Last of the Red-Hot Cowboys (2 page)

“Thing is, she knew we'd turn her down.” Trace sipped his beer, ruminating on their much-beloved Judy and trying not to think about Ava. God, that woman had a backside, one that was honed into shapely leanness thanks to years of riding. No woman had a sweet fanny like hers unless she'd spent hours in the saddle. He got warm thinking about it, and made himself quit before he gave himself an erection that would kill him with longevity. “Another beer,” he said to Stephen, and the chief came over with a full pitcher and a grin, pouring a round silently for all of them.

“She knew her plan was a no-go,” Saint agreed, “which leaves me to wonder what she really wanted.”

“Women,” Declan said with bemusement. “They can't just come right out and tell you what they're up to. They have to spin a web and let you walk right into it.”

“Yeah.” That bothered Trace, too. “She said these girls were the new face of Hell.”

“And God knows we appreciate her efforts,” Saint said. “New faces never hurt. And if they're as pretty as you say they are, we're lucky bastards.”

Declan laughed. “They can't be that pretty. Trace just hasn't had a woman in so long that he—”

They went dead silent as four gorgeous women strolled into Redfeathers. Trace's mouth dried out. Ava looked fine tonight, her spiky brown hair highlighted by the dim lights of the bar. She wore pinkish lipstick and a smile, though not when she met his gaze. Her friends Harper and Cameron were no eyesores, but Trace didn't think he'd ever seen a woman he wanted to get in bed with more than Ava.

“Are those girls with the mayor's team?” Saint asked.

“Yep,” Trace said, recognizing the gutted look on his friends' faces. “You were saying I might have been exaggerating their effect on the retina?”

“Holy crap,” Declan said. “Mayor Judy's trying to rip this town apart.”

Trace blinked. “How?”

“There's never been ladies that radioactive that haven't started trouble,” Saint said. “Cleopatra and Helen of Troy come to mind.”

Trace drummed his fingers on the scarred wooden table of their booth. No one in Hell would fight over women. He would never fight about a lady. Weren't all cats gray in the dark?

“That little brown-haired one—,” Saint began.

“No,” Trace said.

Saint and Declan stared at him.

He met their gazes without blinking.

“Oh,” Saint said, glancing back at the women. “You know, just because you saw her first doesn't mean you get to lay claim to her.”

Trace's jaw tightened.
And so it begins, pitting brother against brother
.

“Luckily for you,” Saint said cheerfully, “I was going to say that the little one looks a little young for any of us hard-bitten soldiers.”

Declan laughed. “Asshole,” he said pleasantly. “I don't remember you worrying about your age before.”

Saint shrugged. Trace didn't say anything. He was too busy watching Ava. Judy spotted them and waved, dragging her team over with her. Trace barely moved in time to stand as the ladies arrived, and the next thing he knew, the booth was full of perfume and
laughter and soft skin parked right next to him.

Ava.

He had to sit still, enjoy the view, and try to ignore the fact that he had a hard-on that probably wasn't going to go away for a week. He was like a jack-in-the-box around her. Two times he'd been near Ava, and twice he'd gone right up like a flagpole.

Saint was right. He needed a woman—any woman.

“Beer,” he called to Stephen, and then said, “Ladies, what can we get you?”

“I'll take care of my girls, thanks,” Judy said, squishing in between Ava and Trace, not an easy thing to do because he'd tried to leave as little space as possible between himself and the pixie brunette. “We'll have water, tea, and maybe some veggie quesadillas and salads, please. Olive oil dressing only. The girls are in training.”

Stephen nodded and went off, taking his long pipe with him.

Trace had a thousand questions, none of which he was going to ask as introductions were made around the table.

“Training where?” Saint asked.

“With the Horsemen,” Judy said, mentioning their archrivals ever so casually. “Jake, Rebel, Buck, and Fallon said they could help us out over at Wild Jack's. Fallon's Declan's twin brother,” she told the Belles.

Saint and Declan looked at Trace. Their gazes were slightly accusatory, so he shrugged. The Horsemen were rowdy badasses who played fast and loose with women, hung out a good deal at Ivy Peters' Honky-tonk and Dive Bar on the outside of town, and couldn't be trusted to sell good horseflesh without cheating those who were unbaptized in the equine world, in Trace's opinion. But what good did it do to regret their decision? He wasn't going to see women get stomped on his watch. That wasn't part of the business model of the Hell's Outlaws Training Center.

Hell was no place for women. It was owned by men and run by men, a small town of less than two hundred people—mostly male. They created their own wild world here out of necessity, and the people who stayed here were tough, strong. Like Mayor Judy.

“Maybe we were too hasty,” Saint said, catching Trace off guard.

“We've been known to be hasty,” Declan said. “Tell us about your team.”

His “brothers” smiled at the ladies in their midst. Trace sighed. Nothing good
could come of this, and yet, now that they'd seen the sweet temptation Miss Judy had lobbed their way like a well-thrown bomb, Trace figured “good” was the last thing his buddies were worried about.

* * *

Sheriff Steel Durant crowded into their booth not ten minutes later, trading places with Ava, and she found herself sitting too close to the sexy-as-sin, aggravating cowboy. Judy had warned the team that Trace Carter was no one's fool, and that he was the important initial key in making her plan work.

The first hurdle was getting Trace to train them, but Ava was pretty certain Trace wasn't the kind of man who changed his mind. He even looked stubborn, with his lean-planed cheeks and square jawline. Judy said that Trace was the platoon leader for the Spec Ops group the three men had been in, and because of that alone, he got respect from almost every man around, including Declan and Saint. The platinum-haired mayor had said that Trace had probably killed more men than most, and saved plenty of his own men. He was known for being hard and decisive in Spec Ops, which made him perfect for Judy's mission.

Trace's arm brushed Ava's, and she tried to scoot closer into Judy's space. He hadn't really looked at Ava, but she had a feeling he was paying close attention to her, like a hawk watching a rabbit—seemingly not watching, but radar-intense all the same.

“You fellows turned my girl down?” Steel asked.

Trace shrugged beside her. “We have no way of helping the team with its goals. We're not set up for it.”

Ava bit into a veggie quesadilla, wondering if Steel had any sway with the men Judy called the Outlaws. She didn't think so. Trace didn't strike her as the kind of man anyone could sway. He appeared remote as he sipped his beer and ate nothing, and seemed to be the one in control of the decision-making.

“That's it, then, love,” Steel said to Judy with a jovial smile.

“Not really,” Judy said. “The Horsemen are going to train us.”

Ava waited to see how Steel would take this news. Trace hadn't seemed too keen
on it, and his buddies certainly hadn't—but since Miss Judy was telling a whopping fib and they hadn't even approached these so-called Horsemen, Ava waited to get the sheriff's reaction.

“Ah, hell, Judy,” Steel said, making the mayor sit straight in the booth, radiating annoyance. “You don't want to be over there with those jackals.”

“We have to train somewhere,” Judy shot back.

“I'm going,” Trace said, getting out of the booth. He tipped his hat to the group. “It's an early morning for me. Ladies, Sheriff, goodnight.”

He ambled over to Stephen, paid his tab. Ava watched as the cowboy left, his dark face unreadable, his lean body taut as he moved through the doors.

Judy dug her hard in the ribs.

“What?” Ava asked.

“Now's your chance,” Judy said under her breath so that the chatting group around them couldn't hear. “Go after him. Get him to say yes.”

He didn't look like he'd be too open to anyone intruding on his schedule and solitude. “Maybe it's not a good—”

“It's good,” Judy said. “Don't be fooled by all that loner persona. It's baloney. Trace can be convinced, if you do your convincing right.”

Ava blinked. Why follow a man who professed little interest in being sociable? “Maybe he'll warm up in a day or two.”

“We don't have a day or two. We need to start training
now
,” Judy reminded her.

This was true. The first rodeo they wanted to attend was in December, only four short months away.

Reluctantly, Ava got out of the booth. “I'll be right back,” she told Cameron and Harper, “I'm going to get some fresh air for a minute.”

Ava walked out of Redfeathers, glancing around in the darkness. It was only nine o'clock on a crisp August evening, but the darkness was inky. She rubbed her arms, not sure how to follow Trace. She had no idea which direction he went and she didn't feel comfortable in this place. Maybe it was the dark, rain-threatening sky.

Then again, she wasn't entirely comfortable with the mission Judy had her on. Trace wasn't going to be easy to corral, and she wasn't sure she was the best one to do it.

“Looking for someone?”

Ava turned to look at the middle-aged man with the frizzed, long white hair and the scar over one eye. He was tall and thin and a little scary-looking, though probably harmless. Still, she didn't want to spend too much time with him.

“I was looking for Trace,” Ava said.

“Went that way.” He pointed down the street.

“Thank you.” It started to mist, tiny dots of moisture glazing the air as she walked on the cobbled sidewalk. She was only going to the end of this block, and if she didn't see Trace, she was going back to the bar, where it was warm.

A shiny black truck pulled up next to her.

“Hey,” Trace said. “Where are you going?”

“I needed fresh air,” Ava said, wondering why Judy had picked her to be the one to try to corral Trace. Her excuse sounded really stupid—he had to know she'd been trying to follow him.

He glanced up at the sky. Thready gray clouds covered the moon, and the mist was turning into an icy drizzle. “Helluva way to get fresh air, but whatever,” Trace said. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” she said, shivering a little and trying not to look like she was frozen.

He studied her. “Are you all right?”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

Trace shrugged. “Come on, Miss Independence, before you drown,” he said, his tone aggravatingly amused.

The rain fell harder. Her dark blouse molded to her body, sticking to her icily. “I can walk back,” she said, throwing up a barrier.

“I know.” Trace got out of the truck, pointing to the open bench seat. “Get in.”

She slid in without arguing, trying not to sigh with relief in his truck. It was warm and it smelled like him, a comforting blend of spice and man and leather. “Cold rain for August.”

“Yep.” Trace turned the truck in the direction of Redfeathers.

She wiped water from her eyes, knowing she looked like a little girl with her short hair plastered against her face. The Plan would just have to wait until she felt more
attractive.

He pulled in front of Redfeathers. “Here you are.”

“Thanks.” Ava scooted to the other side, surprised when Trace pulled her hand, drawing her back across the seat. He kissed her, his lips warm and hard and demanding, and Ava was so shocked she didn't move for a moment. He tasted so good, so warm, his velvety strokes melting her.

But this wasn't part of the Plan.

“Hey,” she said, pulling away. “Mind your manners, cowboy.”

He looked at her, studying her dog-wet hair and soaked clothes. “All right,” he said, his tone measured, disinterested—stunning her by pulling her back to him with one hand at the back of her neck, right to his mouth, sweeping her with his tongue, tasting her. Touching her cheek, tracing her skin, sending shivers all over her. He pulled her close against him, one hand pressing against her back. Ava melted, only then realizing he was no longer holding her to him.

No, she was pretty much plastered against that nice, big, hard chest all on her own.

When was the last time she'd had such a hot, sexy kiss?

Never.

Ava felt herself giving in, felt her resistance crumbling. This was bad, really bad. She was basically falling into his lap—no, she was in his lap. She wanted more, her fingers burying in his hair, cradling his slightly unshaven face between her palms, shocked by how much she wanted him to keep kissing her.

Judy had warned her about Trace's raw sex appeal. All of the Outlaws were sex on a stick, and ladies threw themselves at them.

Just like me
.

Pushing him away, Ava got out of the truck, slamming the door. She went inside Redfeathers, annoyed with him, more annoyed with herself. No doubt Trace's sex appeal was part of his reluctant, rugged charm.

I'm not falling for it. I know cowboys—and red-hot ones like that are guaranteed to break the most cautious heart
.

Safe, steady, cool-blue is my kind of guy
.

Mayor Judy smiled when Ava walked back inside Redfeathers. “Did you get him to change his mind?” she asked as Ava slid into the circular booth.

“Change his mind about what?” Declan asked, demonstrating that he had the excellent hearing a SEAL probably needed.

“Who are we talking into something?” Saint raised his beer to Judy. “Poor bastard, whoever he is. He's already lost, though he doesn't know it.”