by Rya Stone
Cassie Mitchum wasn’t impressed. In an unspoken challenge, she emerged from her car covered from head to toe in one of those flowy sundresses. The kind that obliterates every feminine curve. A part of him respected that, and if he’d been on his game, it would’ve made things much easier.
But he wasn’t on his game, not with her.
Although basically dressed for church, the woman was still a seduction. Her face was beautiful, yes, and he’d imagined to exhaustion those big sleepy eyes gazing up at him and those pillowy lips parted in pleasure. But that wasn’t all. He admired her professional determination. It reminded him of his own. And he wondered, not for the first time, whether she lay in bed at night, her hand creeping farther and farther south until she fisted it at her side in frustration at the idea of keeping things PG-professional in the face of undeniable attraction.
Or maybe that was just him.
As if reading his mind, she grimaced and clutched her messenger bag tighter. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to read her mind right now. Because he honestly had no idea what she thought of him. He wasn’t blind to the fact that women found him attractive. Some proved more overt in their appreciation than others, but this one was having none of it. She was all business. With a death grip on her bag, she approached him like a wary hunter stalking prey. And it was doing funny things to his chest. He prided himself on his restraint but, apparently, only when he was the one who couldn’t be had.
“You didn’t wear the jeans,” he said, eyeing her around his tilted-back bottle.
“They were dirty.”
“Laundromat must be out of order.”
Both brows disappeared beneath her bangs. “How presumptuous.”
“You’re welcome to use my washer and dryer,” he said, testing the waters, because he realized his pride had been hurt. “Especially for something as important as keeping you in clean jeans.”
He was a bad, bad man. And a hypocrite, which was somehow worse. Him telling her to get lost then inviting her into his safe haven proved it, no matter his motivations.
“You have a washer and dryer in there?” she asked, dipping her chin in disbelief.
“I’ve got everything in there.”
She snorted softly. Her nose wrinkled when she did it, and dammit if she wasn’t the cutest thing he’d seen in a long, long time.
It’s just chemical. You don’t even know her.
But he wanted to. And after her little admission about trekking back out to the ranch, he’d decided it might be a good idea to keep an eye on her. Something told him he’d enjoy every minute, no matter how frustrating.
“Where would you like to talk?” She brushed past him, leaving a faint trail of that spicy, exotic scent.
She still wasn’t having it. Good for her.
He pushed away from his truck. “Who said anything about talking?” And before she could snap out a protest, he grabbed the landman’s hand and led her over to the fire ring beside his camper. “Sit.”
She more like plopped. The plastic Adirondack chair sat low to the ground. She must have underestimated the distance and landed hard.
He side-eyed her, stifling a grin as he lifted the lid of a stainless-steel grill. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” She reached for her bag.
He shot her a stern glance. “First, we eat,” he repeated.
Ignoring his command, she slid a folder from her bag. Gut reaction had him plucking the file from her hand, followed by the bag. Deaf to her protests, he hurried to his RV and stepped inside.
Get your shit together, man. Except he had no idea what he was doing. Battlefields and business meetings he could handle, no problem. A date though? What had he been thinking? But that’s not what this was, not really. It wasn’t exactly a business meeting either. And he really shouldn’t have led her into thinking that, because he had no intention of signing the damn lease. So why had he invited her here? The answer to that was complicated. And selfish. First of all, he felt a possessiveness he shouldn’t, one that made him sick at the thought of her flashing those dimples at anyone but him. But the larger issue was the fact that he knew she wouldn’t give up. Despite his warnings, he had a feeling she’d be back at the ranch tomorrow morning if he didn’t give her something to take back to her boss. So, he’d decided to throw her a crumb while he figured out how to handle this mess. It sounded shitty. And he was the good guy, believe it or not.
Cursing under his breath, he grabbed a foil-covered plate from the stove then switched on the stereo, hoping for a distraction while the steaks finished cooking. Robert Plant belted out the first verse of “Black Dog” as he made his way down the steps, unable to keep his eyes off his visitor, who’d crossed her legs, revealing some…ankle.
Jase uncovered the plate. “You like jalapeños?”
Cassie smiled. “Do I like jalapeños?”
He kept his satisfaction to himself and placed the bacon-wrapped jalapeños stuffed with pan sausage and cream cheese on the little wrought iron table beside her.
“The path to heaven is paved with this stuff, you know.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Definitely,” she said. “Although I typically don’t indulge in the presence of a landowner from whom I need to wrangle a signature.”
“And why’s that?” he asked, staring down at her. And we have cleavage.
“Because when heaven is offered, I can’t wait to sink my teeth in. The result is usually a lavalike stream of liquefied cheese coursing down my chin, followed by the very unappealing open-mouth chew since the dang thing’s so hot I need to spit it out but can’t quite bring myself to do it.”
The laughter escaping his mouth surprised him, probably because he hadn’t heard the sound in a while. And he definitely couldn’t remember the last time a woman made his chest shake like that.
She chuckled along with him. “Yeah, best enjoyed with close friends and family only. At least while piping hot.”
But the peppers weren’t the only thing bringing heat to their “meeting.” He’d always been attracted to intelligent women. Add a splash of wit and an easy smile? Charisma. That’s what they called it. And he was eating it up. Probably because he’d been starving himself. “The steaks’ll be a few minutes. You want a beer?”
“I think I’ll pa—”
He cut her off before she could protest further. “Wasn’t planning on drinking alone,” he said, dipping his hand into the cooler at his feet.
She nodded, and he unscrewed the cap. Aiming the bottle in her direction, he took a seat on the other side of the table.
“Thanks.” She tilted the bottle back and swallowed a few mouthfuls. Something about the way she sat, more at ease now with her legs stretched out in front of her…the way her dress molded over those legs…
Definitely smoldering out here.
She tipped her bottle at him. “Shiner Bock. Heady stuff.”
For sure. And after a few sips, Cassie decided to conquer the jalapeños. Jase grabbed his own from the plate and glanced at the grill as “Rock and Roll” drifted out of the camper.
“This is my favorite Zeppelin album.”
His jalapeño froze halfway to his mouth. “You have a favorite Zeppelin album?”
Cassie nodded and finished another bite before answering. “And my favorite song is up next.”
“‘The Battle of Evermore’ is your favorite song?” he asked, amused to high hell.
“Off this album?” Her mocking tone and the cute little crinkle between her brows both indicated he’d just asked an absurd question. “Hands down.” Then she shook her hair behind the chair in a way that had him shifting in his, and he was suddenly back to questioning the woman before him. Was Cassie Mitchum sharing something about herself or had the landman seen an in and taken it, paving a bullshit road on her quest for a lease?
And what did it matter? He was running his own game. You know, the kind that kept her alive.
“What else?” he asked, despite needing to check the steak
s.
“What else what?”
“What other Zeppelin songs do you like?” he prompted, his voice holding that edge again.
If she noticed, it didn’t show because she leaned back and closed her eyes, the quirk of a grin on her lips. “Let’s see…‘Misty Mountain Hop,’ ‘Ramble On.’ ‘Over The Hills and Far Away,’ ‘Houses of the Holy,’ ‘Tangerine’…” She turned her head and asked, almost lazily, “You want me to keep going?”
All night long. And his next question slipped out unbidden, “What’s your favorite song?”
“Of all time?”
Fat spattered and sizzled on the grill as he drew out the silence before answering. “Yeah.”
“Hmmm…I imagine that’s like asking a parent to pick their favorite child.”
He knew a little about that. “Think on it.” He rose. “I’ll be back.”
Cassie sipped and snacked while Jase checked the steaks. He’d snagged one of the end lots at the RV park, providing a sweet view of the river and a surprising amount of privacy. His guest appeared taken with the setup, and he wondered where she’d grown up, if she felt the same deep connection to nature he did.
He’d have devoured the steaks as they were, but chose to return to the chairs with another opened beer, aimed in Cassie’s direction. “And?”
She looked up with those doe eyes and said, “‘Hallelujah’ by Leonard Cohen.”
He hadn’t expected her to choose one of the most hauntingly sexual songs ever written, and it carved a hollow in his stomach, like after a punch to the gut, a something that was suddenly missing. A heavy silence followed, and Cassie shook her hair around her face—the only sign of insecurity he’d ever witnessed from her. That sense of possessiveness reared its ridiculous head again, and he didn’t quite know how to respond. Then, unbelievably, she sang to him.
Of David. And his secret chord.
Jase’s brows knitted together; his mouth parted. He could actually feel his jaw drop and wondered how big of an idiot he appeared at the moment.
“The original is great, but the Jeff Buckley version is probably my favorite,” she said without looking at him. “You know it, right?”
He nodded as she continued on with the second line, like she was asking if he, himself, cared for music. Oh, it was definitely chemical, but now it was more, and the intensity of his gaze melted her words into a whisper. He didn’t even hear the last few syllables. He would have cursed at the crickets chirping in the twilight if he hadn’t been so embarrassed. Of what, he wasn’t sure, and pulled on his beer, guarding his eyes though they never left her as he walked back to the grill.
…
Had she seriously just sung to a landowner?
You do what it takes to get the signature—hunting trips, cases of whiskey, extra dirt work—but this was ridiculous. Cassie filled her mouth with Shiner Bock and silently declared it her last beer. She swallowed slowly, biding her time, while the immense pressure of Jason’s gaze drifted from her eyes to her mouth before sliding down her throat. The man pulled at her in places best left unidentified during a business meeting. But she’d sung to him on her own accord. That hadn’t had anything to do with the lease.
After a few awkward moments, she braved conversation. It was either that or walk away without a signature.
“I really like your truck,” she said. Good one, Cass. Couldn’t come up with something more relevant?
But the comment earned her a satisfied smirk. “Yeah?”
She went with it. “What happened to your work truck? The Dodge you were in the other day?”
“It’s a company vehicle. I don’t usually drive it home.”
Encouraged, she plowed ahead. “Can I ask why you’re staying in an RV park when you live a few miles away?”
Jason snorted. “A few miles?”
“Well, you know…I mean, you do have a home nearby.”
“You’ve met my brother.”
“Yeah…”
Jason raised his eyebrows and settled into his chair, a long, tall Texan, all the way. And when had the country-boy thing become so appealing? Was it just “Deep in the Heart” as they say, no matter which cul-de-sac you hailed from?
“I get it,” she said.
“No, you don’t, but we’ll leave it at that. Your song’s on.”
She took a sip and gazed into the trees lining the river. Yep, awkward. The only thing making it less so was Marianne Faithfull’s eerie voice mingling with Robert Plant’s in an ode to high fantasy.
“I’m usually at the rigs,” Jason said finally. “Don’t come to town much.”
“You stay out there?”
“Yeah, we’ve got barracks of a sort. Portable housing.”
“Right.” A man camp. “I noticed that the other night.”
He shook his head and raised his bottle to his lips. “Sleep, work, sleep, work.”
“Sounds almost as fun as spending your life on the road.”
“Why do you do it then?”
She shrugged, not wanting to share the fact that she’d been spending more and more time working in her motel room, away from the office drama. That she’d been taking off almost every weekend, making the four-hour trip home. “You?” she asked, glancing over the table. “Why do you do it?”
“It’s a means to an end,” Jason said before throwing back the rest of his beer.
At least he knew his end. Hers? There wasn’t one, not beyond landing her mother in a state-of-the-art facility. Her collegiate writing dreams had crumbled and died in a series of scathing rejections, and she’d done a one-eighty, leaving her bohemian aspirations behind when she left Austin. To hell with starving for the craft. She’d taken the highest paying job she could find, drove the most expensive car she could afford, dated professionals with post-grad degrees and boats docked in Galveston. And she couldn’t look back now. That money had become a lifeline. Plus… publication? She might as well move to Hollywood and start auditioning for blockbusters. Nope. She was a realist. And that’s why she’d chosen the oil patch. Beyond that there wasn’t much, not single, living on the road, and visiting her mother every chance she got.
“You got quiet,” Jason said.
She searched his handsome face, not sure what she sought there. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“When those steaks will be ready.”
That earned her one of those sexy-as-hell grins.
Jason Lucas’s RV didn’t give off van-down-by-the-river vibes like she’d half expected after the Chainsaw Massacre house. The interior was dim and cool and reminded Cassie of a club or lounge with its dark wood accents and sleek black everything else—leather sofa, flat-screen TV, compact kitchen appliances and stacked washer and dryer. It was like a roughneck rock-star tour bus.
Cassie started looking for the stripper pole, still kind of impressed her landowner had taken this route instead of losing money on a motel room or rental house. And if he was earning some kind of per diem for his lodging expenses, the whole shiny shebang was probably paid for already.
Finding not a coke mirror or sex swing one, Cassie spread a map atop the dinette. “This is your land.” She pointed to a large tract, rectangular in shape except for the river boundary bottomlands, which sprawled for more than two miles along the Karankawa.
“I see it,” he said. “Although I distinctly remember telling you I wasn’t interested in leasing it.” And he wasn’t seated across from or even next to her. No, Jason Lucas bowed over her back, one hand flat on the table. Smoke and spice lingered from the grill, mingling with some underlying scent, fresh yet masculine. He was warm and heavy, and even though they weren’t touching, the teasing setup was somehow worse.
“So, um…” Get it together, Cass. She cleared her throat and rattled off some facts. “The yellow on the map indicates what we already have leased, the blue what we’re working on, and the white—”
“The white means you don’t have shit.”
“I…I would
n’t have put it that way, but yes. And as you can see, that white consists of your land along with some adjacent tracts, including Neely’s.” He tensed at the mention of his dead neighbor, but she plowed ahead, despite the seriously distracting nature of the stray hair falling over his cheek. “One of my colleagues got pretty far in the negotiation process with him, but then—”
“You’re not working the Neely tract?”
“No,” she managed, still recovering from the beer-laced breath on her shoulder.
“Good.” He turned slightly so that his next words hit her neck. “You stay the hell away from there, too.”
Her voice rushed out in a whisper. “Why?”
“Because I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Every hair on her body stood to attention. “I’ve already braved your brother and suffered a second twisted ankle for my effort, so I don’t think—”
Her chair spun, and she found her chin cupped in a rough hand. “You hurt yourself again?”
She nodded her head.
“Did Clint hurt you?”
She shook her head. How was she supposed to answer when he looked at her like she was a deer caught in some pretty blue headlights, like he wanted to wreck her and save her and—
“Clint.” His fingers snapped in front of her face. “Did he hurt you?”
“Not on purpose. I mean, it was—”
“Let me see.”
“Huh?” she rasped out, rendered immobile as his hand slid up her leg, taking the hem of her maxidress with it. “Other one,” she breathed. And wasn’t this some BS? What was next? Swooning?
A huge hand wrapped around her right ankle, searing, just as his hand on her face had been. “It’s swollen.”
“I told you, it was a bum ankle to begin with.”
He brushed his thumb back and forth across the tender joint. “How’d you get a bum ankle?”
