Cowboy at Midnight. Ann Major
black spandex, he could see a lot of that, too—and her rippling yellow hair looked so soft he wanted to wrap her body around his and carry her out to the back alley and take her against a wall caveman style. He wanted to smother his face in her hair and then rip that little nothing of a skirt off and yank down her panties. He wanted to touch her, to kiss her, to taste her—now. He wanted her mouth on his body, kissing him everywhere. He wanted her so badly, he knew he should run.
Why her? Her narrow face wasn’t conventionally pretty. Her mouth was too large, her slender nose too long, her cheekbones too high and pronounced. She was too tall probably and too slim for him, as well. But her big sad eyes that tilted upward at the corners lured him in some unfathomable way.
The voices in his head had given up. As he shoved his Stetson back, Steve’s gaze drifted from the blonde’s mouth to her small, firm breasts, down her waist, down her hips and then lower, skimming the length of her long, tanned legs again. She wore black cowboy boots embroidered with red roses. He knew boots. Hers were custom-made.
She broke the gaze, releasing him. Then she puckered her wet, shiny mouth and slowly bent forward so that her breasts, small as they were, bulged enticingly as she blew out the birthday candle on the tiny chocolate cupcake he hadn’t noticed before in the middle of the little round table.
Hell, was that a tiny tattoo above her left breast?
It sure as hell was. He hated tattoos. So would Mom. So would his triplet brothers.
Forget Mom and Clyde and Miles.
Her black-lashed eyes lifted to his again, and her mouth curved when she realized he was still watching her.
She was something all right. And she knew it. She was good at this. She probably trolled somewhere different every night.
The cowboy to his right was giving her the eye, too. Jealousy washed Steve in a hot green wave. In that black spandex miniskirt and the low-cut black blouse with hunky coral jewelry at her throat and wrists, she was the hottest woman in the bar. If he didn’t go after her, some other guy sure as hell would.
Steve’s hand on his mug froze. Her enormous light-colored eyes were too sweet and sad for words.
She looked lost—just like Madison had this morning. Just like his brother Jack used to after Ann’s death. Suddenly Steve wanted very badly to know why she was hurting. Even though he didn’t want to be involved, he felt connected, which meant he should run. He removed his Stetson, placed it on the table and ran his hands through his short dark-brown hair. Then he took a long pull from his mug.
He wanted her. Only her. Maybe because he couldn’t have Madison. The situation scared the hell out of him. Still, he said the predictable sort of prayer all horny bastards say in bars after a beer or two when they see a pretty woman they want.
Please, make her a nymphomaniac. At least for tonight.
He hoped the Man Upstairs was listening. Tightening his grip on his beer, he shoved back from his table and arose awkwardly.
Time to make his move.
As he swaggered toward her, his boots thudding heavily on the rough wooden boards, he felt like an actor in a bad play. Ever since his fatal wedding day, crowds gave him claustrophobia. The closer he got to her, the more the other people in the bar seemed to stare.
He wasn’t even halfway across the room when the walls started pressing closer and his breathing grew labored. He was gulping for air when another cowboy on the way to the bar shoved him, jarring him back to reality.
The voices in his head began to scream. No blondes, dummy. No blondes.
“Sorry,” the cowboy said with a sheepish grin.
“Sure,” Steve grunted as his throat squeezed shut.
Jeff signaled him.
No way could he talk to the blonde now.
Beyond Jeff, he saw an exit sign. Blindly he veered toward it, stumbled over a chair leg and sent two chairs flying. When he righted them, his legs felt heavier. Every step was impossibly difficult. He felt as if he was slogging through knee-deep mud.
Hell.
“Wait! Your hat!” a velvet voice cried behind him.
He turned and saw the black girl in the red sheath waving his Stetson at him.
To hell with his hat! He’d buy another one.
Then the blonde snatched it out of her friend’s hand and slowly put it on. It was way too big for her, but she looked cuter than hell when she peeped at him from underneath the brim with her huge, lost eyes.
Her mouth curved in a sweet, sad smile that made him want to save her from whatever the hell was bothering her.
Run!
Two
A my felt flushed. Was it the Flirtita, a fruity variation of a Margarita, that she was drinking that was making her feel light-headed and bolder than usual? Or was it the wild drumbeat of the music pulsing inside her like a second heartbeat?
“Wait!” Rasa yelled.
Amy couldn’t believe Rasa. She was too much. When the tall, dark cowboy didn’t answer the impossible girl or turn around, Rasa strolled back to Amy’s table with his hat, her pretty mouth petulant.
“He’s leaving! I can’t believe your hot-to-trot cowboy is galloping for the hills! You’d better get up and take him his hat, baby.”
Amy jumped up and then forced herself to sit back down.
She wanted to run after him.
The evening was definitely out of control, and that scared Amy, who was into control—normally.
“I don’t know what got into me. Coming here…with you…tonight of all nights. And flirting with him. What am I doing here?”
Amy slapped her own cheek so hard it stung. She had to get a grip, if not on Rasa, on herself.
“It’s your birthday. You’re thirty. You’re having a Margarita.”
“A Flirtita,” Amy corrected. “Specialty of the house. And it’s strong. Too strong.”
Or maybe it just seemed strong because she hadn’t had any alcohol for eight years.
“Maybe I’ll try one.” When Rasa held up her hand to signal a waiter, Amy grabbed her wrist and lowered it.
“Oh, no, you don’t.”
“So, what’s wrong with flirting a little when a guy’s that cute?”
I could tell you what’s wrong. If you had my memories, you’d understand.
“You might as well be dead if you don’t live a little,” Rasa said, waving his hat at him again.
Dead.
The charged word echoed in Amy’s bruised heart and soul as she shakily sipped her Flirtita and tried to pretend all she felt was a haughty nonchalance. She wasn’t about to tell Rasa, whom she barely knew, about her visit to the cemetery, which was partly why she felt so crazy and out of control tonight.
When Rasa waved the cowboy hat again, Amy jumped up and grabbed it. “Would you stop?” The room whirled. She had to quit sipping this delicious drink.
The hat was still warm and damp around the headband because he’d worn it and worked in it. She caught the sharp, masculine scent of his cologne. Hardly knowing what she did, Amy flipped the battered hat over and then glanced toward him again. Without even realizing her intention, she put it on her head. When it sank to midbrow, she spun it around on her head, feeling like a kid playing dress-up.
Oh, God, what was she doing? Making a pass at a…stranger? Wearing his hat? She should have known the last place she should have come to was a cowboy bar with posters of cowgirls riding horses on the walls, not to mention