“I was in the neighborhood…” she began. Nervous now, she brushed at some dust on her jeans, giving herself something to do, wishing he would pick up the conversation.
His mouth quirked, but whether it was a sign of annoyance or humor, she didn’t know.
She thrust the whiskey at him, apparently a little too hard. It hit him in the stomach and bounced off obviously strong abs. He grabbed for the container. The bottle fell—
He caught it at his knees.
“Whew!” she said, grinning. “Good catch.”
He eyed the container. If he knew how expensive it was, he didn’t indicate it; he just waited for her to speak. Or leave, she guessed.
“Maybe we could go inside?” she asked.
“Why?” he asked.
“I—I’d like to talk to you.”
“Here’s as good a place as any. You’re interrupting my work.”
“What do you do?”
“This ‘n that.”
She crossed her arms. He might look exactly like the man from the airport, but he no longer seemed like the winking type. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“Being the taciturn cowboy. Keeping the myth alive.”
“Taciturn. That’s a mighty big word, ma’am.”
Aha! There was a glimmer in his gorgeous blue eyes. He was just playing with her. He’d probably decided she was just another pretty face. “Something tells me you know its definition, but okay. You win. I came here to thank you for saving my life.”
“You told me three months ago.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You kissed me. Pretty much said it all. Can’t say it was the best kiss I’ve ever had planted on me, but I got what you were meaning by it.”
She narrowed her eyes. “If I’d wanted to kiss you in a memorable way, I would’ve, but I guarantee you I put more emotion into that one kiss than any other I’ve given.”
“Well, isn’t that a sorry state of affairs.”
“I’m a good kisser!”
“If you say so, ma’am.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Have a safe drive back to town.” He walked away from her.
She called out, “You know, cowboy, where I come from, it’s rude to walk out on a visitor.”
“Where I come from, princess,” he said over his shoulder, “it’s rude to drop in uninvited.”
Chapter Two
Garrett didn’t slow his stride. His old hound Pete trotted beside him and kept looking back at the woman who’d audibly gasped her indignation at his abrupt dismissal. Truth was, she tempted him mightily, and he was afraid if he invited her in, even for just a second, he would fall under her spell. It was obvious that she was trouble with a capital T.
The moment he’d caught sight of her at the airport three months ago, he’d felt gut punched. A few seconds later he’d recovered enough to wink at her, but had kept walking because he’d been inclined to start up a conversation, which would’ve been a big mistake. She wasn’t his type at all, which had made it all the more baffling. Two birthdays from now he would turn forty. She looked barely out of college. She was petite and dark-haired, and he was partial to blonde and tall, or at least closer to his own six foot four than she was. She wore designer-chic clothes, even her jeans and boots had probably come from a boutique or something, and she’d already turned up her nose at the good Texas dust that had settled on her jeans as if she’d been contaminated.
He’d met plenty of high-maintenance women in his life. He’d learned to avoid them, especially after an experience a couple of years back with a woman named Crystal, one he’d like to forget, except for the lesson learned.
But he also liked women with curves. Give him more than a handful of a woman in his big bed and he was happy, especially if she was just passing through. He didn’t date women looking for long-term, and felt no need for conversation or companionship on a regular basis.
Sure, the petite Ms. Victoria Fortune of the Atlanta Fortunes was wife material—but not for him. She’d had stars in her eyes when she’d arrived a few minutes ago. He wasn’t sure what had caused them. Glorification of him as her hero, maybe? He’d never been a hero in anyone’s eyes before. Just the opposite, in fact. He’d been blamed for lots he didn’t do, just because people expected it.
He’d been a rabble-rouser in his youth, prone to bar fights and speeding tickets, but that’d been years ago. And then there was that incident with Jenny Kirkpatrick….
It hadn’t mattered that he’d been a teenager at the time—nor had he been the guilty party. Some reputations couldn’t be lived down, however, so he’d stopped trying.
Pete assumed his usual dog-sentinel post on the porch as Garrett let himself into his house. He decided to wait until Victoria was gone before resuming his work. When he didn’t hear her car start up, he set down the bottle of fine whiskey, peeked out a window and saw her leaning against her car, arms crossed, staring his direction. His collie-mix mutt, Abel, plopped next to her, his tail wagging, dust flying. Idly she petted him, then crouched and gave him a good scratch behind his ears, something Abel loved more than anything except a good belly rub. What male didn’t?
Picturing her hands sliding over his own body knotted him up good—and how the hell long was she gonna hang around when he’d specifically dismissed her?
Everyone knew Fortune women liked their luxuries, and they probably always got their way, too. Maybe she wouldn’t leave until he forced her off his property.
Well, she wouldn’t get her way here. Not with him.
Choking off a colorful oath, he opened his front door, jammed on his hat and strode across his yard. Abel stood and wagged his tail, looking a little guilty at being caught getting attention from another human.
And that human was looking at him like he was a rock star or something. Aw, hell.
“Why are you still here?” he asked.
“I’m not a princess,” she said calmly. “I came here because I dream about you every night.”
Gut punched again, he said nothing. He’d had a few dreams himself….
“Nightmares, really,” she added.
So much for hero worship. “You need professional help with that. You’re not gonna find that here.”
“I’m sure you’re right. But I’ve never been that close to death, Mr. Stone. So I decided to come see you, to thank you, with the hope that I can stop thinking about it, obsessing about it really. I would appreciate it if you would acknowledge the fact you saved my life and let me thank you properly for doing so. I’m sure I’ll be able to move on then.”
“And just how long does it take to say thank you?”
She cocked her head. “How long does it take to pour a glass of whiskey?”
She had sass, he gave her that. Sometimes that was a good quality in a woman.
“Are you of legal drinking age?”
“I’m twenty-four.”
“Are you expected back right away?” he asked.
“I suppose my family will worry after a little while. Why?”