JIMI STOOD IN front of this mountain of man, staring up at him as he glowered down at her with an intensity that made her shiver. Her mind went nuts with the possibilities of all the good bad things they could do together. Something about this man made her want to be bad. Naughty. While not a prude about sex by any stretch of the imagination, it just wasn’t often that her body made the decision before her brain did.
His calm silence couldn’t hide the passion she saw brewing in his eyes. She wondered if he would be just as intense and quiet if they fucked. Yes, that was how she’d look at it. Not making love, no way. Love was something she’d given up on a long time ago. Anyone she’d ever loved had left her. But that hadn’t stopped her from searching for it—God, how she’d searched—and in all the wrong places, too. To distance herself from the unorthodox way she was raised had been her driving force. She’d navigated through the concrete jungle of New York City’s fashion world and made it. At times, though, her past came back to haunt her, like it seemed to be doing here, today. So many little reminders. It was unsettling.
She didn’t feel guilty for seeking out men she could influence, manage to her liking. It meant she didn’t have to let her guard down. It was purely physical. No entanglements. No talks of the future. Just the present. She’d learned long ago that the only person she could trust and count on was herself.
Jimi eyed this bad boy in front of her. He clearly fell into the physical-satisfaction category, and for a moment she wondered if he would be putty in her hands. His gentlemanly nature wasn’t something she was accustomed to and would likely be his weakness.
“What kind of name is Jimi?” His deep and velvety voice captivated her. It held a hint of cowboy twang, which she liked.
“My parents were old hippies, commune types. They had a thing for Jimi Hendrix.”
“Is that so? Then I expect you had the most unusual upbringing.”
Jimi couldn’t believe she’d told him that, and without any thought at all. It just tumbled out of her mouth. Usually she gave a bullshit story that they named her Benjamina and never ever said her parents were hippies. That usually led to all kinds of questions that she refused to answer. But he zeroed right in on what she needed to hide the most. Her upbringing and fallout from it. Surprisingly, he didn’t inquire further or say anything more, and she hoped to quell any future questions.
“To say the least. Something that I try to forget.”
He nodded and glanced down at her feet. “I guess some things are hard to leave behind.”
She furrowed her brows and wondered what he was talking about, until she looked down at her bare toes. No way would she admit he was right. She’d buried her feelings deep where her childhood was concerned, but it seemed some things were hard to shake. “No. It’s something I have most definitely left behind. My suitcase didn’t arrive with me, so I’m at a loss for footwear other than my heels. Which appear to be completely inappropriate for this wedding trip.”
“Ah, you’re the one.”
Jimi furrowed her brows. “What do you mean?”
“The one with no bags. The one that thought this destination wedding was at a beach. I barely recognized you.”
Now he was making fun of her. She let go of his hand and was struck by the odd emptiness and feeling of distance that replaced the zing she’d felt from him just moments ago. The warmth of his fingers gone, a shiver ran through her even with the Hawaiian heat pressing down on them. She frowned, not liking how off balance he’d suddenly made her feel.
“It was my fault for not paying more attention. The norm for destination weddings is usually on the beach. At a resort. The last thing I’d expect here is a destination wedding on a ranch.” She waved her hand to indicate her surroundings and nearly smacked one of the horses on the nose. The horse snorted and tossed his head, startling Jimi. She jumped and let out a cry when her bare feet landed on sharp stones, making her stumble. She used the opportunity and in that moment decided to go with stepping up her game. So she let herself fall headlong into the cowboy. “Ow.”
She was confident he’d catch her. She expected no less from this gentlemanly cowboy.
“Hey there, whoa.”
She clutched at his arms, trying not to notice the strength under her fingers. At the same time, he wrapped his arms around her. Tight.
Regardless of whether she’d instigated this little event, she really had hurt her foot.
“Oh, my God, it feels like my foot shredded on glass.” Yet the pain in her feet paled with the powerful response she had to him as he gathered her close.
“Exactly why you shouldn’t be trotting around here without shoes on. Regardless if you’re a hipster or not.”
“I’m not a hipster! All right...enough. My feet are crying.” The cowboy swung her into his arms. “Hey! What are you doing?”
“Taking you to fix your foot.”
Jimi halfheartedly struggled in his arms, but the way she fit against his wide chest was far too comfortable. And wasn’t it just where she wanted to be? Her foot was stinging, but the warmth of his body almost had her forgetting about it. “You know I’m quite capable of getting to my tent.”
“I’m sure you are. But I don’t need you leaving the scent of blood everywhere. Besides, the cuts will get full of dirt.”
He took a path behind the rows of tents. She was glad he kept out of sight of other guests, because she already felt stupid enough with her dumb comments earlier. Jimi decided to just enjoy being carried. It wasn’t every day a girl was in strong, muscular arms. She looped her hand behind his neck. His hair tickled her knuckles and she looked up, seeing under the wide brim of his cowboy hat for the first time. She swallowed when he looked down at her. All thought and words vanished under the heat of his gaze. And when he smiled—oh, God, when he smiled—she liquefied inside. What had she been thinking? No way would he ever be putty in her hands. Jimi feared it was she who would be putty in his hands.
He shouldered his way through a tent flap and Jimi glanced around. “This isn’t my tent.”
“I know.” He set her down on a cot that looked surprisingly cozy and was very comfortable.
“Why am I here? I wanted to go to my tent.” She was grappling with her rioting emotions, and being carried by him had thrown her totally off balance.
He pulled a chair in front of her, then turned around to a chest-high cabinet. “Does your tent have the first-aid kit?”
“Oh. I could have washed my foot off well enough,” she argued rather unconvincingly.
“I’m sure you could’ve. But somehow you leapt into my arms, so I figured you wanted me to take care of things.”
“I did not leap into your arms!”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Why did she feel defensive? Right from the minute she’d laid eyes on him hours ago up until now he’d had her completely off-kilter.
“Lift your foot,” he instructed.
She