The Fantasy Factor

Houston was the middle brother of the notorious Jericho brothers. Austin was the oldest. Dallas the youngest. All had been as bad as a hot summer day was long. They’d been the town’s rebels, a legacy inherited from their hell-raising father and wild-child mother. His mother had died early on, just months after giving birth to Dallas. She’d been diabetic and the birth had been too much for her. There’d been complications and her kidneys had failed. She’d fought for her life on a dialysis machine, but it hadn’t been enough to save her. She’d passed on, and his father had crawled into a bottle and the three boys had been left to fend for themselves.

They’d all grown up to be independent, none of them depending on anyone except one another to overcome their past and rise above the town’s expectations of them. Dallas had built a successful construction company. Austin was a rancher with the fastest growing spread in the county. And Houston was this close to breaking the national bull riding record of ten consecutive championships.

He’d worked hard to get to this point. Over the years, he’d spent most of his time on the road, focused on the next practice and the next competition. Always focused.

Except at night, when the exhaustion weighing on his muscles wasn’t enough to pull him into a decent sleep. Then he would close his eyes and sometimes—oftentimes—picture Sarah.

They’d made it through the first three of the Sexiest Seven. They’d gotten hot and heavy on the bank of Cadillac Creek on a moonlit night, which had satisfied number one—sex outside in nature. They’d done the wild thing in her Grandma’s Impala, which had satisfied number two—sex in the back seat of a car. They’d set each other on fire in a cheap but clean room at Hotel Heaven just outside the county line, checking off number three—sex in a sleazy motel room. They’d been scheduled to fulfill number four—getting slippery and wet in the shower—when one of Sarah’s best friends had passed away.

Sarah had changed then and he’d left, and they’d never made it into the shower for number four of the Sexiest Seven, or into a crowded movie theater for number five, or a public rest room for number six, or an elevator for number seven.

No, they’d never had a chance to finish, but he’d often thought about it. Fantasized about it.

“…there, sugar?” The voice drew his attention and he turned to see the sultry blonde to his right who had been coming on to him all night. He’d been trying to warm up to what she’d been offering, but then Sarah had walked into the bar and the blonde had suddenly lost all her appeal. Now she licked her lips suggestively. “This place is getting too crowded. What do you say we cut out of here and have a little private party of our own?”

“I’d love to, honey, but I think I’d better stick around a little while longer.” He eyed the group of men at the bar, all arms raised in a toast to the groom, who wore a foam ball and chain around his neck. “Jack and I go way back.”

What the hell was he saying?

He wanted to get out of here. Out of the building, out of his clothes, away from the damned heat. He needed to sate the lust burning him up from the inside out.

Unfortunately, the lust had nothing to do with this woman and everything to do with the woman he’d spotted only a few minutes ago.

Correction—the woman he’d imagined only a few minutes ago.

“Then how’s about an itty-bitty dance?” the blonde asked. She moved her hips suggestively, rubbing her pelvis against his thigh. “I bet I can change your mind about the private party.”

He tugged at his collar and tipped back his Resistol. “Maybe later. I think I need another beer.” She glared and walked off while he stepped up to the bar and signaled the bartender.

A minute later, he slid a few dollars across the bar top and raised an ice-cold mug to his lips. The freezing liquid slid down his throat in a rush of cool relief. He grimaced. While the beer hit the spot, he didn’t have much of a taste for it after watching his old man drink himself to death. Which was why he never passed his three beer maximum when he drank.

If he drank.

But tonight was a special occasion. One of his old buddies was tying the knot tomorrow and so Houston had come back to Cadillac. Only for a few days, then he was off to practice for the next Pro Bull Riding championship in three weeks. Before then, however, he was going to make another pass through town to say goodbye to Miss Marshalyn Simmons, the most headstrong woman ever to come after him with a switch and a good lecture. The whole town was scheduled to say goodbye to her at a party being planned in her honor over at the VFW Hall.

She was moving down to Florida to live with her sister. Miss Marshalyn had grown tired of the hot and sticky climate. Tired of living alone. Tired, period. She wasn’t getting any younger and the hassle and responsibility of caring for a three-hundred-acre spread and a fading farmhouse was simply too much for her.

She wanted peace of mind, and so she’d made Houston and his brother Austin—the two Jericho brothers still single from the original notorious three—a proposition they couldn’t refuse.

Dallas, the youngest boy, had already found the love of his life and walked down the aisle. He was now only a few months away from becoming a father—a responsibility Houston knew Dallas would take very seriously thanks to their own sorry excuse for a father.

Miss Marshalyn wasn’t the least worried about Dallas, which was why she’d already handed over a prime hundred acres to him as a present for the new baby.

It was Houston and Austin who caused her the most concern. She wanted them to trade in their bad-boy ways and settle down. In return, she promised one hundred acres to each of them. But only if they managed to convince her they’d really and truly changed their ways in time for her going-away party.

Houston slid a glance toward the exit door where his brother Austin had disappeared only a few minutes earlier after having danced with Maddie Hale, the shy, frumpy leader of the Chem Gems who’d turned into a bona fide hottie. Much too hot for Miss Marshalyn’s tastes. She wanted both men to choose a prospect from the town’s pick of nice, quiet, wholesome conservative good girls.

Maddie no longer qualified, and it was no wonder Austin—who was dead set on making Miss Marshalyn happy—had walked out before things had really heated up.

Houston, on the other hand, had no intention of taking Miss Marshalyn up on her offer. He wasn’t the settling-down type. He’d worked too damned hard to get the hell out of Cadillac. He certainly wasn’t coming back now. Not permanently. Not ever.

He’d meant to say as much to Miss Marshalyn. He’d tried, but she’d cut him off in that way that told him she knew best. And so he hadn’t been able to set the record straight about the land and the fact that he was leaving.

He would, of course. He just didn’t see the need to disappoint her right now. He had a good two weeks. Plenty of time to let her down slowly, easily, before he had to leave for Las Vegas and the Pro Bull Riding Finals, where he was scheduled to compete for his tenth consecutive championship.

A record-breaking win that would put him right up there with the greatest riders of all time.

The knowledge didn’t send nearly the jolt of adrenaline through him that it usually did. Understandable, since he was still sore from a hard but high-scoring ride the night before in Cheyenne. A man most certainly couldn’t be excited when it hurt just to breathe.

He drew a deep breath and an ache gripped his left lower rib cage. He hadn’t broken any bones this time, but he’d come close. She’d almost stomped him square in the chest. She would have if he hadn’t rolled just in time.

In time, but still too late. He was getting slower each and every time he hit the ground. No one else noticed, but he did. He felt the weariness pulling at his bones and it bothered him.

PBR champion cowboys weren’t slow. Slowing down meant losing, and Houston had been winning much too long to stop now. Even more, he liked winning. He loved it. He lived for it.

He just wished it didn’t hurt like hell.

“I hate to bother you.” A soft, sweet voice drifted from behind him. “But would you care to dance?”

“I’m afraid not—” he started to say as he turned. The words stumbled to a halt in his throat when he found himself staring at the sultry redhead who’d lived and breathed in his memories for the past twelve years.

His pain faded into a rush of heat and his heart thundered because Sarah Buchanan wasn’t a figment of his imagination this time.

She was real. With eyes as warm as the hot fudge he loved to pour on his favorite vanilla ice cream, and just as decadent. And she was standing so close he could actually touch her.

And that’s just what he did.

2

HOUSTON JERICHO HAD TOUCHED his fair share of women. But none had ever felt as soft or as warm as Sarah Buchanan.

The notion struck him the moment he trailed his fingertips down the side of her face, under the curve of her jaw, down the smooth column of her throat, until the silky fabric of her collar stopped him.

“You’re real.”

“I…yes.” She licked her bottom lip and he had the urge to lean down and catch the plump flesh between his teeth and nibble. “And, um, so are you. Not that I had a doubt. I mean, I saw you and I knew right away that it was you, even from a distance. But you look better up close. Bigger.” His grin widened as she stumbled over her words.

A crazy thing, because Sarah Buchanan had never had trouble finding the right words for anything. She’d always said what was on her mind, in her thoughts. She didn’t look for the right words the way she seemed to be doing right now.

His mind flashed back to the few times he’d been home in the past to see his brothers. The visits had always been brief. Two days at most, just like this time. He’d always been in such a hurry that he’d never actually run into her. But he’d heard about her.

That she’d changed. That she’d outgrown her rebel attitude like a trendy pair of shoes. Yep, he’d heard the talk, but he’d never believed it.

He didn’t believe it now, despite the cautious air about her and the way she seemed to stiffen when he smiled at her. There was just something about the way she looked at him with those deep brown eyes that said she was hungry for him.

As hungry as she’d been at seventeen. Maybe more so, considering that she was a full-grown woman now, with a woman’s curves, a woman’s maturity, a woman’s needs.

“I care.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You asked me if I cared to dance. I do.”

“Oh.” A few seconds ticked by as reality seemed to register. “Oh.”

He grinned and watched her stiffen again. “After you, honey.” He let her lead him out onto the dance floor, through a sea of moving bodies, straight into the heart of things, which was just what he’d expected.

Sarah had always been the center of attention. Not because she’d wanted to be, simply because she attracted attention with her free spirit and her I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude.

She bypassed the middle and kept moving until they’d reached the far side of the dance floor, where it wasn’t so crowded or loud.

She put one hand on his shoulder and the other on his arm, as if she meant to keep some distance between them.

Right.

He pulled her close, plastering them together from chest to thigh, holding her securely with one arm tight around her waist.

“You’re definitely real. And warm. And you smell just like those raspberries we used to pick out in old man Baxter’s field.”

Houston’s words slid into her ears, coaxing her to soften in his arms the way the warm heat of his body urged her to relax and let her guard down.

She wanted to.

She’d been so good for so long, and the need to let her hair down and stop thinking, worrying, just once was nearly unbearable.

“That was a long time ago,” she said, the words more for herself. But they did little good.

“What’s wrong?”

“Not a thing.”

“You’re stiff.”

“Stiff is good.”

“I won’t argue that with you,” he said, and she became instantly aware of the hardness pressed against the soft cradle of her thighs. Heat flowered low in her belly, spreading through her body like a flame sweeping dry brush. “But the idea is usually for me to take care of the stiffness, while you soften up.”

“I can’t. I mean, I don’t. I don’t soften up anymore. Haven’t you heard? I’m not like that anymore.”

“I heard, but I didn’t believe it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s pretty far out, don’t you think? I mean, you, sexy Sarah, a prude? That’s like saying Santa Claus is really the Easter Bunny. It’s just not natural.”

“It’s true.”

“Like hell. Santa wouldn’t be caught dead hopping around in a furry white suit with big floppy ears and big floppy feet. Santa’s way too cool. He’s got the whole black biker boot thing going on.” She saw the teasing light in his eyes and found herself back in the past, charmed by his smile and soothed by his teasing voice.

And for a split second, she actually forgot that things had changed. That she’d changed.

Her hands crept up the hard wall of his chest, her arms twined around his neck and she leaned closer. His heart beat against her breasts. His warm breath sent shivers down the bare column of her neck. His hands splayed at the base of her spine, one urging her even closer while the other crept its way up, as if reacquainting itself with every bump and groove, until he reached her neck. A few deft movements of his fingers and the tight ponytail she wore unraveled and her hair spilled down her back. His hand cradled the base of her scalp, massaging for a few blissful moments, making her legs tremble.

For the next few moments, she forgot all about the game and her friends and the all-important fact that no self-respecting lady would be caught dead with Houston Jericho, much less pressed up against him on a crowded dance floor for everyone to see.

She tilted her head back and found him staring down at her. The past pulled her back, to a moonlit night when he’d looked at her just this way, as if he wanted to take slow, sweet bites and savor every inch of her.

He’d done just that and she had the sudden thought that she wanted him to do it again. Right here. Right now.

Don’t do this, a voice whispered. You can’t do this.

She was different now. At least, that’s what she wanted everyone to think. And they weren’t going to think any such thing if she lost her head right in the middle of the dance floor and pressed herself up against him. And rubbed this way and that. And touched him just so—

A loud whistle ripped through the air and shattered the seductive spell she’d been lost in. She jerked around to see Maddie, Eileen, Janice, Brenda and Cheryl Louise. They waved and gave a thumbs-up.

“What’s that all about?”

“Just a game.”

“What kind of game? To see who gives the loudest wolf whistle?”

“Actually, it’s about dancing.” She forced her fingers to let go of his collar and she pulled away. “And I just won. If you’ll excuse me…” She didn’t wait for a response. She darted away from him and left him staring after her.

His gaze drilled into her back, and it was all she could do to keep from turning and running back and begging him to take her to bed.

Or, more important, straight into a nice warm shower. Because that’s what he did in her fantasies. What they’d planned on doing for their fourth encounter so long ago. What he’d never had the chance to do because she’d changed and he’d left and life had come between them.

She said a quick goodbye to her friends before heading for the rear exit. Out in the parking lot, she climbed behind the wheel of her car. As she shoved the key into the ignition, her arm bumped a giant cardboard box filled with vases for the centerpieces she was going to put together tonight for Cheryl Louise’s reception tomorrow. Glass clinked and the engine groaned.

She gave one last look at the exit door, half expecting, half hoping that he would come after her. He didn’t, and a swell of disappointment went through her, quickly followed by a wave of relief.

The last thing, the very last thing she needed in her life was to have Houston Jericho running after her. He wasn’t her type and she wasn’t his.

Even if he did suit her perfectly in her dreams.

This was real life, not some hot, erotic fantasy.

More important, this was her life now—her calm, conservative, boring life, and she wasn’t about to spice it up and ruin her image by losing her head, or her hormones, over Houston Jericho.

It was all about keeping her perspective the next time she saw him.

If that didn’t work, she would just have to keep her distance.

“MY, MY, BUT THAT WAS a beautiful ceremony.” Miss Marshalyn sighed and finished penning her name in the guest book. “Marriage is such a blessed union,” she told Houston as she wrapped an arm around his and started inside the VFW Hall for the reception. “Don’t you think, dear?”

“For some, I’m sure it is. But for others—”

“Nonsense. It’s blessed for everyone. Oh, look, there’s Jennie Mayfield.” She pointed to a petite blonde oohing and aahing over a small baby. “That’s her new niece. She has nine of them, and seven nephews, and she dotes on them.”

“Good for her.”

“No, good for you. If she thrives on her nieces and nephews, she’s sure to dote on her own children, and you most certainly want a wife who adores her children.”

“I’m sure she’ll make a great wife. Not for me, but for someone—”

“There’s Darlene Davenport. She’s the secretary over at the bingo hall. She knows everything about gardening.”

“That’s good.”

“You’re darned tootin’ it is. A man deserves fresh vegetables with his dinner, and since you’ll have one hundred acres of your very own, you can devote plenty of room to a nice garden.”

“About the land—”

“No need to thank me, dear,” she cut in, waving him silent.

“I wasn’t going to thank you. I was going to tell you that I really can’t—”

“Why, there’s Margie Weston!” Miss Marshalyn blurted. “I haven’t seen her in ages. I must go say hello. We’ll chat later, dear.” Before Houston could blink his eyes, he found himself standing alone. But not for long.

It seemed that the old woman wasn’t just pointing out prospects to him. She seemed to be pointing him out to all of her prospects. In a matter of minutes, he found himself surrounded by a handful of women talking about everything from muddy diapers to various species of tomatoes.

“I like the cherry ones, myself, but they do require extra care to grow. What about you, Houston? What’s your favorite tomato?”

“I don’t eat tomatoes.”

“How about cucumbers?”

“Never liked them.”

“What about squash? I’ve never met a man who didn’t like squash.”

“Can’t stand the stuff. Wow, there’s Darcy Waters. I haven’t seen her in ages.” He tried Miss Marshalyn’s avoidance tactic. “I have to say hello.”

He left the group staring after him, muttering about what a loosey goosey Darcy Waters used to be.

They were right. She’d been loose back then, and she was still going strong, he quickly discovered after saying hello. Five husbands, an equal number of divorces and three kids later, she still found time to keep the dance floor hot over at Cherry Blossom Junction and every other honky-tonk in the surrounding counties. She liked astrology and Marlboro Lights and he quickly discovered that he didn’t like her half as much as he liked Sarah Buchanan.

Even if Sarah was wearing a hideous orange bridesmaid’s dress and doing her best to avoid him.

He shifted his gaze to the woman currently straightening the bride’s lengthy train. She busied herself behind the scenes rather than out front the way he remembered.

She’s different now, a voice whispered. Last night proved what everyone said about her—namely, that she kept a low profile, walked the straight and narrow and conducted herself like a bona fide lady. At the same time, he couldn’t forget the wild light in her eyes when she’d stared up at him for those few moments on the dance floor, as if she’d wanted more from him than just a dance.

Maybe. And maybe it was just wishful thinking because he wanted more from her than just one dance.

He couldn’t help but wonder if she tasted as good as he remembered, if she felt as soft, if she sounded just as breathless when he nibbled at her neck and stroked her nipples.

And Houston had never been a man just to sit around and wonder about anything. He went after what he wanted and found out for himself.

He started toward her.

“I DON’T BITE.” The smooth, silky voice came from behind, followed by a firm, familiar touch on her shoulder. “Except for that one time, but it was only because you wanted me to.”

Sarah’s hand faltered on the cup of punch she’d just poured. Raspberry sherbet mixed with ginger ale sloshed over the side and trickled over her fingers. She set the cup aside, next to the dozen or so others she’d poured in the past few minutes and did her best to calm her pounding heart.

Pounding, when she’d promised herself just last night that she wasn’t going to get nervous. Or excited. Or turned on.

Especially turned on. She had a reputation to protect and salivating at the first sign of the town’s hottest bad boy was not in keeping with her goody-goody image.

“Hello to you, too.”

“I didn’t walk clear across this room to say hello. I tried to do that more than two hours ago when I first arrived. But the minute I started toward you, you turned and bolted for the kitchen.”

“I didn’t bolt. I simply moved very swiftly. I had to help arrange the vegetable trays before everyone arrived from the church.”

“That’s what I told myself, so I waited a little while, until I saw you over by the cake table. I started toward you again, but you took off for the kitchen again.”

“I forgot the fresh flower bouquets to decorate the groom’s cake table.”

“That’s what I told myself, so I waited again until you finished setting up the flowers and I started over. I even called out and waved that time, too.”

“Really? I didn’t see you.”

“I could have sworn you did, but then you headed off to the kitchen again.”

“I had to get the bag of fresh rose petals to sprinkle on the bride’s cake table.”

“That’s what I told myself, so I waited until you finished and then I started over again. I even called out that time.”

“Really? I didn’t hear a thing.”

“I didn’t think so. Otherwise you wouldn’t have headed for the kitchen again.”

“I had to help with the punch. The lady who was supposed to man the table came down with a bad stomach virus a half hour ago so here I am.”

“And here I thought this was just another reason to avoid me.”

“I’m not avoiding you. I’m simply busy.” To illustrate her point, she reached for the ladle and served up another cup of punch. “Thirsty?”

“Actually, I’m hungry.”

“There’s everything from pigs-in-a-blanket to mini pizza rolls.” But she knew by the look in his eyes that he wasn’t talking about food. She tamped down on her own growling stomach and reached for another empty cup.

“The wedding is over.” His hand closed over hers. He took the cup from her hand and set it to the side. “It’s time to have some fun.”

“I promised I would serve the punch.”

“No one wants any punch. They’re too busy dancing.” He indicated the dance floor overflowing with couples two-stepping to an old George Strait tune. The only person who wasn’t dancing was Wes Early, the town’s only videographer. Cheryl Louise had hired him to record her wedding memories and he was currently walking from couple to couple, zooming in for close-ups and capturing good wishes and advice with his camcorder. “Let’s dance.”