Big Sky Seduction

She fell against the wall, breathing hard. Kind of like last night but different. “Stop.”

“What’s this really about?”

She gazed up at him, pleading. “It was a mistake. Okay?” She gulped air as if it was in short supply. “So, let’s just forget it happened and...” She took a long deep breath in and exhaled audibly. “Move on.”

Holy hell. She was ditching him. Just like that.

“It’s not like there’s anything between us.”

He moved away from the wall, taking a step toward her. Then another. “Really?”

“Really.” The word, breathy and soft, told him otherwise, as did her wide-eyed gaze as he closed the distance between them.

With a hand on the wall above her head, he leaned right down. Her lids fluttered and she tilted her face up, as if she wanted him to kiss her. “This sure as hell feels like something,” he whispered.

“It’s not,” she panted back.

“Felt like more than something last night.” He wanted to touch her face because there was that blush, spreading like a wildfire up from her chest into her cheeks and he needed to know how it felt.

“It wasn’t.” She licked her lips in between ragged breaths.

He leaned down and for a second—maybe not even—their lips touched. Then she ducked beneath his arm and scurried to the other side of the small room. “This will not happen again.”

“Why?”

“I already told you.”

“None of that made sense.”

She closed her eyes for a second and when she opened them, it was as though she was a different woman. Her back straightened, her eyes narrowed and pretty lips thinned. “You don’t even live in Chicago. Where do you live? Wyoming?”

“Montana.”

“Right.” She made a hand gesture that said, You see? “You’re what? A rancher? Farmer? What?”

“A professional bull rider.”

She pointed. “Exactly!” She motioned to herself. “And I’m an interior decorator and professional stager.” She forced a smile. “I bet you don’t even know what that means.”

“You make houses ready to sell.” He said that last bit with no inflection because the tiny woman was being condescending and he didn’t particularly care for it.

“Okay. So you know what I do. Doesn’t matter. We have nothing in common.”

He arched a single eyebrow, thinking about their amazing compatibility in the sack.

Her eyebrows drew together and a little crinkle deepened between them. “Life isn’t all about sex, Dillon.”

No. But good sex was a good indicator that life could be pretty damn good with someone...

Wait a second. What was he thinking? He raked a hand through his hair. She was doing him a favor right now. He didn’t want forever, especially not with a bossy little fireball from Chicago. He just wanted to share some passion with someone of equal passion. After last night? He thought he’d found it. Clearly she was looking for more. That should be a red flag right there.

The woman bent down in front of him—a spectacular sight—gathering up his belongings: his shoes, his shirt, his tie, his jacket. Once she was satisfied she’d got it all, she shoved the bundle at him. “Here.”

He took the clothes. “You gonna help me dress like you helped me take my clothes off last night?” God, he felt like being shitty right now.

Tilting her head to the side, she said, “I’m pretty sure you can manage.”

He dropped the bundle except for his shirt. “You gonna watch?”

“Nope.” She stalked past him to the door. Before opening it, she called over her shoulder. “Be gone in five minutes. No more.”

“Oh, I will be.”

“Good.” She stood there for a second and then called, “Bye, Dillon.”

“See ya around, Red.” Dillon curled his fingers into fists at the sound of the door slamming. A part of him wanted to still be there when she got back, just to be an ass. He wanted to remind her of the fun they’d had last night, do it all over again, make her beg him to stay longer. Another part was glad she’d been so clear. He did not need to get involved with a mercurial redhead who probably didn’t even think he knew what the word mercurial meant.

2

FAITH, GLORIA’S ASSISTANT stager and a student of Black Sect Tantric Buddhist Feng Shui—most people called it BTB, but Faith liked to say the whole damn name at least once a day—walked into the bedroom of the house they were contracted to stage, and handed her the phone. “There’s a Mr. Cross on the line for you.”

“Cross?” Why did that name sound familiar? She took the phone. “Hello?”

“Heya, Red. How you doing?”

Dillon Cross.

No. Just no.

She hung up and handed the phone back to her assistant.

“Who was that?”

“Some stupid cowboy from Wyoming.” She pretended to go back to surveying the room when really all she could think was, why was Dillon Cross calling her? It had been three months. Not that she’d been keeping track, or that she’d wanted him to call. She hadn’t.

At all.

The fact that he hadn’t tried to get in touch with her just supported her opinion of him as a macho jerk, which was the only reason she’d kept track.

Faith arched a brow. “And why is a stupid cowboy from Wyoming calling you?”

“No reason.” She made a dismissive gesture. “Now, can you help me with this bed? It needs to face the door.”

But Faith was not easily distracted. Of course she wasn’t. “And if it’s, no reason, why did you just hang up on him?”

Gloria glared at Faith, the kind of expression that should tell an employee to drop a subject. But Faith was not a typical employee. “Why’d you hang up?”

“Because I didn’t want to speak to him.”

“Why?”

“I think I’ve covered that point already. He’s a cowboy. From Wyoming.”

“You have a very interesting aura going on right now.” Faith came closer, inspecting.

The only way to distract her was to change the subject to feng shui. “It’s this room. It’s all wrong.” Gloria indicated the cluttered placement of the furniture. “The bed’s facing the wrong way, the Chi’s interrupted by the big bureau. The mirror is reflecting outside. It’s a disaster.” She crouched down and started tugging on the bed frame. “Give me a hand. This thing is heavy.”

“You slept with him.”

Dammit!

She stood, wiping her palms on the front of her pants. “Maybe. So what?”

Faith tapped something into the phone, held it to her ear and then said, “Oh, hi. Sorry. We got disconnected. Was there something I can help you with?”

“Faith,” Gloria whisper-yelled.

“Gloria? Sure. She’s right here.” Faith handed her the phone again. “Speak to him. It’s the only way to clear this up.” She made a fuzzy gesture at Gloria’s torso. “You’re all...muddy.”

Rolling her eyes, Gloria took the phone but placed it next to her chest, covering the mic because Faith stood exactly where she was, waiting to listen in. She waved her off, mouthing the words, “Go away.”

Saluting, Faith left and Gloria raised the phone to her ear. She took a deep breath and then huffed it out. “Dillon. What can I do for you?”

“Are you asking for real? Because the list is long.” His voice was deep and suggestive. He also sounded strangely out of breath, reminding her of a very vigorous, very intimate moment she’d spent a good portion of the past three months trying to forget. So far she’d been unsuccessful.

“Why are you calling?” She bit her thumbnail, realized what she was doing and stopped.

“I’m in town, doing some business, visiting my cousins. Thought I’d give you a call. See if you wanted to get together.”

“Really.” She chewed the inside of her lip, realized what she was doing and stopped.

“Uh-huh. Coffee. Dinner. Or...somethin’.”

“I’m not a hook-up girl, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Never said you were. Just, we had some fun last time I was here,” he drawled. Slow and easy. Reminding her of the movement of his tongue against her lips and in her mouth.

Mmm.

Ugh!

“Kind of hoped we could recapture it. You know?”

“No, thanks.”

“Why?”

“Do you want an honest answer?”

“Yes.”

“What happened between us was desperation.” She gnawed her lower lip.

He chuckled. That was not the response she was going for.

“I’m not interested in whatever it is you have in mind,” she hurried on.

“You don’t even know what I have in mind. Aren’t you curious? Even a little?”

She shut her eyes, sucking her whole top lip into her mouth while erratic visions of nakedness popped into her head.

She was not curious. Not one little bit. Honest she wasn’t.

His voice began, soft and low, reminding her of the naughty whispers from that night. “I’m going to take your clothes off, nice and slow, kissing you as I go. Tasting every inch of you...”

No.

“Goodbye, Dillon. Don’t call me again. You want a booty call, try someone else.” She hung up, dropped the phone on the bed—the one that was positioned all wrong—and expelled the big breath she’d been holding.

Faith came in seconds later, obviously having overheard the entire thing. She looked Gloria up and down, shook her head and said, “You are in trouble, girl.”

“No. I’m not.”

Giving her another sweeping gaze, Faith’s expression said different. “You want him. I can tell.”

“No, I don’t. Now, let’s—”

“When’s the last time you had sex?”

“None of your business.”

“Three months ago. Daisy’s wedding.”

Gloria sputtered. “How’d you know?”

“Because you’ve been weird ever since.”

Straightening herself, Gloria said, “Whatever. Now help me—”

“How about before that? Before the stupid cowboy from Wyoming?”

“Again, none of your business.”

“Greg.” Faith moved over to the bed, squatted down and began to shove, a smug expression lighting her face. “Boring, predictable, accountant Greg, right?”

“Why did I hire you, again?” Gloria tugged while Faith shoved and the heavy bed inched across the floor.

“Because I have an eye for detail.” She tapped her temple. “And an amazing memory.”

“Quiet and keep pushing.”

“Didn’t you two break up, like, a year ago? Or was it two?”

“Something like that.” The bed was moving at the speed of a glacier and Gloria grunted. “How about you focus your energy on pushing instead of talking?”

Ignoring her, Faith said, “Why’d you break up again?”

“He was transferred.”

“Oh, I thought it had to do with the fact he only knew one position—missionary, in the dark, no talking.”

Gloria stood, giving up any pretense of moving the bed. “Look. Enough about my private life, okay? We’ve got work to do.”

“I’ll stop as soon as you tell my why you aren’t accepting the stupid cowboy’s offer for hot sex. Because, no offense, but, you need it.”

“What does that mean?” Hands on her hips, Gloria glared at her employee.

“You’re wound really tight right now. A smokin’ hot sex session with a cowboy sounds divine.” Faith gasped and put a hand to her mouth. “I bet he has rope, too, doesn’t he?” She shut her eyes and rocked back and forth, like she was imagining bondage shit behind those closed lids.

Leaning against the bed, Gloria sighed. “Enough.”

“Why?”

“I lose control when I’m around him, okay? Are you satisfied now?”

Faith hugged herself. “Sounds delicious.”

“No. Not delicious. The way I lose it is not a good thing.” That wasn’t completely true; a flash from three months ago stole her breath, in a good way. Dillon holding her legs wide while he moved inside of her... Gloria recalled feeling complete and utter abandon at that moment. However, following close on the heels of that memory was the overwhelming sensation of not being able to breathe. Of feeling constricted. Weighed down. Ears ringing, cotton balls filling her throat, heart pounding.

Panic.

It would not happen again.

* * *

DILLON JOINED HIS cousin Jamie in the locker room of the private boxing club he and his twin brother, Colin, ran. The club was frequented by Chicago’s elite athletes and every time Dillon came to town he stopped in to go a round with one of his cousins. The three of them had been fistfighting for fun since they were kids, spending the summers together at his family ranch in Montana.

Funny how even as an adult, there was nothing like a good fight to take the edge off. Though that wasn’t the only reason he was here. He had an appointment with Jamie who was an expert in family law.

“So,” Jamie asked as he stepped out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist. “Gloria said no?”

“Nah. She’s playing hard to get.” Dillon unwrapped the tape from his hands.

“You really don’t understand women, do you, Dill?”

“Are you kidding? Women are like ornery bulls and this one is doing her damnedest to make me think she wants to buck me off. But what she really wants is for me to figure out a way to ride her.”

“You did not.”

“Did not what?”

“Just compare Gloria to a bull.”

“I like bulls.”

Jamie rubbed a towel over his wet hair. “An ornery bull.”

“The ornery ones are the best kind.”

Laughing, Jamie said, “No wonder you can’t get a date.”

Dillon rolled the used tape into a ball and tossed it into the trash can across the room. “Oh, I can get a date.”

“Not with Gloria. If she’s decided she doesn’t like you, she doesn’t like you.”

“Except that she does like me.”

“Right.”

“And she wants to see me again.”

“I don’t think so. Not this time.” Standing in front of the mirror, Jamie sprayed some shaving cream into his palm and spread it along his jaw. “I saw her face that night. After the fact.” He met Dillon’s eyes in the reflection of the mirror. “She doesn’t like you.”

Dillon stripped off his shirt. “And I saw her face that night, during the act, and she most certainly does like me.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night, Dill.” He made a pass with the razor, and tapped it off in the sink. “But she won’t go out with you.”

“You want to put your money where your mouth is?”

“What? You want to bet me that you can get a date with my wife’s best friend?” Jamie laughed as he made another pass with the razor along his top lip. “I don’t think so.”

Dillon yanked back the curtain to the shower stall and closed it behind him. “A hundred bucks,” he called as he stripped out of his shorts, turned the water on and stepped beneath the spray.

“Two hundred,” Jamie called, loud enough to be heard above the sound of the shower. “That should just about cover my hourly fee.”

Chuckling, Dillon used the soap in the dispenser on the wall to briskly wash off. It’d been a short bout and he and Jamie were pretty evenly matched. His jaw was still sore where Jamie’d clocked him, but he was willing to bet Jamie had some nice new bruises on his ribs. After showering, he dried off and dressed in his Wranglers and plaid shirt.

He checked out his image in the mirror, running a hand through his hair.

What was he doing here? There were plenty of good lawyers back in Montana. Of course, this was some sensitive business he had to take care of, not the kind of thing you wanted to share with just anyone, so it made sense that he’d come see his cousin, get his advice.

Then there was Red.

He’d sure as hell like to see her again. He’d planned on calling her when he first got home after the wedding, then all this shit with Kenny went down and he’d been distracted. And busy. Pretty near every waking minute had been taken up with hospital visits and looking after Kenny’s ranch. It had been damn hard watching his best friend deteriorate like that. The guilt only made it worse. He hadn’t had a lot of room for fun, redheaded thoughts.

But being back here in Chicago—well—his first thought upon landing was not on the will he was carrying, which it should have been, but on the redhead. Gloria-Rose Hurst. He liked the sound of her whole name.

Dressed, Dillon grabbed his jacket and the folder from the locker and went to find his cousin who was on the phone in the little office at the back of the gym.

“The pink ones,” he overheard Jamie say. “They’re my favorite.” Pause. “I know they don’t stay on long—that’s because you look even better without them but—”

Dillon cleared his throat.

“Oh. Gotta go. Love you, too.”

His cousin was so sappily married it was hard to take. Not that Jamie didn’t deserve it, Daisy was amazing, but Dillon was convinced it had to be at least partially an act. No one could be that in love.

“You sure you’re fine to meet here, or would you rather go to my office?” Jamie asked after hanging up with his new wife.

“Here’s good, if you don’t mind.” Dillon sat down across from his cousin and handed him a file from the folder. “This is most of it. The last will and testament of Kenny Wells.”

Jamie took the folder and met his gaze. “I’m really sorry, Dill. I remember Kenny. You two knew each other forever.”

“Yep.” Dillon sat back in the chair, wishing he had his hat to tip forward a little. He and Kenny had been best friends, though best friends didn’t do the thing that he’d done.

“What was it?”

He inhaled deeply. “Kidney cancer. Some weird strain that usually only affects men over sixty. It was aggressive.”

“No kidding. Gone in a month?”

Dillon nodded. “It went undiagnosed for too long.” Kenny had been complaining of back pain for over a year, but what bull rider didn’t have back pain? After he finally got the diagnosis, he’d only lasted four weeks. It was as if something devoured him from the inside out. And the worst part was, that damned image of Kenny lying in the hospice bed, looking like a skeleton, was the only image he was able to conjure of his best friend after knowing him for over twenty years.

“So, you’re the executor?” Jamie asked, going through the first few pages of the will.

“Yep.”

He went through the rest of the document, silently flipping the pages, and as he did so a furrow formed on his brow. “Uh, Dill? You realize you’re a little more than executor, don’t you?”

Dillon shrugged.

“He left the ranch to you.”

“Yeah.”

“So, what do you need me for?”

“I don’t want it.”

“Why not? You weren’t too keen when your parents sold your family ranch. I always thought you’d go back to ranching once you quit the circuit.”

Dillon shrugged. He and Jamie were close but there were some things you didn’t admit, even to those closest to you. “Nope. Too much work.”

Jamie gave him a look of doubt, but it didn’t matter whether Jamie believed him or not. “I need you to help me figure out how to get rid of it because I’m not keeping it.”

3

ANXIETY ACCOMPANIED GLORIA on her monthly visit to her father’s place. When she was still ten minutes away, the familiar symptoms reared, fire ants swarmed just beneath her skin, making her itchy and irritable. A tightness in her chest made breathing difficult and swallowing almost impossible. As she drove, she had to consciously remind herself to take slow, easy breaths so that she didn’t hyperventilate.

Gloria found a spot to park two blocks from her family home in Oak Park. It had been years since she parked in front of the house; she was too embarrassed. As always, it took her a few minutes to work up the courage to get out, to overcome the urge to just drive away and never come back. She grabbed her handbag, positioned her sunglasses and hat, hoisted the bag full of frozen meals and got out of the car. She locked it and pointed herself in the direction of the house and commanded herself to walk.

Even after all these years of the house looking as it did, the sight of it still shocked her. In her mind, her family home looked as it did when her mom was still alive, back when she was thirteen. Pretty flowers in boxes and pots out front. The yard tidy, though it may have had one too many birdhouses and garden gnomes. The inside filled with treasures, her mom’s collections, but always neat. Always welcoming.

She stood at the gate and stared. The shock and revulsion of the state of the yard hitting her hard—as it always did—like a sledgehammer to the gut. Bikes, old appliances, tires, toilets, garbage bags with unknown contents piled into small mountains, stacks of paint cans, lawn mowers, hundreds of broken and faded pink flamingos, wheelbarrows, thousands of broken plant pots, an ancient trampoline twisted and positioned on its side as if it had been tossed there by a tornado. In some places the trash was piled as high as the six-foot fence. In others it was only a few feet deep. There was not one blade of grass visible and the path between the gate and the front door was becoming narrower and narrower every time she visited.

Then there was the smell.

Gloria placed a hand over her mouth and nose, tears leaking from her eyes as she squeezed her way through the channel of junk to the front door. The porch, where they used to sit on hot summer days, was overrun, as well. Broken furniture, umbrellas, a shopping cart, dented trash cans.

Oh, God.

Gloria went to ring the bell, but the doorbell had been disconnected and wires hung ragged from the gaping hole. She pounded on the door.

“Dad?” Pound, pound, pound. “Dad, it’s me. Open up. It’s Gloria.”

She kept her face to the door, afraid to turn around, embarrassed to be associated with whatever the hell this was. All of the overwhelming feelings of shame and humiliation from her late teens surfacing. Never wanting to be seen here. Never bringing friends home—not even Daisy—never having a serious boyfriend for fear of what he’d think.

The fire ants migrated to her belly and chest.

Pound, pound, pound.

Her father was home. She knew he was. He’d become nocturnal, staying ensconced in his den of trash by day, only emerging at night to complete his weekly circuit of Dumpsters, searching for perfectly good things that other people threw away.

“Dad!” she shouted, hating that she was creating a scene.

A bolt slid, then another, then a series of chain locks unlatched and the door opened a crack. Her father’s watery blue eyes stared, large behind his glasses. “Oh, Gloria-Rose. It’s you. What are you doing here?”

Such a good question. Swallowing down the bile that rose in her narrowed throat, she held up the grocery bag. “Meals on Wheels,” she said with a fake smile.

Her father’s smile was genuine and his watery eyes teared up in delight as if she didn’t do this every single month. The sight broke Gloria’s heart.

“You’re such a sweetheart. Come in. Come in.” He opened the door wide and Gloria was greeted by a wall of stuff. Mostly newspapers, fliers and old books, piled from floor to ceiling, creating a wall of paper goods on either side. Her father lived in a massive fire trap. A coffin of stuff.

“Oh, Dad.” How the hell did he live this way?

“You’ll have to go in first so I can lock the door.”

Gloria shook her head. She couldn’t do it, the piles were claustrophobic. “Can we visit outside today, Dad? I’m not feeling so good.”

He gnawed on his lip, rubbed his face and adjusted his glasses, all nervous behaviors that had worsened over the years. Before he had a chance to answer, a siren came from down the street, growing closer. Her father’s already pale face went ashen. “Get inside, Glo. Now.”

She shook her head and held her dad’s hand, uncertain about what was going on, but having a sense that she needed to be here for this.

The cruiser stopped outside the gate followed by a city truck with a logo for Health and Public Safety on the door.

“Those bastards,” her father muttered beneath his breath. “Why can’t they just leave me alone?”

Two uniformed officers emerged from the cruiser. There was no mistaking the revulsion on their faces as they took in the house and yard. “Mr. Andrew Hurst?” the bigger of the two officers asked as he tried to make his way to the door, having to walk sideways in places.