by Amanda Renee
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The Cowboy SEAL’s Jingle Bell Baby
by Laura Marie Altom
Prologue
’Twas the night before Easter...
“How about letting a cowboy buy you a drink?” Navy SEAL Rowdy Jones slurred his words, but the evening’s libations bolstered his courage. As such, he’d moseyed over to the gorgeous little hottie who’d stolen his last rational thought.
She appraised him as if he were a stud sire up for auction.
“Want me to spin around so you get the full force of my magnetic attraction?” he asked with a grin.
In a dive bar filled with boot-wearing, beer-guzzling cowboys, she sipped a martini. Her white dress clung tight enough to have been painted on. She had the face of an angel, with cherry-red lips and a sleek wave of blond hair his fingertips knew would feel silky.
Instead of speaking, she downed more of her drink, then raised her hand, motioning for him to twirl.
More than a little turned on by her silent take-charge demeanor, he raised his longneck beer high, gyrating his ass in time with George Strait’s “All My Ex’s Live in Texas.”
He didn’t just want this gal; he had to have her—all of her. Down and dirty and every way in between.
In his thirty-odd years, he’d gotten pretty good at sizing up a man’s or woman’s character. The woman’s exterior screamed iceberg dead ahead. But a sadness in her eyes made him wonder if her carefully applied outer persona was eggshell fragile.
“Like what you see?” he asked on the turn around.
Without a trace of a smile, she nodded.
“Wanna get a room?”
She nodded again.
She set her drink on the bar, then held out her hand as if she were a princess and he her loyal subject.
His brain couldn’t quite compute the fact that she was taking him up on his offer, but he wasn’t complaining. He paid their bar tabs, then led her through the maze of Saturday-night heroes, all striving to outshine one another with their tall tales.
Though the next morning would ring in Easter, their miserable portion of North Dakota hadn’t gotten the memo. Earlier that night at the annual rodeo, the temperature had been pleasant enough, but a front must’ve moved in and cold wind whipped his mystery gal’s formerly smooth hair into a wild, sexy tangle.
Given the nasty weather, the bar’s exterior was lonely. Neon beer signs glowed through dusty windows. The parking lot’s one light didn’t do much to show their way to the adjoining motel.
Giddy Up Inn wasn’t fancy, but he’d heard from temporary cowboys hired to move cattle from seasonal ranges that it was clean.
The lobby was plain.
A single red Formica counter held a cash register and a few struggling plants. The air smelled of Lysol and the coffee brewing on a corner stand.
Rowdy paid cash for the room, and the weary-looking clerk handed over an actual key attached to a plastic horseshoe.
Back outside, Rowdy sheltered his dream girl from the worst of the wind. He found room twenty-one and slipped the key into the lock.
The room was cold, so he quickly shut the door and turned on the heat.
The woman stood just inside the door.
She hugged herself and looked on the verge of crying.
“Look,” he said, “if you’d rather call this off, I’d understand.” He hooked his thumbs in his Wranglers’ back pockets. “I mean, I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t be disappointed, but my momma raised me to be a gentleman and—”
“You always talk this much?”
She flew at him like a summer wind—wild and hot.
She braced her hands to his stubbled cheeks, slanting her lips across his with what he could describe only as an angry, frenzied need. He met the sweep of her tongue and groaned.
When she reached for his belt buckle, he was all too happy to help her along. She jerked his denim shirt open with enough force to rain buttons onto the carpeted floor. She pressed her small, nimble hands to his chest, kneading his pecs, skimming his abs. She trailed her lips over his bare skin, nipping his left biceps, sucking the hollow at the base of his neck.
Her every action screamed desperation.
The gentleman in him wondered why.
The horny bastard only wanted more.
He spun her around, jerking down the zipper on her dress. It might be white, but her attitude was bad-girl red. He let the garment drop to the floor, and with her back to him, he kissed her neck, cupping his hand to her belly to press her against his obvious need.
Her bra and panties weren’t from around these parts. White lace fine enough for him to rip off her with his teeth yet fancy to the degree he wasn’t ashamed to admit he felt damn near intimidated.
As if her curves weren’t tough enough to handle, there was her scent—once again at odds with her outer ice queen. How could she look so cold, and yet, when he breathed her in, smell like sunshine and lemonade or wildflowers swaying in a gentle breeze.
His physical ache to be inside her had grown to a near-frantic need. A nagging voice told him to at least dig a condom from his wallet. After a few tries in between kisses, he finally managed to roll one on. But too many beers and two hands filled with her ample breasts made him not much interested in anything beyond unlatching her bra and then dragging down the sheer panties.
She dropped his jeans and he was damned glad to have gone commando.
They were kissing again, and he found her hot and ready. Without thinking, he hefted her onto the dresser, then rammed all the way home. She cried out but then dug her fingers into his back, urging him faster and harder.
He didn’t know her name or job or where she could possibly be from, but none of that mattered. She was his every wicked fantasy. His whole world encapsulated in a lemonade-scented dream.
He thrust until he couldn’t think or breathe.
Until raw sensation struck him temporarily blind.
Mere moments after spilling his seed, he had to have her again...
Chapter One
’Twas almost the night before Halloween...
“Just shoot me...” Rowdy stared at his cell phone as if it had bit him.
“What’s wrong?” His roommate and fellow navy SEAL, Logan, slurped from his milkshake.
“What do you think?” He glared at his friend, who was a genius with plastic explosives but apparently couldn’t manage setting up auto-pay for their damn utility bills. “Try dropping your cell down an Afghanistan well, then slogging through six months’ worth of voice mail.
I’d delete it all but turns out some of this crap is important—like when the gas company calls with a recorded message explaining our service got turned off for nonpayment.”
“Oops. Yeah, I meant to look into that. No wonder we’ve been stuck with cold showers.” Logan shrugged and took another sip.
Rowdy rolled his eyes and moved on to the next message.
While his friends worked their way around Virginia Beach’s Lynnhaven Mall’s food court, sampling all the fast food they’d missed while overseas, Rowdy had been trapped at his cell phone provider’s store, buying a new phone. He’d bummed Logan’s for occasional chats with his parents, but since he’d been with the only other people he ever called, he figured there was no point in replacing it till now.
Just as Rowdy played the last message, Logan signaled that he was headed to the Corn Dog Factory.
Paul Jameson—nicknamed Duck on account of his giant paddle feet—stood in line at Sbarro.
“Um, hello?” a woman said in a tentative tone. “Hope I have the right man? I’m trying to reach Rowdy? Gosh, I’m sorry. I just realized that though you gave me this number, I don’t even know your last name. You might not remember me, but we shared a, um... Let’s just say we were together—the night before Easter, and... I don’t know any easy way to say this, so here goes. I’m pregnant. You’re the father. But no worries—I’m putting the baby up for adoption, so you’re off the hook. I already found an amazing family, and our son is g-going to lead a g-great life.” Wait, what? His son? Her voice broke up. Was she crying? “Anyway, if I don’t hear back from you soon, I’ll assume this plan works for you, too. Bye.” Click.
Stunned, Rowdy stood in the food court’s center for what felt like an eternity while throngs of shoppers walked around him. How could an accidental pregnancy happen to him twice?
“Dude...” Logan slapped him on the back. “You look like hell. I didn’t forget any other payments, did I?”
Rowdy stumbled into the nearest chair at the nearest table, then cued up the message again on his phone. “Listen.”
Duck wandered up with a slice of pepperoni that was almost as big as his feet. He leaned in.
Logan sat, setting his corn-dog tray with about eighteen mustard packets in front of him. By the time the message had ended, he’d paled, too. “Dude... What the hell? Didn’t you learn back in high school to always wear a raincoat?”
“I always do—did. This has to be another mistake.” His mind flashed on that one brief doubt he’d had about his condom before plunging inside the woman who’d made him care about nothing other than giving her as much pleasure as she was giving him. Was it possible the condom broke?
“Then this chick must be like the other one who tried scamming you?”
“Exactly.” Only that time, Logan knew for a fact his protection had been fully in force.
Duck said, “No wonder Ginny never lets me off my leash to play with you. Rowdy, you’re a freakin’ mess.”
Rowdy glared at his supposed friend. The guy was married with four kids. His leash was a choke chain with links made of emotional steel. Poor guy hardly got out at all. But he seemed happy. Aside from their SEAL team, Duck’s wife and kids were his world.
As for Rowdy? Being a SEAL was his world. Period. End of story. But what if this woman was telling the truth...
He winced.
“When did she call?” Logan asked.
“Six months ago.”
“Damn. So, like, your bun’s almost ready to pop out of the oven?” Logan bit into his first of three corn dogs.
Rowdy pressed the heels of his hands to his throbbing forehead. “What am I going to do? Because one thing’s for sure—there’s no way in hell she’s giving away my son. On the flip side, I’ll be the first to admit I’m not marriage material.”
“Great attitude, man.” Duck smacked the back of Rowdy’s head. He’d have considered popping him back, but Duck outweighed him by fifty pounds of pure muscle. “Get your head out of your ass and get a clue. Family life is great. You, me, Ginny and your new bride can all have cookouts on the beach. My kids will love playing with yours.”
“See?” Logan stole a pepperoni from Duck’s slice. “No worries. Already, we’ve downgraded this situation from a DEFCON 2 paternity emergency down to a nice, steady DEFCON 5 beach barbecue. We’ve got your back. Plus, I’ll make a great uncle.”
Some days Rowdy wished he had better friends.
* * *
EX-RODEO QUEEN, EX-WIFE and ex-debutante Tiffany Lawson was seven months pregnant and determined to squeeze her formerly size-six feet into a pair of her favorite Jimmy Choos. It was a given no clothes in her closet fit, but now her shoes wouldn’t, either?
As for the no-good, rotten dirt clod of a cowboy who’d landed her in this position and hadn’t even had the decency to call? He could go straight to Hades for all she cared. Rowdy was low-life pond scum—lower. She didn’t even know his last name! Which, granted, didn’t say a heckuva lot about her decision-making skills, but still...
The less time spent dwelling on him, the better.
“Honey, no matter how hard you try cramming your toes into those darlings, they’re not going to fit.” Her mother, former Dallas society maven Gigi Hastings-Lawson, didn’t even bother looking up from the same copy of Town & Country she’d been reading for three months. Thanks to Big Daddy Lawson’s slight issues with the law, she couldn’t afford a new one. Since he’d be away for a nice long while and their Dallas mansion had been seized, Tiffany and her mother now lived in the godforsaken speck on the map known as Maple Springs, North Dakota.
Making matters worse—if that were even possible—was the fact that Tiffany didn’t earn enough money in real estate to have her own place. She and her mom lived with her paternal grandmother, Pearl. Since Big Daddy had paid off her house long before his trouble with the law, authorities allowed her to keep it.
“You did hear it’s supposed to snow?” Her mother lounged on the white velvet chaise Tiffany had salvaged from their former home by strapping it to the roof of the secondhand red Jeep Cherokee she’d bought from their former housekeeper.
Mr. Bojangles—her spoiled teacup Chihuahua—slept on her mother’s lap. He wore a black sweater and rhinestone collar. It had become her own special ironic hell that her dog now dressed better than her.
“When is it not supposed to snow?” Tiffany peered out her bedroom window to find another gloomy day in her equally gloomy life.
Blustery wind shook Pearl’s century-old home like a dog with a bone.
For comfort, she cupped her hands to her baby bump, but even that wasn’t satisfying, knowing she’d soon give her son to the Parkers. They were an amazing couple—both attorneys. Jeb Parker was considering a gubernatorial campaign. Susie Parker promised as soon as the baby was born, she’d resign to stay home with their new son.
In her former life, Tiffany had much the same plans, but then her father’s legal woes had been too much for her ex, Crawford, to deal with, and that had been that. He’d filed for a quiet divorce and was now married to one of her best friends—a former Miss Texas. C’est la vie.
Tiffany did learn one valuable lesson from her pain—men were as flighty as trash in the wind. Never to be trusted. They made you love them and then broke your heart. Okay, maybe that was more than one lesson, but bottom line, she would never, ever, ever give her heart to another man.
A twinge of guilt for her infant son made her hug her tummy. You’re excluded, little fella. You’ll be the one man on the planet who’s perfect in every way. I might not be physically with you while you’re growing up, but I’ll be with you every day in spirit.
Tiffany reached for her hot-pink sequined Uggs, cramming them over the navy tights she wore with the only fashionable maternity dress she owned that still fit—she’d change into her navy pumps at th
e office. Early on in her pregnancy, she’d found cute, cheap dresses at thrift shops, but now that she was huge, secondhand maternity wear was as elusive as late-October real estate sales.
“Maybe you should stay in?” Gigi had moved on to a more current Vanity Fair.
Mr. Bojangles glared at the imposition of waking when she moved.
“Mom, stop.” Tiffany added a pale pink cardigan over the dress, then a floral scarf and pearls. At this point, accessorizing was her only hope of maintaining a businesslike appearance at Hearth and Home Realty, where she worked twice as hard as her coworker Lyle, yet because he was the boss’s nephew, he had a knack for landing the best listings. “We can’t live in Maple Springs forever. Don’t you want to get back to Dallas?”
“Honestly?” Gigi sighed. “I’d rather continue hiding. As long as Big Daddy’s away, I’m not setting foot in polite society.”
To this day—months after her husband’s formal sentencing—Gigi refused to state out loud that her husband was in prison. She much preferred genteel euphemisms that sidestepped the harsh reality that it could be a year before she had a true marriage again.
Tiffany had visited her father only twice but regularly called.
Gigi preferred old-fashioned paper correspondence.
“I’ve got to get to a showing by nine. Try helping Grammy with some housework, okay?” Tiffany kissed her mother’s cheek—already fully made up and smelling of pricey lotion and cream. To show how much she adored her mom, Tiffany picked up sample-sized expensive-brand cosmetics at Bismarck department stores or online at discount wholesalers. There was no need for Gigi to ever learn the true extent of just how bad things were financially.
“I’ll try, dear, but you know how dust makes me sneeze.”
“I know. Just do your best.” Tiffany rubbed Mr. Bojangles between his ears, then made it down the two-story home’s creaky front stairs and almost to the door before getting busted by her grandmother.
“Don’t even think of dashing out of here without a proper breakfast.”
