Cowboy at Midnight (3 page)

Steve glanced toward the long-haired brunette at the bar in the tight red tank top. The skinny blond kid who was standing beside her kept edging his drink closer to hers. If Steve wanted her, he'd better get a move on.

To hell with her.

“No woman will ever turn me into a chump like that again,” he vowed aloud, addressing the brunette, who smiled at him and batted her lashes even as she leaned against the kid, nudging his bulging bicep with her breast.

To hell with her.
The last thing Steve would ever do was pick a fight with a paying customer over a woman.

Steve glanced away—straight into the haunted eyes of a smoldering golden-haired, golden-skinned babe, who at first glance seemed an exact replica of Madison.

Run!

She stared straight into his eyes and held them and him perfectly still for an endless moment.

His pulse quickened.

No blondes, you fool.

He told himself that smart guys learned from their mistakes.

Smart or not, his blood coursed through him like a molten rush. Blondes, not to mention Madison clones, were no-no's, and the little voices in his head began shouting all the familiar warnings.

The blonde crossed her long legs and then uncrossed them, very very slowly. Her black spandex skirt was so short, he got a glimpse of matching black lace panties.

Mesmerized, Steve let his gaze crawl up her legs. When she oozed forward on her bar stool, her glossy red
smile widened. He could not stop staring at her—at her lips, at her body. He kept hoping against hope she'd shift her position on that damn stool and uncross and cross those gorgeous legs again. He wanted more of those thighs and black lace.

Her companion was a stunning black girl with big hair and skin the color of caramel. A tight red sheath hugged her slim body. Gold bangles gleamed at her throat and ears. When she caught him watching the blonde, she winked sassily and shot him a toothy grin. Then a cowboy came up to her and asked her to dance. She melted into the tall man's arms, leaving the coast clear for Steve. When she began to undulate on the dance floor, everybody in the bar except Steve watched her.

Through narrowed dark eyes, Steve refocused on the blonde. She was slender, rather than voluptuous, classy looking in spite of her skimpy outfit.

In the right clothes, say a white silk suit like the one Madison had worn this morning, she would fit on his arm anywhere. He could even take her home to meet Mom in Manhattan and the brothers.

Squash that thought.

Her creamy, honey-colored skin—thanks to low-cut 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!

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 Flirtitas. The posters and the sweet fruit drink mixed with vodka had made her feel crazy. All of a sudden she was remembering how it felt to be young and to ride like the wind under a blazing sun. To be happy. To trust in the beauty of life itself. To feel immortal.

Amy's hand tightened around the stem of her cold, wet glass. She had no right to flirt with anybody ever, even if he was dark and broad-shouldered and the hunkiest guy she'd seen in years.

Flirtita or no Flirtita, hunk or no hunk, she couldn't lose control. She was damaged and dangerous and therefore determined never to hurt anybody else, not even herself, ever again.

“Look,” she began softly, removing his hat and placing it very firmly on the table. “Rasa, I don't come to bars. I don't pick up strange men. Especially not cowboys. I work. That's all I do.”

“Why not cowboys? You prejudiced or something?”

“No. It's because—” She looked up into Rasa's dark, imploring eyes. “Just because.”

“Okay, so you met one bad cowboy.”

“No!” You don't understand. Again, she felt too near some dangerous edge. Defiantly Amy swirled her Flirtita glass so vigorously the liquid flashed like angry fire.

“Are you going to punish yourself forever?”

“You don't understand.”

“Betsy has told me a little.”

“Really? Well, she doesn't know the half of it, okay?”

“Not okay. Baby, he's still watching you while he talks to that bartender. It's not too late. Maybe you should go over there and—”

“No.”

“You should definitely lighten up.”

“If I do that, anything could happen.”

“So let it.”

Amy set her glass down by the beige Stetson. He'd looked so handsome in that rumpled hat. So dark and virile and absolutely adorable. Intending to push the hat away, she pulled it toward her and stroked the brim with a trembling fingertip.

“You're way too serious,” Rasa persisted.

Why should I listen to advice from someone I've known all of two hours? Someone who doesn't have a clue what kind of person I really am?

“You should try to be friendly.” Rasa's hand squeezed hers gently. “Maybe then you'd meet some interesting people and move on.” Her voice softened. “Betsy says you bury yourself alive.”

“Maybe I don't want to move on.”

“Or maybe you just need a helping hand.”

Amy yanked her hand free and drained the last of her Flirtita. “Betsy's a big one to talk.”

“Hey, he just looked at you again.”

Amy didn't smile or look his way or even look at Rasa, who was staring at her way too intently now. The words
dead
and
bury
had Amy too tense and scared to think what she should do. She had to get out of here. She had to get back to her safe, controlled life.

“Rasa, you said one drink and we'd go to dinner.”

“And I haven't finished my drink.”

“Because you won't drink it.”

Rasa laughed.

“If only Betsy were here,” Amy said.

“You wouldn't be here if Betsy were here. You two would be at that boring restaurant she told me about. You'd be taking a rash of heat over the cell phone from your number-one client, and she'd be reading her book.”

“Exactly.”

“Ouch.” Rasa laughed.

Betsy Pinkley, Amy's best friend, who had mousy brown hair and thick glasses and who was even duller than she was, if that were possible, had ditched her to stay home and read because her allergies had flared up.

Tonight when Amy had dropped by Betsy's apartment to pick her up, a red-eyed Betsy had been sitting on her couch in her pajamas dabbing tissues at her running eyes and nose.

“It's the cedar again. I'm too sick to go out,” she'd
said miserably. “But not to worry. I didn't call you because Rasa can go with you instead.”

“Rasa? I don't know a Rasa.”

“My next-door neighbor's baby sister.” Betsy had blown her nose messily and then plucked handfuls of tissues from the box beside. “Rasa's from out of town. Her brother Trell had a date, and she's dying to see the action on Sixth Street. So I thought since you want to go out and she wants to go out…bingo!”

“I don't want to go out with just anybody! And not to Sixth Street! I want to have dinner with you. Just you.” Amy's cell phone rang. When she saw it was her mother, she didn't answer it.

“Don't you care that I'm sick at all? I made these special arrangements for you even when my head was killing me.”

“Of course I care. But can't you pop an allergy pill?”

“Wait until you meet Rasa,” Betsy said.

“I'm leaving.” But just as Amy switched off her cell phone and headed for the door, the bell rang and Rasa burst inside, only to stop and stare at Amy. Rasa wore a revealing, low, tight red sheath and lots of gold bangles while Amy was swathed from head to toe in gray silk.

“Rasa, this is Amy. Amy—”

“Glad to meet you, baby, but, hey… I thought we were gonna have some fun tonight. What's with the gray shroud?” She turned to Betsy. “How come you didn't tell me your friend was a nun?”

“What?” Amy said. “Now I'm being stood up and insulted!”

Rasa rolled her almond-shaped eyes. “Hey, sorry. Sometimes I come on a little strong.”

“A little?”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You're great looking. The question is—why are you hiding that fact?” Rasa lifted her brows and then walked around Amy, studying her figure closely. “Lucky for you, we're about the same size. I bought a couple of hot new outfits this afternoon that will do wonders for you.”

“I…I don't do hot.” Amy felt the blood drain from her face as guilt squeezed her chest in a vise. It had been a long time since she'd worn dramatic clothes to draw attention to herself. Lately, though, she'd been sick of her dull wardrobe. “Truly, all I want is a quiet dinner.”

Instead of listening, Rasa raced outside. Amy heard a car door slam. Then Rasa burst inside again. She was as quick in her movements and thought processes as Lexie had been.

Amy couldn't help being reminded of Lexie's laughing face as she'd jumped into the boat that last, fatal night.

Rasa ripped open a paper bag and held up two spandex skirts and blouses the size of postage stamps. “Aren't they just darling?”

Lexie would have loved them. The old Amy would have loved them.

“Black spandex?” Amy said.

“This new look will do wonders for you.”

“I am not wearing that.”

“Thanks, darlin', for guarding my hat in this den of iniquity.”

The 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.