"Not everyone can do that," she said, watching him.
"Not everyone can compete when it's human athlete versus human athlete. Professional games are for professionals. Everyone trains. Everyone competes."
She stared at her notes. She had other questions. He went on before she asked them.
"You've heard about the disappearances?" When her confusion was obvious, he said, "That's what Colby's doing here. He's kind of the on-again, off-again sheriff-type law back in our little patch of Texas. And yeah, he rides. He ropes, mostly. Damned good. You going to stay and watch?"
Marla had insisted. She wanted the flavor of the rodeo. Gemma nodded.
"Good. Keep an eye out for Eddie Tyrell. He's one of the best. And Jacob. He's the baby. I'm riding and so's Colby."
"And your brother – " She hesitated and read her notes. Part of Marla's interest in the clan was the very fact they were a clan, with generations of shifter bears bull riding and bronc roping together. "Holden?"
He closed down then. "Holden's out looking for some of the missing," he said simply. "Ask Colby about it. He can tell you more." He was looking past her, at the door Gemma had her back to.
"But – " she started, but he was already motioning someone to come in.
"Ask Colby," he repeated. "Because obviously he's waited long enough for that drink."
Gemma turned quickly, her whole body swinging around on the metal folding chair she'd set up on the far side of the desk. When she moved, she caught her leg on the bottom of the desk where a long curl of shredded metal decorative strips had come loose. One jagged edge sank into the outside of her left calf, between ankle and the bulge of calf muscle.
Gemma sucked in a hissing breath. Her hands went instantly to the wound. Her linen pants were caught on the metal and hot blood beginning to spurt through the fabric, coating her fingers. Instantly she was dizzy.
"Whoa, there, darlin'," Colby said. He was halfway through the door the instant she began to tip. He caught her easily as she began toppling out of the metal seat.
"Not good with blood," she said.
And the entire room tipped sideways.
* * *
Chapter Three
She didn't quite faint. There was some mercy in that. But there was an indefinite amount of time she couldn't account for. When her vision cleared, she saw that her already shredded linen pants had been split up the leg much higher than seemed necessary in order for Colby to take a look at her calf.
Blood was still streaming from the cut, deep purple as it hit the air. Gemma gagged and forced herself to breathe long and deep. She tilted her head back and kept her eyes trained on the ceiling.
"Easy, there," Colby said. Gemma could hear the sounds of Owen moving around the room. "Thanks," Colby said.
She risked a glance. Owen had just handed him a first aid kit.
Involuntarily she looked at her leg again and began to shake.
"So tell me what you learned from Owen in the interview," Colby said loudly as he took hold of her leg and gently began cleaning the wound with a sterile pad. "Oh, this isn't bad. This is a scratch."
Gemma made a sound she hadn't intended to make.
"So was that something Owen said or one of your questions?" Colby said.
That made her sputter a laugh. "I didn't actually get to ask all my questions," she said. "We were interrupted."
"You mean when you tried to amputate your leg? This might sting."
Sting was an understatement. She almost kicked him involuntarily when the disinfectant hit her leg. But the more he did, the less she had to.
Besides, the wound throbbed like a stubbed toe rather than burning like a cut. She could ignore the pain even if she couldn't ignore the blood.
And she definitely couldn't ignore the feeling of Colby's huge, hot hands on her leg. He gave off heat. His hands were like miniature ovens touching her.
She liked it.
"Amputate?" she managed. "You said it was a scratch."
"My bad," Colby said. "So, the interview? I take it he told you about his medals and glories, about the girls who chase him and the – "
"Girl who caught him?"
The new voice came from the door. Gemma picked her head up far enough to see a gorgeous, sun-streaked blonde standing there, wearing a lace tank top and a western skirt with panels of lace, and high heeled cowboy boots.
Before either of the men answered, the blond swept into the room.
"You must be the writer," she said, placing herself as directly as she could between Gemma and her own leg. "These boys have no more sense than to injure someone that's going to put them in the press." She held out a hand. "Mary Beth Chaudett," she said, and instantly corrected herself. "Mary Beth Hutch."
"Gemma Thomas." She shook. "And we'd already done the interview."
Mary Beth grinned. "Yeah, but you haven't written the article yet, am I right?"
Gemma just smiled. It seemed like she wasn't going to get all the answers she was looking for with all the interruptions. First Colby had come back – a welcome return despite her being attacked by the desk as a result. And now Mary Beth.
Who could be a coup.
"Can I interview you?" she asked and watched the blonde grin.
Colby's hands on her leg were distracting. Mary Beth noticed Gemma's glazed expression, apparently, because she said, "Find me when the patching up is over," and turned away, holding her hand out to Owen. "I don't think we're needed here," she said.
Gemma blushed again, almost as hot as the hands on her leg. Either the wound was bigger than she thought, or Colby was really taking his time. She glanced down, squeamish and nervous, but there was a snowy white square of bandage on her leg. The bloody gauze strips must already be tucked into the Walmart bags. He was taping the bandage on. When he saw her looking, his golden eyes seemed to darken, the lids coming a little down to cover them slightly. His lips parted, sensual, and his hands slid up her leg, carefully tucking the tape down.
Despite the heat in the office, Gemma shivered. Colby's hands slowed, the stroking gentle, like a massage, touching the back of her leg, rubbing the swell of muscle at her calf, moving down to her ankle to circle it with his fingers. His hands were big enough to easily circle the joint. She thought about what that might mean about the rest of him, and blushed again. His hands started moving. He pressed the tape into place again, then smoothed his fingers up her leg, gently massaging her knee.
"When you hit your leg, did you hurt your knee?"
Gemma shook her head. She kept her eyes on his. She licked her lips, slowly. Colby's lips parted again. His hands moved slowly, massaging circles on her skin, up toward the swell of muscle on her thigh.
Her phone exploded into life.
Gemma jolted hard enough she almost knocked into him. "Sorry! But I've – " She was already pulling her phone out of her bag. She hated herself for it but this was her job.
Colby moved back, squatting like a cowboy out on the range, looking where the cattle drive might head next or waiting at a campfire for the coffee to boil.
"Gemma Thomas."
"Miss Thomas, it's Wally Wold." Her phone was on speaker. He was very loud. "I'm afraid something's come up and I'm not going to be able to meet you at the time we agreed."
Gemma's heart pounded. Even if she couldn't be held responsible for interviews she'd gone out of her way for who then stood her up, she hated to go back to Marla without the story. Stammering, she said, "Wait!" even though he hadn't hung up. "Is there any way you can meet me after … after whatever's come up?"
From the corner of her eye she saw Colby wince, then shake his head with a rueful grin.
"Little lady, this particular somethin' is goin' to take all night."
He was gone then, leaving Gemma still horrified at the missed interview and appalled at the man's behavior all at once. She glanced at Colby as she put her phone back in her bag and Colby began to laugh out loud.
"Sorry about that. Wally's a coyote,
Miss Gemma."
She screwed her face up. "Don't call me that. And what do you mean?"
"Man's a dog. That appointment of his? It's – "
"Oh, I know what it is," she said coldly, trying to get a handle on the blush. "Damn it! Most of my interviews are by phone. It would have been so easy!"
She stood, expecting that would force Colby to move back. He didn't, but now squatted directly in her personal space, his face very close to part of her body she wasn't used to having men at eye level with. Since he didn't step back, she did, colliding with the metal folding chair so Colby shot up smoothly to his feet and caught her hand.
"Steady. You're not going to catch Wally tonight. There's one more day of events, so you can hang out here tomorrow you might catch him. In fact, you can make him late to load out if you're interested in really – interviewing him."
"He's old enough to be my father." She was collecting her goods and her wits at the same time. Then she realized what she'd protested and added, "And I don't want to interview," she said with emphasis, "Him." She kept her eyes on Colby.
He gave her a huge grin. His canine teeth looked a little like fangs, she thought, and just for an instant she got the impression he blurred around the edges, a little bigger, a little darker, a little more hirsute than he'd been an instant earlier.
Then it was the sexy cowboy offering her his arm. "Come on. I believe you could use a drink now. I'll be happy to fill you in on anything Owen left out and I can make up stories about Wally."
She laughed.
"I'll be happy to give you an interview," Colby said, suggestively.
"Thank you," she said, navigating the door of the office. Her pant leg flapped around her mid-thigh. "And I've definitely got questions for you."
There was more than one bar in the fair grounds pavilion. Someone had thought that one through. They picked the first one, and Gemma was glad to take the weight off her leg. The cut hurt.
She was also happy to let Colby put a glass of red wine in front of her. Not her drink of choice, but no need to go native with a beer right away.
She watched him walking back across the rough wood floor to her. He still wore the hat, pushed back on his curls. His broad shoulders and thick chest blocked out much of the rustic décor behind him. Long lean legs in dark but dusty jeans led her eyes to his package and made her think again of the size of his hands.
She forced herself to stop staring as he arrived at the table. His fingers brushed hers when he handed her the drink.
"So how'd you get roped into interviewing Owen Hutch?"
Gemma coughed on the wine. When she studied his face, he gave her a frank appraising look. "What, didn't I look happy to be there?"
His grin turned satisfied, as if he'd proved himself right. "I wasn't there for the whole thing, and when I came back it was – "
"Traumatic," she filled in. "You do make an entrance, Colby Tyrell."
He covered her free hand with his own. His hand dwarfed hers. Everything about him was big, thick and in shape, the muscles heavy, the skin over them smooth but thick. He was solid, like the world could go to pieces around him but a girl would be safe as long as he was there.
….what was she thinking? She caught up with what he was saying.
"Not that you looked unhappy, but you sure didn't dress for rodeo."
She glanced down ruefully at her flayed pant leg. "How about now?"
This time she interpreted his expression with no problem. "I like it," he said, with a grin at her exposed leg.
"You kind of went overboard uncovering the wound."
"I kind of didn't go far enough," he said.
She met his eyes. His were challenging and she wasn't going to back down. Colby was the one to change the subject first.
"You're not a rodeo fan."
Gemma sighed. "I'm not. Grew up rural, left it behind when I came to the city."
"No offense, darlin', but not everyone considers Reno such a huge metropolitan area."
"It works for me. Do you think I was rude to Owen?"
He shook his head, serious. "He wouldn't give a damn if you were. He's interviewed round the clock. But how come you got this assignment, then?"
She shrugged. "It's not like I have to know the subject to write about it. Plus I'm sure a great many more writers have been interviewing – all of you," she said, trying for diplomacy.
"Fair enough."
The way he was looking at her sent shivers through her body.
"So what didn't he answer?"
Last thing she really wanted to do was interview him. But Owen had just touched on something when she'd jerked around and cut her leg open. No harm in asking.
"He said something about Holden being out looking for disappeared shifters."
He nodded but didn't answer. She hadn't asked a question.
"What does that mean and why haven't we heard anything about it?"
"By we you mean, what, the normal population?"
His voice was hard and cold. She'd struck a nerve. She'd also been misunderstood. It was hot in the bar, with lazy fans swinging overhead. She felt sticky.
"By we I mean the general public who aren't in the rodeo circuit and don't know someone, shifter or otherwise, who has disappeared." She sounded more bold than she felt.
But she must have carried it off. He held her gaze for a minute, then nodded. "Come on, I can show you a couple things, and then I'll tell you. Did Owen say you could write about it?"
She flared a little at that. "He couldn't stop me from it, you know. But no, he didn't say it was off the record." It would have been stupid to dangle a carrot like that and take it away.
He nodded, his red brown hair shaggy, gold eyes briefly closed as he drained his beer. "Drink up," he said, challenge in his voice.
One didn't chug wine but she swallowed it in two inadvisable gulps and met his teasing grin.
His eyes were serious.
He let her lean on him as he led her out toward the arena. Her cut leg was somewhat anesthetized by the alcohol. She could imagine Colby's hands other places than supporting her arm and thought that would distract her sufficiently from the pain as well.
They stopped at the edge of one of the chutes where bulls were released into the arena. "You're not riding tonight?" she asked.
"It's earlier than you think," he said. "I'll be riding around eight. It's not that late. Sun's still up."
His hand at the small of her back, he urged her forward a little way so she could stand in the lee of the walls that slanted downward and forced the person or beast inside them through the gates that led to the arena. From the gates she could see over the sloped sides of the chute, up into the stands on either side. Above them rodeo goers ate popcorn and peanuts and hotdogs, drank beer and wine and margaritas. They wore cowboy hats that looked too new and sunburns that looked even newer, and expressions of rabid interest in the young man being bucked fiercely on the back of a bull.
Kenny (Shifter Football League Book 2) Page 108
