My Double Life: Wild and Wicked (21 page)

6

S
O
THIS
IS
WHAT
morning-after regret felt like.

Jesse squinted at the clock next to Kyra’s bed just before dawn, his eyes dry and his thoughts scrambled.

Of course, he wasn’t entirely sure which he regretted more—giving into Kyra’s crazy scheme last night, or having to pry himself away from the soft warmth of her sleeping form this morning.

How could any woman look so confoundedly perfect at 5:00 a.m.? Her shoulder-length blond hair swirled across the white pillow, still smooth and silky even after all their nocturnal maneuverings. Eyes closed, inky black lashes fanning her cheeks...

And her body...

Jesse didn’t even dare to let his gaze wander lower or he’d never get out of her house this morning.

Limiting his visual inventory to her face, Jesse stared at her and waited for some revelation as to why the hell he’d never seen Kyra as remotely sexy over the course of their long friendship.

Had he simply refused to acknowledge what was right before his eyes all this time? Or had he been so damn shallow that he could only see the blatant external beauty in showy women like Greta Ingram?

Didn’t that say a hell of a lot about his character?

All the more certain he didn’t deserve to be in Kyra’s bed, Jesse shoved off the crisp white linens and searched around in the dark for his shirt.

He spied it strewn across the walnut bureau, sandwiched between a simple wooden jewelry box and a framed photo of Kyra’s parents on their wedding day.

Scooping up the wrinkled tank top, he couldn’t help but notice a baseball card tucked into the framed mirror above the dresser. He didn’t need to read the fine print to know whose card it had to be.

Jesse Chandler—rookie shortstop in the triple-A minor league.

Kyra was surely the only person on earth to have collected such a rare and simultaneously worthless item. But then, she’d always been a friend—a fan—no matter whether he was hitting the cover off the ball or falling into a major batting slump. He’d never asked her to attend any of his home games, but she’d always been there to hurl insults at any umpire who ever dared to call him out.

How could he screw up a friendship with a woman like that? Kyra could ride motorcycles, horses and—should someone happen to dare her—just about anything else that moved on wheels, wind or water. She could shoot pool, throw darts and she genuinely liked domestic beer. A guy just didn’t mess with a friendship like that.

Jamming the baseball card back into the mirror frame, Jesse tugged his shirt over his head and promised himself not to let last night ruin what he had with Kyra. It’s not like they had crossed that sexual line of consummation, after all.

He’d simply pretend the heated encounter never happened and hope like hell she did, too. He’d never been the kind of guy to be plagued by morning-after regrets, and today shouldn’t be any different.

No matter that—for the first time ever—he was having a hard time walking away from a woman’s bed.

At least he would be checking out of his position at the Crooked Branch in less than two weeks. That meant he could avoid Kyra—avoid this attraction—and concentrate on getting his business up and running. Every house he built would prove to himself a little more that he could stay in one place, that he could commit to something.

His night with Kyra didn’t do anything to change that.

And if he occasionally looked at her body and remembered the erotic-as-hell events of last night...that would just have to remain his secret.

* * *

I
NSISTENT
RAPPING
on her front door interrupted a very sexy dream Kyra had been having. She’d been envisioning a night with Jesse that had involved full-blown consummation, multiple orgasms and lots of leather.

In fact, Jesse had been just about to nudge her over that amazing sensual ledge again when the rapping at her front door pounded through her fuzzy consciousness to awaken her completely.

Blinking against the pale sunlight already streaming through her blinds, she realized it was later than she usually slept and that Jesse was no longer beside her.

He’d given her enough intense pleasure to send her into sated slumber until nearly dawn and she hadn’t given him so much as a second of satisfaction.

He’d done his friend a good deed, apparently, and then left.

She’d expected him to leave while she was sleeping, but the reality of seeing his side of the bed empty still stung. Thanks to her practically passing out in his arms, Jesse had slipped away without actually relieving her of her virginity or providing her with the complete sexual experience she craved. That stung even more. Sighing, she levered herself up on one arm and moved to investigate the loud rapping at her front door.

On the off chance that Jesse had somehow locked himself out and wanted to get back inside the house, Kyra pulled on a buff-colored cotton robe and jogged to the foyer.

“I’m coming,” she shouted, half-smiling to herself as she remembered the events of last night when she really
had
been coming.

She felt the flush of arousal in her cheeks and throughout the rest of her body as she yanked open the front door and hoped she’d find the man who could fulfill the sensual longing still pulsing through her this morning.

Instead, her gaze fell upon a bonafide cowboy, a breed that had grown more rare in southern Florida over the last decade.

A tall, rangy body took up her whole door frame. Well-worn denim encased his thighs while an honest-to-God Western shirt with a snap front covered an impressive chest.

He had a craggy face worthy of any Marlboro man, complete with hat. He was the scarred, dark antithesis of Jesse Chandler’s dazzling good looks and sunny charm, but Kyra would bet this man had still turned a few female heads in his day.

In fact, she was pretty sure if she weren’t nursing a major crush on her best friend, her head would be turning right now. That is, if she wasn’t also just a little bit nervous about what the Marlboro man wanted with her at 7:00 a.m. on a Sunday.

“Umm?” She tightened the sash on her skimpy robe and tried to rein in her scattered thoughts. Between the leftover effects of her steamy dream and the nerve-racking ability of a dangerous man on her doorstep, she felt a far cry from her normally sensible self this morning. “Can I help you?”

“I damn well hope so. I’m Clint—”

She gasped, remembering exactly who he was. “Mr. Bowman. The horse psychologist. I’m so sorry I forgot about our meeting.”

She’d called his Alabama ranch last week to request some help with Sam’s Pride. The horse had been raised at the Crooked Branch, and although the gelding had the sweetest disposition with Kyra, the temperamental three-year-old wanted nothing to do with anyone else. She couldn’t sell a horse that balked at responding to anyone but her. Although Kyra had always been a solid horse trainer, the case of Sam’s Pride stumped her.

But once Kyra had come up with the scheme to catch Jesse’s attention last week, she’d forgotten all about today’s appointment with the equine specialist. A horse whisperer of sorts.

Clint frowned, crossed his arms. “I waited around down by the barns, but everything is all locked up tight at the office and stable.” Frank gray eyes sized up her outfit as he took a step back. “You want me to head back down there while you—dress?”

“Good idea.” She appreciated a practical man. God knows she’d never run across many in her life. Between her manic-depressive father and her committed-to-pleasure best friend, however, Kyra’s experience with males had probably been skewed. “I’ll be five minutes if you’re ready to face Sam’s Pride without the benefit of coffee, ten minutes if you’d rather fuel up first.”

Clint Bowman smiled and touched the brim of his hat like a character out of an old Western movie. “Coffee it is.”

He turned on one booted heel and made his way across her driveway, headed for the barn.

Kyra gave herself a long moment to watch him and wonder what her life might be like if she could get over Jesse Chandler and pursue a guy like Clint.

Unfortunately, her night with Jesse hadn’t come close to curing her crush. Maybe her method hadn’t worked because she hadn’t been able to convince him to carry out her original plan to its full extent.

She needed the complete Jesse Chandler experience, beginning to end. The whole shebang.

For years, she’d had a vision in her head of having her first time with Jesse. Perhaps she just needed to fulfill that longtime fanciful vision in order to shake her attraction to him.

Only then would she be able to pursue someone more appropriate for her.

Someone like Clint Bowman.

She turned away from the intriguing picture of a real cowboy in her driveway to make the coffee. Putting clothes on had never taken her more than sixty seconds anyway.

No sooner had she dumped the coffee grounds into the filter than she heard raised voices outside.

Or rather, a lone, raised female voice.

“...I’ve walked across every red carpet in Europe on these heels, I’ll have you know.” The tone was a mixture of feminine indignation and catty pride. A woman on a roll.

Intrigued, Kyra set down the coffee scoop to peer out her kitchen window.

Greta the German Wonder-bod stood toe-to-toe with the Great American cowboy, one French manicured finger leveled at his chest. What on earth was Greta doing at the ranch on a Sunday morning?

“For that matter,” the model continued, shifting her weight from one practically nonexistent hip to the other, “ask anyone who owns the runways from Milan to Paris, sweetheart, and they’ll all point to me. I earned that reputation with four-and-a-half-inch heels strapped to these very same feet.” Greta tilted her chin at Clint, a gesture which only drew attention to the fact that despite the four-and-a-half-inch heels in question, the horse whisperer still had an inch or two on her.

“If I can manage all that on my own, I’m fairly certain I can negotiate a little gravel by myself.”

Kyra couldn’t hear Clint’s reply, but she saw his mouth move, saw him apply one hand to his hat in the same courteous gesture he’d shown to Kyra and then she saw Greta’s cheeks turn a huffy shade of pink before she stormed away from Clint and toward the house.

This was getting more interesting by the moment.

Kyra finished pouring water into the coffeepot, slopping a little onto the ceramic tile countertop in her haste.

A fierce rapping on her front door prevented her from cleaning up the mess.

Tempted to ignore the summons, Kyra tugged open the door again anyhow, too curious to simply go get dressed.

Greta barged inside, oblivious to common good manners. Dressed in a slinky purple silk skirt and a gold bikini top that looked like something
I Dream of Jeannie
might have worn, Greta cocked one slight hip. “Who the hell is that guy?”

“Nice to see you, too, Greta.” Kyra searched her brain for a way to avoid answering the question directly. She’d never been the type to lie, but she hardly wished to discuss her horses or Clint Bowman with Greta. “If you’re looking for Jesse, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. He’s not here.”

Greta smiled as she dug through a brown leather satchel she carried on one shoulder. “He rarely wakes up in the same bed he goes to sleep in. Hadn’t you noticed?”

Kyra took a deep, cleansing breath and struggled not to grind her teeth. “Is there a reason you’re here?”

“I came to warn you away from Jesse.” Her German accent had softened to mild, clipped tones—a more Americanized Marlene Dietrich. She pulled a silver cigarette case from her bag and flicked it open to reveal a handful of long, skinny smokes with a foreign label stamped across the butts. “He’s very much taken.”

Kyra reached over and flipped the case closed again, unwilling to fill her house with smoke fumes. “And you think I’d be interested in this because...?”

She’d be damned if she showed Greta Ingram how much she cared about Jesse. She’d protected her friendship with him from envious girlfriend-wannabees for plenty of years. She sure as hell wouldn’t get sucked into a catfight with a woman who was bound to be disappointed in the nonexistent commitment a consummate bad boy could offer.

Greta shoved the case back into her purse with a frown. “Just trying to save your heart a little wear and tear. I’d hate for you to get all hot and bothered over Jesse only to find out later that he’s the unequivocal property of a woman you have no chance of displacing.”

With a jaunty little shake of her perfect blond mane, Greta smiled at Kyra as if to soften the blow.

Not that Kyra was exactly reeling from the threat.

She backed into the low rock wall outlining a small fountain and miniature garden planted in the center of the foyer. Tucking her short cotton robe around her thighs, she eyed Greta as the German model paced the smooth stone floor with the restless grace of a hungry feline.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but did you just refer to Jesse Chandler as someone’s unequivocal property?”

Greta paused her pacing to fold her arms and shoot Kyra the evil eye. “Yes. Mine.”

Despite the woman’s hideous lack of manners, Kyra couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for any female who so completely misunderstood a guy like Jesse.

“Don’t you realize you’re consigning yourself to an abysmal case of heartbreak if you try to tie yourself to a man who’s more proud of his bachelorhood than his record-breaking minor league batting average?”

“His what?” Greta blinked, furrowing her perfectly shaped brows.

Kyra suspected it wouldn’t be the last time this woman’s quarry confused the hell out of her.

Sighing, she started again. “Jesse won’t ever commit himself to any one woman.”

Well aware of this fact, Kyra guessed that her best friend’s propensity to roam was probably half the reason she’d pursued him in the first place.

Okay, rampant lust might have something to do with it, too. But beyond that, Kyra knew she would be safe trying out her long-unused feminine wiles on Jesse.