TroubleToysTemptingCowboys

by Jennifer LaRose

  “I’m tired of chasing your ass,” he said. “If you don’t settle down, you’re gonna end up a barbeque.”

  Pony meat? Not very appetizing. Tiffany scrunched her nose while watching the animal run circles around the poor guy as if purposely antagonizing him.

  “I mean it, you overgrown—”

  A shrill whistle ripped through Tiffany like nails on a chalkboard. She cringed. The pony halted immediately. She gazed toward the barn where the obnoxious noise commenced. Brock had reclaimed his spot inside the opening and had both pinky fingers positioned inside his mouth.

  He glanced at Tiffany, and once again disappeared inside the barn. “Mr. Halston, please wait,” she yelled. She closed the car door and headed in his direction. The rocks in the driveway were big, not compatible at all with high-heeled shoes. Her feet rolled side to side to the point she feared breaking an ankle, so she stopped and took off the sandals. Dangling the straps over her finger, she resumed her mission, ooching and ouching her way into the barn. The scent of hay instantly surrounded her. It wasn’t an unpleasant odor, just a bit musty, similar to damp straw.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust from the bright sunshine to the shadowy animal house. When she spotted Brock standing beside a stall petting the ebony, satin mane on a gorgeous black horse, she stopped and held her breath. The calm, composed animal stood as proud and as beautiful as the man. They were gazing at each other as if communicating without words. Was Brock warning the horse about the neurotic Tiffany? “It isn’t very polite to ignore me, you know? I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here,” she said, breaking the silence.

  “Then what’s your purpose?”

  “This.” She walked toward him shaking the cash. “What the hell is it for?” She wanted to pluck every sun-bleached hair out of his raised brow and smack the chagrined expression off his face. “I don’t sell sex. And you can go straight to hell for suggesting I do.”

  “I don’t pay for it.”

  “Then what’s this? A simple apology would have sufficed.” She watched his large hand gracefully slide down the horse’s muscular neck. She’d never seen one up close. What a beautiful creature.

  She swore the animal smiled when Brock patted its chest. Aggravated or not, she certainly would smile too if those large hands caressed her body.

  “If anyone owes an apology, it’s you.”

  “Me? What did I do?” Goodness, his woodsy scent wrapped around her like a heavy fur coat, warming her insides. He turned and looked into her eyes. His mahogany glare caressed her soul. Her knees weakened. If he didn’t stop manipulating her with that gaze, her pussy juices would be dripping into a puddle on the floor. She broke eye contact and leaned against the stall to prevent the inevitable collapse of her legs.

  “Good to see the bump on your forehead is almost gone.”

  Instinctively, she tousled her bangs to hide the mark. “So, tell me, what did I do?”

  “I think it’d be best to let it lie, Tiff.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The less you know the better.”

  Yes, she agreed. “Do you have a problem with saying I’m sorry, Mr. Halston?”

  “The name’s Brock.”

  “Brock,” she mimicked, “do you have a problem saying I’m sorry?”

  “Not when there’s a need.”

  She crossed her arms. “Well, I think you’ve surpassed the need.” She tapped her bare foot on the dirt floor. He shook his head, smiling with teeth as bright as the stars, seemingly having no intent whatsoever of apologizing. This definitely was not the same man she’d spent an intimate morning with. “I’m waiting.”

  “Darlin’, you’ll be waiting until this stallion gives birth.”

  She reached forward and tucked the cash into his denim breast pocket. “Fine. I guess I can wait nine months.”

  Both of his brows rose, disappearing beneath the Stetson.

  Obviously, he hadn’t expected her to be so complacent. Agreeing to apologize proved he owed one. It was good enough. She’d received the satisfaction she wanted. Whether she’d have to wait nine months or nine years—a timeline didn’t matter.

  She offered her best cunning smile, turned and walked toward the open doorway. “If you decide to apologize sooner,” she yelled over her shoulder, “give me a call. I’m in the book.”

  “Darlin’, a stallion is a male.”

  She halted.

  “I reckon you’ll be waiting a long time.”

  Damn him. How’d he repeatedly succeed in making her feel like a fool? “Do you take pleasure in ridiculing me?”

  “Just stating facts.”

  She didn’t dare move while listening to his boots clap the solid ground as he approached her from behind. She anticipated him to rush by; instead, his large hands gripped her upper arms and he spun her around. Although she stood facing him, she refused to look into his eyes. Even had she wanted to, she couldn’t. They’d just mirror her naivety. She didn’t need to see the fault. It had already sickened her with embarrassment.

  He removed one hand from her arm and reached inside his shirt pocket. His middle and index fingers emerged, holding the cash. “This belongs to you. You earned it.”

  “Brock, what don’t you understand?” Her gaze settled on the frayed hem of his denim pants. “I don’t take money for sex. Last night was a mistake, plain and simple. I was hired as a party demonstrator. Whatever happened beyond that is history. Let’s forget about it, okay?”

  “Then consider this payment in full for the demonstration.”

  Never had she laid a hand on another human being, but she couldn’t help it—she transferred the shoes to her left index finger, swung her arm forward and smacked him across the face.

  Hard.

  So hard, her fingers stung and her insides cringed from the sound of the crack.

  He rubbed his jaw. “I’m going to forget about that one. I never punish a woman for the first swing. Try it again, though, and you won’t be so fortunate.”

  Was that a threat? He had a lot to learn about her. She dropped the shoes, brought her left hand up, and hit him again on the opposite cheek.

  “That one’s going to cost you.”

  She took a step backward.

  He stepped forward.

  Holy hell, she shouldn’t have looked into his eyes. They were seething and dark. How could they possibly change from brown to black? A shadow of whiskers slightly darkened his cheeks, chin, and upper lip, almost sinisterly. “Go ahead, Brock. You can’t degrade me any more than I’ve already degraded myself.”

  “I’m going to throw you over my lap and give you the ass beating you deserved last night.”

  She took another backward step, which removed her completely from of the barn. The sun penetrated her hair and back. She prayed he wouldn’t follow, but he did. “I feel like you already beat me, Brock. What did you do to me?”

  “Contrary to your beliefs, I did not touch you.”

  “Then why am I so sore? Who ruined my clothes?”

  His eyes narrowed. She hoped it was due to sun glare. Though that was unlikely since the Stetson brim shadowed his face.

  “Like I said, I didn’t touch you…then.” He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her against his chest.

  She squeaked when he lifted her off her feet and tossed her over his shoulder. The bulky muscles dug into her belly and her hair fell forward past his tight ass. Blood rushed to her face. She pounded his back and kicked at his crotch to bring him down, but it only forced his huge arms to tighten and lock around her legs. Damn it, he was strong, she couldn’t move. “Halston, you son of a bitch. Put me down!”

  “It’s not polite to be calling my mamma names. She’s was a good woman.” He whacked her on the butt with a solid, flat hand.

  “Ouch.” The sting traveled all the way to Tiffany’s toes. “I’m going to rip your ponytail out when I get a hold of it,” she seethed, and proceeded to pummel her fists into
his lower back.

  The next whack hurt worse than the first.

  Her scream echoed off the barn walls, startling the horse. It snorted and stomped.

  “Calm down, you’re upsetting Drago.”

  “It’s your fault. Put me down.”

  Brock didn’t flinch as he carried her to an empty stall, kicked the gate open, and laid her on the floor which was sprinkled with hay. She skittered to her butt and scooted backward until her spine made contact with a solid wall. “If you think this is a form of punishment, guess again. My body is immune to cold, concrete floors and damp enclosures.”

  She saw his back and shoulders stiffen. Then, with the agility of a cougar eyeing its prey, he closed the gate, moved into her space, and squatted beside her thighs. “Everything that happened to you was your own fault. I was damn tired of chasing your ass around last night.”

  His voice was deep and composed. She gulped. “But you said—”

  “I never said a damn thing. You assumed.”

  “I woke up in a strange bedroom with torn clothes, sore thighs, and my dil…rubber toy lying on the floor.”

  “I’m telling you, Tiff, I did not touch you.” She flinched as he reached forward and lifted her chin. “Not that I didn’t want to. Hell, my maker upstairs, He and I butted heads all night.”

  “Then why am I so sore?”

  He released her chin, reached between his boots and picked up a long strand of hay. “I imagine it’s from the bull. I pulled you off the saddle twice.”

  Damn, she hadn’t actually climbed on that thing, had she? “And my clothes?”

  “Your own doing. You tried ripping them off when I put you to bed. You’re one persistent lady.” He placed the hay in his mouth and chewed on the end.

  Normally, she accepted persistence as a compliment, but considering the circumstances, she couldn’t justify it today. She rested her head against the wall. “What about the other thing?”

  He removed the strand from his teeth and held it between his fingers. “Like I said, you’re pretty persistent. You wouldn’t take no for an answer.” He sat down, draping his forearms across his knees. “You sure you want to hear this?”

  Not really, but she needed to. Reluctantly, she nodded.

  “You said since I wasn’t man enough to take care of you, you had something in your case that would.”

  Dear God!

  Heat flooded her face. Despite the humiliating, mental images of masturbating with the vibrator while he obviously watched, she stared into his eyes. Their appearance had softened in contrast to the ridges between his brows. She didn’t want to ask the impending question, but if she didn’t, it’d hound her for the rest of her life. “Did I—”

  “No, you threw it at me, hitting me upside the head. I assume it was your way of telling me to go to hell for refusing to fulfill your wishes with it.”

  She closed her eyes and swallowed. When she reopened them, his gaze was playing over her face. “And the cash?”

  “Orders.”

  “Orders? Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t accept sympathy money.”

  “I didn’t order the goods. You can thank Bobby and the guys for that.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “No joke. You sold, um. I reckon you didn’t open the folder?”

  She shook her head. Of course she hadn’t opened the folder. She’d been too busy jumping to conclusions.

  So, she’d accused him of sexually taking advantage of her, condemned him for trying to pay for the sex, insulted his manly prowess, bounced a dildo off his head, smacked him in the face twice, yet she’d demanded an apology for his actions. She would be eating crow for a very long time. “I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry, Brock.”

  “Darlin’, I’m hoping the alcohol is to blame for your actions. If not, a few turns on a shrink’s couch might do the trick.”

  Chapter Three

  “If you think this is a form of punishment, guess again. My body is immune to cold, concrete floors and damp enclosures.”

  That confession ate at Brock’s gut for nearly a week. He understood the part about punishment, but the immunity to cold concrete floors and damp enclosures pounded his jugular worse than a stampede of wild horses.

  He’d considered asking her, but he had no right to make it his business. She’d likely tell him to go to hell anyway. He would take part of the blame for leading her to believe they’d slept together. He’d thought it might teach her a lesson because it wasn’t wise for a woman to flaunt and flirt with a room full of strange men. He should accept blame for that too, for neglecting to limit her alcohol intake. He knew better. She could’ve led herself into some serious trouble. If his buddies hadn’t maintained their booze levels, he’s not sure he could have prevented them from manhandling her curvy body.

  When she’d initially entered the house that night, he’d perceived her as sensitive and delicate—an angel without wings. He also suspected, minus the influence of alcohol, she was the type of woman who preferred hours of petting and coddling before spending an evening making love gently on a fur rug in front of a fire. He would’ve gladly accommodated her in that regard had she remained sober.

  Why should he let her problems bother him? Possibly, because when she’d made the statement, he’d envisioned a little girl. It’d been sitting on his shoulders all wrong ever since.

  He lifted his wrist and glanced at the time. Seven o’clock wasn’t late for working in the barn, but it was late when he’d expected her by six-thirty to drop off the boys’ party orders. Where the hell was she? She’d been there a week ago. He couldn’t imagine her getting lost.

  “Hey, Brock,” he heard at his back. “Your phone’s been ringin’ crazy in here. I just found it in Drago’s stall.”

  Brock patted his belt loops. The whole damn case was missing. “Did you answer it?”

  Ryan jogged out of the barn. “I tried, but it quit ringin’ as soon as I got to it.”

  Brock grabbed the phone and scrolled through the missed calls, counting a total of five from Tiff. He hit the send button and lifted the phone to his ear.

  “Finally,” she blared, her voice quivering.

  “Where are you, darlin’?”

  “Believe it or not, I’m stuck at the end of your road.”

  Instinctively, he glanced in that direction. “What’s the problem?”

  “Cows.”

  Cows? He pressed the phone closer to his ear. “Excuse me?”

  “Cows. Hundreds of them.”

  After making a quick visual sweep of his stock, he walked to his truck, waving Ryan to follow, then climbed in and fired the engine. “What do they look like?” he asked while he shifted the vehicle in gear and pulled forward onto the road.

  “Brock, can you hear me? I said, cows. C-O-W-S. You know, like in, mooo.”

  Maybe he should’ve reworded the question. No way would she have known he was trying to identify the stock since Farmer Dean’s had a habit of running off. He shook his head and smiled. “I heard you.”

  “You’d better hurry before they trample me to death.”

  “They won’t trample you, darlin’. Stay in your car. You are in your car?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.” He snapped the phone shut and tossed it on the dashboard.

  “What’s going on, Brock? Where’re we goin’?”

  Brock pointed out the windshield. “Look up ahead.” His smile turned into a chuckle when he saw Tiff leaning out her driver’s window, flailing her hands at a cow which stood beside her car. After counting, the hundred cows turned into twelve. He’d rounded the same prize herd enough times to know they belonged to Dean. Cautiously, he approached the scene and parked the truck.

  “Shoo,” she yelled, still waving her hands. “I said, shoo, get out of here.”

  “Ma’am, they don’t listen very well,” Ryan yelled out the window.

  “I’ve already figured that out.”

  Brock
shut off the engine and opened his door slowly. “Ryan, don’t agitate the cattle or we’ll never get them out of here.”

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked, mimicking Brock’s agile movements while climbing out of the vehicle.

  “One thing, stay out of their blind spot or you’ll likely get kicked.”

  “That’s not somethin’ I’d be too happy about, I’m sure.”

  “Ever get kicked by a cow?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “I reckon you want to keep it that way.” It might have been a good idea to introduce the kid to his cattle stock prior to this, but Ryan wasn’t ready for herding. Chachi, the mare, kept him busy enough by running him in circles.

  Brock moved to the lead heifer and stood at her shoulder. Her head turned and her huge brown eyes gazed at him. No matter the cow, they all carried the same sad look.

  A fly was buzzing around her ears annoying the hell out of her. She wiggled them to rid herself of the pest, but the damn thing took flight for only a measly second before it landed square on the center of her snout. He couldn’t swat it—the motion might startle her. And that’s the last thing he needed. “Come on, gal, I reckon you’re tired from the trip, but you need to get on home. Dean’s probably worried sick.”

  He scoped the area for the easiest route. Regardless of the flattened areas, they couldn’t avoid the inevitable hill to Dean’s farm. “All right, gal, let’s start moseying along. We’ve got a long trek ahead.” It took a few moments of coaxing and sweet words, but the cow eventually took his lead and started moving forward. As if on cue, the others followed.

  Just as he guided them a good distance from the road, Farmer Dean came sidestepping down the hill. “Guess I owe you another favor, Halston. I can’t keep these heifers penned up no how when the grandson’s visitin’.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Dean. No problem.”

  Farmer Dean was completely winded when he reached Brock, and he waited to catch his breath before shaking hands. “I appreciate it.”

  “You okay?” The farmer had aged within the past three weeks. He used to be a robust man, plump around the waist with stocky shoulders. It didn’t seem real, but his eyes were sunken, and he’d lost a lot of weight. It wouldn’t surprise him if the man was ill with cancer. Brock’s grandpa had died of the disease, and he’d had a similar look.