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Of Kimberly Raye…

“Kimberly Raye’s A Body to Die For is fun and sexy, filled with sensual details, secrets and heartwarming characters—as well as humor in the most unexpected places.” —RT Book Reviews

“Dead Sexy by Kimberly Raye is funny and exciting—with great sex, characters and plot twists.” —RT Book Review

“Kimberly Raye has done a wonderful job of creating characters that are unique and imaginative!”

—Romance Reviews Today on Dead and Dateless

Of Julie Leto …

“Julie Leto certainly knows how to put the X in sex!

A great and exciting read!”

—Fresh Fiction on Too Hot to Touch

“Get a cold drink when you sit down to read this one; this is one hot book!”

—Fresh Fiction on Too Wild to Hold

“One-of-a-kind writing style … She has made me a reader for life!”

—Fresh Fiction on More Blazing Bedtime Stories

Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume VIII
The Cowboy Who
Never Grew Up

Kimberly Raye

Hooked

Julie Leto

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The Cowboy Who
Never Grew Up

Kimberly Raye

About the Author

USA TODAY bestselling author KIMBERLY RAYE started her first novel in high school and has been writing ever since. To date, she’s published more than fifty-eight novels, two of them prestigious RITA® Award nominees. She’s also been nominated by RT Book Reviews for several Reviewer’s Choice awards, as well as a career achievement award. Kim lives deep in the heart of Texas Hill Country with her husband and their young children. She’s an avid reader who loves Diet Dr Pepper, Facebook, chocolate and alpha males. Kim also loves to hear from readers. You can visit her online at www.kimberlyraye.com or follow her on Twitter.

For my oldest son, Josh,

who is growing up way too fast!

I’m so proud of you.

And for the supertalented Julie Leto,

it was great working with you on this story.

I knew you had a little Texas in you!

1

HE WAS THE PERFECT COWBOY for the job.

Wendy Darlington stared at the man who slid off the angry bull in the middle of the massive rodeo arena in Fort Worth, Texas, and her breath caught. Dust exploded. The crowd roared. The animal twisted and turned as the wranglers tried to get him under control, but the rider wasn’t the least bit nervous. He sidestepped her and headed for the dusty Stetson he’d lost during the most amazing ride Wendy had ever seen. Eight seconds and then some. The buzzer had come and gone, but Pete Gunner had kept at it until he’d snagged bragging rights to breaking yet another world record.

He parked the cowboy hat back on his head and flashed a grin before heading toward the gate and the cluster of reporters waiting to swallow him up.

The scores went up and, sure enough, they were high enough to push Pete into first and solidify a place in the upcoming Professional Bull Riders finals.

Not that she’d had any doubt.

Pete Gunner was the best of the best. An eight-time PBR champion and record holder on the fast track to win number nine.

Unfortunately he had a weakness for loud parties and lots of women, and so he was even more notorious for his behavior outside of the arena. He was a wild child. Unpredictable. Uncensored. Unmanageable.

Trouble. Big, big trouble.

That’s what Wendy had told her boss when he’d come up with the crazy idea of making Pete Gunner the newest spokesperson for Western America, the biggest leatherworks company in the Southwest. They made everything from custom cowboy boots and specialty chaps to one-of-a-kind hand-tooled saddles. The company was launched during the late seventies at the height of the Urban Cowboy craze, with their products targeted toward the sophisticated, professional types eager to jump on the chuck wagon and play weekend cowboy.

They’d managed to maintain a decent profit share over the years, too, although their early heyday had long since faded with so many competitors flooding the marketplace.

Wendy had come to Western straight out of college as an intern and had slowly worked her way up from administrative aide to senior marketing representative. She’d put in nine years at the company and managed to keep up sales in an economic downturn. She’d fought tooth and nail to make a name for herself within the company, and she deserved to be moved up for it. She’d even told her boss, Fred, as much when she’d asked for a promotion last year.

But the man didn’t want to maintain his company’s position. He wanted to sell the company for a hefty profit and buy his own private island in the Bahamas. Something that wasn’t going to happen, at least for the kind of money he wanted, if he didn’t get his market share up by twenty percent.

At least that’s what a private-business consultant had told him six months ago. Hence the creation of Outlaw Outfitters, a line of modestly priced products geared toward the younger segment, and the brainstorm to have Pete Gunner as the front man.

A real cowboy backing the new line would up its credibility and get the attention of the multitude of younger rodeo fans. As the senior marketing rep, it was Wendy’s job to make it happen. Or else.

Those had been Fred’s exact words.

Make this happen and I’ll make sure you stay on with the company after I sell. Or else you can find a new job.

Which meant moving on, starting over.

The story of Wendy’s life.

Growing up the only child of single parent and baseball legend Mitch Darlington, Wendy had become an expert in new. During her childhood, she’d spent the season headed to a new city every week and the off-season living in a condo near the training camp for whatever team her dad had been signed with at the time. Thanks to a huge ego and a know-it-all attitude, he’d been traded eleven times over a fifteen-year period, during which Wendy had zigzagged across the country with him. She’d even lived in Toronto for six months while he’d played with the Toronto Blue Jays.

No more.

The moment she’d graduated college, she’d promised herself that her days of moving from place to place were officially over. She’d accepted the job at Western America, bought a house in Houston, and she’d been settled ever since. She’d made friends and built a life for herself. And while the actual day-to-day could be boring at times, she still preferred it hands down to the nomadic lifestyle she’d grown up with.

She wasn’t losing her job.

Fred wanted Pete’s signature on the multimillion-dollar endorsement package her company had offered, and Wendy was going to make it happen. Mr. Wild and Reckless had already given them a verbal agreement months ago, but it had been one mishap after the other when it came to getting him to actually sign. They’d overnighted the initial documents as was policy, but then he’d claimed his dog had chewed them up. He’d left set number two in a hotel room in Vegas. Number three had ended up at the bottom of a bull pen. Number four had disappeared in a truck stop somewhere between Nashville and New Mexico.

While Wendy had freaked over each “accident,” Pete had laughed them off as just another day in the life of PBR’s most notorious cowboy.

Don’t get your panties in a wad, darlin’. That’s what he’d told her on the phone in the deepest, sexiest drawl she’d ever heard. Just send out another set.

Not this time.

Numbers five and six—she’d brought an extra—were safe and sound in her briefcase and she wasn’t leaving until everything was signed.

Or else …

She fought down a wave of anxiety, popped an antacid from the roll in her pocket and steeled herself. Briefcase in hand, she made her way around the arena wall until she reached the cluster of bull pens. A security guard stopped her in her tracks, but she flashed a VIP pass at him and he waved her forward. She was just about to turn a corner and head for the excitement when she barreled into the hard wall of a very muscular chest.

Her head snapped up and she found herself staring at her worst marketing nightmare.

She’d seen plenty of pictures of Pete Gunner over the past few months: everything from professional publicity shots of him climbing into a saddle or dusting himself off after a grueling ride, to a papparazzi’s wet dream where he’d been table-dancing at Billy Bob’s honky-tonk or lapping at a watering trough after the PBR finals in Vegas.

But nothing in print could begin to compare with the man himself.

Several day’s growth of stubble shadowed his jaw and circled his sensuous mouth. Whiskey-colored hair framed his rugged face and brushed the collar of his white button-down shirt. Vivid blue eyes peered at her from beneath the brim of a beat-up Stetson.

“Don’t be in such a hurry, sugar.” He gave her his infamous grin, his lips crooked just a hint at the corner, and her heart did a double thump. “It’s always better if you take your time.”

Not that Wendy was the least bit attracted. She knew his type all too well. She’d grown up with such a man, and while she loved her dad, she wasn’t falling for a man just like him. She liked her men stable. Controlled. Reliable.

She drew a deep breath and ignored the fluttering in her chest.

“I—” The rest of her words stalled in a choked cough as the antacid took a nosedive down the wrong pipe.

His eyebrows drew together. “You okay, sugar?”

“I—” She swallowed. “I—I’m fine,” she finally managed to say.

He grinned and her heart started again. Her hands trembled and her tummy tingled.

Seriously?

He was just a man. Sure, he was sexier than most with his bad-boy drawl and seductive smile, but still … She wasn’t going to let that turn her to a pile of quivering Jell-O, even if she had been so busy with the new Outlaw line that she’d had zero time for a social life over the past six months. Her self-imposed celibacy was not going to jump up and bite her during the most important ten seconds of her career.

She stiffened and gathered her control. “You’re just the person I wanted to see. I need you to sign—”

“There’s plenty of signed photos at the press table,” he cut in. “You can take your pick.”

“No, no.” She shook her head. “I don’t want a signed picture.”

“A body signature?” His eyes darkened with a look of pure, raw passion and her mouth went dry again. “Above the waist or below?”

She licked her lips and tried to ignore the way his eyes followed the movement. “No, of course not. I’ve got these papers for you—”

“Pete!” The shout came from her right and she turned to find a burly cowboy motioning him forward. “Gid-dyup, dude. We’ve got to get the hell out of here!”

“I hate to cut this short, but I’ve got someplace I really need to be.” And just like that, he turned and walked away.

Wendy watched the push and pull of his Wranglers as he disappeared into the crowd. He really did have a great butt. She could totally see why every woman in the eighteen-to-forty-eight-year-old demographic was head over heels for him. The front view had been good, but the back was about the best she’d ever seen—

Hello?

He’s walking away, remember? Which is what you’ll be doing when Fred finds out that you let him slip through your fingers.

She bolted forward and raced after him as if her life depended on it.

It did.

Her job, her home, her stability meant everything to her and she wasn’t going to let some party-hearty cowboy screw it all up.

She was getting that signature, no matter what she had to do.

2

THERE WAS A NAKED WOMAN in his bed.

Pete Gunner came to that conclusion the moment he yanked aside the curtains leading to the rear of the sleek black tour bus.

The woman sat up. Dark brown hair spilled down around her shoulders. Excitement fired her gaze. The sheet fell to her waist. Yep, she was naked, all right.

As an eight-time PBR champion and the circuit’s reigning wild child, it was a scene he was all too familiar with. Buckle bunnies were par for the course. And bare-assed buckle bunnies? An added bonus.

If it had been any other night.

“It’s really you, isn’t it?” she murmured. “The Pete Gunner.”

“So they say.”

Her gaze narrowed for a split second. “You look different than you do in your poster.” She licked her full lips. “Better. Much better.”

He tipped his hat and gave her the famous Gunner Grin. “You’re not so bad yourself.” And then he did the one thing he would never have done if it had been any other night. He took a step forward and retrieved her tank top and jeans that were draped across a nearby chair. “As much as I’d like to take you up on the offer, I’m afraid now isn’t a good time.” He set her clothes on the edge of the bed. “Why don’t you get dressed and I’ll get my bus driver to fetch an autographed picture and a few rodeo passes for you?”

A pout tugged at her lush bottom lip. “But I’ve been waiting all this time for you.” She pushed up on her knees and the sheet fell to the bed. “I thought we could have a little fun. You do like to have fun, don’t you?”

Hell, yeah. Fun was his motto. He’d been wild and reckless from the get-go, hitting the rodeo circuit hard at the age of seventeen, and the local bars even harder after that. He lived to cut loose and live it up. Damn straight, he did.

At the same time, it was already this close to midnight and he was more than six hours away from home. That meant he would be on the road all night if he intended to reach Lost Gun by sunup.

He’d figured on leaving right after he’d run into that pretty little blonde wanting his autograph on a certain body part. Hell, he hadn’t even had the chance to imagine which part—her luscious breast or maybe one rounded hip or a tight ass cheek—before he’d been side-swiped by several Wrangler reps wanting to talk to him about yet another endorsement. They’d wasted over an hour and so now he was really pressed. That, and his back was aching something fierce. Jasper, one of the meanest bulls this side of the Rio Grande, had thrown him pretty hard after that last buzzer.

Not that a few aches and pains would have held him back from having some fun with his new bed partner. Hell, no. He would have ripped his clothes off in a heartbeat if tonight had been like any other.

But it wasn’t. His kid brother was counting on him to make it back to West Texas for his eighteenth birthday, and so time was of the essence.

“Thanks for the offer, sugar, but I’ll have to take a rain check.”

“What about that autograph?” Her voice followed him as he turned.

“Get dressed,” he called over his shoulder. “And it’ll be my pleasure.”

He started toward the front of the bus. He was halfway there when a different woman stepped out of the bathroom, a redhead with brown eyes and an interested smile. She wore a leather halter top, a miniskirt and a come-and-get-me-cowboy expression. She blocked his path and waved a Sharpie at him.

“I’ve been waiting for you—” She started the same spiel he’d heard after every rodeo since he’d won his first bull riding championship twelve years ago. She was ready and willing and able to do whatever he wanted, for as long as he wanted. In return for bragging rights and the ever-popular autograph, that is. He’d scribbled his signature on too many places to count—a hand, a thigh, a breast, a butt cheek. He’d even done matching autographs for the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders last year—left shoulder blade. Except for that one cheerleader. They’d needed someplace a lot more private than Cowboys Stadium for what she’d had in mind. And, being the ever-obliging cowboy, he’d gone out of his way to make her happy.

Then and now, he reminded himself. Even if the only thing he wanted to do at the moment was ice down his shoulder and pop a few Tylenols.

“—thought maybe you and I could get acquainted,” she went on. “I’ve been a fan for years and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do—”

“That’s great, sugar,” he cut in, giving her his infamous smile, “but I’ll have to take a rain check.” He sidestepped her and left her staring after him.

He wasn’t trying to be rude. Hell, he loved women. All women. Brunettes. Redheads. Blondes.

Especially blondes with green eyes.

His thoughts torpedoed back to the arena and the woman he’d stumbled into earlier. She’d been all stuffed up with her button-up blouse and stiff black skirt, her hair pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail. Nothing like most of the buckle bunnies who hung out near the chutes. Then again, he’d learned never to judge a long time ago and so he knew the hands-off vibe he’d gotten off her had been just an act. Obviously a damned good one since he was still thinking about her. And her luscious body. And her eyes. She’d had the prettiest he’d ever seen. Rich. Potent. Mesmerizing. Like ripe pastureland after a month of April showers.

Her image haunted him for a few more heartbeats before he managed to tuck it away and focus on the situation at hand.

Women.

Yep, he loved ‘em and he never failed to make time. And he sure as hell didn’t mind signing autographs for each and every one. He loved his fans.

But this was different. It was crunch time. His younger brother’s birthday was tomorrow and Pete intended to be there when Wade rolled out of bed. He’d never let the kid down before and he sure as shootin’ wasn’t going to start now. Wade had seen enough disappointment in his young life. They both had.

“Don’t tell me,” Eli McGinnis said when Pete stepped off the bus and found him standing nearby. “One got past me.” Eli had a head full of steel-gray hair and a mustache to match. He wore a straw cowboy hat, a pearl-snap shirt and a pair of starched Wranglers. Word on the circuit had it that he was seventy-five if he was a day, but to hear Eli tell it he was barely legal. “Dammit to hell, I hate a crafty gal.”

“It was two gals,” Pete told his driver. “Aren’t you supposed to be standing guard until we’re ready to pull out?”

“I cain’t be standing around all day babysitting this big old bus like I ain’t got nothin’ better to do.”

“That’s what I pay you for.” Eli had been working for Pete ever since the man had retired from the rodeo circuit himself. Pete had learned the ropes from Eli, so he owed him. He’d given him a job and a place to live after he’d retired. Eli had been a permanent fixture in his life ever since.

“You pay me to drive,” Eli reminded him. “Besides, you ain’t the only rooster in the bunch, you know.” He tugged at his pants and straightened his belt buckle. “Maybe I had a little female company that I just couldn’t turn down. A man like me’s got needs, ya know.”

Pete eyed him. “Bathroom break?” he finally asked.

“Funnel cake.” Eli swiped at the powdered sugar that clung to the corner of his mustache. “But just so’s you know, I surely ain’t lost my touch. That there cake was served up by a mighty nice-looking female named Justine.” He grinned. “Why, she gave me a few extra shakes of sugar and didn’t even charge me for ‘em.”

Before Pete could point out that Justine gave everybody extra shakes because she had a nervous condition that made her hands tremble, his two stowaways came sashaying off the bus. Pete spent the next few minutes signing two autographs—left shoulder blade and right bikini line—and posing for some quick pictures before managing to excuse himself and disappear back inside.

“Are they gone?” he asked when Eli finally climbed back inside the bus and powered the door shut behind him.

“For now, but I wouldn’t go counting my chickens just yet. One of them twittered or tweedled or some such nonsense and I saw a whole mess of females coming around the semi parked just behind us.” He shook his head. “Which means we’d better get the hell out of here ‘afore somebody else crawls up in here. It’s a helluva long way home.” Eli climbed behind the wheel and radioed security to clear a path.

A few seconds later, the bus rumbled forward and Pete breathed a sigh of relief.

Followed by a growl of aggravation when he walked into the bathroom a few minutes later and pulled back the shower curtain. And found yet another woman waiting for him.

The woman.

The stiff, conservative blonde with the pretty green eyes.

As irritated as he was, there was just something about the way she stared up at him that made him smile. Oddly enough, the fatigue slipped away and excitement rippled up his spine. “Determined to get that autograph, are you?”

She was the one to smile this time. A light sparked in her incredible green eyes and his heart skipped a beat. “You have no idea.”

3

“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.

4

SHE HAD THE WORST CRICK in her neck.

The pain edged its way past sleep until Wendy finally opened her eyes. She blinked once, twice and reality quickly crashed down around her.

Pete Gunner sat on the opposite side of the table, a pile of pancakes drizzled with sweet-smelling syrup in front of him. He wore nothing but a pair of jeans and a smile. His shoulders were broad, his chest solid and tanned and muscular. Golden swirls of hair spread from nipple to nipple before whirling into a funnel that dipped below the table’s edge. A bucking bull tattoo blazed across one thick biceps. Muscles rippled and flexed as he scooped a bite, and her mouth went dry.

“Good morning.” His deep, sexy voice snapped her back to reality and the all-important fact that there was sunlight streaming through the windows.

Oh, no.

She bolted upright and winced at the pain at the base of her skull. “This can’t be happening.” Her gaze swiveled to the window and she blinked against the stream of brightness. “I slept all night? The entire night?”

“A whopping six hours.” He shoveled in a mouthful of pancakes and chewed.

“It’s six-thirty? In the morning?”

“I thought we already established that,” he said after he’d swallowed.

“Have we been driving all night?”

“With the exception of a thirty-minute stop, yes.”

“Where exactly are we?”

“Texas.”

She gave him a duh look. “Exactly where in Texas?” She glanced sideways and caught a glimpse of Welcome to Pinto Creek on a road sign that flew by. “Pinto Creek?”

“For about the next five minutes, then we’ll be in Lost Gun. And then home.”

“How far is that from Dallas?”

“Three hundred and twenty-six miles.” He motioned to a mile marker that rushed by. “And counting.”

“This can’t be happening.” Panic bolted through her and she pushed to her feet. As if there were any place to go. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

He shrugged. “People get grouchy when you wake them up. For all I know you could be some kind of early morning crazy who threatens to murder the first person that taps them on the shoulder. I like breathing too much, especially when I’ve got a mean bull coming up in Boulder next week.”

The mention of bulls snagged her back to the all-important fact that the papers still sat untouched on the table between them.

“You still haven’t signed.”

“I never sign anything before breakfast. I can’t concentrate on an empty stomach.” He held up a forkful. “Pancake?”

Her stomach grumbled at the sight, reminding her that she hadn’t had anything since the chocolate bar she’d wolfed down at the rodeo arena.

Woman doth not live by candy bars alone.

Lisa’s voice echoed in her head. Best friend and serial-dater Lisa was always encouraging Wendy to go out with someone—anyone—and have some fun.

But at twenty-eight, Wendy wanted more from a man. Sure, she liked doing the nasty as much as the next red-blooded female, but she wanted a real relationship to go with it. And while she didn’t have her heart set on marriage just yet, she at least wanted a man who was open to the concept.

That’s what she told herself, but her gaze snagged on Pete’s mouth anyway. A dab of syrup sat at the corner and she had the overwhelming urge to lean across the table and lick it off.

Crazy.

She shook away the notion and fixed her gaze on the papers. “I really need to get these back to corporate for a counter-signature.” The bus swayed to the left as it made a sharp turn and she clutched the edge of the chair. “The sooner that happens—” she fought to regain her composure “—the sooner you get your check.” She dangled the one advantage she had over him. Money. It was more than they’d ever paid to any spokesperson in the history of Western America and it was a heck of a lot more than the payout on any old bull.

A gleam lit his eyes before taking a nosedive into the deep blue depths. “I never talk money before breakfast, sugar.” He downed a large gulp of milk that sloshed slightly in the glass as they rumbled down what was now a dirt road.

She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he took another bite and a strange tingling started in the pit of her stomach.

It was the bus, she told herself. They were pitching and rocking. Enough to hollow out anyone’s stomach.

Except his. He seemed immune.

She knew the feeling. She’d lived her life on the road at one time and nothing had bothered her. Not traffic. Or turbulence. Or a rough stretch of road.

Then.

But now things were different. She was different. Even if she had slept like a baby for the past six hours.

“So why don’t you like pancakes?” he asked as they hit a pothole and she clutched at the chair’s edge.

“Who said I don’t like pancakes?”

“I offered to share and you turned me down.”

“It’s not that I don’t like them. I just don’t happen to want one right now.” Liar. She wanted one desperately. A bite of his pancake. A bite of him.

Whoa. Back the horse up.

Where had that thought come from? She didn’t want anything from Pete Gunner except his signature, which obviously wasn’t happening until he finished the mountain on his plate.

She drew a deep, shaky breath and tried to tamp down on the anxiety rolling through her. Gripping the chair, she slid around and sank down again before she broke an ankle.

Unearthing her cell phone, she spent the next few minutes doing her best to ignore Pete and his pancakes while she checked her voice messages.

Ten from Lisa wanting to know how things were going and when she would be back home. One from her dad telling her he would have a six-hour layover in Houston next week on his way to a Cubs’ alumnae dinner. One from Fred telling her not to come back without the papers in hand.

Ugh.

“You missed yoga this morning,” Lisa said when she picked up on the second ring. Lisa had been her first friend at Western. The first friendship she’d ever had that had lasted longer than six months. “Are you still in Dallas?”

“Not quite.” She watched Pete take a great big bite. Syrup dribbled down his chin and before she could stop herself, she licked her lips. He grinned and she gave herself a great big mental slap. “I, um, think this is going to take a little longer than I anticipated.”

“But you’ll be home by tomorrow, right? My parents are coming over to meet Mike and I want to finish painting my living room first. I need you to help.”

“You guys just started dating two weeks ago. Isn’t it a little early to spring him on your folks?”

“What can I say? When it’s right, it’s right.”

“Wasn’t it right with Wayne about three months ago? And Marty before that? And Kevin last year?”

“Mike is way better than all of them.” At the moment. Wendy was willing to bet Lisa would find something wrong with him when things started to get a little too serious. Just as she’d done with Wayne. And Marty. And Kevin. “Listen, can I borrow your red dress? He’s taking me out for a special dinner tonight and I don’t have time to comb the mall for a new outfit.”

“Only if you pick up Tom and Jerry for me. I doubt I’ll be home until late tonight.”

“On second thought, maybe I’ll swing by the mall—”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They ate my cell-phone case.”

“They thought it was a Twinkie and I promise it won’t happen again. You know I’ve been taking them to obedience classes. Please,” she added when Wendy hesitated. “I’ll throw in the open-toe shoes.”

“I still think I’m getting the raw end of the deal, but okay.”

“You’re the best.” Wendy killed the connection and glanced up to find Pete looking at her.

He arched an eyebrow. “Tom and Jerry?”

“A golden retriever and a Chihuahua.” She meant to stop there, but he kept looking at her as if he expected more and the words slipped out on their own. “My mom passed away in a car accident when I was just a few months old. My dad traveled a lot, so I spent way too much time staring at the inside of a hotel room. He bought me videos to help pass the time. I had every cartoon collection out there, but the Tom and Jerry ones were my favorites.” A smile tugged at her lips. “My dogs are always roughhousing and fighting, and so the names seemed to fit. What about you?” Not that she cared, but it was better to talk than sit quietly and lust after him. “Any pets?”

“Just one.”

“And?” she prompted when he seemed hesitant to continue.

“A miniature Yorkie named Tinkerbell.”

“It figures.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re the cowboy who refuses to grow up. I should have known you’d have a sidekick named Tinkerbell. But a Yorkie? What kind of a self-respecting badass buys a dog that can double as a powder puff?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t pick her. She picked me. Somehow she ended up scavenging around this old rodeo arena just outside of town. She managed to jump up into the back of my pickup and follow me home one night. She’s been with me ever since.”

She had a quick visual of him cuddling a tiny, yapping Yorkie and her chest hitched.

The realization made her back go ramrod-straight. So what if he had a dog? That was no reason to go all soft and gooey inside. He was still a major thorn in her side.

Still wild and crazy Pete Gunner.

“Living out of a suitcase doesn’t exactly lend itself to pet ownership,” she pointed out, suddenly desperate to kill the vision of him cuddling a ball of fluff. “That’s why I never had one when I was growing up. How do you do it?”

“My ranch foreman looks after her when I’m away.”

“Lucky you.”

“There’s no luck involved, sugar. It’s all hard work.”

“I’m sure signing autographs is hell on the knuckles.”

If she didn’t know better, she would have sworn that she’d struck a nerve. He frowned. “I do a lot more than sign autographs.”

“I forgot. You also dodge responsibility.”

Silence stretched for a tense nanosecond as he eyed her. “Apparently I’m not too good at it because here you are.” His frown turned into a full-blown grin. “Then again, I might be a damned sight better than I give myself credit for—” he motioned to the passing scenery, reminding her of the six and a half hours she’d just slept away “—because here you are.”

“You’re a jerk.”

“Keep up the sweet talk—” he winked “—and I’ll surely be scribbling my signature before breakfast is over.” Challenge gleamed hot and bright in his gaze, daring her to say something else, wanting her to. As if he liked the verbal sparring.

Crazy.

Men like Pete usually had a big head to go with their bad-boy reputation. They were used to having their egos stroked, not deflated, but Pete seemed different. Maybe she was imagining things. Even more, she was making her situation that much harder. The point was to coax him into signing, not piss him off.

She clamped her mouth shut and shifted her attention to the window while he went back to his breakfast. Pastureland stretched endlessly as they rolled along for the next ten minutes before the landscape gave way to haystacks and a sprawling one-story house with a gigantic wraparound porch.

“Home sweet home,” Pete announced before shoveling in his last bite. He pushed from the table and slid the plate into a nearby sink. The bus took a left and started down the long lane leading up to the house. Pete reached into the stainless-steel refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of what looked like a lime-green slushie. “Margarita chaser,” he offered when she arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

It figured.

If the rumors were even close to the truth, he would probably follow that up with a six-pack and then pull a few Hooters’ girls out of the closet.

She shook her head and he turned his attention back to the pitcher. Without bothering with a glass, he downed half of the container before finally coming up for air.

“Don’t you think you should slow down a little?” she asked as they started to slow. “I need you sober to sign this.”

“Don’t worry, sugar. I can do just about anything under the influence. I’m sure I’ll be able to scribble my John Hancock.” He set the remainder of the pitcher on a nearby countertop as they rolled to a complete stop. He grabbed the T-shirt draped across the back of his chair and pulled it on just as the bus door powered open.

“If you could just do this really fast for me,” she said, blocking his path toward the door. “I’ll be out of here in a flash—”

“I knew you’d make it!” The excited voice came from the doorway.

Wendy turned and her elbow slammed into the pitcher, knocking it onto its side. Margarita oozed over the countertop and dripped onto the floor.

She snatched up a dishrag and wiped at the mess just as a tall, lanky young man bounded onto the bus. He had the same killer-blue eyes as his older brother and the same whiskey-blond hair, which brushed the collar of his red-and-blue plaid Western shirt.

“A promise is a promise.” Pete grabbed Wade Gunner in a quick bear hug while Wendy wiped at the spilled margarita and frantically scooped as much as she could back into the pitcher.

“You’re just in time, too,” the young man told Pete. His eyes flashed with excitement. “It’s happening.”

“Right now?”

The boy’s head bobbed. “She’s about to pop any friggin’ second.”

“Hot damn!” Pete exploded. “That’s my girl.” He headed for the door on the heels of his younger brother and panic bolted through Wendy.

She dumped the last of the iced drink into the sink before her gaze dropped to the pale green stain on the front of her shirt. Great. Now she was going to reek of tequila.

Except she didn’t.

She caught a whiff of the almost-empty pitcher and smelled only fresh-squeezed lime juice and the sharp, pungent scent of vitamins.

Wait a second—

Her speculation stalled as she realized the counter was clear. Pete had bolted, and taken her contract with him.

“You forgot the pen—” She started after him, but his long strides had him yards ahead of her by the time she lunged off the bus. He was a man on a mission.

That’s my girl?

His words echoed in her head and her throat tightened. In all their meetings on the topic of Pete Gunner, her boss had never mentioned anything about a significant other. Just a long list of temporary flings while he was on the road, including a week with a recent Country Music Association award winner and a few weekends here and there with a Victoria’s Secret pinup.

She thought of the margarita that wasn’t really a margarita and the Yorkie named Tinkerbell. Maybe Pete Gunner wasn’t half the badass he pretended to be.

Just as the notion struck, a grizzled voice echoed in her ears. “The name’s Eli,” said the old man who stepped up next to her. “Why don’t you follow me up to the house and I’ll help you get settled into a room?”

Settled? She shook her head. “No, thanks, Eli. I’ll be leaving shortly. I just need to get that contract back from Pete and then I’m on the next cab out of here.”

He belted out a laugh. “First off, darlin’, there ain’t no cabs around these parts. And second, if you’re thinking to disturb Pete, you’d better think again. When he’s with DeeDee, he don’t like to be bothered.”

“Which one is she? The singer? The lingerie model?”

“Hell’s bells, gal, DeeDee ain’t no singer and she sure-as-hell ain’t no dad-blasted underpants model.” The man laughed again, his belly shaking with the effort this time. “She’s his horse.”

“EASY, GIRL.” PETE SOOTHED the animal and gathered the slippery bundle in his arms for one more tug. The animal gave a loud snort and the foal slipped out in a tangle of arms and legs.

He handed over the animal to the vet who’d driven out for the occasion and turned his attention back to the black cutting horse stretched out in front of him.

DeeDee whinnied and lifted her head before settling it back down on a pile of straw.

“I know, girl.” Pete stroked her smooth flank. “You’re plum tuckered out.”

He knew the feeling. Six hours of sleep and he could still feel the exhaustion tugging at his muscles. Which made no sense whatsoever because Pete Gunner was the friggin’ Energizer bunny. He’d pulled all-nighters time and time again. Hell, he’d be pulling one tonight once the celebration for Wade’s birthday got under way. They had fireworks. Barbecue. Music. It was going to be one hell of a party and he was damned excited about it.

His heart sure wasn’t pumping overtime because of Wendy.

Sure, he liked the way she smelled and the way she wiggled her nose when she slept and he even liked her smart mouth. Despite the fact that she wanted something from him, she wasn’t the least bit anxious to impress him. A fact that stirred his curiosity.

But not his lust.

At least that’s what he tried to tell himself for the next few moments as he soothed his tired horse.

Seriously, she was a pain in the ass. Sneaking onto his bus. Cornering him in the shower. Bullying him while he ate his pancakes. Following him all the way home. Just who did she think she was? All she had to do was send him the damned papers and he’d sign them. He would sign them.

Not this set in particular, of course. His gaze went to the discarded paperwork lying next to DeeDee and the slimy substances blurring the words. He’d meant to be more careful, but then DeeDee had crowned and he’d forgotten everything except the foal. Western would just have to send out another one.

Then he would sign. Probably.

And then it was on to another PBR title, even if half the world expected him to give it up once he had the Western money in his pocket. That’s what battered veterans did. They gave in to their aches and pains, signed endorsements and stepped aside to give the newbies their shot. Not Pete. Bull riding was his thing. The one thing that had kept him going in the early days when having his own ranch had been just a pipe dream and he’d been living in a trailer in Lost Gun with his five-year-old brother and his alcoholic mother. She’d rammed her truck into a telephone pole on the way to the liquor store when he was barely sixteen. He and Wade had been on their own ever since.

But he’d made it. He’d started riding in local rodeos for whatever purse had been offered, and he’d kept riding all the way clear to his first championship. And he’d kept going after that, not just because of the money, but because when he was on the back of that bull, he felt as though he was in control of his life, a master of his own destiny, and that meant everything to a kid who’d watched his mother slip away night after night, powerless to stop her downward spiral. She’d taken him and his brother down with her, until Pete had managed to climb atop that first bull.

“Everybody’s comin’ tonight,” Wade said, effectively drawing his attention and distracting him from his thoughts. “Even Ginny.”

Ginny Hooker was the daughter of J. R. Hooker, the local sheriff and the meanest son of a bitch Pete had ever had the misfortune to run into. J.R. was strict, holier-than-thou and he hated the Gunners and the Lost Boys.

A feeling that had been born way back when Pete was thirteen and he’d “borrowed” old man Riddle’s horse and ridden it down Main Street, right up to the fountain in the town square. The animal had taken a crap just inches from the water and J.R. had hated him for that ever since. Even worse, Pete had taken in a handful of lowlifes—at least that’s what J.R. called them—and given them a second chance.

The Lost Boys had been just that at one time—lost, lonely, destitute. Boys without a home or a family or a purpose. Pete knew what is was like to be alone and struggling, and so he’d given them a place to stay and a chance to make something of themselves. They were now the hottest riders on the circuit and the family he’d never had.

J.R. didn’t see it that way. He despised the Lost Boys, and Pete even more for being their leader.

Rightly so. The whole town knew that Pete went out of his way to yank the sheriff’s chain. Partly because J.R. was a pompous ass who thought he was better than everyone, but mostly because it was just so much fun.

Why, he would have ridden DeeDee down Main Street tonight if she’d been in any kind of shape.

Pete held tight to the thought, ignored the crying in his shoulder that told him he wasn’t going anywhere except into another hot shower and arched an eyebrow at his brother. “Does J.R. know his pride and joy is coming out to our place tonight?”

Wade frowned and handed Pete a blanket for DeeDee. “Probably not, but it doesn’t matter. Ginny’s almost eighteen. She can do what she wants. And James will be here.”

James was J.R.’s oldest son, Ginny’s older brother and a once-upon-a-time bull rider. Pete had trained with him way back when and they’d actually forged a friendship based on mutual respect. A fact which made J.R. hate Pete that much more.

“Besides,” Wade went on, “the sheriff might not like me now, but that’ll change. Once Ginny and I get married and have kids—”

“Wait a second,” Pete cut in. “You’re not telling me—”

“No, no. We’re not getting married now, and we sure as shootin’ ain’t having a kid. But after she graduates college and I win the PBR finals, it’ll be time. We won’t let anyone stop us then.”

“After you go to college and then win the PBR finals,” Pete added, relief washing through him.

“Ain’t that what I said?”

“No, you said Ginny was going to college and you were going to the PBR finals.”

Wade shrugged. “What difference does it make?”

“It makes all the difference in the world. I already told you, you’re not climbing onto a bull in a professional arena unless you’ve got a degree under your belt. That was our agreement. I’ll teach you everything I know while you go to school, but you’re not hitting the circuit until you graduate.”

“About that …” Wade started and Pete shook his head.

“There’s no ‘about that.’ You’re going to college, Wade. We already talked about this.”

“I’m much better with bulls than I am with calculus.”

“All the more reason to stick it out. Just because something’s tough doesn’t mean you quit.” Their mother had quit on them by drowning herself in a bottle, an example Pete never intended to follow. “We don’t quit.” He eyed his brother. “You and me, we never quit.” Not back when he’d been dirt-poor with a six-year-old depending on him, and not now that he had his own spread and a great career.

When his little brother didn’t look half as certain as Pete felt, he added, “I bet Hooker would be even more inclined to come around if his daughter was settling down with a college-educated bull rider.” Not that J.R. would ever come around as long as Wade’s last name was Gunner, but Pete didn’t want to say that. Not when Wade looked so hopeful.

“You think so?” Wade asked.

“It’s worth a shot. That is, if you really like this girl.”

“I don’t like her, Pete. I love her.” Wade said the words with such conviction that Pete almost believed him. Except that Wade was young, his hormones raging, and it was too damned easy at his age to mistake lust for love.

What’s more, Pete didn’t necessarily believe in love. Not the give-it-all-up, do-anything-and-everything-to-hold-on-to-it kind that people wrote about in books and bad country songs.

Lust?

Now that he believed in.

He pictured a certain stubborn marketing executive and his groin tightened. Okay, so maybe he was lusting after her. How could he help himself? They had chemistry. Fierce. Immediate. Inexplicable.

While he couldn’t begin to understand the pull, it was still there. Burning him up from the inside out and making him want to forget everyone and everything and take her to bed right here and now.

If only Wendy was a here-and-now kind of hookup. She’d watched her father live in the fast lane, however, and so she’d put the brakes on in her own life. She was settled now, and he wasn’t. Settling down meant slowing down in Pete’s book, and that was the last thing he ever intended to do.

Even if his aching shoulder had other ideas.

No, as much as he wanted to, he wasn’t sleeping with Wendy Darlington.

“We’ll talk about all this later,” he announced, eager to get out of his own head and forget the damned heat licking at his nerve endings. He finished covering DeeDee with the blanket and pushed to his feet. “Right now we need to get cleaned up.” He grinned and winked at his younger brother. “It’s time to party.”

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