How to Kiss a Cowboy (6 page)

Suze combed out her damp hair and scowled at herself in the mirror. Even after a hot shower, her eyes showed every possible sign of a short night's sleep. They were red and rheumy, with big pouches underneath. Her skin looked sallow and dull, and every freckle and blemish showed in the harsh white light.

She certainly didn't look anything like the kind of girls she'd seen Brady with. They probably rose from the bed with perfect, dewy skin and temptingly tousled hair, all ready for another round.

Why couldn't she look more like her mother? Ellen Carlyle had certainly never looked like this in the morning. Her father had said once that his late wife rose in the morning fresh as a summer day.

She could hear her father's voice in her head.
You
should
try
harder
to
look
like
your
mother. She was a beautiful woman.
Once he'd scowled and said she looked more like him. How could that be her fault?

Besides, it wasn't true. He was short and slight, with dark hair that had receded rapidly since her mother had died, leaving a little tufted island in the middle of a sea of pink baldness. He was nearsighted and squinted from behind thick glasses, and he wasn't the least bit athletic.

She shut out the thought of him. Thank goodness she could do that now. He used to go with her to every rodeo, critiquing her riding, comparing her to her mother until she wanted to scream. She'd actually gone out to the barn and done a private happy dance when he'd told her he wouldn't be traveling with her anymore. She felt guilty, since it was his arthritis that kept him home, but she was also relieved. Rodeo was hers now, a sanctuary from his constant carping and the cloud of grief that hung over his head.

It had been twelve years since her mother died—
twelve
years
, and yet her father still seemed to be grieving. All the pictures of Ellen that hung around the house probably didn't help, and he talked about her constantly. He even watched
Bonanza
reruns on television because Ben Cartwright, the patriarch of the Ponderosa clan, was a widower too. Three times over.

Ben Cartwright dealt with it. Why couldn't her father?

Suze grieved for her mother too. She'd been ten when Ellen Carlye had died, so she had some memories to treasure—although her mom had spent so much time on the road that Suze thought of her almost like that falling star she'd seen with Brady: a bright presence that arced across her life, then disappeared.

But instead of shutting down, like her father had, she'd built herself a mental treasure box of memories to carry with her, so she wouldn't miss her mother so much. Every time her father told her something about her mom, she added it to the treasure box and felt a little bit richer. Her father was right about one thing: Ellen Carlyle had been an amazing woman. Suze just wished she could live up to the legacy of being her daughter.

She wasn't doing it right now, that was for sure. Looking at her sallow reflection, she couldn't believe Brady had stayed over.

She fished out the emergency makeup kit she kept under the counter for TV interviews and that kind of thing. She almost never wore makeup. She didn't have time to fuss with that kind of thing, and besides, her father disapproved.

Makeup? Why do you want to spend money on that garbage? Your mother never needed more than a touch of lipstick.

She really needed to stop letting her father intrude on her thoughts. Because he was wrong about her. She was just as pretty as her mother. Brady had said so. At the time, she'd thought he was just trying to get her into bed, but now she realized he'd really meant it. After all, he'd stayed.

Still, she needed a little work this morning.

She was inches from the mirror, applying concealer under her eyes, when Brady appeared behind her. He was leaning on the door frame with one hand gripping the top, looking all handsome and Brady-ish.

It wasn't fair. Why didn't men have to wear makeup to look good? It seemed like the less they fussed, the better they looked. He had more than a day's growth of beard, and he looked raffish and hot. She remembered that beard scraping her skin and blushed, which probably turned her skin blotchy and made her look even more hideous.

Brady was fully dressed, which was disappointing. She'd love to have seen him all rumpled and shirtless, but he'd even put his boots on.

“Hey,” she said. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” He shifted nervously from one foot to the other. He obviously wasn't used to waking up with a woman. He was probably the type who left in the dead of night.

But those days were over. It was hard to believe it, but she'd actually tamed the great Brady Caine. No doubt she'd earn the irrational but intense enmity of thousands of hopeful buckle bunnies—an army of pubescent teens in tight pants who'd come after her with shotguns and pitchforks. The thought made her giggle.

“What's funny?” he asked.

“Nothing.” She spun around and gave him a quick smooch on the lips. “Give me a minute here and I'll be out to make breakfast.”

She wanted him to protest, to grab her and haul her off to the bedroom for a repeat of last night. But having breakfast together would be just as intimate, in a way.

“Do you like French toast?” she asked.

“Um, no thanks.” He shifted uneasily. “You didn't have to go to all that trouble.”

“I don't mind, Brady. I like to cook.”

“No, I mean I, ah, have to go. I'm really sorry.”

She stared at him, her mind frozen by a cold whoosh of hurt and humiliation. He had to go?

Of course he did. He hadn't stayed over on purpose. He'd overslept. By about four or five hours.

She hadn't
tamed
Brady Caine. She'd just worn him out.

She laughed. It sounded high and unnatural, but it was the best she could do. “You think I went to ‘all that trouble' for you?” She forced out another laugh. “Haven't you ever heard of the Breakfast of Champions? If you don't eat right, it's no wonder your career's not taking off. I eat a huge breakfast every morning.” She returned to her attention to the mirror and patted the concealer over the bags under her eyes.

“I overslept,” he said. “I need to… What are you doing?” He looked stunned.

“Nothing.”

She finished with the concealer and patted on some powder.

“You wear
makeup
?” Brady sounded incredulous.

She nodded and he huffed out a little laugh. “You sure can't tell.”

She paused mid powder-pat and gave his mirror image a stony glare. “Gee, thanks.”

“No, I didn't mean it like that,” he said, eyes widening. “I meant…”

“It's all right. Never mind.” Fortunately, the hurt and humiliation were quickly replaced by anger. She put away the other stuff she'd planned to use—eyeliner, mascara, blush—and turned around, leaning on the sink. She might as well let him see the hag he'd slept with last night. It was already obvious he was having second thoughts. “So you have to get going this morning, right? In fact, I bet you're already late.”

He backed up, looking uncomfortable. “Well, actually…”

“It's not a problem, Brady. In fact, it's kind of a relief.” She did her best to laugh, but it sounded hollow. “I sure didn't expect you to still be here this morning. Go on.” She wished she hadn't put the makeup away, so she'd have something to do with her hands. Of course, they were shaking so badly she could hardly have applied eyeliner or mascara. But hey, then she wouldn't have had to watch Brady walk away, because she'd have poked her eyes out.

She needed to get him out of here before she started really feeling sorry for herself. God forbid she should embarrass herself by crying in front of him. She prided herself far more on her toughness than on her feminine wiles. She forced a smile.

“Go, Brady.” She made shooing motions with her hands, forcing him to back away. “Go. I have stuff to do too, starting with that breakfast you thought was all for you. What are you hanging around for?”

“I'm not. I—okay.” He looked puzzled, but he didn't waste any time striding out the door and out of her life. “Bye.”

As the door swung shut behind him, she looked down at Dooley, who had watched their conversation like a spectator at a tennis match, his gaze swinging from one to the other. Now he looked longingly at the door and whimpered.

“I know, buddy. It was nice while it lasted.” She sank down onto one of the benches at the kitchen table.

Dooley tossed out a little bark and ran over to his bed. Trotting back, he dropped a gift at her feet. He often did that, bringing her toys and sticks when he wanted to play.

But this time he'd brought her a sock. A man's sock.

She picked it up and laughed, thinking of Brady walking around with his bare foot in one boot. She hoped he got blisters.

“Good job, Dooley. Well done.”

She lifted the dog into her lap. Hugging his furry body, she buried her head in his silky fur and gave herself the luxury of just a few tears before she looked up, wiped her eyes, and headed to the bathroom to wipe off that makeup.

Brady walked across the rodeo grounds to his pickup feeling strangely deflated, as if he'd left something behind besides his sock.

It irked him that Suze thought he was some kind of love-'em-and-leave-'em cowboy gigolo. And for some reason, it bothered him even more that she'd lowered herself like that, giving herself to someone she believed didn't care about her.

No. Not believed.
Knew.
Because she was right, wasn't she? He didn't care about her. Not really.

Which made him a jerk.

Was he screwed up or what? He wanted to punch his own lights out for what he'd done to her.

And when had his ego gotten so big? He'd gone and assumed Suze was making breakfast for him, when he should have known she was the type that would eat right. No fast-food breakfast burritos for Suze. She had too much class for that.

He pictured her at her pretty little table, eating eggs and bacon and maybe some pancakes. And Frosted Flakes. His favorite. His stomach rumbled at the thought.

He found his pickup in the parking lot, which was starting to fill up with the sedans and minivans of today's fairgoers. Later on, it would be jammed with vehicles from rodeo attendees. Brady wasn't competing today; he'd blown it yesterday by riding a little too close to the edge and getting bucked off. But Suze would be racing. Maybe he'd go back and watch her later on. He started up the truck and headed over to his meeting at the Buck ‘n' Bull Diner.

Dang it, he couldn't get her out of his head. Images from the night before flickered through his mind like an old movie, the frames flipping and changing in his mind's eye.

He saw Suze as she'd edged around the dance floor in the beer tent, trying not to be noticed. He saw her face lit by the lights from the midway, and saw it again reflected in an oil-slicked puddle on the asphalt.

He saw the wonder in her eyes as that falling star had streaked across the sky. But mostly, he saw her sprawled on the bed naked—beautiful, lost, and hurting.

He pressed the accelerator a little more firmly to the floor, figuring speed would force him to pay attention to the road. But the images just flickered a little faster, torturing him even more.

He walked into the diner praying he didn't look like he'd had a bad night—because the elation he'd felt from the great sex with Suze had been erased by her dismissal. It had hit him hard, even though he'd needed to leave. It
hurt
, dammit.

And Brady Caine was never hurt. Not by broncs, not by life, and definitely not by women.

He slid into a booth beside Cooter Banks. He and Cooter had endorsement deals with Lariat Western Wear, and the meeting was with the ad director. They'd been asked to scout around for a suitable woman to be the face of a new line of women's wear. The ad manager had suggested they check out rodeo queens, trick riders, and, in their words, “even” barrel racers.

Cooter had been testing out rodeo queens ever since, as if being good in bed was a stiff requirement for the job, when really the only thing stiff was between Cooter's legs.

Brady didn't think much of Cooter. Most successful rodeo cowboys grew out of the buckle-bunny braggadocio stage, but Cooter was still slavering over the sweet young things that followed the cowboys around like dogs scenting bacon. Cooter used women, and took advantage of the small-town girls—even the young ones. He was a player, the kind of guy Suze thought Brady was.

Actually, Brady wasn't much better.

Sure, he drew the line at underage girls and girls who'd had too much to drink. But he never got exclusive with women, never slept with the same one twice—for the most part.

By the time Brady got there, Red Sullivan, the advertising director, had already ordered coffee all around. Brady reached for the sugar packets and stacked three together, then tore them all at once and dumped them into his cup.

“Man, you like it sweet,” Cooter said. His arch tone made it clear he wasn't just talking about coffee.

Brady ignored him.

“I hope you guys came up with some suggestions for me,” Red said. “We've got a couple girls in mind, but I thought you gentlemen might have some insight into what kind of girl best represents Western women today.”

“We sure do.” Cooter slurped his coffee, which was apparently too hot to drink. Carefully, he poured some into his saucer, then lifted that to his lips and slurped it out of there.

Brady blanched. He hadn't had a mother until he was fifteen, but he'd learned better table manners than that in the foster care system. He glanced up at Red, who was watching with an expression of mingled amusement and horror. The man met his gaze and the two of them shook their heads.

“What?” Cooter said. “You think I don't know my Western women? I tell you, me and Brady here probably know more cowgirls than anybody you could ask. And I'm talking about knowing 'em in the biblical sense, right, Brady?”

Brady slunk down a little in his seat and pretended to be absorbed in something outside the diner's plate glass window.

“
Right?
” Cooter insisted.

“Speak for yourself, man,” Brady said. “I don't think Red's looking for the one who'd be best in bed.”

“Not at all,” Red said. “I'm looking for a woman who represents the best of the West—a strong woman, a real role model. Of course, she needs to be a beauty too. Goes without saying.”

He did a little slurping of his own.

Brady poured a couple creamers into his cup and stirred them, watching the white milk plume like clouds in a time-lapse video.

What was that song about “clouds in your coffee”? “You're So Vain,” that was it.

That song probably described him. He'd been so vain, so full of himself, that he'd just assumed Suze would fall at his feet, grateful that the great Brady Caine deigned to notice her.

Last night, it had seemed like he was right. But this morning…

“Brady?” said Red.

Brady pulled himself out of his reverie. “I'm sorry. I was thinking about something. What did you say?”

Cooter sniggered. “Thinking about some honey you had last night?” he asked.

Brady grabbed the edge of the table. If it hadn't been screwed to the floor, he probably would have overturned it onto Cooter's lap, hot coffee and all. But the resistance it offered gave him time to clear the rage that had bloomed in his mind like the cream in his coffee.

Cooter didn't know who Brady had been with last night. He wasn't insulting Suze. He was just being his usual disgusting self.

“I was just asking if you had a suggestion,” Red said.

Brady nodded. Fortunately, he had a couple of other girls to recommend—both of them barrel racers. Brandy Hallister and Megan Wright were both pretty, strong, and talented. Not as pretty, strong, or talented as Suze, but then again, they hadn't thrown him out of their trailers either. As a matter of fact, they were the kind of girls who could stay friends with a man after a roll in the hay. He knew that for a fact.

In fact, Cooter had both of them on his lengthy list of suggestions. As he read off the names, he made it clear they'd all been conquests. He kept glancing up at Brady, as if he was checking to see if he was impressing him.

He wasn't.

“I gotta tell you,” Red said. “We've checked out most of the girls you listed. Rodeo queens, barrel racers… Most of them already endorse other products. We want somebody new, fresh. Somebody different. And remember, we want to emphasize that Lariat clothing is for the strong Western woman. Do you guys know any ranchers' daughters who would work? Maybe a horse trainer?”

“I know a joke about a rancher's daughter,” Cooter said.

Brady and Red both ignored him.

“Guess we'll have to keep looking,” Red said. “I appreciate you guys' hard work.”

“Oh, it was
hard
, all right,” Cooter said.

“Shut up, Cooter.” Brady tried to sound like he was joking, but he could tell from the anger that flashed in Cooter's eyes that he knew Brady meant it.

Well, Brady didn't really care what Cooter thought of him. Cooter was a jerk who'd never had an honest emotion in his life outside of vanity, pride, and lust. He loved to brag about how some sweet young thing kept calling him. He'd lead them on, then stop answering their calls once he'd gotten what he wanted.

Brady was better than that. Not much better, but he was working on it.

At least he and Suze had talked last night. She'd shared some of the problems she was having with her dad, with her finances.

Wait a minute.

Her finances.

This was a chance for Brady to prove himself, to be a better man than Cooter. Suze might have rejected him, shoved him out the door, but he had a chance to help her, and he was going to do it.

Red picked up the tab the waitress had dropped off and passed her his credit card. Sliding their lists of names into a binder he'd brought along, he started to stand up.

“Hey, wait a minute, Red. I got another one for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Suze Carlyle.”

Cooter let out a big har-de-har laugh, slapping his thigh. “That stuck-up bitch? She won't give a man the time of day. I think she's a lezzy.”

Brady gave him a tight smile. “She's not. Not that it should matter.”

“She's not, huh? How do you know?” A slow smile spread across Cooter's broad face. “You get a piece of that, Caine? Shit, nobody I know's ever—”

Red slid across the vinyl bench seat and stood. “Shut up, Cooter.”

Cooter shut up.

Brady slowly unclenched the fist he'd been preparing to drive into the side of the picture-perfect face that fronted Cooter's tiny brain, and took a deep breath.

“I've seen Suze Carlyle, Brady. I just don't know if she's got the look we want.”

Cooter started to speak, then glanced at Brady and shut his mouth.

“That's because she's an athlete, not a model. She's a great person—just the kind of strong woman you're talking about. She dresses kind of sloppy, but I'm sure she'd change that if you gave her the deal. And that would attract a lot of attention. I mean, she's a two-time world champion, and she's always worn baggy jeans and men's shirts. If she started turning up looking great in Lariat's clothes, people would notice. I guarantee it.”

“Hmm.” Red tapped a pencil on the table, then wrote “Susan Carlisle” on Brady's paper.

“It's Suzanne, with a
z
and two
n
's,” Brady said. “And I think Carlyle is with a
y
. C-A-R-L-Y-L-E.”

“Geez, you gonna marry her, Caine?” Cooter asked. “Seems like you know a lot about her.”

Red ignored him. “Was her mother Ellen Carlyle?”

“Yup.” Brady grinned. “And when she takes off that old hat and dresses up, she looks exactly like her mom.”

Actually, he'd never seen Suze dress up. But he'd seen her naked, and he'd seen her happy.

Because for a little while, he
had
made her happy. And he'd discovered she had a beauty no other woman he knew could match.