Last of the Red-Hot Riders (2 page)

This was a first. He mentally reminded himself that smart men waited for the move to be made before they showed their cards. “Sure, no problem.”

Relaxed and casual. Easygoing Saint. No problem, because he had everything under control.

Two hours later, sitting in Redfeather's in their gang's favorite black leather circular booth, Saint understood that he had absolutely nothing under control. Cameron was sitting very close to him as they waited for their friends to show up for their regular gathering. The smell of burgers and beer hung in the air in a comforting cloud, and the slight scent of Stephen Redfeather's long pipe occasionally wafted across the well-ventilated restaurant. Smoking was specifically not permitted in here, but this was Stephen's restaurant, and so his pipe was just one of his quirks everyone had accepted long ago. The regulars were happy to have a place to sit and chat after a long workday. This was the watering hole, the gathering place, and he and Declan and Trace had promised themselves back in Afghanistan that they'd see this cracked black leather booth again, eat Stephen's comfortably questionable cooking, and enjoy their friendships.

Now that Cameron and the Hell's Belles had been in Hell for over a year, the Outlaws knew more about Mayor Judy's team. Ava was steadfast and determined, and had married Trace after a sort of scattershot courtship. Trace hadn't been happy at all about Ava's learning to bullfight, and his resistance had been more than token—though he'd happily caved at the end on all counts.

Sweet kisses had been Trace's undoing.

Then there was Harper, and her young son, Michael, whom she loved more than anything. Harper was the hardest to read of the three teammates, and Saint feared Declan was in for a serious bruising of his heart over the gorgeous blonde. There was something about her that spoke of quiet resolve and toughness—and of absolute zero interest in his buddy. She was an excellent horse rider, one of the best he'd ever seen, even possessing a fine repertoire of trick riding skills. Far too busy with her son and her horse to have even casually glanced Declan's way, Harper had friend-zoned him right off the bat. Declan had enough shit going on in his life that the last thing he needed was a blonde with a die-hard independent streak rocking his world, but there you had it. Love stunk on ice.

Of the three women, Cameron had the reputation for being the wild child. She was unafraid, and a daredevil. She was tough, and the occasional brawl in Hell—usually out at Ivy Peters' Honky-tonk and Dive Bar on the wrong side of town—didn't seem to concern her at all. He happened to know that Cameron sneaked out to the Honky-tonk on occasion to hang out, in direct violation of Mayor Judy's rules. He also knew that before Michael had come to live with his mother, Cameron had been able to drag Harper out there with her. In the past few months, he knew, Cameron had made a couple of stops out at the Honky-tonk—he could always tell when she was going because she'd tell Harper, Harper would tell Declan, and Declan would mention it to him just to see his blood pressure hop. Cameron wasn't one to let anybody tell her what to do, and he supposed he could see why a twenty-five-year-old wild woman would be drawn to the dubious fun of the Honky-tonk, when the big excitement in Hell proper was sitting right here in this booth at Redfeather's every night. But her late-night excursions were exactly what kept him on his toes and were exactly why Judy was betting on her to be her star bullfighter.

He supposed any woman tough enough to bullfight wasn't going to be the kind of woman who'd meekly follow Judy's rather arbitrary set of rules. The only reason she didn't like her team going out to the Honky-tonk was pretty much because she despised Ivy with a passion, and the sentiment was returned in full. He didn't like Cameron going out to the Honky-tonk because he knew how many men would be looking for a good time, a pursuit Ivy cultivated. Even the college kids liked to drive to the Honky-tonk from the big city, more frequently than was probably good for their GPAs.

He wanted to protect Cameron, but the thought of other men asking her to dance or hitting on her also activated a stubborn streak of jealousy he hadn't been aware he'd possessed. And he wasn't too happy to have located this rich vein of “concern,” as he liked to term the nagging feelings he experienced over Cameron.

He'd get over those renegade emotions with a little time. He had to. They were about to gnaw a hole in his gut.

Of course, Trace and Declan loved to give him jazz about Cameron. Gave him hell for not asking her out. But since Trace had never asked Ava out, finally just giving in and following her up to Colorado when he couldn't take her being gone anymore, Saint figured his friends weren't the authorities on a woman's heart they wished they were. And while his fellow SEALs wouldn't let him walk into an ambush, and had had his back in some pretty dangerous places around the world—and vice versa—they would gleefully encourage him to jump right into the frying pan of love, on top of a red-hot stove, just to enjoy his misery.

No, he couldn't count on his buddies in the dilemma he was suffering.

“I need your help,” Cameron said to him, and Saint stared into her beautiful deep-denim-blue eyes, knowing that whatever it was she needed, he was going to move heaven and earth to provide it.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said politely. “How can I help you?”

“Judy's arranged for me to start bullfighter training out at Judge Rory Nunez's.”

He raised a brow. “Good for you.”

Cameron shot him a look of disgust, and he laughed. He raised his beer, drinking deeply, unable to tear his gaze away from her in spite of himself.

“Look, eventually you guys are going to have to respect the fact that you were wrong about Judy's idea for a team of female bullfighters. Ava won that argument when she proved she could do it. And it was a good thing for Hell.”

“Maybe. The thing is, Ava gave up bullfighting to follow Trace around.”

Cameron snorted. “You have that backward.”

“So Judy's got her eye set on you.” He shrugged. “Cupcake, if you want to get squashed flat, that's your business. Don't ask me to help you.”

“I
am
asking you to help me. Because I know you trained Ava out at Rory's when Trace wouldn't.”

He didn't even have to think twice about this. “While I would help you any way I can, Cameron, I won't train you to bullfight. That's not my thing. I only helped Ava to get under Trace's skin. We decided long ago, before your team was even a twinkle in Judy's eye, that we didn't train anything but riders. We don't train women to bullfight, which Judy knew before she ever dreamed this project up.”

“You're the best rider around. No one knows better than you how to stay on a bull.” She gave him an intense stare that hit him right in the gut. He took another swig of beer for protection. “If anyone knows what a cowboy needs from a bullfighter, it's you, Saint.”

“Maybe. But no. Sorry, gorgeous. I'm not cut out to be an instructor.”

“You trained Ava.”

He nodded. “I did. She was a great student. But I'm not training you.”

His little redhead had quite the glare on her when she decided to crease those delicious lips into a displeased frown. He laughed because she was so darn cute, then stopped laughing abruptly when she put her lips against his.

He went absolutely still.

She kissed him, and his mouth felt like it had just reached heaven. My God, she was soft. Sweet. When that mouth was used for something other than sassing, it was a miracle surely blessed by angels.

He shut his eyes, hanging on for the ride. Didn't dare pull her into his arms and make the most of it, because quite clearly she was sending a message, and oh, God, he wanted to receive this message in all its glory.

Somehow he regained consciousness when she pulled away, her big eyes gazing into his. His brain was mush; he couldn't have pulled two thoughts together if his life depended upon it. There was nothing like an ambush to take away a guy's upper hand.

He wanted to say something, but he was transfixed, frozen in his seat. Cameron smiled at him, not shy at all, and Saint tried not to look like he was putty in her hands, which he was, damn it.

“Good night,” she said, getting out of the booth.

What the hell had that been about?

He watched her depart Redfeather's, his gaze glued to her beautiful fanny, the fanny he'd spent hours staring at as it bounced in a saddle. His mouth dried out, his ears rang.

She was trying to get under his skin.

It was working.

“What the hell was that?” Declan asked, making his way into the booth not a full minute after Cameron had departed.

“What was what?” Saint was still trying to figure out what had just happened. His brain couldn't stop wondering how a man who refused to give a woman what she wanted suddenly got the daylights smooched out of him.

It had been awesome.

Maybe saying no was the key to a woman's heart.

“Cameron kissed you. I saw her as I came in.” Declan gazed closely at him. “You look shell-shocked, buddy.”

He was torn all to hell. “It was just a friendly peck.”

“It was not a friendly peck. Pecks last no more than two seconds, and usually only one. That little lady stayed on your face for a good five seconds, not that I was counting.” Declan laughed. “It's just that when you've been a bullrider, your brain automatically counts. Definitely five seconds, brother. Three seconds more than friendly.”

“She wants me to train her out at Rory's.”

“Oh.” Declan ordered a beer from Stephen, and the dinner of the night. You could order whatever you wanted from Stephen, but you'd get served what he wanted to give you. That was another one of Stephen's quirks. Though the food could be good on a rare occasion, most times it could be barely digestible. But no one
complained—everyone
was just here for the companionship, anyway. “That redhead's a firecracker, isn't she?”

“Something like that.”

Saint could tell Declan was trying not to laugh, didn't want to rub it in too much, though he obviously found the situation pretty funny.

“You know you're going to give in eventually.”

“Don't think so.” Saint lifted his beer to his mouth, barely tasted it going down. All he could taste were soft, sweet, raspberry-flavored lips.

“Oh, you will. It just depends upon how hard you plan to fight it.”

“Pretty damn hard. All of us agreed, when Judy first came to us with her dumb idea for a team of Hell's Belles, that we, the Outlaws, do not train women.”

“Rules are made to be broken. At least from Cameron's perspective.”

He shrugged. “She'll have to break them elsewhere.”

“This is exactly what got us in trouble last time with the Horsemen,” Declan said, referring to their rivals across town. “The Hell's Belles can train at Wild Jack's with the Horsemen, probably for just about nothing.”

“The girls will never go out there again. We're the only game in town, if Judy's team is serious about training.”

“They're serious. But if we won't, they'll find a way to make it happen.”

He heard the worry in Declan's voice. “Look, just because Ava managed to make her way into the arena as a bullfighter doesn't mean that's going to become our business model. Judy needs to find something else to do with her team. That's her problem, not ours.”

“I like it.” Declan nodded, considering Saint's words. “You're right. Judy's issue can't become ours.”

“Exactly.” Saint felt better, relaxed against the booth. They were a team, and this time they were sticking to the plan, the one they should have stuck to
originally—which
was no training women to bullfight at the Hell's Outlaws Training Center.

No matter how sweet the kisses.

Cameron headed to the door of Redfeather's as fast as her boots could take her. What had she been thinking kissing Saint? Especially after she'd just gotten her confidence up to ask him to train her—and been soundly denied?

“Where are you going, Cameron?”

Cameron found herself face-to-face with Mayor Judy, Cameron heading out of Redfeather's, Judy coming in. “Hi, Judy. I'm just leaving.”

“So I see.” Judy glanced toward the favored booth, where Saint still sat—staring at them. He wore a perplexed expression, as if he couldn't figure out why Cameron had kissed him.

No one had been more surprised than she when she'd leaned in and finally kissed those well-shaped lips the way she'd been dying to ever since
he'd
kissed
her.
He was rumpled and sexy in blue jeans and a denim long-sleeved shirt, his half-smile tugging at her senses. Once he'd kissed her, a spark of attraction she'd long tried to ignore had burst into flame inside her. He was temptation in boots, hot temptation. She couldn't afford temptation in her life. Not sexy, half-smiling temptation that made her think about him a hundred times a day—which she'd been alarmed to find herself doing.

In a small town like this, where gossip flowed like aromatic coffee, word got around fast. And once it did, you got tagged with a reputation. Throwing herself at Saint wasn't the reputation she
wanted—especially
as he had no intention of helping her.

“Is something wrong?” Judy asked. “Our group's not all here yet. We haven't had dinner.”

“I'm just going to call it an early night.”

“Because of him?” Judy asked, pointing to the booth. Saint still had a wary eye on them, and Cameron felt herself flush. “He looks like a wolf eying a lamb. He hasn't taken his eyes off you for a second since I walked in the door. Are you sure you want to leave?”

“Yes, Judy. I'm sure. Everything's fine, I promise.”

“You can't let Saint bother you. Or any of the Outlaws. They're rascals, but they're harmless.” She smiled, her expression kindly. Judy did kindly very well. She was the closest thing to Dolly Parton that Cameron had ever seen, with silver-white hair that poufed up high—only she claimed hers wasn't a wig, that it was genuine Judy. Today Judy was dressed in turquoise jeans, a white belt with silver studs, white stiletto boots that made her even taller than the six feet she was, and a white blouse that clung to her curves. She looked like a rodeo queen, and as far as Hell was concerned, she was royalty.

“Saint's a sweetheart,” Judy said. “He just has some rough edges.”

“I've got to get home, Judy. I'll see you in the morning for practice.”

“Oh, don't go so fast. You haven't even eaten, and you don't want to miss Stephen's excellent cooking!” Judy took her arm, hauling her back over to the booth. “Evening, Saint, Declan. Where's the other rascal?”

“Evening, Judy. And I'm not my brothers' keeper,” Saint said.

Judy laughed. “Yes you are. Sit here, Cameron. We have some catching up to do.”

Cameron sat across from Saint, meeting his gaze. Staying away from his lips. Acting like nothing had happened.

Something had happened. From her perspective, the earth had pretty much moved.

He leaned back in the booth, gave her a slow wink.

Her heart stopped. Clearly he
thought—knew—that
she was attracted to him.

Which she was, in the worst way, so there was no denying that. She'd been denying the attraction for months under the guise of determined newcomer to town, but her impulsive kiss tonight had blown the lid off that ruse entirely.

Her sudden slip in control was embarrassing. But it was a slip that had been coming on. He was probably the sexiest man alive, or at least she thought so, and that was a bad sign in itself, since it wasn't like she hadn't come across sexy men before. But none like this: none with the battle-hardened edge to him that kept his handsome, square-jawed face set in sexy lines; none with dark, chocolate eyes and long, ebony hair that always lay crushed under a variety of well-worn cowboy hats. She didn't even want to think about the body, always dressed in worn jeans, boots, and western shirts, showcasing a body made of steel. She'd seen Saint without a shirt, a few times at pool parties at the mayor's, a few times when he was changing out of sweaty, dirty clothes after training. There were a few photos around his house of him, Declan, and Trace when they'd been stationed in different parts of the world, and one photo had the three of them in fatigues, no shirts, wearing headbands and grins the size of the Grand Canyon, not even bothering to try to look tough, despite their location. And that's what made the photo so sexy—they were badass, and they didn't have to prove it.

Cameron sneaked a fast peek over at Saint, glancing away when she caught him looking at her. His dark eyes crinkled around the edges when she dared to look his way again—trying to appear nonchalant, as if she hadn't been dying to drink him in—and she had the sudden idea that maybe he was laughing at her. Blinking, she wondered what he thought was so darn amusing about a kiss.

It hit her that he thought she'd kissed him to manipulate him into training her out at Rory's. Horrified, she realized that was exactly what was in his mind. That was the way the Outlaws thought—that the few women in the town always had a plot going (witness Mayor Judy with her endless plans, or Ivy across town with her “business” parlor of bad girls that everyone recognized was all but a pleasure
establishment).
Cameron couldn't believe Saint would suspect her of using womanly guile to get what she wanted, but she suddenly knew it was exactly what he did think. Especially as she was sitting right next to the master strategist
herself—Judy—who
had dragged her over to the booth by the arm, marching her right back to Saint and ruining her exit. The same Judy who had put Ava up to “working” Trace around to her point of view about training the Hell's Belles. Ava hadn't liked it—but new to town as they all were at the time, Ava'd made herself be a little nicer to Trace than she might have been otherwise. Under normal circumstances, she might have slapped the pigheaded Trace into the next county, even though it wasn't exactly his fault: It just so happened that he and Ava had both fallen into Judy's matchmaking scheme.

But Cameron wasn't after Saint.

“You can quit grinning,” she told him, deciding to defend herself in some small way.

“Men who get kissed usually grin.” His grin widened.

“Kissed?” Judy said as her chicken potpie was served to her. “Who got kissed?”

“No one.” Cameron wished she could edge out of the booth, but Saint was blocking one end and Judy the other. Declan sat like a chunk in the center, enjoying the new line of questioning.

Saint raised a brow. Cameron raised her chin in a silent standoff, daring Saint to bare her indiscretion.

He winked again. Cameron turned her head, which made Saint laugh, a rich sound that had the other patrons in Redfeather's glancing toward their booth. Her face burned as Judy looked at her speculatively.

“What's the joke?” Judy asked. “Clearly something's going on that you two aren't sharing.”

“Nah.” Saint got up. “Nothing's going on. I think I'll head over to the sheriff's, see if I can get him in trouble.”

Judy pointed her fork at Saint. “Sit. We have things to discuss. Steel will be here in a moment, and you can get your fill of him then.”

The sheriff and Judy claimed that all they had going on was a “Saturday Night Special,” but that “special” had been going on for years. Steel would have loved to marry Judy, but Judy was a firm believer that Steel was happier pining for her a little, and that marriage sucked all the romance out of a fellow. Cameron thought that was a bit hypocritical considering Judy'd been delighted when Ava and Trace had found themselves eager for the altar.

Still, Steel and Judy had a relationship that worked for them. On the other hand, it wouldn't be enough for her.
If I ever settle down,
Cameron thought—then realized she was looking at Saint as the thought crossed her mind.

No, no, no. Not an Outlaw. My father probably started out footloose and fancy-free like an Outlaw—but that went downhill really fast once the romance quit.

A man who didn't have to be corralled into a commitment was a man who wanted to be in the relationship to start with. She didn't care what Judy said—a man didn't always have to be lured into settling down.

“All right, Judy,” Saint said, remaining obediently in the booth. “What do you have cooking now?”

“Cooking indeed. I leave that up to Stephen, the best cook in the county, besides Hattie.”

Saint's gaze met Cameron's. Most people would have said that Stephen Redfeather's cooking wasn't one of Hell's strong suits, whereas Hattie's cooking was a dream. But Judy always said Stephen's was top-notch. To be fair, he could grill a mean
hamburger—when,
and if, that was what he chose to serve you.

“What's on my mind is that the second annual parade is coming up. The first one went so nicely we need to do it again. Don't you think?” she asked Saint. Not waiting for an answer, she said, “And this year, we're setting up the kissing booth kiss-off. Saint, I'm putting you in charge.”

“Hold on a minute, Judy.” Saint shook his head. “I'm not coordinating kissing booths. I'll do anything to help out with Hell's parade, because I think it's great for business for Stephen and Hattie and Madame Chen's flower shop, and for Hell in general. But don't ask me to run kissing booths. Put me in charge of coordinating traffic or parking or something.”

His gaze slid to Cameron. She felt her skin get a bit warm. Kissing was a topic best avoided at the moment.

“That's Frick and Frack's job,” Judy said, naming Steel's deputies. “But here's a compromise. You and Cameron run the kissing booth committee together. It was our largest fund-raising activity last year, so I'm counting on you to really liven it up this year.” Judy nodded. “And I want Poison Ivy's girls invited. My girls against hers.”

“I can agree to that,” Saint said.

Cameron was astonished. “Why would you agree to that? You know Judy's going to drive you mad.”

Declan laughed. “He's agreeing because of Ivy's girls, of course. Even I'd sign on for that job.”

Saint grinned and Steel chuckled—until he caught Judy's eyes on him. Judy huffed, annoyed. “Cameron will be in charge of Ivy's girls, and Saint, you can man my booth. And I won't drive Saint mad, Cameron. Not one bit.”

“It's true,” Cameron said. “Judy, you know how you are about anything to do with Hell.”

“I'm very loyal, it's true,” Judy said. “Growing the town of Hell is a top priority for me. That's why I dreamed up the Hell's Belles, to be the bright new face of Hell, Texas.”

Cameron shook her head. “I can manage the booths myself, Saint. You don't have to get involved.”

“I'm okay. I know how our mayor works. And I promise not to sample the kisses at Ivy's booth.” He scooted over as Steel slid into the booth, which made the space between Cameron and Saint shrink to almost nothing.

“You sound like you're making such a sacrifice.”

Everyone laughed, despite the tension. Cameron forgot about Saint kissing other women, suddenly alert to the warmth of his body. Saint was sitting very close to her now, almost unnecessarily close. She caught the scent of some woodsy soap and, as always, the smell of leather. And hunky man. She was glad when the pitcher of beer came around and Saint poured her some.

She hoped the beer could calm her racing pulse. She took a sip, then another.

Nope. Still all hot and bothered by the sexy male next to her. The one she'd kissed in a rash moment of unplanned spontaneity—as he'd kissed her before that. One paid a price for spontaneity, as Cameron knew well. She was a planner, a list-maker, a scheduler. Everything ran in an organized fashion in her life, with plans projected on three-, five-, and twenty-five-year goal markers.

Kissing Saint hadn't been part of the plan. He knew it, she knew it—and by nightfall, all of Hell would know it.

And there was just no way to make it anything other than what it was.

She had a thing for Saint Markham.

From the study he was making of her, Cameron knew he was wondering if she'd been teasing him, trying to get her way with him about the lessons, or if she actually had some kind of feelings for him.

“Here's to kissing,” he said, raising his glass to her.

She blushed, a curse of pale skin with freckles that revealed emotions she'd rather keep hidden. “To kissing booths,” Cameron said, raising her glass.

“Good.” Judy smiled. “I was hoping you'd take that job on. I just know it can be a huge success. Who doesn't like to be kissed?” She glanced over at Steel. “I thought I'd ask you to be grand marshal, Steel.”

The big man waved a hand. “Sign me up for whatever. I'm putty in your hands.”

Judy laughed. “You've never been putty in my hands, Steel.” She glanced fondly at her big sheriff. “Oh, look,” Judy exclaimed, “there's Eli!” She glanced around for Redfeather's owner. “Stephen!”

The tall, handsome Native American appeared at the booth. “Yes, Judy?”

“Take Eli to a booth, would you, and give him my potpie? I haven't touched it yet, but I'm not all that hungry.” She smiled at Stephen. “No one loves your potpie more than I do, but I bet Eli hasn't eaten today.”

Stephen took the potpie and went to do Judy's bidding. Eli Larson was homeless by choice, because any number of Hell's denizens had offered to set him up with lodging in some form or fashion. The town also saw to it that he was fed, wherever he showed up. Money for this was provided in the town's coffers as part of the budget.