Montana Cowboy (Big Sky Mavericks Book 2) (8 page)

A
fter doing his best to convince Dillon not to go after the old man and administer a healthy dose of
whup-ass
, Austen joined Serena in his car. He adjusted the glow of the dash lights to make it easier to tell his story as he drove her home. She deserved that much—even though he was sick of thinking about the stupid, sordid, predictable fiasco, much less repeating it out loud.

"Do you want the long version or the short?"

Serena startled, her attention apparently turned inward. She'd barely said a word the whole time they were in the bar waiting for his car to show up. The paparazzi thing had really shaken her up. He understood. He'd been in the limelight long enough, and often enough, that he'd become inured to the disruption, the invasion of privacy, and the cameras.

"I'd like to explain. My side."

"Oh. Sure. Um... whatever you want to share."

He didn't like the hint of ennui in her voice. As if she'd already decided any kind of association with him was going to be too much work.

"I thought you might be worth the time and effort it's going to take to rehabilitate your public persona," Sheri told him in their last face-to-face conversation. "Apparently, I was wrong."

He shook his head. He'd made more mistakes where women were concerned this past year than anyone with his sort of experience had any right to claim. He didn't intend to let that happen this time.

"My last year of law school I clerked for a judge. A man I'd admired for many years. Unfortunately, clerking exposes you to a side of the law most people never see. The underbelly, so to speak." He'd discovered his idol wasn't immune to influence peddling, corruption, and the arm-twisting pressures of the good ol' boy network.

"I learned a lot. I lost any naiveté I'd brought with me from Montana. A couple of the lessons were painful and embarrassing. I've always been the kind of person who likes to win, so I decided if I was going to play for a winning team, I needed to adopt a new strategy and play by their rules."

"Even if the rules were wrong." Her flat tone sounded uncomfortably personal.

"Yes. That's how the game is played."

She didn't reply, so he went on. "After graduation, I was recruited by my mentor's close, personal friend, Jim Crandwell, a five-term Montana state senator. I was thrilled to be close to home and work for the state I love. Senator Crandwell—'Crandy' to his friends—is a larger-than-life sort of man, charismatic, with a golden tongue."

Austen had swallowed Crandy's line, lies and promises, like a hungry trout going for a fly.

"I liked the political life. The power. I made a name for myself as Crandy's Chief of Staff. I was an integral part of some important legislation. But every three years the circus comes to town—elections."

He glanced sideways. He couldn't read her expression in the dim light, which probably was a good thing. This was the part of his story where the interest he'd seen in her eyes would begin to dim. The only people the truth didn't bother were the people still inside. "Running an election campaign is a bit like being president of a fraternity. You have great intentions but the people you're working with don't always give a fuck."
All they want is to win at any cost.

"Did you? Give a fuck?"

"I believed we were electing the right man. Not a great man. Hell, I knew from the beginning Jim wasn't a saint, but he played the game well, had connections he never spoke about but understood they had his back, and he got things done. I thought that was enough."

It didn't hurt that Jim's inside circle got the occasional stock tip or tickets to sky box seats at the Super Bowl. Austen justified the lucre because he didn't sit on the money. He put it back in circulation, buying new cars, a condo, the Flying Z. But in the quiet part of his soul, he'd known there'd be a price to pay someday.

"Somebody leaked a memo to the press. Proof that campaign funds were used to hire a prostitute for Crandy or someone on his staff. Finger pointing went into overdrive. I knew it wasn't me—I've never been with a prostitute in my life. Then Jenny came forward. Whether someone threatened her, or bribed her, or she actually believed what she told the grand jury looking into campaign fraud, I'll never know. I know she was mad at me for not giving her allegations more credence. She'd been giving me the cold shoulder for weeks. For whatever reason, she told me she admitted under oath that I authorized the expense. I was hung out to dry."

Serena murmured something that sounded like sympathy—the last thing his ego needed or wanted. He wasn't an innocent victim. Nor was he a villain. He told himself he was a decent human being who made the mistake of believing his own press.

"Attention shifted from the main story to a new one—Jenny's hidden agenda. At the time, I'd hired a PR firm to help me dig out from under all the bull crap. One of the company's ambitious underlings spun the suggestion Jenny was in love with me, and I didn't share her feelings, so to get back, she made up this untruth."

"Did she?"

They'd reached the turn to her house. "I don't know. After the story leaked, she wouldn't take my calls. And my PR people told me to quit calling her because my phone records made me look like a stalker."

She made a funny little peep.

"I hate to admit it, but I was pissed at that point. I figured she'd made her bed when she lied about me, and I needed to save my own hide. I never spoke with her again. A couple weeks later, she was dead. Her note said she couldn't take it anymore."

"I know the feeling."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Sorry. Go on."

"I hired a forensic accountant to prove there was no money trail leading to or from me. Any proof that connected Jim or any member of his inner circle to the prostitute was long gone by the time our subpoenas went through. If Jenny made copies of anything, they went to her grave with her."

"And you're absolutely certain she killed herself?"

"The police are. She left a note. Her dad believes it. Obviously."

Austen had his doubts at the time, but he'd convinced himself that was his guilt talking. "Why do you ask?"

"I know a thing or two about manipulators. The more complex the challenge, the more creative they get. And they never give up."

Austen heard a story there—one he wanted to learn more about, but they'd arrived at her farm and they had something else to discuss first—whether or not the sexual sparks they'd both been giving off all evening were going to take hold or had his inglorious past doused her desire?

He put on his blinker and turned into the driveway. Muted barking shot up in volume as her big, white dog ran to greet them. Serena pulled her purse onto her lap and poked inside with one hand searching for her keys, he assumed. Her apparent eagerness to get inside wasn't exactly what he'd pictured when they were sampling each other's entrees at the Graff.

He parked and turned off the engine.

"I blew it, didn't I?" He held up his hand. "I know. Not me, personally. But my weighty and not very attractive baggage killed the mood."

She un-did her safety belt and turned to face him. "I... I'm still processing."

"I'm really sorry that happened."

"We all have b-baggage. You don't owe me an apology."

"Can I at least walk you to the door and kiss you good-night?"

Her smile held less than half the wattage it had earlier, but she nodded before she got out. She hugged Beau and praised him for being a good, brave watchdog before walking to the front of the truck where Austen waited.

She let him hold her hand, even though nothing felt as relaxed and in-sync as it had.

"I had a great time tonight," he said. "I couldn't believe how fast time sped by."

Her smile seemed almost real. "The food was amazing, but, truly, the company made it perfect."

"Is there any chance we could forget that little run-in happened and pick up where we left off?"

She looked at her keys. "Maybe."

He tried not to show his surprise.

"I'm still a little rattled. I think there are a couple of beers in the fridge."

He didn't want beer, but it was better than going home alone.

She let go of his hand to unlock the door. Beau ambled in first. She went next but held the door for Austen. His upper arm brushed against her breasts. The contact still held a punch. The good kind.

"The living room's that way," she said, hanging her purse and jacket on a coat rack made of horseshoes. He noticed she relocked the door—the deadbolt, too.

A California thing, he assumed. His new future sister-in-law had spent most of her adult life in that state. Austen, honestly, had no desire to visit. He'd gotten used to locking doors in the city, but around here? Never. Most of his neighbors would be offended if they showed up to borrow an egg or a cup of sugar and found his door locked.

"I only have microbrews," she said, returning with two amber bottles. "I hope you don't want a glass. I unpacked the barn, first. Still haven't gotten around to all my kitchen stuff."

A telling statement, Austen thought. He took one. "This is perfect. My throat is dry from doing all the talking. You've told me about being homeschooled and your parents and your brother and your new job, but I don't know anything about you."

He chose a spot on the distressed leather couch and patted the cushion next to him. "Give me the 411 on Serena James."

S
erena took a mouthful of beer, savoring the flavor, the burst of carbonation, and the slightly smoky aftertaste. She swallowed and let out a satisfied sigh. "I love microbrews. My dad started brewing his own beer when I was five. I was the official taste tester. Much to my mother's chagrin."

"I'll bet."

She shook her head. "Mom wasn't worried about her toddler turning into an alcoholic or anything. She just didn't think my taste buds were mature enough to judge good beer from bad."

"Were you?"

She stuck out her tongue. "I have very mature taste buds. My dad said so."

His laugh helped shake loose a few leftover worries. Nothing bad would happen—stalker-wise—tonight. She could enjoy the pleasure of Austen's company and face what was coming in the morning. Actually, having him here to distract her from an over-active imagination might be the only way she got any sleep.

Not that sleep was high on her list of priorities at the moment.

"Aren't California girls supposed to be into wine?"

"You may not have heard, but there's a county north of where I grew up that wants to secede from California and create a new state of Jefferson."

The voltage in his grin could have powered a defibrillator. "Nothing about California would surprise me."

She dropped to the cushion beside him, close enough that her knees touched his thigh. He hadn't left her thoughts for more than a few minutes today. Supervising the two matings this afternoon had fueled a ridiculously erotic fantasy made all the more inappropriate with her teenage worker present. If she weren't too young for hot flashes, she'd have sworn she was going through the change. Mom would have wet her pants laughing to hear it.

Serena blamed her a-typical schooling for her inability to play social games. Did her directness turn people off at times? Hell, yes. The majority of her blind dates fizzled out after she asked for specifics.
Do you drink, smoke, gamble, litter, pollute, or have unnatural fantasies about farm animals?
The last actually came up when her date told her a joke that involved screwing sheep. Needless to say, he went home alone.

"How 'bout we lay our cards on the table?"

"I was supposed to bring cards? Nobody told me."

His fake look of horror made her insides go all soft and mushy. Humor got her every time.

She smirked. "Metaphorically speaking."

"Oh. Okay. You first. It's your house."

"I like you."

"I like you, too."

"I'm attracted to you."

"Is that the same as you're so freakin' hot, all I can think about is stripping you naked and licking certain body parts until you—?"

She launched herself onto his lap and kissed him, one-handed. The other still held her beer. "Exactly," she said, coming up for air a minute or so later.

He took her beer bottle and his and set them on the coffee table. Then he reached behind his back and removed a fat, fluffy pillow. He started to toss it but stopped and rubbed it against his cheek. "Alpaca?"

She nodded.

He closed his eyes. "Soft."

She ripped it out of his hand, launched it over her shoulder and tackled him again. "I'll give you one to take home. Later. Much later."

He wrapped his arms around her back and slid sideways until they were both lying comfortably on the sofa, Serena snugly settled against him. "Sounds good to me."

He kissed her this time, thoroughly, as if continuing from the spot they'd left off in her truck that afternoon when she more or less put the make on him. His tongue apparently remembered the tricks that sent shivers of need and delight down her back. His warmth made her hot from the inside out. She lost herself in his taste—beer and spices from the magnificent bison steak he'd ordered at the Graff.