Cowboy at Midnight. Ann Major
deep, male drawl cut into Amy’s thoughts, and she jumped, sloshing her Flirtita all over her right hand and his hat.
His quick grin was wolflike. She felt her face flame with unwanted pleasure even before his large hand lifted the damp Stetson from her table and placed it on his head. “Fits me better than it does you,” he drawled softly as he picked up a napkin and handed it to her. “Looks better on you, though, darlin’.”
Hot and cold chills raced through her body as she dabbed at her hand.
He leaned over her shoulder. “Would you like to dance?” he whispered into her ear. His warm breath stirring the golden tendrils against her earlobe sent wild, tingly sensations down her spine as glass and cutlery tinkled somewhere nearby. The heat of her body stirred her, too.
“N-no!”
“All right, then. Just thought I’d ask.” He grinned his big-bad-wolf grin. “See ya ’round.”
He turned, and she found herself gaping with dismay at the breadth of his magnificent, broad shoulders. He was gorgeous. He would ask somebody else. She knew that.
An inexplicable pain knifed her heart. She wouldn’t see him ever again. She’d go back to her safe, controlled, workaholic life.
Amy swallowed the lump in her throat. She had to let him go.
“Would you like to sit down?” Rasa quickly invited, causing Amy’s heart to leap. “My friend here was just saying she could use another Flirtita.”
“I was not!”
“Maybe if she has one, she’ll lighten up and dance with me,” he said.
Amy couldn’t quite suppress her smile.
“She had a tough day,” Rasa said. “Real tough. Her boss is rich and famous and demanding. Not to mention she just turned thirty. She could use some sympathy.”
The cowboy was staring at Amy again. “Thirty? You don’t look twenty.”
“I feel thirty.”
“Bye, you two,” Rasa said, pulling out a chair for him as she winked at Amy. “Have fun! I think I’ll go ask somebody cute to dance while you two get to know each other.”
Burning color washed Amy’s cheeks. “Rasa!”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I understand. I’ll go if you want me to.”
His eyes lingered on her face. They reminded her of warm, rich, dark chocolate, at least in color. At the same time, they were hard and shrewd, wary, too.
He seemed vulnerable and almost shy. Was he from the country, in town for a night of fun? If so, what would be the harm of sharing a drink if it went no further than a little flirting?
“No.” Was that squeaky, very unsexy sound her voice? “Don’t go,” she pleaded.
He turned. “You sure?”
No, I’m not sure. I’m the farthest thing from sure. But she said nothing more, and he sat down and signaled a waiter, who came flying to their table to wait on him. Quickly he ordered another round of drinks. Then he turned his full attention back to her.
Close up he was remarkably good-looking, too good-looking, really. Gorgeous even, if one could call such a big, dark, rough-looking man, gorgeous. His body was tall and lean and hard, and he had those wonderfully wide shoulders. His face, with its masculine, angular planes and chiseled cheekbones, was strong. He had thick, dark brows, a long, straight nose, and a full, sensual mouth. He wore a snowy white western shirt with pearl snap buttons.
“Where do you live?” she said, swallowing to wet the dryness in her throat.
“I have a ranch southwest of here.”
“I wondered if you were a real cowboy.”
“So, the country in me shows.”
“Only a little.” She laughed, and so did he. She’d once had a thing for cowboys.
“I’ve been ranching for ten years—among other things. Too many other things. I’d like to start concentrating on the ranching, but I needed to raise capital from my other ventures to buy land and stock.”
When she finished her Flirtita, he held up his hand, and the bartender brought her another.
“I really shouldn’t.”
“It’s a hot night,” he said. “You feel like dancing with me yet?”
When she gazed at him, his dark face blurred, which meant she’d better dance to burn off that last Flirtita. “Why not?”
He took her hand and led her onto the dance floor. Slowly he folded her into his arms. Then he simply held her against his body for a long time, hesitating, before starting to dance. Still, all too soon they were swaying together to a slow western tune.
She didn’t consider herself a good dancer, and she hadn’t danced in years. He was sure and masterful even though he danced away from the other couples, who glided past them in a circle. As he held her against his powerful chest and they moved together, she forgot her fear of him and her guilt, at least for the moment. Dancing in his arms was like a drug. Soon her spirits rocketed sky-high.
Although they didn’t speak in words, their bodies spoke, and she began to feel more and more at ease with him. Or maybe it was the two Flirtitas. Soon it was as if she’d known him always. Gradually she relaxed, and their bodies became more intimately entwined.
When that song ended, he held her, his heat seeping into her, until the next one, which was a polka, started. Thank God. This time they skipped along expertly with the other dancers until her heart was beating in her throat and her breath began coming faster and faster. He never removed his gaze from her face, nor could she quit looking at him.
They danced to song after song, to waltzes, polkas and two-steps, and each number was more fun than the one before. She felt almost lighthearted. She floated in his arms. When at last the music slowed again, he held her more tightly than before, so tightly that their bodies melted into each other and she felt the hard imprint of his muscular frame molding her softer flesh. He was hot, and his white shirt felt damp. She caught the scent of his spicy aftershave spiked by his own clean scent, which was both musky and pleasantly distinctive.
His holding her with their faces mere inches apart slowly became too erotic to bear.
“You’re a good dancer. You must practice. Do you come here often?” she asked, hoping he’d say no.
But he didn’t. He crushed her tighter. “I came here to meet somebody just for tonight. But this is different. Don’t you know that?” He stroked her throat with a callused thumb, causing a thousand little nerves to tingle delicately.
She gasped.
“You’re different,” he said. “I think you know that I could care about you…too much.”
Hearing the change in his rough voice, Amy glanced up at him. His intense, dark eyes were grave.
“Then you do…come here…often?”
His face was suddenly so serious, her heart ached.
“And do you dance with a different woman every night?”
“If you want to know do I sleep with a lot of different women, just ask me.”
“Well, do you?”
“I said you were different.” His voice had darkened. “I said I could care. I shouldn’t have said that, but I meant it.”
“You told me to ask, but you didn’t answer. Do you sleep around or not? Am I just tonight’s flavor?”
His mouth thinned. He spun her in an intricate turn and then snapped her back into his arms. “If I have in the past, I had my reasons,” he growled.
“A