Читать книгу Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume VIII: The Cowboy Who Never Grew Up - Kimberly Raye, Julie Leto - Страница 9

“SO WHERE DO YOU WA NT IT?” Pete Gunner’s deep, sexy voice slid into her ears, skimmed along her nerve endings, and for a split second, Wendy forgot all about her job.

Her brain conjured a quick visual of his fingers working at the buttons of her blouse and his rough palm grazing her breast as he branded her with his touch.

She stiffened and reached for her briefcase. “Right here.” She pulled out the stack of papers and slapped them into his palm before she did something really stupid.

Like give in to the sudden heat slip-sliding up and down her spine, then rip off her clothes and press herself up against his hard, hot body.

Besides, she’d meant no matter what as in chasing him down and hiding out in his bus and cornering him when he had no easy means of escape. Not jumping him.

Not yet.

She ignored her crying hormones and steeled herself. “Just sign these and I’ll be out of your hair.”

He stared at the contract, his gaze drinking in the first page before colliding with hers. Surprise glittered in his bright blue eyes. “You’re from Western America?”

“Wendy Darlington. Marketing.” She held out her hand to shake, but he just kept staring at her as if she’d grown two heads.

“Darlington,” he murmured, seeming to turn the name over in his mind. “Wasn’t there a pitcher by the name of Mitch Darlington?”

“Daddy dearest.”

“No way.”

“Way. Now can we—”

“Say, didn’t he pitch for the Texas Rangers at one time?”

“And the Cubs and the Red Sox and a handful of others that have nothing to do with why I’m here. You agreed to sign and I’m here to make sure that happens.” She motioned to the documents in his hand. “There’s only one signature line on the last page, but there are several spots that you need to initial in between. Those are all marked.” She pulled out a pen and handed it to him. “Just sign it all and I’ll be out of your way. You can drop me at the next intersection.”

He seemed to contemplate her words for the next few moments while her heart beat a frantic rhythm. As if she feared he might refuse.

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. They had a verbal agreement and that was as good as gold. This was just a formality.

A formality that would keep her from getting canned.

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” she rushed on. “No surprises. The money’s all there. The terms are exactly what our lawyer spelled out.”

“Sounds good. I’ll get right on this.” An easy grin spread across his face. “Just as soon as I get cleaned up first.”

“You could just sign it now and be done with it.”

“You wouldn’t want me to sign something I haven’t read, now would you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then it’ll have to wait until after I take a shower.”

The words conjured an image of his hard, rippled, naked body. Water sluiced over him, running in rivulets down his golden skin—

Um, excuse me. You’re here to work, not fantasize.

Especially since Pete Gunner wasn’t even close to her fantasy man. She liked calm, mild-mannered, understated men. Like Jim. He was the staff accountant for Western and he made an amazing lasagna. He’d brought it to the last office party and everyone had oohed and ahed. He’d also invited her out a half-dozen times over the past year. Not that she’d accepted. She’d been so worried over the new line and Pete’s role as spokesman that she hadn’t wanted to spare the time.

That, and Jim was just about the most boring man she’d ever met.

She squelched the thought as soon as it struck.

Boring was good. Preferable to the love-’em-and-leave-’em type.

Then why are you standing here watching rodeo’s biggest womanizer take off his shirt?

Pete undid the last button of his shirt and reality smacked her. “W-what are you doing?”

“Taking a shower, remember?” He grinned and the shirt dropped to the floor, revealing a muscular chest sprinkled with silky hair. “Unless you plan on washing my back, I’d get while the getting is good.” He reached for the button on his jeans and she whirled. His laughter followed her out of the bathroom and into the living area of the bus.

A table stood to her left with a bench on one side and two plush-looking chairs on the other. She slid into one of the overstuffed chairs, plopped the papers down on the marble-topped table and drew a steadying breath.

Okay, so she’d had temporary brain malfunction. No big deal. She would simply reboot.

Pulling out a pen, she set everything out and flipped the page to the first spot he needed to initial. There. The moment Pete Gunner finished his precious shower, he would sign and she would head back to Houston.

Her job would be secure. Her life would be back on track. And she could finally breathe again.

Shifting her attention from the anxiety rippling in her stomach, she took a good long look at her surroundings. The motor coach was top-of-the-line with a rear bedroom, a full-size bathroom and a kitchen. A media center sat just to her left complete with a plasma TV, Blu-ray player and several other pieces of equipment that she couldn’t identify. And then there was her chair.

The softest, most supple leather she’d ever felt. It tugged at her backside, cushioning her tired muscles, lulling her to sink back. Relax.

Not.

She perched on the edge, fully alert, ready for the handsome cowboy to waltz out of the bathroom so she could save her ass.

At least that was the plan for the first five minutes. But then five turned to ten and ten to twenty, and her back started to ache. She braced herself, but it only made her more uncomfortable. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to scoot back just a little. There. That was better.

It’s not like she needed to be ready for a foot chase. She had him cornered. If he wanted to stall, fine. She would kick back and wait him out.

The bus rolled along and the hum of the shower echoed in her ears. Before she knew what was happening, her head started to feel heavy. She slumped forward once, twice. She jerked upright and glanced at her watch. Ugh. It was half-past midnight and she’d been up since six in the morning. To make matters worse, she’d been tossing and turning every night for the past six months thanks to a certain unreliable cowboy. With her job hanging in the balance, sleep hadn’t been a luxury she could afford. Not then and certainly not now.

She had to do this.

She yawned and fought to keep her eyes open. A battle she was destined to lose. The chair was too comfortable and the cowboy too damned slow, and suddenly there seemed nothing wrong with closing her eyes for just one teeny, tiny minute. Just to pass the time.

WHAT THE HELL was she doing here?

The thought echoed in Pete’s head as he stood under the shower and let the hot water beat down on his sore muscles.

Okay, so he knew what she was doing here. Western had been dogging him with those contracts for months now and they’d obviously gotten tired of waiting. He couldn’t blame them. They’d offered him one hell of a deal. One he’d be crazy to turn down. He would make more in one year as the Outlaw Outfitters spokesman than he’d made in the past three seasons on the circuit. Sure, it wasn’t nearly as much fun. But at least it didn’t hurt like hell.

He flexed his throbbing shoulder and tried to ignore the stab of pain that shot through him.

Signing was the best thing for him. He knew that.

Then stop fooling around and sign already.

He would.

He would haul his ass out there, read through everything, sign on the dotted line for the sexy little marketing exec who’d cornered him on his own bus, and be done with it.

With her.

At least that’s what he told himself when he finally climbed out of the shower, dried off and put on a pair of clean jeans.

He found her slumped in a chair, her eyes closed, her lips parted. A steady snore filtered through the air and a smile touched his lips. She was a little thing, but she sure could belt one out.

He didn’t blame her. He’d paid an arm and a leg for those chairs and he’d dozed off in them too many times to count. Particularly after a night like tonight.

He sank down in the chair nearest her and shifted his attention to the papers spread out on the table. Snatching up the copy, he kicked back and turned to the first page.

He meant to read the entire thing.

He really did.

But his shoulder nagged at him and he couldn’t seem to concentrate. After two pages, he tossed the stack onto the table and reached for the remote control. A click of a button and a rerun of the latest NASCAR race blazed across the massive screen. The sound roared through the bus and she stirred.

With the fast reflexes of an eight-time PBR champion, Pete hit the mute button. The sound faded into the steady hum of the engine.

Wendy shifted, but she didn’t open her eyes. Instead, she half turned, snuggling deeper into the chair.

He fixed his gaze on the TV and tried to ignore his throbbing muscles keeping tempo with his heartbeat. He could kiss a good night’s sleep goodbye. Times like this, it was all he could do not to grind his teeth. Which was why he’d turned down the woman tucked into his bed. And the one stowed away in his bathroom. Even a warm, willing body wasn’t enough to distract him from the pain wrenching through him after a particularly grueling ride.

But damned if the steady, hypnotic sound of Wendy Darlington’s snoring didn’t do just that as he sat there and the minutes ticked by. That, and she smelled really good. Like homemade peach ice cream. And heaven knew he’d always had a hankerin’ for peaches.

He closed his eyes and focused on the soft zzzzzzz echoing in his ears. Her scent filled his head and oddly enough, his shoulder started to settle down. Not that the pain went away completely. There wasn’t a woman alive who could distract him that much.

But at least he managed a few hours of peace. No crying shoulder. No bulls to ride. No contracts to sign. And most of all, no truth nagging at him, because, as determined as Pete was to sign the damned contracts, he didn’t really want to. He’d gone from being a nobody to a somebody by being wild and free and reckless. The leader of the notorious Lost Boys—the most talented group of riders on the circuit so-called because they hailed from the same small town of Lost Gun, Texas. Pete was their poster child. He lived for the thrill of the moment, and Western America was all about the future. About supplementing his income when the fun ended and he was no longer raking in the cash. While the contract wouldn’t actually keep him from climbing onto a bull, it would still send a powerful message that Pete Gunner was getting older, wiser and it would certainly end his career as PBR’s favorite badass.

But none of that mattered as he sat there, listening to Wendy Darlington snore softly just a few feet away. Instead, he fixated on the sound and let his troubles slip away along with the pain. And then for the first time in a long time, he actually fell into a deep sleep.