Cowboy to Command

by Sabrina York

  Cade leaned in and whispered to his brother, which was stupid, because Cody already knew about his condition. “He, ah, can’t go in the water.”

  “What?”

  “Doctor’s orders.”

  Cody glared at Brandon. “I’ve never heard of a doctor telling someone they can’t get wet.”

  “It’s his leg. You know. His wounds.”

  This was mortifying. “Besides, I do have it in my contract that I don’t have to strip down to my G-string.” He’d read that part, at least.

  “Well, who the hell negotiated that contract?” Cody grumbled. “What kind of stripper doesn’t strip?”

  “I’m a dancer,” Brandon said in a haughty tone. It was a fine line, but he was holding to it.

  There was more grumbling on Cody’s part, but in the end he conceded. “Oh all right. You don’t have to frolic in the water. But you’re not the emcee. You can . . . serve drinks.” Cody eyed him up and down. “Do you have a bow tie?”

  Brandon drew up to his full height, bunched every single muscle he had, and stared Cody in the eye. “Do I look like I have a bow tie?”

  “No need to snarl.”

  Yeah, there was.

  Cody sighed, but it was a sigh if disgust, not surrender. “Go on with Cade and see if we have one in the costume room.” Before anyone had the chance to protest, he bounded down the steps to greet the newest arrival.

  Brandon frowned at Cade. “I’m not a poodle.”

  “No one’s saying you’re a poodle.” He led the way into the house and through the winding halls to the dressing room off the stage. True to his word, he’d allocated Brandon a private space for changing, but Cade took him into another room, one filled with racks of outfits and accessories. Everything from alien antennae to what looked like a man-sized zebra suit.

  “This is quite a collection,” he said, lifting a random donkey’s tail to inspect it. He certainly hoped it would not be pinned on him.

  Cade snorted. “Yeah. Lisa and Claire like to shop online. Swear to God, some women are dangerous.” He dug around in a box until he came up with a bow tie. But it wasn’t just a bow tie. It was a bow tie with a white dickey attached.

  “Seriously?”

  Cade held it up over Brandon’s T-shirt. “Perfect.”

  “A dickey?”

  “Chicks love them.”

  Brandon rolled his eyes. It was better than stripping down and frolicking in the pond and that was all that mattered.

  “I should have read my contract,” he said, and Cade laughed.

  “Every man’s lament, my friend.”

  Not all men. Just the stupid ones.

  He huffed a sigh and, clutching his stupid bow-tie, followed Cade into the kitchen where Lisa was pulling a pan of cheese balls out of the oven. It was a bit early for cheese balls, so they honed in on the plate of eclairs on the counter.

  “Not too many,” she warned. “Those are for the guests.”

  “Right,” Cade said in a tone that spoke volumes.

  Lisa would probably have to make another batch.

  As they settled in with coffee and pastries, Cade glanced at him. “So are you ready for your big debut?”

  Was he? “Sure. All except the parties.” He wasn’t antisocial by a long stretch, but most of his friends were dudes; he wasn’t sure what situations might crop up in a free-range grope-a-thon.

  “Just stand there and look pretty,” Lisa suggested. “They don’t expect you to spout fifteenth-century French poetry.”

  Brandon grinned and quoted, “Doulz viaire gracieus, de fin cuer vous ay servi. Weillies moy estre piteus, Doulz viaire gracieus, Se je sui un po honteus, ne me mettes en oubli: Doulz viaire gracieus, de fin cuer vous ay servi.”

  Lisa gaped at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Where did you learn that?” Cade asked with a laugh.

  “The Internet.”

  “You seem to learn a lot on the Internet,” a most-welcome voice said from behind him. He whirled in his chair and his heart did a little pirouette when he saw Porsche; it wasn’t a very manly thing for a heart to do, but there it was. Ballet slippers and all.

  He stood and took a step toward her with his arms out before he remembered this was the awkward morning after. He’d fallen asleep, and she’d left without that all-important post-tangling conversation. He’d never been a fan of those after-talks, but for some reason, he wished he and Porsche had had one.

  Fortunately, she wasn’t reserved in the least in the glaring light of day, which was promising. She walked right into his arms and kissed his chin. Considering their audience—Cody and Claire had followed her in—all watching with too-bright interest, it was a nice welcome.

  Until she wrinkled her nose. “You didn’t shave.” She rubbed the scruff on his cheek.

  “I wanted the rough look for tonight.”

  Her eyes went wide. She flicked a quick look at her friends. A lovely flush rose on her cheeks.

  “For my performances.”

  “Oh.” After she said it, she forgot to close her mouth and those rounded lips captured his attention and reminded him of . . . well, something. Something that had happened last night. And might happen again tonight. If he was lucky.

  His. . . discomfort grew. He hid it by pulling her into a real hug.

  “I like a little stubble on a man,” Lisa said, waggling her brows at Cade.

  He smirked. “Not now, Lisa. We have company.”

  Claire rolled her eyes. “Oh, gross.”

  “Don’t you like stubble?” Porsche asked.

  “Of course I do. It’s a damn shame Charlie has to shave for work. But I don’t want to hear about my brother’s stubble. That is so not cool.”

  For some reason, Lisa found this highly amusing.

  While the others continued to discuss men’s facial hair and the pros and cons of various styles—Lisa seemed convinced that goatees were very sexy, while Cade virulently disputed this point, and everyone agreed that a full beard was a health hazard, and possibly a fire hazard as well—Porsche leaned closer and said, “What’s your schedule like today?”

  He loved the glint in her eye. “Pretty full.” She pouted until he added, “Spending time with you.”

  “Excellent.”

  “I thought we could go into town and see how Dougal’s doing. Then maybe . . . lunch?” Something, anything to see her alone.

  “I’d like that.”

  “I have to work tonight though. Claire’s forcing me to do the welcome party.”

  “She is a slave driver.”

  “I heard that.”

  They both ignored her.

  “Did you still want me to dress you?” Porsche asked with a coquettish glance. It made heat coil in his veins.

  “I . . . ah . . . would love for you to dress me.” Or undress him.

  “Wait. What are you two talking about?” Cade asked.

  Brandon cleared his throat. “Porsche has agreed to help me change between sets.”

  For some reason, his friend’s eyes went wide. “No. Oh no. No. She can’t do that.”

  True to form, Porsche didn’t care for being told what she could or could not do. She turned to Cade, crossed her arms, and glowered at him. “Why not?”

  “Because!”

  “Because why?” Oh, she was a master debater, his Porsche was.

  “Because it’s a men’s dressing room.”

  “So?” Another brilliant salvo.

  “You might see something.”

  “Like what? A wiener? Do you think I’ve never seen a wiener before?”

  “Oh God. Stop.” Cade covered his ears and then turned to Lisa. “Ford’s going to have a conniption.”

  Lisa was not concerned. “Ford needs to grow a pair.” Thankfully, Cade didn�
�t hear this bit of heresy, because he had his hands over his ears.

  Porsche sniffed. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime, sistah.” The two high-fived, which made Cade stare warily at them both. “Besides, you can always close your eyes.”

  “I can,” Porsche said, and then she went and ruined the effect by adding, in a not-so-subtle aside, “but I probably won’t.”

  Cade whirled on Brandon and proceeded to shake his finger. Apparently it was a family trait. “I hold you responsible. You are the one who will answer to Ford when he comes storming in demanding satisfaction.”

  “What? Is he going to slap me across the face with a pair of white gloves?”

  “Probably.”

  “Oooh. I do hope your sword is sharpened,” Porsche said, glancing at him over her shoulder and nudging not-so-surreptitiously against his cock with a waggle of her brows.

  He frowned at her. Ye Gods. Did she have any idea what she was doing to him? Here? In the kitchen? In front of witnesses? He could only imagine what mischief she might incite when they were alone.

  Mentally, he did a little Homer Simpson drool.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Claire, the dubious voice of reason, pronounced. She glanced around the room. “Ford isn’t going to ask for swords. He’s a firearms kind of guy all the way.”

  Lisa nodded sagely. “That is true.” She tipped her head and gave it a thought. “Pitchfork, maybe.”

  “Oh, yeah. For sure. Any farm implement, really.”

  Brandon bit back a grin. “Well, I appreciate your concern. Both of you. But I really don’t think pistols at dawn is Ford’s style.”

  “How about shotguns at weddings?” Cade muttered.

  Porsche gave a panicked trill of a laugh. “Oh, now, now. Stop trying to frighten him. My brother isn’t that bad.” All three of them gaped at her. “He’s not.” She turned around and adjusted Brandon’s collar, though there was nothing wrong with it. T-shirt collars rarely required adjusting, but she made a show of it anyway. “He’s really not,” she said, sending Brandon an imploring look.

  “They don’t scare me,” he said in an undertone. “And neither does your brother.”

  “Oh, good.” She seemed to relax. At least her smile was a little more sincere.

  “Shall we go see Dougal? Before it gets too late?”

  “Yes.” She sent a snippy look over her shoulder and said, “We’ll be back later.” And then they left the kitchen, with Cade muttering in their wake.

  “Honestly,” Porsche huffed as she slipped into the driver’s seat of her coupe. “Sometimes I don’t know why I’m friends with them at all.”

  Brandon grinned at her. “Yes you do.”

  She caught his eye and her lips kicked up. “I guess I do. They are really good friends.”

  “They are.”

  “Even though they’re annoying.”

  “Entertaining is more like it.”

  “That too.” She started the engine and peeled out of the parking lot for the long drive back to the road. “When you know people as long as I’ve known them, it can be amusing, pushing their buttons.”

  “And you are soooo good at it.”

  “Why thank you, sir.”

  “Speaking of button pushing . . .”

  She glanced at him.

  “Last night?”

  Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything while she was driving. She took the turn onto the main road way too wide and they nearly ended up in the ditch. “Sorry,” she said as she corrected their course. He couldn’t help noticing that her ears were a bright pink.

  “Why did you leave?”

  “You fell asleep.” There was no heat in her words. She smiled. “It seemed like you needed your rest.”

  “I would rather have done something else.”

  “Me too.”

  Her words simmered between them.

  “There’s always . . . t-tonight.” Hell. He was a grown man. There was no call for him to stutter like a schoolboy.

  Her smile widened. “It seems to me you have a date tonight.” When he frowned, she added, “With thirty middle-aged cougars, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Oh surely, they won’t be carnivores.”

  Her laugh was diabolical. “Whatever you say. Just remember, when all is said and done tonight, when all the meet and greets have ended, when the champagne’s been guzzled . . . you’re mine.” She sent him a scorching look, and he nodded.

  Partly because her tone commanded a nod.

  And partly because she was absolutely right.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Thankfully Dougal was doing well, though a little groggy. The most traumatic part of his adventure seemed to be the fact that the vile vet had shaved his belly. He didn’t seem to care for the mortification—of that, or the heinous cone of shame—so he was curled up in the corner of his cage and did little more than lick Porsche’s hand when she tried to comfort him.

  After visiting him for a while, she and Brandon strolled down Main Street, which was probably a mistake for a couple who wanted to be alone. One did not stroll down Main Street with impunity. They ran into nearly everyone she knew and they all studied them with calculating expressions. No doubt the reason Wayne had skipped away as quickly as he had was to put in an emergency call to Ford with an update.

  Porsche tried to be annoyed by the familiar cosseting, but she just couldn’t bring herself to fret. Probably because she’d made her decision about Brandon and nothing would change it. Not anything the town thought, or her brother, or anyone.

  The only person whose opinion mattered was Brandon.

  But still, somehow, when they were invited to join a group heading for Bubba’s, they agreed and spent the rest of the afternoon in the bar drinking lemonade and playing cards.

  It was hardly the alone time Porsche had in mind, but it was definitely pleasant. Besides, they had time. They had all night to be alone. And she found the more she discovered about Brandon Stewart, the more she wanted to know.

  He had his secrets—even though she knew some of them—but it was the reason he felt the need to keep them so close to his chest that bothered her. He was who he was, and he was worthy of friendship and respect no matter what. It killed her that a man as magnificent as he was might worry that people wouldn’t accept him. That he hadn’t told her about his leg yet also concerned her, because it meant, on some level, he wasn’t sure of her.

  If he was, he’d say something. Wouldn’t he?

  She reminded herself to be patient. She had no idea what he’d been through, and the comment about his brother made her wonder if somewhere along the line, he’d been rejected because of his missing leg.

  She hated the thought, but what she hated more was the possibility he feared she would treat him in the same cavalier fashion.

  It crossed her mind to just bring it up, but of course she jettisoned the impulse immediately. There could be reasons why he preferred to keep his secret under wraps, reasons she couldn’t suspect. And if he really didn’t want her to know, this fragile thing they had might crack beneath the weight of her demand.

  So she held her tongue and sat at the table—filled with rowdy, joking friends—and watched as her man charmed them. Each and every one. By the time the party wound down, it was time for him to be getting back to the ranch.

  “I’d like to stop by home, if you don’t mind,” she said as they got back into her car. “I need to grab my suitcase.”

  She loved the way his eyes lit up. “You’re staying the night?”

  “Of course. Cody asked me.”

  And damn, she wished she hadn’t mentioned Cody, because Brandon’s lips tightened. He nodded and looked away, but she caught that flash of frustration on his features.

  The casual comment haunted her all the way home, but she wasn’t sure how to c
orrect things without making them worse, so she said nothing.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said as she pulled up to the house, and then, without waiting for his reply, she ran inside and grabbed her suitcase.

  Since her timing sucked today, Ford saw her as she was jetting through the living room toward the door. “Hey you,” he said. “Whatcha up to?”

  She skidded to a halt and fixed an innocent look on her face. “I’m spending the weekend at Claire’s.” Truth. Truth was good. Wasn’t it?

  Ford wasn’t fooled. “One of those parties?”

  “Mmm hmm. Hanna Stevens will be there.” Because that was a pretty solid justification.

  “Didn’t Hanna move to Dallas?”

  “Yeah. With Logan. You remember Logan.”

  Ford shot her a dry look. “I should hope so. I saw him last month.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m not getting that old.”

  “I didn’t say you were getting old—”

  “Will Logan be there? At the party?”

  Oh crap. She hated the way his expression lit up. The last thing she needed was Ford coming over. “I can’t imagine why. It’s a party for chicks.”

  “Why is Hanna going to a stripper party when she has a perfectly good piece of man flesh at home?” They both whipped around as Crystal entered the room. “I mean, have you seen Logan? Hubba-hubba.”

  “Hey,” Ford growled. “Enough of that.”

  Crystal turned to Porsche and batted her lashes. “And speaking of hubba hubba, is that Brandon Stewart waiting in your car?”

  Porsche almost swallowed her tongue. Oh lordy. Here it came. She could almost feel Ford’s rant building up. It wasn’t the man in the car, so much as the man in the car and the suitcase in her hand. And the hint of guilt snaking through her. No doubt Ford knew her every thought, her every plan. He usually did.

  She glanced at him as she sifted through the possible fabrications she could weave to wiggle out of a lecture.

  His eyes narrowed. His expression veered from copacetic to downright stern. “Really, Porsche?” he said in a disappointed voice. He stormed to the door and swung it open. “You left him sitting in the car? How neighborly is that?”