“So what’s your pleasure?” Winnie asked as she held up the game pieces.
His gaze swept her from head to toe, pausing at her full, cherry-colored lips. “I’m real partial to red.”
Too partial, not that he was going to act on the heat burning him up from the inside out. He wasn’t making any moves, and neither would Winnie as long as he kept his head and his ruse intact.
She handed him his checkers and her soft skin brushed his knuckle. A jolt went through him and sent a throbbing heat straight to his groin.
He took a deep breath. You can make it. Just hold on tight and breathe.
After all, it was just one measly game.
8
FOUR NIGHTS and an equal number of games later, Trace sat across from Winnie and tried to keep his mind and his gaze on the checkerboard.
But Winnie Becker playing checkers was not a sight for the faint of heart. Or a hungry cowboy who hadn’t so much as kissed a woman for nearly two years.
She studied the board, her gaze intense, her cheeks flushed from the prospect of making a winning move. Her tongue darted out and she licked her lips.
Aw, honey, just one kiss.
“Did you say something?”
“I, uh,” he forced his gaze to the game board, “uh, said, darn, that was a near miss. If you had moved here, I would have had you. A classic hangman’s move.” Hangman? Hey, it sounded good.
“Geez, Trace,” she practically gushed, “you really know your stuff. How did you learn so much?”
“Uh, my dad. He was a professional.” While she was talking checkers and he was talking bull-riding, the concept was still the same. “He won five national championships and was on his way to number six when his Cessna went down. Both my parents were killed.”
“I’m so sorry.” Sympathy gleamed in her eyes and sent a spurt of warmth through him that heated him almost as much as the slow glide of her tongue across her bottom lip.
“My dad’s dream had been to break the holding record. That’s six championships. I was this close to doing just that in Vegas when I got hurt. A collapsed lung, eight broken ribs and a heck of a lot of bruises.”
“From a checker game?”
“Hell, no,” he blurted, before he caught himself. “Uh, I mean, it wasn’t the game itself. I was hurt on my way to the game.”
“A car?”
Yes was right there on the tip of his tongue, but for some reason it stalled. “A bull.”
“A bull?”
“You know Vegas. Crazy city. The danged thing got loose, some rodeo nearby or something, and there I was. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Anyhow, it put me out of commission.”
Something close to surprise flickered in her eyes, as if she’d been expecting a different answer rather than one so close to the truth.
Crazy, because Winnie was firmly convinced he was Mr. Pro Checker player, and so he was stuck here, fighting the near overwhelming urge to reach out, haul her across his lap and kiss her full, luscious lips.
“…you lost out on the championship?” Her soft sweet voice drew him from his thoughts and the image of Winnie so warm and willing and naked in his arms.
“Uh, yeah.” He cleared his throat and forced the vision aside. “But now I’m headed back out onto the circuit. I’m going all the way this year. The first big rod—er, competition is up in Denver.” He gave her a sharp glance to see if she’d noticed his slip, but her gaze never wavered. “It starts the first part of January, so I’m leaving the day after Christmas to check in and check out the competition.”
“Denver’s nice.”
“You’ve been there?”
“I’ve been everywhere. Most people think it’s exciting to have lived in so many different places, but it just sounds that way. It’s tiring.” Her gaze locked with his. “And lonely. I never really had the chance to make friends. That’s why I stayed in Boston for so long. I wanted a place to call home.”
“And now you’re here.” He glanced around, at the fresh patches of drywall, the stripped floors. “This probably isn’t much compared to your place in Boston.”
“Well, it certainly isn’t what I expected, but it kind of grows on you. It makes me feel warm inside.” She shook her head. “I guess that sounds silly.”
“No.” He knew exactly what she meant, which was why he’d avoided the house for so long. To come inside and feel that warmth, only made him see all he was still missing from his own life.
“There’s a peace here,” he said. “A belonging I used to feel it when I was kid. Every Sunday, right after dinner, we’d gather on the sofa and there was no place else I’d rather be. Ezra would tell me stories about the rodeos he’d been to and all the broncs he’d busted, and my Grandma Ginny would laugh and tell him he’d hit his head one too many times, because that wasn’t the way she remembered…” Trace went on about his past, surprised at how easy the words came, particularly to a man who’d vowed never to get close to a woman again.
Not that he and Darla had done much by way of talking. Just a fair share of moaning and groaning during the first few months, and some screaming and crying at the end—some of it his own, once Darla had wiped out half his bank account during the divorce.
He’d never been much of a talker, but damned if Winnie didn’t draw it out of him. Thankfully, because talking he could handle. It was the urge to pull her close and feel her pressed up against him that was driving him crazy.
THIS TALKING BUSINESS was getting way out of hand
Sure, Winnie had meant to butter him up by oohing and ahhing and encouraging him to talk about the one topic men loved most—themselves. But she hadn’t counted on being so interested in what he had to say, or the fact that he drew her into the conversation as well, or the fact that she liked the sincerity in his eyes when he spoke about his family. The curiosity when she spoke about hers.
She told him about Boston and Nina and her family scattered halfway around the world. And Arthur.
He told her about his past, skillfully disguising the bull-riding as checker playing, and about his childhood and his parents and Darla, whom he’d caught cheating. And worse, Winnie found herself entranced, hanging on every word, fighting down the urge to rip out every strand of Darla’s bleached blond hair.
Which was why she had to move things along. The more she talked to Trace, the more he felt like a friend, and the last thing Winnie wanted was friendship.
She wanted revenge.
Now.
“…blame her. I was on the road so much and she was lonely—”
“Are you thirsty?” Winnie cut in, bolting to her feet and nearly twisting her ankle in the strappy sandal. She fell partially forward, her hand smacking the checkerboard and sending the pieces flying.
Trace caught her arm, his touch so warm and startling that she jumped, lost her balance and fell forward.
Right into his lap.
While she’d meant to cut the conversation short and get to some real action, she’d planned a more graceful move. Some lip-licking followed by intense eyelash batting, a few suggestive remarks, then carefully, cautiously, sliding her way toward him, into his arms…
The arms in question tightened around her, hauling her closer until the soft side of one breast crushed against the hard wall of his chest. She stared up at him, his mouth hovering above her own. So close…
Okay, this would work too.
“You’ve got a really great mouth.” His voice was husky and warm. His sweet breath rushed against her lips and she couldn’t help herself, she twined her arms around his neck.
“Thanks.”
“I…” Want to kiss you, taste you, touch you. The unspoken words hovered in the air between them and fed the anticipation pulsing through her body, heating her blood and making her nipples tingle.
Because she wanted revenge, she told herself. It wasn’t anticipation of the kiss itself, of those strong lips sweeping down to claim hers, of his tongue stroking hers, of his hand moving just a few inche
s higher to touch the throbbing tip of one—
Hooooooooooonk. A loud horn shattered the thought.
Winnie scrambled to her feet, and Trace followed.
“What the hell was that?”
“A bullhorn. Bea’s trying the loud sound technique to get rid of Birdie.” She rushed to the window and peered out. Birdie still perched on the rain gutter. “Dam it. He’s still there.” The curtain slid back into place as she turned toward Trace. She licked her lips and tasted his sweet breath. She’d been so close. “Where were we?”
“I—I really should be getting home.” He ran tense fingers through his hair, and then stared in horror at his glistening palm as if he’d just realized what he’d done.
“Here.” She handed him a napkin. “I could find the pieces and we could play another round of checkers,” she said hopefully.
“Thanks, but no thanks.” He wiped his hand and shoved the paper into his pocket. “I really need to get going.” He paused at the door and cast a last look at her, his mouth hinting at a grin. “Sleep tight.”
Her lips still tingled. Her heart still pounded. Her skin still pulsed from his nearness.
Sleep tight? That was about as likely as Winnie writing a heartfelt letter of thanks to the manufacturer of Tiny Hiney Thongs. Dream on.
SOMETHING WAS WRONG.
Winnie came to that conclusion as she stood at the stove the following day, exhausted after a sleepless night and tired from a morning with the Busy Bees. She was following the recipe on page forty-four of her Hungry He-Man cookbook. At least, she was trying to follow the recipe, but her thoughts kept straying to Trace and the past week and she had to keep starting over with the blasted ingredients.
Four cups of tomato sauce.
Two cans of kidney beans…
While she’d known the seduction thing would take a little time—she’d had to progress from eyelash batting and come-and-get-me smiles to suggestive remarks, talking him up and the token accidental brushes against him whenever she passed by—she hadn’t counted on things taking this long.
Trace had turned out to be far more determined than she’d imagined.
That, or maybe she was just failing miserably at this vixen stuff. She still couldn’t get used to all the itchy underwear and her eyes still watered at the sight of a mascara wand. Maybe she just wasn’t cut out for bold, vivacious and exci—
A knock sounded on the door, disrupting the miserable thought and making her dump an extra pinch of salt into the now bubbling mixture. Or was that two pinches?
“Hey Winnie!” Big Jim’s voice followed the slow creak of the front door. “You here?”
“I’m in the kitchen.”
She heard one of the twins murmur, “Oh, no,” before Big Jim appeared in the doorway. The twins followed.
“It’s almost dinner time,” she said in between sniffles.
“About that… Say, sugar, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She sniffled. “I’m fine—” sniffle, sniffle “—and—” wipe, sniffle “—I’m almost—” wipe, sniffle, sniffle “—done.”
“See here, why don’t you sit down and let me take over? Boys, show Miss Winnie to a chair.”
“Sure thing, Pa.”
“But I need to stir.”
“Pa’ll be happy to fill in,” Matt said, seeming relieved when Winnie gave up her spoon without a fight.
“Let’s see what we got here.” Big Jim gripped the spoon, stared into the pot and wrinkled his nose as the boys steered Winnie into a nearby chair.
“It’s chili,” she explained.
“Is that so?” He stared into the pot. “Yeah, I guess it sort of looks like chili.”
“The ingredients are pretty basic. It didn’t seem like it would be that hard to make—” The words caught in her throat. “Who am I kidding? I can’t cook.”
“That explains what’s in this pot,” Big Jim said. “What I don’t understand, since you can’t cook, is why you agreed to my proposal.”
“I needed my bill reduced and the house needed repairs and now you’re probably going to break our bargain and—” Her words caught on a sob.
“Now, now, sugar. Don’t go getting upset. I’m not breaking my word. Anyhow, some folks got a talent for making, and some for eating. You just fall into the second category.”
Not anymore. She was half starved, killing herself with this vixen business, and getting absolutely nowhere. “This is all hopeless.”
“Maybe we can add a few spices.”
“Not the chili. Me. My life. My sex life, or lack thereof.”
“So it’s a man we’re talking about?”
“A stubborn man. I practically threw myself at him and he all but whipped out a can of Raid and sprayed in my direction.”
Big Jim seemed to think on that. “Probably likes you.”
“Right,” she said sarcastically. “I just have to face facts. I’m no good at this vixen stuff. Look at me. My eyes are red, my blush is too dark and I’ve got a run in my stockings and only half the day has gone by. I’m just not woman enough for him.”
“If you’re breathing, you’re woman enough for any man. Trust me. While I don’t know the situation firsthand, I’d be willing to bet this fella likes you. And the more he likes you, the more stubborn he’s apt to be. The whole man/woman thing is a lot like fishing, with you holding the rod and reel and him swimming for his life. When that hook first sinks into him, he panics. As he feels himself being reeled in, he panics some more. It ain’t until he’s in the bottom of the boat, this close to the ice chest, that he stops flopping around and accepts what’s going to happen.”
“A hooked fish is about to meet his death,” Winnie pointed out.
“So you can see the obvious comparison? When a man gets hooked by a woman, it is a death of sorts. Bye-bye to freedom and bachelorhood and being able to make bodily noises without saying excuse me or risking the couch for an entire week. Your guy is squirming, and it’s up to you to hold tight. Maybe even change tactics a little.” He took a taste of the chili and grimaced. “But whatever you do, sugar, don’t cook for him.”
THE MORE WINNIE THOUGHT about what Big Jim had said, the more she agreed. Maybe she wasn’t such a flop at this vixen business, after all. While Trace had managed to resist so far, she had seen the flash of desire in his eyes last night when she’d landed in his lap, and she’d felt the tightening of his arms, watched the hovering of his lips…
He wanted her.
Now to get him to act on that want. She had the tapes for guidance and Big Jim to boost her ego, but she still needed more. Some good, solid advice from a fellow vixen.
“Bea,” Winnie said as she walked out onto the porch where the woman was busy taking down the bullhorn—a broken bullhorn since Winnie had taken a shovel to the blasted thing early that morning—and replacing it with what looked like a giant flashlight. A visual dissuader, Bea had called it, and the latest weapon in Operation Birdie. “I need to ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“I’m trying to get this guy to kiss me and he’s not being cooperative. What do I do?”
“Well, my first rule of thumb is that I don’t sit around and wait for any man. If I’m in the mood to fool around, I send my guy a clear message.”
“Like saying, ‘Honey, I’m in the mood to fool around?’”
“Like meeting him at the door wearing nothing but Saran Wrap and a smile.”
A girl couldn’t get much clearer than that.
9
IT WASN’T SARAN WRAP, but it was close.
Winnie shimmied into the red Lycra dress, tugged and pulled, until she’d managed to cover all the important areas.
Cover, but not conceal. The skinlike material hugged her breasts, her thighs, her tummy… She fought down a wave of self-consciousness. It wasn’t about having a perfect body. It was about making the most of what you had and being proud of it.
She told herself that for the next fifteen minutes, until she
heard the knock at the door and Trace’s familiar curse as Birdie delivered his usual welcome present.
She took a deep breath, sucked in as much as she could, slid into three-inch heels and went to let him in.
On her way, she made a quick check of supplies—the packages of unstrung lights, pile of tinsel and boxes of balls. Christmas ballads whispered through the room courtesy of Nostalgia’s own KTEX. A bowl of fresh strawberries sat on the coffee table next to two champagne glasses… Darn it, she’d forgotten to fill them.
The knocking continued as she retrieved the bottle from the kitchen and hurriedly filled the glasses. There. The stage was set for some romantic treetrimming, and Winnie was armed and ready. She’d watched Bedroom Know-how five times and knew all the moves, from how to rubbity dub dub your man’s club, to the perfect lick to make him kick. Not that she was going to be doing any rubbing or licking. All she wanted was a kiss. One kiss and this would all be over. It would take thirty minutes, tops. That’s what the tape had promised.
Knock. Knock.
She fought back a wave of nervousness and took a long swig of champagne. There. That was better. A little bitter with a definite bite, but better.
She took a deep breath, sucked in her tummy and headed for the door. Time to put the Five B’s to a real test.
TWENTY-SIX MINUTES later—and Winnie knew because KTEX gave a weather/time/sports update between every Christmas song—she and Trace stood on opposite sides of the now brightly lit Christmas tree.
They’d spent the past five evenings together, talking and laughing, yet the minute Trace had walked in tonight, it was as if they were strangers.
Not right away, of course. For a fleeting second, she’d seen the pleasure in his eyes when she’d hauled open the door.
At least, she’d thought it was pleasure. Then he’d nearly tripped over himself reaching for a string of lights and he hadn’t so much as glanced at her since. She’d offered champagne and strawberries. He’d gulped down both and quickly turned his attention back to the tree.
Twenty-seven.
“Thanks for helping me decorate.”
“Sure.” He concentrated on finishing up a strand of tinsel before reaching for a glass ornament.
Fruitcakes and Other Leftovers & Christmas, Texas Style Page 25
