Cowboy Resurrection: Cowboy Cocktail, Book 2 Read online

  He kept his hold on her. “You want it and I want it. How is that a mistake?”

  “Trust me. It is.”

  “We’re adults. Free souls in a free goddamned country.”

  She licked her lips again and looked up at him. “It’s not that simple.”

  For a moment, he searched her face with his remarkable eyes. “You have obligations. I can’t fault you for that,” he said softly. “But it’d be fun. Monica, it’d be a hell of a good time.” He lowered his lips to her ear. “I could see it in your eyes the moment you walked into the Silver Spur. I can feel it rising off you now.”

  She closed her eyes again as his warm breath washed over her skin. “What?”

  “You’re a woman in need of lovin’. I could help you with that. I’d love you up good.”

  The man was a beast. Her eyes fluttered open. “I’ve heard about you.”

  “Rumors are rumors.” He paused. “I’d take care of you, though. Then you’d see.”

  “See what?”

  “If the rumors are true.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, and she smiled in spite of the loopy way he made her feel.

  “Tell you what,” he said, “you and me, we’re going to work together, that’s for sure. I want to help you with the rodeo.” When he stroked her cheek, his fingertips pressed lightly against her jaw. “But I want us to play together too. You’re not planning on staying and neither am I. So no strings attached. How’s that grab you? Can I spend some time convincing you?”

  He’d read her mind aloud.

  “Let me…let me think about it,” she said quietly.

  He nodded.

  They shared one last slow-simmering kiss before he let her go. Without a word, they walked back to her Prius. Monica’s legs were shaking as she drove them down the highway to MacKinnon Ranch. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

  When she exited the highway, he caught her looking at him, but he didn’t say anything, just smirked behind his hand as he rubbed his beard.

  Cocky bastard.

  She drove through the open gates of MacKinnon Ranch and down to the small compound of buildings at the end of the driveway. No one was around.

  Dean leaned forward, tipped his head and kissed her cheek. A quick peck, but still her body throbbed at the contact. She wanted more—more touching, more kissing, more secrets, more Dean.

  She willed her voice not to tremble. “Are you free tomorrow?”

  “What do you need?”

  You. More of you. “I need your help reviewing the contracts and streamlining the association’s list of action items.”

  “‘Action items’, huh?” Another smirk. “All right. Tomorrow at eleven. The diner.”

  He got out of the car, shut the door and went inside the big house without looking back.

  * * * * *

  Monica could barely keep their names straight.

  First was Aphra, the knockout blonde who worked at the hair salon and came into the diner for a cup of coffee before dropping her toddler son off at daycare. Percy was the pretty, older hippie, a local masseuse and physical therapist who sold essential oils and crystals at the farmers’ market. Heather was the mayor’s trophy wife, a Kim Basinger lookalike from Massachusetts who had somehow ended up in a dusty California cow town. Then there was Demi, the stone-faced but beautiful widowed wife of a local farmer who now managed operations on her own. She came in with her friends Addison, a CPA who looked and dressed like a naughty librarian, and Andrea, the equine vet tech from Oklahoma, a willowy girl with long, dark braids.

  Each one stopped at the booth where Monica and Dean worked, an endless parade of salivating women. And each one looked at Dean like he was today’s blue-plate special. He’d introduce each one to Monica, and then they’d start on their schtick.

  First the windup.

  “Long time no see,” they all said in their own way, smiling flirtatiously. “You’re looking good, Dean. Yeah, things are going well. You know, same old, same old.” Then they’d drop their voices. “How’s your dad doing? Oh, I’m so glad he’s better. Tell your mother I said hello. She’s such a strong woman.” They’d take a subtle step forward, shifting their weight from one foot to the other. “You know…”

  And then the pitch.

  “My sister’s in town this weekend and she’ll be watching Tyler. You and me should grab a cup of coffee.” Or, “Is your leg still bothering you? I could take a look at it again, if you wanted.” Or, “Harvey’s on another hunting trip this week. It gets so boring at home by myself!” Or, “I’ll be out on the lake with some girlfriends next Wednesday if you’re not busy. They’d love to meet you. They’re big bull riding fans.” Or, simply, “Call me. Let’s catch up.”

  When the last woman walked out of the diner, Dean looked at Monica and raised his eyebrows. “What?”

  She shook her head slowly. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “No, but you were thinking it.”

  “They’re my thoughts. I don’t have to tell you anything.” She pursed her lips and met his gaze. His eyes were full of silent laughter. Curiosity got the better of her. “Did you really sleep with all those women?” she whispered. “Is that what that was all about?”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “Did you?”

  “How do I say this without being rude?” He smiled and took a sip of coffee. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  She frowned at him.

  The lunch crowd was in full swing by the time Monica and Dean finished up their paperwork. Dean ordered a burger and Monica ordered a chicken salad sandwich. While they waited for their food, Monica put all her papers and contracts away, turned off her tablet and tucked it into her tote bag. She thought again of all those women, all seeking him out for what would probably be another dynamite roll in the hay.

  “Must be nice,” she mumbled.

  “What?”

  “Having your business out in the open like that without worrying about what other people think about you.”

  “What business?” he asked. “All those women did was say hello.”

  “Yes, but it was the way they said hello. I have a mind to ask the waitress for a mop and a wet floor sign to put next to the table.”

  He laughed at that. “For the record, they came to me. I didn’t call them over.” As he studied her face, heat rose in her cheeks. She fought to keep her expression neutral. “You know,” he said, “not worrying about what other people think isn’t a God-given gift. It’s a conscious choice. You can make it too.”

  Monica shook her head. “Actually, no, I can’t. Just sitting here with you, a white man, by myself—that’s already pushing boundaries. Even if it’s for work.” She leaned back and studied the room. Familiar faces, but all strangers. “Being back home makes me feel…I don’t know. Like too many people are watching me. I just want to hide.”

  Their food came. Dean doused his fries with ketchup and offered some to her. She took a couple. Then she took a couple more.

  “Sometimes I feel the same way,” he admitted, to her surprise. “I haven’t stayed in one place this long since…I can’t remember when.” He paused. “My father, he’s gone through this two times in the past. He’s got lots of fight in him yet, but he’s not as young as he used to be. And each relapse—it takes its toll.”

  As he spoke, Monica regretted complaining about feeling stifled. A mother who spent her time on dating websites trying to find her daughter a husband was nothing compared to having a sick parent. Monica didn’t know if she had the strength or emotional maturity to cope with something like that.

  Deflated by guilt, she asked in a softer voice, “So when it gets to be overwhelming, what do you do to relax?” When he waggled his eyebrows at her, she rolled her eyes and said, “I mean, besides that.”

  “To blow off steam? I work on the
ranch. There’s never a shortage of things to do. But to relax?” He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Riding is always good. And my brothers and me, we lift weights, try to outdo each other.”

  Monica had to admit that that particular hobby was paying out good dividends. “How many brothers have you got anyway?” Anywhere she went in Oleander, she seemed to run into a big, buff MacKinnon brother.

  “Three,” said Dean. “I’m the oldest. Daniel’s number two. Clark—you met Clark—he’s number three. And last is Caleb. My baby brother. He’s twenty-two.”

  “That’s a big age difference between you two.”

  He shrugged. “We call him Oops behind his back. Among other things.”

  She took a big bite of her sandwich. It was tasty. “So riding and lifting. Is that it?”

  “Let’s see. Um, my sister-in-law’s got a huge library in the house. It’s great, ’cuz I like to read.”

  “You?” she asked. “You like to read?”

  “That surprise you?” He smiled. “We’re not all illiterate Okies, you know. We don’t spend all our time shootin’ rats at the dump.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him.

  He hesitated. “Okay, maybe after we shoot rats at the dump, we pick up a book or two.”

  She laughed and stole another fry from his plate.

  “I got into the habit on the road,” Dean continued. “A book’s easy to carry. It’s cheap, and TV only turns my gears so far. I guess I needed more. Much more.” He paused and looked at her across the table. The seats of the booth were upholstered in robin’s-egg vinyl that set off the blue fire in his eyes. He’d hung his hat on the hat rack. His dark, disheveled hair and neatly trimmed dark beard only made his eyes look more feral. Monica had to look down at her half-eaten sandwich to keep from falling into his gaze as though it were a deep well or a high cliff next to the ocean.

  Someone should post a sign on his forehead. “Danger. Falling women.”

  “You know something else I like to do out here?” he said at last. “Go for drives.”

  “Around Oleander? What’s there to see?” she scoffed. “Burnt grass? Dust storms? Roadkill?”

  He pointed a french fry at her. “Okay, Miss Snooty-pants, this ain’t the Bay Area. No ocean, no fog. But we have our own secret spots.” He chomped on the fry as he watched her face. “In fact, let’s go for a drive after lunch.”

  “This afternoon?” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got another meeting at three. I shouldn’t—”

  “Don’t worry. The place I want to take you—it’s not far.”

  * * * * *

  “Turn here,” Dean said.

  After a twenty-minute drive down the highway, he directed her down an old fire road that wound around a blond, dry hill of grass. The road was unpaved but wide and well maintained. There was nothing out here but scorched grass and an occasional gnarled oak, dwarfed by the lack of water, providing small spots of shade in the blazing midday heat.

  “Keep going,” he said.

  They turned around the bend and on the western-facing side of one of the hills, the dry grass was carpeted in bright orange, as if someone had spilled cans of paint across the landscape.

  “This is the spot.”

  She gasped. “What is this? Did someone plant this?”

  He shook his head. “Wildflowers. They grow on their own.”

  “Why here?”

  “It’s cooler on this slope.”

  “What kinds of flowers are they?”

  “California poppies.”

  She stopped the car in the middle of the road and they walked out. The riotous color grabbed her eyes and wouldn’t let go. Everything dulled in comparison to that vivid orange. The dry grasses that just a moment ago seemed so yellow had turned a dull straw color. Even the clear blue sky appeared grayer.

  Only Dean MacKinnon’s eyes stood out, those pools of cool, pure blue. He looked at her to see if she liked what he was showing her.

  “Beautiful,” she said quietly. She walked gingerly through the field of flowers. “How did you find this place?”

  “The flowers grow here every year. Even dry years. We used to ride horses all up and down these hills. Never paid much mind to whose property was whose, although we probably should have.”

  “Bet you brought a couple of girls up here to impress them,” she said.

  He said nothing but followed her out into the middle of the field until they were surrounded by poppies. The color deadened her other senses, and when Dean leaned over to kiss her neck, she jumped in surprise.

  “Shh.” Dean reached down and picked a poppy from the thick carpet at their feet. With surprising delicacy, he tucked it behind her ear and brushed the hair away from her neck and shoulders. He gazed at her a moment like a man admiring his handiwork. The blossom was warm and velvety against her skin.

  She looked up into his eyes, and her lust rose in response to the heat she saw there. She stepped forward and rested her hands on his rock-hard shoulders. Without a word, he put his arms around her and kissed her. Full lips, wicked tongue. Her hands slid down around his curving triceps. He was solid, bull-like—a thick, handsome man and a dynamite kisser. Monica was so turned on, she didn’t trust herself to speak when Dean pulled back.

  “So,” he whispered against her lips. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice was barely audible, a ghost of air carried away by the wind.

  “I think you know.” He kissed her again, and before she knew what was happening, he’d pulled her down to the ground with him. The dry grass and soft blanket of flowers crinkled like hot paper beneath them. He sat down and she straddled him, her knees crushing petals that looked like orange fire in the desert.

  Dean took off his hat, placed it on the ground, and traced a trail of hot kisses down the side of her neck. Pleasure ran a circuit through her body, firing her nerve endings as her lust rose to high tide.

  She dug her hands through his dark hair. It was silky, long enough to curl. When he began to lay hot, open-mouthed kisses on her throat, she grabbed his hair in her fingers and tugged at it gently. A low moan rumbled in his chest.

  His lips found hers again. They quickly established a rhythm of breath and tongues that pulled all consciousness from her brain. She was flying, far too high on Dean to realize she was riding him, rubbing herself against the hardening bulge in his jeans.

  He broke their kiss and rested his forehead against hers. He let go of her waist and dragged his fingers through her hair, clasping it and gently pulling it back until her lips parted with a gasp.

  “Tell me what you want.” His deep voice sent shivers up her spine.

  She was silent, paralyzed with pleasure.

  “Tell me what you want, Monica,” he said again. His firm tone made her insides clench. Already she could feel how wet she was, how ready.

  “You need it. Same as I do.” He touched her face and skimmed his fingertips down her throat. “Don’t you?”

  “I do.” She was still. “But no one can know about this.”

  “I understand.”

  “Dean, I’m serious. Not a soul. Promise me.”

  He nodded. “I promise.”

  In a heartbeat, he lifted her and laid her gently on her back. She closed her eyes. Peach-colored sunlight shone through her closed eyelids. Dean distracted her with hard kisses as he undressed her, pulling her blouse from her skirt and undoing her buttons, one by one. He pulled her up, unhooked her bra clasp and whipped the bra off her. Wind cut through the ravine, stirring the grasses and flowers and racing over her skin, making her nipples harden. Dean cupped her breasts with his enormous hands and stroked her nipples with his fingertips.

  “Beautiful,” he said quietly.

  He kissed her mouth once more, a deep, commanding kiss that made her blood bolt to her puss
y like quicksilver. Still rubbing her nipples with the pads of his fingers, he traced an achingly slow trail of kisses down her chest and stomach until he reached her belly button. He brushed his fingers in a line between her hipbones, and she almost jumped out of her skin.

  She opened her eyes as he sat up and stripped off his shirt.

  “I don’t have anything with me,” he said, looking down at her. “But…I can still make you feel good.”

  Monica stared at Dean’s naked chest. She couldn’t have imagined a hotter sight if she tried. Broad as a door, he was tan and tight and beautiful. Well-built shoulders sloped down to rounded pectoral muscles and abs packed together like six shiny apples in a gift box.

  Her eyes raked over him. Random scars marred his skin, silvery stripes, wide jagged slashes and puckered lines where stitches had been put in and taken out. Dark hair covered his chest, narrowing into a trail that led down past his shallow belly button until it disappeared behind the shiny buckle of his belt. The name Cecilia was tattooed over his heart, the ink faded to slate green. A second tattoo covered his right biceps, ornate knots and spidery lines.

  “You all right?” He slid his hand across his abs, as if he needed to draw any more of her attention to his body.

  “Who’s Cecilia?” she asked.

  “My mom.”

  God, how many women had ogled him like this? Did he enjoy seeing the looks on their faces when he took off his clothes? Did he even care anymore?

  Monica cared. The sight of a shirtless Dean MacKinnon had already burned itself into her memory. She’d remember it until she was an old lady in her rocking chair.

  That one time I had me a cowboy, she’d think to herself. A long time ago.

  She glanced down past his belt buckle. Over the last couple of weeks working with real cowboys, she’d noticed that they wore their jeans a little looser to be able to move as they worked. Dean’s were the same, but there was no concealing the big bulge behind his fly. He saw where she was looking and smiled as he rubbed it with his palm.

  He dropped to his knees, grabbed his shirt and spread it out on the ground. Gently, he helped her onto it. With his big hands, he gathered her skirt up over her hips until it bunched around her waist. She was wearing a plain cotton thong, but he looked at her with appreciation twinkling in his bright blue eyes.