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Authors: Christa Wick

Texas Curves

BOOK: Texas Curves
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Virginia Kelly is a real girl, with real curves and real problems. The last thing she needs is New Yorker Hawk McKinley pulling every trick in his billionaire playbook to get her into his bed. Certain Hawk wants nothing more than to make her a one-night stand or the double-wide butt of a cruel joke, Ginny is about to teach him no one messes with this West Texas girl.

From the moment Ginny rescues him on the side of the road on a hot day, Hawk can't get the woman out of his mind. With her southern sass and lush body perfect for sin, she's everything he wants and everything he intends to have.

In a game of North versus South, can two hearts win?

**********************

Copyright © 2012 by Christa Wick

Sveva font licensed from astype@myfonts. Cover art © AndreyEfremov@dreamstime. All persons and entities are fictional. Not for sale to libraries. No lending outside distributor (e.g. Kindle/Nook) terms of service. Otherwise, re-distributing, lending, or reading this e-book without first purchasing a license to do so is illegal and subject to heavy fines.

Texas Curves

I saw the black vintage Mustang with steam billowing from its engine on my way home. Glancing at the dashboard clock of my beat up Chevy truck, I released a quick string of words that would have gotten my butt tanned if momma had been riding with me. Pressed for time, I had half an hour to drive the five miles from Roy's Steakhouse where I worked to the rented house I lived in with my parents and brother. Once there, I had to make my father a quick lunch and give him his medicine then get my oversized butt back to work.

Daddy is recovering from major back surgery and momma works an hour away. My brother Beau isn't allowed to leave his worksite, whichever one he's at for the day, so that left me. I had about four weeks left of taking care of daddy on my lunch and, if I returned late one more time this week, Roy was going to have my head and some other girl was going to have my job. So the last thing I needed was some fool with an expensive, restored antique vehicle screwing with my lunch break.

I wanted to ignore the car and could have. It was about 200 feet past my turn. Only there wasn't a lot of traffic on this road between noon and six and the heat index was pushing one-hundred ten degrees. Even though the driver likely had a cell phone, he wouldn't get a signal. Up until two months ago, Tupperville's population had been less than fifteen hundred souls, too little and remote to warrant enough nearby cell towers. Then the wells hit and the town swelled to twenty-five hundred people in less than two weeks. With two new fields opened up since then, the number would probably double by the end of the month.

Today, though, the driver could be stuck for hours.

Letting loose another stream of
fuckity, fuck, fuck,
I drove past my turn and pulled to a stop behind the Mustang. Driving a beat to hell truck from the early 80s, I always carry a gallon jug filled with water on the passenger floor and a small toolset next to it. I grabbed both and climbed down from the truck's cab.

I was still swearing, but only in my head now that I had an audience. Finding and filling an empty jug would cost me at least another two minutes, but I couldn't risk driving the Chevy back to work and home again without any water. I had my own radiator problems.

"You're the first--"

I charged past him, head down and not so much as looking at him as I reached along my backside to pull a bandana from the pocket of my jeans. The damn fool hadn't even taken the radiator cap off!

I placed the toolset and jug on the ground and released the cap, one final plume of steam hissing from the radiator. I flapped the bandana over the engine, clearing the steam away. Part of the problem was obvious. From the looks of it, a hose had been recently replaced and whatever genius installed it hadn't trimmed the length right. The hose needed trimmed and the clamp re-fastened. Add in the water and he should be able to get back to the station in town without a tow.

The driver started to move in close but I elbowed him out of the way. A little noise erupted from him, something halfway between a grunt and a purr. Judging by the way the hairs stood up along the back of my neck and the start of a slow pout at my nipples, I'd say it was a little closer to a purr.

Swiping at the back of my neck with the bandana, I tried to focus on the radiator.

"There's no signal out here."

"Welcome to West Texas." I snorted. I might have been in a hurry and moving fast, but I noticed the Mustang carried New York plates and his accent sure wasn't local. Good thing, too. If God had thought to blend a slow southern twang into the driver's voice, the radiator hose wouldn't be the only thing popping a clamp.

I wiped more sweat away and returned to trimming the hose.

"You're a terse little thing."

His voice dropped lower and I could hear the smile behind the words. I didn't know whether to be pissed off or turned on. Lucky for him, I didn't have time to decide. I probably would have rolled round to being pissed and unleashed on him for calling me a little thing. If I was little, I wouldn't have been sweating buckets trying to fix his car just so his manicured hands wouldn't get greased up.

"Don't have any use for chit chat." Tightening the clamp on the hose, I glanced left to where his hands curled around the Mustang's metal body. Surprisingly, they weren't manicured. He had the kind of hands a girl would recognize when he touched her -- big, strong and carrying more than a few nicks on them, old scars and new.

My appreciation stopped cold at his wrists. The watch wrapped around one of them easily cost ten times as much as my old truck. My top lip started to climb in a sneer and I pressed it back down. I didn't have time to get all hot under the collar and lose track of what I was doing. Stopping to help Mr. Moneybags had already put me a good five minutes in the hole.

Gathering up my tools and knife, I pushed the jug toward him with my foot. "Fill it and wait about five minutes. It should turn over then but you need to head straight to the station."

"You're going?" Again, the sound was all purr with the hint of a smile behind his words.

"If your dumb ass is still stuck when I come through again in ten minutes, I'll give you a ride back to town." I stuffed the bandana in my pocket and stepped away from the vehicle, a little embarrassed I'd lost my temper, but I wasn't about to apologize.

He moved closer, the raised hood no longer blocking his face. Big sunglasses hid his eyes from me, but I could tell from the straight line of his nose, sculpted jaw and the firm, generous bottom lip, that his face could work a woman to a state every bit as wet as his voice did.

Feeling my cheeks heat up, I turned away and headed back to my truck.

The driver followed after me. "Mind telling my dumb ass your name?"

I blew out a little puff of air, trying to shake the feelings rolling through me. Beyond sexy, he had a rumbling baritone, rough like his calloused hands. Too long without a boyfriend, my skin sizzled at the thought of him running those hands over me while he told me all the dirty things he wanted to do to me with that voice of his. Hell, he could read the back of a cereal box with that voice and I'd start panting.

I was almost back to the safety of my truck when his hand closed softly around my elbow. Heat blazed across my skin. I sucked a breath in, more heat flaring inside me at how foolish I felt. He was a stranger, would remain a stranger. My body had absolutely no business getting all hot and bothered.

I twisted my arm, freed my elbow from his grip and climbed into the cab growling "Ginny."

He smiled and it was like sun breaking through the clouds after a long storm. "Does Ginny have a last name?"

I turned the key in the ignition, relieved when the truck sputtered to life, and glared at the driver until he took one step back from the vehicle. "You can just call me Little Miss Running Late."

Throwing the truck into reverse, I backed away in a quick, wide arc so that I was pointing in the opposite direction. Taking one last look at the dashboard clock, I put it into drive and hauled my ass home.

**********************

I'd be lying if I said I didn't give more than a passing thought to the driver the rest of that week. I thought about him the whole time I was fixing daddy lunch that afternoon. Thought about him the rest of my shift, too, my orders getting all mixed up so that I earned a few fresh scowls from Roy. And I don't even want to admit how much I thought about him halfway through the rest of the week when I managed a soak in the tub instead of taking a shower, Patsy Cline moaning on the CD player loud enough to cover my own soft mewls.

I'm sure by the time a few more weeks had passed I would have worked the stranger out of my system, but that wasn't meant to be. Saturday rolled around, the steakhouse all but empty following the afternoon rush when most of Tupperville headed for bigger towns like Midland to do some shopping. With two hours to go on my shift, Roy nudged my side and glanced over at station seven.

"Just gave you a live one, Ginny."

Live one
was Roy-speak for a customer who looked like a good tipper. With daddy injured on the job and his employer fighting him every inch of the way on the worker's comp claim, Roy had been trying to feed me as many live ones as he could when he wasn't hassling me about my lunch breaks. I gave him my best smile and headed to the corner and station seven.

I saw right away why Roy thought the man would be a good tipper -- the watch. It was as unmistakably expensive as the hand that wore it was familiar.

My driver was sitting at station seven.

I shook my head. He wasn't my driver -- I mean, it was the owner of the Mustang, but the man wasn't mine. Rich and gorgeous, he never would be. Some Tupperville girl might catch his eye like that for a night or two, but not me.

Tamping down a sigh, I stopped alongside the table and forced the same smile to my lips that I give every customer at Roy's Steakhouse. "Something to drink first?"

With my red hair, pale skin, multitude of freckles and too generous curves, I am recognizable in a way other girls aren't. But most men's attention skips right by, their gaze jumping fast enough to break the sound barrier. So I didn't expect my driver to look at me long enough to recognize me as the plump country girl who had rescued his dumb ass earlier that week.

He looked up. He had frosted blue eyes with a thick gray ring around the irises that glittered at me as a grin slowly spread across his face. "Miss Running Late."

He sucked his bottom lip in, stopping the smile until the lip emerged wet and flushing. I blinked, gripped my pen tighter and stared at my order sheet. No way would I get his order right if I had to look at that face, especially those eyes, again. "Yeah. Something to drink?"

That grunting, purring noise wrapped around my spine like a fist trying to tug me closer. He spread his hands out on the table, not quite touching the surface as he absently swept them side to side and finally ordered his drink. "A sweet tea."

"Right." I started to pivot, ready to flee. He caught my elbow just like he had that day on the side of the road, his grip almost proprietary.

Fudgesicles!

His touch felt exactly like I remembered it, exactly how I had imagined it over and over the last few days as I ran my hands over my body in the bath or in bed.

"Not so fast, Miss Running Late. I need your advice on the meal."

He hadn't even opened the damn menu yet, so how the hell did he know what help he needed!

"Fine." Flushing, I tapped the metal tip of my pen against the order sheet. "If you're looking for a light meal--"

"No, full…robust."

I sucked a little air between my teeth as his answer snaked its way around my hips. I obviously hadn't heard him talk enough to know if this was his normal voice. I just knew that every word he said sounded like pure sin, dripping speculation and promise.

"Well," I started, trying my best not to stutter, "the top sirloin platter--"

"No," he interrupted again. "I'm not looking for lean. I want tender, juicy…flavorful. You can give met that, right?"

Eyes wide, I finally risked another look at his face to find his gaze hitting the same spot his words had, my thighs. My flexing, overheated and increasingly damp thighs.

Just who in the hell did he think he was?

I shoved the order sheet and pen in my little apron. "Mister, are you actually going to order or are you just here to be a pain in the ass?"

"Virginia Kelly!"

The small gasp of indignation came from about two feet behind me. I turned to see my recently retired eighth-grade English teacher, Elaine Harrison, wearing her trademarked frown. Lucky for me, both Roy and my momma think Ms. Henderson is an annoying old biddy, so I could afford to frown back before my attention returned to the driver. Reaching across the table, I grabbed the menu he still hadn't opened and slapped it down in front of him.

"Read it. I'll be back with your sweet tea momentarily, sir."

Ignoring his chuckle, I marched to the drink station at the back of the kitchen to get his tea and calm down a bit. Roy may have eased off some about my lunch breaks and I knew he genuinely wanted to help my family out by keeping me employed, but he wouldn't tolerate my talking to a customer like that.

BOOK: Texas Curves
7.96Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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