by Kristi Gold
Tori grabbed a lock of hair and twirled it round and round her finger, a nervous habit she’d begun at the age of three, when she’d finally acquired some hair, according to her mom. Back when her mom still remembered all the little milestones in her daughter’s life, before she’d forgotten her only child’s name. Back when her mom was still around.
Pushing away the sadness, Tori said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve sung in public.” A long time since she’d had anything to sing about.
Brianne McIntyre returned to the table from the restroom, her red curls bouncing in time with her exuberant stride, completing the “Fearsome Foursome,” as they’d labeled themselves during their youth. Another of the prodigal daughters who rarely returned home, Brianne resided in Houston where she was currently attending her third college and studying nursing, still undecided on what she wanted to be when she grew up.
Something sinister was stirring, Tori decided, when her friends displayed some fairly devious smiles. “What are you three up to now?”
Stella rested a hand on her belly, slightly swollen from the pregnancy that had been the reason for the hurry-up wedding. “Nothing at all, Tori. We’re just here to have some fun.”
Stella’s assertions did nothing to silence the suspicion running at full steam in Tori’s head.
Janie leaned forward and grinned. “Don’t look now, girls, but Mitch Warner’s sitting at a table on the other side of the dance floor.”
Tori didn’t dare look again. Not unless she wanted to be totally obvious in her admiration. “I know. I saw him come in.”
Janie, however, opted to be obvious and fairly drooled after turning back to the group. “Oh my gosh, what I wouldn’t do to that man if I had the chance. He’s hotter than an Oklahoma sidewalk in August.”
So was Tori, thanks to Mitch Warner, even it was October, not August, and forty degrees outside. “He’s okay.”
“Okay?” Stella’s hazel eyes went almost as wide as the round table where they were seated. “He’s drop-dead gorgeous. And last week, Bobby told me he and Mary Alice Marshall finally broke up. She’s going to marry Brady the banker.”
Brianne wrinkled her freckled nose. “I still can’t believe he was dating her. Everyone knows she’s slept with every cowboy under thirty in this town.”
All three of them, Tori thought wryly.
Stella shook her head, sending her dark curls into a dance as she sent Brianne a warning look that wasn’t lost on Tori. “No one knows that for sure, Brianne. People here are too judgmental for their own good.”
Tori considered that to be a colossal understatement. The town’s residents had said the same thing about her own mother many times, which was probably the reason for Stella’s scolding. Or maybe Stella’s unplanned pregnancy had sent the rumor mill back into full swing.
“The way I understand it, she and Mitch did the deed the first time one summer over fifteen years ago,” Janie said in a conspiratorial whisper. “They’ve been on and off, literally, since he came back here to live.”
Tori had heard about Mitch’s and Mary Alice’s extracurricular activities when she’d still been living in Quail Run, but she’d been too young to care. Five years her senior, Mitch Warner had been the elusive, enigmatic rich boy who’d only come to town during the summer. And she’d only caught a glimpse of him a time or two when she’d been riding her bike and seen the limousine drive past on the way to his maternal grandfather’s ranch. During those times, she’d found the car much more fascinating than him.
Besides, boys like Mitch Warner hadn’t been interested in Tori Barnett, who’d lived on the wrong side of the social dividing line. Even though she could have spent her days ostracized from the mainstream and hanging her head in shame, she hadn’t. Instead, she’d graduated valedictorian, worked her way through college and now struggled to establish herself at the Dallas women’s magazine, where she currently served as a staff reporter.
An interview with a revered United States senator’s reclusive son could propel her career to unknown heights, and provide much-needed money. She might even be able to pay off the bills she’d incurred when her mother had been in the hospital. If Mitch Warner cooperated.
“Yoo-hoo, are you in there, Victoria?”
Tori snapped to and stared blankly at Janie. “I was just thinking.”
Brianne presented a wily grin. “About Mitch Warner?”
As a matter of fact. Tori finger-combed her bangs, surprised they weren’t cemented to her forehead because of the perspiration gathering there. “Just thinking about work.”
Stella blew a raspberry between her full lips. “Stop thinking about work, and try to enjoy yourself. I am, even if I can’t have anything fun to drink.”
Reminded of her own drink, Tori took a quick swallow of the less-than-palatable wine. “Okay, I promise I’ll have some fun. But I’m not going to sing.”
“Our first singer tonight is Tori Barnett, one of Quail Run’s own, so let’s give her a big Sadler welcome back!”
Tori sent her friends a bitter look and didn’t bother to budge, even when the deejay called her name again.
“Get up there, Victoria May,” Janie insisted, followed by several patrons chanting, “Tori! To-ri!”
Making a total fool of herself in front of her friends was the very last thing Tori wanted at the moment. And more important, making a fool of herself in front of Mitch Warner wouldn’t help her cause. But she hadn’t forgotten how to sing, so she might as well meet the challenge head-on.
After all, what was the worst thing that could happen?
Tori confronted the worst thing when she stepped up on the stage, took her place behind the microphone and realized her brain had gone back to the table.
She knew the Patsy Cline song by heart, but this would be a nightmare, not a sweet dream, if she couldn’t choke out the words now lodged in her throat, because Mitch Warner—kicked back in the chair, a beer wrapped in his large hands and the full extent of his blue, blue eyes and jet-black hair revealed because he’d removed his hat—had chosen that very moment to smile at her.
Tori felt naked under his perusal, totally exposed and definitely warm. As the song’s intro began a second time, she had only one thought. If she couldn’t sing in front of him, she’d never have the nerve to ask him for an interview.
That alone drove her to close her eyes and open her mouth to perform in public for the first time in years. She might have momentarily forgotten the lyrics, but she would never forget that Harvard cowboy’s perfect smile.
Mitch Warner had never seen an angel dressed in black leather.
That’s exactly how she sounded, this woman named Tori—like an angel. But she looked like a passport to sin. It wasn’t her voice that made him imagine her beneath him, naked, her long legs wrapped around his waist, her silky brown hair brushing over his chest as they took a slow trip to heaven. And he’d probably go straight to hell in a handbasket if he decided to act on that fantasy. But as his gaze tracked the snug leather pants that showcased her curves and her breasts that rose beneath the form-fitting red turtleneck sweater with each breath she took, Mitch engaged in a battle below his belt buckle that he wasn’t sure he could win.
When he’d entered the bar, he’d planned to stay only long enough to meet his foreman and rescue him from an all-day drinking binge in honor of the end of his bachelorhood. He didn’t care for crowds or socializing except when necessary. Trust wasn’t something that came easily for him. He never knew when some member of the press might be lurking in the shadows, waiting to catch him doing something that might be deemed newsworthy. For that reason, he was reluctant to talk to strangers.
But tonight…. Well, tonight he might make an exception with this stranger named Tori. Bobby could find another ride home since Mitch planned to meet the woman responsible for his current predicament. Whatever happened after that was anyone’s guess.
He gave his full attention to Tori, who was now singing the final chorus. It
was all Mitch could do to keep his boots firmly planted on the floor when she smiled, tossed a long lock of hair over her shoulder and then left the stage. He hadn’t done this in a long time, but he remembered enough to know that appearing too eager would most likely turn her off.
He waited for two more singers to finish—if you could call drunken geezers, who couldn’t carry a tune in a front-end loader, singers. A slow ballad now played on the jukebox, providing the opportunity to have Tori polish his belt buckle. Damn, he didn’t need to think about that. Otherwise he’d have to remain seated indefinitely.
After finishing the last of his beer, Mitch replaced his hat, stood and worked his way across the dance floor crowded with mostly married couples, since the town still held true to a strict moral code. And those who ignored the code maintained rooms by the hour at the Quail Run Court.
He arrived at the table to find his foreman’s fiancée, Stella, sitting with two other pretty ladies whom Mitch didn’t know, nor did he want to know them. His interest was tuned solely into the singing angel who kept her gaze centered on the empty plastic cup clutched in her hand.
“Hey, Mitch,” Stella said. “I thought you might be with Bobby out at the Greers’ ranch, drinking your self into a stupor.”
“No time for that.” Mitch kept his eyes trained on Tori who had yet to look at him. “We’re getting ready to move the cattle into the south pasture before the first real norther hits.”
The redhead bent her elbows and braced her jaw on her palms. “Isn’t it kind of early for that, since it’s only October?”
“Nope,” Mitch said, and left it at that. He didn’t have the desire to explain the workings of a cattle ranch or the weather to this particular woman. He only had the desire to get this brown-haired angel into his arms to see if her body felt as good as it looked. “Care to dance, Tori?”
Her gaze zipped to his and she looked as if he’d asked her to strip naked. “Are you talking to me?”
“Unless there’s someone else named Tori at the table.”
She stared at the hand he offered like he’d grown claws. “It’s been a long time since I’ve danced.”
“It’s been a long time since you’ve sung, too,” Stella said. “I doubt you’ve forgotten that, either. And even if you have, I’m sure Mitch would be glad to show you how, wouldn’t you Mitch?”
“I can do that.” He’d be glad to show her a lot of moves, none that he’d dare undertake in public. First things first. Right now, he had to get her away from the table and onto the dance floor.
She finally stood, but didn’t take his hand. She did follow him to the middle of the floor, where Mitch faced her and took her palm to rest in his palm and then circled his other arm around her shoulders. She linked two fingers of her free hand on to his belt loop, like she was afraid to really touch him. Hopefully she would relax after a while, once she realized Mitch was only interested in dancing. For now.
Despite the fact they weren’t that close, Mitch might as well have been covered from head to toe by a goose down blanket, not denim, considering he was quickly warming up. She could dance better than most and he imagined her skills were far-reaching. But that was all he could do—imagine—since she continued to maintain a safe distance.
She also refused to look at him until he said, “I’m Mitch.”
“I know who you are.”
Damn. He’d hoped she didn’t know, but he shouldn’t be all that surprised. His notoriety had followed him to Oklahoma, even if the media attention had waned over the past few years. But that was subject to change at any given moment, especially if the rumors about his father’s retirement were true. Then it would start all over again, the speculation about whether Mitch would step in and take up the political reins. That would be a hot day in Antarctica. The only reins Mitch cared about were attached to a horse’s bridle.
He decided to focus on something more pleasant, namely the woman with the big brown eyes who was sort of in his arms. He figured if he drew her into a conversation then maybe he could work his way in to drawing her closer. “How long have you lived in Quail Run?”
“I don’t live here.”
That disappointed the hell out of Mitch. “But the karaoke guy said—”
“I’m one of Quail Run’s own, I know.” And she didn’t sound too pleased by that fact. “I grew up here, but I’ve been gone for almost ten years. I moved to Norman to go to college after I graduated from high school.”
About the same time Mitch had come back from Harvard. “So what brings you to town?”
She lowered her eyes again. “Stella’s wedding. I’m her maid of honor.”
At least they had something in common. “Oh, yeah? I’m Bobby’s man of honor.”
The comment earned him her full attention and the full effect of a smile that threatened to knock the sawdust floor from beneath his boots. “Not the best man?” she asked.
“Not in Stella’s opinion.”
Her smile disappeared. “You and Stella dated?”
“Hell, no!” He hadn’t meant to say that with such force, but that’s all he needed, a rumor he’d bedded his friend’s fiancée. That would be enough to send the rag reporters running back to Quail Run. “Stella’s only a friend. She wanted Bobby to ask her brother to stand up for him. He picked me instead.”
“I can’t really blame Bobby. If I had to choose between you and Clint Moore, I’d have to say you would be my choice.”
“You have something against Clint?”
She frowned. “I have something against guys who can’t control their hands in movie theaters.”
Mitch wondered if that rule applied to guys on dance floors. At least he’d been forewarned. “So you dated Clint Moore?”
“I dodged Clint Moore. I’m basing my opinion on hearsay, and that’s probably not fair at all. I’m sure Clint’s really a nice guy beneath that playboy exterior.”
“Are you dating anyone now?” Good, Mitch. Nothing like being subtle.
She shrugged. “I don’t have time to date.”
That pleased Mitch. Nothing stood in his way of seeing her again, at least while she was still in town, if she was willing. “What takes up your time?”
“Mainly work.”
“What do you do for a living? Sing?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
She looked away and sighed. “I really don’t want to talk about my work right now. I’m trying to forget about it. Besides, I’d only bore you.”
He doubted anything involving her mouth would bore him. “What do you want to talk about?”
She gave him another energetic smile, which also gave Mitch a rush that went straight to his head. “Tell me about you,” she said.
Mitch wasn’t sure he wanted to go there. “What about me?”
“I want to know what it’s like to live on a working ranch.”
At least she hadn’t asked what it was like to be a revered politician’s son. Mitch would have two words to describe that—pure hell.
They talked for only a minute until the karaoke resumed with a few more wannabes trying their hand at singing in voices that could rouse dead driftwood. Frustrated, Mitch showed Tori to a table in the corner near the dance floor and away from the crowd to continue the conversation.
The noise in the bar seemed to fade away as they turned the discussion to their favorite pastimes. He learned that Tori loved riding horses, and he told her about his prize gelding, Ray. She asked about his grandfather but never asked about his father, and he appreciated that more than she knew. He liked the way her laughter sounded when he told a joke, liked the way she twisted a strand of her hair when she described her disdain for Dallas traffic and big-city hassles. And it suddenly struck him that he’d told her more about himself in an hour than he’d told anyone in a lifetime. At least those aspects of his life he was willing to reveal.
After a while, Mitch moved to the seat next to her to hear her better, or so he’d told her, when in
fact, the bar had quieted down after the karaoke had ended. In reality, he wanted to be close to her. He wasn’t having a damn bit of trouble hearing her, but he was having one helluva time not touching her.
When a slow-dance tune filtered through the overhead speakers from the jukebox, Tori sighed and sent him another smile. “Gosh, I love this song.”
He loved the way her dark eyes sparkled with pleasure. He imagined they would probably do the same when it came to a different kind of pleasure. And man, he’d like to find out. “Do you want to dance again?”
“Sure.”
This time, Tori didn’t hesitate coming to her feet or taking his hand to pull him up—not that he was resisting.
Mitch normally preferred something a little livelier than a love song, but he didn’t mind at all when Tori didn’t bother with his belt loop and instead, brought her arm around his back and laid her head against his chest.
He doubted she was much more than five foot five, and since he was six foot three, her head fit perfectly beneath his chin. Her hair smelled like flowers despite the fact the bar was hazy with smoke. Her body pressed against his brought back the desire in a rush of heat.
He slid his hand down her back to the dip of her spine but didn’t dare go any farther, considering her comment about guys with roving hands. He didn’t want to be put in the same class with Clint Moore. Besides, he wasn’t a teenager anymore, and he didn’t have to resort to blatant seduction to gain a woman’s attention. He’d learned a long time ago not only how to satisfy a woman, but also how to read the signs. So far, Tori’s body language told him she was comfortable only with dancing.
But that only lasted for the next two songs. By the third ballad, the first of a series of tunes involving torrid affairs in tangled sheets, things started to heat up between them. Mitch felt it in the way Tori’s body dissolved into his, knew it when he moved his hand to her hip and she didn’t protest.
They soon abandoned traditional country-dance form and wrapped their arms completely around each other. Their bodies touched in all the right places—her full breasts to his chest, thighs to thighs, pelvis to pelvis. Their hands roved over each other’s backs where dampness had formed from the heat of the bar, the heat of their close proximity, the heat of the fire building between them.
