He slipped the bandana from her head, letting her hair fly free, the curls twirling in the wind, doing whatever they pleased. He stroked her cheek—smooth, silky, warm and inviting, so damn alluring.
She smiled, her eyes dreamy now as she stood on tiptoes, her lips parting to meet his, her breathing faster as he lowered his head, ready to taste her sweet mouth. Then a gust of wind hit, as if saying, What the hell are you doing, Nick Romero?
Holy crap, what was he doing? This was a job. He was lying to her at every turn, and there would never be anything between them because when she found out who he was, she’d wring his neck. Women didn’t think much of men who used them, then walked away. He was using her to get information. Damn, he hated doing that, but he sure couldn’t tell a reporter he was FBI on a case and expect her to keep it a secret.
Reporters didn’t keep secrets for long. They blabbed and they even put them in print. No way could Dixie find out who he was or what he was up to.
He swallowed. Keeping his brain on the job and his eyes on her, as he stealthily slipped the card into his front pants pocket, then unwound her arms from his neck. He took a step back, every cell of his body protesting, wanting Dixie more and more. “I…I can’t do this, Dixie.” He needed a reason, though, dammit! Why wouldn’t any man want to kiss Dixie Carmichael? “I’m not ready to…for…this.”
What a crock! He was so ready he could barely think.
“It’s just a kiss, Nick.”
Her lips came a breath closer, her breasts pressing against his chest. He could feel the heat from her body making him hotter than he thought possible. Another gust hit, swaying the tress around them and swirling the undergrowth and leaves into a frenzy.
“We need to get out of here.” If they didn’t, he’d start something he couldn’t finish without messing this assignment up big-time.
He scooped the bandana from the ground, then took her hand and led her back through the stand of pines before she could protest. Her fingers entwined with his. They felt good there, like they belonged. Connected. Except, getting together with Dixie was just part of the job, he had to remember that!
The storm was a stroke of good fortune. They’d leave before she unearthed something else. Dixie truly did have a knack for finding stuff, as did most reporters, but that meant she’d wind up in the middle of more trouble than she could handle. Of course the real reason the storm was a godsend was that he liked being with her a lot more than he should.
He grabbed the picnic basket and she swept up the blanket. “Think you can outrun the storm?” he called over the gusts.
“It’s just a blow right now. In twenty minutes it’ll be a downpour, and you’ll be safe in your restaurant. But I’ll see you later, right?”
“You bet.” That gave him a few hours to get himself together and steel himself against Dixie. He needed to stick to the plan. No more near kisses. He was here on business, FBI business. And then he was gone.
DIXIE GLARED at herself in the mirror, candlelight flickering with her reflection. “Okay, this is the second time in less that twenty-four hours that I’ve had a hair-repair emergency. This never happened when Jan was here. With Jan, I was a hair queen.”
Gracie stood behind, her gaze meeting Dixie’s in the mirror, giving her the younger-sister eye roll. “Why in the world didn’t you call me in when you dyed your hair in the first place?”
“You were reading to the kids. The packages had directions.”
“Too bad you didn’t follow them.” She picked up a handful of Dixie’s hair and examined it. “Well, this time it’s more red—or is that rust?”
“Your reassurance overwhelms me.”
“Well, I can’t tell till it dries. And that’s not going to happen with the electricity still out. I guess it could be worse. I trimmed Gia Maxwell’s hair this afternoon. She tried to cut it herself with her vacuum cleaner. Thought if she sucked up a chunk of hair and cut, the ends would disappear into the hose, a no-mess salon treatment. She looked like a schnauzer on steroids. I evened her up. If that Nick guy wasn’t such a hottie, we’d probably hang him up by his privates.” Gracie grinned and tilted her head. “At least that would be some consolation. We’d all get a good view of the real man instead of speculating. He sure fills out a pair of jeans nice…going and coming.”
A picture of Nick doing just that flashed through Dixie’s brain, making her hot, then cold, then hot again. She thought of holding his hand, his body close to hers, the…kiss. Holy cow! The kiss. “You really like this salon stuff, don’t you?”
“I think it started in kindergarten when I gave our cat a Mohawk. Remember? That was one honked-off cat.”
She smiled at Gracie through the dim light. She was too thin. Worried too much. “You know you like the women and the talk and being home with the kids. You need to consider doing this hair and nail stuff full-time.”
Gracie fidgeted and bit her bottom lip. “I…I can’t do a salon. Running a business takes talent and good sense, and I haven’t got those things. I’m just—”
“A wonderful bright person who can do whatever she sets her mind to. And you thinking otherwise is that donkey-brained ex talking. Glen ran your self-esteem into the ground. Made you believe the only thing you were good for was waiting on him hand and foot. If you hadn’t found that second mortgage he took out on the house to go gambling in Vegas, he’d still be here ruining you.”
“Danny running off with that model didn’t do much to bolster your confidence, either.”
“Touché.” Dixie gripped her sister’s hand and they sat on the edge of the bathtub. “We’re better than this, Gracie. I’m getting my life together, and so can you. You already have a flair for hair. Hey, you can call the place the Hair Flair. Makes more sense than the Curly Cactus. Remodel the basement and open up a shop. I’ll be your first customer.” She laughed. “I already am. Bet you could have Jan’s salon stuff cheap. Sign up for classes in Billings. I’ll pay.”
Gracie gazed at the floor. “I can’t go back to school. I’m thirty-five. I don’t think I can study anymore. My brain’s oatmeal. And you sure don’t have any extra money for me to go to school.”
“Oh honey, you’d be surprised what I have.” Or almost have. Dixie kissed her sister on the cheek. “What’s taking that electricity company so long to get the lights back on? Connect a few wires, throw a switch. What’s the big deal?”
“We could build a fire in the hearth for heat. You’ll wind up with a head full of curls, but they’ll be dry curls. Why so impatient? Got a hot date for tonight?”
“Would you believe Mr. Going-and-coming?”
Gracie’s eyes danced. “You dog! You are some fast worker. How’d that happen? I need details here.”
“I convinced him to go on picnic with me to the old depot. And—this is the good part—I found a clue linking that site to the knockoff purse little Drew found. Here, I’ll show you.” She reached into her pocket and connected with…Nothing?
“Oh, no.” She stood and checked all her pockets. “I don’t believe it. I got a bogus registration card for a Kate Spade purse, proving I’m on the right track, and Nick Romero kept it.”
She faced Gracie. “Blast that man. I’m missing something about that guy. Something big. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Yeah, you’re missing that he’s handsome and you’re going on a date and he probably just forgot to give you back your card. Why would he want a card like that anyway? It’s no value to anyone.” Gracie gave her a sassy wink. “Did you flirt?”
“Some. A little. I always flirt. I have a dominant flirt gene.”
“Well, there you go. A card from a purse is not what’s on his mind. You are.”
“I don’t think so. Heck, the man wouldn’t even kiss me. Said he wasn’t ready. What does that mean? Ready for what? It was just a kiss. Besides, men are always ready for women. Not ready sounded like one of those girly excuses. He told me he didn’t know Jack, but I got a feeling that’s a lie too. Nick m
akes strange phone calls, has people over late at night and he’s a new guy in town—least, he says he doesn’t, and…and….” Chuckling, she stood. “I’ve got it! A plan to get my card back and find out what that man’s hiding.”
“You’ll ask him? Asking’s good. Trouble-free, straigt-forward.”
“Only if I need convenient answers—which I don’t. He’ll lie again. I’ll snoop. I’ll get Nick to invite me over tonight.”
“Oh, girl. You’re going to show him the Montana two-step, aren’t you? Get him all hot and bothered and this time make him more ready for a kiss than he’s ever been in his life.”
“Actually, I intend to use the two-step to make him hungry. Then he can cook and I can poke around at his place and see what’s up.”
Gracie shook her head. “This is not a good idea, Dix. You don’t know the guy, and if he is hiding something, you better be careful. What if he catches you? He could be an ax murderer.”
“The man’s got something I want.”
Gracie fanned herself with her hand. “Oh, that man’s got something we all want.”
Dixie pulled Gracie up beside her. “Let’s build that fire and dry my hair. It’s going to be a real interesting night with Mr. Romero.”
NICK AIMED his flashlight at the floor and looked at the boots he’d bought as part of his fitting-in program. They hurt. Why would anyone wear boots instead of Nikes? He’d bought new dark jeans and western-cut shirts for this gig. He looked like a gay mob boss! Italian men were not made for cowboy gear. There should be a law.
He put on the Stetson—another bad addition. He’d never done western undercover. He’d done businessman, street thug, truck driver, taxi driver, drug-gun dealer and cook on more occasions than he could count because he could really do the job. How the hell had he drawn High Noon in Whistlers Bend for his last assignment?
The one good thing about the electricity being out was that he couldn’t see the mess he called home. The moving guys had dumped the boxes and few pieces of furniture. He’d managed to unpack a few clothes and store the samples of the knockoff designer goods in the back of the closet in his room before the electricity had died. He’d unpack the rest tomorrow.
Another rumble of thunder rattled the window-panes in the building as he shrugged into his denim jacket. He clumped down the steps and onto the stoop. The rain slackened as he directed his flashlight at a torrent of water gushing down the street, nearly spilling onto the sidewalk. Montana in the monsoon season.
He turned up his collar and ran for the Cut Loose at the end of the street. He doubted Dixie would show, but he needed to get to know the townfolk, be one of the group. When guys drank, they said stuff they usually wouldn’t, let things slip and then didn’t remember what the hell they said.
He thought of Dixie. She was the most feminine woman he’d ever met. No matter what she did, it was…girly. The way she talked, her hands always in motion, keeping time with what she said. The curious look in her eyes that made them sparkle. Her clothes that dipped in the right places and clung just where they were supposed to. His gut tightened. Damn, why couldn’t she wear baggy stuff? Much easier to forget baggy.
Oil lamps, candles and a crowd filled the saloon. Lack of electricity was obviously not a big deal in Whistlers Bend. A fiddler and banjo player were tuning their instruments as Dixie sauntered up and slipped her arm through his. “Well, howdy, handsome. Buy a girl a warm beer? That’s all there is tonight.”
She smelled so good; even mixed with the odors of beer, tobacco, leather and cowboys, her scent intoxicated him. She looked great in her white Stetson, curls springing everywhere, framing her face and her big brown eyes. “Nice hair.”
“Gracie saved me. She’s my sister. I live with her and her two kids and Brutus.”
“Husband?”
“Hampster with an attitude. Wanna dance?” She gave him that sexy twitch of her hips that made his head spin.
Dance? He’d been through shoot-outs where he’d narrowly escaped with his body parts intact, car chases that rivaled anything conjured up in Hollywood, clandestine meetings De Niro would envy, but none of these things unglued him like one twitch of Dixie Carmichael’s hips.
The musicians struck up a tune, and she snagged his hand and shimmied her shoulders. Her eyes turned…sultry? “Holy crap,” he muttered. She must have heard, because she laughed.
She started some line dance as others came onto the floor. No one moved like Dixie, her clever feet keeping perfect time and her sweet body rotating close to his, then backing away, teasing, tormenting but not touching.
He didn’t want to dance. He wanted to take her in his arms, feel her next to him and kiss her senseless…except, in no way did that fit in with undercover work!
Everyone was watching her…and him. He had to do something. He had to blend. Standing there like some stupid city slicker was not working. But dance? When in Rome, do whatever the hell needs to be done to survive. But if he danced with her, they’d be body to body, and that was no way to survive anything.
People were waiting. It had been a while since he’d danced—like, over twenty years. He remembered Helen Camello. She’d outweighed him by fifty pounds and had had two left feet, but he’d always danced with her at every Italian wedding in the north end. She’d needed a break and dancing with her had made up for some of the not-so-great things he’d done as a Detroit street punk before Nonna Celest had gotten hold of him.
Who would have thought that after all these years Helen had done him a big favor, too. Nick took hold of Dixie and fell into step. Her eyes twinkled. “Hey, you’re good at this, for a Denver boy.”
He threw in a few fancy moves, adding a little Italian bravado that he hoped didn’t throw his back out or look like a poor imitation from The Godfather.
He spun around, slid her in a fast two-step that landed her in his line as he claimed her space on the other side. She laughed, dancers clapped and the musicians kicked up the tempo. Damn, he loved having his hands on her.
“Where’d you learn to dance like this?” she asked with a shake of her head that sent her curls in a jig all their own.
“Denver isn’t all that far away.” And neither was the Italian hub of Boston. The music ended and Dixie swaggered up to him. “’Bout that beer….”
The fiddle picked up another tune. “And miss a dance?” He took her hand. “Come on.”
It wasn’t that he suddenly loved the Montana two-step, but it kept him moving. Sitting with Dixie had trouble all over it. How could he keep his hands off her if she and he were huddled together at the bar? He’d want to put her fingers in his, play with her curls….
He danced faster and harder to get his mind off her. At this rate he’d be dancing till he dropped dead. Trouble was, he’d still be thinking of her.
“Enough,” she said, panting as the music died. “I could do with some refueling.”
All he could think about was another kiss. And he needed a kiss! No way. Not that he’d never kissed a woman on an assignment before; he’d just never wanted to this much. Dixie clouded his brain, made him forget he was here on business and not to be with her. He pointed to the musicians as the banjo player let out with a song about a sexy woman and a horny guy. Couldn’t it have been about a dog or horse or cowboy on the trail? She tugged him toward the bar.
He tugged back. Switched their hats in a playful gesture and said, “Hey, this is my favorite song,” and pulled her into a series of stomps and swings. He was so tired he could barely walk, until Dixie gave him a coy look, held her hands high and did a series of fancy steps of her own that sent the place into a frenzy of wolf whistles.
She was the hottest, sexiest female in the bar, probably all of Montana, maybe the United States. Why not a wallflower? Why so tempting? The only solution was to wind this case up real damn fast!
The dance ended. She sagged into his arms and gazed up at him, grinning. “I need food.”
I need a tranquilizer. “I’ll see if Ray will
get you a sandwich.”
“I was thinking about that dinner you promised. You could cook for me now.”
“As in tonight?” Being alone in his house with Dixie was not a good idea. “No electricity, sweetheart.”
As if on cue, the lights blinked, then came on. The FBI gods hated him—revenge for taking early retirement. Everyone clapped and cheered for the electric company, and Dixie put her arm around Nick’s waist and led him toward the door. “It’s your duty to feed me, show me that giving up the Curly Cactus for Nick’s was worth it. I didn’t have dinner.” She gazed up at him. “Surely you can provide for a starving woman.”
He was doomed. No way could he get out of this one. He had to whip up something for her at his place with no one else around.
Okay, he reasoned. He’d do it, then send her on her way. “How’s Spaghetti Mediterranean sound?”
“Complicated.” She shuffled out the door, pulling him with her. He had to keep her talking to get focused on her words and not on her. They got to the sidewalk and he said, “Tell me about the town, the part I haven’t seen.”
The humidity gave the streetlights a fuzzy halo. Moisture covered everything, giving it a fresh clean appearance.
“Well,” Dixie said as she took his hand in hers, making him a little wobbly. “Not much to tell. You saw the depot and mountains. We have ranchers like Maggie, and a doctor.” Dixie pointed to the next street. “BJ’s house and office are down there. Across the street is the bank. Whistle Stop is the town newspaper and now we have Nick’s.”
“And lots of wide-open spaces.”
“Of course. That’s the charm of Montana.”
And that was what made it nearly impossible to find trucks meeting up in the middle of the night. Dixie paused under the streetlight, droplets clinging to her lashes, her brown eyes bigger than ever. He let go of her hand to regain his equilibrium—at least give it a try. “Why are you a reporter?”
“Why are you a cook? You like discovering new dishes. I like discovering a good story.”
A Fabulous Wedding Page 4
