that I returned to school, got drafted into the NFL and played professional football for a few years.
“Yes, I knew that … I mean, Mama Lilly mentioned you playing pro when you got drafted,” she said, correcting herself.
Yasmine swallowed an embarrassed groan after he gently, yet firmly, removed her hand from his arm.
God, what had possessed her to touch him like that?
In all actuality she hadn’t thought much about her actions, simply reached out to him … it had come so naturally. But, as soon as she had, she’d felt an electric heat sear her hand when she’d touched him.
And it didn’t help matters in the least that her stupid blouse refused to stay closed. At that moment the button popped open, and the look in his eyes when he glanced down at her had made her treacherous nipples respond in kind. It was as though someone had kicked up the air-conditioning fifty degrees colder.
She’d ordered the shirt online, and hadn’t tried it on before donning it that morning, along with the just-as-useless new bra. Not that he’d believe her if she told him—he probably thought she’d worn the shirt on purpose, knowing it was a size too small.
And besides, even if she said anything, she’d feel even more foolish drawing more attention to the fact, she thought glumly.
As far as knowing what he’d been up to, well, she’d been well aware of Holt and his activities, at least the ones that seemed to make the news with the regularity that would make any one of the celebrity male sex sym bols green with envy. He’d had his pick of women, beautiful women, from actresses and models to heiresses and famous female athletes.
His … exploits had been fodder for many a news outlet, particularly during his time playing pro ball.
Much as he’d been during the time she’d lived at the ranch, Holt Magnum Wilde was still a magnet to women. Beautiful, rich … sophisticated women.
Although he’d only played pro ball for three years before retiring, it seemed he was just as busy off the field as he was on the field.
In every photo she’d seen, he’d had a woman draped on his arm.
More often than not, two. Sometimes three.
Every time she’d glance and see his name mentioned in regards to a woman, Yasmine had subconsciously held her breath, waiting for the time when one of them proved to be more than a passing fling, yet they never had.
Even retired, although his exploits weren’t as well advertised, the man still managed to make news. Nothing had changed.
As usual, with some woman on his arm, from the heiress he’d dated last year to the daughter of one of the most lucrative cattle farmers in Wyoming, he still had his pick from a bevy of women to choose from.
And although they’d seemed to click on the ride, and his interest in her life seemed real, he still saw her as nothing more than that little girl who’d had a crush on him.
Obviously nothing had changed about him in that regard, either.
She suppressed a sigh, planting the largest, fakest smile on her face that she could when he glanced her way, hoping he couldn’t read her thoughts.
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