Just Give In...

Brooke whirled around, plucked at the sweater’s remains and then pulled it off, standing before him in jeans and bra. His eye flickered, mouth tightening, but to his credit, he didn’t look down. Not once. The man had the self-control of a monk.

Well, pooh. However, Brooke wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

With a sticky-fingered snap she unhooked the front fastening, tugging at the tacky material, finally ridding herself of the bra, which was a genuine la Perla and had set her back an even fifty bucks.

Still the man didn’t look.

Here she was, stiff and uncomfortable, flaunting herself like some cheap tart. The least he could do was pay attention. Drastic measures were called for.

“You know, I might need mineral spirits for these babies, after all. Got some?”

This time, the eye flickered and his face flushed, the scar turning a liquid silver. One gray eye met hers, the same hot liquid-silver color as his scar. Brooke’s skin bloomed hot, then cold, the remains of the glue clinging to her chest, making her damp, moist, sticky…

Nope, not just the glue.

She thought he was going to touch her, was dying for him to touch her, but instead he spun on his heel and walked away.

“One can of mineral spirits, coming right up.”

4

JASON FLEW TO THE BACK shed before she spotted the tiny drop of glue on her knee and decided the jeans had to go, too.

God.

The word was a curse and a prayer, a testament to what a woman’s bare breasts could do to a man’s good intentions.

The shelves in front of him were filled with paint and oil and transmission fluid, and as his eyes scanned the contents, he realized that he didn’t have any damn mineral spirits.

Not that she needed mineral spirits on those beauties. The dusky hue of her nipples needed nothing more than a touch, a taste. No, chemicals would be a crime against nature. His fingers flexed, itched, copping a cheap feel from a nearby paint can that did absolutely nothing to relieve his pain.

Now what the heck was he supposed to? Her little striptease was payback, teasing, a cock-busting joke for throwing glue on her.

And who had thought of the glue?

No, he was going to have to face her, pretend that he’d never seen her naked, pretend that all this was no big deal.

After pulling down a tin of degreaser, he glanced at the no-big-deal bulge at his fly. She wouldn’t miss that. No, she’d laugh at his misery. She’d think that he deserved it.

Which he did, but he didn’t want her to know that.

Only one way to take care of that problem. Efficiently, Jason unzipped his jeans, taking matters into his own hand, and five minutes later, he was back to his normal-size piston, and all it had taken was the mental image of Brooke Hart, naked with dark-fire eyes, open-mouthed invitation, taut, perky breasts and the arousing shimmer of epoxy.

Oh, he’d been alone too long.

Once again, he felt the pull in his balls, the hardening in his cock, and he groaned in sexual agony.

Another ten minutes. That’d do it.

He was sure.

Maybe.

THEY BUMPED ALONG the road in the Captain’s pick-up, a tense ride because apparently the man wasn’t up to having a conversation.

Maybe she’d gone too far, maybe she’d ruined the image that she’d been going for. Slutty, instead of spunky. But slutty was preferable to pity.

She peeked at his profile, the right side of his face so normal, so capable. Then she thought of his bad eye, his scar. Lots of people would pity him, and he would hate it, just like she did.

It was a short drive to the heart of Tin Cup. Her new hometown. Her first day in Tin Cup, she’d tried to find the law offices of Harris and Howell, but only located lawyer Hiram Hadley. After hammering on his door for ten minutes, the dry cleaner next door said that he was in North Dakota taking care of his father who’d been ill. Other than that, she’d had little desire to explore, since she wasn’t eager to find Austen until she’d got herself in a more suitable situation. Still, she was deathly curious about this place, so she scanned the picturesque landscape, the neat clapboard homes, the rangy mesquite trees. It was so different from the places she’d been before, but the sight of the planters lining Main Street cheered her. It felt like home.

Not that she wanted to meet anyone when she was dressed like this. The Captain had given her a large, drab olive T-shirt. Though neatly tucked into her jeans, the shirt still looked wrong. That, and she wasn’t comfortable being without a bra. She crossed her arms over her chest, and he glanced at her. Then down.

Brooke smiled tightly.

“I shouldn’t have ruined your sweater.” This time, he sounded appropriately chastened. A no-holds-barred flash-job could do that to a man.

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

“Aren’t you going to apologize, too?” he asked, apparently believing that she shared some blame in ruining her sweater.

“No,” she told him in a cheery, blame-free voice.

The Captain blew out a breath. “You don’t know me. You shouldn’t take stupid risks with someone you don’t know.”

This time, she blew out a breath. “Life is all about risks, taking chances. It doesn’t matter how safe and comfortable you want things to be. They never are.”

“No,” he agreed. “I’m sorry.”

This time he wasn’t apologizing for the sweater. He was apologizing for all the hardships in her life, which didn’t make her any happier. “I don’t want to be your cause du jour.”

“I don’t believe in causes.”

She doubted that, but kept quiet.

“You don’t have to sleep in your car,” the Captain said, braking at the lone stoplight in town.

“Inviting me to sleep somewhere else?” she teased. She wanted to hear him say it. She wanted to hear him admit that he wanted her. Some of it was pride and ego, some of it was that she wanted to be wanted, but the most urgent part was that she wanted him.

Charlene Hart wasn’t a fan of upstanding men. She liked her men footloose and flawed. And in the ten years since her death, Brooke hadn’t moved in the sort of circles where soft-hearted men roamed.

The soft-hearted man next to her looked at her, one eye that clearly saw so much. “No invitations. You can take the couch.”

She shrugged, as if it didn’t matter.

Moments later he turned down Main Street, pulling to a stop in front of a tidy row of shops. The Hinkles’ grocery was there, a post office, Dot’s Diner and Tallyrand’s. “It’s not Paris, but Tallyrand’s has some good shirts. And shoes.”

Then he passed her a credit card. “Get what you need.”

She stared at him, squared her shoulders. “I’ll pay you back.”

“I know.”

Then she smiled, liking his confidence in her, liking the way the sun played in his hair. The Captain needed a haircut, and tomorrow, she would tell him. “Thank you.”

“Your brother should take you in.” He paused. “If he is your brother.”

Did he have to ruin it now? “You don’t ask me questions, I won’t ask you any, either.”

The Captain nodded. “Fair enough. Get what you need. An hour’s enough time?”

“More than enough.”

TWO HOURS LATER, and Brooke had yet to show up at the truck. Jason considered leaving her in town, but as tempting as the idea was, it was a hot afternoon, and he couldn’t bring himself to abandon her.

Her or her breasts.

Deciding that he had to find out, he made his way through the seven stores of downtown Tin Cup before finally tracking her down in the same place she’d started— Tallyrand’s. Tallyrand’s was a combination feed and clothing store, owned by Rita Tallyrand, who was the former Ms. Pecos Valley back in 1957. It wasn’t the sort of personal detail that Jason usually remembered except that Rita reminded everybody each time they came into the store.

“Captain!” Rita called out, and Jason managed a smile, immediately spotting Brooke next to the shelves full of shirts. She was still wearing his old T-shirt. Two hours of shopping and zilch to show for it?

Jason closed his eyes, telling himself to be patient, but then Rita waylaid him and he knew escape was impossible. What was worse than a nightmare?

“Captain,” she whispered, eyes fixed on Brooke. “You know her? Gladys said you knew her. Who is she? One of the Harts? There was no girl, but that’s how she introduced herself. Said she was a sister. I wanted to call the Sheriff, to find out what’s what, but the Sheriff was out babysitting for Mindy. Have you seen the new baby?”

It was gossip like that that kept Jason far away. “No.”

Rita frowned. “No, you don’t know her?”

“I know her,” he volunteered, choosing not to divulge any more of the pertinent facts he knew about her, not that they were facts, exactly. More supposition, he supposed.

“She’s a Hart?” Rita asked again.

Now this was where it got tricky. Jason knew that Gillian Wanamaker and Austen Hart were tight, and if he told Rita that Brooke was a Hart, and it turned out that Brooke wasn’t a Hart, but part of some wild, best-forgotten weekend from Austen Hart’s past, then Gillian would be crashing down Jason’s door because not only did Gillian Wanamaker have a possessive streak, but she was the sheriff, and also carried a gun.

After glancing at Brooke, he laughed in a knowing way. “She’s not a Hart. Not even a family friend. Seems like she read about the Hart family troubles and thought the whole thing was romantic in a Bonnie and Clyde trailer trash sort of way. Too much television in her life,” he added, not wanting Rita to think that Brooke was mentally unstable or anything.

Rita still eyed Brooke suspiciously. “She’s been browsing in the shirt section for two hours. Maybe Gladys is right about the girl’s possible sticky fingers, although I don’t see where she could hide a shirt.”

“She’s a good kid.”

Rita shot him a curious look. “Not a kid.”

Rather than confirm that Jason knew she wasn’t a kid, but a healthy, well-developed woman, he chose to keep his mouth shut.

“Can you get her out of here?” Rita asked. “I want to close up and make it home before I miss the news.”

There was nothing more that Jason would like than to get her out of here. As he approached her, Brooke smiled and motioned him closer.

“I can’t decide between the darker blue with long sleeves, or this plain cotton tee. The long-sleeved one is better quality, but—” she glanced at Rita and pitched her voice low “—it’s a little pricy.”

Patiently Jason removed both shirts from her hands and gave them to Rita. “We’ll get them both.”

Brooke grabbed the shirts back. “No. We won’t. One shirt.”

Rita watched the exchange, not saying a word. Smart lady.

However, Jason knew that Brooke wasn’t going to give in. Part of him understood her need to make it on her own. Part of him thought she was an idiot for being too stubborn, and part of him, a very masochistic part, wanted to see her naked again.

“One shirt,” Jason agreed. That was his hard-on talking.

“Which one?” Brooke asked, holding up one shirt then the other.

“The blue one looks nice with your hair,” Rita offered, now realizing that money would eventually change hands.

Brooke flipped over the price tag, chewed on her lip. “But it’s so expensive.”

“All cotton,” Rita explained. “And look at the seams. You’re not going to get that sort of stitching for a song.”

And still Brooke shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Slowly Jason counted to ten.

“It’s worth every penny.”

Brooke chewed on her lip. “I don’t know. Maybe if it was…oh, ten percent less. Then I wouldn’t feel so extravagant.”

Jason counted to twenty this time. Didn’t help.

Rita considered the offer and finally nodded.

“Ten percent, but only because you’re a friend of the Captain’s.”

“My family is from here,” Brooke said, following Rita to the register. Rita turned, giving Jason a knowing wink.

“Well, sure, sweetie. Is this cash, check or charge? I’ll need four forms of ID if you’re writing a check.”

Brooke handed her Jason’s credit card. “Charge, please. I’ll need the receipt.”

Jason knew the instant that Rita read his name on the card.

“Credit is so fast these days,” Rita murmured, folding up the shirt. “Just one quick slide and then, whoops, look what you’ve done.”

“I don’t believe in credit myself,” Brooke told her, noting the frilly bookmarks displayed on the counter, studying each one carefully. “It’s too easy to lose your head.”

Rita looked at Jason. “Isn’t it, though?”

This time Jason counted to ninety-nine in multiples of three. Still didn’t help.

After Rita handed the bag to Brooke, she smiled. “You’ll be staying with the Captain?”

“Oh, no,” Brooke laughed, as if the idea was ludicrous. “He’s my boss.”

Rita raised her brows. “Really?”

Brooke laughed again, not so quickly this time. “I needed a job, and he offered me a position at his house. Inventory. I think I’d like to organize things a bit better. It’s a little chaotic.” She pulled the package tight to her chest. “I’m new here. I’m trying to start off right. I know I’m a stranger, but I hope you’ll give me a chance.”

Seeing the sincerity in Brooke’s face, Rita thawed. Jason understood. “We don’t get much entertainment out here, so sometimes we make up our own.”

Brooke leaned in closer. “I know exactly what you mean. Maybe sometime I could come in and chat?”

Through the window, Jason could see the setting sun and he wanted nothing more than for this day to be through. “I think Rita wants to close up,” he told Brooke, in case she decided that now was a good time to chat.

Rita clucked her tongue. “They are always impatient, aren’t they?”

Brooke laughed and Jason hurried her out the door.

ON THE DRIVE BACK, Jason watched as Brooke took out her new shirt and laid it over her lap. Her fingers worked the buttons, and he realized that this was a woman who wasn’t used to a lot of clothes.

“I’m sorry about the sweater,” he apologized again, but this time, he felt like words weren’t enough.

“I wouldn’t have kept it,” she told him with a forgiving smile, as if it didn’t matter, but Jason knew she would have kept that sweater until she died. The right thing to do would be to buy her a new sweater. Something pretty. Something nice. Something extravagant.

“I’m sorry about what Rita was thinking,” he continued. Apparently, today was the day that apologies were flowing like wine. Sonya had always hated that he never apologized.

“She thought we were having sex. It’s not a big deal.” Brooke’s head was down, dark hair hiding her face from view.

“It wouldn’t be if it were true, but it’s not, so it is a big deal.” He sounded like the world’s biggest prude, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t know why he didn’t mind, but when Brooke smiled up at him, he knew he’d said the right thing.

“I can cook dinner for you if you like.”

Such nice words, such dangerous words. In the back of his head, Jason knew this wasn’t smart, but on the other hand, he didn’t want her to starve, either.

“I have a frozen pizza, not much else.” It wasn’t meant to be an invitation. But it was.

“A frozen pizza and a can of peas,” she reminded him with a smile that shot straight to places he’d rather not be thinking about right this second, but like a dog, he kept on thinking, anyway. He kept on panting, too, kept on remembering the sight of her perfect breasts.

A tiny voice urged him to take, but there was something in her eyes that held him back. He saw desire there, sure, but also he saw gratitude, and he felt as if he should lay out the ground rules before she did something they would both regret.

“Brooke?”

“Yes?”

Suddenly, a rabbit jumped across the road, and Jason swerved to avoid it. Brooke fell against him, her hand clutching his thigh, his engorged crotch.

Damn.

Quickly, her hand was gone, and Brooke shot to the opposite side of the bench seat. It was safer with her there.

Jason cleared his throat. “This is a very small town, and there are a lot of behaviors that are frowned upon.”

She glanced at him, a provocative smile on her provocative mouth. He wanted to taste that provocative mouth.

“Are we having the sex talk?” she asked.

“It’s not a sex talk,” he protested, then rubbed his face where his scar was starting to throb. “It’s more of an anti-sex talk. This is a dangerous situation and I know you think you’re attracted to me but, hell, Brooke. I don’t want a woman in my bed because I bought her a shirt.”

It was the wrong thing to say because off came her shirt. Jason tried desperately not to stare at the twin mounds of taut flesh. Failed. “Can we please wear our clothes?”

She turned, offering her breasts before him like some buffet plate. “It’s your shirt and you think I want to sleep with you because you gave me a shirt. Ergo, no shirt. No problem.”

His mouth grew dry, his cock started to ache and his foot was pushing as hard as it could on the gas. “Put on the shirt.”

She grinned and ran a hand through her hair, dark against her perfect ivory skin. “No.”

“Please,” he asked nicely, hearing the crack in his voice.

“No. I’m an adult, capable of following the call of my loins, and if your shirt is going to get in the way…”

Jason kept his eyes on the road, but it didn’t help distract him from his desire for her. Up ahead he could see his long, gravel drive. His bed, her laying across his bed, wearing nothing but him.

“Brooke,” he tried again, not looking. Damn. He was looking. The woman had the most perfect set of breasts on the planet, and apparently she wasn’t shy about showing them off.

This was probably how Hart got in trouble with her. They were probably somewhere in Vegas, she pulled off her shirt and kapow. Circuits were fried, good intentions were lost and sex was had. Halfway up the drive, he slammed on the brakes because he needed clothes on her before they made it to the house. In the truck, there were rules, gear-shifts. In the house, all bets were off.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, laying her arm across the back of the seat, so hot, so warm, so…

“Brooke,” he repeated, pleading, since all he wanted to do was touch her, kiss her, take her. Her fingers tiptoed across the edge of his seat, flicking against his neck. It was the first time she’d ever touched him.

Jason turned, met her eyes firmly. “No.”

She cocked her head. “You don’t want me?” She knew he did, but he couldn’t tell her. It was the last armament keeping him in check.

“I don’t want you.”

Her hand slid from his face to his hard-on. Softly, tortuously, she squeezed. “Liar.”

“This isn’t right.”

Brooke slid closer, her breasts brushing against his arm, and he could smell his soap on her, his shampoo. “Kiss me. Make it right.”

As she said the words, she licked her lips and that was all he could take.

Jason grabbed her, pulled her astride him, and devoured her mouth like the starving man he was. Her fingers stroked his hair, his face. So long, too long. He explored her mouth with his tongue, feeling her warm welcome. It was like drowning.

His hands grabbed her breasts, knowing exactly where to touch, and she arched into him, riding his cock like they were already there.

He wanted her already there. He wanted inside her. He wanted to feel her. All of her. With clumsy fingers he attacked her fly, feeling the metal give, sliding beneath the rough denim, finding…her.

His finger thrust inside her, and she nipped at his lip, and Jason knew he wouldn’t make it to the house.

It had been so long. She felt so good. His finger pushed harder, higher, feeling the wet heat. Each time he thrust, she rode him. Hard, sure…sweet.

A woman at a vulnerable place, a woman who needed respect and patience.

Sweetness.

Some of his calm returned and he kissed her again, trying to take things gentle and slow. Her mouth tasted like peppermint and fire and her hips kept arching toward him, riding him…loving him.

Patience?

He was going to die.

“Take me here, Captain. Please.”

Her hands poised over his fly, waiting.

And who was he to stay no? Resigned to his fate, Jason opened his one good eye, stared at his house, blinked twice, and then prayed that his vision was wrong.

Survival instincts kicked in, he pushed Brooke aside and fumbled for the damned shirt.

“What’s wrong?” asked the topless woman who didn’t think that modesty was a good thing.

Wrong? She had no idea of the trouble her breasts were about to get them into. Everything was wrong because approaching the truck in her ridiculous heels was Sonya.

Seeing the other woman, Brooke finally had the sense to cover herself. “Who’s that?” she asked, and he could hear the hurt in her voice. He hated the hurt.

“I’m Sonya Kincaid. Mrs. Sonya Kincaid.”

Brooke gasped, but before she could kill him Jason clarified the situation. “Ex. She’s my ex.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.