“You know what you need?” Robin’s voice pushed past the memories clogging her brain. “You need Andre.”
“Who’s Andre?”
“My F.B.” She grinned. “My fu—”
“I know what an F.B. is,” Lucy cut in. “And no thank you.” She finished folding the last skimpy item of clothing and deposited it into a dresser drawer. “I’ve had enough one-night stands to last a lifetime. I don’t need another.”
“Really? Let’s see, you’re having wet dreams about a man you say you can’t stand. Clearly you’re not completely and totally sexually satisfied.” Robin eyed her. “That, or you’re still hooked on him.”
“I am not hooked on him.” Her lips tingled and she stiffened.
Robin was right. Not the part about Lucy still being hooked on Rayne. Not no, but hell, no. Rather, she was right when she said that Lucy needed a man.
She’d never gone an entire year without sex. Geez, she’d never even gone six months. Her longest dry spell had been three months and fourteen days. She’d been so desperate that she’d done one too many shots and hooked up with Cyrus Wallaby. He’d been the water boy for the football team. He’d also been voted Most Studious. And Most Likely to Die a Virgin.
She was pushing one year and five days now. No wonder she was acting loony. She was weak. Needy. Desperate.
It made sense that she would fantasize about Rayne. She would no doubt do it again if she didn’t break her dry spell. And fast.
Lucy sat down on the corner of the bed. Cupid nipped at her ankles and she snatched her legs up underneath her. “So what’s Andre like?”
“He’s had all his shots.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“He’s great in bed.”
“That’s not what I meant either.”
“I know. You’re missing the point.”
“Which is?”
“It doesn’t matter what he’s like. That’s the beauty of it. It doesn’t matter what kind of car he drives or what he looks like or what he does for a living or if he likes the Dallas Cowboys or the Houston Texans. All that matters is what he wants. He wants sex. You want sex. There are no games. No questions. No expectations. Nothing but the two of you doing the nasty for an hour or so and then he’s out of your life. You forget about him and he forgets about you.” She grinned. “Until you want to get busy again, that is.” She scribbled a phone number down and tucked it into Lucy’s cleavage. “Call him.”
SHE WAS NOT CALLING ANDRE.
Lucy made that vow as she fished the paper from between her breasts, dropped it onto the dresser and climbed into the shower. She was desperate, but not that desperate.
Yet.
The word popped into her head, haunting her as she pulled on her work outfit. She swiped her lips with a pale pink gloss before herding Cupid into the laundry room, where she’d set up his doggie bed and his food and water bowls.
“I’ll be back soon,” she vowed.
He started to bark, the sound sharp and piercing, and she seriously contemplated dropping him off at the local animal shelter.
But then that was what everyone wanted.
In the few weeks since Miss M had passed away, Lucy had had three visits from Eileen Warner who supervised the shelter. The woman had left each time with a frown on her face and a pinch between her eyebrows because she hadn’t been able to find any excuse to remove the animal from Lucy’s custody. She, like the rest of the SCANCs, was itching to get her hands on Cupid.
Lucy summoned her most optimistic smile. “How about when I get back we watch TV together? Or we can play fetch?”
Cupid answered by growling and sinking his teeth into the toe of Lucy’s boot.
Lucy grimaced and shook the animal off. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She backed up and closed the door before the dog could launch into attack mode.
She ignored the incessant barking, snatched up her keys and tried to forget Robin’s suggestion. She’d been horny before and never had she resorted to propositioning a stranger.
Okay, so maybe once or twice. But she’d been different back then.
She’d been a carbon copy of her mother and older sister, and so she’d carried on the family tradition of picking up men. Oddly enough, it hadn’t really been about sex. She’d wanted to feel desirable.
Valued.
Loved.
The endless string of men had filled the void. For a few hours anyway. But once the next morning had rolled around, she’d been back to feeling empty. Worthless. Alone.
No more.
She was changing and she wasn’t going to let Rayne Montana and his impromptu appearance throw her for a loop. She’d seen him, which meant the initial shock was over. No way would he have the same effect if she ran into him again.
Lucy held tight to that hope as she headed to work, poured beers and did her best to ignore the anticipation building in the pit of her stomach. A feeling that grew as the night wore on.
He was coming.
She wasn’t sure how she knew. She just did. The certainty of it made her move that much faster and set her nerves on edge.
“Would you slow down? You’re making the rest of us look bad.” Becky came up beside Lucy and started popping the tops off four beers. “What’s wrong with you? Are you coming down with something?”
“Yes.” A bad case of lust. “I took a decongestant for this cold I have and it’s making me a little antsy.”
“Since when do you have a cold?”
She faked her best cough. “Since this morning.”
“And here I thought you were acting like a nut because Rayne Montana is back in town.”
“Why would I care if he’s back?”
“Because you used to have the hots for him, that’s why.”
“FYI, he had the hots for me, not the other way around.”
“So you couldn’t care less that he’s sitting in that corner over there, staring at you?”
She whirled and sure enough, he sat at a small table next to the jukebox. He wore faded jeans, a plain black T-shirt and the same dusty brown cowboy boots he’d had on yesterday. His dark blue gaze collided with hers and her heart jammed into her throat.
So much for the initial-shock theory.
“He ordered a Corona,” Becky said, holding up the bottle, a lime wedged on the top. “He asked for you to bring it to him.”
Like hell.
That was what she wanted to say, but Becky was looking at her as if she’d grown two heads. She was the infamous Lucy Rivers, after all. She made men nervous and anxious and desperate, not the other way around.
But then Rayne wasn’t just any man.
He was the man.
The thought wedged itself into her brain before she could slam the door shut. Her pulse quickened and her heartbeat revved that much faster.
“You don’t have a fever, too, do you?” Becky touched a manicured hand—tiger-striped tips with pink rhinestones—to Lucy’s forehead. “You don’t feel warm, but your cheeks are flushed.”
“It’s just a cold.” Lucy licked her suddenly dry lips. “Really.”
Becky didn’t look convinced. “I bet you’ve got one of those internal fevers. My aunt Jenny Mae gets those all the time. It’s where the fever’s on the inside, trying to get out only it’s not strong enough. She rubs on a bunch of calamine lotion and it clears right up.”
“Isn’t that for poison ivy?”
“Duh.” She gave Lucy a what-planet-are-you-from? look. “Of course it’s for poison ivy. It forms a protective coating on the skin.”
“And it benefits a fever how?”
“If the fever’s fighting to get out and you put on a protective barrier, then it keeps the heat contained inside. Once you’ve got it contained, all you have to do is load up on Tylenol which shoots the fever to hell and back.” She gave Lucy another once-over. “If you’re not feeling up to it, I can take the table for you.”
She wanted to accept Becky’s offer, but Lucy w
as never too busy for a customer. She’d had a root canal last year and she’d still managed to take old Caleb Jenkins a double order of nachos and a glass of iced tea. And the time she’d twisted her ankle? She’d hopped over to Jimmy Dietrich and dropped off his extra-large bowl of chili—no onions—and an ice-cold draft and a double order of chile lime chicken wings. She had an entire host of regulars that requested her and tipped big, and so she always found the time and made the effort when someone asked for her by name.
Becky knew that, and so did everyone else.
She grabbed the beer bottle, pasted on her sexiest smile and headed straight for Rayne Montana.
6
“THAT’LL BE THREE-FIFTY” Lucy set the beer in front of Rayne and tried to calm her frantic heartbeat. He smelled so good—a mix of leather and fresh air and an edge of danger—that was fiercely intoxicating. Her hands trembled.
He held out a twenty. “Keep the change.”
She grabbed the bill, her fingers brushing his. Electricity zipped up her arm and firebombed between her legs.
“I…” She licked her lips and fought for her voice. “Um, thanks.”
She started to turn, but his voice stopped her. “Why don’t you sit down?”
She ignored the butterflies in her stomach and tried to keep the quiver from her voice. “I’m working.”
“Everybody gets a break.” He patted the seat. “Sit down and we’ll catch up. That or you can tell me to get the hell out. But then everyone in here is liable to wonder why you’re being such a bitch. If you really hated me, you wouldn’t waste your time.”
“I don’t hate you.” She wasn’t sure why she said it. Better to have him think it was true. At the same time, she couldn’t quite let him believe it. He’d heard it too often from his father for all those years and she’d seen how it had hurt him. She didn’t want to add to that hurt.
Not that she would, of course. He would have to care about her for it to make a difference. Which he didn’t.
Still…
Something softened inside her and suddenly taking a break didn’t seem like such a bad idea. “Five minutes.” She perched on the edge of the chair. “I’m really sorry about your dad.”
He stiffened and a hard glint lit his eyes. “Don’t be. He brought it on himself.”
“I’m not sorry for him.” She stared into his eyes. “I’m sorry for you.”
The glint faded and the tension seemed to ease from his muscles. “Thanks.”
“Miranda’s getting married,” she heard herself blurt out, eager to kill the silence that stretched between them. Not the uncomfortable kind, but the soft, warm variety that made her remember all their talks in the hayloft. “He’s an ex–rodeo cowboy. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Cody Boyd?”
“Can’t say that I have. I’ve been out of touch for a while. It’s been one mission after the next.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“It used to be, but now it’s just routine.”
“So why do you keep doing it?”
“It’s my job.”
Or it used to be.
She wasn’t sure why she had the sudden thought. Just that it was suddenly there in her head.
“There’s a new spray tan booth at the fake-’n’-bake salon,” she heard herself rush on, eager to shift them to a less personal topic. “And there’s a second window open at the post office. The Panthers have been doing really good this year. We might actually make it to state—”
“Relax.”
“Excuse me?”
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on hers. “You’re nervous.”
“I am not.”
“Then you must be really scared.”
“Please.” She shook her head and summoned a laugh. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“No, sugar.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his face coming close to hers. “You’re afraid of you.” His thigh brushed hers and heat rippled through her. “You’re afraid if you sit here for too long—” he winked “—you’ll be overcome with lust and you’ll jump my bones.”
“In your dreams, buddy.”
The grin faded from his face and a hungry light gleamed in his eyes. “Exactly.” His eyes gleamed brighter, almost unearthly, and goose bumps danced up and down her arms. “What about you?”
He ran a strong fingertip up the side of his bottle, gathering the drops of condensation as he went, and she could have sworn she felt the slow drag up the middle of her back. Her nipples hardened and her nerves hummed.
“What have you been dreaming about lately?” he added, his voice low and deep and stirring.
You.
She bit back the word before it could slip past her traitorous lips and shrugged. “I don’t waste my time with dreams.” She gave him a knowing look. “They’re not near as much fun as the real thing.”
Most men would have taken that as a come-on, but Rayne stiffened. His gaze narrowed and she had the distinct impression that she’d hit a raw nerve.
But then his expression eased and she knew it was just her deprived hormones making her imagine things.
He would have to care about her to be jealous and he’d already made it obvious that he didn’t.
Even if he did have the strangest light in his eyes. As if she was the one thing did care about. The only thing.
“Are you done with the military?” The words poured out of her mouth as she tried to distract herself from the sudden butterflies in her stomach. “Are you on vacation? Are you on some secret military mission to scope out Mr. Bixby’s new herd of cows? What?”
He opened his mouth as if he were about to tell her something, but then he shrugged. “Yeah,” he finally said.
“You’re on vacation?”
“I’m scoping out cows. See, the Russians are out to implant a chip in Bixby’s herd so that they can take over the town.” He added in a hushed whisper, “We’re on the verge of a full-blown cattle invasion.”
A grin tugged at her lips. “You’re full of it.”
“Maybe, but I got you to smile.”
“You also dodged my question.”
“A double whammy. Am I good or what?”
Too good. He always had been. That was why she couldn’t get him out of her head. She was deprived and he represented hot, steamy, mind-blowing sex. She couldn’t help but be attracted to him. It had nothing to do with the fact that she still had feelings for him.
He looked good. He smelled good. He had a penis.
End of story.
“Ruth left me the ranch when she died.” His deep voice cut into her thoughts. “I didn’t know it at the time. She made arrangements for my parents to keep living there, but she left specific instructions that if anything happened to them, the property was to go to me.” He ran a hand over his face before his gaze collided with hers. “I’m selling it and the Realtor needs me to sign the final papers.”
Which explained his sudden appearance. At the same time, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was holding back and there was more to him being here than a simple real-estate transaction.
Before she could dwell on the notion, he reached out. His fingers brushed back several strands that had come loose from her ponytail. “You always did have the softest hair.”
“And you always had the smoothest pickup lines.”
“If memory serves, you’re the one who picked me up.”
“Only because you ran out of gas. You’re the one who kissed me when I dropped you off.”
“You wanted me to kiss you.”
Amen. She stiffened. “Is there a point to this conversation?”
“We were good together.” The blue of his eyes darkened as he stared at her. “We could still be good together.”
Staring into his eyes, she found herself entertaining the notion. But then she blinked and sanity zapped her.
“That’s it. Break’s over.” She scooted back her chair and pushed to her feet. “It’s been great catching up, but I really
have to—” The words stumbled to a halt when she felt his hand on her arm.
“Spend the night with me.” His gaze caught and held hers. “One more night. Just the two of us. For old times’ sake.”
Heat skittered down her spine and desire bolted through her. She wanted to. She wanted it so much that it suddenly scared her. “I—I can’t.” She shrugged away from him and forced herself to her feet.
“You can’t or you won’t?”
“Both.” She swallowed, ignoring the sudden image that popped into her head—of the two of them, bodies tangled, mouths eating at each other. “I, um, already have a date.” And then she turned and headed back behind the bar before she did something really stupid.
Like kiss him.
Or worse.
She ignored several beer requests and a signal from Rich Winters, who wanted ketchup for his onion strings. Instead, she reached for the phone that sat under the counter and punched in the number imprinted on her brain.
A loud ring echoed in her ear and she tried to calm the frantic beat of her heart.
Desperate times called for desperate measures. And she knew, as surely as she knew her own name, that she wouldn’t be able to walk away from Rayne if he cornered her again. Not tonight. Or tomorrow.
Not in her present state.
She was too worked up. Too needy. Too horny.
That was why she’d found herself forgetting how much he’d hurt her in favor of how good it would feel to fall into bed with him just one more time.
It wasn’t him, she reminded herself. It was the fact that he had a penis. Once she broke her fast she wouldn’t be such a hormonal hurricane. Then she could forget the way he stroked that damn beer bottle and the way his lips closed over the mouth and the way his Adam’s apple moved up and down as he chugged the gold liquid.
And she knew just how to prove it.
The phone rang once more. The shrill sound lasted a split second before she heard a clear, distinct “Yo.”
She put her back to the crowd and faced the row of bottles lining the wall. “Andre?” she murmured into the receiver.
“Who’s this?”
“A friend of mine gave me your name. She said you might be able to help me with a problem I’m having.”
Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume IV Page 4
