Love and a Blue-Eyed Cowboy

by Unknown

  And yet something about her compelled him to try to understand. Not bothering to examine the urge, he simply asked her, “Why?”

  “Because if I want a scarecrow’s chance in hell of living through this, I’m going to need to do a bit more work”

  “I meant, why aren’t you going? All the securing in the world won’t keep this place from going up like Dorothy’s house on its way to Oz. Only I doubt you’ll be so lucky.”

  “Why do you care?” She held up her hand. “Never mind, stupid question. You obviously take your job as part of the evacuation effort very seriously. I respect what you’re trying to do here.” She gestured around her, but Reese knew she meant the entire evacuation zone that encompassed the lower half of Florida’s gulf coastline. “But I think your time would be more wisely spent helping those people who want to be rescued.”

  Her voice had taken on a gentle, soothing quality. He imagined wounded animals responded very well to it. Lucky for him he was a man and immune to such precarious things as a woman’s soft voice.

  “Time’s up.” He took her arm, though a bit more gently this time, grabbing a box of trash bags off her kitchen table as he moved toward the office he could see through the open door behind her. Once inside, he let her go, blocking the door with his body, then pulled a couple of bags free. “Here. Just the most important things. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  He ducked out the door, grabbing a ladder-back chair from beside the table behind him and shoving it under the doorknob. He’d barely gotten it tightly wedged when she began jiggling it.

  “Hey! You can’t do this! Let me out of here!” She banged on the heavy wooden door.

  “You’re wasting time,” he called back, then grabbed a few more bags and went in search of her room.

  A loud thwack behind him indicated she’d kicked the door. The following string of curse words trailed him up the stairs.

  Where in the hell had she learned to swear like that?

  His grimace faded. What replaced it couldn’t be called a smile. Reese Braedon never smiled.

  But he had to admit he wasn’t bored anymore.

  Bored. It was disconcerting to realize that until that moment, he hadn’t been able to put his finger on what his problem had been of late. It had been almost a year since he’d thrown in the federal towel and opened up a private security agency with Cole Sinclair, another agent he’d occasionally worked with in his past life.

  Bored. Eighteen months ago, he’d craved boredom like a man who’d spent far too many years living on the edge of his wits. Like the man he was. Had been. Private security allowed him the luxury of picking his own jobs. And more importantly, being his own boss. He’d never again find himself in the position of having to answer to someone else, particularly when people’s lives were on the line.

  Reese shoved aside the dark memories of his past. He elbowed his way into the first room at the top of the stairs. The steel shutters made the room dark, so he flipped the light switch. It was a bedroom, but it wasn’t hers. Too neat and tidy, with an air of expectancy, like it was just waiting for an aunt or a cousin to drop in for a brief stay.

  But not a mother, he thought with a wry twist of his lips. Without giving any details, Regina Ravensworth had made it very clear that she and her daughter were not close. In fact, the one promise she’d wrung from him was that he not tell Jillian why he’d been hired—or that he’d been hired at all.

  He’d agreed to the condition, knowing Jillian would probably assume he was part of the evacuation effort. Which he had been earlier that week down in the Keys, where he and Sinclair lived and headquartered their business.

  However, at this point, he didn’t see where keeping her mother’s role out of it had made the job a whole helluva lot easier.

  He flipped off the guest room light and moved down the hall. One bathroom, another guest room, one linen closet. He paused long enough to grab a few sheets, some towels, and a blanket, then moved to the next door … And stopped cold on the threshold.

  This was her room.

  It wasn’t just the large double bed covered with the jumble of lemon-yellow sheets that gave it away. He stepped inside, feeling strangely like the intruder he was. He never gave his methods much thought, just doing what had to be done in the most efficient manner possible to obtain his goal. And this was far from the first time he’d found himself in the bedroom of a woman he’d just met. Of course, he’d usually been invited. He shrugged off the odd feeling and looked around.

  The room wasn’t feminine. Bare hardwood floors, a bed, one nightstand, and a wooden dresser. The only adornment was a watercolor of a marsh scene hanging over the dresser and a wooden lamp carved in the shape of a leaping dolphin on the nightstand. No pictures or well-thumbed paperbacks lay on the nightstand, no watches or jewelry littered the scarred surface of the dresser.

  Picturing her small plain features, slim boyish body clad in a shapeless T-shirt and jeans and her job working with animals, he supposed it shouldn’t surprise him that there weren’t the requisite bottles, tubes, and pots of makeup and cologne cluttering every available surface.

  Although there was a faint fresh scent in the air, sort of woodsy. Odd for a woman, he thought, then admitted that it somehow suited her. A disconcerting notion considering he barely knew her. Didn’t want to know her. She was just another job. So what if she intrigued him? She was a puzzle he didn’t have time to solve. The problem, he acknowledged with a frown, was getting rid of the inclination.

  It occurred to him with a start that he was wasting precious time, standing there literally sniffing around. He bent down and grabbed two pairs of worn sneakers from the floor by the door and dumped them into the trash bag, then turned back to the dresser opposite her bed.

  He tugged at the top drawer but it held tight, probably warped from the constant humidity. He yanked harder. The drawer sprang open past its tracks, upending her underwear in a heap on the floor.

  “God—” Reese bit off the curse, set the drawer down and knelt, careful to favor his thigh. He hadn’t given a thought to her lingerie—she was hardly the type to inspire heated fantasies—but the basic white cotton bras and undies spilling from his hands didn’t provide any surprises.

  He stuffed a handful of each, along with some white crew socks in the bag. He reached for the second drawer and pulled out several pairs of faded blue jeans. Shorts, T-shirts, and a few old sweatshirts followed as he searched the other drawers.

  He scooped up the remaining pile of underwear and dumped it back in the warped drawer. The sound of something hard and metallic stilled his actions for a moment, then he shoved a hand into the jumble and rooted around until his fingers closed over what felt like a picture frame.

  He pulled out the small, gilt-edged frame and flipped it over. It was a photo of a man seated next to a woman with a small child in her lap. Judging by the not-quite-true colors and clothing, the photo had been taken some time ago.

  He recognized the woman immediately as Regina Ravensworth, although from what he knew of her background, he doubted that had been her last name back then. Reese wasn’t surprised to see she’d been even more stunning as a young woman. She was leaning against the, shoulder of a big, brawny, blond man who was looking off to his left, away from Regina and the child she held in her lap. Regina’s expression was plainly adoring, almost painfully so.

  Reese’s gaze dropped to the child cradled loosely in her lap. She looked about three or four and had a mop of dark curls. Jillian, he presumed. What kept his attention riveted to the photo was the expression on the child’s face. Her small head was tilted back, and she was staring up at her mother. The unconditional love stamped on her tiny features wasn’t surprising. Nor was it what made Reese’s heart feel strangely tight. It was the intense yearning in those bright gray eyes. Innocently unconcealed, unafraid of possible discovery, as only the young could afford to risk.

  What in the world would make a young girl look at her own mother that way? And
if Regina had looked down in the instant after the photo was snapped, would Jillian have received reassurance that she, too, was adored? Or would she receive rejection?

  Or worse yet, would she encounter the same thing Reese had repeatedly found as a small boy, before he’d learned not to go looking anymore. Would she look up into the eyes of a mother who wouldn’t recognize the need was there at all?

  The wind snapped a branch against the side of the house, bringing Reese sharply, thankfully, back to the present. He started to shove the photo back into the drawer, then changed his mind. Reaching into the bag, he pulled out one of her sweatshirts and carefully bundled the old frame before tucking it in with the rest of her clothes.

  Not wanting to put a reason to his motives, he stood, the ache in his thigh a welcome piece of reality to hang on to. He jimmied the drawer back into place and moved to the small bathroom. He quickly emptied the contents of her medicine chest into another bag and knotted it.

  It wasn’t until he turned back to face her bedroom that it hit him. The reason he’d frozen on the doorstep when he’d first stepped into her room, the reason he’d felt so odd as he’d stood there, cataloguing her personal effects, or more precisely, the lack thereof.

  The reason it all felt so strange was because it was familiar. Very familiar. Too familiar.

  Her bedroom was distant, no connections to anyone here, nothing tying her to past memories, past dreams, fulfilled or otherwise. Except an old photo hidden away in a dresser drawer.

  Reese pictured the small, isolated bungalow he lived in on Vaca Key. Every room in that house looked amazingly just like this one. Full of furniture, empty of soul.

  Which suited him perfectly. So perfectly he’d never even noticed anything lacking.

  Until now, a tiny voice whispered inside his brain.

  He ruthlessly snuffed it out. Irritated, and not at all happy about the reasons for it, Reese hefted the two bags toward the hall.

  He had to turn sideways to fit the bags and himself through the narrow doorway, then was forced to balance the whole pile on one knee so he could reach back inside to flip the switch. Unfortunately, he forgot about his thigh injury and he wobbled precariously for a split second.

  A half second later, the hard muzzle of a gun—his if he wasn’t mistaken—pressed into his lower back.

  “What in the bloody hell are you—?”

  “Freeze!”

  Read on for an excerpt from Linda Cajio’s

  Silk on the Skin

  One

  He definitely wasn’t your normal, average guy.

  As she closed out a sale on the cash register, Cass Lindley covertly watched the tall, lithe man pretending to examine the circular postcard rack by the counter. The expensive sunglasses pushed back to the top of his dark head and the custom-cut, raw-silk linen jacket signaled wealth. She had been all too aware of him ever since he had walked into her specialty shop, WinterLand. This man was different from the jaded high rollers who thought it might be fun to vacation in the sleepy New Jersey shore resort of Long Beach Island. Long Beach didn’t have the glitz and glamour of Atlantic City or the quiet prestige of Ventnor.

  The man’s tawny eyes drew her attention; they seemed to see everything analytically, assessing strengths and weaknesses. Although his lean body was not overly muscled like a body builder’s, she was conscious of a raw power emanating from him. For some strange reason, she couldn’t get the vision of a predator clothed in sleek sophistication out of her head, and she wondered if he knew how much he would stand out in a crowd.

  From behind the rack, he was now looking around the shop, frowning slightly. WinterLand sold only Christmas items; at the seashore in the days of full-blown summer, her displays made people stop and take a second look. It also made them buy, Cass thought in dry amusement.

  “How much?”

  Thinking her mind had been read. Cass glanced up sharply to discover a woman holding a small pillow decorated with a patchwork Christmas motif. The customer approached the register, while repeating, “How much is this, miss?”

  Reminding herself that she had a little hustling to do, Cass smiled. “That’s handcrafted by Mary Snead, who’s noted for her Appalachian designs. It’s only fifty-five dollars.”

  The woman frowned. “It’s cute. But fifty-five dollars for a tiny Santa Claus pillow is a little high, isn’t it?”

  Cass leaned across the counter and said in a conspiratorial tone, “Saks sells the same pillow for nearly double our price.”

  The woman beamed. “I’ll take it.”

  As soon as the woman left, the only other person in the shop stepped in front of the register. Cass gazed at the man; she could see more clearly the furrows that bracketed his eyes and mouth, and she judged him to be in his middle thirties, making him at least six or seven years past her own age, twenty-eight. His face was all angles; his chin jutted out sharply, his cheekbones prominent, and his nose long and thin. But it was those tawny eyes that pulled his features together in a striking combination. The assessing gaze was hidden now as he looked at her in amusement, but the raw power up close was suddenly overwhelming. Cass felt an odd sensation frizzle along her nerve endings, and she was all too conscious of being alone with him. She wished Jean or Mary or any of the other store employees was on with her today.

  “Does Saks sell these at double the price?” he asked, holding up four postcards.

  Grateful for the counter separating them, Cass took a breath to calm herself, then said, “I’ll make you a great deal: Buy something from the store, and I’ll throw in the postcards for free.”

  The man grinned. “Actually, I’m not looking for a bargain, but a person—Cassandra Lindley Is she here?”

  “She’s the one who’s throwing in free postcards to make a sale,” Cass said, grinning back. “I’m Cassandra Lindley, but everyone calls me Cass. What can I do for you?”

  The man held out his hand. “I’m Dallas Carter, the new president of Marks & Lindley. Since I’m on vacation in the area, I thought I’d take the opportunity to meet one of M & L’s two major stockholders.”

  Cass stared at his hand for a long moment, then reluctantly shook it.

  The dynamic Dallas Carter here in her shop on a nice, casual, friendly visit?

  She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all.

  . . .

  Her hand was as soft as satin, and he could easily imagine it soothing a man’s tired body … then stroking it to a white heat. Her long ash-blond hair would be like a gauze curtain, hiding and revealing, and her brilliant emerald-green eyes would hold a man in their prison.

  Dallas Carter forced his thoughts away from the woman behind the name. He reluctantly surrendered her hand and reminded himself that she was just business. Very important business. And he had no time to waste.

  “I’ve asked Ned Marks several times about you,” he said.

  “That’s nice,” she said while bending down behind the counter.

  Her cool reply surprised him, and he acknowledged Cassandra Lindley wasn’t quite the underage flower child he’d been led to expect. Despite the fact that she owned 30 percent of the company’s stock, she had never set foot in M & L’s boardroom. To the best of his knowledge, she hadn’t set foot inside the company’s front door in years. Ned Marks, who was chairman of the board at M & L, had inherited her voting proxy along with his position when his father had retired three years before. The proxy, combined with his own shares, had given Ned a stranglehold majority over the other shareholders.

  “I’d like to take you out to dinner, so we can get better acquainted,” he continued, leaning over the counter to try to see her face. Instead he found himself admiring the long line of her back and the way the strands of her hair spread across her purple knit top. “Tonight?”

  “I’m busy,” she said.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Sorry.”

  “The next night?”

  “The store is open late that night.”

>   “Lunch?”

  “Never eat it.”

  “Perfect. You can talk while I eat.”

  She rose to her feet, and he straightened away from the counter. At first glance she had seemed pretty enough, but now he realized just how striking she was. Her oval face was delicately featured and lightly tanned. Her eyes were huge, and gave the illusion of being round with wonder. But in their depths was a forthright, no-nonsense gaze. Her lips were pink and full and extremely kissable. It was obvious she was a beautiful and intelligent woman, and equally obvious that he was inexplicably drawn to the unexpected combination. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he reminded himself that he needed Cass Lindley, but he couldn’t afford the luxury of wanting her—not with the all-important board meeting coming up in a few weeks.

  She stared at him for a moment. “You’re going to be a pain in the tush about this, aren’t you, Mr. Carter?”

  “Dallas.” He smiled. “I hate the word no.”

  “Well, Dallas,” she said, smiling sweetly in return. “I can’t imagine the meal conversation’s being about anything other than Marks & Lindley Lingerie. While I do happen to own some M & L stock, I’ve never been involved in the operations of the company, and I’ve never wanted to be. How many lace and satin slips M & L sells is up to you, not me. Personally, I buy all mine at K-Mart.”

  Dallas glanced down at her beautifully rounded breasts and smothered a sigh. It seemed a sin to encase them in anything less than pure French silk.

  “Like I said, you talk and I eat. You can even pick the topic.” He waved a hand. “You can tell me about this store, WinterLand. By the way, why specialize in only Christmas items at a summer resort?”

  She smiled. “Because it’s something unusual at this time of year, and the novelty of it is what makes it work.”

  He glanced around the now-empty store and out the large display window facing the highway. “This isn’t exactly prime beach-front location, is it?”