One night...and a whole lotta trouble!

When it comes to men, Ivy Rutherford never loses her cool. Ever. Then she meets wealthy, green-eyed cowboy C. J. Bartasavich, and desire burns out of control. Yeehaw. So for one night, Ivy will indulge in a passion neither of them will forget...and walk away without a backward glance.

Except now Ivy’s pregnant. And even worse, C.J. has come to her hometown of Shady Grove determined to get to know her and be part of their baby’s life—even if she’s convinced their attraction is purely physical. Because Ivy can’t let herself rely on a sexy cowboy...or worse yet, fall in love with one.

“Gotcha...”

Ivy Rutherford’s gaze snapped up to the cowboy’s. Her throat was dry. Her palms damp.

She could still feel the warmth of his breath against her skin; the single word was triumphant. A challenge.

Oh, she was in so much trouble here.

Something passed between them. Something heated and tangible and, on her part, wholly unwanted. Damn it. Damn it! She wanted him to touch her again. Wanted to do some touching of her own.

“It’s cute that you think so,” she murmured, keeping her tone even. Her eyes steady on his. “But don’t be getting delusions of grandeur.”

If possible, his grin amped up a few degrees, all cocky and pleased with her response. She shouldn’t have found it so attractive. “Aw, darlin’, you wound me.”

“You don’t seem like the kind of man who cares much for being subtle.”

“You’re right. I prefer the direct approach.” He scanned her face, taking his time before meeting her eyes again. “Makes it that much easier to get what I want.”

There was a strange fluttering in her chest, just under her heart. It was clear enough what he wanted...

Dear Reader,

I’m thrilled you picked up a copy of About That Night. When I first started writing the In Shady Grove series, I had planned to focus solely on the four Montesano siblings—a close-knit Italian-American family with strong ties to their beloved hometown. But something happened during What Happens Between Friends, the second book in the series, that changed everything.

Kane Bartasavich arrived.

As soon as he appeared on the page, I knew he was perfect for Charlotte Ellison. What I didn’t know was that during the writing of their story (Small-Town Redemption) I’d fall head-over-heels for Kane’s three brothers. I love family dynamics, and writing their stories gives me a chance to explore the relationships between the brothers. As with most families there are frustrations and irritations, sibling rivalry, shared memories and genuine—though at times, grudging—affection.

C. J. Bartasavich, the eldest brother, is a man in control of his life. Until he gives in to desire and spends a passionate night with sexy, cynical waitress Ivy Rutherford. When he learns Ivy is pregnant, he returns to Shady Grove. But he has his work cut out for him trying to convince Ivy they should build a life together and be a family. Luckily for him, he’s a man used to getting what he wants!

I had such fun writing C.J. and Ivy’s story. The sparks flew between them from the moment I put them on the page together. I hope you’ll look for the next In Shady Grove book later this year featuring handsome attorney Oakes Bartasavich.

Please visit my website, bethandrews.net, or drop me a line at beth@bethandrews.net. I’d love to hear from you.

Happy reading!

Beth

About That Night

Beth Andrews

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Romance Writers of America RITA® Award-winner BETH ANDREWS writes edgy, emotional contemporary romance for Mills & Boon Superromance. She loves coffee, hockey and happy endings. Learn more about Beth and her books by visiting her website, bethandrews.net.

For Andy

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

CLINTON BARTASAVICH JR. tipped his Stetson in thanks to the toothy brunette who’d escorted him from the front desk of King’s Crossing Resort—Shady Grove, Pennsylvania’s equivalent of a four-star hotel. They stopped outside closed wooden double doors, the placard to the right stating Bartasavich/Ellison Party. “I appreciate the help...” He glanced at the small nametag on her chest. “Allison.”

He probably could have figured out how to get to this room—a distance of about a hundred feet straight down the main hallway—on his own. But when a pretty woman offered to lead the way, he didn’t argue.

Allison let out a high-pitched giggle that was grating enough to make a man’s ears bleed. “Oh, you’re very welcome, Mr. Bartasavich.”

He bit back a grimace. He hated having his name butchered. “Actually, it’s Bart-uh-sav-itch.”

Not Bart-as-a-vitch.

With a soft gasp, complete with a hand to her heart, she blinked at him so rapidly, he half expected her to start hovering above the ground. “How silly of me.” Sending him a look from under her eyelashes, she edged closer, her voice turning husky. “Maybe there’s...some way I could make it up to you?”

He’d eat his hat if she meant extra mints on his pillow.

“No harm done. It’s an honest mistake.”

One not made in Houston where the Bartasavich name was well-known. Even revered in certain circles.

Her lower lip jutted out in a pout no one over the age of six should attempt. “Well, if there’s anything else I can do for you,” she said in a whispery tone, “—and I do mean an...ee...thing—you just let me know.”

He cocked an eyebrow. Seemed Houston wasn’t the only place where his family’s name, power and wealth were known.

While he didn’t have any objections to casual sex—the more casual the better—he didn’t play games. No subtle hints about what either of them wanted. No coy looks or innuendos trying to convey what could be easily said with a few simple words.

And definitely no simpering.

But even if she’d held his gaze and told him in no uncertain terms that she was interested in him, attracted to him and ready, willing and eager to prove how much, he’d decline.

Having women throw themselves at him because of his name had long ago lost its thrill. He was his father’s son. Not his clone. And while Senior had always been more than happy to take whatever was offered to him, C.J. preferred knowing, for certain, that a woman was in his bed because of him.

Not his money.

“I’ll keep your offer in mind,” he said. Then he pulled off his hat and used his free hand to open the door.

And stepped into his own private version of hell. A very crowded, very loud, very pink hell.

It was as if Valentine’s Day had exploded, leaving hearts everywhere. On the walls. Dangling from the ceiling. Scattered on the tabletops. There were big ones, small ones. Flat ones, poufy ones. Some with scalloped edges, some with straight. But all were shiny or sparkly and in shades ranging from the palest pink to the brightest fuchsia.

A long banner draped across the doorway wished the happy couple Heartfelt Congratulations on their engagement. Long streams of twisted pink, red and white crepe paper hung from the rafters.

Any hope he’d held on to of missing the entire party died a cruel and violent death. Because the ballroom wasn’t just filled with hearts. It was also filled with people.

Damn. He should have gotten a later flight.

He turned to his right, scanned the bar where several men and women gathered, talking and laughing, ignoring the hockey game that was being shown on the large TV on the far wall.

No hearts there. Not one flash of pink. He could set his ass on that empty stool in the corner, have a drink or two and pretend he wasn’t here. That most of his crazy family wasn’t in the next room creating only God knew what sort of havoc.

But pretending had never been his style. And he didn’t ignore his problems. He faced them head-on.

Anytime the Bartasavich family was together, there were problems. The only questions were how many—and what did C.J. have to do to fix them.

“You,” a familiar female voice said, the tone dripping with scorn, “are, like, in so much trouble.”

C.J. turned to find his seventeen-year-old niece glaring at him. Always happy to see her—even when she was giving him the stink eye—he grinned. “Now, darlin’, everyone knows getting into trouble is your daddy’s job. Not mine.”

From the time Kane had been born, it’d been C.J.’s job to watch over him. To keep his younger brother out of the trouble he attracted like a freaking magnet.

He’d failed.

“You’re three hours late,” Estelle Monroe said, the very picture of an affronted, pissed-off female who knew she was right—a man’s worst nightmare. “Three. Hours. That is, like, so rude.”

“Some of us have to work. Keep the family living in the style to which you all have become accustomed.” Ever since his father’s stroke ten months ago, it’d been up to C.J. to make sure Bartasavich Industries continued to run smoothly.

Estelle rolled her eyes. She was a beauty like her mother. Long, blond hair, big blue eyes and the face of an angel. Her scowl, on the other hand, was all her father. “It’s Saturday.”

“A Bartasavich’s work is never done.” There were no weekends off. Running a multimillion-dollar company took commitment, dedication and full-time focus. Every goddamn day.

At least for him. His eyes narrowed as he took in her dress. “Does your father know you’re wearing that?”

She tossed her hair back. Smoothed a hand down her hip. “Of course. He isn’t the one who’s three hours late. Why?” she asked, her tone daring him to actually answer.

“It’s too...” Short. Tight. Revealing. Adult. “...red.”

“How can something be too red?”

He wasn’t sure, but hers qualified. Did she have to wear such high heels? And so much makeup? “I’ll give you a thousand dollars to change,” he told her, only half kidding. Hell, he’d offer her two grand if he thought it would work. “Preferably into something with a high neckline, a boxy shape and a floor-length hem.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve had, like, a hundred compliments on this dress tonight. Evan even thought I was twenty-two.”

“Who is Evan?”

She nodded toward the five-piece band rocking a cover version of Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer.” “Chimps on Parade’s drummer.”

“No drummers,” C.J. growled. “Ever.”

“Evan says age is just a number and that I have an old soul. Besides, nine years really isn’t all that big of a difference.”

C.J.’s hands closed into tight fists. “Excuse me,” he ground out from between his teeth. “I’m just going to go and have a little chat with Evan.”

She gave a life-is-so-hard-and-unfair-for-a-pretty-pretty-princess-such-as-myself sigh. “Don’t bother. Daddy already said something to him, and now Evan won’t even look at me.”

“Good to know your father can be counted on for something.” They must have taught him how to act big and tough in the army. Christ knew he hadn’t learned it growing up.

“Come on,” Estelle said, slipping her arm through C.J.’s. “Grandma Gwen’s been asking about you.”

She tried to tug him along but he planted his feet. “I think I’ll grab a drink first. Get ready to face all that pink.”

Though he’d been joking—a little—her lower lip jutted out. Trembled. She could give Allison lessons on the proper way to make a man feel like shit. “You don’t like the decorations.”

“Of course I do,” he said, remembering too late that Estelle was, officially, the hostess of this little shindig for her father and his fiancée. “They’re very...festive.”

“They’re supposed to be romantic!” she wailed loudly enough to make several of the bar patrons glance their way.

He put his arm around her shoulders. Squeezed. “Hey now, you know I’m clueless about decorating.”

She sniffed and shrugged him off. “It’s not just that.”

He glanced around, but no one was there to explain what the hell he’d said wrong. “Then what is it?” he asked, not sure he really wanted to know.

“You don’t even want to be here.”

He’d flown halfway across the country, left the civilized world of Houston—where he had work, work and more work—to be in this small town thirty miles south of Pittsburgh to celebrate his brother’s engagement. A brother he’d barely spoken to in the past fifteen years. An engagement C.J. highly doubted would make it to the altar.

Hell no, he didn’t want to be here. But he was. He always put his family first. Didn’t that count for anything?

“What I want doesn’t matter,” he told her.

“It’s just—” she threw her hands into the air, beseeching the heavens to help her cope with the disappointment “—I tried so hard to make this party special for Daddy and Charlotte, but it’s a disaster. First Uncle Zach texted me that he wasn’t coming and then you were late. Granddad’s been an absolute grump all night, making angry noises and thumping his good hand. I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to be here or because Carrie’s drunk and been hanging on Uncle Oakes. Then there’s Grandma...” Estelle shivered dramatically. “Well, you’re going to have to see that for yourself.” Her eyes welled. “I just wanted everything to be perfect, and instead, it’s ruined.”

He sighed. Hung his head. Women. Care about one of them too much and they’d get their hooks into you—either by the balls or by the gut. Either way, once they had you, you were never free.

He hoped like hell that, if he ever had children, he followed in his father’s footsteps and had all boys.

He held out his arms, but Estelle lifted her chin.

Stubborn as her father.

C.J. amped up his grin by a few degrees. “Come on, darlin’. Don’t tell me you’re going to stay mad at your favorite uncle.”

“At the moment, Uncle Oakes is my favorite,” she said, prissy as a princess to a peasant. But then she relented enough to step into his embrace. Wrap her arms around him for a hug.

He squeezed her hard. Kissed the top of her head. Damn, but he was crazy about her.

“Oakes is everyone’s favorite,” he said, not offended in the least to be usurped by his brother. If she’d wanted to go for the jugular, she would have picked Zach.

There wasn’t anything he could do about his youngest brother not showing up, but he could take care of the rest for her. He looked over her head and scanned the room. People laughed and conversed around the round tables or stood in small groups, eating hors d’oeuvres and sipping tall flutes of champagne brought around by the waitstaff. Others had paired off, swaying to the band’s acoustic rendition of Guns N’ Roses’ “November Rain,” the lead singer’s smoky voice giving the song a slow, seductive quality.

Among the dancers, it was easy enough to find his brother Kane and his new fiancée, Charlotte Ellison. Hard to miss Charlotte, with that bright beacon of short red hair. Usually more cute than beautiful, she was a knockout tonight in an emerald-green dress that showed off her long legs and gave her thin figure the illusion of curves. For his part, Kane still looked every inch the badass he pretended to be. One of only a few men without a suit, he’d tied back his too-long hair into a stupid, stubby ponytail and wore dark jeans and a white button-down shirt that covered his tattoos.

“For a disaster, everyone seems to be having a good time,” C.J. said.

Estelle stepped back and nodded toward the room. “Look again.”

He followed her gaze to the far window where Carrie was pressed like a second skin against a pale, grim-mouthed Oakes. Though Carrie was doing her best to get a reaction, Oakes stood still as a statue, his eyes straight ahead and not on her impressive breasts, which were spilling out of her pale yellow dress.

Poor bastard looked as though he’d been cornered by a pissed-off bobcat and not a perky blonde.

C.J. would have laughed if that perky blonde hadn’t also happened to be married to their father.

Problem number one.

“You say Carrie’s drunk?” C.J. asked Estelle.

“The way she’s been groping Uncle Oakes all night, she’d better be drunk. God. It’s, like, completely disgusting. And with Granddad right there, too.”

It was then that C.J. spotted his father, his once robust form slumped to the side of his wheelchair. The stroke Senior had suffered almost a year ago had stolen his ability to speak and paralyzed the right side of his body. But judging from the glare he was shooting at his wife and third son, his mind was still in working order. Behind him, Mark, his large bald nurse, took a hold of Senior under the arms and lifted him straight.

Senior slid down again. His mouth moved, his body jerked, and C.J. knew he was trying to say something, more than likely giving Mark, Oakes and Carrie hell.

Problem number two.

“But that’s not the worst of it,” Estelle said.

C.J. sent his niece a sidelong glance. “It gets worse?”

“Much.” She looked so solemn. So serious. Not expressions she wore often. C.J. bit back a groan. What sort of fresh hell had he walked into? “Like, catastrophically worse.”

She pointed to the dance floor. The band had started another song, this one an upbeat pop song. People bounced and danced along.

And there, surrounded by a circle of dancers, his mother did a slow bump and grind against a tall, dark-haired man.

C.J. grabbed the back of his neck. Squeezed hard. Worse, indeed.

Estelle nodded. “I know. It’s gross.” She made the mistake of looking at the dance floor again only to whirl back, horrified. “Ugh. Grandma Gwen just totally, like, groped him. In front of God and everybody.” Estelle leaned forward, her voice a harsh whisper. “Like, her hand was on his butt squeezing and—and stroking. I’m going to have to have my brain sprayed with bleach in the hopes of taking the memory out of my head. You have to do something, Uncle C.J. You’re so good at fixing things.”

He snorted. Right. He should be good at it. He’d had enough practice. He wouldn’t mind a night off every now and then, but he couldn’t refuse his niece. Couldn’t refuse to do what had been his responsibility since birth.

Take care of his family.

“What would you suggest?” he asked.

“Make her stop.”

If only it was that easy. But then, for Estelle, life was simple. She asked for something and got it. She was indulged at every turn, her every wish granted.

Tonight was no different.

He patted her hand. “I’ll handle it.”

She smiled and threw her arms around him for another hug, this one more enthusiastic and warmer than before. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I know Daddy and Char will appreciate your help, too.”

C.J. doubted that, but it wouldn’t stop him from doing what was right.

His mother took that moment to rub her ass against her date’s pelvis.

C.J. winced. He’d have to tag along when Estelle had her brain scrubbed.

“Excuse me, darlin’,” he drawled to a teenage waitress as she passed. “You wouldn’t happen to have any forks on you, would you?”

“They’re just mini quiches...” Frowning, she tipped her head to the side, her ponytail of light brown corkscrew curls bouncing with the movement. “Is that the proper plural form of quiche? Or is it one of those words like deer or fish?”

It took him a moment to realize she was talking about the food on her tray. And that her question hadn’t been rhetorical.

“I think either form is correct,” he said.

“But you don’t know for sure. What if it’s one of the questions on the SATs? I mean, I doubt it, but you never know. Leighann—my best friend—took them last fall, even though you really don’t need to take them until the spring of your junior year, but she’s always trying to be The First, you know? Which is why I think she finally gave in and slept with her boyfriend, so she’d be the first of our group to lose her virginity.”

C.J. blinked. Blinked again. “Uh...”

“My stepmom says it’s because deep down, Leighann’s insecure, and she overcompensates by acting overly confident. Like men with little—”

“I hope like hell you’re about to say wallets,” C.J. said quickly. “Or brains.”

“No,” she said slowly. “But if it’ll make you feel better, I can just say men who aren’t quite as endowed—”

“No. That doesn’t make me feel better at all. How about we skip that part in its entirety?”

She lifted a shoulder, then switched the tray to her other hand. “Anyway, Leighann said there were a ton of arbitrary questions on the SATs, most of them not having to do with real life at all. What if the plural form of weird words is one of them?”

“Sorry, darlin’. Quiche isn’t exactly a word I use very often. In any form.”

She nodded sagely. “That’s good. They’re pies of death, if you think about it. All those eggs. And cream. And cheese. Really, it’s a heart attack waiting to happen. Or at least, high-cholesterol levels. Plus, it’s not natural—humans eating products made from cow’s milk. Except I’m not allowed to—” she made air quotes with one hand “—preach about my personal views to guests.” Another set of air quotes as if closing what must have been a direct order from her supervisor. “So I’ll just say I’m sure these appetizers are extremely delicious. At least, I’m guessing they are. I wouldn’t know personally, as I don’t eat any animal products.” She frowned. “Usually. And, best of all, you don’t need a fork to eat them. They’re small enough to just pop into your mouth.”

She lifted the tray higher, obviously expecting him to do just that.

How she managed to get so many words out with so little breath was beyond C.J. But get them out she did, all the while holding his gaze innocently.

Amazing.

Back in Houston, people treated him with a certain...reverence. Because of his father’s last name, his father’s money. The old man had always eaten it up. Had loved having servants fawn all over him, unable to make eye contact, bowing and scraping as if it was all nothing less than expected. Deserved.

But Clint’s ego was just fine. It didn’t need to be stroked.

No matter what Kane said.

“I don’t need the fork to eat. I wanted to use it to stab my eyes out.” He nodded toward the dance floor where his mother gave a loud whoop and threw her arms in the air, lifting the hem of her short dress so high C.J. quickly averted his gaze lest he see parts no one but Gwen’s gynecologist should see. “Anything sharp and pointy will do.”

The waitress followed his gaze. “Yes. That is disturbing.” She shifted the tray to her hip. Studied him closely. “Is she your date?”

He flinched, but he couldn’t blame the kid for thinking Gwen was younger than her actual age. She saw her plastic surgeon more often than her own sons. “My mother.”

“Oh.” Then she shocked the hell out of C.J. by giving his forearm a quick squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

He raised an eyebrow as amusement flowed through him. Not many felt sorry for him. He was a Bartasavich, after all. People usually envied him—his looks, his money, his business acumen.

He nodded his thanks. “Wish I could say you get used to it, but that’d be a lie.”

His mother caused drama wherever she went. If C.J. had to guess, he’d say tonight’s show was all for his father’s benefit. But Senior was still staring at Carrie. C.J. doubted Senior even knew what Gwen, the first in a long line of Mrs. Bartasaviches, was doing. How hard she was trying to prove she was over him.

How hard she was trying to make the old man jealous.

The waitress watched his mother do a pelvic thrust that should have been illegal, then bend at the waist, stick her ass in the air and shake it.

The waitress scrunched up her face. “Eww. Mothers should never twerk. Something like that could scar a person for life. Have you tried therapy? It might help.”

He chuckled, surprised he could laugh at this. “After tonight, I just might need it.”

He helped himself to a couple of the quiches. Pie of death or not, he was hungry. He’d worked through lunch and hadn’t bothered with dinner before catching his flight to Pittsburgh.

He was still chewing the first one when Kane approached him. As they had so many times throughout their lives, they sized each other up. There’d been a time when C.J. could read every thought in Kane’s head. When he’d known his little brother’s strengths and weaknesses as well as his own.

Those days were long gone, killed by Kane’s drug addiction and subsequent stint in the army. Kane was now clean and sober—had been for years—and even owned a local bar called O’Riley’s. But there was too much hostility, too much anger to ever mend the bond that had been broken between them. There were days C.J. could admit he regretted that. That he missed his brother.

But he’d be damned before he’d ever say it out loud.

“Estelle said you were here,” Kane said, his expression closed, his eyes hooded. “I’m surprised you could tear yourself away from your desk.”

Not as surprised as C.J. had been to hear about his brother’s engagement. He hadn’t known Kane and the redheaded ER nurse he’d gotten involved with last year were that serious, until Estelle had told him they were engaged as she’d hand delivered his invitation to this little soiree.

Kane had spent the past twelve years doing his best to avoid any ties whatsoever to anyone—except Estelle. What the hell made him think he was ready to commit to one woman?

“I wouldn’t have disappointed Estelle,” C.J. said, eating the second quiche. “Or miss the chance to get to know your fiancée better.” He wiped his hands on a paper napkin and crumpled it in his hand as he scanned the ballroom. Spotting his future sister-in-law across the room, laughing at something a pretty, very pregnant blonde said, he sent Kane a grin. “Charlotte seems like a nice woman. A smart woman. Too good for the likes of you. I’ll have to do my best to make sure she realizes that before she makes the biggest mistake of her life and goes through with this marriage.”

“I think you’re safe,” the waitress told Kane. “I mean, look at you.” She swept her hand up and down in front of him. “You’re gorgeous. And you have that whole bad-boy vibe going on, which most women find irresistible but, personally, I don’t get. No offense or anything.”

“None taken,” Kane said, looking torn between amusement and horror at the girl’s assessment of him.

“Yes, my brother sure is a fine catch.” As long as a woman didn’t mind being tied to an ex-addict with a bad attitude and a ton of emotional baggage. “He’s a real prince among men. All the women fall for that pretty face. Want to smooth out those rough edges.”

Kane’s mouth thinned. He made a show of looking around. “Couldn’t find a date, Junior? All the big-haired, big-breasted debutantes in Texas busy this weekend?”

“Between Mom and Carrie, I’d say there are two too many here now. I’m not sure this party could handle another one.” He nodded toward Oakes, who was valiantly trying to hold a conversation with an older man while Carrie clung to his arm, her hand caressing his bicep. “You try to put a stop to that?”

Kane followed C.J.’s gaze and shrugged. “Oakes is a big boy. He can handle himself. He’ll give Carrie a gentle brush-off, something that will save her from being embarrassed.”

Kane’s way of dealing with problems was to avoid them until they went away on their own. Or someone else took care of them. Oakes’s was to be patient, to pick and choose his words and actions carefully and hope for the best.

“She’s humiliating Dad,” C.J. said. “And getting more than her fair share of attention for it. You need to go over there and tell her to back off.”

“Not my job. Being in charge of everyone and everything, being a huge pain in the ass, is your thing.”

C.J.’s fingers tightened on his hat. Kane could give lessons in being a pain in the ass. “I take charge,” he said, “because no one else ever steps up.”

“Why don’t you just beat the crap out of each other and get it over with?” the waitress asked. Why was she still there? “That’s what my brothers do when they’re mad at each other. Then, while the blood is drying, they’re suddenly best friends again.”

“We’re not friends,” C.J. assured her, not taking his eyes off Kane.

But at one point they had been. Less than two years apart in age, they’d spent every moment together. Had been playmates. Confidantes. And as close as two brothers could be.

Those days were long gone. No sense wishing them back.

Or regretting the distance between them now.

“Guys are so weird,” the waitress murmured while C.J. and Kane continued to glare at each other. “This is what’s wrong with the world, by the way. Too much testosterone. Especially in leadership positions. I’m seriously considering forming a society consisting solely of women. Sort of like the Amazons but not as bloodthirsty. I wonder how much my own island would cost?” she asked in a thoughtful tone as she walked away.

“I’d buy her an island,” C.J. muttered, “if we could convince Estelle to live there with her.”

“A society with no hormonal teenage boys?” Kane asked. “Or horny adult drummers? I’d pitch in for that.”

They shared a grin. Too bad their moment of brotherly bonding was interrupted by another of their mother’s enthusiastic “whoop-whoops,” this one accompanied by a fist pump.

“That’s your cue, Junior,” Kane said, his grin turning into a knowing smirk. “Go save the day.”

C.J. wished the waitress hadn’t taken off. He could use more food. And a drink. A strong one.

He’d need one to deal with his mother.

With nowhere to leave his hat, he stuck it back on his head, then crossed the dance floor, weaving his way through the jostling bodies. “Excuse me,” he said, tapping Gwen’s date on the shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?”

“C.J.!” Gwen trilled, her voice somehow carrying over the blaring guitar riff, the pounding bass. Tottering on her four-inch heels, she flung herself into his arms. “You’re late.”

C.J. wrapped an arm around his mother’s waist so she didn’t do a face-plant on the floor. Looked like someone had had a few too many dirty martinis. “So I’ve been told.”

Linking her hands behind his neck, she leaned back, studying him with none-too-clear eyes. “Darling, you look absolutely horrid.”

C.J.’s left eye twitched. He’d come to save her from herself and all he got was grief. No good deed went unpunished. Not in his life anyway.

He took in her black leather minidress and matching thigh-high boots. “You look...” Like you’re trying way too hard. Desperate. Needy. “...beautiful as ever.”

She smiled and patted his cheek. “Such a charmer. Just like your father.”

“Not quite the same.”

His father had spent his entire life making promises to women. Vows of love and fidelity that he’d broken, over and over again, without a second thought.

C.J. didn’t make promises he couldn’t—or in his father’s case, wouldn’t—keep.

“Oh, you have to meet Javier,” Gwen said, craning her head to seek out her date with such determination, C.J. was surprised she didn’t twist it clean off. “Javier.” She held out her hand. “Darling, come here. C.J.,” she continued when her date joined them, “this is my dear, dear friend Javier Ramirez. Javier, my eldest son, Clinton Jr.”

Tucking Gwen to his side, Javier flipped his hair from his eyes. “Dude,” he said, offering C.J. a fist bump.

C.J. stared at Javier’s hand until he slowly lowered it. “My mother needs some coffee,” he told the younger man. His mother was dating a man younger than her own sons. Then again, his father’s last two wives had also been younger than him. Maybe he could fix Javier up with Carrie. Get them both of out his hair. “Black. And plenty of it.”

Before Javier could respond, C.J. gently tugged his mother away from him and escorted her to a table in the corner. Helped her into a chair.

She frowned at him the best she could with a forehead full of Botox. “Are we done dancing?”

“We’re taking a break,” he told his mother, sitting next to her. “Your dear, dear friend is going to get us some coffee.”

She patted his knee. “Javier is such a sweetheart. He’s an aspiring model, you know. Though his true love is the theater.”

A model. That explained the thick neck, gelled hair and blindingly white teeth. “I hadn’t realized you were seeing anyone,” C.J. said casually. “Or that you’d be bringing a date.”

“Javier and I met weeks ago at a yoga class,” she said with a wave of her hand, her red, talon-like nails almost taking out C.J.’s eye. “I enjoy spending time with him. He’s attractive and attentive. I hadn’t realized how advantageous it was for a man to be so limber until we made love in the backseat of the Bentley. Of course I’m referring to his limbs being flexible,” she said, leaning forward and patting C.J.’s hand reassuringly, “not his penis, which is quite straight, thank goodness.” She wrinkled her nose. “Though, just between us, it could use another inch or two.”

C.J. sat frozen, his mouth hanging open, a strange buzzing in his head. Forget the forks in his eyes. He’d much rather use them to dig his mother’s words from his ears.

She was often thoughtless with her words, careless with her deeds, but the alcohol had obviously washed away any and all filters between her brain and her mouth.

No doubt about it. He really was in hell.

“Please,” he managed to choke out, holding up his hand as if that would stop her from talking, “I’d like to keep up the illusion that you don’t have a sex life, and that would be easier to do if you didn’t share details.”

He made a mental note never to ride in her car again.

She laughed and slapped his arm. “Don’t be silly. Just because you’re my son doesn’t mean you and I can’t be friends, as well. And friends tell each other such things.”

“I will never tell you such things,” he promised solemnly. “Ever.”

“Well, just know that you can. But I do hope you won’t divulge anything I’ve said to your father.”

Her voice had been casual, her expression clear. If C.J. hadn’t looked carefully, he would have missed the calculation in her eyes, the small, satisfied smile turning up the corners of her mouth. As if all she needed for her evil plans to come to fruition was for C.J. to regale his disabled father with stories of her sexual escapades, causing Senior to become insanely jealous, toss aside his latest bimbo and finally come crawling back to Gwen.

C.J. had an entire lifetime of experience when it came to Gwen and her manipulations. As a kid, he’d fallen for her act too many times to count. Had run to his father every time Gwen had a date, had told Senior about the days she’d spent locked in her room, crying over him. But no matter how hard C.J. had tried, no matter how much he’d begged, his father had never come back.

Damn it, Kane should be the one handling this. The one hearing all about their mother’s love life with her white-toothed, greasy-haired, flexible, less-than-well-endowed boy toy.

C.J. jerked to his feet, intending to find his brother and force him to take responsibility for what happened at his engagement party. He turned blindly, took a step and slammed into a waitress.

He grabbed hold of her upper arms to keep her from falling. Opened his mouth to apologize, only to have the words catch in his throat when he raised his head.

Trouble.

That was his first coherent thought. The kind of trouble that had a man forgetting all about his goals, self-preservation and his pride. The kind that brought a man to his knees and made him beg for more.

Her hair was long and tumbled past her shoulders in soft, flaxen waves. Her mouth was lush and red. Her eyes the color of smoke. As he stared at her like some moron who’d never seen a woman before, those lips curved. Her gaze sharpened. Stayed direct and knowing.

His gaze skimmed down the long line of her throat, lingered briefly at the V of pale skin and hint of cleavage visible above the button of her white shirt. While the other waitresses wore pants, she’d chosen a black skirt that hugged her hips, showcased the indentation of her waist and ended midthigh.

Definitely trouble.

The very best kind.

“Sorry, cowboy,” she said, her husky, seductive voice matching her looks. “Not going to happen.”

The humor in her tone, the glint in her eyes snapped him out of his reverie. “Excuse me?” he asked, sounding as formal and disapproving as the old biddies who congregated at the country club. Next thing he knew, he’d be adding a bless your heart at the end of his sentences.

She smiled, all feminine power and confidence. “You looked like you were ready to take a big old bite out of me. But I’m not on the menu.”

He wanted to snatch his hands away, stick them in his pockets like a schoolboy who’d been admonished to look but not touch. She couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t be the only one feeling the slow burn of desire, the heat of pure, unadulterated lust.

The instant connection.

He frowned. No. Not connection. Connections weren’t instantaneous. They were made over time, through common ground, parallel goals. Love at first sight was a myth, one invented by starry-eyed romantics who couldn’t admit what they were really feeling was human nature at its most basic. Sexual hunger. Need.

He wanted her.

And she stood there, seemingly unaffected.

Testing her, needing to know for sure, he loosened his grip. Slowly drew his hands down the silky material of her sleeves, let his fingertips trail over the soft skin on the back of her hands before dropping away.

Her expression remained cool and amused. But he heard her small, quick intake of breath. Saw the awareness in the depths of her eyes. The answering desire.

He grinned and ducked his head, catching a tantalizing whiff of her spicy perfume as he whispered in her ear.

“Gotcha.”

CHAPTER TWO

GOTCHA.

Ivy Rutherford’s gaze snapped up to the cowboy’s. Her throat was dry, her palms damp.

She could still feel the warmth of his breath against her skin, the single word triumphant. A challenge.

Oh, she was in so much trouble here.

Something passed between them. Something heated and tangible and, on her part, wholly unwanted. The music and sound of background conversation faded until it was nothing but a low hum. He edged closer and she breathed in his scent, something crisp and musky and undoubtedly expensive. Damn it. Damn it! She wanted him to touch her again. Wanted to do some touching of her own.

Gotcha, indeed.

Crap.

He needed to back up. He was close. Too close. Closer than was appropriate, especially for a waitress and a customer.

Way too close for her comfort.

Pride held her immobile. Forced her to stand her ground instead of stepping back the way she wanted and putting some much-needed distance between them.

“It’s cute that you think so,” she murmured, keeping her tone even. Her eyes steady on his. “But don’t be getting delusions of grandeur.”

If possible, his grin amped up another few degrees, all cocky and pleased with her response. She shouldn’t have found it so attractive.

“Aw, darlin’, you wound me.”

“I doubt that.”

He nodded, rubbed his chin, his eyes narrowing as if he was in deep thought. “How about, you can’t blame a man for having such delusions when faced with you?”

She had to fight to hide a smile. “Better.”

“I was going to say when faced with one of God’s greatest works, but that seemed like overkill.”

She pointedly eyed his hat. “You don’t seem like the kind of man who cares much for being subtle.”

A middle-aged man brushed past them, and the cowboy stepped aside to give him more room, a handy excuse in Ivy’s mind to shift closer to her. “You’re right. I prefer the direct approach.” He scanned her face, taking his time before meeting her eyes again. “Makes it that much easier to get what I want.”

There was a strange fluttering in her chest. It was clear enough what he wanted.

Her.

He wasn’t the first. Wouldn’t be the last. Men were simple creatures, after all. They saw a pretty face, a curvy body and wanted them. If a woman coddled them a bit, stroked their...ego...and gave their friends something to envy, even better. For that, they’d put in the time, the effort to chase a woman, to make her his.

Until the thrill of that chase waned and the next woman came along.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you you don’t always get what you want?” Ivy asked.

He laughed, low and long, as if that had been the most ridiculous question anyone had ever asked him.

Glad to know she could amuse him so.

“No,” he finally said when he’d contained his mirth. “My mother never told me that. No one has.”

“It’s like a dream come true,” she said drily. “Finally meeting a man brought up to believe that ordinary, mundane things such as failure and rejection are below him. Your mother didn’t do you any favors, did she? And since she didn’t, let me be the one to pass on this extremely valuable lesson. There comes a time in everyone’s life when there’s something they want, but it’s just out of their reach. That time has come for you.”

His grin sharpened. The gleam in his eyes turned downright predatory. “That sounds like a challenge.”

Dear Lord, he was right. She had been challenging him. Baiting him.

Flirting with him.

Okay, yes, she was attracted to him. She wasn’t dead, was she? And he was gorgeous—even with the cowboy hat. But she didn’t lose her head over things like a sharply planed face, wavy golden hair and a pair of broad shoulders all wrapped up in a perfectly tailored dark suit.

Men lost their heads over her.

She’d been twisting males around her little finger from the time she could talk, had learned at her mother’s knee how powerful a smile or glance could be. Yet, with this man, she felt unsure. Nervous that if she continued to play this dangerous game, she’d lose.

It was the way he watched her, she decided. As if he sensed the truth beneath her words. Could see what she so desperately needed to hide—her interest in him, how much she was enjoying him, his smile and humor, his confidence and looks.

You don’t always get what you want.

No, she certainly didn’t. That was life. One long journey of trying and trying and trying. Of mediocre triumphs and spectacular failures. She had no qualms about going after her goals, wasn’t afraid to fall on her face during a long, hard climb. But just because you wanted something, just because you busted your ass, kept your focus and worked hard every day didn’t mean you’d succeed.

Just because you wanted something didn’t mean it was good for you.

“Let me get you a drink,” the cowboy said, glancing around as if searching for a waitress—when one was right in front of him. “We can talk. Get to know each other better.”

“Yes, that sounds like a great idea. And I’m sure none of my coworkers, or my supervisor, will care if I sit down in the middle of my shift and toss back a few with a customer.”

He frowned. Scanned her from head to toe, as if suddenly remembering she should be getting him a drink. Not the other way around. “What time do you get done?”

“You’re persistent. I’ll give you that.” It was flattering. Knowing he was willing to work a bit to get her time and attention.

That she was seriously considering telling him she’d be done by midnight annoyed her to no end. She didn’t date customers, never hooked up with men she waited on. It set a bad precedence. Gave them the crazy idea that she’d serve them in bed, too.

An unsteady blonde in leather tottered over to them. Pressed against his side. “Darling,” she said, tugging at his elbow, “don’t flirt with the help. It’s unseemly.”

Ivy bit back a wince. Damned her cheeks for heating.

The help.

Well, if that didn’t put things into perspective, nothing would.

“Yes, darling,” Ivy said, mimicking the older woman’s slightly slurred, superior tone, “listen to your date. One must always remember one’s station in life.”

Ivy never forgot hers.

The blonde’s smile was none-too-sober and as fake as her boobs. “Aren’t you sweet?”

Ivy matched her toothy grin with one of her own. “Not particularly.”

“She’s not my date,” the cowboy said, keeping a hand on the woman’s upper arm. “She’s my mother.”

His tone was pure resignation with a bit of embarrassment thrown in for good measure. Ivy could relate. Her mother had never been able to grasp the concept of acting—or dressing—her age, either.

“I’ll have a dirty martini,” his mother told Ivy as she clung to her son’s arm—though Ivy guessed that had less to do with maternal love and more to do with her being three sheets to the wind. If she let go, she’d probably fall on her surgically modified, freakishly smooth face. Though that huge helmet of teased and sprayed hair might protect her from brain damage. “Three olives.”

“And damn the calories,” Ivy said under her breath, taking in the woman’s ultrathin frame. Looked as if those olives were tonight’s dinner.

She turned to the cowboy, was taken aback by his easy grin. Guess he’d heard her. She wanted to return his smile, but the help were to be seen, not heard. Ordered about, not engaged in small talk or flirtations. At least, not publicly.

She shook her head. She really needed to cut back on those reruns of Downton Abbey.

“And you, sir?”

His eyes narrowed on the sir, which, admittedly, she’d emphasized. No harm reminding them both why they were there. Who they were.

But she hated seeing that smile fade.

“Bourbon,” he said. “Neat.”

She inclined her head. “Right away.”

Ivy brushed past him. Could feel him watching her as she crossed the room toward the bar, but she refused to look back. Though she possibly added a bit more sway to her hips.

“Table 15 needs drinks,” she told her coworker Vanessa. “Could you handle that for me? Dirty martini for the Dancing Queen. Three olives.” They’d all seen the blonde shaking her ass in that leather dress. “Bourbon, neat, for the cowboy.”

Setting cocktail napkins on her tray while Kent, the bartender, filled her order, Vanessa shook her head, her short, artificially red hair swinging. “Don’t try to pawn your butt-grabber off on me. I’ve gone the entire evening without any pats, rubs or pinches. I’d like to keep it that way. Preserve the record.”

Ah, the life of a cocktail waitress. People thought the goods being displayed were theirs to touch. Even a subdued, family-type gathering such as an engagement party could get out of hand once the alcohol started flowing.

“He’s not a butt-grabber,” Ivy said. A man who looked like that, with that deep, subtle twang, didn’t have to resort to creepy tactics to get a woman’s attention.

“I was talking about the woman,” Vanessa said. “She looks capable and more than ready to eat anyone alive. And there must be a reason you don’t want to deliver them yourself.”

Many, many reasons. The number one being self-preservation.

“Trust me,” Ivy said. “Your butt is safe. And the reason I don’t want to deliver them myself is because it’s my break time.”

“Fine. I’ll switch you table 15 for table 8.”

“Done.” Ivy skirted the bar and snagged a flute of champagne from a tray before pushing through the door to a small hallway. She walked past the kitchen on her right, then, farther down, a small break room on the left and kept going until she reached the metal exterior door.

She pushed it open and stepped out into the night. The cold stung her cheeks, stole her breath. Still, she kept going, her high heels echoing on the pavement as she crossed the dimly lit parking lot to her ancient car. She climbed behind the wheel, shut the door and stared blindly through the windshield.

What was that? What the hell was that?

The cowboy had flustered her. Unnerved her. Worse than that, he’d known it.

She’d given him power. Control. Had pretty much handed them over to him on a platter along with her good sense and a portion of her pride.

She took a gulp of champagne. Bubbles exploded inside her mouth, the taste light and expensive, but it did nothing to wash away the bitterness rising in her throat.

Men never flustered her. Why should they? They were simple souls with simple needs. Basic needs. When they saw her, they saw opportunity. What she could do for them. What she had to give them. How she could make them feel.

Why shouldn’t she turn that around—twist their desire for her, their attraction to her—to her advantage? A warm smile, a light, friendly touch to an arm, some harmless flirting could all increase her night’s tips.

And she was always—always—the one ruling the game.

Until one tall, green-eyed cowboy had to come along and mess things up.

She finished the champagne. Wished she’d helped herself to two glasses.

Or at least had had the foresight to grab her coat.

The cowboy’s fault, as well. He’d scrambled her thoughts. Her attraction to him had thrown her for a loop, but that was over now. No man got the better of Ivy Rutherford.

The passenger door was yanked opened and she squeaked in surprise, her breath hanging in the air a few inches before her face like a tiny cloud.

“What are you doing out here?” Ivy asked seventeen-year-old Gracie Weaver as the teenager flopped onto the seat and shut the door. “And where’s your coat?”

Ivy shook her head. Great. She sounded like a mom. Not Ivy’s mother, of course. One of those sitcom moms who always had time for their kids, cared about whether they were warm enough.

One of those moms who loved their daughters instead of blaming them for ruining their lives.

“Brian said he saw you leave,” Gracie said, her teeth already chattering. “I figured you’d be here.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

“One of the guests wants to speak with you. Said it was important.”

Ivy’s fingers tightened on the glass so hard, she was afraid it’d shatter into a million pieces. Slowly, carefully she set it on the console next to her sunglasses and an empty to-go coffee cup.

“Oh?” Her voice sounded strangled, so she cleared her throat. “Which guest?” she asked, though she already knew.

Oh, yeah, she knew.

“The guy in the cowboy hat.”

“Tall? With blond hair and green eyes?”

“Yes and yes. Plus, he’s the only guy in the building—probably in the whole town—wearing a cowboy hat. Not sure how else to narrow it down for you.” Gracie frowned and rubbed her hands together, then blew on them. “Do you think it’s acceptable to wear a cowboy hat indoors? Because my grandma would have a fit if Dad wore his baseball cap inside the house.”

“Let’s focus on the topic at hand, shall we?” If Ivy didn’t keep Gracie on track, the kid could veer so far off topic, they’d never find their way back. “I’m sure whatever the cowboy wishes to discuss, he can do so with Wendy.” It would serve the cowboy right if Ivy sent her uptight supervisor over to see what he wanted. “Besides, I already switched tables with Vanessa. She’s more than capable of getting his drinks.”

“But he wants to talk to you,” Gracie said.

“He seems like a guy well used to getting his way.” She remembered the confidence in his eyes, bordering on arrogance. The way he held himself, as if he owned the room and everything—and everyone—in it. “This will be a great life lesson for him.”

“What if he gets upset?”

“He’ll get over it. A little disappointment never killed anyone.”

“I wouldn’t disappoint him.” The teen was all innocent earnestness and dreamy sighs. “He’s completely hot. And nice. We had a very interesting conversation earlier, and he didn’t come across as creepy at all.”

Ivy smiled. Leave it to Gracie to put her in a better mood, no matter what the situation. “Well, noncreep or not, I have no intention of doing his bidding.”

“I’m just saying he seems decent. And,” Gracie continued, pulling something from her pocket, “he gave me this for finding you.”

Ivy raised her eyebrows at the one hundred dollar bill currently being waved in her face. “Really? He bribed a minor to do his dirty work?”

Gracie wrinkled her nose. “I think it was more of a tip. Which means he’s generous.”

“What it means is that he’s willing to pay any price to get his way. That he doesn’t mind throwing his money around.”

“You could give him a chance. Maybe he just wants to get to know you.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” Ivy said blandly. “After speaking with me for less than five minutes, he’s intrigued by my mind. Attracted to my sparkling personality.”

Oh, to be so young and innocent in the ways of the world.

Ivy almost envied the teen.

“It’s possible,” Gracie insisted. “Who knows? Maybe he’s your soul mate. And if you don’t go back there, you could miss your chance with him.”

“Honey, I believe in soul mates as much as I do Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.” She softened her tone, squeezed Gracie’s arm. “But, to go along with your soul-mates-and-fate theory, we’ll just say if it’s meant to be, then it’ll be. I could ignore him for the rest of the night, and it wouldn’t change anything. We’d still end up together.”

As long as they ended up together on her terms. Not his.

“I just find it sad,” Gracie said with all the melodrama of a soap star, “incredibly, momentously sad, that you’re so...so...”

“So...pragmatic?” Ivy asked when the teenager struggled to find the right adjective. Which was unusual as Gracie typically had no trouble with words and loved using as many as possible. “Practical? Reasonable? Realistic?”

Gracie’s sigh was a work of art. Long-suffering and heartfelt. Ah, to be seventeen and a master of sarcasm. And a slave to emotions. “Cynical.”

“Well, that cuts deep, doesn’t it?” Giving her coworker a thoughtful frown, Ivy kept her tone somber. “But I’ve now seen the error of my sensible ways, thanks to your amazing grasp of syntax and the perfect amount of pathos in your tone.” She lifted the champagne flute in a mock toast. “Pink lacy hearts, huge diamonds and chocolates for everyone.”

Tucking one leg under the other, Gracie turned and studied Ivy with her too-intense gaze. “Molly says sarcasm is a defense mechanism used when someone hits too close to the truth.”

“Molly has six sons under the age of eight, one of them a newborn. It’s obvious your stepmother is a few kale leaves short of a pound, so we’re not going to take anything she says to heart.”

Another sigh from Gracie, this one just a few notches below resignation. At least all those heavy exhalations were warming up the car a bit. “Don’t worry. Someday, you’ll get over it.”

“If the it you’re referring to is my common sense, then sorry, but you’re going to be majorly disappointed. If a woman doesn’t have her wits about her, she has nothing.” Ivy dug out a pen and crumpled napkin from the console. Handed them to Gracie. “Write that bit of wisdom down so you remember it.”

Gracie didn’t even glance at the offerings in Ivy’s hands. “It being your broken heart. Someday, when you’re ready, it will mend, and you will be able to live your life free of all that anger and pain you carry around.” She tipped her head, her ponytail bouncing, and studied Ivy some more. “I’m surprised you don’t know this. You should have better self-awareness.”

Ivy laughed. She got such a kick out of this kid. “Honey, there’s not a woman alive who is more self-aware than I am.”

Gracie meant well, but she was way off base. Ivy had gone twenty-six years without suffering from a broken heart, and she planned on keeping that streak alive for...oh...forever sounded good.

She already knew the damage heartbreak could cause. It wore you down and stripped you of your pride, leaving you angry, resentful and so hurt, you never got over it.

She may not have experienced it firsthand, but she’d heard about it plenty, had witnessed its effects up close, thank you very much. Her mother had spent her entire life jumping from relationship to relationship, happily swallowing the lies men fed her, believing their promises only to be let down again and again.

So, yeah, Ivy knew all about the frailty of emotions. How they tricked you into believing foolish myths about happy endings and forever after. No other person could complete you or make you happy.

Give away your truth and you gave away the upper hand. Share your secrets, your hopes and dreams and desires, and you lost all power. The idea of true love looked good on paper, but in reality, it was complicated, often messy and, in many cases, downright ugly.

Loving someone made you vulnerable. Weak.

And any weakness led to pain.

* * *

GRACIE WATCHED IVY pick up the empty champagne glass, lift it to her mouth and tip it back. When nothing came out, Ivy held the glass out and glared at it, as if she’d expected bubbly wine to magically appear.

“Are you okay?” Gracie asked. She tucked her hands under her legs to warm them. Her nose was starting to run. She sniffed. “You’re acting...” Weird. Flustered. “...not like yourself.”

Ivy was not only possibly the most beautiful woman Gracie had ever seen in real life, she was also the coolest. Always in complete control of her emotions. Her actions.

Gracie knew her well enough to know it was a defense mechanism of some sort, a facade she kept up in order to keep people at bay. Still, she couldn’t help but admire Ivy for it.

“I’m fine. Come on. Let’s get back inside before we freeze to death.”

“Thank goodness.” They climbed out and crossed the parking lot, their steps quick, the click-click of Ivy’s heels ringing. Pressing her hands to her aching ears, Gracie hurried to keep up, though how Ivy could move so fast in those high heels—let alone how she wore them during her entire shift—was beyond Gracie. “Do you think there’s a correlation between low temperatures and hearing loss? I mean, the cold can affect blood circulation. Extreme heat can affect brain function.”

“I have no idea. I’m sure you could find out, though.”

That was the thing about Ivy. She never got frustrated with Gracie’s questions, was never short with her when she started talking, never interrupted her and told her to condense what she had to say and wrap it up already.

She listened. Really listened. And she believed in Gracie, in her ability to seek out her own answers. To find her own way.

Ivy opened the door, and they stepped into the blessedly warm hallway.

“I have a few more minutes left on my break,” Ivy said. “I’m going to grab a bite to eat.”

“Okay.” Gracie took the one-hundred-dollar bill from her pocket. “I suppose I should give this back to the hot cowboy.”

“Why would you do that?”

“He asked me to get you. I didn’t.”

“He asked you to deliver his message to me. Which you did.”

Gracie bit her lower lip. She could use the money, no lie. At the rate her parents kept having kids, they wouldn’t be able to afford to pay for her college tuition until she was sixty. “It doesn’t seem right.”

Ivy looked as if she was about to argue, but then she smiled. “It’s up to you. Follow your heart.” She picked a tiny silver piece of heart confetti from Gracie’s sleeve and handed it to her. “No pun intended.”

They parted ways at the end of the hall, Ivy heading into the kitchen, Gracie going back to the main room. The band was playing a slow country song long on melody and short on substance, repeating how love had saved some poor guy.

Gracie wanted to kick the lead singer in the shin. Get him to just stop already.

She was sick of love songs. Yes, it was an engagement party, so she supposed they were fitting, but add the songs to the fact that it was Valentine’s Day, and it was all just too much.

V-day. It was so dumb. All that pink. All those hearts and the sappy commercials telling you the only way you were worth anything was if you had a significant other.

It was ridiculous. Being single wasn’t a bad thing. You had to be comfortable being alone before you could fully be with someone else anyway.

And she’d keep telling herself that until she finally believed it.

The cowboy was still where she’d last seen him, but now he was talking to a beautiful blonde in a clingy red dress. The woman turned, gestured wildly with her hands, and Gracie realized she wasn’t a woman, but a girl around her own age.

A girl with the body of a twenty-five-year-old swimsuit model and the face of a beauty queen. The dress showed ample amounts of toned, tanned thighs and above-average boobs. Her hair fell, thick and straight, to her shoulders, the strands glossy and smooth.

Gracie touched a coarse, loose curl at her temple, tucked it behind her ear.

Nothing like seeing perfection standing effortlessly in a pair of four-inch heels to make a girl feel inadequate.

Gracie frowned. That was just silly. A person’s worth should never be based on their looks. So what if the blonde was one of “those girls,” the kind who probably never went anywhere— including gym class or a quick trip to the grocery store—without full makeup and high heels. Who rolled out of bed with nary a snarl in their hair or a pimple on their chin.

It took all kinds.

A dark-haired guy tapped the blonde on the shoulder. Something about the color of his hair, the shape of his head seemed familiar. Before Gracie could figure out if she knew him or not, the blonde turned and squealed as if he’d spent the past ten years on a deserted island with only a volleyball for company, then threw her arms around him. Hugging her back, he turned, giving Gracie a clear view of the huge smile on his face.

His handsome, lying face.

Gracie stumbled and rammed her hip into a chair, bumping it so hard against the table, the glasses on it wobbled. Her face flamed. “Sorry,” she mumbled to the cowboy, but from the corner of her eye, she saw Andrew Freeman’s head jerk up, felt his gaze on her.

The cowboy motioned for her to join him by the large window overlooking the front lawn. She went gratefully. It was better to have that bit of distance between her and where Andrew embraced the beautiful girl.

Better, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

“Couldn’t you find her?” the cowboy asked.

Gracie pursed her lips. He didn’t seem angry. More like he couldn’t understand why she hadn’t done what he’d wanted her to do. Ivy’s words about him being willing to pay to get his way floated through Gracie’s head. Yes, he was nice. And no, he wasn’t yelling at her—like some other guests might have done. But he was obviously used to getting his way.

Maybe Ivy had been right to keep her distance.

“I found her,” Gracie admitted. “I told her you wanted to speak with her, but she declined.”

He raised his eyebrows as if that was a turn of events he’d never expected. “Excuse me?”

“She declined. It means to politely refuse an invitation. But that’s just in this case. Decline could also mean to become smaller or a gradual loss of strength, numbers, qual—”

“I know what decline means,” he said, exasperation edging his tone.

She got that a lot.

“You looked totally confused, so I wasn’t sure.”

He rubbed his forehead, bumping the edge of his hat. “Did you tell her I wanted to see her?”

Hadn’t she just said that? “Yes. I was very specific. She said you weren’t used to being turned down. That this would be a good life lesson for you. So here—” Gracie held out the money. “You can have this back.”

He flicked his gaze from her hand to her face. “That’s yours.”

“But I didn’t earn it. And it doesn’t feel right, keeping it. Plus, now that I’ve had time to think about it—” and time to let the excitement of that much money fade “—I realize it’s sort of icky, a middle-aged man—”

“Middle-aged?” He looked pained. “I need another drink.”

“Giving a teenage girl that much cash. I mean, you don’t look like the kind of guy who’d try to bribe young girls to do, well, things—if you know what I mean...”

He shut his eyes. “I wish like hell I didn’t.”

“But then, everyone said Ted Bundy didn’t look like a psycho serial killer, either, so I think it’s best if I just give it back. Trust me,” she continued when he just stood there. “It’s better this way. For both of us.”

He finally took the cash, and she hurriedly turned away before he decided he was willing to double or triple his offer. She loved Ivy, but Gracie was only human. And if the price were right, she just might be tempted to drag Ivy over here by her hair.

“Hey, Gracie,” Andrew said, having disentangled himself from the blonde. “How’s it going?”

Gracie pulled up short. Darn it. Why had Andrew approached her? Why was he talking to her?

She wanted to hate him for giving her that lopsided grin of his, especially after bestowing the same smile on another girl not two minutes ago. Wanted to hit him for looking nervous, as if he was scared she was going to start ragging on him. Or worse, ignore him.

She wished she could. But that would make him think he still had the power to hurt her. That she still cared about him.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, shooting for cool and polite but coming across as uptight and possibly deranged. She tried to work up a smile but figured it would only make things worse. “How are you?”

“Uh, fine. Good. Really good.” Andrew cleared his throat, flipped his head to get his stupid floppy dark hair out of his eyes. “I, uh, didn’t know you worked here.”

Why would he? It wasn’t as if they’d had long, involved chats about their lives. Or anything at all. They were neighbors. Not friends.

Even if she had naively believed otherwise not so very long ago.

“I started here a few months ago,” she told him.

“Cool. That’s...cool.”

Thick, uncomfortable silence surrounded them. Which was weird, since the party was still going on, the band still playing, people still talking and laughing.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his khakis. He was wearing a dress shirt, too, a light blue one that brought out the color of his eyes. She tried to ignore how cute he looked, but she’d pretty much have to take after the cowboy and stick a couple of forks in her eyes for that.

“So, uh, are you doing anything for Spring Break?” he asked.

“No.”

“Oh. Me and my mom and Leo—uh, Coach Montesano. You know him, right?”

“Only by sight.” Which wasn’t a bad way to know the firefighter-slash-high-school-football-coach. He was one beautiful man. And Andrew’s mom, Penelope Denning, was dating him.

Lucky woman.

“Right. So, anyway, we’re going skiing in Colorado,” Andrew said. “Have you ever been?”

“The only places I’ve been are Pittsburgh and Erie.”

He shook his head. “I meant have you ever been skiing?”

“No.”

“It’s fun.” He took his hands out of his pockets. Put them back in again. “Maybe we could go together sometime. I could teach you.”

“Why would you want to do that? And why on earth would you think I’d ever agree to it?”

Color swept up his neck and into his cheeks. She refused to feel bad about it.

Not after what he’d done.

He shrugged. Dropped his gaze. “I thought maybe we could, you know...start hanging out again. Like before.”

She went cold all over, a deep freeze that chilled her to the bone. She couldn’t breathe through it, couldn’t move for fear that she’d shatter into a million pieces.

“You want to hang out?” she managed to say through stiff lips. “Like before? God, you must think I’m an idiot.”

She turned, but he caught her arm. “No! No,” he repeated, more softly this time as he glanced around. “Not like that. I just meant...you know. As friends.”

“I don’t want to be your friend.” Her voice was even. Dismissive. A miracle as there was a scream building inside her, one she was terrified would escape if she didn’t get away from him. “I thought I made that clear the last time we spoke.”

He flinched and dropped her arm. “Sorry. I thought...” He sighed. Ran his hand through his hair, leaving it all messy and, yes, sexy. “I thought maybe you’d have forgiven me by now.”

She clamped her teeth together to hold back the ugly words in her throat. She didn’t owe him anything. Refused to justify her feelings or explain her thoughts.

“Andrew,” the blonde girl called. “Come here. I want you to meet my uncle.”

He gestured he’d be a minute, then turned back to Gracie. “I, uh, guess I’ll see you in school.”

She didn’t respond. Just walked away.

Of course they’d see each other. She could hardly avoid it in a school the size of Shady Grove High, especially as they shared a few classes.

But she wouldn’t acknowledge him. Wouldn’t make eye contact or speak to him.

I thought maybe you’d have forgiven me by now.

Her fingers curled, her nails digging into her palms. She’d already forgiven him for pretending to like her, sleeping with her and then treating her like dirt. She’d had to. Hating him hadn’t made her feel better. Hadn’t stopped the pain or the tears that had come when she’d thought about how stupid she’d been. How gullible.

In the weeks after his betrayal, she’d spent countless hours imagining ways she could exact her revenge. Things she could do or say to humiliate him. To hurt him.

The way he’d hurt her.

But being angry at him had only given him even more power over her—over her thoughts and feelings. So she’d forgiven him and moved on. But she hadn’t forgotten.

And she never would.

CHAPTER THREE

IVY HAD THOUGHT about the cowboy all night, like some hormonal teenager in the throes of her first crush. Or a stalker with a new obsession.

She jabbed the elevator’s button with her knuckle, tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for it to arrive. Worse than thinking about him? She’d sought him out. Had caught herself scanning the ballroom, the bar—even the hallway for God’s sake—more than a few times, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

There had been plenty of good-looking men there tonight, an abundance of pretty faces for a woman to ogle, but had she stared at any of the Montesano brothers—a trifecta of dark-haired, dark-eyed, handsome men? Or taken a few minutes to appreciate the beauty that was Kane Bartasavich, with his long hair and that hint of danger in his sexy grin?

No and no. She’d skimmed her gaze right over all of them in search of one green-eyed cowboy.

Yeehaw.

The elevator doors opened and she stepped inside. Chose the top floor. Mooning over him was complete idiocy of course. And a total waste of time. She’d given him the brush-off, and he’d respected that. Despite his initial persistence, he hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t attempted to talk to her again.

She’d figured that would be the end of it. That one of those too many times she’d glanced his way, he’d be pulling out the charm for some other woman. Men. Such fickle, sensitive creatures. She was sure that, after her rejection, he’d move on. Forget all about her.

He hadn’t. He’d watched her, just as much as she’d watched him. Throughout the night, she’d felt his gaze on her, warm as a flame, insistent as a touch. And when she’d made the mistake of meeting his eyes, even from across the room, those damn sparks she’d felt when he’d grasped her shoulders were still there.

The elevator dinged as it opened on her floor, and she walked down the empty hallway, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. She stopped at room 801, stared at the door. Biting her lower lip, she realized she’d forgotten to reapply her lipstick. Hadn’t even taken the time to check her hair. Crap. If those weren’t signs that she should turn her little self around and get back in the elevator, she didn’t know what was.

Except her body didn’t seem to be getting the message. Instead of turning, she raised her hand, curled her fingers into a fist. Instead of walking away, she knocked softly on that door.

He’d sent her running. And that would not do. It was demoralizing to realize she’d been such a coward. He was just a man. A gorgeous, confident, sexy man who was obviously interested in her. The day she couldn’t handle a man was the day they needed to take away her high heels and shove her into a pair of mom jeans.

She knocked again, louder this time. Shifted her weight from her right side to her left. The attraction between them was undeniable and mutual. There was nothing to be afraid of.

As long as she was the one in control.

The door opened and there he stood, in all his six-feet-plus glory. And my, my, my, what glory it was. Heaven had blessed the man, that was for sure. His shoes, coat, tie and hat were gone, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, the top three buttons undone. His hair was shorter than she’d realized, the conservative cut highlighting the strong line of his jaw.

She missed the hat. Wondered if she could talk him into putting it back on.

He skimmed his cool, green gaze over her, his lips curving into a cocky smirk. It took all her willpower not to bolt down the hall as if the hounds of hell were chasing her.

But then his lips flattened, his gaze lingered—not on her boobs or her hips, but on her mouth—before he raised his eyes to hers.

Not so cool, not so disinterested, after all.

Silly man. Did he really think he could one-up her?

She smiled. Oh, she was going to enjoy this.

“I didn’t order room service,” he said, nodding toward the champagne in her hand.

“On the house. Looks like it’s your lucky day, cowboy.”

“That so?” he murmured, the huskiness in his voice causing her scalp to prickle. “Funny, but it doesn’t feel that way.”

Ivy waved her free hand in the air. “All of that is changing. You, my friend, are about to have a reversal of fortune and in the very best way possible.”

“Because I get free champagne?”

“Even better.” She tipped her head to the side, her lips curving in an unspoken invitation. “You get to have a drink with me, after all.”

“Just you?” he asked drily. “Or you and that healthy ego you’re carrying around?”

Her smile was quick and appreciative and completely unembarrassed. “We’re a package deal.”

But when she stepped forward, he leaned against the door frame, all casual grace and stubbornness, blocking her. “To what do I owe this reversal of fortune?”

“Good karma?” She shrugged, didn’t miss the way he glanced at her breasts before yanking his focus back to her face. “Clean living, perhaps?”

He studied her. Looking for whatever answer he needed to hear to let himself get over her earlier rejection. Let him look. She kept her thoughts and her secrets well hidden.

“If you’re waiting for me to beg,” she said, her tone threaded with humor and a hint of nerves she prayed he couldn’t detect, “you’re going to be very disappointed.”

“I’ve never been into making people beg,” he told her. “For any reason. I’m waiting for you to tell me why you changed your mind.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I’m afraid it does.”

“Most men wouldn’t question their good fortune. They’d either accept it as their due or run with it before that luck turned again.”

“Well, now, darlin’, here’s the thing.” Leaning toward her, he spoke directly into her ear, his words quiet, his breath warm against her skin. “I’m not most men.”

“I guess you’re not. But since it’s not enough for you that I’m here, that I’ve changed my mind, which is a woman’s prerogative as I’m sure you know, maybe I should just...change it again.”

A dare. A challenge. One meant to inspire him to let her off the hook. To accept what she was willing to give, no matter what her reasons.

Or watch her walk away again.

He shifted, bringing their bodies close but not touching. The urge to move back was as strong as the one to step forward. Doing neither, she tipped her head to maintain eye contact.

“I’m not asking for a lot,” he said. “Just the truth.”

Her laugh was part snort of disbelief, part oh-you-simple-man-you. “Ah, but the truth is the most powerful thing out there.”

Their gazes locked. She didn’t know whether to laugh or shout in frustration. They were at an obvious impasse. And how had that happened? Men didn’t argue with her, for God’s sake. They didn’t question her motives. Didn’t care about those motives, as long as they got what they wanted in the end.

I’m not most men.

That was why she was here, she reminded herself. What attracted her to him.

And wasn’t that coming back to bite her in the ass?

It didn’t matter what he decided, she told herself. Didn’t matter that she was holding her breath waiting, that her palms were growing damp. If she walked away, he’d be the one kicking himself for letting her go.

Her pride nudged her to get moving already. Reminded her that she wasn’t some pathetic woman in need of a man’s approval or his attention. She was strong. Independent. Brave enough to go after what she wanted.

Of course, her pride was also what had pushed her to come to his room in the first place.

Stupid pride.

“Your loss, cowboy,” she said, though she wondered if she wasn’t losing, as well. She turned, but before she could take a step, he snatched her wrist, held it loosely.

“Don’t.”

It wasn’t an entreaty, more like a command.

Looked as if she wasn’t the only one who refused to beg.

Ducking her head, she indulged in a small, triumphant grin before facing him. She flicked a glance to his hand on her, then back up to his eyes. “You have a choice here, cowboy. A very simple one. You can spend the night alone, holding on to your grudge. Or,” she continued, sliding closer until her knee bumped his leg, her breasts inches from his chest, “you could spend the night holding on to me.” She lowered her voice to a soft, seductive whisper. “What’s it going to be?”

Her breath was caught in her chest. Anticipation and nerves warred inside her. His mouth was a grim line, his chest rising and falling steadily as if he were completely unaffected by her nearness. Her words. The image she’d invoked of them together.

As if he really was going to send her on her way.

She needed to leave. To make her exit with as much dignity as possible.

To make it before he took the choice away from her.

But when she tried to tug her wrist free, his grip tightened. She swallowed. Her hand trembled.

He stepped aside and pulled her into his room.

* * *

THE WAITRESS SMILED, a small, self-satisfied grin that was incredibly sexy, as she brushed past him. “I guess your mama didn’t raise any fools, after all.”

C.J. forced himself to let go of her. Shut the door.

He didn’t compromise. Didn’t negotiate. And he sure as hell didn’t give in.

And yet, the fact that she was standing here said otherwise.

“My mother would punch me in the throat if I dared call her mama,” he said. “Plus, she helped raise my brother, and he’s an idiot.”

The waitress tipped her head to the side, making all that abundant hair slide over her shoulder. “Ah, yes, the groom-to-be.”

“You know Kane?” He wasn’t sure if that was a point in her favor. Or against it.

“We’re not acquainted, if that’s what you’re asking. Although I did go to school with Charlotte.”

“Then how did you know he’s my brother?” Another thought occurred to him, one he would have considered much earlier had she not scrambled his thoughts so easily. Too easily. “How did you know which room is mine?”

“Oh, I have my ways,” she said with a wink. Then she turned and walked farther into the suite, as if expecting him to trail after her like some sort of puppy, eager for her time. A pat on the head.

His eyes dropped to the sway of her hips, the way her skirt hugged her ass.

And he followed.

Not his fault. He was, underneath the wealth, a simple man.

“When I stay at a hotel,” he said as she set the champagne on the wooden bar next to the window, “I expect my privacy to be respected.”

“Not much privacy in Shady Grove, I’m afraid. Or, I’d guess, in small towns in general. Pretty much everyone knows everyone else. If you don’t, you can still get the information want. You just need to pay attention.” She bent, searched under the bar for a moment, then straightened with a cloth napkin in her hand. Unwrapped the foil from around the bottle and loosened the wire cage. “People say all sorts of things in front of—as your mother so charmingly described me—the help. When a guest needs something or has a complaint, we get all the attention. But most of the time, we’re invisible, just ghosts delivering drinks and cleaning up messes.”

She didn’t sound bothered by it, more as though she was stating a fact.

He skimmed his gaze over her face. No hardship there. He’d spent the greater part of his evening wanting to get another close-up look at her. He wasn’t going to waste one moment of it. Not when he’d given up hope of seeing her again.

“You could never be invisible,” he told her, his voice gruff. “And you know it.”

A small smile playing on her lips, she inclined her head as if in thanks. Or agreement. “Either way, I hear plenty. Probably more than people realize. And you, Clinton Bartasavich Jr., were a hot topic of conversation.”

“Is that so?”

He got enough gossip in Houston. He sure as hell didn’t need it following him to this Podunk town.

“Now, don’t be getting all sensitive,” she said, obviously detecting the irritation in his tone. She covered the cork with the napkin, pressed the bottom of the bottle against her hip and neatly twisted until there was a soft pop. “If you hadn’t wanted people to talk about you, you probably shouldn’t have worn that hat.”

“I like my Stetson,” he said easily.

She made a humming sound. Pulled out two wineglasses from the shelf. “Yes. So did plenty of the women at the party. Trista Macken’s grandmother wondered what you would look like in it...and nothing else.”

The back of his neck warmed with embarrassment. He glanced at his hat, sitting on the desk next to his open laptop. “Someone’s grandmother imagined me naked? I might never wear the damned thing again.”

“If it helps, I think the only reason she said it was because all the chardonnay she was guzzling loosened her tongue and her inhibitions.”

Frowning, he considered it. Shook his head. “Nope. Doesn’t help.”

“Don’t be too hard on Mrs. Macken. She was actually the one I overheard say you were Kane’s brother.” The waitress poured champagne into the glasses. Picked them up and sashayed toward him, a siren in high heels and tiny skirt, certain of her appeal, confident of the effect she had on a man. “Though I’d already guessed you two were related, given the resemblance between you.”

“That still doesn’t explain how you knew which room was mine.”

“Now, that’s where my amazing deductive skills come into play.” Stopping in front of him, she offered him a glass. After he took it, she sat on the sofa and crossed those long legs, her foot swinging idly. “It’s obvious no regular room would do for someone like you—”

“Someone like me?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

She vaguely waved a hand at him. “The designer suit, diamond cuff links and that air of privilege and entitlement surrounding you make it clear you only accept the best. The best suites at King’s Crossing are all on this floor, the top floor. The best rooms, the best views of the river... It was all pretty simple, really.”

“And you knocked on every door on this floor until you found me?”

“Not quite. Come,” she said, patting the spot next to her. “Have a seat and I’ll tell you a secret. You can keep a secret, can’t you?”

He sat, his thigh pressed against hers. Let his gaze drop to her mouth for one long minute before meeting her gaze again. “If the price is right, I can.”

“I asked a coworker who works the front desk to find your room number.”

“Which coworker?” It had to have been a man. What warm-blooded, heterosexual male could refuse her anything?

“So you can get him fired?” She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

He set aside his untouched champagne. “Maybe I want to thank him.”

She laughed, a slow, sexy sound, which did nothing to help his already screwed-up equilibrium. “You don’t. You want to march down there and hand him his ass.”

“More of your deductive skills at work?”

“More like good, old-fashioned common sense. It’s clear you’re a man used to getting what you want. You don’t ask for anything. You demand it. And when you don’t get it, there’s hell to pay.”

“These theories you have about me are fascinating.”

“You don’t really think so, but there’s more. For instance, when I asked if you could keep a secret, you said if the price is right, which tells me you don’t do anything free. No favors from you.”

“Favors come with strings attached.”

“I won’t argue. People are inherently users. They’ll take and take and take until a person has nothing left to give. Then they’ll move on to the next poor soul they can suck dry.”

“A cynic.”

She lifted her glass in a mock toast. “A realist. Something we have in common. You’re also neat—no clothes lying around, cluttering up your space, no shoes to trip over. A place for everything and everything in its place, if I had to guess. You have a hard time separating yourself from your work,” she continued, gesturing to his laptop and the contract he’d been reading when she’d knocked on his door. “How am I doing?”

His shoulders went rigid. He didn’t like her reading him so clearly when he couldn’t get a handle on her. Hell, he didn’t even know her name.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” he said tightly.

“Only one?” she murmured before sipping her champagne. “I must be losing my touch.”

He had to bite back a sudden grin. Damn it, but he appreciated her quick mind. Her self-assurance and intelligence.

Shit. He was in so much trouble.

“You seem to know quite a bit about me,” he said. “But I don’t even know your name.”

“That’s easy enough to fix.” Shifting forward in a movement that did some really interesting things to her breasts in the tight, white shirt she wore, she held out her free hand. “I’m Ivy.”

It didn’t suit her. It was too innocent, too sweet, when she was all female power.

He held her hand, liked the feel of her palm against his. “Ivy,” he repeated softly, and her eyes darkened. He rubbed his thumb against the back of her hand, wanting to see if he could fluster her the way she’d flustered him. “Just Ivy?”

“Is that a problem?” Her gaze was steady, her expression amused. Not flustered in the least.

But when he let go, he noticed the unsteadiness of her hand, how she curled her fingers into her palm.

“I like to know who I’m talking to.” Wanted to know more about her.

“You’re talking to me.”

“I could find out easily enough,” he pointed out. All he had to do was make a call to the front desk or ask to speak to the restaurant’s supervisor.

“You could, but there’s no reason to. You and me? We aren’t going to be friends.”

“We’re not?”

“Hardly. Look, we both know there’s a...pull between us. A strong one. I didn’t come up here so we could get to know each other better, just as you didn’t ask me to have a drink with you within five minutes of meeting me so we could swap life stories. We want to explore this attraction between us. Why pretend it’s something other than what it is? I don’t need it prettied up. I don’t need small talk, persuasion or seduction, and I sure as hell don’t need promises.” She laid her hand on his arm, scooted closer, her fingers warm, her scent surrounding him. “I want you, Clinton,” she said, drawing his name out as if tasting it on her tongue. “Tonight, all I want is you.”

Desire slammed into him like a wildfire, threatened to burn away his willpower and common sense. Her agile mind and sharp sense of humor intrigued him. Her face and body attracted him. But it was the combination of everything—her looks and personality, her intelligence and wit—that left him speechless. Breathless.

Made him want her with a hunger that bordered on desperation.

She was dangerous to his self-control. His pride.

He had to figure her out. Had to do whatever was needed to gain the upper hand.

Even if part of him was screaming at him to take what she was offering and leave it at that.

“You declined to have a drink with me,” he reminded her. “Refused to even speak to me.”

“Still stuck on that, huh?” She patted his knee. “How about you build a bridge and get over it?”

“You changed your mind when you found out my last name.”

Letting her hand rest on his leg, she raised her eyebrows. “Wow. I’m not sure if you’re giving yourself too much credit. Or not enough.”

He grinned. “Believe me, darlin’, I give myself plenty of credit.”

“Just not everyone else. Or maybe,” she continued softly, “it’s just me you don’t think too highly of.”

What he thought was that she was just like everyone else. No matter how much he wished she wasn’t. He had to question everything. Everyone. He was a Bartasavich.

And he had to know that wasn’t why she was here.

“Weren’t you the one who said people were users?” he asked. “I need to know who you are. Why you changed your mind.”

* * *

IVY WASN’T SURE whether to smack the man upside his too-handsome head or laugh outright. She was practically in his lap, her hand on his thigh, and he wanted to talk about why she was there?

There was obviously something wrong with him.

And, possibly, something amiss with her, as well, since she was enjoying their verbal battle so much. When they finally came together, it was going to be explosive.

A thrill shot through her, anticipation climbing. She could hardly wait.

She smoothed her hand up his leg an inch. His muscles tensed, and he grabbed her hand to stop her from exploring any farther.

Too bad. She liked the feel of him. Solid and warm. She sensed there was an edge to him underneath the expensive clothes, a power he kept carefully contained.

She couldn’t wait to be the one to make him lose that control. “The beauty of a situation like this is that I can be whoever you want me to be.”

“I want you to be honest.”

She almost scoffed, but then she looked at him, really looked, and saw that he meant it. He was attracted to her, yes, that much was clear, but he wasn’t going to give in to his desire. Not until he got what he wanted.

Silly, stubborn man.

But he wouldn’t be the only one who was going to lose if he sent her on her way. And really, telling him what he wanted to hear wasn’t a big deal. She was still in charge. Still the one deciding how much to share. And how much to keep hidden.

It didn’t have to change anything, didn’t mean there was anything between them other than sex. Uncomplicated, no-strings-attached, possibly mind-blowing sex. A one-night stand between two virtual strangers who would go their separate ways in the morning.

That last realization cinched it. She didn’t have to worry about opening up, just the tiniest bit, to a man she’d never see again. Nothing she told him would matter after tonight.

“There’s more to you than you let on,” she said.

He frowned. “Excuse me?”

“You wanted to know why I changed my mind. You think it’s a game, and it’s not. Well, maybe not completely.” Her throat was parched, so she took a long drink then set her glass down. Tugged her hand from under his. “I had every intention of keeping my distance from you. I thought you were exactly as you seemed. Arrogant. Bossy.” She pursed her lips as she considered him. “Entitled. Uptight—”

“I get it,” he said, his tone all sorts of dry.

But he didn’t correct her or try to claim he wasn’t those things. She could appreciate a man who knew his strengths as well as his weaknesses.

“As the night went on you surprised me. You didn’t flirt with other women after I turned you down, which makes me believe you weren’t out to get laid.”

His laugh was a quick burst of sound that scraped pleasantly against her skin. “Let’s not get carried away.”

She returned his grin. “You weren’t only out to get laid. If you were, plenty of women at the party would have been willing to give you anything you wanted. So I knew you weren’t just out to scratch an itch. Plus, you did your best to keep your mother sober—and off the dance floor—and you tolerated her thick-necked date, which means you feel responsible for her well-being or, at least, her reputation, and care about her feelings. You sat with your father for almost an hour, which means you’re patient.”

And she didn’t even want to think about what it said about her that she’d noticed how long he’d sat by the wheelchair, talking to the uncommunicative man. How upset he’d seemed.

“You came to my room because I’m a good son?” he asked, clearly not buying it.

Except it was the truth. Just not all of it.

She edged closer, her knee pressing against his. “I realized it was unfair of me to make assumptions about you based on how you looked.”

People did that to her all the time. They saw her face, her body, her clothes and thought they knew her.

She’d long ago stopped trying to get them to see her as something more than her looks. Why bother? It wouldn’t change anything. It was easier to play along.

“And in doing so,” she continued, “in walking away from you, I’d miss out on seeing where this attraction between us led.”

One corner of his mouth turned up, making him look younger. More approachable. But the heat in his eyes, the way he watched her reminded her that he was still a dangerous man. A potent one. “So you’re admitting the attraction was mutual from the start.”

“I don’t deny the obvious. But now it’s your turn.”

“My turn to admit the obvious?”

Keeping her eyes on his, she shook her head slowly. “Your turn to make the next move.”

CHAPTER FOUR

CLINTON STUDIED HER, as if he was trying to get inside her head, see into her soul. As if he wanted to know her thoughts, feelings and secrets.

She’d chosen to share a few of those with him, but the rest were hers to keep.

Such as how hard it had been for her to come here, to knock on his door. How she wasn’t sure which had been a bigger mistake—refusing him earlier or changing her mind. How scared she was that he was going to send her on her way.

How she didn’t want to be alone tonight.

But he couldn’t know any of that. She kept her expression clear. Waited while he looked his fill, while he made up his mind.

“You’re trouble,” he finally said.

Tension burst out of her in a short laugh. That was his big revelation? “So I’ve been told. What’s wrong with a little trouble?”

He looked at her as though she’d asked what was wrong with a little nuclear war. “I don’t do trouble.”

But he was getting closer to it. Literally. Leaning forward, he wrapped his big hands around her upper arms. Pulled her gently toward him.

“No?” she asked softly, her heart racing.

He shook his head, his eyes dark with want. “I fix things. Make the trouble disappear.”

She’d noticed. Had watched him put out one small fire after another at the party, taking care of his parents, getting the busty blonde who’d been hitting on his brother to back off. Dancing with his niece when she pulled him onto the dance floor.

Ivy let her gaze drop to his mouth, linger there as she ran her tongue across her bottom lip. “Do you really want me to disappear?”

His fingers tightened, his nails digging into her skin. Though it killed her not to touch him, not to close the distance between them and press her mouth against his, she kept her hands in her lap. Stayed perfectly still. She’d meant it when she’d said the next move was his. He may not like playing games but he was participating willingly in this one. And far be it from her to take away the man’s belief that he had the upper hand.

As long as she was the one holding the best cards.

His hands slid up her arms slowly, across her shoulders. He stabbed his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck, his thumbs nudging her chin up. Her mouth parted. Her breathing quickened.

He tugged her forward. Later, much later, she would worry about that. About how he’d turned the tables. How, instead of coming to her, he was bringing her to him. But for now, with his palms warm against her cheeks, all she could think about was his touch. His kiss.

His head came closer, his features blurring. She wanted to shut her eyes, to lose herself in sensations, but she couldn’t look away. He paused when their mouths were inches apart. The air surrounding them stilled. Thickened. All she could see was his face, all she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears.

All she wanted was him.

His breath washed over her, and she made a sound in the back of her throat that could only be described as needy. Dear Lord, he hadn’t even kissed her yet, and she was already acting like a fool, her brain fogged with desire. It was humiliating, needing him this much. It was dangerous, being this weak for a man. If Ivy wasn’t careful, she’d lose her good sense and her pride.

She couldn’t make herself care.

She lifted her hands to his chest, curled her fingers into his shirt and yanked him to her.

Yes, she thought as their mouths met. This was what she wanted. The flash of heat. The heady desire. His kiss was hard and hungry, his lips firm. Beneath her hands, he was solid. Warm. She’d expected finesse. Control. After all, he had both in spades. But what she got was an answer to her own desire, one that matched it. A heat that threatened to consume her.

His fingers tightened on her hair, the bite and tug ramping up her excitement as he tipped her head to the side to deepen the kiss. She slid her hands over the hard planes of his chest, up to his shoulders. Down his arms. He tasted of whiskey and smelled like heaven. She wanted to rub against him, imprint the feel of him on her skin, absorb his scent into her pores.

She pushed him back, trapping him between her and the back of the couch. His hands raced down her back, then smoothed up her torso, his thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts. She shifted, lifting her leg only to give a grunt of frustration when her skirt trapped her. Not breaking the kiss, she rose onto her knees and pulled the material up her thighs, then straddled him so they were connected, chest, belly and pelvis. He lifted his hips, had the hard ridge of his erection pressing against her.

She playfully bit his lower lip, then ran her tongue over it before fusing her mouth to his again. He felt wonderful. Even better than she’d imagined. All lithe muscles and carefully contained strength and power.

She couldn’t wait to make him lose that control. To be the one to unleash that power.

He pulled her shirt out of her waistband, slid his hands under the fabric, his nails lightly scraping her spine. She tore at his buttons, her fingers clumsy. Frantic. One button snagged, and she jerked it clear, leaving it to dangle by a string. She worked the rest free, shoved the shirt down his arms, where the sleeves bunched at his wrists.

Breaking the kiss, he sat up and yanked the shirt off, tossing it aside. He leaned back, the ridges of his abs bunching, his pecs well-defined. She smoothed her hands over his shoulders. Combed her fingers through the springy golden hair covering his broad chest.

She kissed him. His lips. His cheeks and chin, then along the sharp line of his jaw. His cologne was intoxicating, the taste of his skin enticing. She nipped at the pulse that was beating rapidly at the side of his neck, then slid lower, her belly brushing his hard length as she worked her way down his chest. She flicked her tongue over one nipple, and he groaned, so she repeated the action on the other side. Opened her mouth over it and rubbed it with the flat of her tongue. His breathing quickened. His hand shot to her head, his fingers digging into her scalp.

With a satisfied smile, she trailed her mouth lower. She swirled her tongue, tasting his skin, then leaned back so she could watch her forefinger follow the light trail of hair disappearing into his pants. She dragged her finger up to his belly button then added a second for the return trip. Up and down again, two fingers became three. This time when she went up, she laid her hand flat on him, felt his muscles jump under her touch.

She lifted her gaze to his. He watched her through hooded eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly. She drew her hand down, down, down. When she reached his pants, she raised the heel of her hand, her fingers skimming over his belt buckle before she settled her palm on him.

He inhaled with a sharp hiss, pushing himself harder into her hand.

Indulging herself for a moment, she cupped his impressive length, reveling in his groan. She slid down to kneel between his legs, her fingers at his belt, loosening the buckle, eager to feel the heat of his skin, the weight of him.

He stood suddenly, in one smooth move, and she squeaked and grabbed hold of his shoulders as he lifted her. His hands went under the backs of her thighs, urging her to wrap her legs around his waist as he strode toward the bedroom.

She complied, looping her arms around him and threading her hands in his hair as she pressed her face against the crook of his neck. “I was just getting to the good stuff.”

“Bed.” The word was more of a growl than actual speech. She lifted her head. Grinned. She’d reduced the man to barely decipherable, monosyllabic grunts.

She shouldn’t be so pleased, but damn it, she was.

He stepped into the room, shifted her weight to one arm and flipped the switch on the wall, turning on the lamp next to the king-size bed.

“For what I want to do to you, cowboy,” she murmured, flicking his earlobe with her tongue, “we don’t need a bed.”

His step faltered—not a lot but enough for her to notice. His fingers tightened on her legs. “We do,” he insisted as he carried her across the room and followed her down to the mattress, “for all the things I’m going to do to you.”

Her stomach churned. From excitement, she told herself. Okay, and maybe just the tiniest bit of fear, but not because she was afraid he’d hurt her. Because she was afraid of not being able to keep control.

He kissed her again, his mouth voracious, his hands seeking. She tried to get her control back, to keep the power firmly on her side, but his mouth was hot and hungry. He made it hard to resist responding with no care to the little sounds she was making, to how her hands were clutching him, how her head was spinning.

He tore his mouth from hers, and she almost cried out. Tried to pull him to her again, but he resisted, began working the buttons of her shirt, sliding them through the holes one at a time, his moves slow and controlled. His eyes followed each new inch of exposed skin.

She reached to help him, to hurry him—and he lightly slapped her hands away. Gave his head a quick shake. “Mine.”

The one word, grumbled and insistent and possessive, went through her, making the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

Mine.

Her arms fell to the bed, as if boneless. Panic suffused her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, not with his hands on her, his palms skimming her rib cage as he opened her shirt. Not with that word echoing in her mind.

Mine.

He slipped a finger under the front clasp of her bra, tugging it away from her skin, stroking his knuckle between her breasts.

“I’m not yours.” She winced. Her words had come out in a croak and not the flirtatious, aren’t-you-cute-to-think-so tone she’d wanted. She swallowed. Tried again. “No delusions of grandeur, remember? I don’t belong to any man.”

He kept up with the stroking, his other hand lightly holding her waist. “No, you don’t belong to me. But right here, right now, you’re mine.” He flicked open her bra and she wasn’t sure whether to be amused, impressed or irritated he did so with one hand. “You’re mine,” he repeated gruffly. “Just for tonight.”

She wanted to argue, she really did, but he slid one hand up, taking his sweet time, until he reached the edge of her bra. He separated the cups, pushing them aside, exposing her breasts to his hungry gaze. Then his hands were on her, and all ability to speak disappeared. He held her, his palms large and warm against her breasts, and she prayed he couldn’t feel the hammering of her heart. That he didn’t suspect what he did to her, how weak he made her.

With a moan of appreciation, he lowered his head and licked one nipple before taking it in his mouth and sucking hard. He worked her other breast, his clever fingers pinching and tugging until she was gasping for breath. Until she was squirming beneath him.

She touched his head, loving the feel of his hair, like cool silk, as the strands slid between her fingers. He kissed his way down her abdomen, held her hips as he dipped his tongue into her belly button. Her heart raced, her skin heated and became overly sensitive to his touch, to the light abrasion of his whiskers, the feel of his lips, the rough pads of his fingers.

He pushed her skirt up in that same slow way—as if savoring every moment with her, every touch of her skin, every sound she made—bunching the material at her waist. His eyes narrowed as he reached out and lightly traced the edge of her black lace panties.

“Pretty.” His voice was a low hum that seemed to reverberate inside her.

Hooking his fingers in the sides of her panties, he pulled them down. When he reached her feet, he lifted her right ankle, took her shoe and the panties off then repeated the action on the left. She wanted him to hurry, needed them to get back to where they’d been in the living room, was desperate for that flash of heat, the bite of hunger.

She started to sit up, only to have him settle his hand between her breasts and gently push her back.

“I want to look at you.”

She opened her mouth to remind him of the lesson she’d given earlier, about not always getting what he wanted, but then she noticed that while he kept one hand on her ankle, as if he couldn’t bear to break contact, the other was fisted. A muscle jumped in his jaw, and she knew he was as affected as she was.

Smiling to hide her nerves, she eased back. But it was torture, lying there while his gaze raked over her. She’d never felt so exposed. So vulnerable.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, his voice low and rough.

Her throat clogged. Her chest ached. She’d been called beautiful before, too many times to count. Too many times to feign modesty about something that was more genetics than anything she’d done to deserve the compliment. Too many times to have it mean something.

But hearing it from him? It meant something.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. They were just words. She didn’t need them to know what she looked like, didn’t want to be seduced or to let any man think he’d taken away her choice. Her power.

But Clinton was threatening to do just that with his light accent, his sure touch. Though he’d claimed not to like games, Ivy couldn’t help but feel he was playing along. She had to regain her control. Before she could, he was nudging her legs apart.

“Mine,” he breathed, then settled his mouth on her.

She arched into him, her head back, her hands in his hair. Maybe control was overrated.

Sensations flowed through her, her limbs growing heavy, her muscles lax as the pressure built. When her orgasm broke, she rode the waves of pleasure with a soft cry.

She floated back to earth, her breathing ragged, her skin coated in a fine sheen of sweat.

She was boneless, weightless, her body still flushed and vibrating. It took her a moment, surely longer than necessary, to focus on him. He shouldn’t look so strong, so commanding, kneeling before her like that, tension emanating from his long, lean body, his hair mussed from her fingers, his face all sharp lines and angles.

She shouldn’t want him this much. Not nearly this much.

She absently rubbed her hand over the odd, unwelcome catch in her heart.

And wondered if maybe he wasn’t holding all the cards, after all.

* * *

IF A MAN didn’t have self-control, he had nothing.

C.J. was afraid he was very close to having nothing.

Because the taste of Ivy on his tongue, the feel of her under his hands, the sight of her—all that smooth skin, all those glorious curves—threatened his resolve to keep things between them on even ground. To keep himself in charge.

She watched him, her blue eyes slowly focusing. Turning wary. Shuttered.

Mine.

He curled his fingers into his palms. She’d been pissed when he’d said it, but he didn’t want her to belong to him. Didn’t want to own her or control her. He just wanted her, all of her, for one night. He wouldn’t let her hide from him.

But he had to be careful. Ivy was powerful. Knew how to twist a man into knots, knew how to kiss him, exactly where to touch him to make him weak. Mindless.

In the living room he’d been nothing more than aching need. Burning desire. He’d resisted—barely—the urge to take her like an animal, to push his way into her lovely heat, but it had cost him.

Scared the hell out of him.

He couldn’t stop himself from touching her. He traced light circles above her knees, and she smiled a small, satisfied smile. He shifted onto his hands and knees, crawled over her, loving how her legs opened to accommodate him, how she reached for him.

He pressed his nose against the base of her throat and breathed her in. She was perfect. Her beauty called to him, but it was her confidence, her keen intelligence that drew her in. Fascinated him.

He raised his head, slid up her body. Her hard nipples brushed against his chest, and he bit back a groan. Shoveled his hands into her hair above her ears, his thumbs at her temples.

“You take my breath,” he told her, not happy about admitting it. Even less happy that it was true.

“I’m going to do so much more than that.” She leaned up to give him a firm kiss. Gently bit his lower lip, tugging at it before letting go again. “I’m going to take all of you. I want you inside me, Clinton. I want you.”

Her words blew through him, and he crushed his mouth to hers with a low growl. She answered his kiss, the ferocity of it, the need, as she pushed against him, forcing him back until he sat on his heels. She scooted out from under him, tore off her shirt and bra and let them drop to the rumpled bed then wiggled out of her skirt. Her head lowered, she opened his belt, undid his pants.

The back of her hand brushed against his stomach, and he sucked in a breath. He stood, quickly shed his pants and underwear, stepping out of them as he reached for her.

She held up a hand, stopping him. “My turn.”

He shook his head. How the hell was he supposed to think clearly when his mind was buzzing? When she knelt on the bed like a fantasy come true, her hair a mass of gold, her eyes heavy-lidded, her mouth pink and swollen from his kiss?

“Your turn?” he repeated dumbly.

“My turn to look at you.” She let her gaze roam over him, taking her time—payback, he was sure, for how he’d taken his with her. “My turn to touch you.”

If possible, he got even harder, his entire body stiffening as she moved toward him, not stopping until the tip of his penis brushed the soft curls at the apex of her thighs. It took all his willpower not to yank her against him, not to bury himself in her, right then and there.

She laid her hands below his chest, her palms flat against his rib cage, then smoothed them down to his waist before trailing her fingers across his lower abdomen. His cock jumped.

And smiling, she wrapped one warm, soft hand around him and squeezed gently.

His eyes nearly popped out of his head, and he couldn’t stop from pulsing against her palm. Prayed he had the strength to make it through the next few minutes without embarrassing himself. Without letting her know how badly he wanted her. How much he needed to be with her.

She shifted closer, and the movement had her breasts swaying, her hair sliding over her shoulder. Then she bent her head, that hair a curtain, and licked the tip of his erection. Made a purring sound of approval before taking him in her mouth.

He went wild. The sight of her giving him such pleasure, the feel of her mouth on him was too much. He jerked her upright, cut off her delighted laughter with a rough kiss.

He couldn’t get enough of her. Wanted only the feel of her on his fingers, the taste of her kiss on his lips. It was exciting and frightening as hell, but he couldn’t stop himself. He cupped her breasts, kissed her throat and then moved down to take one tip into his mouth and sucked. Her hips bucked, and she dug her nails into his back.

C.J. fell onto the bed, had enough sense to support his weight on his elbows so he didn’t crush her, but kept their cores aligned, her softness against his hardness, their hands giving pleasure as their kisses grew hotter, a clashing of tongues and teeth.

She grabbed his ass, pulled him against her, rubbing her curls against him. “Clinton,” she gasped. “Now.”

The words sounded ripped from her throat, raw and needy.

He reared up, grabbed his pants from the floor and dug into his pocket for his wallet, pulled out a condom. He sheathed himself quickly and took her in his arms, but she pushed against his shoulders, turning them until he was on his back. She straddled him, a siren here to make all his dreams come true, a woman in control of her body and her emotions.

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