9781618853011NoHoldsBarredChelcee

by Unknown

  Pow! Pop-Pop-Pop-Pop.

  “Jesus!” He leaped back at the sound of the sudden explosions. Sparks flew in all directions. A few peppered his clothes. Glowing embers scattered across the Persian rug and winked out in a dying blaze of glory. The screens on the monitors tumbled like dice, then faded to black.

  His mouth dropped open and he watched in amazement as bluish-gray clouds rose from behind each monitor like smoke signals from a mountaintop.

  “Fuck!” He groaned and raced over to the monitors. “NO! No. No. No. No.”

  Could anything else go wrong?

  He should never have tempted fate with the silent question.

  Muttering, he banged the tops of the monitors with the flat of his hands.

  Nothing happened.

  He eyed the obscenely black screens. “Why me?” He cast his eyes heavenward. “Can you tell me? What have I done?” Vicious, little hammers beat at his skull. “Peace, my ass.”

  At this rate, he was never going to have peace again.

  He pressed a button and buzzed security. “Get maintenance up here on the double. Yes, damn it! Now.”

  This was all Dianna’s fault.

  He imagined his hands clenched around his sister’s slender neck. Jerking up the phone, he dialed New York. When Dianna answered on the third ring, he snapped, “Get your skinny butt to the ranch. Now. We’ve got problems.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply, but slammed the phone down on Dianna’s groan. Silently, he pondered Fate. Fate had to be female. How else had he come to be in this mess—if not because of a woman?

  Chapter Four

  The most important thing in communication is hearing what isn’t being said.

  ~Cowgirl Quotes

  Double Deuce Casino and Hotel

  Ace of Hearts Lounge

  Friday 9:15 p.m.

  “I’d like a drink, please.”

  The whiskey-soft quality of the woman’s voice snagged Jace’s attention, dragging him away from his contemplation of the various and painful ways he could murder Duel and get by with it.

  He glanced up and felt his heart skip several beats.

  She’d sounded like sin. Jesus. He knew she’d taste like sin, too.

  He watched with idle curiosity as she eased sideways between him and the empty barstool to his right. The elusive scent of her perfume skimmed over his senses, faintly floral. Subtle. Enticing.

  He inhaled, drawing the soft fragrance into his lungs and let it tease his mind. Violets. Definitely violets. She even reminded him of a violet as the dark purple of her sexy sundress flowed in graceful swirls around her knees. Prim and dignified. Crisp as a frosty morning, until the back of her dress came into full view.

  That’s when his heart nearly stopped beating.

  There was nothing there.

  Nothing, but a creamy, provocative expanse of smooth skin guaranteed to make a man’s mouth water and his dick stand up and take notice. He’d seen lots of backless dresses in his time, even assisted a few women out of them, but he’d never seen a dress cut quite like this one.

  His gaze followed the slender ladder of her spine to the delicious curves of her hips where the back of the dress dipped low. Right where her butt started, the material of the dress thinned, became even more revealing, but at the same time, all the delicious skin was only hinted at.

  His throat squeezed tight, and he choked on the swig of beer he’d just downed. A man couldn’t be held responsible for the heat that tightened his body. He couldn’t be blamed for appreciating or savoring the amount of petal soft flesh revealed to his interested gaze.

  She had the kind of skin that made a man hunger.

  He mopped beer off his chin and shifted his gaze away from the tempting flesh only to have his eyes disobey his command to stop staring and return to the sweet banquet standing beside him. Christ, she was so close he could reach right out and touch her back, caress the silky skin. He clenched his fingers. Hell, he could also get knocked off the barstool.

  His fingers twitched, as though an electrical current zinged through his fingertips. Damn, he hadn’t even seen her face, and that quickly, he wanted her. He wanted to glide his tongue over each perceptible bump of her vertebrae. Skim his fingertips down the graceful network of bone and flesh.

  She stood beside him, completely unaware of his presence, her slender back a tempting sight to a starving man.

  She settled on the plush stool next to him.

  He held his breath and waited for her to turn so he could see her face. At last, she inched around, facing him. Seeing him. Her head tilted back, and she looked at him with wide-eyed surprise.

  Up until that moment, he knew she hadn’t been aware of his existence. For some reason, the realization sent a shaft of disappointment through him. He’d been so conscious of her he’d expected her to have the same intense awareness of him.

  And she hadn’t.

  He touched two fingers to the brim of his black dress Stetson. “Evenin’, ma’am.”

  Inwardly, he grimaced. Great. And Duel called him a lady-killer?

  A hint of soft rose stained her cheeks as though the Nevada sun had brushed a light kiss across her elegant cheekbones. She lowered her gaze and disregarded his greeting. The look on her face plainly said she wasn’t interested in him or his howdy pick-up-line.

  For reasons he’d never comprehended, women rarely ignored him. He could live to be a very old man, but that wouldn’t change the fact he was unprepared for the big brush-off from a fine looking woman. And that was exactly what he’d received. It might have been polite, but an obvious rebuff all the same.

  He found it difficult to swallow. His chest ached where his breath lodged in a painful knot.

  Was it possible to simply implode from the pressure?

  Her eyes were unlike any shade of violet he’d ever seen. Her mouth—Christ—her mouth was the color of sun ripened berries, soft, moist and oh, so kissable. He released a ragged breath, even as he struggled to draw another.

  Kissable—

  Hell, a man could die from the pleasure of her mouth on him—anywhere on him.

  Abruptly he turned his attention to his beer, annoyed that his fingers trembled as he reached for the mug in front of him. He closed his eyes, stunned at the flood of desire slamming into his gut. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before.

  No matter how crazy his mind told him it was, he knew he wanted her, wanted to touch her silky skin, wanted to taste her mouth. Wanted her mouth on him…

  In spite of the inner voice, that compelled him not to, he opened his eyes. He couldn’t resist staring at her and wondered at the magnetic pull dragging his gaze back to her.

  Her silver-blonde hair was twisted into one of those messy knots women wore that left the nape of their slender necks exposed and vulnerable. A matched pair of ivory combs encrusted with glittering jewels anchored whimsical curls back from her face.

  He felt his body tighten and quiver as if he were a bow drawn back as far as it would go. It shook him to discover he was actually struggling to keep from reaching out and tugging those damn combs loose. He wanted to watch her bountiful head of hair tumble unrestrained around her shoulders. He wanted to get lost in the silk of it, the crowning glory of it.

  Exactly when he became aware of her nervousness, he wasn’t sure, but it dawned on him she was uneasy. Her tension radiated around her like a halo. Her spine, rigid as a board told him she was uncomfortable with her surroundings. She kept her attention determinedly focused on the bartender serving drinks up and down the bar.

  She looked right through everyone else and took no further notice of him.

  The lounge, filled to capacity, was obscenely noisy. Ear-splitting music blasted from a ‘50s rock and roll band to the tune of Good Golly Miss Molly! The acoustics vibrated off the walls, drowning out individual voices.

  He frowned. There was no way the busy bartender had heard the woman’s faint request for a drink. Hell, he was right beside her, and
he’d barely heard her timid words. With a subtle jerk of his head, he caught the bartender’s notice and indicated the lady waited. Satisfied he’d snared the harried man’s attention he leaned back, and allowed his gaze to roam over her slight figure.

  Compared to his six-foot-two-inch frame, she was a tiny thing. Up against him, he doubted her head would reach his shoulders. Smaller and much slimmer than his usual type, he estimated she weighed a hundred pounds. His tastes ran to women with a little more height and flesh on their bones—and soft. He liked soft.

  He could easily span her narrow waist with both hands and have inches to spare. And she would be soft, he thought idly, no doubt about it, but her body language was all wrong. The poker-stiffness to her spine made him think she had a branding rod stuffed where the sun didn’t shine.

  She was one cool lady. Aloof. Regal as a queen. And without the slightest idea her rigid reserve was like a slap in the face to a man of his temperament and mood.

  Yep, she’d brushed him off all right. He grinned and accepted her silent challenge. Hell, he loved dining with royalty. Yet, an edgy feeling slipped over him. It nudged his consciousness, that instead of being pretentious, she was frightened of something or someone.

  Christ, he was probably the one scaring her, the way he kept staring at her. Yet, he couldn’t stop.

  Her hands rested on top of the bar, clenched so tight, the whiteness of the fragile bone beneath the skin lay exposed like sun-bleached wood. Her vulnerability drew him more than her beauty. His natural instinct to protect something smaller than himself kicked in. He had the most ridiculous urge to take those small hands in his, gently unclench them, and tell her everything would be all right. That he would shield her from the demons in her world.

  He slid his gaze over her, allowed it to linger on the lush, full cleavage. The steady rhythm of his heart picked up its tempo. Christ in a handbag, she wasn’t wearing a bra. In response to the air-conditioning, her nipples had tightened to pert, little buds and pressed tightly against the silk.

  He squirmed on the barstool, cleared his throat, and downed another swallow of beer. It didn’t do a thing to cool down his body. He wasn’t thrilled with the intensity of his reaction to her. Sure, he’d love to get laid, but he wanted to be able to walk away afterward. He had a feeling if he ever got lucky with this woman, there would be no walking away.

  The lady was a pocket-sized Venus with tight, inviting nipples and ripe, full breasts, a nice handful. Damn, if she hadn’t come out of left-field and blind-sided him.

  “What will you have, miss?” the bartender asked politely, pausing in front of the woman.

  Her lips moved. She murmured something too soft for him to hear. In a lightning-quick glance, he shifted his gaze to the bartender in time to see the twin slashes of the older man’s snowy brows peak in surprise. But his interest lay with the woman. He didn’t give a good damn what the lady preferred to drink, just who she preferred to drink with—and she was alone.

  Not for long.

  Not if he had anything to say about it.

  He’d just spent more time than he wanted nursing a beer that had gone warm, and he didn’t particularly have a hankering for. Though his temper had cooled, he was still sorely provoked with Duel. He fervently hoped his brother had enough sense to cancel the damned appointment he’d seen fit to make for him.

  And that Duel wasn’t dumb enough to make another one. Jace scowled into his mug of beer. Certainly, he’d been blowing off steam when he threatened to get drunk and get laid. Still, he had no real desire to meet the lady horse trainer Duel was determined to push on him.

  He was tired and edgy, and it suddenly hit him—lonely. He didn’t want to spend another night alone in a big, empty bed. But he didn’t want Duel picking out women for him to fuck, either.

  “You need a wife.”

  Duel’s words drifted through his mind.

  He barely stifled a disdainful snort. What he needed was exactly what he’d said. Drunk and laid. Mostly, laid. It had been a long time since he’d touched soft, womanly skin, as Duel also pointed out.

  His life suddenly seemed like one big haunted shadow. Duel was right about one thing. He was alone. And alone was a lonely place to be.

  Yeah. He was alone—the lady was alone. Maybe he wasn’t so tired, after all. And hell, he wasn’t planning to marry her for Christ’s sake, just fuck her.

  He turned slightly toward her so he could gain a better view of her face. She paid for her drink and latched onto the tumbler like it was liquid gold. He took in the uncertainty on her face, heard her throaty murmur as she graciously thanked the bartender.

  She kept her eyes centered on the amber liquid in front of her and missed the bartender’s curious gaze. There wasn’t a thing about her attitude that invited—young, beautiful, sexy as hell, and not a single, welcoming smile crossed her lips.

  He rubbed a hand down his face. Hell, there was nothing flirty about this one. Not one damn thing. When a beautiful woman didn’t flirt or make eye contact, then something was seriously not right in her world.

  She was in trouble.

  He couldn’t shake the feeling the lady was in a jam. He’d detected a trace of fear in her eyes when she first became aware of him, as though just for a second, she’d been alarmed at his presence.

  Or thought he was someone else.

  The purple hue of her eyes had deepened to the shade of bruised violets.

  Bruised…

  That was it.

  She looked battered—not physically—but perhaps…her heart and soul. She wore a haunted, vulnerable expression and yet he detected fear.

  Afraid?

  Or sorely abused?

  He had no answers to his conjectures, but it pissed him off at the thought of someone abusing the soft skin he so admired. Aware his guesswork could be way off-kilter, he frowned. He’d never seen the woman before in his life, knew nothing about her, and here he was, creating monsters in her life he had no proof existed.

  He had no business fantasizing about making love to her, either.

  Making love?

  Shit, he didn’t make love. He had sex, pure unadulterated sex, but it was still sex. He might take his time, spend hours with the woman he was bedding, but it was still just sex.

  Christ, he needed to draw a breath.

  How could he breathe, when he couldn’t remember how?

  Hell, at the moment, he could barely remember his own name. The thought of touching her, of feeling the softness of her velvety skin beneath the pads of his fingertips left him with a tingling, sensory overload.

  The thought crossed his mind that she would taste like violet sugar candy. He took a hasty swallow of his beer.

  It didn’t help.

  He still felt itchy. Hot. Unbearably restless.

  And horny as hell.

  He swore softly. He just needed to stop thinking about what was happening inside his jeans and get the hell out of Dodge before he made a complete and utter fool of himself.

  He didn’t move.

  His butt might as well have been tacked to the damned barstool. He damn sure wasn’t crazy enough to get up and leave her fair game for another man to lay claim to.

  The sudden possessiveness he felt slugged him in the gut hot and fierce. He couldn’t remember a time in his life when a particular woman held his attention. There didn’t seem to be a way to shake free of it, either.

  It disconcerted him to discover he wanted nothing more than to sweep the woman into his arms and hold her beneath his body until they were both sated.

  So why ignore it?

  He decided then he wasn’t going to fight the attraction he felt for her any longer. Jace flicked his gaze upon her again and frowned, then again, maybe not, because the wanting was definitely all one-sided. The lady clearly was not issuing invitations to anyone. So, maybe a man had to pay for a good time with her.

  Discreetly, he drew a hundred dollar bill out of his shirt pocket, folded it in half and slip
ped it underneath her glass.

  Business deals were something he understood quite well.

  * * * *

  Ace of Hearts Lounge

  Friday 10:00 p.m.

  Kaycee toyed with the plain, little purse on the bar in front of her and resisted the urge to rub her aching temples. For two cents, she’d yank the combs from her hair and throw them at something. Anything. Maybe hurl them at the rugged cowboy perched arrogantly on the stool next to her who had made it his goal for the night to scrutinize her.

  Then she’d scream.

  Better yet, she’d go off somewhere and have a wonderful meltdown. She might as well go ahead and prove she was as insane as she felt.

  She looked up and caught her pale reflection in the gilded mirror behind the bar. Wonderful. She looked like shit. Her hair was topsy-turvy. Her lip-gloss chewed off and yep, there was definitely a tiny bruise making its way on her right cheekbone. She choked back hysterical laughter.

  Damn her brother and damn the asshole seated beside her.

  It was hard enough coming to Duel’s casino for this meeting without having to endure the scorching gaze from the tough looking cowboy. He didn’t have to punch her with that “Evenin’ ma’am,” drawl or the silent invitation to crawl in bed with him and have her wicked way, too.

  The man hadn’t taken his eyes off her since she sat down.

  She didn’t think he intended to.

  Miserably, she decided it was the dress. Taylor was right. She should have changed out of the damned, skin revealing, provocative piece of silk most men chose to believe ‘Fuck me’ was stamped in big bold letters on the label. The dress itself branded her as either a working girl or a woman on the prowl.

  She didn’t do strangers. She didn’t do, period.

  Yeah, her brother was right. She looked like a hooker, the dress—not at all suitable for a job interview. Tears swam in her eyes. She’d just wanted to look nice and not look quite so desperate or so poor. She should have opted for the jeans—her first mistake. Her second mistake had been allowing her brother to see her wearing the dress.