Lone Star Daddy (McCabe Multiples) (8 page)

Chapter Seven

An hour later, everyone else but Rose had left, and their childhood friend and employment-law expert Travis Anderson sat on the front porch of the Double Creek ranch house, reading through the contract that Clint had signed.

Apparently as eager to have answers as Rose was, Clint looked to the lawyer for advice.

“So what do you think?” he asked in the gravelly tone she loved so much. “Can the manufacturer force me to hawk the berry picker at trade shows?”

Travis nodded. “That, and anything else related to publicity Farmtech and their ad agency dream up.”

This was not what Rose had wanted to hear. She stood, hands balled at her sides, ruing the day she had ever rushed Clint into this. Had she not been so eager to save the blackberry crop and negotiate a deal, she would have realized they all needed to slow down. Take a look at the fine print. Hire lawyers and have them work it out carefully and thoroughly. But she hadn’t.

And now they were in a pickle of her making.

Still hoping to find a way out, she protested, “But it doesn’t say anything about that in the written agreement!”

Travis turned his narrow-eyed gaze to both of them. “Exactly the problem. The terms are so general and so vague they could be interpreted any way the farm equipment company and their legal team see fit.”

Although Rose knew he had to be upset, too, Clint retained his poker face. He leaned back in his chair, shoulders pressed against the roughhewn wooden frame. “What happens if I refuse their demands?”

Frown deepening, Travis said, “You’d be in breach. They could sue you.”

“Would they win?” Clint asked in an inscrutable tone.

“Given the way the terms were written, probably.”

Knowing this could ruin the business deal they’d all struck, and then some, Rose clasped her hands between her jean-clad knees and leaned forward. It was still hot as heck, despite the breeze blowing across the land and the porch fan whirring above them. “You’re sure?” she asked one more time, hoping some loophole had been overlooked. “There’s no way out?”

Travis handed the contract back to Clint, his expression as matter-of-fact as it was grim. He stood. “Not unless the powers that be at Farmtech decide Clint wasn’t what they were looking for after all.”

And they all knew, as handsome and sexy as Clint was in a gruff Texas rancher way, that scenario was not likely.

His manner still as composed as hers was agitated, Clint stood. He thanked Travis, wrote him a check for his time, and walked him to his pickup truck. Rose could have left then, too.

Instead, she carried the iced-tea glasses into the ranch house kitchen, which was, she couldn’t help but note, a cook’s dream. The walls were a pale, masculine gray. The state-of-the-art appliances were all stainless steel, the countertops made of Carrara marble, the plentiful white cabinets outfitted with pewter pulls. An indoor grill—where Clint had cheerfully cooked hot dogs for her and the kids the day before—sat opposite the long island with half a dozen comfortable high-backed stools.

Yet it seemed empty somehow.

In need of something.

A family, maybe?

As big and bustling as the ones they had both grown up with?

Heavy male footsteps sounded behind her.

Rose turned. Clint stood framed in the doorway, and her heart leapt to her throat. Even though he was sweaty, his boots and clothes covered with a fine layer of grit from the recently plowed paths between the rows, he’d never looked better or more ruggedly sexy. To top it all off, he seemed calmer and more in control than he had all day. That prompted her to ask, “What else did Travis say?”

“What we already know.” Clint massaged a hand over one shoulder, then the other. “That it’s always a good idea to seek legal advice before I sign any contract.”

Their eyes met and held for a breath-stealing moment. “Besides that,” she prodded him.

The reserve was back in his eyes, along with the lingering desire. “Nothing.”

Like heck it was nothing!
Rose thought in frustration, aware she wasn’t the only one erecting barriers between them now. And though he had every right to be upset with her for getting them all in this mess, she sensed it was more than that suddenly holding him back. “You can leave anytime,” he drawled, crossing his arms over his broad chest as if he were having trouble corralling his emotions, too.

Which was yet another great big clue. “Not,” she said, matching his newly testy tone to a T, “until you tell me what you’re up to.”

* * *

O
F
COURSE
SHE
would see right through him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hedged.

She stepped closer, heat in her eyes. “You’re going to try and get yourself fired. Aren’t you?”

Although he was tempted to tell her everything he hadn’t confided to his lawyer, Clint had no intention of doing so. He wanted Rose to have complete deniability if and when the dirt hit the fan.

“Well?”
she demanded.

Shrugging noncommittally, he strode to the fridge, reached for the gallon jug of tea and poured himself another tall glass. “Shouldn’t you be picking up your kids?”

“I made arrangements hours ago, when I saw how badly things were going,” she informed him. “Lily and Gannon have them for the evening.”

Clint wasn’t surprised she’d called on her sister and his good friend. The married couple were a shining example of everything a young family should be. Their kids all got along great, too. And there would soon be another boy for Stephen to pal around with.

Unable to help himself, he rubbed at the skin beneath his shirt collar. “It’s probably not too late for you to join them.”

Rose stepped closer and peered intently at him. “What are those red marks on your neck?” she asked in alarm. “And the backs of your hands?”

Aware he itched so bad he was about to crawl out of his skin, Clint finished his glass of iced tea and poured another. “Obviously, I’ve had a reaction to the coating they put on new clothes to keep them from wrinkling.”

“Oh, my heaven. I forgot about your sensitivity to that!”

He hadn’t.

He’d been uncomfortable for hours now.

He reached into the cabinet and brought out the first-aid kit and a bottle of diphenhydramine. He swallowed two tablets of the antihistamine with the rest of his tea, then yanked his shirt over his head. “It’ll be fine in a few hours.”

Rose gasped when she saw the hives dotting his shoulders and chest. “Why didn’t you say something sooner? Let the ad team know your clothes have to be laundered first!”

It had been a long time since Clint had been fussed over by a woman. He just wished it had been under other circumstances. Say, in his bedroom...

Aware she was still waiting for an answer, he returned curtly, “Because I wanted to get the filming over with.” And, like an idiot, he’d been hoping this wouldn’t happen.

She ran her fingers over a raised welt on his shoulder. The softness of her touch tantalized him. “You need to go to the emergency room.”

He tore his eyes from the perspiration-dampened clothing sticking to her breasts. It was faint, but he could see the imprint of her nipples beneath the soft cotton cloth. “The antihistamine will take care of it.”

She touched another welt, then another. Just like that, he felt himself grow hard.

Oblivious to the effect she was having on him, she asked, “What if it doesn’t?”

He stepped back before he lost his mind and made love to her then and there. Doing what was best for them both, he willed the blood out of his lower extremities. “I’ll deal with it, then.” Throbbing with need, he stepped away.

The hurt on her face mingled with concern. “Clint—!”

The sound of his name in her low, gentle voice slammed him even more. He swung away and walked past her. Much as he might want to haul her in his arms and kiss her until she surrendered, he couldn’t go there with Rose. She was not cut out for casual sex. Until the circumstances between them changed—if they
ever
changed—he had to find a way to keep her at arm’s length.

Luckily for him, brusqueness and crudeness usually worked.

“Leave. Stay. I don’t care.” Except, damn it all, he did. “I’m going to shower now.”
Before the incessant itching makes me strip naked here and now.

Still eyeing the blotchy spots on his shoulders, arms and chest, she trailed him as far as the newel post.

“Unless you want to follow me around and watch that, too,” he baited her.

She sucked in a sharp breath. Just as he had known she would.

“Or, better yet, join me...”

She stiffened, gazing at his bare chest, then his mouth. “Not. Happening. Cowboy.”

He chuckled, not the least bit sorry he’d put it out there as a possibility. “Suit yourself.” Crumpled shirt in hand, he gave her one last lingering glance, then climbed the stairs.

* * *

H
E
’
D
BEEN
A
JERK
to dismiss her, and while normally Rose would have accepted the hint and gladly fled the premises, his allergic reaction had her worried.

So she remained downstairs. Pacing. Waiting. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Fifteen. And still no Clint.

How long did it take someone to shower?

It took her less than five minutes these days, if that long. But then she had three kids who could never be left unsupervised for long.

He was single. Grimy and gritty.

And very itchy.

Still, as her watch edged toward twenty minutes, she became increasingly nervous.

Especially because she could well remember the day when her sister Violet had an allergic reaction. Rose’s throat grew dry. What if—just like with her sister—the situation was far more serious and deadly than anyone had realized, until it was almost too late? Panicked, Rose raced up the stairs, taking them two and three at a time. There were six bedrooms in all, and the last one, at the end of the hall—the master suite—was Clint’s.

The bedroom door was wide open.

As was the door to the adjoining master bath.

A shower was running.

And maybe...some sort of radio...playing a somebody done somebody wrong country song.

“Clint?” She yelled at the doorway, rapping her knuckles hard on the wooden frame. “Clint! Are you okay in there?”

Nothing.

Rose tried again.

Still nothing. Except more running water, and more country music, and escalating fear within her.

He was probably fine.

But what if he wasn’t?

Terrified now at what she might find, Rose moved across the carpet. “Clint!” she yelled again, rounding the corner.

The bathroom smelled like soap and man. Clint was standing in an elegant glass-walled shower, his body braced against the tile wall, both arms folded above him. His legs were spread. His head was down and forward slightly from the wall. Water sluiced onto his neck and shoulders from the rainfall shower fixture above, washing away the shampoo and soap before rolling down his muscular back, past his waist, to his buttocks and thighs. And, oh my, the man was built, she thought as he turned toward her in surprise and gave her a very slow and sexy smile.

* * *

C
LINT
HADN
’
T
EXPECTED
Rose would take him up on his offer. But now that she was here, he was all in, too.

He opened the stall door. Giving her no chance to change her mind, he tugged her inside with him, threaded his hands through her hair and lowered his mouth to hers.

He expected her to kiss him back tentatively and wonderingly, not surge against him wildly.

He expected her to have second thoughts once again. Not slide her hands around his back and press him intimately against her. Kiss him fiercely, evocatively, until they were both groaning for more.

A rush of need coursed through him, and the anger and frustration he’d felt all day at last began to ease. This was what he needed, he realized as her hips rocked restlessly against him.
She
was what he needed. And damn it all, he thought as her soft, pliant body surrendered all the more, if she didn’t realize it, too.

Rose hadn’t expected any of this, but she couldn’t fight it, either, not when the feel of him pressed against her sent her spinning. She hadn’t been close to anyone in so long, she thought, savoring the moment with everything she possessed. Hadn’t ever felt this much a woman. Or wanted a man with such ardor. But she wanted Clint—in her arms, in her bed, in her life. She wanted him to fill her up and end the aching loneliness deep inside her. To help her live again, really live. And if this was the way it happened, feeling him grow rock-hard against her even as the water cascaded down on top of them, so be it.

He was hot. The water was cold—deliberately, she guessed. Her body was on fire. “Your rash...” she whispered.

He touched her erect nipples. “...is fading. The cold water helps.”

Not everything, she noted breathlessly. Not the pounding of her heart.

Or the raging, tingling need.

Or the sense that it would be ever so easy to fall recklessly in love with him.

Especially when he was dropping his head and kissing her again, hot and hard and wet and deep. Then slowly, sweetly and tenderly, until she moved impatiently against him, wanting still more. With a husky laugh, he slipped off her T-shirt and her bra, removed her boots and unsnapped her jeans. She quivered as denim and panties slid down her thighs. Her hands rested on his broad shoulders while he helped her step out.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, his thumbs tracing the curves of her breasts before gently caressing her tender nipples. “So smokin’ hot.”

As was he.

She had never imagined such male perfection. Or wicked sensuality. Never imagined feeling so wanton herself...

Still kneeling, he savored the sight of her and pressed a kiss to her most sensitive spot. Hands cupping his head, she arched against him, yearning to feel everything with him. He parted her thighs, found her with his fingertips, and kissed her again until she clung to him like a lifeline. She was aware even as he found her that she was on the brink. And then his mouth was on her again, and she was gone, floating, free. Knowing it had happened way too soon.