by Heidi Rice
She didn’t look shocked, though, she didn’t even look mad, she just looked…disconcerted.
“It sure sounded personal,” he said when she didn’t speak.
The atmosphere tightened around them, alive with sexual tension he didn’t want to examine too closely. She was a stunningly beautiful woman. But she had a low opinion of cowboys—or rather farm boys, which were not the same damn thing at all, for the record—and it wasn’t his job to change her mind. He’d spent most of his childhood being judged and punished for stuff he hadn’t done, so he was damned if he’d make excuses for his whole tribe to some stuck-up stunner from abroad.
The voices of the folks around them, the sizzle of meat, even the lilt of music from Lyle Tate’s band doing an old Patsy Cline tune in the gazebo drifted around them, but did nothing to break the deadlock, or all those hot vibes. Until she snatched the plate.
“Thanks for this,” she said, her voice trembling but edged with temper. Which was perverse. He was the injured party here, not her.
“I appreciate you making sure I don’t starve…” She glanced down at the plate. “For the next two months. But I can take it from here.”
As she walked past him, he heard her mutter in that musical accent. “I so need another margarita.”
He should have left it at that. He’d said what he wanted to say. Had his guts tied in tight enough knots by her fragile-not-fragile Irish beauty. And made her as uncomfortable about the whole situation as he was. Plus she was not his responsibility. No matter what Logan had asked him to do. But before he could think better of the impulse, he snagged her elbow. She staggered to a stop and nearly dropped the plate, so he scooped it out of her hands.
“You’re not having another margarita, until you’ve eaten,” he heard himself say. “Or you’ll end up falling on your face and Logan will skin me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t need or want your advice, Mister O’Connell,” she said, and he could almost hear her adding—and I could not give a good goddamn if Logan skins you.
“Tough, because you’ve got it, Irish. And if you call me Mister O’Connell again, this plate of food is gonna end up on your head. So you’ve got a choice here, either you start eating or you can spend the next week picking cranberries out of your hair. And that would be a shame, ’cos you’ve got real pretty hair,” he said allowing his gaze to drift over the silky mass.
“So you’re pushy as well as prickly.” She did not look flattered by the compliment. “Apparently Charlie’s sources forgot to mention your dark side.”
“Charlie’s sources have never seen my dark side, because they’re generous, open-minded women who don’t judge a guy’s pussy-proficiency before they’ve slept with him.”
“Just so we’re clear. I have no desire to sleep with you,” she shot back, deliberately misinterpreting him. “Even if you’ve got a pussy-proficiency badge of merit.”
“Snap,” he said. “I’m real glad we got that settled,” he added, steering her toward an empty bale at the far side of Crawford Park opposite Rosita’s beer tent. Placing her plate on the blanket someone had helpfully draped over the straw, he held her elbow as she settled on the edge of the seat.
Her arm tensed under his fingers, and the scent of her shampoo—something fresh and citrusy—invaded his nostrils. Heat fired up his arm and arrowed straight down into his nuts.
He sat on the bale next to her. Then put the plate in her lap. He nodded at the food mountain. “You’re not getting any more hard liquor until you’ve eaten at least half of that. Logan’s orders.”
“I don’t have a fork?” she said.
He whisked out the plastic cutlery he’d tucked into his top pocket. “Here you go,” he said, stabbing the knife and fork into the top of the mound.
Her glare only made her more beautiful, igniting those true blue eyes and turning them into a vision worthy of the Big Sky at the start of summer. He could see every one of her emotions drift across her expressive face—temper, resentment and eventually resignation.
“You’re a real gobshite, aren’t you, cowboy?” The Irish slang sounded hot rather than profane coming out of that lush mouth.
“Chow down, sugar,” he shot back. The endearment was one he’d never used before in his life. Because he’d always found it lazy and vaguely insulting. If you were with a woman, you should have the decency to call her by her name.
But when her fierce blue eyes narrowed to slits, he felt the residual kick of heat, and realized he was actually enjoying riling her. Which was weird, but he decided to roll with it.
What the hell? Nothing about this woman was like anyone he’d hooked up with in the past. Not that he was hooking up with her. But hell, wasn’t he entitled to some entertainment? After all she’d bad-mouthed him to his boss’s woman.
Still glaring at him, she pulled the plastic fork out of the pile and shoveled up a forkful of coleslaw.
But as those lush lips closed over the mouthful of food, her expression changed. She shut her eyes, and a smile touched the edges of her mouth as if she were having a religious experience. He knew the feeling.
He imagined the forkful of Grandma Bramble’s cranberry coleslaw hitting all the flavor receptors on her tongue—rich and fruity, tart and sweet, it was a taste sensation. But watching Evie Donnelly eat it was a whole lot sexier than eating it himself. She savored it, the slow, sensual motion of her jaw followed by the tightening of her throat, her long neck fairly quivering with ecstasy as she swallowed.
The low, husky groan of pleasure that came out of her mouth reverberated through his torso, and stroked his already way too eager cock.
“Oh. My. Good. Lord,” she said, her voice a rich purr of stunned satisfaction. “That’s deadly. It’s even better than the margaritas.”
Flynn’s belly clenched, his cock strangling in his Wranglers as he acknowledged one devastating truth.
I want to hear her moan like that while she tightens around my cock.
Then another thought occurred to him.
The lady hates your guts, buster. You are so screwed.
*
Evie had always loved her food. As a teenager the other girls at St. Margaret’s Convent School in Athy had hated her because she could eat like a starving rugby player and never gain an ounce. In the last few years, though, she’d lost her appetite for food, the way she’d lost her appetite for pretty much everything else. But as the delicious flavors of the rich, spicy coleslaw exploded on her tongue, her belly quivered with other needs she’d kept banked for too long.
Then she opened her eyes, and her gaze locked with the emerald one of the man sitting beside her. Sensation shimmered through her nerve endings, like a lightning storm, as his focus drifted down to her lips. Her whole mouth tingled, her taste buds alive with flavor, her throat dry. She swallowed another mouthful, this time catching the tender smoky flavor of barbequed hot dog, alongside the tart sweetness of the cranberries, the silky smoothness of homemade mayonnaise and the refreshing bite of raw cabbage and apple.
Suddenly she was ravenous again, after too many years without an appetite. But as she licked the mayonnaise at the corner of her mouth, she saw his jaw harden. As a dimple appeared in his cheek to match the one in his chin, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in that tanned throat, she felt heat swell between her legs—and knew she wasn’t just ravenous for food.
She broke eye contact, horrified at the direction of her thoughts. And concentrated on balancing the laden plate on her knees and slicing and shoveling the delicious food into her gob to stop her mouth from watering over something a lot more problematic.
What is wrong with you? Is this the upshot of too many margaritas, as well?
“Easy does it, Irish. You don’t want to get heartburn.” The lazy accent shimmered through her and wrapped around her torso, tightening her ribs and making the pounding of her heart reverberate against her sternum.
Heat flushed through her, on a tidal wave of dark promise. It had been so long si
nce she’d felt sexual arousal, the sudden onslaught, so thick and fast wasn’t just disconcerting, it was shocking, too. She slowed her eating, trying to temper her reaction.
“Hey, you guys, there you are. We’ve been looking all over.” Charlie’s voice shattered the spell, as her friend sat down on the bale beside her and Flynn’s and perched a plateful of barbeque on her knees.
“I see you met Flynn?” She grinned, the teasing light in her eyes not remotely subtle.
Logan planted himself next to Charlie. “How you feeling, Evie? Managed to soak up some of that liquor?” he asked, before taking a mouthful of his own food.
Evie forced her gaze to meet Logan’s, and tried to filter what he was saying, but she felt dazed, delirious almost, drunk on the wave of lust so strong she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt something so visceral, so vibrant, so immediate before. And certainly not for a guy she didn’t even like.
“Um, yes, thank you,” she said. “The cranberry coleslaw is a work of art,” she added, managing to gather at least a few of her wits back around her.
Flynn was still watching her, in that silent, observant way that seemed to echo and throb between her legs. Did he know what effect he was having on her? Was it deliberate? Or was it all in her head? And her clitoris? Because she’d gotten the definite impression he didn’t think much of her either.
“It’s not the only work of art around here,” Charlie chipped in, stifling her knowing grin just long enough to ladle in a mouthful of food.
His butt is a work of art in Wranglers.
The words drifted back through Evie’s consciousness, bringing with them a sharp bite of hunger. And panic.
Please, just kill me now.
She stopped eating, and placed the half-eaten plate of barbeque on the bale between her and Flynn, her appetite for food subsumed by something a lot more dangerous. “I think I’ll catch a cab back to the ranch if that’s okay,” she murmured, standing up, as panic consumed her. “I’ve got to get up at six tomorrow. I thought I’d get to the rodeo grounds early to interview some of the pro riders before the events start.” She was babbling, aware of the eyes of the other three upon her. Did she look as spooked as she felt? She hoped not.
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to get a cab back to the ranch, honey,” Logan said, the paternal look surprisingly non-patronizing. “But let me finish up my food and I could give you a ride.”
“Oh no, that’s okay, I’ll wait. I wouldn’t want to drag you away from your friends.” She knew he and Charlie were planning to meet up with Lyle and the other first responders soon in Grey’s.
“It’s no trouble, I can always…” Logan began.
“I’ll take her,” Flynn cut in, his gaze still on her, and Evie’s heart threatened to gag her. “I need an early night myself.”
“That sounds like a terrific idea,” Charlie said, her face flushed with pleasure. And Evie wanted to kick her hard in the shins.
No, no, no. The whole point had been to get away from Flynn O’Connell, not spend thirty minutes alone in a pickup with him.
But she couldn’t think of an objection that wouldn’t sound rude or insulting. Or give away the fact she was struggling to temper her reaction to him. And so she remained silent, and acquiescent, when she felt exactly the opposite.
Which was how she found herself being escorted back through the throng of people toward the bridge that crossed to the rodeo grounds, with Flynn O’Connell’s scent surrounding her and his wide palm resting gently on her lower back—and sending all sorts of inappropriate messages slamming into her brain.
She stood frozen as he eased her to one side to let a group of people pass them on the bridge, in a show of courtesy that seemed incongruous given the argument they’d just had. Neither of them had said a word, so when he spoke against her ear, she jumped.
“You can relax, sugar. All I’m planning to do is drive you home.” She could hear the amusement in the tone.
The problem was, it wasn’t his behavior she was worried about. She waited for the group of people to pass leaving them alone on the bridge. But as he stepped forward, she reached out to touch his wrist.
“Wait,” she said.
He glanced her way, and she dropped her hand, far too aware of the skin burning her fingertips.
“We got off on the wrong foot,” she managed. “How about we start over and forget everything I said back at the ranch house?” She held out her hand. “Evie Donnelly, pleased to meet you.”
He looked at her hand, and she felt goose bumps shimmer up her arm.
“I’m not sure I want to start over,” he said, the husky tone reawakening her appetite again. “I kind of like being a… What was it you called me? A gobshite,” he added.
The bog-standard Irish insult sounded somehow exotic in that lazy Montana accent. But then he folded his hand over hers. His long tanned fingers were rough, and warm and firm as they clasped hers. The shimmers went haywire.
“Flynn O’Connell, at your service, Irish,” he added, and a strange warmth added to the heat sinking low into her belly.
“O’Connell? With a name like that I’m assuming you have a bit of the Irish in you, too?” she said, looking for polite conversation to deflect the sudden intimacy on the narrow footbridge over the railway line.
Every American she’d ever met with an Irish name always wanted to tell her about their Irish roots, usually assuming she’d know one of their long-lost relatives who lived in Kerry, or Donegal, or Wexford—as if Ireland were a country of five people, instead of five million.
He paused, the feeling of intimacy rising not falling as he studied her, as if he were deliberating whether to tell her something.
“Maybe. I don’t know what I’ve got in me,” he said at last. “I’m a mongrel. O’Connell was my foster daddy’s name.”
“Oh,” she said, and realized her mistake. He didn’t look Irish at all. Those high slashing cheekbones, dark hair and brows, and deeply tanned skin seemed to suggest maybe a hint of Native American heritage, all except for those deep emerald eyes—which were the same mesmerizing hue of Kildare’s patchwork landscape in high summer.
“I’m sorry,” she said, forced to apologize again. “That was a probing question. I didn’t mean to be intrusive, I was just trying to make small talk.”
She really did not want him thinking she was interested in him—because she most certainly was not—she’d just been making polite conversation. Honestly.
His lips tipped up. “No need to apologize. I don’t mind talking about my background. I’m proud of being one of Mitch’s foster kids. He was a champion bull rider in the NFR. Most everyone’s heard of him in these parts.” The word was echoed in her head. So his foster father was dead. Even though he seemed relaxed, she could sense the slight tension in his jaw. He touched a hand to her back, to direct her along the path, as they walked side by side and stepped off the bridge. But when he turned to her again, the tension was gone. “It was only your criticisms of my pussy-eating skills that I found intrusive and inappropriate.”
“Oh Lord.” Her cheeks flamed as she stopped walking and sunk her head into her hands. She knew he was making fun of her, the gentle tone mocking rather than annoyed, but even so she felt as if her whole body was on fire. “Do you think you could just forget you ever heard that?”
He gave a rough chuckle. Obviously enjoying her discomfort. The rat.
“Sure. On one condition.”
“Which is?” She felt the inappropriate prickle of heat at his flirtatious tone. Damn it, apparently Charlie’s sources were bang on. Because she was already getting the impression this guy could arouse a stone—and all they’d done so far was argue.
He glanced her way as they crossed the open ground toward the lights of the fairgrounds and the rodeo arena in the distance. “I need to stop by the rodeo grounds before we pick up my truck, to check on some stuff.” He stopped, the intimacy rising again. “You okay with that?” he asked.
“Of cou
rse,” she said, oddly deflated by the entirely prosaic request. What had she expected? That he was going to ask her to give him a chance to prove her wrong—about his pussy-proficiency?
Donnelly, get real.
He hummed an old Bruce Springsteen song as they crossed the ground together, the deserted strip of land like a metaphor for her childless life.
For pity’s sake, get over yourself, Donnelly.
She wondered if he’d started humming to avoid any more conversation? She had to be grateful for his consideration—because her ability to put her foot into her mouth was already reaching epic proportions.
After what seemed like an eternity, but could only have been a few minutes, they arrived at the rodeo grounds. A few arc lights illuminated the stands and corrals and the rows of trailers and trucks parked in the surrounding fields. They passed a group of cowboys sitting around a campfire between two RVs, drinking beer and chatting. One of them shouted a greeting to Flynn as they strolled past, while another was playing a guitar. There were several people hanging around in the main rodeo area. A string of cowboys sat on a corral fence while watching another man lead a black stallion round what looked like a temporary training ring. The smell of manure and dirt and diesel permeated the air. Flynn stopped humming.
“You want me to give you a tour, Irish?” he offered, surprising her.
What surprised her more though was the urge to take him up on his offer. It would probably be a lot safer to stay and wait for him here. The truce they had established hadn’t done much to dispel the sexual tension. But she refused to second-guess herself, or back down. The sexual tension was all in her head, after all—he seemed relaxed and disinterested in her. She’d been here earlier in the day, but had kept close to Charlie and hadn’t had the urge to look around—which she really ought to do totally for the sake of her column, she told herself staunchly.
“Sure, if you’ve got time,” she said, trying not to sound overeager.
He tipped his hat, the way Logan had done earlier, but when he offered her his arm, and his long strong fingers closed over her hand to settle her against his side, the chivalry felt charged, and a lot more potent than Logan’s.
