скачать книгу бесплатно
She managed to swallow. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” He closed the heartbeat of space between them, his denim-covered thighs pressing against the backs of her legs, his groin nestled against her bottom so she could feel just how much he had been thinking about her. His cotton shirt cushioned her shoulder blades. The material brushed against the sensitive backs of her arms as he slid his hands around her waist. Strong, work-roughened fingertips skimmed her rib cage, stopping just shy of her lace-covered breasts.
It was highly erotic watching him in the mirror, his dark hands on her skin, his powerful body framing hers. It was even more erotic seeing her own response to him—the rosy flush creeping up her neck, the goose bumps chasing up and down her arms, the part to her lips, the plump of her breasts as her breath caught. It was almost as if she watched someone else, yet more intense because it wasn’t someone else. It was her. Him. Them.
“So pretty,” he murmured huskily as warm hands cupped her breasts.
“You like Swedish lace?”
“I was talking about this.” He fingered the tip of one dark nipple peeking through the scalloped pattern. “And this.” He touched the other throbbing crest, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “Definitely the prettiest thing I’ve seen in a long time.”
Heat speared her and she barely caught the moan that slid up her throat.
“You like this, Slick?”
“I…” Her answer faded in the swish of drapes. Jimmy’s hands fell away a heartbeat before Laverne’s familiar voice echoed around them.
“I found a couple more dresses you might like—” The words stumbled to a halt as the woman came up short in the doorway. Her gaze ping-ponged between Jimmy and Deb, and she frowned before a thought seemed to strike. “You two doing research?”
“Research?” Deb managed.
“For that there column of yours. You and Jimmy working on the next Fun Fact—”
“We are not doing research.”
“Not yet,” Jimmy murmured, his voice for her ears only. Then he turned a smile, bright enough to melt Iceland, on the shop owner. “I got lost.”
“Lost? In here?”
“Sure enough. You’ve expanded the place since I got fitted for my last tux. You remember that?”
A smile chased the suspicion from Laverne’s expression. “Your high school prom. You and Tack Brandon liked to turn my hair gray making me comb half the state looking for neon purple cummerbunds. You were every bit as sassy back then as you are now.”
“And you were every bit as pretty. Harold’s a lucky man.”
Laverne blushed a shade bright enough to match her dyed hair. “That’s what I keep telling him, but he listens about as well as he washes dishes.”
Deb would have laughed at how easy the woman was taken in by a little masculine charm, except that her own heart was still pounding ninety to nothing.
“Anyhow,” Jimmy went on, “I was trying to find my way to the men’s dressing room when I heard Deb, here. She needed help with her dress, and I’ve never been one to resist a damsel in distress.”
“The, um, buttons stuck,” Deb added. Oh, God. Was that her trembling voice? No way. Her voice didn’t tremble, not on account of some man.
She stiffened and snatched up the forgotten pink dress. “Come to think of it,” she snapped, “this thing has way too many buttons. Do you have anything with a zipper?”
Laverne glanced at the pile in her arms and fished a dress free. “Try this.” She handed over a buttercup yellow shift with a side zipper before turning to Jimmy. “You come on with me, sugar, and I’ll give you a personal escort back to the men’s dressing room.”
“I’d be mighty obliged.”
“By the way,” Laverne asked as she hooked her arm through Jimmy’s. “Did I ever introduce you to my niece, Lurline? Why, she’s the prettiest girl in the county and she knows her chicken feed from her horse grain, let me tell you. You two would hit it off perfectly and I just happened to mention that you were getting fitted today. She’s right outside….”
“We’ll settle this later,” he told Deb as the shop owner led him from the room.
Later, as in he was giving Deb more time to think.
To worry.
To fantasize. And now after their too close encounter a few moments ago, she had even more fuel for those fantasies.
Forget it.
“Yes,” she blurted and he stopped, the motion jerking Laverne back a step.
His gaze caught hers. “Yes to what?”
“The two weeks.” She took a deep breath and tried to slow the blood zinging through her veins. “I’ll do it.”
His grin was slow and heartstopping. “You mean, we’ll do it.” Then he winked, and did the last thing Deb expected.
He walked away.
3
HE’D WALKED AWAY.
That all-important fact replayed in Deb’s head later that day as she sat at her desk at the In Touch, the three-room newspaper office located right above Pancake World.
But he hadn’t walked. He’d sauntered, swayed, in that long-legged, sexy-as-hell gait that made an entire bridal shop full of women—most of them Laverne’s single cousins and nieces and even her great aunt who’d just happened to stop by—drop their jaws and visibly salivate.
And not just on account of his looks. Sure, Jimmy had it all put together right, but it was the entire package that made him the hottest catch in four counties. He was the green-eyed, blond-haired, handsome white knight every girl dreamed of. The charming, honest, loyal son-in-law mamas prayed for. The successful, salt-of-the-earth rancher every daddy wanted to see hitched to his little girl.
It was strictly Darwin’s theory at work. Society looked to the strongest, most appealing for procreating. While the dreaded P word was the last thing Deb had in mind, she wasn’t immune to Jimmy’s appeal.
In fact, his appeal had had her this close to wrapping her arms around him and begging for more of what he’d started with his warm hands and purposeful fingers.
By walking away, he’d dashed that impulse.
“Why are you frowning?” Wally, Deb’s devoted copyboy, had glanced up from his computer and was eyeing her.
“I’m not frowning.” She busied herself taking a sip of black coffee from the latest acquisition of her collection of designer Bitch mugs: I’ve Got The Itch To Bitch.
“You’re definitely frowning. Isn’t she frowning?” he asked the seventy-something woman who sat at a nearby table.
Dolores Guiness had eyes and ears as big as Texas, which was exactly why Deb had hired her on for a few hours a day to write the About Town section, aka the gossip column for the In Touch. The old woman made it her business to know everything about everyone.
She eyed Deb over a pair of black-rimmed bifocals as if she were a coyote sizing up a good rib eye. “Why are you frowning, dear? You can tell old Dolores.”
“I’m not frowning.”
“You sure are,” Wally persisted. “Isn’t she?” This time he turned to the petite redhead who sat at what had once been Annie’s desk. She wore an oversize white T-shirt that swallowed her small frame and a pair of blue-jean overalls.
“I, um, I guess so.”
“It’s okay to speak your mind,” Wally said. “She won’t bite you.”
“I definitely bite,” Deb told the timid Paige.
“Rumor has it she definitely has biting potential,” Dolores informed them. “But since said biter signs my paycheck, I’m keeping my opinion to myself.”
“Good girl,” Deb told her.
“She likes everybody to think she bites,” Wally went on, “but she doesn’t.”
“I bite, dammit.” Deb took another sip, slammed her mug down on her desk and glared at Wally. “And don’t you go telling anybody otherwise.”
“I don’t have to tell anyone anything. You already did it yourself when you led the fundraiser for those foster kids over at the church. And when you organized that bake sale to help Mr. and Mrs. Cootie pay funeral expenses for their uncle. Stuff like that speaks for itself. You’re definitely a nonbiter.”
“I’m the editor of the town newspaper. I like to stay in the thick of things. My reasons are purely self-motivated.”
“And we’re expecting a blizzard to blow through central Texas tomorrow. She’s like one of those Eskimo pies,” he told Paige. “Hard shell, soft filling.”
Deb glared. “Don’t you have work to do?”
“That depends.”
She pasted on her most intimidating frown. “On whether or not I’m firing you for insubordination?”
“On whether or not you really meant it when you said I could take over Annie’s duties.”
“Of course I meant it. You get Annie’s job. Paige gets your job. Dolores gets to dish dirt part-time.”
“Okay—” he rubbed his hands together “—if I’m now officially a full-fledged reporter, photographer—”
“—part-time printing press mechanic,” Deb cut in. At his frown, she added, “You know that old press better than anyone.”
“I hate that old press,” he grumbled, “but I’m willing to continue sweating blood over it if you’ll let me handle the This Is Your Neighbor interview this week.”
“That’s my column.”
“I know. I’ll just be filling in for you the way Annie used to.”
“She only did it twice when I happened to be overbooked. I’m not overbooked. I’ve already got the interview set up for tomorrow. Mary Jo’s going to do it poolside so she can show off the lifetime supply of western swimsuits she won when they crowned her Rodeo Queen. Do you know they actually sent her a thong bikini made out of rawhide leather? It’s got a fringe and a great big tassle right over the…” Her words faded as she noticed the gleam in Wally’s eyes. “I doubt she’ll wear the thong during the interview.”
He sighed. “A guy can hope.”
“Actually, based on how easy it was for Milton Kelch’s boy to get her to the Inspiration Inn last Saturday night, I think it wouldn’t take much for her to wear the thong,” Dolores said, her old grey eyes twinkling, “or nothing at all.”
Deb let Wally sweat for a full minute as she sipped more coffee. “I’ll tell you what,” she finally said. “If you can finish reinking the press before you leave, you can have the interview.”
“Hot damn!” He winked at Paige. “I told you, an Eskimo pie.”
When the young woman looked at her, Deb meant to give her best frown. She had a reputation to maintain, but the look in the frail-looking redhead’s eyes struck a deep chord. Uncertainty. Loneliness. Fear.
Once upon a time six years ago, Deb had known all three.
She smiled, Paige’s expression eased, and a quiet settled over the office, disrupted only by the steady click of computer keys and the chug of the window unit pumping ice-cold air through the large room.
It proved to be an unusually calm Friday, more so because Deb found herself eyeing the phone on several occasions, a strange sense of expectancy in the pit of her stomach.
“Something’s definitely wrong,” Wally said when he accidentally handed Deb his herbal tea by mistake, and she drank it. “Let me guess, Jasmine couldn’t work you in at the beauty parlor and you’re having a bad-hair day.”
“It’s not my hair.”
“You used the last of your favorite tube of Vamping Red lipstick.”
“I’ve got half a tube in my purse.”
“Your cat ran away.”
“Camille is probably curled up on my sofa as we speak.” She sighed and fixed her gaze on her computer.
“The Texas Awards. You’re nervous we’re not going to be nominated for Best Weekly.”
“It’s not that.”
“I told you, it’s a done deal.”
“I could care less. Just get back to work, would you?”
Wally shrugged and headed back to the printing press, Paige practically disappeared in the pile of advertising copy on her desk, Dolores left for a supper meeting with her head gossip source—the beautician over at the beauty parlor—and Deb did her best to edit her latest piece on the need for a better nursing home facility in Inspiration.
Hours later, after everyone had left, Deb stabbed the button on her computer, flicked off her desk lamp and called it a night.
For the hundredth time, she glanced at the phone. As if she could compel the blasted thing to ring. A glance at her watch and she accepted the inevitable. He wasn’t going to call.
It seemed as if Jimmy Mission wasn’t all that excited about their deal. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected when she’d said yes. At the very least, a few details spelling out the terms of the agreement, such as when and where.
What she hadn’t expected was this…waiting. Deb wasn’t good at waiting, or wondering or worrying.
Maybe he was just busy. Jimmy was notorious for his commitment to the Mission Ranch. He lived and breathed the place, much the way she lived and breathed the paper.
Or maybe he’d changed his mind. Why give up four thousand dollars when he could have any woman in town for free?
Or maybe he’d been stomped to a bloody pulp by an angry bull—
Her thoughts collided to a stop when she exited the building and saw the young woman sitting on the curb near a worn ‘57 Impala, tears streaming down her face.
“Paige?”
