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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.”
