Shameless

She wanted him. He’d felt it, seen it, even if she had spent the past year denying it. He’d no more been able to forget the taste of her—warm woman and sweet peppermint and sinful promise—than he’d been able to shake the urge to breathe. Over the past year, reading her articles, seeing her around town, talking to her, hell, even arguing with her, had intensified the attraction. She was in his head, under his skin, in his blood.

At first, he’d tried to deny the chemistry between them. He’d been so damned mad after the dunking booth incident, which had been her intention all along. To push him away, piss him off, keep distance between them. She wanted him, but she didn’t want to want him because she, like every other female in town, knew he had marriage on his mind. If there was one thing he’d learned about Deb Strickland, it was that she was single and proud of it.

Good. While Jimmy did have marriage on his mind, he wanted a strong, solid woman who knew her cattle better than her cosmetics. One who wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty to give one hundred percent to a thriving ranch that demanded so much.

Too much.

He shook away the thought. The ranch was his life now, and he would do what he had to do. For his mother and father. For the future of the Mission spread. Duty called, and so he didn’t, couldn’t want a woman like Deb Strickland, with her fancy clothes and painted nails and city-slicker persona, in his life.

But in his bed, wearing nothing but a smile and some pineapple-flavored body glaze…now that was a different matter altogether.

Deb huffed, the heart flashed, and Jimmy’s body gave an answering throb.

“I’m begging you to rethink this, Judge Baines.”

“No time, missy. I’ve got a great big catfish with my name on it out in Morgan’s Pond and you’ve made me as late as I’m gonna get.” The gavel slammed down as the judge stood up. “I rule in favor of the plaintiff for four thousand dollars.” He shrugged off his robe to reveal a plaid shirt and blue jeans, and grabbed the rod and reel propped in the far corner. “Good day and happy fishing.”

Jimmy barely had time to stand before the three file clerks and the court reporter closed in on him.

“Congratulations, Jimmy.”

“You deserve it.”

“How’d you like that sardine sandwich I made you last week?”

By the time Jimmy smiled and talked his way past the women, Deb Strickland and her tattoo had disappeared.

He should have been thankful.

She was sure to come at him, guns blazing, ready to rip his head off and mount it on the wall above her desk over at the In Touch. He’d waited this long to make his proposition. A few more days, maybe even a couple of weeks wouldn’t make much difference. Besides, Jimmy had always been a patient man where women were concerned, which was why he’d invested so much time in pursuing a woman with such a hands-off attitude.

He had work waiting—a plowed over fence in the north pasture, a pen full of cattle needing vaccinations, and Valentino, his stud bull, was due in Austin tomorrow to be photographed for a layout in Texas Cattleman featuring prize livestock.

He needed to get things settled, to pack. He didn’t need a confrontation to take up more time when he was already running short.

But damned if he didn’t want one.

DEB FOUGHT to keep from shedding even one of the tears burning her eyes as she headed down the hallway. Deb Strickland didn’t cry, no matter how grossly unfair Judge Baines’s verdict.

Four thousand dollars. Where was she supposed to come up with that kind of money?

With barely two thousand left in her own savings account—a quarter of which she’d already planned to transfer to the newspaper account to help cover Wally’s salary—she was scraping bottom already. She had three hundred open on her Visa, eighty bucks in her checking account, Granny Lily’s decrepit house, a car that wasn’t even halfway paid off, a lifetime supply of Go Girl cosmetics she’d won back in a magazine competition in college and a newspaper that barely generated enough revenue to cover expenses.

Most of the time, it didn’t, which was why she’d nearly depleted the nest egg Granny Lily had left her.

She fought back the urge to turn around, stomp back into the courtroom and punch the plaintiff’s infuriatingly handsome face.

She would have done in a second except she’d traded Sonia at the beauty shop a month of free advertising for a French manicure just yesterday. She wasn’t about to waste a precious nail on some pigheaded cowboy, even if said cowboy was Jimmy Mission.

Especially because it was him. He was completely off-limits. Cowboy non grata. The more distance between them, the better.

“Hey, Slick, wait up.” His deep voice rumbled behind.

“Get lost.” She picked up the pace.

“I want to talk to you.”

“And I want to strangle you, but lucky for you my personal beauty regime prohibits physical violence. Go away.”

He stopped, but his voice followed her. “Why are you so dead set on running away from me?”

The question rang in her ears, prickling her ego and she turned on him before she could think better of it. “Why are you so dead set on ruining my life?”

“Last time I looked, you hit me.”

“You parked in my spot intentionally. You’ve been doing it for months just to tick me off.” Eleven months and fifteen days to be exact, since their first and last kiss, not that Deb was counting….

Oh, God, she was counting.

She glared at him. “You’ve been hogging my spot on purpose.”

“And you’ve been avoiding me on purpose, that or trying to piss me off.”

She managed a laugh but could hardly feel mirthful since, even though a few feet separated them, the scent of him reached her. The enticing aroma of leather and male and that unnameable something that made her think of satin sheets and champagne and…Forget it. Forget him. Forget the kiss. Forget.

She tried for a steadying breath. “Look, I realize you’re very popular, but unlike the other members of your fan club,” she motioned to the group of women clustered outside the courtroom, their gazes hooked on Jimmy. “I’m too busy to spend my valuable time thinking about ways to piss you off.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You know what I think?”

“I couldn’t care less.”

“I think,” he said, stepping toward her, “you’ve been pushing me away on purpose, hoping I’d back off because you’re scared.”

“Scared? Of what? You? The day I’m scared of you, buster, is the day Myrna Jenkins—” known to the entire town as queen of the coiffure “—goes to the Piggly Wiggly with her hair in rollers.”

“Not me, Slick.” He took another step, closing the distance between them. “Us.” The word trembled in the air between them.

She craned her neck and stared up at him. “There is no us.”

“We were good together.”

“For about five seconds.”

“It was more like ten.” His gaze narrowed. “But a kiss is just a kiss, right? A little fun?”

He’d obviously read her article, just as she’d intended. She’d written the piece right after she’d finished up at the carnival and gone home to an empty house, disappointed and frustrated because Mr. Kiss-of-the-Century had turned out to be Mr. Jimmy Mission. Inspiration’s most eligible husband prospect was completely off-limits to a woman like Deb who’d sworn off marriage and family when she’d left Dallas. So she’d written one of her most powerful editorials, entitled Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, which had led to her weekly and ever-popular Daring Deb’s Fun Girl Fact.

“Not every woman’s out to find herself a husband,” she told him.

“And not every man’s out to find himself a wife.”

“But you are.”

“Says who?”

“Everyone in this desperately small town.” She eyed him. “So what’s the scoop? Are you or are you not looking for a wife?”

“Not at this moment.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That, yes, I’m keeping my eye out for the future Lady Mission. I’m thirty-two and it’s time to settle down, but until I find her—and your column hasn’t made things any easier by turning half the women around here into pushy—”

“Assertive,” she cut in. “Fun women are assertive.”

“And convinced that being a good wife means rubbing herself down with pineapple-flavored body glaze and doubling as a Christmas ham.”

Despite the heat and the tension, a grin tugged at her lips. “Actually, a very good wife rubs herself down with pineapple glaze and doubles as a Christmas ham.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, honey. A very good wife doesn’t waste her time on foolishness. She steers a tractor, rides fence and pitches hay right alongside her husband. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m talking about something a lot more basic. If a girl can have her fun, so can a guy.”

She peeked around him and eyed the women still gathered in the hallway. “I say take your pick and go for it.”

He grabbed her arm and hauled her toward the alcove behind a nearby stairwell.

“What are you doing—” she started, the words drowning in the lump in her throat as he whirled her around and cornered her.

“I pick you.”

She stared up at him, wishing he wasn’t so tall, so handsome, so…close. “I’m not ripe for picking.”

His eyes darkened and she realized she’d said the wrong things…or the right thing depending on the part of her doing the thinking. From the heat pooling between her thighs she’d lay down money it wasn’t her head.

“I’d say you’re definitely ripe, honey.” His thumb grazed the nipple pressing against her blouse and heat speared her. “Damn near ready to burst.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She summoned her most nonchalant voice. “You should really save your energy for a nice girl who’s into the tractor thing.”

“The whole point is to expend a little energy.”

“So do it with the future Mrs. Jimmy Mission.”

“I would, but I haven’t found her yet.”

“Then expend energy with one of your fans out in the hallway.”

“I’ve known each one of them nearly all my life, and while they’re having a good time reading your articles and playing at being savvy singles, they’re really only after one thing—a husband. The morning after, I’m sure to find an anxious father waiting on my doorstep with a loaded shotgun, and Preacher Marley standing next to him. I’ll end up hitched whether I’ve found the right woman or not.”

“What makes you think the same won’t happen with me?”

“You got an anxious father waiting at home?”

Once upon a time…She shook away the thought and fought back a wave of guilt. “No.”

“You know Preacher Marley?”

“He’s an In Touch subscriber.”

“How likely is he to step in and defend your honor?”

She stiffened and met his stare. “For your information, I can defend my own honor.”

“There was never a doubt in my mind.” He touched her then, skin to skin, the tip of one finger at her collarbone, and heat bolted through her from the contact. “You’re something when you get all stirred up.” He traced a path lower, until his fingertip came to rest atop the tattoo peeking from the vee of her blouse. “This drove me crazy all morning.”

Before she could form a reply, he dipped his head and the tip of his tongue flicked over the sensitive area. A moan caught in her throat and she closed her eyes, the pleasure sweet, intense, overwhelming.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all year,” he went on. Sexy green eyes caught and held hers. “You’ve been haunting my dreams. You and your red lips and that damned kiss and this heat between us.”

Amen. While Deb had heard about chemistry and animal attraction and how, sometimes, things just sparked between two people, she’d never felt it. Sure, she’d been attracted to men, but the pull had never felt so…desperate. Like if she didn’t have him, she’d die. Right here. Right now.

“Don’t you think it’s about time we stopped all this nonsense?” he asked.

Boy, did she ever. She caught the words before they could pass her lips and drew her mouth into a tight line. “You want to talk about nonsense? That judgment. My insurance will cover the damages, but anything above and beyond is ridiculous.”

“And still your responsibility.”

“But you weren’t anywhere near that Bronco when I tapped you. Why should I pay you pain and suffering?”

“I’ve been in pain since the first moment I tasted you—” his fingertip skimmed her bottom lip “—and suffering every night since because I want to taste you again.” His gaze flicked to her mouth. “The law is the law. You owe me, Slick.”

“I don’t have four thousand dollars.”

“I don’t want four thousand dollars.”

Don’t ask. Turn. Walk away. Do anything but ask.

Something about the intense light of his gaze compelled her, however, almost as much as the need that suddenly gripped her body.

“What do you want?”

“This, for starters.” And then he kissed her.

Jimmy Mission tasted even better than she remembered. Hotter. More potent.

His hand cupped her cheek, the other splayed along her rib cage just inches shy of her right breast, his fingers searing through the fabric of her blouse. His mouth nibbled at hers. His tongue slid wet and wicked along her bottom lip before dipping inside to stroke and tease and take her breath away.

Now this…this was the reason she’d dunked him at the carnival.

Because she’d been a heartbeat shy of crawling into the dunk tank with him, throwing herself into his arms and begging for another kiss. No way could she have allowed herself to do such a thing with a marriage-minded man like Jimmy Mission.

A girl had to have her standards, and married men, engaged men, men who walked and talked and reeked of home and hearth and tradition, like Jimmy, were completely off-limits. No marriage for her. Just freedom and fun and…

The thought faded as his fingers crept an inch higher, closer to her aching nipple which bolted to attention, eager for a touch, a stroke, something…anything.

His fingers stopped inches shy, but his mouth kept moving, his tongue stroking, lips eating, hungry…so hungry. His intent was pure sin, and Deb couldn’t help herself; a moan vibrated up her throat.

He caught the sound, deepening the kiss for a delicious moment that made her stomach jump and her thighs quiver, and left no doubt as to the power of the chemistry between them.

She’d been burning for him all these months, the flames fed by memories and fantasies and his constant pursuit.

“What are you doing to me?” she murmured, dazed and trembling, when he finally pulled away.

He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “Not even half of what I want to do.” His words made her shake and quiver all the more.

Shaking? Quivering? Over a man?

This man, a voice whispered, that same voice that had warned her off him so many months ago. The voice that kept her one step ahead of him because no way was Deb Strickland going to find herself trapped all over again. She was free now, and she was staying that way.

She pulled away, desperate to put some distance between them and find the common sense that seemed to desert her every time he was near. “I’ve got work to do.”

“Don’t even think about running now,” he cut in, his fingers tightening on her arm, his hold firm but not painful. His mouth grazed hers before she could tell him exactly where to get off. “I’m calling your bluff, Slick.” The words vibrated against her lips. “You say all you want’s a little fun. Well, that’s all I want. You. Me. Two weeks of fun. No strings attached. Then we’ll call it even.” He gave her another lingering kiss before letting go of her. “Think about it.”

2

“SO WHAT DO YOU THINK?”

“That’s the dress?” Deb asked as she stared at the wedding gown Annie Divine, her best friend and star reporter—make that ex-reporter—had just pulled from a large white box.

“There has to be some mistake.” Annie’s frantic fingers rifled through the layers of tissue paper and white satin. “This isn’t the dress I ordered. Laverne!” she shouted past the drapes that hung over the dressing room doorway of Inspiration’s only bridal shop. “They sent the wrong dress!”

“They couldn’t have.” Laverne Dolby, proprietor of the dress store and president of the local Reba McIntyre fan club, shoved the curtains aside. “I’ve been here nigh on twenty-five years and not once…” Her words faded as she pulled heart-shaped, rose-tinted glasses from her pile of Reba-red curls, and slid her second pair of eyes into place. “Land sakes, this is the dress my niece, Rita Ann, ordered.”

Hope lit Annie’s tear-streaked features. “So if I have hers, she has mine, right?”

“’Fraid not. Hers—I mean, yours is on back order. Won’t be in for another six weeks.”

“But my wedding’s in exactly three weeks. What am I going to do?” Annie turned stricken eyes on Deb.

Deb handed Annie a tissue and turned to Laverne. “We need another wedding gown.”

Laverne shook her head. “All of mine are special order. I’ve got a nice selection of bridesmaid dresses, some mother-of-the-bride, that sort of thing. As for wedding dresses…” Her gaze fell to the box. “Hey, I bet Rita Ann wouldn’t mind you wearing this one. Her wedding’s not for two months. I could let you have this one and get her another.”

Another glance at the dress and Annie burst into fresh tears.

“I guess this isn’t exactly what you had in mind,” Laverne said. “Lordy, this is a pickle.”

“A pickle?” Annie cried. “This is the worst day of my life! And here I thought I was finally going to have a happily ever after with Tack.” Annie Divine and Tack Brandon had been high school sweethearts. Tack had been the captain of the football team, handsome and popular, and Annie had been invisible. Somehow, and Deb felt certain it was because Annie was as sweet and understanding as Texas was big, she and Tack had gotten together. They’d been right in the middle of a hot high school romance when Tack’s mom had died in a tragic accident. He’d left the Big B, a large ranch bordering the Mission spread, and spent the next ten years racing the motorcross circuit. Finally, he’d come home for good and set his sights on Annie who’d been working for the In Touch, aspiring to be a big-time reporter.

Annie had tried to resist him, but her love, still alive after all these years, had won in the end. She’d decided she’d be happier freelancing for magazines and making babies than working for a major newspaper.

While Deb wasn’t too keen on the baby part—her own mother had passed away when she was three and she’d never really experienced the nurturing-mother phenomenon up close, much less developed a craving for it—she still wished Annie every bit of happiness.

“I should have known something would go wrong.” Annie’s words faded into a series of sniffles and choked sobs.

Sympathy tears burned Deb’s eyes and she blinked frantically. “Laverne,” she snapped, dashing away one lone, traitorous tear before anyone could see, “why don’t you go dig up some bridesmaid dresses for me while I talk to Annie in private?” Before the woman could respond, Deb hustled her toward the doorway, yanked the curtains closed behind her. She turned to Annie.

“I’m sorry,” Annie blurted. “I’m not usually such a mess.” She wiped at her face. “It’s just that I’ve still got to find a photographer and a florist, pick out and mail the invitations and find a caterer and a baker. And Tack’s racing friends are coming in next Saturday. I don’t have time to drive to Austin and look for another dress.”

“We’ll figure something out.” Deb studied the gown. “You know, this material’s not half bad.”

“How can you tell with all that stuff on it…?” Annie’s words faded as her gaze locked with Deb’s. “I know what you’re thinking and you can just forget it. This dress is awful.”

“That’s because it’s just lying there. Formals always look that way. Then you put them on, and voilà, it makes all the difference in the world.”

A moment of thoughtful silence passed, punctuated by a huge sniffle. “You think?” Deb nodded and Annie seemed to gather her courage. “You know, you’re probably right. I’ll just try it on and maybe it won’t be so bad.” Minutes later, she turned her gaze to the surrounding mirrors and burst into another bout of tears. “Forget it. It’s horrible.”

“It isn’t horrible. It’s just…different.” Deb searched for the right words as she stared at the rows of beaded roses, the miles of tulle, the myriad of white silk ribbons and appliqués of all shapes and sizes. “Busy.”

“It’s worse than downtown Houston during rush hour.”

“True, but we can fix it. We’ll cut here, rearrange there, take off the bows and the overabundance of sequins and beadwork and it’ll be perfect.”

“Laverne can handle hems, but this is major—”

“I’ll do it.”

“You?”

Deb fingered the lapel of her champagne-colored suit. “Who do you think made this?”

“I was thinking Saks or Gucci.”

“Way out here in Timbuktu, Texas?”

“They have catalogues. And you do drive to Austin every now and then. I thought maybe you did some power shopping.”

As if she had the cash for that. “Granny Lily taught me everything she knew and left me her sewing machine to keep me company.”

Annie eyed the gown. “You really think you can do something with this?”

“Girlfriend, I know I can.” Deb wiped at Annie’s smudged cheeks with a tissue. “Now cheer up and let’s get on with this fitting.”

Annie sniffled and looked hopeful as she glanced into the mirror. Her expression fell as she surveyed her reflection. “Forget it. This is white.”

“What’s wrong with white?”

She gave Deb an “Are you kidding?” look.

“Oh, please, Annie. If you think everyone who wears white in this day and age is as pure as the driven snow, guess again.”

“It’s not that. It’s just…Tack and I have been living together the past few weeks and—”

“If anyone deserves to wear white, it’s you,” Deb cut in. “It’s your first wedding with your first and only true love. I don’t care how long you’ve been living together or what wicked things you do in the privacy of your own bedroom.”

Annie grinned. “Or the barn.”

Deb arched an eyebrow. “The barn?”

“Then there was that time down by the river.”

“The river?”

“And on the back of Tack’s motorcycle.”

“A motorcycle?” Deb shook her head. “Goody-goody Annie Divine has done it on the back of a motorcycle, and I can’t even find a decent date. What’s wrong with this picture?”

“You tell me.” Annie peeled off the dress and handed it over to Deb. “You used to be out every night dusting the floor down at BJ’s with some hunky cowboy. Lately, the only vehicle reported after hours at your house belongs to the pizza delivery boy.”

“A girl’s gotta eat.” Deb avoided Annie’s curious gaze and inspected the dress. She’d get rid of the cupids and the extravagant beading.

“You’re not mopey because of my wedding, are you?”

“Believe me, it’s not that.” She would do away with the godawful bows.

“Because your turn will come one day.”

“I don’t want a turn.” The sequined butterflies were history.

“And you’ll be standing here in a big white dress of your own.”

“I hate white.” Adios beaded tulips.

“And you’ll walk down the aisle with the man of your dreams.”

“The man of my dreams avoids aisles.” The rhinestone ladybug buttons didn’t stand a chance.

“And you’ll both say ‘I do’ and it’ll be happily ever after and—”

“It’s not the wedding,” Deb cut in. “It’s…” She shook her head. “I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately.” An understatement if she’d ever made one.

Think about it. It had been a full month since Jimmy Mission had murmured those words. During that time, she’d seen him only once, the evening following their day in court. She and Annie had been having drinks at BJ’s and he’d walked in. After a few heated glances and the usual bickering, she’d walked out. Actually, run was a more appropriate verb.