by Lisa Bingham
But the thought had barely formed before her brain insisted: Hell, yes!
She was about to climb into his truck—why on earth were men determined to make such a task as ungainly as possible for women?—when Elam stopped her.
“Wait a minute.”
He took the smaller canvas bag from her hand and threw it onto the seat. Then, he turned her to face him, his arms sliding around her waist.
He wanted to kiss her. Right now.
There was a questioning glint to his eyes—and she wondered how on earth he had gained the impression that he needed to ask. But not wanting to scare the man, she placed her hands on his chest.
He took a step forward, two, until their legs were entwined, their hips brushing. A thrill of awareness rushed through her when she realized that Elam was already partially aroused. Was there a woman alive who wasn’t turned on by knowing she had that effect on a man?
His hands slid around to link at the small of her back.
“This probably isn’t a good idea since we’re already running late,” he murmured, leaning closer until his lips brushed the shell of her ear. The warmth of his breath sent a cascade of gooseflesh down her arms. “But I’m not inclined to do what’s best.”
He took his time, running his lips and nose so lightly across her forehead and temple that she might have imagined the caress if she hadn’t been so attuned to his warmth. Then, he continued moving down, down, licking her cheek with the tiniest flick of his tongue so that her breath came in irregular pants. She shifted anxiously when he bypassed her mouth altogether and blazed a trail along the stalk of her neck. Her head fell back like a daisy heavy with dew. Here, he became bolder, sucking, nipping, until she felt as if her knees might give way.
Lordy, he was a great kisser—and she’d obviously been dealing with amateurs before. He took his time, exploring each dip and hollow as if he searched for something precious. He tasted her, tested her, nipped and suckled, until she thought she would go out of her mind—especially when he reached the notch between her collarbones and paused there, smiling against her skin. It was then that she realized that she’d spritzed perfume in that spot right after leaving the shower.
“I like that,” Elam said. “You smell like summer.”
A tiny corner of P.D.’s brain made a mental note to buy another bottle, or two, or a gallon of her favorite scent.
Finally, finally, he lifted his head. P.D. was able to part her lashes under the drugging power of his kisses, but she was glad she did because his eyes seemed to smile at her, crinkling in the corners. He was enjoying himself—enjoying her.
If only this could last …
Then, he finally bent to touch his lips to hers, softly, gently, before inviting her to open her lips for his tongue.
P.D. willingly complied, sighing into his mouth when he deepened the caress, standing on tiptoes so that, this time, she was the one to increase the contact between them. She wrapped her arms around his neck, meeting him taste for taste. And when he pressed her back against the side of the truck, she whispered, “Yes, yes.”
Elam’s kisses became more intense as he ravished her mouth. Cupping her buttocks with his broad palms, he lifted her more firmly against his arousal.
She drew back far enough to murmur, “Mmm, I like that.”
Elam laughed. Dear sweet heaven, the man nicknamed Desperado, the great stone-faced recluse she’d met only a few days ago …
Laughed.
And then, before she could fully absorb how his features completely changed in that moment, his phone rang.
Elam sighed, resting his forehead against hers. “Hell. I knew there was a reason why I shouldn’t have started using my cell again.”
“You could ignore it,” she said against his lips.
“Except the only people who know I’m available by cell phone are my contractor and my brothers.”
He shifted enough to grab the phone, but didn’t let her loose. Punching the call button, he barked, “Yeah.”
P.D. couldn’t hear much of the low voice on the other end, but the humor she’d witnessed was instantly gone as Elam frowned and said, “We’re on our way.” Then he ended the call and glanced at the screen, swearing.
“That was Bodey wondering where we are. They’re starting to gather up the contestants. We have to get going.”
*
THE words had barely left his mouth when P.D. turned to clamber into the truck. She squeaked when Elam planted a hand beneath her butt and gave her a boost.
P.D. probably wouldn’t say so herself, but in Elam’s opinion, she had a great ass, round and firm and filling a man’s hands to perfection. Until today, he’d always seen her in jeans that hugged her body and teased a man with what he would find if he peeled the layers away. But this morning, she wore a high-collared cotton shirt and a full pleated skirt with rows of tucks around the hem. Covered from chin to ankle, she should have appeared demure, but the nipped-in waist and high bust-line caused by the corset she wore made Elam’s imagination run wild.
Forcing his mind onto getting them both to the historical farm before they were disqualified, Elam surreptitiously adjusted his hard-on to a more tolerable spot.
Beside him, P.D. laughed. “Down, boy.”
He shook his head, his lips twitching. “You are downright incorrigible, you know that?”
“But you admire that quality.”
And it was true, Elam thought, the sentiment racing through him like a bolt of lightning. He loved the way she said whatever came into her mind, the way she lived life to the fullest. He envied her courage in displaying her emotions without a filter. Every obstacle she encountered was met with a passionate response that spoke more about her character than anything else.
Elam lifted his arm and wrapped it around her shoulders, drawing her close. Just as he’d expected, she melted into him, one of her hands resting on his thigh.
He fought to keep his attention on the road as he was hit with a burst of need. Somehow, by giving himself permission to wholeheartedly enter into a relationship with P.D., he was swamped by his hunger for her. It was why he’d avoided seeing her until now, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off her. And damnit, if they weren’t already late, he would have been tempted to find a private access road somewhere and slake his hunger.
Shit, had he grown so selfish over the past few years that he couldn’t think beyond his own wants? Yeah, P.D. was attracted to him, but that didn’t mean she was ready to climb into bed with him.
Like hell. He wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t know when a woman was attracted to him—and he was pretty sure she’d be agreeable if he suggested they take things to the next level.
Wouldn’t she?
Damn, it had been so long since he’d been with a woman that he felt as randy and unsophisticated as a kid from high school. He’d debated with himself for hours about whether or not to include several condoms in addition to his toothbrush. At the last minute, he’d stuffed them into his wallet. But when he’d seen no such precautions in P.D.’s bag, he’d chickened out of informing her of the fact. If he mentioned it now, he was going to come off looking like a jerk who’d taken her acquiescence for granted.
Shit, shit, shit. How in hell did Bodey always manage to come across so smooth?
He felt a pressure on his thigh and roused from his thoughts. P.D. was watching him with concern.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, I … I’m just worried that we won’t get there in time,” he said, hoping she hadn’t read even a portion of his thoughts.
But it was clear she hadn’t believed his excuse.
*
P.D. knew the moment that Elam checked out on her, and she damned herself for not holding her tongue.
Down, boy.
Geez. Had she really said that? She needed to think before she opened her mouth. Annabel had probably been more circumspect, more genteel. A lady through and through. She’d probably been schooled in m
anners from birth.
P.D., on the other hand, had been schooled in survival. Unbidden, she was flooded with a montage of images from her childhood: searching through Dumpsters behind the grocery store for food; trembling beneath her father’s grip when he was in one of his drug-induced rages; running out of a filthy gas station restroom where she’d struggled to wash her hair, only to discover that her parents had forgotten she was there and had driven away without her.
Biting her cheek, P.D. forced the bitter memories away, refusing to let herself imagine how different Annabel’s upbringing might have been to her own. It would have to be for her to feel so content and secure in Elam’s love.
But P.D. wasn’t Annabel—didn’t want to be Annabel. From what she’d been able to gather, Annabel had been shy and quiet. She taught first grade most of the year and puttered in her garden during the summer. She baked her own bread, sewed her own clothes, and volunteered at the hospital. She was a member of the Library Board and the Women’s League.
She was the antithesis of P.D., who spent nearly every waking minute trying to get her restaurant off the ground.
But that was okay. P.D. was proud of her accomplishments and the life she’d made for herself. Even more important, she’d walked into this knowing that any relationship she and Elam might share would be brief and passionate. A bursting flame to bring back to life a man who would then move on to someone more his style. Because he could never love someone like her as much as his perfect Annabel.
So why, if she knew all that, was she having a hard time coming to terms with it?
As they rounded the bend, the Ridley Historical Farm came into view. It was a full-blown anachronism built on the edge of a busy freeway. Split rail fences, huge barns, and a quaint little town made from historical buildings had been rescued from demolition, reassembled, and then restored on the site.
A wide banner proclaiming THE OFFICIAL STARTING POINT OF THE WILD WEST GAMES! had been strung along the top of the arched entrance to the parking lot.
“Holy moley!” P.D. exclaimed as she saw the lines of vehicles. “Everyone and their dog must be here.”
After going up and down the rows, Elam finally managed to find a spot near the back fence.
Not even waiting for Elam to bring the rig to a full stop, P.D. slid across the bench seat and jumped to the ground. For now, she would keep things simple and let Elam take the lead. She’d concentrate on the Games and only the Games—and not on the fact that she was competing with a ghost and there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it. She had to live with the fact that Elam might take a step back now and again. And she understood his situation. It was logical that he would still be chasing memories. But she was finding that jealousy wasn’t reserved only for the living.
Rushing to gather their things, P.D. lowered the tail gate and began pulling the rifle cases and ammunition boxes toward her. But damn his hide, Elam came right up beside her and reached out to still her hands.
“Wait. Before we get mixed up with everyone at the starting point …”
He grabbed her by the elbows and forced her to face him.
“I’ve got something I need to say. Just to make things clear between us.”
His features were so serious that P.D. immediately stilled, wondering what could be weighing on his mind so heavily. But before she knew what was happening, Elam pushed her back against the tailgate and swooped in to cover her lips with his own. This time, there was no finesse, no lingering kisses, no exploration. This time, it was an invasion, pure and simple, a blatant display of raw sex and emotion with no holds barred.
As if it were a match held to kerosene, P.D. exploded, wrapping her arms around his neck and throwing herself more tightly into his embrace, answering his raw desire with her own. It was only when his hands slid down to cup her buttocks, lifting her against the blatant evidence of his arousal, that his lips tore free long enough for him to gasp, “I want you to know that I’m not … that I …” He ruefully shook his head. “Shit, I don’t know how to be cool and … I don’t know … modern … about all this. But …”
He laughed and his eyes became suddenly soft and, oh, so heated.
“Damnit all to hell, P.D. I’m crazy about you. I can’t keep my hands off you—which isn’t going to help us win the prize money if I can’t even get us to the starting line on time.”
He was crazy about her? Wow. No one had ever told her that he was crazy about her.
She met his gaze then—met the blatant desire and fierce hunger. This time, there wasn’t a shred of regret in their blue-brown depths.
When he saw that she believed him, he leaned to rest his forehead against hers.
“When I get quiet like that … I’m not pushing you away, P.D. Just the opposite.” He paused, his eyes flooding with a heat that she could scarcely believe was aimed at her. “And this time I’ve come prepared.”
TEN
PASSION shot through P.D.’s core like a bolt of lightning.
“Contestants, will you please gather on the boardwalk outside the Photo Emporium …”
The distant announcement caused Elam to swear even more colorfully. After one additional quick, hard kiss, he gathered up the ammunition buckets while she scrambled to take the rifle cases. Then, as if the chirp of the car alarm were a starting pistol, they raced toward the main square.
As they neared the rendezvous point, they were surrounded by crowds of people. Many of them had entered into the spirit of the Games by wearing historical garb. Little girls in ruffles and pantalets, with their hair twisted into braids, waited in line for the face painting booth or the puppet show, while the boys played hide-and-seek in the crowd with hand-carved pop guns. The teenagers were a little less exuberant, most of them in jeans and T-shirts, while the braver sort sported costumes with the jarring addition of ear buds dangling from their shirt collars.
Spying a familiar figure near the bandstand up ahead, P.D. waved to Helen. She and her husband stood resplendent in their finery, Syd with a top hat, frock coat, and walking stick, and Helen in a beautiful sprigged bustle gown and parasol.
Bodey stood beside them, looking much like he did any day, a cowboy through and through. He’d added suspenders and arm garters in an effort to make his tight jeans and button-down shirt look a little more historically accurate, but the orthopedic boot ruined the effect. Jace hadn’t bothered. His garb was Modern Cowboy—snap-front shirt, worn jeans, and his “going to town” boots. He leaned against one of the hitching posts, scrolling through his phone, his hat low over his eyes as he searched for a number. Barry, on the other hand, had gone all out, dressed tip to toe in fringed buckskins with a raccoon-tail hat tipped rakishly over one eye.
“They’re here!” Barry shouted.
Before Jace could stop him, Barry ran to greet them, relieving P.D. of her rifle case. Secretly, she was grateful. She’d never realized how heavy the weapons would be. No wonder Elam had insisted she lighten her load.
Their greetings had hardly been made before the contest organizers appeared to hustle Elam and P.D. away to the Photo Emporium on the corner.
“Your picture will be used for news coverage as well as public announcements around town. While you’re waiting, you’ll need to read through these permission slips and waivers. Make sure the emergency contact information and spellings are correct.”
It seemed odd to be perusing sheaves of laser-printed paper and signing them with ballpoint pens while standing in the midst of a reconstructed pioneer town. But P.D. managed to skim through the information and offer her approval, even though Elam was only a hairsbreadth away and his words kept echoing in her brain.
And this time I’ve come prepared.
Was it possible to suffer from emotional whiplash by inwardly insisting on caution, then racing back to full-throttle euphoria in the space of a few seconds?
“Next!”
She roused to her surroundings when Elam touched her elbow.
“That’s us.”
They were ushered into the cool interior of the Photo Emporium. Hundreds of props—hats, fans, parasols, dresses, and jackets—lined one far wall. On the opposite end, an elaborately painted Victorian background had been placed behind an ornate, straight-back wicker chair.
“Names,” a woman with a clipboard prompted.
“Prairie Dawn Raines and Elam—”
At Elam’s pronouncement, the woman peered at them over her bifocals and interrupted, “Real names.”
“That is my real name.”
The woman glanced at them again, then at her roster. Finding P.D. on the roster, her eyes widened, skipped toward P.D. again, then at Elam.
“Huh.” She pointed to a basket filled with sealed envelopes. “Pick one of the colored envelopes. Throughout your journey, you need to make sure you always choose that particular colored envelope. This will guarantee that you fulfill all of your challenges in the proper order. Failure to do so could lead to a disqualification or penalty. Do not open this morning’s envelope until you are told to do so.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Elam burrowed into the pile to grab a yellow envelope from the bottom, then tucked it into his back pocket.
The woman handed them a pair of arm garters. Sewn to them were embroidered patches displaying the number seven.
“These are your contestant numbers. They must be worn at all times or you could be disqualified. Throughout the competition you will be monitored with or without your knowledge, so keep them visible.”
P.D. and Elam exchanged glances. P.D. nearly giggled aloud at Elam’s look of barely concealed horror. Clearly, he’d been planning on making his move sooner rather than later.
“Move to the photo area, please,” the woman ordered curtly before barking, “Next!”
With a hand at her back, Elam ushered P.D. forward. He was told to sit on the chair, back rigid, hat on his knee. Then, P.D. was positioned slightly behind him, her hand on his shoulder.
“We want these photos to look as historically accurate as possible, so no smiles, please. Hold as still as you can, just as if you were posing for a box camera.”
