The Millionaires' Club: Ryan, Alex and Darin. Cindy Gerard
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to her? What if she wasn’t Trav’s sister? What if she wasn’t off-limits because of it…because of a hundred other reasons that didn’t add up to what she needed him to be?
He felt as low as the cracked asphalt beneath the wheels of his four-by-four as he turned the key, shifted into Drive and pulled slowly away from her house. Damn Trav for putting him in this position. Damn Beldon for putting the moves on her. And damn the sleepless nights he’d spent agonizing about the possibility of another man making love to her for the first time. And all the times after that.
A fist curled in his gut at the thought. He knew he couldn’t be that man. He’d known it for years. Carrie had always had a crush on him. For her sake he’d always done his darnedest to discourage it. Truthfully, he’d figured she would grow out of it…eventually. Her response just now said she hadn’t.
He drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel as he headed across town for the Cattleman’s Club and the bar, where a tall cold one wouldn’t substitute for what he wanted but would give him something to do with his hands—and his mouth—other than kiss the one woman he had no business kissing.
He’d never quite understood why she was attracted to him anyway…had always assumed it might have had something to do with his rodeo background. Women seemed to go for rodeo riders, and Lord knew he’d had his share of fun with the ladies over the years. But he didn’t see himself as any prime catch—certainly, he wasn’t good enough for Carrie.
Yeah, he could take care of her financially. He was loaded, but that was an accident of heritage, not any great doing on his part. His granddaddy had struck it rich in oil and his daddy had kept up the tradition in real estate. But she didn’t need his money, anyway. Trav had seen to it that she’d never want for anything.
Besides, he’d learned a long time ago that money didn’t make a man…not the kind of man Carrie needed to make her happy. She needed someone who wanted to settle down. And that just wasn’t him. He wasn’t cut out for home and hearth and sharing at the end of the day.
At least he didn’t think he was, but he figured it was telling that he’d never held on to a relationship with a woman long enough to find out. And that was telling in itself. If he was into commitment, it seemed he’d have tried it on for size by now. He wasn’t sure he’d be any good at it…or answering to anyone but himself.
He was content alone, if not darn right hunkered in on the Dusty E since his folks had retired from ranching and resettled in Palm Beach. He was happy raising cattle and riding the range with Shamu and setting off on sporadic TCC missions. He liked the solitude—along with the occasional night with a pretty, attentive woman. Although, lately the only pretty woman who came to mind was the woman he’d just left crying.
He’d probably make her cry a lot if he gave in and made love to her. And that was something he just didn’t want to do. Carrie deserved an anchor she could stake a future on…and he was still floating with the currents.
Bottom line, she needed someone better than a busted-up former rodeo star who had tried to get into the marines when Travis had but couldn’t pass the physical because of all the injuries he’d gotten riding broncs on the high school rodeo circuit.
She needed a guy who would take care of her and protect her from the trouble she was bound to get into if left to her own devices. Beldon being a case in point.
And then there was Trav. Trav was Ry’s best friend. If he started something with Carrie, he’d end up losing Trav’s friendship—not to mention there was the possibility of getting his block knocked off, and he liked it fine where it was, thank you very much.
He pulled into the TCC parking lot, resolved, if not enthusiastic, about why their first kiss had to be their last.
But damn, did he hate hurting her.
And damn, did he still want that woman.
Six
Carrie stared at her tear-swollen face in her bathroom mirror. Considered writing a big red L for loser in the middle of her forehead in lipstick.
But then she got mad.
She did not cry. She was not a weeping Wilda, and hated that she’d been reduced to tears by Ryan Evans.
Well, she’d shed her last tear over him.
And she was finished letting him interfere with her life and her plans… on any level.
So what if his kiss had melted her bones.
And, oh, Lord above, had it melted them.
Her knees got weak and she got a muzzy feeling in her tummy all over again just thinking about it.
And then she got mad all over again.
For a moment—one long, blissful, hot, mindless moment—she’d thought Ry was kissing her because he wanted her. His kiss had been a lie. All he was doing was teaching her a lesson, doing his duty—his cursed brotherly duty—and warning her away from Nathan Beldon. She was furious that he’d had the gall to accuse her of being a tease. Hurt that he would think of her that way.
So what if his kiss had made her blood boil. He wasn’t offering her a darn thing but grief. Nathan… Nathan had been sending all kinds of signals that he was offering more. And Ry Evans or no Ry Evans, she owed it to herself to find out exactly how much more.
She pressed ice-cold water to her eyes, repaired her makeup, then ran a brush through her hair. Quickly exchanging her dark blue sweater for a Val-entine-red silk blouse, she grabbed her car keys, and headed for Nathan’s apartment across town. It was still early evening. It was still Valentine’s Day. And she was not going to spend the rest of the night alone. She was going to go to Nathan, apologize again and make it impossible for him not to take her to bed.
Roman Birkenfeld stood, reached for his trousers and tugged them on. Behind him Marci lay sprawled and spent in the middle of his rumpled bed. There was a bruise on her left cheek he couldn’t muster enough conscience to be sorry about. He hadn’t asked her to come over here. It wasn’t his fault she’d been a handy outlet for his fury when he’d returned from the park, his pants soaked with champagne and smeared with caviar.
It was Evans’s fault. The interfering, clod-kicking yokel had crossed a line tonight. No one humiliated Roman Birkenfeld. He felt the rage boil up in his blood all over again, just thinking about how the slow-talking and slow-witted Texan had managed to thwart yet another attempt to get to Natalie Perez through Carrie Whelan.
He’d almost had her. Almost gotten her to take him home, when Evan’s filthy mutt had attacked him.
Seething with building fury, he stalked into the living room, snagged his cell phone and dialed.
“Give me a report,” he ordered when Jason Carter answered the phone. “And you’d better have something good to tell me about my money.”
He waited with growing impatience as Carter, one of the muscle men he’d hired to help him track down the money, handed the phone to Tommy Stokes.
“Nothing new, boss,” Stokes said stoically when he came on the line. “We know one of those Cattleman’s Club guys who’s been protecting Perez took the money to their prissy rich man’s club, but we haven’t figured out a way to get to it.”
“You break into the damn place, is how you do it,” he barked back, at the end of his tolerance with the entire situation. “How hard can it be to get past a few prissy—wasn’t that your word—cowboys?”
“You said you wanted to keep it low-key,” Stokes said defensively.
“We’re past low-key, you moron. I need that money. And I need it yesterday. Now, find it and bring it to me or your miserable lives aren’t going to be worth living.”
He punched the end key before Stokes could utter a response, then tossed the phone angrily against the wall. Damn Natalie Perez. Everything had started unraveling when she’d gotten wise to his black-market