The Rancher and the Rock Star

by Lizbeth Selvig

  Backing up two steps, taking her effortlessly along, he braced against a counter and spread his legs. Abandoning all restraint, he pulled her close, swiftly with no apology, and dragged her pelvis into his new hardness, reveling in the shot of heat. When she raised her right leg and curled it up around his knees, he had no power to stop his own groan.

  Their kiss grew sloppy as it lengthened, with perfect wetness, perfect friction. Gray slid his fingers from her bottom, down the leg wrapped around him, and met the rip in the denim on her thigh. Eagerly, mindlessly, he pressed his fingers through the hole and stroked the soft skin. Soft as her hair, soft as her mouth—up under the fabric he reached, learning that tiny bit of her until her breathing hitched and unlocked the kiss.

  He withdrew his fingers and their bodies relaxed. He pushed back an errant strand of hair, and she smiled shyly. But she didn’t back away. The aquamarine irises held no regret.

  “I thought you were the one who needed a kiss,” he said, surprised at how unsteady his voice came out.

  “Oh, I did.”

  “I’ve never kissed anyone in a darkroom. I guess it, um, got to me.”

  “It happened once or twice.” She fell back against him, turning her head against his chest and resting her cheek like a contented child. “But never like that, Gray. Never, ever like that.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  ABBY SMILED AGAINST the soft, textured lace of her pillow sham and shivered with hot, residual pleasure. Little electric bolts chased through her body, playing tag with her emotions, and memories held her like Gray’s arms. The kiss changed nothing. But the kiss changed everything.

  She would still lose her job in a month. She still had to feed two extra people. Yet girlish giddiness shimmied through her stomach, carrying with it a faint hope. She had no business indulging in hope sparked by a man like Gray Covey. It was just . . . Hope had been such a rare commodity lately.

  Her eyes closed, and she floated, relaxed. She jumped when Gray entered the room. He didn’t speak, just held out a piece of chocolate and popped one like it into his sensual, moist mouth. A Symphony bar. The mattress sank beneath his weight. “Abby, share it with me.” With that, he pressed his chocolate-slick tongue against hers, and the Symphony became more than candy. When he pulled from her kiss, his rich voice rumbled like thunder into her ear. “This isn’t enough. I want more, Abby. More of you. All of you. I want to be all the way inside of you . . .”

  Her eyes flew open and she started, squeaking the mattress which cradled her body safely—and alone. She clutched her pillow like a teddy bear and held it over her eyes with an embarrassed groan. How could his voice have sounded so real? He’d never said such words to her. They’d come from an unknown place deep inside herself. What did that mean about her state of mind?

  She’d spent the past eleven years of her life learning to become an independent woman. With one delve of his finger into a hole in her jeans, Gray had given her a taste of how good it felt to connect with another person who could make her brave and bold, be it with a camera or a kiss. Since Jack’s death, there hadn’t been anyone who’d made her consider loosening her stranglehold on survival.

  But why this man? This unreachable, unavailable man who belonged so much more to the public than he ever could to one person. He came from a world she didn’t want. One in which she could never live.

  “Damn it all to hell, he’s gone too far this time!”

  Her breath froze in her chest as Gray’s real voice pierced the silence. Tossing the pillow aside, she swung her legs to the floor and ran four steps to the bright light of the hallway. Another low curse wafted from downstairs.

  “Dad, it’s okay.”

  “It’s bloody not okay!”

  Her pulse skyrocketed as she dashed into the middle of a motionless tableau. Tension filled the room like smoke. Gray stood like a steel girder in front of the couch, arms welded to his sides, fists tight as knotted cables. She followed his furious glare to the television, surprised the screen wasn’t a fizzling heap of wires and glass. Dawson stood beside him, by far the calmer of the two. Kim huddled in the big leather chair, wide eyes fixed on Gray, knees drawn up.

  “What happened? Gray? Dawson? Is everything all right?”

  A drizzle of incongruous excitement fluttered through her stomach when she caught his eyes. For the briefest of seconds his anger remained pooled there, but when she offered a tentative smile his body relaxed.

  “Abby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “You didn’t, I was just . . . freshening up.”

  She reached his side and, to her astonishment, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pointed at the TV.

  “I still think it’s not that big a deal.” Dawson’s voice held a brittle bravado. “It’s just a picture. She looks fine.”

  “Who is that?” Abby stared at Gray’s taut mouth knowing this was serious and she shouldn’t be remembering how soft the lips could be.

  “My mother.”

  The TV pictured a lovely woman, with dark hair, a kind smile, and Gray’s jawline. Abby gasped. A reporter’s voice supplied more than she needed to hear.

  “Covey’s manager, Chris Boyle, admitted today that while Gray is neither in rehab nor with his mother, he is in an undisclosed location with his sixteen-year-old son, Dawson, who is the one having personal problems. Staff members at Bridgeport Care Complex insist Mrs. Covey does not know the whereabouts of her son or her grandson.”

  “That son of a bitch!” The words blasted from Gray’s lips and hung with no apology. He dropped his arm from Abby’s shoulder and spun on his son. “Still think this is no big deal?”

  Dawson stared at the television as if it had popped out an alien. Anger flowed from Gray like heat waves. Abby ran her forefinger soothingly along his cheek. The memory of their darkroom kiss danced between them.

  “I’m going to turn off the TV now,” she said. “And you’re going to sit down and tell us what’s wrong.”

  It was a relief having a problem to solve that wasn’t hers. Only after the TV was dark did Abby notice Kim’s silent, rigid gaze flicking from her, to Gray, then back. Jealousy? Abby nearly burst into laughter, the emotion was so incongruous with the moment. But she had no time for teenage hormones so ignored her daughter.

  “Now,” she said to Gray. “We’re not much, but we’re all the family you have, so out with it. What’s happening with your mother? And why is it upsetting you so much?”

  He rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Elliott St. Vincent happened. He took that stupid picture and has started a chain reaction.”

  “I thought that was taken care of.”

  “Welcome to the world of cutthroat celebrity.” Sarcasm turned his voice bitter. “Where nothing is ever really taken care of.”

  “You’re saying Elliott has been to visit your mother?”

  “So it would seem.” Gray ground out the words and took a breath. “But we haven’t told you about her yet. I don’t know why, because in a way she’s the reason we’re mooching off of you.” He looked to Dawson who only glowered. “Dawson wanted to come to the States and stay with her, but she’s ill. My mother has Alzheimer’s, and I recently had to place her in a care facility.”

  “You mean hide her there,” Dawson mumbled under his breath.

  Gray’s face iced, but he didn’t respond. “Ironically, my mother loved Elliott St. Vincent. I don’t know why he’d use her this way. He was a good friend. Even for a mercenary, this is cold.”

  “You don’t even know for sure he did it, Dad.”

  “I know you’ve always liked Elliott, and this is hard for you to believe, but after what’s happened with the other picture, I don’t know who else it would be. And I won’t tolerate him using my family. They can lie about me, but you and Grandma are off-limits.”

  “It’s okay. Nobody knows me.”<
br />
  Abby thought Gray’s chin might drop clean off. He stared and, without preamble, wrapped his son in a massive hug. “I wish people did know you,” he said. “And I’m going to make sure this gets fixed.”

  Tears beaded in Abby’s eyes at this first physical display Gray had shown. Dawson withstood the maudlin moment with the high color of a boy who was embarrassed but didn’t want to be. Even Kim lost her pique and patted Dawson’s back when Gray released him.

  “How old is your mom?” Abby asked.

  “Sixty-three.”

  “She’s so young!” Abby’s heart broke for him.

  “Eighteen when I was born. My biological father left when I was three, and she married Neil Covey when I was five.”

  “They were cool.” Dawson said. “Grandpa took me fishing, and he built stuff out of wood. He made me a scooter once out of an old crate and some ancient roller skates. But Grandma showed me how to use it.”

  Both he and Gray laughed.

  “My mother is the nicest but most stubborn woman I’ve ever known. There was no telling her what to do once she made up her mind. And there was no quitting once you’d agreed to do something. Take piano lessons? Then you practice, young man. Quit Juilliard for a rock-and-roll band? Not on your ever-lovin’ life, buster. Then she turns into the band’s biggest groupie. There were plenty of times I was pure mad at her and she knew it. Now I’d give heaven and earth to have that bossy woman back in my face.”

  Silence reigned for long, hard seconds. Kim reached forward and patted him shyly on the shoulder. Abby took his hand. “It sucks, Gray. I won’t tell you otherwise.”

  A wan smile formed on his face. “Thank you.” He wrapped Abby in a hug, and his sigh filled her ear. “She has moments of clarity. I told her once we were looking for Dawson in Minnesota. If she happened to remember that, it won’t take Elliott long to find us. And when he does, the world does. As bad as that would be, it’s worse that everyone knows about Mom.”

  “There’s no shame in her condition, Gray.” Abby touched his arm.

  “Of course not. But she’s not an ordinary mother, for which I couldn’t be sorrier. Now that they know where she is, reporters, and even more photographers like Elliott, will start hounding her, or at least go after the staff where she’s living. I have no idea what made him hate me this much.”

  “Who could hate you?” Kim thrust her first, indignant words into the fray and garnered a genuine smile from her hero.

  He sought Abby’s eyes. “Who could?” she echoed softly. “Maybe it’s strictly money, not hate. There’s probably a big check waiting for the person who solves the canceled-concerts mystery. Money is powerful.”

  The touch of his fingers on her cheek warmed her to her toes. She wished she could erase the sadness in his eyes.

  “You’re absolutely right. And if Elliott St. Vincent is successful, you’ll be up to your quiet country neck in reporters and photographers.”

  Gray’s words sliced into Abby’s heart like knife blades. Since the magical-but-rash kiss, she’d been downplaying worries about her lost job, her fragile finances, and her fears, but reality battered her peaceful fairy tale like hailstones. What was she thinking? She wanted no part of media or rumors or back-stabbing paparazzi. Losing her safe solitude and disrupting her efforts to keep things running on her fraying farm was not worth hanging onto a white knight, no matter how well he could validate her. Or how thrillingly he could kiss.

  Resolutely she stood. Gray clung to her hand, sadness changing to concern in his eyes.

  “Abby, I’m sorry. Don’t leave.”

  “It’s okay,” she lied. “I just think, maybe, it’s time for cocoa. It has been almost a week since I made any.” It sounded lame even to her, but at the moment it was any port in a storm.

  She half-hoped Gray would follow her to the kitchen, although his company was probably the last she should have. With a smidgen of disappointment, she heard the high-tech warble of Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C-sharp Minor, signaling his iPhone ringing. Her body tingled when his low, sexy voice answered, even though he wasn’t talking to her.

  With effort she shut the sound out. There was nothing she wanted to hear. No more she wanted to know. Helping Gray was a task so far out of her league that the hot cocoa fix was an exercise in sheer ridiculousness. Nonetheless, she started her chocolate to melting.

  “That was Chris.”

  She spun from the pan on the stove in surprise, her wooden spoon shedding a glob of chocolate onto the floor. Deep lines of distress marked his brow, and his thick hair had been raked back from his forehead.

  “And?” She placed the spoon back into her pan and moved it from the heat, ignoring the drops at her feet.

  “He called the Bridgeport Center where Mom is. They confirmed that Elliott signed in several days ago. Assho— Sorry.” The last came out a whisper.

  “Want me to go beat him up for you?” Her heart hurt for him.

  “Would you?”

  “Sure.”

  Before she realized he’d moved, he pulled her into his arms. Had there been time to think she might have dodged him, but his hold was needy and persuasive. Kim and Dawson’s proximity be danged— she wanted him to kiss her again. And that was dangerous. “If you want your chocolate, you have to let me go.” Her argument was weak; his arms tightened.

  “You’re like a living fantasy in the middle of a nightmare, and I hope you know I wish I could hold you like this forever.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “But that picture Elliott took could happen again in a heartbeat. I’ll tell you again, Dawson and I have to go. Leave you and Kim so you don’t end up on Entertainment TV.”

  His words shoved her heart right off the Grand Canyon. “I understand, I do.” She swallowed against a lump of fear, larger than the one the night before. “But think, Gray. They’ll expect this to flush you out. The more often you travel, the more likely it is you’ll be spotted. Nobody knows you’re here yet. Let it all settle down. For you and your mom.”

  He said nothing, and Abby kicked herself mentally. Hard. What was she doing? He was a thousand percent right. And he was offering to leave. Giving her space. Her life back.

  “Sweet Abby. I opened myself up to hurt the day I decided to make this my living. My skin is tough. But this isn’t fair to you.”

  “Yeah, if you were so tough, you wouldn’t want to run away.”

  “Don’t start lecturing me, woman. I’m mean when I’m mad, remember?” He ran one finger through the hair around her ear.

  “Oddly enough, I’ve always found that weirdly attractive.” She extracted herself reluctantly from his hold, relieved he hadn’t kissed her. Although, if he had she’d at least have a temporary insanity defense for what she was about to say. “I think leaving is a bad idea. You need to stay put just as we planned. You should help me finish the cocoa, we should stay up watching a stupid movie, and I’ll go in late tomorrow. Just forget about Elliott for now.”

  She released his hand and turned to the stove, shivering when he set his chin on her shoulder to watch her add the cream to her decadent chocolate mix. His breath sent a scalding line of fire down her shoulder.

  “Life is simple for you, Abby Stadtler. You’re right. I needed to find you.”

  Simple? “Sure.” She closed her eyes and squeezed them tight to keep from weeping.

  THE NEXT MORNING Gray’s immediate world was back in order. The dishes sparkled in the drying rack, the chore list was plenty long to last all morning, and the coffee was fresh and hot, his mug waiting for him to fill it. But not even the return to normalcy cured his feeling of being the holiday relative who wouldn’t leave.

  The world had him over a barrel. The PR spin was all in Chris’s hands, Gray could move his mother to a new, unknown location but to what purpose? Confuse her further? He could prosecute Elliott, but to what en
d? More publicity for him?

  He could change the whole paradigm by going back for his next two concerts. Had he not canceled in the first place, he wouldn’t be in this situation. But changing his mind now would only stomp on the extremely fragile bond he’d built with Dawson. And fragile was describing it optimistically.

  He sat on the back door stoop with Roscoe at his feet, his brain in turmoil while his body basked guiltily in paradise. The hot, June air, filled with sweet grass and wildflowers, smelled like Mother Nature’s dressing table.

  After failing to solve his troubles after ten minutes, he entered the relative cool of the house and made his way upstairs. He could at least take what had become his daily morning run. So far, they’d come closest to bringing calm to chaos. When he passed Dawson’s open door, he found his son plugged, as he usually was after chores, into his computer. Dawson’s head popped up when Gray stopped in the doorway and, slowly, he dragged off a pair of huge earphones.

  “Hey, Daw.” He hoped his son wasn’t still cringing at the memory of the unmanly hug from last night. He didn’t seem like a particularly demonstrative kid.

  “Hey.”

  “Some heavy duty earphones you got there.”

  “Bose noise reduction.”

  “Impressive. Abby pays you well.” He was teasing, but Bose equipment was far from cheap.

  “I wish. Mom bought these when I threw a fit about going to Heighton.”

  “You? Throw a fit?”

  Dawson glared at him and Gray held up his hands. “Kidding, kidding. I don’t blame you. I’m sorry I didn’t stand up for you. Not that you’re supposed to whine to get what you want.”

  “It worked on you.”

  For one instant, shock at his child’s impertinence stopped Gray’s thoughts, then their eyes met for a furtive second and he caught a flash of shy humor. His heart swelled a tiny bit.

  “Don’t be a smart ass, kid.” He eased his way into the room. “What are you working on? Or am I interrupting something private?”