His Enemy's Daughter. Sarah M. Anderson
the mild stretch and this time, Pete definitely groaned.
She couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t come out as “Could you help me with this?” and no matter how hot he was making her, she was absolutely not about to have sex with Pete Wellington in a glorified broom closet.
Or anywhere else, she mentally corrected.
Sex with Pete Wellington was completely off the table. Or any other flat surface. That was final.
So she kept her mouth shut as she worked at the buckle. When she had that one done, she belted the chaps at her waist, which finished the whole look off with the giant belt buckle that had Princess worked in Swarovski crystals. Her dad had commissioned it for her when she’d turned eighteen.
She turned back to the mirror, trying not to look at the man behind her, but it wasn’t easy. He must’ve taken a step forward at some point because he loomed over her now. She could feel his breath messing up her carefully curled hair and it was tempting—so damned tempting—to lean back into that broad chest, just to see what he’d do. Would he push her hair to the side and press his lips against the little bit of skin right below her ear? Cup her breasts through the sequins? Run his hands down her waist and around to her denim-clad butt?
She physically shook as these thoughts tumbled through her mind. She never hooked up at any of the All-Stars events—which was both company policy and her own personal rule. Cowboys were off-limits. But she lived out of a suitcase seven months of the year, which didn’t make it easy to have relationships, either.
It’d been too long since a man had gotten this close to her.
Why, oh why did it have to be Pete freaking Wellington? He might be turning her on and she might be driving him crazy, but a little raw sexual attraction didn’t change anything. He wasn’t here by accident and she couldn’t give him any more leverage over her. For all she knew, this attraction was part of whatever con he was running. Get her in a compromising position and blackmail her or something.
She leaned forward and plucked her white Stetson out of its travel case. The hat had a fancy sparkling crown that matched her chaps. She carefully set it on her head, making sure not to disrupt the curls she’d teased into her hair. There. Now she was the Princess of the Rodeo.
“Chloe...” Pete spoke the moment before his hands came to rest around her waist.
Her breath caught in her throat at the feel of his strong hands touching her. Had they ever touched before?
Ten years they’d been dancing around each other, slinging insults and innuendos in a never-ending attempt to come out on top—but had they ever actually touched?
She didn’t think so because she would’ve remembered the electric feel of his fingers on her body, the rush of heat that flowed out from this connection.
How would his rough, calloused hands feel against her bare skin?
“Yes?” Her gaze caught his in the mirror. She wanted to cover his hands with her own, lace their fingers together. She wanted to pull him closer.
She had lost her ever-loving mind.
But even that realization didn’t make her move. She couldn’t. She had to know what he was going to say. His mouth opened and she held her breath.
Bam bam bam. The crappy door to this closet practically bowed under the force of the pounding as Flash called out, “Chloe! You in there?”
Pete dropped his hands and backed up so fast he tripped over her rolling luggage and all but fell into the far corner of the tiny space. Chloe tried not to groan out loud. There was no situation her brother couldn’t make worse. “Yeah, I’m almost ready.” To Pete, she hissed, “Here’s the deal, Wellington. I know whatever you’re doing is a trap, but...”
“But?” he replied, almost—but not quite—pulling off a nonchalant look. He was breathing too hard to look casual about anything.
She didn’t miss his lack of a denial. Right. Nothing like a confirmation that he was completely untrustworthy to help squash her rampant desire.
She took a deep breath, inhaling more of his scent, and did something she’d sworn she’d never do. She admitted weakness to Pete Wellington. “But you’re not wrong that I need a little help handling the stock contractors and the cowboys. Do you legitimately want to work with the All-Around All-Stars Rodeo?”
He had the nerve to look indignant. “Isn’t that all I’ve ever wanted?”
“No,” she whispered furiously. “You’ve always wanted to put me in my place.”
“Did we determine if that was above me or below me?” he asked with a sly grin.
And just like that, they were right back to the same place they’d always been. She ignored his question. “I will tolerate your presence as long as you do what I say, when I say it. If you can convince the locals to get on board with my ideas, then you can stay. But the moment you undermine me, you’re gone and I’ll see to it you never set foot at an All-Stars event ever again. Understood?”
Flash banged on the door again. “Chloe? Is everything all right? I heard Pete Wellington is here. Do you know what that asshole wants?”
Irritating little brothers would always be irritating, even if they weren’t little anymore. She had no idea if she was pissed at Flash or thankful that he’d interrupted the madness she and Pete had been barreling toward at top speed. “One second, for God’s sake,” she snapped. She jabbed a finger in Pete’s direction, but she made sure not to touch him. “Understood?”
It took him a while before he responded. She could practically see the lust fading away, replaced with his usual condescension. “Understood, boss.”
“Can you handle leaving my dressing room without getting caught?”
He gave her a dull look. “Go before he breaks down the damned door.”
She threw the door open—which conveniently slammed into Pete’s chest. She gave him one last warning look and then had to dodge Flash’s next knock as she quickly walked away from her dressing room. “What?”
Thank God Flash followed her. He already had his chaps belted on, but unlike hers, Flash’s weren’t all that flashy. Dirt and muck from the arenas he’d been riding in for the last six years had permanently worked into the creases. Chaps that had once been a light brown with a darker brown diamond pattern down the leg were now just...dirty brown. “Who’s the act tomorrow night?”
“You had to interrupt me getting ready to ask me a question you could have looked up on the internet?”
She was so done with this day, honestly. She needed a stiff drink and maybe a video call with her sister-in-law, Renee Lawrence. She and Renee had been best friends back when Chloe had grown up in New York City, before Milt Lawrence had won the All-Stars in that ill-fated poker game and relocated his entire family to Dallas.
A few months ago, Renee had gotten into a little trouble—which was the nicest way anyone could say her husband had committed suicide rather than face charges for his part in what the newspapers had dubbed the Preston Pyramid, the largest financial con in American history. Renee had come to Dallas looking for Chloe but had found Oliver, the oldest of the Lawrence children and somehow, two people who had driven each other crazy as kids had absolutely clicked as adults. Now one of Chloe’s oldest, dearest friends was her sister.
She could use some girl time, frankly, away from the overwhelming masculinity of the rodeo. Renee had no history with Pete Wellington either, so Chloe could work through her suddenly complicated feelings.
But instead she had Flash.
Her brother scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I was just wondering...you know, if the act had changed.”
Flash was many things—a cocky pain in the butt, mostly—but hesitant wasn’t one of