Dare to be Dirty (The Dirty Girls Book Club #2) (2 page)

Two

A
fter book club, Kim stopped at Chapters to pick up
Ride Her, Cowboy
. The other club members usually bought the selections in e-book format, but—maybe it was the artist in her—Kim preferred the look and feel of print books. She had to admit, the semi-naked guy on the cover of this one did look better in glossy, hands-on color than on Marielle’s screen. Still, the cowboy hat and the coiled rope slung over his bare, muscled shoulder weren’t her thing. She was more into the suave cosmopolitan, or long-haired artistic type of man.

Laden with bags and umbrella, she returned to her Yaletown condo. She loved this building, an old brick warehouse that had been converted to apartments. Her studio was perfect, with lots of light, a hardwood floor and high ceiling, and a wall that cranked up like a garage door to reveal a tiny balcony. She’d chosen it from the options available in the two Vancouver properties owned and managed by Chang Property Management.

In the flush of Asian investment after Vancouver’s Expo 86, Kim and her mom had lived in Vancouver for four years—kindergarten through third grade for Kim—as her mom checked out opportunities for CPM. Her dad visited often, and Kim’s parents bought the two buildings. After her mom trained property managers, she and Kim returned to Hong Kong, but one or more of the family visited Vancouver at least a couple of times a year to check on things. Kim had come as often as she could, maintaining friendships with kids she’d gone to school with.

Humming, she put a noodle and veggie dish in the microwave to heat while she unpacked today’s purchases. When she placed the new book on the table, her gaze caught on that half-naked hottie. She’d never been with a man who had a body like that. That kind of musculature came from hard physical labor or too many self-absorbed hours at the gym, and she wasn’t attracted to either kind of guy.

Henry had a slender build like her. But, while she walked everywhere and did yoga every day, the most physical labor he ever did was change a lightbulb, and he said he had no time for exercise. Still, he never gained weight, and he did have a nice body. He’d been a good lover too. Just not an exciting one. They’d been comfortable together, almost like they were already family. Was she crazy to want passion, fun, a man who’d go to galleries with her and support her in her desire to pursue her art?

She would make her parents so happy if she joined CPM and married Henry. But surely life had to be about more than duty, living up to expectations, and making others happy.

Sighing, Kim dished her dinner onto a plate painted with a Chinese design, something she’d found in a thrift shop. She settled at her two-seater table and opened
Ride Her, Cowboy
.

Speeding along the highway, Marty Westerbrook spotted a wooden sign for Lazy Z Ranch, and slowed her rental car to make the sharp turn. She had accepted hundreds of assignments in the last ten years. A photojournalist went where the story was. Sometimes that meant a resort on a tropical island; sometimes it meant a war zone.

This week’s assignment fell in between. She expected heat, dust, and discomfort, but on the bright side, no one would be shooting at her. She might step in a cow pie, but that was a zillion times better than a land mine.

A cow pie? Kim prided herself on her mastery of Canadian and American slang, but she didn’t know the term. Still, she could guess what it meant, and made a mental note not to wear good shoes to the rodeo.

Marty might not know much about ranches, but her research had told her this was a professional operation. The split-rail fenced fields and well-maintained outbuildings supported that.

She respected professionalism. It annoyed her that a delayed flight had made her two hours late for her appointment with Dirk Zamora, the owner of this ranch and the subject of her article.

Kim smiled. She and Marty had something in common: hating to be late.

Squinting against the blaze of afternoon sun—she should have taken her sunglasses from her duffel before tossing it in the trunk—she whipped into the parking area, searching for a sign indicating the office. There it was, on a small building attached to a large barn.

Intent on her goal, she stomped on the brake, flicked open the seat belt, flung open the door of the car, and jumped out—

Straight into the path of a huge horse, stomping its feet and blowing hay-scented gusts in her face.

She jerked backward, feeling a sting of pain as her butt whacked the edge of the open car door. Where had that horse come from? She’d ridden enough times that horses didn’t scare her, but that didn’t mean she wanted a giant one in her face.

Rubbing her sore butt cheek, she squinted again and peered upward at the rider. The sun was behind him, dazzling her, so she saw only the outline of a broad-shouldered man wearing a cowboy hat.

“Whoa there,” a husky male voice drawled.

The horse, invading her space, tossed its head and puffed smelly breath.

“Yes,” she said, “would you please keep your horse away from me?”

“Not speakin’ to the horse. Speakin’ to you. Where you off to in such a blistering hurry?”

“To the office. I’m late.”

“Late’s no excuse for speeding when there’s animals about.”

There hadn’t been any animals in the parking area when she turned in. “Your horse looks like he can take care of himself.”

The man gave a quick snort that might have been laughter, but all trace of humor was gone when he said, “What’s your business? We’re getting ready for a cattle drive.”

She stepped to the side, hoping to see his features, but the horse parried her move, so Marty still couldn’t see the man’s face clearly.

He was trying to intimidate her, all high and mighty on his giant horse. Many men had tried, and failed. She countered with, “Would you get down here so I can see you?”

For a moment, she didn’t think he’d comply. Then, with a creak of leather, he swung his powerful body across the horse’s back and, quicker than she’d have believed possible, was standing in front of her. “I’m Dirk Zamora. Who are you and what do you want?”

What did she want? How could she even think, now that she could see him clearly? He was one hot, hard hunk of man. She was athletically built and stood five eight, but he loomed over her. Had to be six two or six three. Every inch muscled, solid, powerful—showcased to perfection by faded jeans, chaps, and a denim shirt, open at the neck and rolled up his forearms. The shirt revealed firm, tanned skin; the chaps framed a well-packed fly.

Lust rippled through her in a hot, shivery wave. When had she last had sex?

His Stetson shaded his face, but he took it off, saying, “Ma’am?”

She saw glossy black hair, chiseled features, and dramatic indigo eyes. The article she’d been assigned to write was titled “The Modern-Day Heroes of the West,” and this man was her subject. “Well, at least you look like a hero.” Damn, she hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

His wingy eyebrows rose. “Hero?” And then, “Oh hell, you’ve got something to do with that journalist who wants to do the story.”

“No, I
am
that journalist.” She thrust out her hand. “Marty Westerbrook.”

He didn’t take her hand; he was too busy frowning at her. “I thought you were a man.”

It had happened before: confusion due to her gender-neutral name. “How flattering.” She aimed for a joking tone, hoping to soften him up since the article depended on his cooperation.

“Flattery’s a waste of time,” he said absentmindedly. Those near-black eyes made a slow, thorough survey: from the curly red hair she’d pulled back with a scrunchie, to her jade green eyes and unpainted lips, to the old, comfy, figure-hugging tee and jeans she’d worn for travel, to the battered walking shoes that had taken her around the world. His piercing indigo eyes warmed and sparked with something she’d have taken for attraction if they hadn’t gone cold the next instant.

“No woman’s coming on the cattle drive,” he stated flatly. He jammed his Stetson back on his head, put his booted foot in the stirrup, and swung up into the saddle.

Male chauvinist asshole!
As he turned the horse away from her, Marty instinctively grabbed the reins. “Oh, yes, I am.”

And there she was, hanging on to God knows how many pounds of horseflesh that was snorting and stamping its feet, while a very annoyed cowboy glared down at her. “Let go or you’ll get hurt.”

“No horse—or cowboy—scares me.” She did her best to sound believable. “I’m coming. You already agreed.”

“Hell, no, I didn’t. Josie did.”

“Who’s Josie?” His wife? He had to be in his mid-thirties; of course he’d be married.

“My ranch manager.”

Marty knew he could rip the reins out of her grasp, but he didn’t.

“You have a female ranch manager.” Maybe he wasn’t a total chauvinist. “So you can have a woman on a cattle drive.”

There was a long pause. “Josie’s my sister.”

Okay, a chauvinist except when it came to family. This probably wasn’t the time to point out that women’s lib had happened forty years ago. Better to make nice, in the interests of getting her story. A story that might well question whether an old-fashioned macho chauvinist could truly be considered a hero.

“I won’t slow you down,” she said. “I won’t be any trouble.”

He snorted again. “Believe that when I see it.”

Between Dirk Zamora and his horse, she was tired of being snorted at. The man might make her hormones buzz, but he was annoying as hell. She fisted her hands on her hips and stared at him, letting body language do the talking.

After another long pause, he gave a terse nod. “We move out at dawn.”

The horse wheeled quickly and the reins slid through her hands, leaving a tingly burn. At least that burn, unlike the one between her thighs, had a sensible explanation.

The next thing she knew, she was staring at the horse’s rump, its switching tail, and the silhouette of a tall broad-shouldered back topped by a Stetson. Another shiver of heat rippled through her, a shiver of purely female awareness.

She’d said she wouldn’t be any trouble, and she’d do her best to honor that promise. As for Dirk Zamora, she had a feeling “trouble” was the man’s middle name.

The chapter ended and Kim looked at the time, stuck a bookmark in the book, and closed it. She ought to think seriously about developing a plan for a clothing design business, and might as well do yoga at the same time.

She pulled out her mat and changed into stretchy shorts and an exercise bra, then began her routine. As her body moved easily from position to position, she cleared her mind. Then she tried to visualize herself launching a clothing line. The images wouldn’t come, and instead her thoughts wandered to the book.

Marty was crazy to be attracted to a dusty, sweaty cowboy. Yes, he was a bad boy, and bad boys were sexy. But when it came to bad boys and sexual fantasies, Kim’s pick would be a man like the worldly Comte de Vergennes who’d seduced Lady Emma in the first dirty book the club had read. A bad boy did
not
have to be sweaty.

Kim had easily related to how the naïve Lady Emma had fallen for the charming Comte. Marty Westerbrook was anything but naïve, Dirk Zamora was anything but charming, and yet Marty felt an animal attraction. That was harder for Kim to relate to, but women’s tastes were different.

Did Dirk Zamora feel the attraction too? He’d tried to get rid of Marty, not seduce her. It could be interesting to see how the male chauvinist cowboy and the feminist journalist were going to hook up. Okay, maybe the book wasn’t as bad as Kim had expected.

She could only hope the same applied to Saturday’s rodeo.

* * *

F
ish out of water,” Kim muttered. She passed a crazily spinning amusement park ride with people shrieking at the top of their lungs, and walked down an alley where hawkers urged her to shoot at targets or toss balls to win stuffed animals. Where was the rodeo arena?

Lily and George had decided to drive out together. Marielle said she’d bring her own car. “Keeping my options open,” she’d e-mailed, “in case I find me a cowboy to go home with.” Kim had chosen to go on her own too.
Not
because she hoped to pick up a cowboy, but because she might want to bail early.

City girl to her core, she didn’t own a car, but belonged to the iCar car sharing program. In the cute red smart car, the drive had taken little more than an hour, but she’d entered a whole different world.

Around her, kids munched on pink cotton candy, teens in shorts stole kisses, and seniors sheltered under sun hats. The air smelled of hot dogs and popcorn, sunscreen and sweat, and sunshine baking into dusty ground.

Dressed for comfort, Kim wore cheap ballet flats, a long black cotton skirt, and a cerulean blue tank top covered by a floaty blouse she’d made herself. The silk-screened pattern, based on the Pipevine Swallowtail butterfly, was in vivid shades of blue and turquoise, with accents of black, white, and orange. She’d echoed the cerulean blue in her nail polish and the streaks in her spiky hair. The fabrics of the skirt and blouse were so light, they’d catch the slightest hint of breeze.

Except there wasn’t even the rumor of a hint of a breeze.

How could so many people bear to wear jeans, boots, shirts, and cowboy hats? As the number of western types increased, she realized she’d found the arena.

There was Marielle, decked out like a cowgirl, waving a beige cowboy hat that contrasted dramatically with her dark, curly hair and coffee-colored skin.

“You look authentic,” Kim greeted her, “but aren’t you broiling?”

“I was born in Jamaica. Things can’t get too hot for me.” She winked, letting Kim know she intended a double meaning. “Here come the others.” Again she waved her hat.