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Rich, Rugged Rancher
Joss Wood
He can’t resist her Ever since the accident that took his leg, oil tycoon Clint Rockwell doesn’t do relationships—he likes being alone. Then fast-talking Fee Martinez sweeps, onto his ranch… and into his bed. But Fee is far more into jet-setting than settling down. So why can’t he stay away from her?
Can this lone wolf be tamed?
“Why aren’t you pushing me away?”
“Because you kiss like a dream.”
Ever since the accident that took his leg, oil tycoon Clint Rockwell doesn’t do relationships—he likes being alone. And he doesn’t need anyone’s pity. Then fast-talking reality star Fee Martinez sweeps into Royal, Texas, on to his ranch…and into his bed. It’s only for a night, and then two. Wanting more is impossible, but this goodbye might be the hardest thing he’s ever done…
JOSS WOOD loves books and travelling—especially to the wild places of southern Africa and, well, anywhere. She’s a wife, a mum to two teenagers and slave to two cats. After a career in local economic development, she now writes full-time. Joss is a member of Romance Writers of America and Romance Writers of South Africa.
Also by Joss Wood (#ubefa6117-8a72-5b8d-b3e2-420ac1fc8529)
Love in Boston miniseries
Friendship on Fire
Hot Christmas Kisses
The Rival’s Heir
Second Chance Temptation
Dynasties: Secrets of the A-List miniseries
Redeemed by Passion
Texas Cattleman’s Club: Inheritance miniseries
Rich, Rugged Rancher
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
Rich, Rugged Rancher
Joss Wood
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-0-008-90407-4
RICH, RUGGED RANCHER
В© 2020 Harlequin Books S.A.
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
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Contents
Cover (#ud1c957d5-8a17-565f-9acd-e9e35ee7741e)
Back Cover Text (#uca88c665-df76-558e-96c6-26f5ea846d5d)
About the Author (#u86e31cb1-2605-5878-a7fd-ae797c6a4540)
Booklist (#u68398c5c-b93d-50cd-9aff-1ee1907a80fb)
Title Page (#u43c35954-a794-51fb-a2e3-8c56e30b1b83)
Copyright (#u157d54a9-5614-5643-9274-0deb6f123388)
Note to Readers
One (#u1fd828ed-2925-572e-a8bc-293ff06d91c2)
Two (#u0ca72a9b-ee1d-5978-8c66-009e18c55c80)
Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
One (#ubefa6117-8a72-5b8d-b3e2-420ac1fc8529)
“So, have you bagged your cowboy yet?”
Seraphina Martinez whipped the rented convertible onto the open road leading to Blackwood Hollow Ranch and punched the accelerator, ignoring Lulu’s squeal of surprise at the sudden burst of speed.
“Slow down, Fee. I don’t want to die on a lonely road in East Texas,” Lulu grumbled.
“Relax, it’s an empty road, Lu,” Fee replied, glad she’d wrangled her thick hair into two fat braids—as opposed to Lulu who was fighting, and losing, the war with the wind.
Lulu held her hair back from her face and glared at Fee. “I’m going to look like I’ve been dragged through a bush when we get there.”
Fee shrugged.
Perfect makeup, perfect clothes, perfect hair…being a reality TV star took work, dammit.
“Well, have you?” Fee demanded.
“Found a cowboy? No, not yet,” Lulu replied.
“What about the lawyer guy who seems to be everywhere we are lately?” Fee asked. While scouting filming locations for Secret Lives of NYC Ex-Wives, the attorney for the Blackwood estate had been everywhere they looked, keeping his lawyerly eye on Miranda Blackwood and the rest of the cast and crew.
“Kace LeBlanc?” Lu asked, aiming for super casual and missing by a mile.
Fee darted a look at her best friend, amused. Of course she had noticed the looks Lulu sent Kace when she didn’t think anyone was looking. Lu thought the attorney was hot. And, with his unruly brown hair and those gorgeous brown eyes, he was…until he opened his mouth. Then he acted like she and her costars and the crew were going to break his precious town of Royal or something.
“The guy is a pill,” Lulu said before sighing. “God, he’s hot but he’s so annoying.”
Fee agreed but she also admired Kace’s determination to look after the late Buck Blackwood’s interests and to ensure the terms of his will were followed to the letter. And the terms of the will were, from the little she’d gleaned, astonishing. She couldn’t blame his kids for being pissed off at Buck for leaving everything he owned to Fee’s co-star Miranda, who was his ex and as New York as she and Lulu were. It had to be a hard slap to their born-and-bred Texas faces.
If they’d scripted this story for Secret Lives, their viewers would think they were making it up—aging billionaire leaves much, much younger second wife everything at the expense of his children. Buck also, so she’d heard, had an illegitimate son and this news didn’t seem to surprise anyone. Buck, apparently, had liked the ladies.
This plot twist was ratings gold, pure made-for-TV drama.
Lulu looked to her right, her attention captured by a herd of Longhorn cows.
“Did you ever live in Texas?” Lulu asked her, still holding her hair back with two hands.
Fee took some time to answer, trawling through her memories. Being an army brat and having a father who jumped at any chance to move, she’d lived all over the country and attended fourteen schools in twelve years. But she couldn’t recall living in Texas.
“I think we did a stint in New Mexico,” Fee replied. “But I was young. I don’t remember much of it.”
Lulu turned in her seat and Fee felt her eyes on her. “I’m still amazed at your excitement over visiting a new place. We’ve been doing this for years, Fee. Aren’t you sick of all the traveling? Don’t you miss your own bed?”
Fee sent her a quick smile. “I rent my apartment furnished, Lu. You know that I don’t get attached to things or places.” She might live in Manhattan but she wasn’t as attached to the city as her co-stars were.
“Because you moved so often when you were a child.”
“I learned that if you get attached, it hurts like hell when you have to leave.” Fee shrugged. “So, it makes sense not to get attached.”
“Do you think you’ll ever settle down?”
That was a hell of a question. Maybe, possibly, she might one day find a town or city she didn’t want to leave. But, because she was a realist, she knew that, while she might stay in a place a couple of months or a few years, she would probably end up moving on. It was what she did.
The grass was always greener around the next corner…
And if you didn’t get attached, you couldn’t get hurt, especially by people. Her nomadic parents and her own brief marriage to the philandering son of one of NYC’s most famous families had taught her that.
She loved people, she did, but underneath her exuberant personality still resided a little girl who knew that relationships (and places) were temporary and believing that any commitment would last was crazy.
She was currently living in Manhattan, in a gorgeous but expensive fully furnished rental in Chelsea. Her practical streak hated the idea of renting when she could easily afford to buy an apartment but Manhattan wasn’t a place where she could put down roots. When Secret Lives ended, she’d move on, but for now she was comfortable. Not settled but, yeah, temporarily okay with where she laid her head.
She was the captain of her own ship, the author of her own book. And if she was using Secret Lives to feather her own nest, to make bank, that was her business. She might be loud, frequently over-the-top, but she was also pragmatic and fully understood how quickly things could change. And if her situation did change—Secret Lives was popular now but that could change tomorrow—she wanted her nest to be well feathered.
Because, as she knew, moving from place to place, town to town, wasn’t cheap.
And that was why she took every opportunity to maximize her little taste of fame: first with the line of accessories she’d created using her husband’s famous last name. Her Not Your Mama’s Cookbook, written last year, was still on the bestseller lists. Maybe she should think about doing another cookbook…or something else entirely.
It was something to think about.
“Have you decided on your Royal project yet?” Lulu asked her, breaking her train of thought.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Fee answered, injecting a healthy amount of prim into her tone.
Lulu rolled her eyes. “You can’t BS me, Fee. I know it was you who organized giving last season’s intern a makeover. Who set Pete, our lighting director, up with Dave, the sound guy. Who read the scriptwriter’s—what was his name?—screenplay? Miranda might be our Mama Bear but you are our Little Miss Fix-It.”
Fee wrinkled her nose. Little Miss Fix-It? She opened her mouth to speak then realized she couldn’t argue the point. She did tend to identify a need and try to meet it.
“I don’t know if I’ll find anyone to fix in Royal. I think I’ll take a break from meddling while I’m there.”
Lulu’s laughter danced on the wind. “Yeah, right. That’s not going to happen.”
Fee frowned at her. “What? I can back off!”
“You cannot!” Lulu retorted. “Honey, we’re always getting into trouble because you can’t leave a situation alone! We nearly got arrested when you jumped between those two guys fighting in Nero’s, and we did get arrested when you—” Lulu bent her fingers to make air quotes “—confiscated that abused horse in Kentucky. You are constantly getting trolled on social media because you stand up for LGBT rights, women’s rights, immigrants’ rights. That’s not a criticism, I admire your outspokenness, but you don’t have to fight every fight, babe.”
Fee knew that. But she also knew what it was like to have no one fighting in her corner, no one to rely on. She knew how it felt to feel invisible and when she stepped out of the shadows, how it felt to be mocked and bullied.
God, she’d come a long way.
“I guarantee you will find a project and you won’t be able to resist meddling,” Lulu told her, blue eyes laughing.
“Want to bet?” Fee asked her as they approached the enormous gates to what was Buck Blackwood’s—now Miranda’s—ranch. The gates to Blackwood Hollow appeared and she flung the car to the right and sped down the long driveway. Lu hissed and Fee grinned.
“What’s the bet?” Lulu asked, gripping the armrest with white fingers. “And you drive like a maniac.”
“You give me your recipe for Miss Annie’s fried chicken for my next cookbook, if I decide to do another one.” She’d been trying to pry Lulu’s grandma’s recipe from her since the first time Lulu fed her the delicious extra-crispy chicken at a small dinner five years earlier.
“She’ll come back and haunt me.” Lulu gasped, placing her hand on her chest. “I can’t. Just like you can’t stop yourself from meddling…”
“I can. And you know I can or else you wouldn’t be hesitating…”
Lu narrowed her eyes at Fee as they approached a cluster of buildings that looked like a Hollywood vision of a working ranch. A sprawling mansion, guest cottages, massive barns. Despite visiting the spread days before, it was still breathtaking.
“There’s the crew’s van.” Lulu pointed toward the far barn and Fee tapped the accelerator as she drove past the main house that went on and on and on.
“What could be so interesting down by the barns?” Fee wondered.
“That.”
Fee looked where Lulu pointed and…holy crispy fried chicken. A man riding a horse at a gallop around a ring shouldn’t be a surprise, but what a man and what a horse. Fee didn’t know horses—she thought the speckled black-and-white horse might be a stallion—but she did know men.
And the cowboy was one hell of a man. Broad shoulders, muscled thighs, big biceps straining the sleeves of his faded T-shirt. She couldn’t see the color of his hair or the lines on his face, the Stetson prevented her from making out the details, but his body was, like the horse, all sleek muscles and contained strength.
Hot, hot, hot…
He also looked familiar. Where did she know him from?
Fee took her foot off the accelerator and allowed the car to roll toward to where the other vehicles—the crew’s van, a battered work truck and a spiffy SUV—were parked. All her attention was focused on the horse and rider, perfectly in sync. He seemed oblivious to his audience: a couple of cowboys sitting on the top railing of the fence and Miranda, Rafaela and Zooey standing with their arms on the white pole fence, their attention completely captured by the rider hurtling around the ring in a blur of hooves and dust.
God, he was heading straight for the fence. They’d either crash through it or he’d have to jump it because there was no way he’d be able to stop the horse in time.
Fee released the wheel and slapped her hands over her mouth, her attention completely caught by the drama in the paddock. She wanted to scream out a warning and was on the point of doing so when the rider yanked on the reins and the stallion braked instantly, stopping when his nose was just an inch from the fence.
That collision didn’t happen, but another did when Fee’s very expensive rented Audi convertible slammed into the bumper of the battered farm truck.
Lulu released a small shriek and Fee flung her arm out in a futile effort to keep Lulu from lurching forward. Their seat belts kept them in place but metal scraped against metal and steam erupted from her car as the hood got up close and personal with the back of the rust-covered truck.
“Are you okay?” Fee demanded, looking at Lulu.
“Fine,” Lulu replied, then winced at the carnage in front of her. “Your car is toast, though—the hood is crumpled.”
“I can see that.” Fee nodded, releasing her seat belt. “How come it’s always the crap cars that sustain the least damage?”
“That crap car is a seventy-two Chevy pickup I am in the process of restoring.”
Fee yanked her eyes off Lulu and turned her head to the right, looking straight into faded denim covering strong thighs and a very nice package.
Strong, broad hands rested on his hips, the veins rising on his tanned forearms lightly covered with blond hair. The red T-shirt had faded to orange in places but the chest underneath it was broad and those biceps were big and bitable. His horse—had they jumped the fence to get to her so quickly?—laid its chin on the cowboy’s shoulder but neither she, nor the cowboy, were distracted by the animal’s interference in their conversation.
Fee kept her focus on him, utterly entranced by his strong face, the blond stubble covering his chiseled jaw, the thin lips, the long, straight nose. The feeling of familiarity coalesced into certainty, she’d seen him before, this cowboy—here at Blackwood Hollow a few days before—but she couldn’t recall his name. Probably because he’d just fried most of her brain cells.
She wanted to see his eyes; no, she needed to see his eyes. On impulse, Fee clambered up to stand on her car seat.
God he was tall. Fee pushed the rim of his Stetson up with her finger, her eyes clashing with the deepest, saddest, green-gold-gray eyes.
Hard eyes, angry eyes, sad, sad eyes.
Fee couldn’t decide what she wanted to do more, hug him or jump him.
Save the horse and ride the cowboy, indeed.
Clint Rockwell was a guy of few words but if Buck Blackwood were magically resurrected, he’d have had more than a few to hurl at his friend and mentor’s head. What the hell had he been thinking to ask Clint to mind the property during his long illness and after his death?
Since Buck’s funeral, Clint had been coming over to Blackwood Hollow a few times a week, to check on the hands and to exercise Buck’s demon horse, Jack.
He and Jack were finally starting to bond and their skills were improving. Clint lifted his hand to hold Jack’s cheek, enjoying the puffs of horse breath against his neck.
Animals were cool; people were not.
People hurt people—and sometimes things, his pickup being a case in point. Ignoring Jack, Clint walked over to the hood of the Audi convertible and dropped to his haunches to inspect the damage to his pickup. He didn’t much care about the damage to the convertible, they were dime a dozen, but his truck was vintage and worth a pretty penny.
Hey, Rock, if I don’t make it, finish my truck for me. Only original parts, man, gold and cream.
You are going to make it because if you don’t, I’m going to paint it pink and white, Clint had told him, his hand in the hole in Tim’s chest, trying to stem the river of blood soaking his hand, Tim’s clothing and the dirt road beneath them.
They’d both known Clint’s optimism was a lie, that Tim needed blood and a surgeon and that he was out of time.
I’ll haunt you if you do anything stupid to my baby, Tim had muttered.
This accident probably qualified as a haunting.
Hell, Clint didn’t sleep anyway, so Tim was welcome to pop in for a chat. His army ranger buddies were the only people Clint liked being around for any length of time, the only people on the planet who understood. They’d seen what he had, had watched men they loved be blown apart, women and children die, buildings being ravaged and lives destroyed.
They got him.
Civilians didn’t.
Oh, the people in this town tried, sure. No man with his money and property ever had to be lonely if he didn’t want to be. He wanted to be. His army days were behind him and he was now a rancher and oilman—more rancher than oilman, truth be told. His land and animals were what mattered.
Shaking off his thoughts, Clint stood up, automatically using his good leg to take his weight. He had to stop doing that; he had to start treating his prosthetic as another leg but, shit, it was hard. Leaving the force had been hard, losing a limb had nearly killed him and being forced to deal with people, civilians, was the cherry on his crap sundae.
Clint turned and cursed when he saw he was the focus of much attention and quickly, and automatically, took in all the salient details. Since he was still ignoring the driver of the convertible—he wasn’t ready to deal with her yet—he turned his attention to the passenger. Sporting glossy black hair with dark eyes, she’d left the car and was standing with Miranda Blackwood, Buck’s ex-wife. With them was also a fresh-faced beauty and an Italian bombshell who reminded him of one of Grandpa’s favorite actresses, Sophia Loren.
The four women, Buck’s ex-wife and her reality TV co-stars, watched him with avid interest. They looked as out of place as he would on a catwalk, their spiked heels digging into the grass, designer sunglasses covering their eyes.
The Blackwood ranch hands couldn’t keep their eyes off them…
He uttered a low, sharp order for them to get back to work and they hopped off the fence with alacrity, tossing admiring looks at the New Yorkers as they ambled off.
The next problem was to get the cars untangled so he could accurately assess the damage to Tim’s truck. But first he had to take care of Jack: animals first, things later.
Clint called out to a hand and when he jogged back to where Clint was standing, Clint passed him Jack’s reins. “Can you cool him down, then brush him for me?”
“Sure, boss.”
Clint didn’t correct him since he was, by Buck’s decree, the temporary boss. And ordering people around wasn’t something new to him; he’d been the owner–operator of Rockwell Ranch since he was eighteen and a lieutenant in Delta Force. Despite their enormous wealth, thanks to ranching and business acumen and large deposits of oil, serving was family tradition: his great grandfather saw action in France in 1917, his grandfather fought the Japanese in the Philippines. His father did two years in the military but never saw any action. His dad didn’t see much of anything, having died shortly before Clint’s fifth birthday.
Anyway, it felt natural to join the army, and then it felt natural to become one of the best of the best.
Excellence was what he did.
Jack stepped on his foot as he walked away—bastard horse—and Clint didn’t react. If he’d been alone, he’d have told Jack he’d lost his leg above the knee and having his foot stood on barely registered on his pain-o-meter but there were people about. He never discussed his prosthetic leg, ever.
Mostly because he was allergic to pity and he was terrified of people thinking he was weak. He might be half the man he’d once been but he’d rather die than allow people to coddle him.
He didn’t need anybody or anything…not anymore.
But he did need this damn car moved.
“Look, I’m sorry, I lost focus.”
She sounded more defensive than sorry, Clint decided as he walked back to the driver’s door of the Audi. The driver was now sitting on the top of the front seat, brand-new cowboy boots on the white leather. Clint started there, at those feet, and slowly made his way upward. Now that the red haze had lifted from his vision—he was still mad as hell but he was in control—he could take in the details.
Holy crap…
Slim legs in skin-tight blue jeans, curvy hips and a teeny waist he was sure he could span with his hands. She wore a lacy, button-down shirt and a heap of funky necklaces. Two thick braids, deep brown at the top and lighter at the ends, rested on a fantastic pair of breasts.
He lifted his eyes to her face, his mouth dry. Yep, she had a rocking body but her face was 100 percent gorgeous. A stubborn chin, a mouth made for kissing, high cheekbones and merry, mischievous, naughty eyes—deep brown—framed by long, long lashes and a cocky pair of eyebrows.
A straw Stetson covered her head.
She might be pint-sized but Clint just knew every inch of her was trouble
He jerked his head sharply. “Move.”
She cocked her head and sent him a slow smile. “No.”
Okay, admittedly he hadn’t had a lot of interaction with people lately but when he used his don’t-mess-with-me voice, people generally hustled. “What?”
“Say please.”
Clint stared at her, not sure he’d heard her correctly. Shaking his head, he tried again. “Lady, move.”
The smile grew sweeter. And deadlier. “No.”
What the everlasting…
“Have you heard of the phrases please and thank you?” she asked, cocking her head.
She was lecturing him on manners? She’d dinged his truck, probably putting back his restoration by months and months, had barely apologized herself and then had the balls to throw his manners in his face?
Red haze descending again, he didn’t trust himself to speak so Clint took the next easiest option. Stepping up to the car, he swiftly slid one arm under her knees, the other around her slim back and swung her off her perch.
But instead of placing her feet on the ground, he held her to his chest, fighting the wave of lust running through him. There was something about the soft, fragrant give of a woman, the curve of her hip beneath his fingers, the softness of her breast pushing into his chest. Her minty breath, the surprise in those deep dark eyes.
Soft, sexy lips he desperately wanted to taste…
God, he needed sex. It had been a while…another thing that changed when he lost his leg. He hated pity, from others and loathed a woe-is-me attitude but experience had taught him that normal women, women who weren’t loons and gold diggers, weren’t crazy about one one-legged guys with too many scars to count. His girlfriend sure as hell hadn’t.
“So, this is comfortable,” she purred, looking as relaxed as if she was stretched out on a lounger by a sparkling pool, margarita in her hand.
Did anything faze her?
Wanting to find out, Clint loosened his grip on her and she fell a few inches before he caught her again. Instead of squealing she just tightened her arms around his neck and those eyes, the color of his favorite dark chocolate, met his. “You wouldn’t drop me.”
“Watch me.” Knowing there was a half decimated, now loosely packed hay bale behind him, he whipped her around and released her. Her face reflected her horror and anger as she braced to hit the hard ground. When her pretty butt landed on the hay, her eyes widened and her comical what-just-happened expression almost made him smile.
But he didn’t. Because smiling wasn’t something he did anymore.
Pulling his eyes off his faux cowgirl, he hopped into the convertible, cranked the engine and released the brake. Slapping the car into Reverse, he pulled away from his truck and stared down at the dashboard, noticing the flashing warning lights. Water, oil, temperature were all going nuts. Yep, she wasn’t going anywhere, anytime soon.
Not his problem…
Clint cut the engine and exited the car. Ignoring the tiny woman who was trying to extract herself from the inside of the hay bale, he walked over to his truck and slapped his hand on his hip. It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. The tailgate was damaged but he was pretty sure he could find another. The lights were broken but he knew a guy who had spares. It would cost him but he could afford to pay for the damage.
Actually, he should just get the peanut to pay. Judging by the rocking diamond ring on her right hand and the fat diamond studs she wore in her ears, she could afford to pay the bill out of pocket rather than forcing him to haggle with an insurance agency.
He tossed a look over his shoulder at her. “I expect you to pay for the repairs. Twenty grand should cover it.” Twenty thousand was ten times more than he needed but he figured she should pay for inconveniencing him. “I don’t want to wait for the insurance company, so you can pay me and fight with them.”
Her head jerked up and she pushed up the brim of her cowboy hat to glare at him. “What?”
“I want twenty K. Preferably in cash.”
Those eyes hardened. “Are you off your meds? I’m not paying you twenty grand! You could buy a new truck for less than that.”
Sure, but could he buy a 1972 Chevy pickup with an original, hardly used engine, original seats and fixtures? Not damn likely.
“You can find me at Rockwell Ranch. Don’t make me come looking for you,” Clint warned her as he walked around the hood of his truck to the driver’s door. He climbed in, grabbing the steering wheel and pulling himself up, his upper body strength compensating for his missing limb. Slamming the door closed, he rested his arm on the window, surprised to see she was still glaring at him, utterly unintimidated.
Now that was a surprise because Clint knew his hard face, gruff voice and taciturn attitude scared most people off.
Instead of being frightened, she stomped over to him, pieces of hay stuck in her braid. Intrigued to see what she would do, or say, he held her hot gaze.
“You need a lesson in manners.”
“Probably. I also need sex. Are you offering that too?”
Instead of blushing or throwing her hands up in the air, insulted, she narrowed her eyes. “In your dreams, cowboy. Who do you think—”
“Who are you?” he interrupted her, purely to be ornery.
“Fee… Seraphina Martinez.”
Fee suited her. Seraphina didn’t.
And that mouth. It was sassy and sensuous and made for sex. Talking? Not so much.
“Bring the money to my ranch—don’t make me come looking for you,” Clint told her, thinking he’d better leave before he did something stupid, like using his own mouth to cut off the tirade that was, obviously, coming.
Shit, he was losing it.
“I’m ten miles down the road. You’ll see the gates.” Clint cranked the engine and placed his hand on the gear stick. He tapped his Stetson with two fingers.
“Ma’am,” he said, purely to irritate her.
Annoyance and frustration jumped into her eyes. “Don’t you �ma’am’ me! I will get you to learn some manners.”
Hell, if she was under him, naked, he’d learn anything she wanted him to. Enough now, Rock, drive off.
“Honey, I don’t do people so I don’t do manners. I just need my twenty K.”
“When pigs fly,” Fee muttered, her hands on those curvy hips. Clint looked at her mouth again and fought the urge to leave the car, haul her into his arms and taste it. To inhale her sweet scent and pull her into his—he looked down—rock-hard erection.
Over the roar of his engine, he heard one of the women shout across to the fake cowgirl. “Is he going to be your next project, Fee?”
Fee looked at him and her smile chilled him to his core. “You know what? I rather think he is.”
What the hell did she mean by that?
Time to go.
Clint slammed his pickup into Reverse, conscious that all the New Yorkers were still staring at him. But he only wanted to see the brunette with the smart mouth and tempting curves in his rearview mirror. She was sexy as hell and, because he wasn’t a total idiot, he’d noticed her attraction to him.
Clint barreled down the driveway and tossed his Stetson onto the empty seat next to him. He’d seen her checking him out and suspected she liked what she’d seen, up to a point. He’d worked hella hard to build his core, chest and back muscles. Women liked his top half but, these days, his bottom half caused him problems.
Hell, both the women—his mom and his girlfriend—he’d ever loved had been unable to come to terms with his disability…
The memories rolled back and Clint forced himself to face them. On returning from Afghanistan, he’d spent a couple of months in hospital recovering after his amputation and when he got back to the ranch, he’d spent a few more months in bed, sleeping and smoking and drinking.
Carla, his long-time girlfriend, had immediately moved in to take care of him and she’d run around, waiting on him hand and foot. It didn’t matter to her that he could afford to hire teams of nurses, doctors and physiotherapists. Family money, lots and lots of money, gave him access to the best health care on the planet but Carla only allowed the bare minimum of people to have access to him.
She’d insisted on fussing over him herself, coddling and mothering him. But, as his depression lifted, he realized that he didn’t like the flabby, bloated, unhealthy man he saw in the mirror. He’d always been a fitness fanatic and because he was sick of feeling sick and miserable, he turned two rooms of his ranch house into a state-of-the-art gym.
As he got fitter, and more adept with his prosthetic, he became more independent and Carla had mentally, and physically, retreated. And when his sex drive finally returned, she’d retreated some more. When he’d finally convinced her that he was well enough, strong enough, for sex and taken his prosthetic off, she bolted.
Never to be seen again.
Thanks to his frequent absences due to his career in the military, they’d drifted apart and his accident pulled them back together again. She adored his dependence on her, loved being so very needed and had he stayed that way, she might’ve stuck around. But being weak wasn’t something Clint did. Weakness wasn’t part of his DNA.
His sex life didn’t improve after she left. He’d tried a couple of one-night stands and neither were successful. One woman left when she saw his leg, another, the next morning, acted like she’d done him the biggest favor by sleeping with him and Clint decided that climaxes with strangers weren’t worth the humiliation.
It had been two years since he got laid and, yeah, he missed sex. And when he met someone he was instantly, ridiculously attracted to, as he’d been to that brunette back there, he missed it more than ever.
But sex was just sex; he wouldn’t die from not getting any.
He didn’t think.
Clint felt his phone vibrating in the back pocket of his jeans and lifted his butt cheek to pull it out. Glancing down at the screen, he saw the Dallas area code and recognized the number as one of his mother’s.
The mother he no longer spoke to.
Clint briefly wondered why she, or more likely her PA or another lackey, was calling. It had been years since they’d last spoken but he didn’t answer the call. He had nothing to say to his mom. Not anymore…
Mila had blown into the hospital to visit with him before his operation and he’d been cynically surprised by her show of support as she’d never been an attentive, involved mother.
Back in his room after the operation that took his leg, he’d hadn’t felt strong enough to deal with his intense news-anchor mother and he’d pretended to still be under the anesthetic, hoping she’d go away. He’d just wanted the world to leave him alone but his hearing hadn’t disappeared along with his leg and Mila’s softly spoken words drifted over to him.
So, I’m here, he’s still out so what now?
I’ve arranged for the press to photograph you leaving the hospital after visiting your war-hero son. Clint had recognized the voice as Greg’s, Mila’s business manager, whom he’d met a few times over the years. He was, so Mila said, the power behind Mila’s rise to being one of the most famous, powerful and respected women in Dallas.
So, try to look worried, distressed. And proud.
I’m going to have to act my ass off, Mila had moaned. He’s, like…repulsive.
Jesus, Mila, he’s your son, Greg had said, sounding, to his credit, horrified.
I like pretty and I like perfect. He’s never been perfect but before he went off to play at war, he was at least pretty, Mila had retorted. Thank God he has that girlfriend because I’m certainly not prepared to be his nurse.
Wow. Her words laid down just another hot layer of pain.
With her words bouncing off his brain, Clint had slipped into sleep and a six-month depression. Carla and his mother were the reasons he’d worked his butt off to become, as much as possible, the person he was before the surgery. He never wanted to be dependent on anyone ever again, not for help, sex or even company. Carla had wanted to help him too much, his mother not at all, but Clint was happy to be shot of them both.
All he wanted was for the few people he chose to interact with to see past his injury to the man he was. And he couldn’t do that if he flaunted his prosthetic so he never, ever allowed anyone to see his bionic leg.
And if giving up sex was the price he paid for his independence then he’d happily live with the lack of below-the-belt action. Nothing was more important to him than his independence. And his pride.
But some days, like today, a woman came along who made him wonder, who made him burn. But he was nothing if not single-minded, and like the others he’d felt a fleeting attraction to, he wouldn’t act on it.
No woman was ever worth the hassle.
Two (#ubefa6117-8a72-5b8d-b3e2-420ac1fc8529)
Fee slid into a booth in Royal’s diner and nodded her appreciation. Every time she walked through the doors, she had the same thought: that this was what a diner should look like: 1950s-style decor, red fake-leather booths, black-and-white checkerboard linoleum floor and the suggestion that gossip flowed through here like a river.
She rather liked Royal, Texas. It was, obviously, everything New York City wasn’t—a slow-paced small town with space to breathe.
From being yanked from town to town with her parents, Fee had honed the ability to immediately discern whether a town would, temporarily, suit her or not. She’d hated Honolulu—weird, right?—and loved Pensacola, tolerated Tacoma and loved Charleston. But something about Royal called to her; she felt at ease here.
She would never belong anywhere—Manhattan was where she’d chosen to work and socialize but it still wasn’t home, she didn’t think any place would be—but Royal was intriguing.
Strange that this small town with its wide, clean streets and eclectic mix of people and shops was where she felt more relaxed than she had in a long, long time.
Fee grinned. If she kept on this mental train, soon she would be thinking she could live on a ranch and raise cows. She snorted and looked down at her manicured fingers and soft hands. This from a girl who believed meat came from the supermarket and eggs from cardboard cartons?
Now, crotchety Clint Rockwell looked like he was born to ride the range. The man was one sexy cowboy. Pity he had the personality of a rabid raccoon. Fee put her hand on the box lying on the table and grinned.
Twenty thousand to fix a heap of rust? Ok, that wasn’t fair, it was vintage truck and probably rare but the repair, from her research, wouldn’t cost that much! She knew she was being hustled; she wasn’t the village idiot.
Well, she might be a reality TV star but she was a pragmatic reality TV star and she didn’t hand out money like it was M&M’s.
If he hadn’t been such a snot she might’ve tossed in a few extra grand to compensate him for the inconvenience but the guy had taken jerk to a whole new level…
He needed to be brought down a peg or six.
Fee heard the door to the diner swing open and watched as Lulu threaded her way through the tables to fall into the seat opposite her. Like her, Lulu had also dressed down in jeans. In her case, they were topped with a simple white, thigh-length jersey, a brightly colored scarf in a complicated knot around her neck. Lu slapped a paper folder on the table between them and frowned at the board game Fee had purchased from the toy shop down the road. It was a game to teach kids about money and, importantly, the notes inside looked remarkably real.
“I’m sure we can find something to do in Royal that doesn’t include board games,” Lulu stated.
Fee grinned. “I’m not playing with you. I’m going to play with someone else.”
“You’re going to pay him in toy money?” Lulu caught on instantly. That was one of the many reasons they were best friends. “Oh, clever.”
Fee put her hands together as if to pray and bowed her head. “Thank you. Did the Secret Lives researcher dig up any information on Clint Rockwell?” she demanded, pulling the folder to her. “I mean, I don’t think he’s one of Royal’s leading lights—not with a personality like his—but maybe he made the papers because he did something stupid. I can see him busting up a bar or racking up speeding tickets, maybe breaking and entering…”
“You have a hell of an imagination,” Lulu commented, thanking the waitress when she offered coffee.
Fee was certain that Clint Rockwell was not the boy next door, not someone who was part of the Chamber of Commerce or a member of the illustrious Texas Cattleman’s Club.
He was an outsider, a loner, someone who didn’t do group events. Someone mysterious, possibly dangerous…
Fee flipped open the folder and looked down to see a photograph of Rockwell looking very un-farmy. In this photograph, his short dark-blond hair was covered by a tan beret immediately identifying him as an army ranger. He wore a dark blue dress uniform with about a million medals on his chest, including a Purple Heart.
Well, she’d gotten one thing right—as part of that elite regiment, he was definitely dangerous.
Fee was about to move the photograph to the side when she heard the waitress sigh. Fee looked up to find the young girl’s eyes firmly on the photograph. Fee couldn’t blame her for taking a moment. Rockwell, looking like Captain America in his dress blues, was definitely sigh worthy.
“It’s so sad.”
Fee exchanged a look with Lulu and frowned. “What’s so sad?” Lulu asked the waitress, whose name tag stated she was Julie.
Julie gestured to the photograph with her coffee carafe. “Clint Rockwell. Poor guy.”
Ooh, gossip. Fee leaned back, her full attention on the waitress. “Why? What happened to him?”
“He’s a Rockwell, so obviously there’s no shortage of cash. Like his daddy, his granddaddy and his granddaddy before him, Clint is an oilman and a rancher. But he leases his oil fields and occupies himself with his ranch. And with coordinating Royal’s volunteer fire department.”
Fee’s head spun with all the information. She held up a hand. “He’s a fireman too?”
“Apparently, he did some firefighting course in California before he enlisted.” Julie pulled her eyebrows together, looking a little confused. “Where was I? Right, his daddy died when he was young, really young, and he and his mama don’t talk.”
Yeah, that was sad. Her parents might have hauled her from pillar to post and back to pillar but they were now settled in Florida and she saw them occasionally. In fact, she was heading there shortly to spend Christmas with them. They weren’t super close but she knew she was loved, in an abstract kind of way.
“The Rockwells are a Royal institution, a founding family and really rich.”
“How rich?” Fee asked, as direct as always.
“Mega,” Julie replied.
And he was stiffing her for twenty grand? The bastard!
“What else can you tell me about him?” Fee asked, her temper bubbling.
“He lost his leg in a helicopter crash. That’s how he earned his Purple Heart. His leg was mangled. His whole unit was seriously injured. Apparently, the helicopter crashed in an enemy-controlled area and he, and another guy, held off the bad guys until reinforcements arrived. Half of his unit survived, but Clint lost his leg.”
Fee frowned at Julie, not understanding. “He lost his leg?” She’d noticed he walked with a slight limp but never suspected he wore a prosthetic.
Julie nodded. “Yeah. That’s why he left the army.” Julie shrugged. “Ever since he got back, he’s become a bit of a recluse and doesn’t have much to do with Royal residents, except for the volunteer firefighters. And he never, ever talks about his tours, his regiment or his injury. Like, ever.”
Someone called Julie and she sent them an apologetic smile. “Sorry, got to go.”
Fee transferred her gaze to Lulu, who looked equally disbelieving. “He’s disabled?”
“He looked plenty abled,” Fee replied. “I would never have thought…”
“Holy crap.” Lulu rested her hand on her heart. “Hot, brave and sexy—I think I might be a little in love with him.”
Fee felt a surge of jealousy and did an internal eye roll. What was wrong with her? Flipping the folder closed—why had they sent the researcher to the local library when the source of good information could be pumped for details over coffee?—Fee stared out of the window and watched the activity on the street outside.
Did this information change anything? She was as much a sucker for a wounded war hero as the next person and she had a million questions. Why was he a loner? How had he managed to master his prosthetic leg to be able to ride as he did? Why was he holding her up for twenty grand if he was loaded? But mostly, she just needed to figure out whether this changed her plans.
If he hadn’t lost his leg, she wouldn’t have hesitated to confront him and toss the fake money in his face. But should this revelation really hold her back? Her thinking she should go easy on him because he’d lost a leg was insulting in the extreme. He’d already proven he could more than handle her, and lost leg or not, the guy needed to learn some manners.
“You’re still going to confront him,” Lulu stated, sounding resigned.
“Damn straight I am.”
“He’s pretty intimidating, Fee,” Lulu said, concern in her voice. “I’m not sure whether you should go out to his ranch alone.”
Fee instinctively shook her head. “He’s not going to hurt me, Lu. Oh, his tongue might raise some blisters, but he’d never raise a hand to me.”
“How do you know?”
Fee lifted both shoulders and ran her hand through her hair. “I have a strong gut feeling about him. He’s not dangerous…sad, confused, bitter, sure. But he won’t hurt me.”
Lulu sighed. “And you see his lack of manners and his rudeness as a challenge.”
“Sure. Someone needs to set him straight. I’m sorry he lost a leg but it doesn’t give him the right to act like an ass.”
Lulu pinned her to her seat with hard eyes. “Oh, I know you, Seraphina Martinez—and I know what this is really about. Yes, bad manners and rudeness annoy you, but you also see him as a challenge. You want to know if you can be the one who can break through to him, make him more sociable.”
Fee avoided eye contact, waiting for Lulu to drop the topic. But her friend wasn’t done.
“I don’t think he’s going to like being one of your projects, Fee,” Lulu told her, worry coating every word. “He’s not going to bend under the force of your personality and if he wanted friends, he would make his own. You don’t need to rescue every stray who comes across your path, Seraphina.”
Lulu’s use of her full name was a solid clue to her seriousness. Fee wrinkled her nose. “Do I really do that?”
“You know you do! You have the strongest rescue gene of anyone I know! He’s a veteran, you have a soft spot for soldiers because you grew up on an army base. Add hero and wounded to the mix and you want to wrap him up in a blanket and coddle him.”
“I’d rather unwrap him and do him,” Fee admitted. She pulled a face and forced the words out. “I’m crazy attracted to him, Lu.”
“Any woman, and more than a few guys, would be,” Lulu replied. “And that’s okay. Although you’re not big on one-night stands or brief flings, if you want to sleep with him, do. But when he puts his clothes back on, don’t try to fix him, Fee. Respect his right to be alone, to choose how he interacts with the world. From the sound of it, he’s gone through hell and back. If he wants to be left alone, he’s earned the right.” Lulu gripped her hand and continued. “Fixing him might make you feel better but it’s not about you, it’s about him.”
Lu’s words smacked her in the chest. She stared down at the folder, her breath a little ragged. She did like the feeling of accomplishment she got when she managed to solve someone else’s problems. Sometimes it felt like she was filling in pieces of herself. But Lu was right, this wasn’t a makeover, or a blind date, or a rescued horse. This was a man of pride, honor and discipline who’d served his country with distinction. He’d trained hard, sacrificed much, seen and experienced situations no one should have to see and she had no right to make judgments about his life. Or to presume she knew what was best for him.
Fee pulled in a deep breath and met Lulu’s eyes. “Okay.”
“Okay…what?”
“Okay, I won’t try to fix him, to rescue him from his lonely life,” Fee clarified. “But I am going to confront him about his rudeness and his lack of manners. You can be a hermit without being an ass.”
Lulu slapped her hand against her forehead and groaned. “And are you still going to pay him off with toy money?”
Fee nodded. “Damn right I am.”
“And are you going to sleep with him?”
She couldn’t lie, she was very tempted. Fee lifted one shoulder and both her hands. “He’s tempting, so tempting, and I shouldn’t…”
“But?”
Fee didn’t want to be attracted to him, and as God and Lulu knew, she wasn’t in the habit of falling into bed with guys on a whim—or at all—but she didn’t think she could resist the sexy, sad, rude cowboy. “But if he asks me, I just might.”
Clint hated surprise visitors—he never wanted to be caught without his prosthetic or using crutches—so he’d installed cameras all over the ranch and had them wirelessly connected so they sent an alert to his phone whenever he had company. He grabbed his cell from the back pocket of his jeans, pulled up the screen connecting him to his camera feed and saw another convertible—red, this time—flying up his driveway.
Yep, she was back.
Clint, walking a mare that had colic, whistled and when Darren’s head popped out from a stall, he jerked his head. “Can you carry on walking Belle for me?”
Darren’s eyes widened with concern. “LT, I have no experience with horses and this one is, so I hear, one of your best.”
Clint smiled at the familiar nickname for lieutenant. “It’s just walking, Darren, and we’re civilians now—you can call me Clint. If you run into trouble with her or you think something is wrong, just yell for Brad. He’ll hear you and take over.”
Brad, his foreman, didn’t always agree with his policy of hiring out-of-work veterans instead of experienced hands but Clint insisted that learning to muck out stalls and fix fences didn’t require experience. The ranch needed people who wanted to work and there were so many vets needing to find a way to support themselves and their families.
And, as he knew, open skies, fresh air and animals were a great way to deal with the memories of war.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Darren nodded, took the reins and led the horse to the entrance of the stable. Clint broke into a jog, heading for his dirt bike parked just outside. Gunning the accelerator, he headed back to his house, cutting around the back of the stables to arrive at the main house at the same time she did.
They both cut their engines at the same time and Clint rested his forearms on the handlebars of his bike, watching her from behind his dark glasses and the brim of his Stetson. The sun was starting to dip and he could probably ditch both but they provided a shield he badly needed…
He couldn’t let her know how attracted he was to her, how he wanted nothing more than to take her inside and get her naked and horizontal.
Actually, he just needed her naked because vertical worked too.
Clint watched as she shoved an expensive pair of designer shades into her hair, the arms raking her loose curls off her face. She wore less makeup today than she had yesterday. Her lips were a pale pink instead of bright red and her outfit consisted of a cranberry-colored jersey that worked well with her creamy skin and those brilliant dark eyes.
God, she was hot. He couldn’t invite her into the house: first, because his crutches were leaning against the wall in the hallway—he’d put on his leg while sitting on the bench in the hallway early this morning—and second because he wasn’t sure he could resist her.
Fee opened the door of the rental and climbed out, shapely legs in tight blue jeans tucked into low-heeled, knee-high boots. The jersey clung to her breasts and curves of her hips and Clint felt all the moisture leave his mouth.
He’d stormed houses filled with terrorists in Afghanistan, had faced down a Somalian warlord and protected his guys while they waited for an evac after the crash but he’d never experienced such a dry mouth.
But this woman, with her black-brown hair and expressive eyes, managed to achieve what a dozen treacherous situations hadn’t…
And that scared the crap out of him, which added another layer to his grouch.
“Have you got my money?” he demanded, staying where he was.
“Hello, Fee, how are you? Did you find the place okay?” Fee singsonged, calling attention yet again to his lack of manners.
Tough. He didn’t have the time and energy to play nice; he just wanted her to be gone before he made a stupid suggestion like, “Let’s go to bed.”
Because that was a disaster waiting to happen. He’d have to explain he was missing a limb and then, if she didn’t rabbit, he’d have to wait and see if she could deal with his stump and scars.
Such fun…
Nope, it was a game he was better off not playing.
“You’re wasting my time, Martinez,” Clint warned, dismounting the bike and pocketing the keys. He waited for her at the bottom of the stairs leading up to his wraparound porch and the front door. He wouldn’t invite her inside but they could, at least, get out of the sun.
Instead of following him, Fee placed her hands on her hips and tipped her head back to look at the house he still thought of as his Grandpa’s—the place where he’d visited the family patriarch every summer from the time of his dad’s death when Clint was five until he turned eighteen and enlisted.
At the time he hadn’t cared where the army sent him, as long as it kept him away from his mother’s hounding to study law or something equally boring. He couldn’t have known that shortly after he enlisted, his beloved grandpa would die, and Clint would become the fifth Rockwell to own the land.
Grandpa Rockwell always said that he didn’t want the land to be a burden, to be a noose around his neck. He’d been the biggest supporter of his military career so Clint hadn’t felt the need to rush home when he died, comfortable to place the ranch in Brad’s capable hands until his return.
He’d always preferred the ranching side of his inheritance so he’d leased his oil fields. Years later, he was still happy for someone else to deal with that side of the business.
“I like your house,” Fee said, and he frowned at the note of surprise in her voice. “It’s big, obviously, like everything else in Texas, but it’s not ostentatious. I don’t do ostentatious.”
“Says the girl driving another fast, expensive convertible,” he drawled.
Fee looked back at the car and her husky laughter surprised him. “Touché. But I’m a real gearhead and I don’t get to drive as often as I’d like to.”
“I’m sure all the residents of New York City are eternally grateful for that fact, because you have a lead foot,” Clint said. “And how did you charm the rental company into trusting you with another fast car after your crash yesterday?”
“I apologized sincerely and asked them nicely,” Fee retorted, her eyes flashing with irritation.
“You didn’t apologize to me,” Clint pointed out.
“I tried to! But then you started barking orders and tossing me into hay bales!”
Clint lifted his index finger. “One. One hay bale.”
Fee rolled her eyes. “Whatever… Anyway, you should try this thing called charm or, this is a radical idea so beware, a smile. Oh, your face might crack but I think you’ll survive the experience.”
Clint felt the corner of his mouth twitch with amusement. He loved her sassy mouth and now rather liked the fact that he didn’t intimidate her. He walked up onto the porch and gestured to a cluster of outdoor furniture to the left of the door.
“Take a seat.”
Fee’s winged eyebrows shot up. “Ooh, manners. There’s hope for you yet.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Clint replied, putting his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. He watched as she sat on the arm of one wicker chair, casually draping one gorgeous leg over the other and tucking her foot behind her calf. Such a female, sexy movement, full of grace and charm.
Clint waited her out, knowing silence was usually a good way to hurry the conversation along by forcing the other person to talk. But Fee confounded him again by ignoring his scowl and silence, seemingly content to watch the mares frolicking in the paddock closest to the house.
Why couldn’t this woman do what he expected her to?
Clint rocked on his heels, his eyes constantly dropping to her lips, wondering whether she tasted as spicy as she sounded. He eventually broke their silence. “Why are you here, Seraphina?”
Fee flashed a smile and leaned down to tuck her hand into her very large leather bag—big enough to carry a change of clothes, a bag of groceries and a saddle or two—and pulled out a couple of rolls of cash. He saw a fifty-dollar bill under the rubber band of one and a hundred-dollar bill around the other. He sucked in his breath.
He’d been annoyed yesterday and tossed out twenty thousand as a figure, hoping to annoy her. But, judging by the cash she’d brought along, she’d taken him seriously.
He couldn’t take her money, not now and not ever.
Clint was about to tell her to put it away when he noticed the rolls seemed irregular, that not all the edges of the bills lined up. If he hadn’t been so distracted by her, he would’ve immediately noticed that something was wrong with the roll, that her sweet, innocent expression was as fake as hell.
Oh, hell no, she wouldn’t dare…
He held out his hand and instead of handing the first one over, she threw it at his chest. He caught the first one, then the second and tucked it under his arm, snapping the rubber band off the first.
Yep, as he thought. A real note covering fake money. Toy money…
Clint felt a bubble of laughter rise within him, tried to swallow it and failed. When his husky-from-lack-of-use chuckle filled the space between them, he was as surprised as Fee.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed…
He heard Fee’s smothered laugh, a cross between a hiccup and a giggle. And because he wanted to taste his laughter on her lips, because he wanted to taste her, Clint moved quickly and, after placing his hands on either side of the arm of the chair, bent down and kissed her.
And immediately wished he hadn’t.
Because, as their lips touched, as her mouth opened and her fingers came up to touch the scruff on his jaw, he knew he’d never be satisfied with just one kiss…
He wanted more. Much, much more.
He was a grouch and a grump, curmudgeonly and contrary, but hellfire, the man could kiss. Fee found herself surging to her feet, her arms looping around his neck, her breasts pushing into his chest. She felt his big hand on the top of her butt, pulling her into a very thick, concrete-hard erection, and she whimpered in delight.
He was so big, everywhere. Fee found herself on her tiptoes, straining to align their mouths, knowing they’d both have cricks in their necks at the end of this make-out session. Clint solved the problem by placing his hands on her hips and boosting her up against his body, holding her weight with ease. What else was a girl to do but wind her legs around his trim waist, hook them behind his back and slide her most sensitive spot over his impressive bulge?
Fee heard Clint’s moan of appreciation and then his hand encircled the top of her leg, his fingers on the inside of her thigh, and Fee wished he had his hands on her naked flesh, that she could feel his clever mouth sucking her nipples, maybe even going lower.
His mouth, as she was coming to learn, was a weapon of mass temptation. Fee knew that if he asked, she’d eagerly follow him into his house and down the hallway to his bedroom, or whether he decided to stop. She would take whatever he’d give her, grateful to be the recipient of the profound pleasure he managed to pull to the surface.
They didn’t need to talk, their bodies were better at communicating than they were. Fee felt Clint take a step and she felt the hard coolness of wood through her jeans, dimly realizing he’d planted her on the wide sill of a window.
He lifted his hands to hold her face, his thumbs caressing her cheekbones as he feathered kisses across her eyelids, down her temple. Fee closed her eyes, enjoying the moment of tenderness. Then Clint covered her right breast with his hand, and her nipple tightened, rising against the fabric of her sweater to press into his palm. Clint jerked his head back, looked at her with stormy eyes and muttered a quiet obscenity.
“Why aren’t you pushing me away?” he hoarsely demanded.
“Why would I, since you kiss like a dream?” Fee responded, her voice just this side of breathy. Hearing his sharp intake of air, Fee decided to rock his boat a little more. “You are abrupt and annoying but, God, you know how to touch me.”
Clint ran his knuckles up her ribcage and across her nipple. “Like this?” His fingers burrowed under her sweater and landed on her bare skin.
“Exactly like that,” Fee murmured. Then Clint pulled down the lacy cup of her bra and pulled her nipple with his fingers. Fee couldn’t help crying out.
Fee put her hand behind his head and shook her head. “No, don’t stop! Do it again.”
Clint’s repeated the action and Fee arched her back, dropped her leg and banged her heel against the back of his lower thigh, just above his knee. Instead of bone and sinew, the heel of her boot bounced off metal hidden behind the fabric of his jeans.
Clint reacted like he’d been scorched. Leaping backward, he put a healthy amount of distance between them. He stared down at the floor as Fee tried to make sense of why he stopped.
The answer came to her on a quiet whisper: she’d kicked his prosthetic leg.
Well, okay then. No big deal…
“Come back here and kiss me, Rockwell,” Fee suggested, wanting, no, needing his mouth on hers. She wasn’t done with him, not yet.
Clint had frozen, his big arms folded across his chest, his face a blank mask. She didn’t like the lack of emotion in his eyes, in his expression. She could handle pissed off and irritated, turned on and taciturn, but she didn’t like this cyborg standing in front of her, acting like she was a fly he was getting ready to swat.
“I think it’s time you went home,” Clint said, in the blandest of bland tones. “You can take your gag money with you and start arrangements to pay me the twenty thousand we agreed upon.”
They were back to this, really? “That number is just something you pulled out of your ass to piss me off, we both know it’s stupidly excessive. As for leaving…”
Fee jumped down from the windowsill and walked up to Clint until her breasts brushed against his arms. She saw the flare of heat in his eyes and knew he was nowhere near as unaffected as he was pretending to be.
Good to know.
“I don’t like mixed signals, Rockwell. You can’t devour me one minute and ask me to leave the next.”
“On my spread, I can do anything I damn well like,” Clint muttered.
Fee cocked her head at his statement. “Now you’re just sounding petulant. It’s not a good look on you, Rockwell.”
Clint rubbed his hand over his face. “Will you just go? Please?”
“No, not until we talk about why you jumped away from me like you were hit by a bolt of lightning.”
Annoyance and frustration jumped into Clint’s eyes and Fee didn’t mind. She could deal with those emotions. She far preferred anger to his impassivity. “Let’s break it down, shall we?” she continued.
“Let’s not.”
Fee ignored him. “You touched my boob and I banged the back of my heel against your prosthetic leg. Now, because I know that couldn’t hurt you, there has to be another reason why you’re overreacting.”
Clint handed her a hard stare, his eyes reflecting confusion and more than a little fear. At what? What was the real problem here?
“You know I have a prosthetic leg.”
Yes, she did. It was the least important thing she’d discovered about him. “I also know you are a billionaire, you were some sort of super soldier and now you are a semi-recluse, much to the dismay of the Royal residents, who’ve placed you somewhere between God and Friday-night football.”
Finally, a hint of amusement touched his lips. “That’s a huge exaggeration since I have little to do with them.”
“Trust me, ten minutes dealing with your sarcasm and general orneriness would have them reevaluating your wonderfulness,” Fee said, her tone tart. She slapped her hands on her hips. “But we’re getting distracted from the point of this conversation.”
Clint looked past her at something beyond her shoulder. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
Damn straight. “No.”
“I lost my left leg above my knee. When you kicked it, I realized I should stop this, now.”
“Why?”
“To save both of us the embarrassment of you running out of here squealing when you see me, and it, fully exposed. It’s not a pretty sight.” Clint’s smile was hard and his eyes glittered with pain-laced fury. “I don’t need your sympathy or your pity. I just need sex.”
Fee felt anger boil inside of her. She was angry at the people who had so obviously hurt him by making him feel less than, and angry at him for projecting those people’s feelings onto her. Yes, she was a reality TV star but she wasn’t shallow, dammit.
To make her point, Fee gathered a handful of Clint’s T-shirt in her fist. She knew with a quick twist he could be free of her grasp, he did have a hundred pounds of muscle on her, but she was trying to make a point here.
“You just keep pissing me off, Rockwell. It’s quite a talent,” Fee murmured.
“Just get to the point, Seraphina. I’ve got work to do.”
Fee pulled him over to the steps and pushed him down two of them so they were eye to eye, face to face. “That’s better. Now, listen up because I’m only going to say this once…”
“Man, you’re bossy.”
“If I were a man, you’d call my behavior assertiveness,” Fee quipped back.
“If you were a man, I would’ve had you in a headlock by now.”
Fair point, Fee thought.
“And I certainly wouldn’t have kissed you and we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Clint continued.
Fee waved his words away. “I’m not going to get into an argument about semantics with you, Rockwell. Not right now anyway.” Fee was surprised that Clint—a taciturn, will-only-use-one-word-when-three-are-needed man—was even arguing with her.
Fee placed her hands on either side of his face and rested her thumbs against his mouth. “Be. Quiet.”
“Nothing makes me angrier than when someone who doesn’t know me compares me to someone else,” Fee told him, keeping her voice low but intense. “I’m lots of things—I have a hundred faults—but I am, one hundred percent, my own person. That means I make up my own mind and I get very pissed when people assume they know what’s inside my head.”
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