Читать книгу Rio: Man Of Destiny - Cait London, Cait London - Страница 9

One

Rio Blaylock: ladies’ man. Paloma Forbes knew who he was, the tall lean cowboy striding toward her, the Missouri January wind whipping his straight, shaggy black hair. Minutes before dawn, Rio had stepped into the lighted parking lot. He looked like a hunter on the scent of his prey. And she knew he’d come for her.

Rio’s flashing smile and exciting, careless arrogance drew women to him. He resembled all the Blaylocks Paloma remembered from her visits with Boone Llewlyn. Bred from tough, rangy mountain men, the Blaylocks were tall and angular, with sleek black Native American hair, and skin as dark as their conquistador ancestors’, despite the sturdy pioneer Scots and English stock thrown into the mix. Paloma had been just thirteen when she’d first seen Rio at a community hall dance, a flamboyant, fascinating male at seventeen; he’d been flashing his full dazzling charm to a girl. She later left the dance with him. Another time at a rodeo, he’d been surrounded by gids, dazzling them by lariat tricks, and eventually one of them ended up encircled by his arms and was drawn to him for a sizzling kiss. Then, later in the year, while chasing a puppy, Paloma had seen him lying in the meadow with yet another girl, the grass hot and flattened around them. “Get out of here, kid,” he’d said quietly, scowling fiercely at her and shielding the rumpled, giggling girl with his rangy body, sheathed only in jeans.

The other Blaylock boys—Roman, James, Dan and Tyrell—were adorable, but according to Jasmine’s gossip, Rio was the charmer of the clan. Though now he was older, tougher than when she’d seen him at seventeen surrounded by his harem of adoring females, Rio’s rugged face had weathered into the features of a determined man. His black eyes pinned her, the hard line of his jaw, covered by a dark shadow of new beard, and the muddy black pickup with Wyoming license plates told her that he’d hurried to catch her.

Paloma didn’t want anyone catching, pinning her. She’d had enough boxing in as a child. With a do-this, do-that demanding mother, who used a dark, locked closet as a goad, Paloma had been freed to practice and perfect her piano lessons. If she performed poorly, the closet waited. She survived and no one would push her again. Grown now, “Mother’s Little Money Maker” didn’t know if she wanted music in her life—

She glanced at Rio, who was striding toward her, and frowned. She’d had a taste of a ladies’ man and that was enough to last her a lifetime—at twenty she hadn’t known that men played games. Now she knew that the romance she had dreamed had been of her own making. A virgin and sexually inexperienced, she’d dived into the affair, desperate to be loved for herself rather than her talent She hadn’t come up for air until reality slashed her—Jonathan hadn’t wanted her at all. She’d merely been a celebrity trophy in his quest to prove himself to his buddies. Jonathan had moved on to woo another inexperienced girl, and Paloma had pulled her defenses around her, never trusting a man again.

She smiled tightly as Rio Blaylock strode toward her like a dark warlord, his long legs sheathed in jeans, his black leather jacket hunched up at the collar. The burgundy colored ski sweater emphasized his dark looks. Or was it his dark mood? She hadn’t exactly jumped at his offers to buy her half of the feed store. She corrected her last thought Rio had come to grasp her last bit of Boone Llewlyn, the man she’d loved desperately, her childhood protector. Boone was gone now, and she had inherited his half of Jasmine’s feed and seed store. Rio was now her partner, but in the year and a half since Boone’s death had repeatedly tried to buy her share. And Rio was pushy, a man who always got what he wanted

Not this time, not her half of the feed store. She was keeping what she had of Boone, the man whom she resembled strongly, the man she suspected was her father. He’d kept her safe—when he could-from the selfish mother, who demanded too much of her only child. Boone. Big, strong, sweet, loving. She wouldn’t be pushed into selling her only tie to Boone. Paloma inhaled the crisp cold air, the smell of the idling bus, the excitement of the elderly women on their way to play bingo. Paloma was their driver, and for a time, she would enjoy caring for them.

She kicked a tire with the experience of a woman who had rented vehicles that had been improperly serviced. Satisfied that the air and tread were proper, Paloma turned slowly to the tap on her shoulder. “Yes?”

“I’m Rio Blaylock. I’d like to talk with you.”

The demand in his raspy low voice nettled her. Or was it the intimate tone he’d used so often as he built his smoothtalker, easygoing reputation? A sexy-looking cowboy package, Rio reportedly knew “how to treat a lady.” Paloma was no lady; she had been toughened, stripped away from childhood and feminine pleasures and had managed to survive. Thanks to her mother, Paloma had been forced into the role of child prodigy and had seen too much of life and sex. At thirty-four, Paloma had little use for men like Rio. He had that datk, edgy look her mother requited in her own lovers.

Paloma didn’t intend to make the purchase of her share easy for Rio Blaylock, not when she hadn’t resolved how she felt about Boone. Questioning the identity of her father, she asked her mother, who refused to answer. She looked like Boone—was Boone her father? Would she ever know? Why hadn’t he claimed her as his daughter?

Paloma pushed away the searing pain of rejection from a loved one—the pain always came with the questions that had plagued her for years, and turned to meet a man she already thoroughly disliked.

He’d finally cornered her, but she was ignoring him. “My bus is idling, sucking expensive fuel and I don’t have time to chitchat. I do this gig once a year...rent and drive a bus of seasoned women bingo players from Missouri to Oklahoma. We dnve down, they bingo day and night until we leave. We all have fun and everybody comes back happy. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” Paloma Foxbes’s husky voice lashed with impatience as she brushed by Rio to help an elderly woman into the tour bus.

Rio stood still; he pushed down his rising temper. When he’d last seen her, leaning against Boone as though he were her only lifeline, Paloma had been a tall, gangling, rawboned girl. There had been a beaten look in her thin face then that had bothered Else, Rio’s sister, now the matriarch of the extensive Blaylock family.

Impatient from worn nerves, Rio ran his hand through the straight black hair that wind had whipped at his face. He was bone tired and laden with sleepless, haunted nights. He seemed always to be searching—he’d spent a lifetime looking for something that had always eluded him...and then there was the boy who died—the ten-year old’s frail body haunting Rio’s nightmares. Perhaps he had inherited more from his mountain man ancestors than he knew—this need to hunt, to search for something, someone. He shrugged mentally. He couldn’t control that restless need, but he could keep the feed store safe. This woman wasn’t getting away—Paloma Forbes had been avoiding his business offer for a year and a half already. And now he had her.

Rio Blaylock held out his hand to help a frail lady with a cane onto the bus. He smiled at her tightly. If Paloma managed to pull grace out of her six-foot body when she performed in piano concerts around the world, she wasn’t sparing him a drop. Dressed in a black heavy sweater, black jeans and truck ers’ boots, Paloma Forbes’s body wasn’t curved or graceful, rather efficient and powerful as she hefted multiple overstuffed bags into the bay of the bus. She resembled more of a trucker now, packing her product for a fast run, than a world-class pianist. There was just that small odd gait to her fast stride, and he noted that she protected her hands with leather gloves and her wrists with elastic supports.

Rio forced himself not to let her word, “chitchat,” offend him. But it did. “I don’t ‘chitchat,’” he informed her. “Fact is, you own half the Jasmine feed store. I own the other half. I want to buy you out. It’s that simple.”

Standing beside the tour bus in a freezing January dawn, he eyed an elderly gray-haired woman; in passing, she had just slipped a stealthy pat on his jean-clad rear. While light snow curled around the collar of his leather jacket, he tried not to crush the “good luck” rose-decked hat another woman had thrust under his arm while she rummaged for her ticket. Another woman tucked a pink satin pillow under his free arm. Rio closed his eyes, took a deep breath and continued his battle.

“Did you get my letters?” he asked Paloma, determined to finally pin his silent partner into facing his offer to buy her out. From what he knew of Paloma’s life, she lived out of a suitcase. She hadn’t come to Boone’s funeral, nor had she returned to Jasmine—all indications that she did not value land or history...or Boone, who had apparently loved her.

“The letters weren’t returned to you, were they?” she clipped, nudging him out of the way with her shoulder. “Gee, that must mean I got them, huh.”

Riding on no sleep, coffee and determination, Rio really resented taking that step back on her direction, but he obliged to allow an elderly woman to board the bus. He smiled briefly as the woman’s lips formed a kiss. then he refocused on Paloma. “I just wanted to be certain-”

“I got your letters and don’t have time for this.”

“It’s a historic landmark. I’d like to see it preserved—”

“Sure, buddy. You’re all heart and I’m certain there’s a dollar in there somewhere for you. Now step out of the way.” Delight and warmth curled around Paloma’s tone as she grinned at a matron with a blond Dolly Parton wig. “Hi, Vandora. T’m so glad you could come this year.”

Vandora’s bright brown eyes peered at Rio. “Is this gorgeous hunk yours, Paloma?”

“He’s not my type.” Paloma’s flat denying snort didn’t soothe Rio’s taut senses. Not that he wanted to appeal to the rangy six-foot woman who had just nudged his chest with her shoulder again.

This time, Rio stood still and simply looked down at her. When she glanced at him, he smiled again, slowly, and Paloma’s blue eyes narrowed dangerously. “I won’t be pushed into anything sudden,” she said “And I’m immune to ladykilters.”

Rio dismissed the taunt, he had business to do. “You inherited Boone’s half of the feed store over a year and a half ago. I started trying to make contact with you then.”

“I’ll get back with you at a later date. Meanwhile, get out of my way.”

“When I’m ready.” Rio spaced his words firmly. He didn’t like orders. He’d had enough of them in the military. “It makes sense to sell. You don’t know the business.”

Paloma’s blue gaze lasered at him and locked, darkening into a deep, rich blue like the evening sky before it filled with thunderstorms. Good, he thought. Payback time. I’m getting to her—at least I have her attention.

Hurrying by him, another kindly matron plucked the pink satin pillow from beneath his arm. She reached to pat the stubble on his set, angular jaw. “Thanks, sonny. You’re gorgeous. Hope you’re coming with us to play bingo for two days. You could be my good luck charm. I just adore big, dark and dangerous cowboys—that shaggy-and-stubbled look really makes my motors purr.”

With the ease of a woman who took care of herself, Paloma hefted an overstuffed tote bag into the side bay of the tour bus. Her constant movements said she wasn’t waiting for him...or anyone.

Rio studied the woman who had inherited Boone Llewlyn’s half of Jasmine’s historic feed store; she hadn’t even bothered checking on the landmark property since she’d inherited Boone’s partnership.

In an efficient movement, she tipped her face upward, her mirrored sunglasses sliding to shield her piercing blue eyes. She tilted her face up the four inches to his as if she was considering how to handle a man of his size—should she have to remove him from the area. Dawn softened her strong, slant ing cheekbones, and a silky strand of black hair swept across her pale, angular jaw. She swept it away impatiently. Her generous mouth pressed into a firm line, and, in contraist, a shy dimple appeared on her left cheek. If Rio had been looking at her as an interesting woman, instead of as an obstacle, he might have appreciated the odd mix of angles and softness in her face—the slight slant to her eyes, the gleaming sweep of high cheekbones.

Paloma jammed her worn truckers’ boot on the first step into the bus, which was filled with elderly ladies, all excited about a two-day bingo trip to another state. Their driver wasn’t wasting time talking to Rio. “This is a nonstop trip—down, then back. No hotel or sleeping arrangements, If you want to talk with me, you’ll have to get on the bus, Blaylock. Otherwise, step back”

Rio wasn’t stepping back. He’d just dug two spoiled teenagers riding on snowmobiles from a Wyoming snow avalanche, saving their lives. Once he’d decided to take a course, little stopped him. His brother Roman, executor of Boone’s estate, had pinpointed Paloma’s whereabouts. Lou, her booking agent, had said she was performing at a senior citizens’ get-together the night before driving the bingo bus. Without sleep, Rio had driven his pickup tuck for eighteen hours through snow to catch her. He hadn’t wanted to risk coming by plane—with bad weather possibly grounding his flight, she could easily get away. Paloma wasn’t an easy woman to catch, always on the move. He had her now—not a mailbox or a message machine, but the woman, up-front and personal, and he wanted the full title to the feed store. He locked his boots to the pavement, legs braced, and pasted his best slow smile on his face. “We need to talk.”

Paloma Forbes’s cool sky-blue eyes ripped down Rio’s body with an “I know exactly what you are clear through, mister, and I don’t like you a bit” look. The impact sent an unexpected jolt down his body. There was just that 8ick of contempt that said she thought his tired look was from too many women and too many bars.

Rio inhaled in an effort to keep his smooth smile despite her unspoken taunt. He rolled his left shoulder, his taut body regretting the eighteen-hour drive from Jasmine, Wyoming, to the small town in Missouri. On the other hand, his nerves resented the woman who had not answered his letters, his calls.

Her impatient, darkening blue glance whipped at him again. “All aboard?”

With an expert athletic move, Paloma leaped onto the first step of the bus and slid into the driver’s seat. Her leather gloved hand rested on the door handle, ready to swing it shut. Her cool look said she’d rather he took his day-old beard and hiked back to Wyoming. The curve of her lips wasn’t sweet, rather suggesting a woman who knew when she had the upper hand. “Look. Make it easy on yourself and go home, okay? When I get time, I’ll review those letters. Wherever they are.”

Excitement from the elderly ladies filling the bus almost concealed the too-sweet “I’ve got you now, babe” tone of her_ voice. That purr rasped up the back of Rio’s neck and he swung up onto the bus’s steps.

“All I’d like to know is if you want to sell your half of the feed store. You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” he asked, resenting her smirk. She was enjoying his discomfort, forcing him to either ride the bus or let her escape; Rio didn’t like being pushed, or challenged, by a woman who obviously disliked him.

“You got it. Pm keeping my share. Get used to it. Take your seat.” With her waist-length hair in a single thick braid, her willowy body sheathed in a black sweater, long, tight jeans and truckers’ boots, Paloma Forbes did not in the least resemble a concert pianist.

“Fine.” Rio stepped up into the bus, ripped off his leather jacket and stuffed it in the overhead compartment He sprawled into the seat behind the driver.

In the bus’s rearview mirror, her glasses glinted at him. She looked down at the legs and boots he had just crossed on the floor beside her seat. Her mouth tightened as she sent out a boot to push his away. “Comfy?”

Rio really enjoyed that little edge to her voice that proved he’d gotten to her. The lady liked her space, and he wasn’t giving her peace until he got what he’d come for. He placed his hands behind his head, leaned back and smiled slowly into her mirror. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

The lady could drive. Paloma expertly wheeled the tour bus over the winding, hilly road and onto the interstate as morning slid through the tinted windows. The excited passengers chattered and sang and debated their favorite bingo games—Dot’s winning streak was unequaled and the last bingo caller, a youth of seventy-five, had a thing for Bev. Mavis needed to remember to turn up her hearing aid and Martha wasn’t happy about anything. Linda forgot her good luck set of dentures with the gold tooth, and Totie brought snore-quelling nose patches for everyone because she hated bus snorers.

Madeline had to promise that she’d wash off her latest perfume of the month at the first rest stop. The big debate was the color of lucky felt tip markers...or the “daubers” that the bingo palace supplied.

Rio settled back onto the seat, badly needing sleep. When someone lifted his head and tucked a satin pillow beneath it, and the weight of a crocheted afghan covered his chest, Rio glanced at Paloma in her rearview mirror. He’d been dozing comfortably—he looked down at the elderly woman who with her back turned to him, her ample behind jiggling, had just stuck his left leg between her thighs. While she was busily tugging off his boot, another woman brushed a kiss across his forehead. “Sleep tight, our prince. You’re big enough to be good luck for everyone,” she whispered, patting his chest.

When Rio attempted to sit up, she pushed him down. “Just let Emily take off your boots, sonny. She has seven boys. I see you didn’t bring an overnight bag. We’ll have to stop and get you some clean underwear. You never know when an accident will happen—oh, not with Paloma driving, but you never know about crossing streets nowadays. You wouldn’t want to have to go to the hospital in unsightly underwear. Do you wear those little tight things, boxer shorts or just regular briefs—is that white or black?”

“I’ll pick up new underwear while you’re playing bingo,” Rio muttered and wondered if all women had formed a sisterhood devoted to seeing if his underwear was in good shape. His sister, Else, seemed to have X-ray vision.

In the mirror, Paloma’s silver sunglasses revealed nothing, until Rio spotted the humorous turn to her mouth, softening it “You think this is funny?” he demanded.

She didn’t answer, but held out her cup, which a woman sitting near hurried to fill from a thermos. “Thanks,” Paloma murmured, and focused on the drive.

“I’ve forgotten what kissing a man without dentures feels like,” hinted Posey Malone, eyeing Rio. He blinked as Susie asked him to hold her cane while she took a snapshot of his “sexy cowboy look.”

Rio hurried to remove his right boot before Emily could clamp her thighs around his leg; he handed Susie’s cane back to her. “I think I’ll take a nap now,” he announced loudly and shot a meaningful glance at the ladies behind him. A chorus of the ladies began to sing “Lullaby and Goodnight.”

Sarah, in the seat directly behind him, reached to smooth his hair. “That’s right. You rest. We need our good luck charm fresh and bright-eyed.” Paloma continued to drive, her expression impassive.

At the breakfast stop, Rio swung outside to help the ladies down and they hurried inside the café. After the first pat to his rear, he flattened his back to the open bus door. Mrs. Malone withdrew her comb and reached up to fix his hair. “Better,” she said, satisfied.

The last one to leave, Paloma ignored his outstretched hand and stepped down, eyeing him through her sunglasses. “Having fun?” she asked, stripping away her gloves and tucking them into her back pocket.

“It’s an experience. Are we talking now?” As she smoothed her hair quickly and checked her watch, her fingers tapping on the practical design, Rio watched closely. The hunter in him measured and watched. Her hands were feminine, graceful and lovely-tapered pale fingers with neat short nails and covered with silky soft skin. Rio’s body tensed at the absolute beauty of movement and shape. He wanted to slide his fingers between hers, testing the fit and the feel but jerked himself from the fascinating, restless movement as she stretched, rotating her shoulders. Just then, in the morning light, Paloma’s lean body was delicate, womanly, as though she needed to be held close and protected by a lover. He caught the slightest fragrance—an exotic tropical scent, previously overshadowed by diesel fumes and the other women’s perfumes.

She flicked an impatient glance at him, her slender, agile fingers smoothing the wisps of silky hair back from her face. “You die hard, buddy.”

“The name is Blaylock. Remember it.”

She leaned back against the bus, her glasses glinting up at him. “I know about the Blaylocks. I lived with Boone Llewlyn for a while and Jasmine is stuffed with Blaylocks. I can outlast you. Why don’t you make it easy on yourself and go home now?”

The unnerving impulse to wrap her braid around his fist and draw her head up for his kiss startled Rio. He inhaled sharply, dismissing the impulse. He was too tired and his body was protesting the long drive followed by the bus trip. Paloma. He couldn’t be attracted to Paloma, the woman. He reached over to push her glasses up, to rest upon her head. He wanted to see her eyes, that bright, cutting glare, locking with his gaze. On base level she didn’t like him, she didn’t trust him, and her expression was wary. “Why don’t we talk over breakfast?”

“I’ll bet you’ve said that line a few times in your life,” she purred and walked from him into the café. Her odd stride did not distract from the sensuous sway of her long braid above her slender hips and endless tight jeans.

Rio leaned back against the bus, studying her. Paloma wasn’t feminine or sweet; yet for an instant, her fragrance had caught him. The beauty of her hands had startled him, fascinated him; the sleek sway of her braid had hitched up his sensual interest, surprising him.

Nettled, tired and uncomfortable with that brief attraction, he shoved away from the bus. He preferred soft, easygoing women with curves.... Rio grimaced—not at the ladies waiting to surround him in the café, but at himself. He had to get out more often. His brother, Roman’s, recent marriage had stirred Rio’s own mating instincts. Admittedly a romantic, Rio had prowled through potential mates, dating frequently. He hadn’t found a woman who excited his nesting urges, who could take his breath away. An adult Blaylock male, he knew the difference between lust and caring, and he needed to cherish and be cherished. He couldn’t settle for less.

He glanced warily at Mrs. Reeves, who was waving to him from the café, and settled into his thoughts: he wasn’t feeling delicate and alone. Oh, hell, maybe he was. He wanted a woman to hold, to wear his ring, to continue what Blaylocks were bred to do—make families and lives and love one woman for eternity. Just looking at Roman and Kallista, now expecting their first child, caused Rio to want his own child...with the right woman. He admitted reluctantly to the nesting urge, a biological need to create a home and a family, to protect them. Else, his sister, had stopped pushing unmarried women at him and Rio understood—Else had spotted that nesting urge in him and had decided to let nature take its course, just as it had with Roman, Dan, Logan and James. The youngest Blaylock, Tyrell, was too busy in New York as a top corporate financial officer to think about a long-term nest; Tyrell liked corporate games, fed upon them.

Rio lifted his face to the cold wind, aching for Wyoming, and hurting for the little boy who plagued his nightmares... he’d been too late to save little Trey Whiteman. He had to find peace—and Paloma Forbes wasn’t it.

Later at the bingo hall, the ladies played, concentrating with deadly intent upon the caller’s numbers and then yelling when they won—or didn’t. Rio settled back to watch Paloma. Obviously enjoying herself, she moved between the players, sometimes sitting to chat and help, but never played herself. A restless woman, Paloma had ignored him. Now, her sleek blue-black hair loose and swaying around her shoulders and back as she moved, she looked relaxed, her laughter almost melodic and gone too quickly as if it had escaped her locked keeping. That odd dimple in her left cheek appeared and deepened as she grinned. She touched the women as if cherishing each one, amusement softening her face. She’d given them a gift—driving the bus and caring for them—and she enjoyed their delight.

Rio frowned slightly. That silky hair was too sensuous, shifting around her body as if needing to be tamed, and treasured by a man’s soothing hand. He pushed the thought away. He wasn’t interested in Paloma as an intriguing woman—a candidate for marriage—but something about her unshielded, gentle expression snared his heart.

“Did you get those new shorts, sonny?” Mrs. Dipper asked as she passed him, her arms filled with a stuffed teddy bear, her bingo prize. When he nodded curtly, she backed up close to him and called, “Mable? Do you have your camera? I want a shot of Sonny and me canoodling. He got those new shorts,” she called loudly to the other women, who nodded in approval.

Rio inhaled slowly. He always kept his word and now he was paying for it. The Blaylock males were trained to be courteous to females by their mother, who used her wooden spoon with unerring precision. Or there was that painful ear-twist thing. He reluctantly placed his arm around Mrs. Dipper as she had directed. She cuddled up to him, her hand looping around his waist as Mable shot the picture. Rio bent to collect the colored markers that Elizabeth had just spilled to the floor. “Did you get our errands done, sonny?” she asked in a hushed voice.

Rio nodded. “I got everything on the lists and put the sacks in the bus. Your change is in the sacks.”

“You’re such a good boy,” she whispered before she cupped his face and kissed him full on the lips. When he managed to pry himself away, he met Paloma’s gaze—and found there undisguised contempt.

Rio stepped up into the darkened, cold bus and quietly closed the door behind him. After an entire day of trying to talk with Paloma and being dismissed, or else distracted by the ladies who really appreciated their “good luck cowboy,” he’d finally cornered his elusive business partner.

He placed the insulated hot food container on a seat and studied her in the shadows. She lay curled on the back seat that stretched across the bus, amid a clutter of tiny floral and silk pillows. Sleeping on her side, snuggled deep in a down camping bag, Paloma had lost her defensive, hard look. Her lashes curled in dark fringes across her pale skin, while those elegant yet strong fingers, now at rest, lay upward, exposing the soft center of her palms. Without her elastic supports, her wrists looked fragile, the inner skin gleaming palely in the shadows. Her hair draped and fell around her like a shimmering black waterfall.

She sighed in her sleep, turning to her back, her hands lying at her side, and the soft line of her breasts flowed beneath the sleeping bag. That exotic scent curled to him and he fought the impulse to draw it into him, to appreciate the womanly fragrance as he might if he wanted to know the woman more intimately. Detennined to wait until she awoke, he settled into the seat in front of her. He drew up his coat, then tucked a floral satin pillow behind his head and a pink afghan over his legs to keep warm. He rested his legs on the seat opposite his, preventing Paloma’s escape, and waited. It was peaceful in the cold bus, with only the slight sound of the woman’s slow, deep breathing.

A hunter, Rio sensed when she awoke, and instinctively his hand shot out to capture her wrist. She jerked it away, leaving him with the silky-soft feel of her skin. Swinging her legs and feet, encased in the sleeping bag, to the floor, Paloma glared at him. In the shadowy interior, her eyes flashed silver. “Get out of my bus.”

“Not a chance. I brought your dinner...you need to eat. And we can talk.” Rio poured a cup of the hot soup and handed it to her. She’d awakened too fiercely; at some time in her life, she’d had to protect herself when she slept.

Distracted and apparently hungry, Paloma sniffed the soup appreciatively, and Rio tossed a spoon onto her lap. “Shrimp bisque.”

“I’m not eating this.” Paloma dipped the spoon into the soup and stirred it before lifting the first spoonful to her lips. She reminded Rio of a wary kitten—hungry, yet ready to scratch and hiss.

“Too bad. It goes with the fettuccine Alfredo.” He almost smiled at Paloma’s light, reluctant groan as he unzipped the hot food bag to show the platter to her, then zipped it again.

The lady has a healthy appetite, he thought as Paloma quickly finished the soup and dived into the hot fettuccine, expertly winding it around her fork. He couldn’t resist a taunting nudge after all she’d put him through; her blue eyes flashed at him as he asked, “This isn’t so bad, is it? Us sharing the same air?”

“You’re persistent,” she said around a mouthful of pasta. “I don’t like that trait And I don’t like being studied. Every time I turn around, you’re there with that dark narrowed expression—as if you’re hunting something and I’m it. That may get you to first base with most women, but I’m not buying. I’m certain you can find a woman more to your liking—you’ve got the experience.”

Rio wanted to wrap his fist in that mass of sleek black hair and—She was baiting him, looking for a reason to block negotiations on the feed store; he wouldn’t give her the chance. Letting her taunt drop into the shadows, he said evenly, “With you as a careless partner, I’m legally tied at every decision. I live in Jasmine. I want that feed store to continue as it has since pioneer days, when it was a trading post” Then he asked the question that had lurked in his mind since he’d met Paloma. “Exactly what do you have against me?”

Dislike shot out of her like a steel-tipped arrow. “Does it matter?”

“I’ll live without your love, lady, but I’m curious.”

“I don’t like being pushed or trapped. It’s that simple. And I don’t like ladies’ men. You’re obviously one of the breed. I just let you come along because my ladies enjoyed patting that good luck rear so much.”

When she smirked, Rio fought that slight, rising edge to his temper. Then it cut through his control. “I like women. I enjoy them. Sorting through them is basic to getting the home and family I want... What are you afraid of, Paloma? Returning to Jasmine? Facing Boone’s death? Me?” he shot at her, the shadows quivering around them.

“Lay off,” she warned him in a low, dangerous purr, and her hand tightened on the plate.

“I’d say, it’s all of the above. You throw that pasta at me and you’re in for it.” He stood and braced each hand on either side of the seats, then leaned down toward her. “There’s hot water in the thermos and your choice of herbal teas in the bag... This temperamental artist bull is a cover. You’re afraid, of something, lady, and that’s why you’re running. Make it easy on yourself and sell. Then you won’t have to face whatever is in Jasmine that terrifies you, and you’ll have a nice little profit.”

He took his time, running his finger slowly down the straight line of her nose. He thoroughly enjoyed touching Paloma, surprising her, unraveling all those nasty, exciting, unpredictable edges. When she reached to slash at his hand, Rio caught hers, held it just long enough to test her will against his, then lifted it to his lips. Her skin was ever so soft and fitted his hand, his mouth—He pressed a kiss into her palm and straightened to watch her reaction; her expression was stunned, pleasing him. Paloma’s sleeping bag began to slide down—with her in it Rio placed his hands under her arms and lifted her back up to sit. “The material is slippery,” she explained quickly.

He’d expected and enjoyed the quick, irritated rubbing away of his kiss on her palm against her thigh, the dark thunderous look and the temper vibrating in her husky, low, uneven tone. “Don’t threaten me. Why don’t you just mosey along out of here?”

“You’re afraid, slim. And you’re running,” he repeated, tossing the challenge at her before he turned and walked to the exit. “Let me know when you’re ready to sell.”