He flopped to his side for a belly rub.
She wouldn’t mind a belly rub… along with fondling several other body parts. “Lord,” she murmured. “Austen Zabrinski has turned me into a sex fiend.”
I will behave myself in public. She didn’t have any choice. She hadn’t been in town long enough to know the players—in particular, those who might have a say in her permanent position at the school. She’d accepted a probationary, part-time auditory specialist position for two reasons. First, it was the only opening the Marietta School system had available, and second, she knew she’d need time to get her herd settled and braced for winter. From everything she’d read and discussed over the phone with other Montana alpaca breeders, winter was going to be far different from the snow and cold of northern California. Her parents raised her to practice responsible animal husbandry. But even if they hadn’t, her soft heart broke any time any of her ’pacas were hurt or in pain.
Woof.
The deep bark made her jump sideways and bump into the corner of the sleek, modern dresser. “Ouch, Beau. Darn it. A little warning next time, please.”
The big dog shot past her like the projectile from a potato cannon.
“Beau. Hush.” Once downstairs, she clamped one hand on Beau’s collar and opened the door with the other. “See? It’s Austen. Stop now.”
The barking ended once Beau sniffed Austen’s outstretched hand. Serena never scolded Beau too much. After all, she’d wanted a big dog once she realized the menace she’d considered an online nuisance became a physical presence that went through her garbage to procure information she’d been scrupulous about keeping private.
“That’s a good watchdog you have.”
“He is. My brother and brother-in-law found him at a shelter. We think he’s purebred Great Pyrenees. He’s wonderful with the animals. Super gentle and very loyal. He takes his job of protecting me quite seriously.”
“Your brother and brother-in-law? They’re gay?”
She nodded, thankful his expression didn’t appear the least bit judgmental.
“Where do they live?”
“Portland. They were in Medford, but Peyton—my brother—got a job with a start-up technology firm. The money was too good to pass up.”
Requisite small talk. Easy. Nothing that required too much brainpower, which was fortunate since her brain had turned little girl giddy. Her heart palpitated. Her palms went moist. Her knees wobbled slightly. All because her date was more handsome than the cinematic hunk who played Thor.
She swallowed twice to build up enough liquid in her mouth to speak. “Has anyone ever told you you look like Chris Hemsworth?”
He chuckled, his wide shoulders shrugging modestly. “I’ve been told there’s a blog devoted to the subject. I’ve never read it.”
Blog. The B-word.
She’d managed to squeeze in a quick peek online before her shower. Her search engine queued up a couple of dozen pages with Austen Zabrinski’s name in big black print. After skimming the headlines, she had a very mixed picture of the man. She wasn’t one to believe everything she read—her slightly anti-establishment parents made sure of that, but most of the headlines made him out to be a dilatant playboy at best, a corrupt politician at worst.
Would she tell him her horror story tonight at dinner? Maybe. Maybe, not. She still got chills when she verbalized the possibility that someone tracked her down from the Internet, invaded her space, and compromised her privacy. Could someone with a high profile career even begin to understand how violated something like that made a private ordinary person feel? She doubted it.
Either way, she looked forward to finding out the truth about Austen Zabrinski one layer at a time. She pivoted and walked to the coat closet. Her leather biker jacket would have to do.
He hurried across the foyer to help her into her coat. This put him close enough for her to inhale his cologne. Something wonderful. Fresh. Like an Oregon woods on a spring morning.
The jacket settled pleasantly over her shoulders then two strong hands turned her about face. “I’ve been thinking about our kiss all afternoon. I almost convinced myself it didn’t happen. Or if it did, it couldn’t possibly be as good as I remembered.”
She knew exactly what he meant. She’d had the same conversation in her mind half a dozen times today.
“Would you mind if I refresh my memory?”
She’d just applied lipstick, but what the heck. “Okay.”
His hands bracketed her shoulders as if to keep her grounded. She kept her hands by her side. No crazy, jumping the gun tonight. If things worked the way she hoped, she’d invite him in… after a good dinner… fuel they’d both need for what she had planned.
He lowered his head to touch his lips to hers.
Tentative at first. Maybe he was worried about the lipstick. She wished she hadn’t worn it.
A little more pressure…
She pulled back enough to say, “Oh, come on. It’s only lipstick. It’ll wipe off. Kiss me, damn it.”
So, he did. Masterfully. Mouth open, tongue engaged. Hands shifting to her back to draw her closer. Her front lined up with his. Barely touching.
One hand cupped her buttocks and pulled her hips inward. Bottom half lined up with bottom half. A perfect fit when she rose on her toes. His male part showing instant interest in her female part.
She took a step back, gasping for a breath. “I got so distracted I forgot to breathe. I don’t think that’s ever happened before. Wow.”
His grin was pure ego-stroked male.
“Don’t get too cocky. I haven’t kissed that many men.”
“Oh. Well, you kiss like a pro.” He paused. “Not like a prostitute pro. I don’t mean that. I meant like someone who kisses well.” He pushed a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “I’ll quit while I’m ahead, okay?”
“Good idea. But, for the record, do you know how a pro kisses?”
“I’d rather not answer that.”
She laughed. She didn’t care about his history. She only cared about his future love life for as long as it involved her, preferably in her bed, tonight.
She walked to the door, opened it and whistled for Beau. Although she loved the dog’s companionship, he always remained outside at night. His toenails clicked on the plank flooring of the old farmhouse as he hurried to her side. She gave him a loving pat on the head on his way outside. “Protect the fuzzies.”
To Austen she explained, “Beau takes his job very seriously. I only hope he never has to take on a bear or mountain lion.”
“Or wolf,” he added. “I’ll have to ask Meg about that. She’s the expert. Shall we go?”
* * *
Three hours later, after a probably unwise cup of the strongest, more delicious coffee she’d ever tasted, she watched Austen peel off a stack of bills to tuck discreetly in the black leather binder that held their bill. She would remember this meal forever. So many firsts. First private table in an ornate alcove filled with fresh flowers and soft music. Champagne, cheeses, and fruit that seemed to explode with flavor. Austen had called ahead to request two special entrees.
“The owner of the Graff is an old friend. His chef owes me a favor.”
She didn’t press for details, but as far as she could tell, everyone in the dining room knew Austen. Men put down their utensils to stand and shake his hand. Women would dab their linen napkins to their lips to kiss his cheek. Younger women would get too close for Serena’s taste.
She’d never spent three hours dining. If asked, she couldn’t explain how the evening went by so fast when all they did was taste, talk, and laugh. His mind reminded her of her father’s—filled with silly trivia, smart factoids, and funny, oddly endearing family anecdotes.
Her favorite, by far, was when his younger brother proclaimed loudly in church, “Austen isn’t nice.”
“Pretty much summed me up in one sentence. Before God, the priest, and the whole congregation.”
She’d tried not
to laugh but his sigh did her in. As if his eleven-year old self actually accepted his brother’s edict. “You should have heard some of the names my brother called me. If I took any of them to heart, I’d have cloven feet at the very least.”
A faint arc of smile touched the corner of his mouth and her heart did a silly somersault. The man was sexy, with a hint of woebegone—her weakness. “I know. It’s stupid, but the thing I remember about that day is nobody in the entire church contradicted him. Even my mother. She put her finger to her lips to shush Paul, but I could tell she was trying not to laugh—a fact she fervently denies.”
Serena reached out to pat his hand supportively as she might a student who seemed defeated by his physical challenges. He caught her hand, flipped it over, and kissed the pulse point in her wrist.
The gesture was the most romantic thing any of her dates had ever done. For the first time in her life she understood what romance writers meant when their heroine swooned.
Fortunately, his next question brought both of her feet firmly to the ground.
“So, tell me more about being homeschooled. Didn’t you miss out on interaction with other kids?”
She’d heard these words or some variation her whole life. The concept of non-traditional education often provoked a knee-jerk reaction that seemed to imply she’d missed out on the wonderful normalcy that defined most people her age—things like field trips, proms, PE, classroom discussions, sports, competition—in and out of the classrooms.
“Like bullying?”
His eyes widened in surprise.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to jump out of the box on the side of defensiveness, but when people ask me this, they usually want me to reassure them their way is better… or, at the very least, the right way to do teach kids.”
Austen reached across the table to take her hand. He hadn’t meant to get her back up with his question. He was curious about her—every aspect of her life.
His thumb stroked her palm.
“My mother probably would have slit her wrists if she had to teach us at home.” He chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong. Mom’s great, but she’d be the first to admit she’s not a teacher. And I was a pushy, demanding young prince. Just ask my sisters.”
“What will they tell me?”
He poured the last of the wine into his own glass since she’d already declined more when the waiter tried to refill hers.
After swallowing a sip, he said, “For one, I blackmailed them into becoming members of the Big Sky Mavericks.”
“Big Sky Mavericks? What’s that?”
“Did you see the movie Top Gun?”
“Of course.”
“Tom Cruise’s call sign was Maverick, remember? The movie came out right before Mia’s and my eighth birthday. We each got to take a friend to the premier at a theater in Billings. Meg, our older sister, came along, too.”
Her grin widened. “I’ve worked with a lot of eight-year-olds. I can picture you getting all gung-ho about the idea of flying fighter jets. I read that movie was like the best recruiting poster in history.”
Gung-ho. Good word. Meg and Mia called him bossy and obnoxious. But they still went along.
“We had call signs, of course.”
“Yours was Maverick.”
He pretended to be wounded. “Never. I started out as Zman, but the girls would call me ‘sheman’ or ‘z-boy’ when they were mad at me… which was often, so I changed it to Striker.”
She gave a thoughtful nod. “Austen ‘Striker’ Zabrinski. I can see that. What were the other two?”
“Mia’s was Nitro—a small amount packs a big punch, and Meg insisted on Lone Wolf, although we gave her a hard time about it.”
“Interesting. I can see why your twin would play along, but what was in it for your older sister?”
“Meg’s wicked smart and skipped a grade or two. But that meant she didn’t really fit in with her classmates. She’s always been a bit of a loner—like a wolf.”
“Hence the name. Makes sense.”
“And all of us kids—even Paul—knew we’d learn to fly someday because our grandpa was a sort of one-man Pony Express in the sky. He got a special exemption from the government to deliver mail and groceries all over the northwest.”
“Do you have your own plane?”
“Zabrinski, Inc. has a small prop. We’re the only shareholders, along with Mom and Dad, and we all fly. Although Mom has never soloed and Mia’s grounded for the moment.”
She took back her hand.
“What about Paul? Wasn’t he a Big Sky Maverick?”
He shook his head. “We considered him a pesky kid and ditched him any time we could. Mom says we’re the reason he spent so much time at the store. Paul flies because it gets him from point A to point B fast, but he is absolutely the most grounded person I know. That’s why he was content to run a business in Marietta while the rest of us took off.”
But when things got crazy, you came home. Serena managed not to say out loud. She could picture his wonderful, imaginative childhood with three siblings who adored him and let him play the role of big brother. It sounded like her dream childhood. The kind she would have had if the parents who gave her up for adoption had loved her, loved each other and done what society expected of them—the way Austen’s parents did. She hated the bitter taste of envy she couldn’t quite squash.
When the busboy stopped to fill up her water glass, she watched him interact with Austen. Deferential, she realized. The younger man admired Austen.
“Groupie?” she asked when the teen was out of earshot.
“Football player. I played in high school. My name is on a couple of plaques in the school trophy cases.”
An understatement if she ever heard it.
Before she could ask for details, he said, “You deflected my question about homeschooling. I wasn’t being judgmental, Serena. Just curious what it was like for you.”
Perfect. Sheltered. Both too simple and too complex to really describe. “I love to learn—anything and everything. Dad calls me a born student, and I take that as a compliment. But, if I’m being honest, studying in a highly charged classroom with a volatile, unpredictable brother who could go from happy to hostile in ten seconds or less was not fun. I’d have loved to have had a sister, but our parents were in their forties when they adopted us and they decided they simply didn’t have the time—or energy—to add another baby to the family.”
“You were adopted. Interesting. Do you know anything about your birth parents?”
Why did every new acquaintance ask the same predictable query? Why did she feel a twinge of disappointment that Austen wasn’t more original? Or was she expecting too much because she found him so interesting and unique?
She ignored the question and asked one of him instead. One he’d probably heard a thousand times, too. “I’ve never met an Ivy Leaguer. What was that like?”
He eyed her over his coffee cup a moment before answering. “More pressure than I expected. More academic challenges than I’d been led to believe. More parties than I’d like to admit. But I survived those eight years with most of my brain cells and a bankable degree that opened a lot of doors when I came home to Montana.”
She talked work. He talked work… briefly. She pieced together a few of the headlines she’d seen in her Internet search. Enough for her to understand that something pivotal happened in Helena—something he preferred not to talk about—that had him second-guessing his life’s ambition.
She didn’t press, because sooner or later he’d figure out something life-changing happened to her, too. And she’d learned a valuable lesson from her stalker experience—it didn’t pay to be too open and frank.
“So, are we ready to call it a night?” he asked, pushing back from the table.
She got up, too. “Thank you, so much. What a fabulous treat! But, you know that coffee I ordered to offset the champagne and wine?”
He nodded.
“I think it’s going to ta
ke a beer to offset the effect of the caffeine. My treat.”
“I know just the place. Have you been in Grey’s Saloon, yet?”
She’d popped her head in the door her first afternoon in town, but hadn’t found the courage to step inside. Ridiculous as it sounded, her mind equated stalkers with bars. Of course, the likelihood of her stalker hanging out in a local pub in Marietta, Montana, was on par with winning the lottery while being handed the Noble Peace Prize. Still, fear rarely manifested itself in the form of logic.
They opted to leave Austen’s fancy SUV in the Graff Hotel Parking Lot and walk to Grey’s. Austen’s bare hand in hers more than made up for any chill. The town of Marietta took on a magical air at night. Some businesses chose to hang mini-twinkle lights in their windows. The pizza place seemed packed with young people—obviously it was a happening spot—the smell of pepperoni and spices both inviting and nauseating, after their huge meal.
Serena had been in a few of the stores on Main Street. The chocolate shop gave new meaning to decadence. She hadn’t walked this particular side street, but she’d never felt safer. Only a fool would mess with someone as substantial as Austen Zabrinski.
Which probably explained why the suddenness of the assault caught her so off-guard. One minute they were laughing and talking. A second later, someone jumped out of the shadows between two buildings and started taking pictures.
“Who’s your new lady friend, Z-man? Does she know you’re a crook? What’s your name, lady? You must be new in town if you’d go out with someone who stole taxpayer dollars so his boss could pay high-priced call girls. Are you a hooker? You don’t look like one, but who can tell anymore?”
Austen hustled them away from the camera, the voice, the barely contained fury. They practically ran into Grey’s. Austen motioned for someone—a bouncer, maybe—to come close. He pointed, whispered, and handed him something. A gun? No. Keys, she decided.
The guy—who had a don’t-mess-with-me-or-mine look about him—shot out the door.
Montana Cowboy Page 5
