He dug into his pocket and tossed some bills on the table to cover their tab and a generous tip for Sheila, their waitress. With a steely grip on her elbow, he hustled her toward the door. Ignoring her outraged squawks of protest, he snagged her red cashmere jacket from the coatrack on the way by and shoved it into her arms.
The little gold bell hanging over the entrance door tinkled as it closed behind them. The fuming Ms. Whelan was still calling Ry names when, with his hand clamped firmly on her nape, he escorted her to her car.
“Go home,” he ordered, opening the driver’s-side door.
“Go to hell!” she snapped with a venomous glare.
He guided her gently but firmly behind the wheel. “Yeah, well, there’s always that possibility. In the meantime, I’ll just follow you to make sure you find your way.”
“Neanderthal throwback,” she fumed, and jerked the door shut with a slam.
“Un-huh.” He leaned down, peered in the window at her fiery red cheeks and tapped his palm on the roof of her car. “No breaking the speed limit, now.”
She stared straight ahead, shifted into gear and laid rubber for a full block.
Ry let out a long breath and thumbed back his Stetson. Then he walked to his sleek black truck and settled behind the wheel.
“Handled that well, didn’t you, chump?” he muttered as he pulled into traffic and put pedal to metal to catch up with her.
Tomorrow he was going to have a talk with Travis. His friend could damn well find someone else to play watchdog to his sister. A eunuch maybe—which he definitely was not. And whoa…did she ever remind him of that fact. Carrie Whelan lit him up like a stick of dynamite sizzling along with a dangerously short fuse. She was a very hot, very spicy, very—did he mention hot?—female who he was supposed to regard as a little sister.
Damn.
He expelled a thick breath. She was not his sister, even though his mom and dad had taken her and Trav in when their parents had been killed in a car accident fourteen years ago. He still carried an image of sad, lost little ten-year-old Carrie crying in his arms. And it still broke his heart when he thought of what she’d suffered. But too often lately he was having a hard time dredging up the gumption to think of her as either that sweet, lost little kid or a surrogate sister.
It had been one thing when she’d been ten and he’d been eighteen. He’d even been on track when he’d reached his early twenties and she was a blossoming sixteen with a mad crush on him. He’d been sensitive to her infatuation and hadn’t minded keeping an eye out for her then—at least, he hadn’t when he was around Royal, which, given college and then his five-year stint on the PRCA rodeo circuit, wasn’t often.
But now…well, now it was a different story. The eye he kept on Carrie Whelan now was far from fraternal—no matter how hard he tried.
Mouth set in a hard line, he followed her onto State Street. Trav would kill him if he so much as suspected Ry was thinking of Carrie in conjunction with beds and scarves and black lace, which, he’d already decided, she would look damn fine in or out of.
He shook the too-vivid picture out of his head and pulled up behind her. When her angry eyes fastened on his in her rearview mirror, he gave her a little, “Hey, how ya doin”’ wave. With typical Carrie sass, she flipped him the friendly finger, ran a yellow light and left him sitting at the intersection waiting for the light to change.
“Damn woman,” he sputtered with a slow shake of his head, but he was grinning when her taillights disappeared in a glut of traffic. “Gonna be the death of me.”
Silky red hair. Lush plump lips. Full firm breasts. Long slim legs. He shifted position and adjusted the fly on his jeans with the heel of his hand—like he had to do damn near every time he saw her lately.
He caught up with her a few blocks later. Five minutes after that he sat at the curb, motor idling and watched her storm out of her car and let herself into her house. Even mad as a hornet, she was a joy to watch move—all swaying hips and swishing silk.
“Death of me,” he repeated under his breath as she slammed her front door behind her and a light flicked on inside. “But what a way to go.”
With a warning to himself to back off—way off—he shifted into gear and headed for the Cattleman’s Club. He needed a drink. A stiff one. And tomorrow he needed to see Trav. He needed to look him square in the eye and remember that the woman who was sparking his explicit sexual fantasies was his best friend’s little sister.
Little virgin sister.
Blood rushed to his face…and to another part of his body it had no place going where Carrie was concerned.
Virgin. He’d suspected, but until she’d made the announcement to the world at large back at the diner, he hadn’t wanted to know. He really hadn’t wanted to know.
His heartbeat hit about 6.9 on the Richter scale at the thought of her innocence and what it would be like to be the first man to make love to her.
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. Well, it wasn’t going to be him. It wasn’t going to be anybody if Trav, the quintessential overprotective nobody-touches-my-sister-and-lives-to-tell-about-it brother, had his way. Ry knew Trav’s reaction was left over from when their parents had died. Trav had taken on the responsibility for looking out for her with a vengeance. That had been many years ago, but he still hadn’t been able to let go. Carrie would die a spinster if it were within Trav’s power.
And what a waste that would be, Ry thought, picturing the fire in her eyes and the sweet curve of her hips as he drove through the night street.
Okay. He had to quit thinking about her that way. And tomorrow he would. Tonight, though, he planned to do the rest of his thinking with a drink in his hand and let the fantasy play out. And maybe, if he was lucky, he thought as he pulled into the Cattleman’s Club parking lot, he’d have the fantasy and her worked out of his system by morning. Maybe by morning, he’d also figure out an excuse to give Trav for why he couldn’t be the one to keep an eye on Carrie any longer.
Two
What are you going to do…take me home and tie me to my bed?
Good Lord, Carrie thought as she stepped out of the shower and snagged a fluffy jade-green towel from the linen closet. Had she really said that to him? To Ryan Evans, of all people?
She groaned and buried her face in the plush terry cloth. If only she’d had the good sense to stop with that. But, no. She’d had to add a really needy sounding, Which, by the way, has a fairly intriguing ring to it, and then hope she might actually see some spark of interest darken his eyes.
But not Ry. Oh, no. Not Carrie-bear-you’ve-gotyour-tail-in-a-twist Evans. Interested? In her? She snorted.
“If I was a horse, maybe.” Or one of those flashy four-wheel-drive vehicles—all gleaming chrome and high-gloss black enamel—he was so fond of driving.
No. Ryan Evans had never been interested in anything to do with her and a bed, unless it was trying to talk her into making his because he’d been too busy breaking broncs and chasing the town girls to make his bed himself.
She rubbed the towel through her hair and regarded her reflection in the mirror with disgust. “Some lessons are just harder than others to learn, huh, Carrie-bear?” she grumbled aloud and felt the anger drain as fatigue and melancholy took over.
Yeah. Some lessons were harder than others. Ry was one of the hardest.