Cowboy Proud. Kelli Ireland
There was a better chance of her taking up competitive hurling—Ireland’s official “sport” that was more like sanctioned war with blunt objects and no armor—than fall in love.
She glanced at him to gauge his reaction and found herself nearly struck dumb by the unguarded thrill of challenge on his face. One corner of Cade’s mouth kicked up to reveal a deep dimple, then he winked at her. He shifted his attention to the long stretch of road before them that appeared, from her vantage point, as if it turned into the mountain and then was swallowed by it.
He’d winked at her.
There’d been nothing offensive at all in the flirtatious gesture, but her body’s response was positively traitorous. Heat bloomed between her thighs. She rubbed her legs together subtly, longing for his touch, absolutely craving the kind of heat a man like Cade could offer, the kind that would assuage her unanticipated, uncomplicated desires. Her heart beat a rock-hard rhythm inside her chest and a fine sweat decorated her upper lip.
Images of the two of them intertwined flashed through her brain. Her imagination had definitely missed the memo that she was a woman who did not have physical or emotional responses. But, client or not, she craved Cade’s touch like a hummingbird craved nectar—in a mandatory, had-to-have-it kind of way.
Forcing her attention to the quickly changing scenery, she watched as they traversed a bridge straddling a wide but shallow and very rocky creek.
She also noticed that the blue of the sky was slowly being eaten away by encroaching dark clouds that were tinged with the oddest shade of green. Gesturing to the clouds, she found her voice. “Is that going to be okay?”
Cade glanced at her. “You’re safe with me, Emma.”
She nodded and swallowed so loud he had to have heard it over the radio. “Sure.” Unbidden, a quote from Mark Twain wandered through her consciousness. The famous wordsmith had said, “There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it absolutely desirable.” And he’d been absolutely right.
She’d never been sexually attracted, let alone tempted, by a client. Cade had broken that track record. Shattered it, really. But he’d broken Twain’s theoretical “rule.” Cade had started out desirable—the kind of desirable that made a woman throw caution to the wind and go where chance led her. Whatever this thing was, she’d negotiate with regret later. For the first time, Emma wanted to set all the pressures of life and work aside and do nothing more than simply experience what it was to be alive.
She knew with inexplicable certainty that this man could give her that.
THE REST OF the trip back to the ranch could only be compared to jockeying a Shetland pony in the Kentucky Derby: a bumpy ride that seemed it would never end. The heat between them refused to dissipate no matter how high Cade ran the air-conditioning. She kept shooting him covert glances from the corners of her eyes. He knew because he was caught up doing the same thing, thereby catching the majority of interest in those brilliant green eyes.
What the hell am I playing at?
He was a cowboy—he didn’t understand the type of sexual byplay that involved a high-powered, corporate woman who’d walk in and out of his life so fast she’d leave his head spinning. The woman probably collected men the way most women around here collected canning jars. Store them on the shelf until she had a use for them and put them away when that usefulness passed. Cade would never allow himself to be put on a shelf any more than he would live through the daily wear and tear a relationship would bring. And what in God’s name was he doing, thinking in terms of jam jars and relationships? He’d only met Emma three hours ago. Yeah, they’d flirted, but that didn’t mean he’d be off ring shopping come morning.
The last sliver of sun disappeared behind the variable peaks and crags of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, casting the early-evening sky in broad swaths of brilliant color. The storm brewed southwest of them, spitting lightning as the winds increased and kicked up dust.
He pulled off his sunglasses and clipped them to the visor. At the rate the two of them were going, he and Emma would make it to the ranch before full dark set in roughly an hour from now. When Eli, the attorney in the family, heard how the trip had gone down, when he learned that Cade had flirted with and challenged a contractor-slash-guest about falling in love, the fact that they were blood wouldn’t keep Cade’s ass out of the sling his older brother would aim to park it in. The only blood that would matter was whatever they shed as they beat the crap out of each other. Most annoying? Cade knew he had it coming. Every. Meaty. Fist.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened until he was choking the ever-loving hell out of the black leather. Sometime in the past half hour, the radio had officially devolved to short bursts of music followed by long runs of staticky white noise. The sound skipped across his nerves like a stone across water. Every point of contact was brief but annoyingly sharp.
If the dude ranch did well, the first thing he’d invest in was satellite radio. Screw the recurring expense. They could use it to play music in the sawdust-floored dining hall during gatherings and events. Hell, if he was going off the deep end anyway, maybe he’d forgo his cautious nature altogether and order the setup when he got home. He’d even add a second receiver to his truck as a personal bonus.
Mind on the possibilities of satellite radio, Cade reached out and turned down the volume, switching the output from FM to CD. Tyler Farr’s voice poured out of the sound system, his mournful song telling a story of heartbreak and betrayal. If Cade’s soul could have audibly sighed, it would have. Good music always did that for him, helping him calm and find his center no matter how strung out he was. Years of habit made Cade take a couple of deep breaths. Settling into the music, he began to sing.
Emma rounded on him, eyes wide. With deliberate care, she slipped her sunglasses into her short hair, little strands standing out in every direction. “What are you doing?” she asked.
Cade jerked, twisting the steering wheel to the right as he shot Emma a sharp look. “Singing. Why? Would you rather listen to the static?” He reached for the radio controls, surprised when she gripped his wrist hard enough the smaller bones ground together. Extricating his hand, his reproach was gentle. “That’s my roping hand.”
“Sorry.” Her apology, issued on a single breath, seemed almost anxious. “Will you sing some more?”
His brow creased. “Why?”
“Your voice is...” She waggled one hand between them before flattening it over her heart and drawing a slow, deep breath. “I’ve never heard anything as striking. Beautiful, even.”
Heat burned across his cheeks and he wished the option to hide behind his sunglasses still existed. “I don’t usually, uh, sing. For people.”
Her eyes widened. “Why on earth not? Your voice is amazing!”
“My mother...” He hesitated.
“She must have been proud,” Emma said on a soft smile.
“She died when I was nine. Last request she had was that I sing her to sleep.” His eyes burned, piquing both his irritation and his embarrassment. He tried to clear the gruffness from his throat.
She moved forward a fraction, froze, then settled deeper into her seat. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I can relate, though. I lost both of my parents at once.”
“Accident?”
She nodded. “Two years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too, but probably not as sorry as you were—are—about your mother.” Heat stained her cheeks a deep rose. “Forget I said that. I apologize.”
“I’m surprised the fact we lost her so early on didn’t make it into the commercial file you have on the ranch.”
“Why