Make Mine a Bad Boy (10 page)

Smiling almost as big as Jeannie, Colt slammed the truck door behind her.

Grover Road sat north of the town dump and south of the junkyard, although it looked more like an extension of both. Around a dozen trailers sat in the midst of rusted-out cars and trucks and piles of old mattresses. And each pathetic home looked the same, a rectangular box of aluminum siding with cracked windows, tires on the roof, and lopsided steps leading up to torn screen doors.

“It’s weird, isn’t it,” Hope voiced his thoughts. “I mean, everything looks the same, except not. I don’t remember the trailers being so small.” She glanced over at him. “Did we really live here?”

Raw emotion rumbled through Colt like the dark clouds that had yet to produce rain, and he struggled with the strong desire to crank the wheel and head back to town. Instead he slouched down in the seat and tried to
get his shoulders to relax. “I lived here a lot longer than you did.”

She studied him for a few more seconds before she looked away. “Mama said to leave the boxes beneath the steps. Folks like it better that way.”

He nodded in agreement. The one time the church ladies arrived with their Christmas charity box, he’d been so ashamed that he’d refused it, tossing in a few belligerent cuss words for good measure. Later on, when the other kids had fruit snacks for their lunches and Shirlene didn’t, he’d regretted his bad behavior. But by that time, it was too late. Which seemed to be the story of his life. Hot temper followed by rash behavior followed by a whole lot of regret.

“Just pull in here,” Hope directed him into a weedy lot.

“Does old man Smith still live here?”

“No, Mama told me he died a few years back.”

Maneuvering the SUV around the junk and weeds, Colt parked by the door. “He was sure a mean old bird. Every time I moved, he called the sheriff out.”

She glanced over. “And I’m sure sweet little Colt Lomax didn’t do a thing to deserve it.”

His gaze took in the filthy front window with the huge crack spidering across it. “Okay, so maybe I did occasionally deserve it, but the guy was a jerk.”

Whether the guy was a jerk or not, dead or not, that didn’t stop Colt from pulling out his wallet when Hope wasn’t looking and slipping a hundred beneath the snap top of an oatmeal box. Not that the money would go to fix the crack Colt had made in the window, but it made him feel better.

“You think they’ll find it before it rains?” Hope asked, as he slid the box under the sloping metal steps.

“It should be okay here until they do.”

They placed boxes at eight more trailers, and Colt recognized a few more cracks in the windows and shelled out a few more hundreds, although at the last one, a pit bull almost chewed clean through his brand-new cowboy boot before he could get the box placed under the stairs.

“Nice boots, by the way,” Hope yelled as they raced back to the truck. “Flashy but nice.”

“You should talk.” He jumped behind the wheel and slammed the door before the dog could get his head in. “Weren’t you the one who asked for those hideous pink boots for Christmas that year? Whatever happened to those, anyway?”

“I lost them,” Hope stated, before directing him to the next trailer.

It was funny, but he almost didn’t recognize his childhood home—funny because nothing much had changed. The yard was still cluttered with beat-up vehicles and old motorcycle frames. And the trailer still had rust spots and dangling screens, along with a wooden door with a fist-sized dent in the middle.

“Damn,” Colt breathed as he pulled in behind the old Ford truck without any tires, windows, or doors. “Does someone actually live here?”

“No.” When he shot her a questioning look, she grinned. “I just thought you might like to take a walk down memory lane.”

“Gee, thanks.” He looked around. “Why hasn’t anybody in town come out here to clean things up?”

“Probably because the one time Marty Clines tried it, you chased him off with a hammer.”

“Still, they should raze the place.”

“The place? Or your memories?”

His gaze shot over to her serious blue eyes. “Both.” He reached for the gear shift. But before he could pop it into reverse, Hope had her door open.

“Come on, let’s look around.”

“I had eighteen years to look around,” Colt stated. “And believe me that was plenty.”

She leaned in the open door. “I dare you.”

“Double dog?”

“Triple.”

Never one to refuse a dare, he got out, leading the way down the worn path that led to the broken-down steps. But when he tried the door, it refused to open.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” He jiggled the handle in disbelief.

“Ironic, ain’t it?” Hope stood at the bottom of the steps, smirking like all get out. The wind kicked up, sending the mane of hair flying around her upturned face and molding the soft fabric of her dress to her small breasts and flat stomach. “The only locked door in Bramble and it’s Colt Lomax’s.”

She giggled, and then the giggle turned to out-and-out laughter. And no one laughed like Hope. She laughed like she yelled, loud and uninhibited with her head thrown back and her arms crossed over her stomach. But while her yelling could bust an eardrum, her laughter had a mellow huskiness that filled Colt with a warm contentment.

He didn’t know how long he stood there staring at her, or how long he would’ve continued to do so, if her laughter hadn’t suddenly died and her gaze lifted up to the skies.

“Gully-washer,” she stated, but not soon enough for either one of them to escape the deluge of water that
suddenly dropped from the sky without one drip of warning. One second they were completely dry and the next soaking wet.

Most women would’ve been squealing their heads off. But not Hope. Her laughter returned, and she did a quick little spin in her scuffed cowboy boots.

“Come on,” Colt yelled as he took the steps in one leap, the racket of raindrops against aluminum deafening. He tried to shield her with his body and steer her toward the truck, but Hope had other plans and raced around the piles of junk toward the large elm tree.

When he finally caught up with her, she was struggling with the rusted door of the old Chevy. He wanted to jerk her stubborn body up and carry her back to the comfortable, heated seats of the Navigator, but instead, he reached out and added his strength to the door, then held it while she clamored in on the torn seat. Soaked to the skin, he climbed in behind her.

“Have you lost your mind, woman?” He slammed the door and scraped the wet hair back from his face.

“I just wanted to see if it was still here,” she said, all out of breath. “Besides, a little rain never hurt anyone.”

“A little?” Colt turned to her. The sight that greeted him brought a smile to his lips. “You look like a drowned rat.” He reached out and smoothed back a rope of wet hair.

“And what makes you think you don’t,” Hope tossed back, her gaze locked on his chest. It remained there for only a second before she turned to the rain-drenched windshield. “I’m surprised no one has broken it out.”

“Believe me, it was quite a temptation.”

She glanced over at him. “So why didn’t you?”

Staring at the water that rushed in tiny waves down the
solid sheet of glass, he only shrugged. “I guess because it was the only play equipment Shirlene had. She used to love climbing behind the wheel and traveling all over the world.”

“I know,” she said. “I traveled with her.”

Hope was right. She had been there, sitting in the front seat next to Shirlene while Colt was busy taking apart some old piece of junk in the yard. Those were the days before her life got better.
Before high school cliques. And before Slate Calhoun,
Colt thought.

“Don’t act like you didn’t like playing in here too.” She sent him a smug smile before latching on to the big steering wheel and turning it back and forth. “Where do you want to go? New York? California? Paris?”

Unfortunately, the thoughts of Slate and high school had soured his disposition and the rebellious, belligerent kid he thought was long gone reared his ugly head.

“Come on now, Hope, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what we used to play.”

She stopped twisting the steering wheel, and her hands tightened on the hard plastic. But she refused to look at him.

Rain or no rain, he should’ve pushed open the door and climbed out. But Colt had never known when to leave well enough alone. Or when to leave Hope alone, for that matter. His gaze followed a drop of rainwater that trickled down one flushed cheek, over a stubborn jaw, and along her soft throat to disappear beneath the damp collar of the flowered dress.

“Come on, honey,” he breathed as his arm stretched out along the back of the seat. “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.”

“I
DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT,
” Hope said as her gaze remained locked on the water cascading down the windshield.

Colt slid closer, blocking her view with miles of wet black T-shirt. She now understood why men were so enthralled with wet T-shirt contests. Wet cotton made for some mouth-watering fantasies, especially when shrink-wrapped to the hard, chiseled body in front of her.

As her gaze got stuck on the tiny beaded nipples topping each perfectly sculptured pectoral muscle, her breathing grew uneven. The seat was big enough that she could move back. Except that a strange paralysis had settled over her, and she couldn’t move if she wanted to, especially when his hand came to rest on the steering wheel and his other on the back of her neck. A chill spread through her body, which brought his droopy-lidded gaze sliding down her soaked dress.

“Sure you do,” he whispered, as his breath wafted over her face. It smelled of mint toothpaste and cool rain. “You know exactly what I’m talking about—sophomore year behind the girl’s locker room.”

Hope closed her eyes and tried to get a handle on her suddenly topsy-turvy world, but lack of vision only made matters worse when a hot hand skated up her bare leg. Her eyes flashed open as she grabbed his wrist.

“Stop.” She tried to sound firm, but only came out sounding needy. She cleared her throat. “I mean it, Colt.” Except it didn’t really sound like she meant it.

Those sensual gray eyes stared back at her from beneath lowered lids. “Come on, honey,” he coaxed as his fingers caressed the spot right above her knee. “Just a little peek.” He leaned over, and his cheek brushed against hers, not as prickly as it had been in jail, but prickly enough to cause more chill bumps. “I promise not to tell a single soul—I never did.”

The man knew exactly what to say. Always had. If he took a notion, he could tempt a nun from her habit. Hope was no nun, but she could count on one hand the times she’d had sex in the last year. So how could she fend off a desperado like Colt Lomax? A naughty outlaw who had no scruples about cornering her in an old Chevy while water cascaded down the windows like the best carwash fantasy she’d ever had?

So she gave in. Just a little. Just enough to let her eyes close in surrender. Just enough to lean into the mouth that trailed kisses down her neck. Just enough to loosen the grip she had on his hand.

But she refused to let it go. She might be sex-deprived, but she wasn’t stupid. Although that didn’t seem to stop his fingers from moving. In fact, her hand just went along for the ride, clinging tight to his wrist as he stoked a line of fire up her thigh. He caught the damp material of her dress on the way up, baring her legs to the chill of the air
and the warmth of his fingers. Fingers that hesitated for a brief heart-dropping second before skating over the satiny smoothness of her panties.

She moaned and pulled back, needing air in the worst possible way. Releasing his hold on her neck, he allowed her the freedom, his gaze settling on her mouth for a moment before dropping down to the quivering need between her legs. He stared for sizzling seconds—a full mind-blowing minute.

“I have to say,” his voice came out even more husky than normal as a finger flicked over her most quivery part of all. “I might even like these better than the cotton heart ones you wore in high school.” He inched the dress even higher, until part of her stomach and hipbones were bared to his greedy gray eyes. His gaze returned to hers, all heat and desire.

“You want to get real naughty, baby?”

When put that way, she did.

She really did.

So she nodded and waited. Waited for those wonderfully talented fingers to dip into her panties and put out the fire that burned out of control. Except instead of diving in, he removed his hands and settled back against the door.

“So show me,” he stated, his eyes smoldering.

She knew what he wanted; she just didn’t know if she could give it to him. Never in her life had she stripped in front of a man. Pathetic but true. She might be loud and controlling, but she had always been modest about showing her bits and pieces. Which is why she had never collected any Mardi Gras beads to hang off her rearview mirror, or sunbathed topless, or chosen nude acting roles.
And those things had only dealt with her bits. Her pieces were an entirely different matter.

If she’d been thinking right, she would’ve jerked down the hem of her dress and called it a day. But she wasn’t thinking right. After spending the last few weeks feeling like the most undesirable woman on the face of the earth, beneath his hot gray eyes she suddenly felt like the most desirable. And even though she knew it was a big mistake, she couldn’t seem to help herself. There was something about Colt Lomax that brought out the naughty girl in her—that made her want to take a walk on the wild side. Or dive smack dab into an entire pool of wicked.