The Tycoon and the Texan (11 page)

Nick tucked his platinum card back into his wallet and leaned against the pump, waiting for McCall to come out of the restroom. The mini-mart was the only place he found open in the tiny town a few miles from the foot of the mountain. At least they could dry off and fill the gas tank at the same time. Nick hoped he wouldn't have to justify stopping in this little town instead of the larger one to the east. A simple wrong turn in the dark had set their fate. Of course, if he'd turned on the GPS, it might have helped.

“Rain stopped. Feel better?” he asked as she neared.

“Yes. Now are we going to find the sheriff?” She put her hands on her hips, almost as a threat.

“It's a police station. There isn't much to this town after dark. If I pieced together the attendant's waving-arm instructions, we shouldn't have any problem locating it.” Nick pressed the trunk lock and dropped her overnight bag inside.

A short time later, he pulled to the curb in front of a weathered building. Like many of the storefronts on Main Street, the antiquated police headquarters needed a coat of paint, a generous shot of air freshener, and a desk sergeant who hadn't tossed out his personality with his Dairy Queen coffee cup.

With jowls that waggled as he spoke, Sergeant Bulldog leaned back in his chair and welcomed the visitors much in the same manner as the federal warden in Lompoc might have received Ted Bundy into his fold.

Nick decided to let McCall handle the veteran lawman.

After listening halfheartedly to her version of the incident, the robust man caught the eye of the radio operator and raised an overgrown eyebrow. He turned back to McCall. “Did he hit her?”

McCall shot a questioning look to Nick, who stood silent, holding up the railing separating the sergeant's desk from the waiting room, decorated with two dilapidated café issue chairs.

“No. Or at least,
he
doesn't think so,” she responded.

“Was she hurt or in some kind of trouble?” The police officer folded his arms across his thick middle.

“Not that I could see. And why aren't you writing down what I'm saying?” she demanded.

“No need. It's Agnes. She lives up that way, and is safe as long as nobody runs over her.” He leaned back in his chair, pulled out a gigantic cigar, bit off the end, and spit the tip, along with a healthy dose of slobber, in the trash.

“And the sofa?” McCall challenged.

“People dump things up that way all the time. When the fog clears, we'll go up there and look things over,” Sergeant Bulldog explained, searching the desk drawer for what Nick presumed to be matches.

“Promise?” McCall's lower lip trembled, and she shot the officer a brutal glare.

“Sure, lady. I'll put it right on top of my stack of urgent files.” He patted a clear spot on his desk. “Yes, ma'am, right here with the important investigations.” He drawled with mockery.

McCall spun and stalked out of the office, slamming the door behind.

Nick eased up in front of Sergeant Bulldog, placed a hand on each side of the desk, and leaned into him. “Mister, I can promise you haven't seen the last of Miss Johnson, so I'd suggest you get off your lazy butt and take her report seriously.” He picked up a box of matches, struck one, and held it up to the officer to light his cigar.

Blowing out the flame, Nick turned on his heels and marched out.

Catching up with McCall, he followed her in a silent trek back to the car. He knew there were times to wake a sleeping dog, and times to let him lie. He swallowed his “I told you so” speech and opened the passenger door for her.

“Did you hear him, Nick?” Not waiting for his reply, she charged on. “He has no more intention of taking my report seriously than you do.”

Nick definitely knew when to let a dog sleep, and dodged the comment as he settled into the driver's seat. “Let's see about finding a room for the night.”

“You mean two rooms. You don't want to spend the night with a raving lunatic who seems to be the only one of us who actually saw the woman on the road.” She locked in her seat belt. “I hope they locate Agnes and she's okay.”

Nick tore back the bedcovers and crawled between sheets as rough as dried cornhusks. “Damn!” He fluffed the pillow with his fist. “Damn it to hell!”

He wasn't sure who he was more angry with, himself or McCall, but he could bet his bottom dollar that he was fighting mad knowing that their shared bullheadedness had landed them in separate rooms at a sleazy no-tell motel straight out of a Stephen King horror movie. Both travelers had been too exhausted to continue on a road where an accident was looking for a place to happen.

To his surprise, once they found the hotel, McCall had bailed from the car, marched in, and asked for two rooms, insisting on paying for her own.

At least she was safe. He had seen to it by placing the Jag's panic button on her bed stand. If she needed help, all she'd have to do was press it. On his way out, he'd made sure that she had locked the door and latched the safety chain behind him.

A passion-laden brain malfunction must have contributed to his dim-witted idea that courting McCall was the right step in his redemption, but no way could he recall celibacy being part of the plan.

The whole “Open up your heart and look inside” philosophy could kill a monk. And Nick was the idiot who'd volunteered to “stop making demands” and give her time to see if she had room in her heart for him.

What a crock of cock crap! One problem, he hadn't been totally honest with her about his feelings because he wanted to see where their relationship might go. What was wrong with him? He'd had many full-blown adult relationships, yet for some reason he let McCall do things to him that he'd drop another woman for even thinking of doing.

But, then he hadn't expected to fall in love with the lady with the eyes of an angel.

Love!

Commitment!

Oh hell, what next—marriage?

Nick closed his eyes.

When the time came, their first union had to be perfect. He planned to be the man McCall thought him to be. Besides, she was nothing like any of his past lovers. McCall was understanding, caring, and loving, yet a voraciously hot, sensual spitfire.

“What do I expect?” he murmured. “It took God six days to create the whole world and I think I can create a lifelong commitment in less time?” Patience, Dartmouth, patience. This courting stuff done right is work. Harder than scaling a twenty-story skeleton of red iron. He'd done that and he could do this, too.

His thoughts wandered back to his mother's telephone calls. Why her sudden interest in McCall's every move? Did Maddi really think the young woman she seemed to trust was a gold-digger only interested in her son because of his wealth?

Resolve washed over Nick. The key to happiness was right in his hands. All he had to do was keep his promise to McCall and try to keep from making a mistake that could cost him the best thing that had ever happened to him: McCall.

To hell with his physical needs. He knew his promise verbatim . . .
and the next time it'll be on your terms
. He could control his urges. Couldn't he?

Vigorous knocking drowned out his musing. He bolted upright and glanced at the clock. Way past bar closing time.

“Let me in, Nick.” McCall bellowed. “Now.”

Had his prayers been answered? He relaxed and so did the heart-pounding. Her words were demanding, not panicky.

He threw back the covers, combed his hair with his fingers and moseyed to the door. “Sugar, don't be so impatient. Give me a minute to put my pants on.” He enjoyed taunting her, knowing he had no intentions of doing any such thing.

“Don't play with me, Nick. Let me in!”

Nick slid off the chain and swung the door open to face the woman standing in his doorway in shorts and a T-shirt. “I'd like to play with you—”

“In your dreams, Slugger.” She darted past him.

“You didn't give me time to dress, but . . .” He felt a tightness develop in his white Fruit of the Looms.

McCall peeled off her white tee and dashed to the bathroom, leaving nothing to his imagination from the waist up. “Can I borrow a shirt?” Without waiting for his reply, she slammed the bathroom door.

“There's one hanging just inside,” he called. “Under my jeans.”

Water spewed in the shower.

Nick stuck his head out the motel room door to make sure someone hadn't chased her into his room.

The stench of an immensely angry skunk saturated the air. He slammed the door, hoping to trap the smell outside.

While he waited for an explanation of McCall's bizarre behavior, he straightened the bed and turned off the television.

Shortly, McCall appeared looking quite appealing in his white shirt, towel-drying her hair. Nick's gaze roved, boldly appraising her. He cleared his throat, pretending not to be affected by her presence.

“You need these?” She held his jeans in her free hand.

“Might help.” He took them and put them on, although he was enjoying the freedom of having on only underwear in a motel room with a sexy half-naked woman.

“Want to explain what kind of burr you got up your—” Nick folded his arms across his chest, to keep from gathering her into his arms.

“My room stinks.” She leaned over, wrapped the towel tightly around her tresses and flipped it back over her head.

“Mine isn't exactly a botanical garden.”

McCall caught a good view of the easy-on-the-eyes devil leaning against the door, adorned with bountiful fruits beneath noticeably tight looms. Such a handsome man, with rock-solid muscles from head to toe . . . and obviously in between, too.

“Better than mine.” She forced her stare upward and caught Nick's approving smile. “I guess you'd like an explanation.”

“Your room didn't come with a shower?”

“A polecat's in my room.”

“The desk clerk probably just gave him the wrong key. You know how irresponsible polecats are when they've had a few too many.” He let out a deep, rich, fun-loving chuckle.

“I'm serious. I heard a noise and opened the door because I thought it was you—”

“You think I'm a skunk?” He playfully frowned, as though her words cut him deep.

“At times,” she quipped. “I felt a cat zip past me and all I saw was a ball of black and white fur. It was dark, so I wasn't sure—”

“From the smell, it was a skunk, and you royally pissed him off.”

“Do you think I'd have tossed a Coke can under the bed to scare him off if I'd known it was a polecat?” She charged on. “He shot past me and out the door like I'd shoved a firecracker up his butt. Then the stink started. In the fracas, the door closed, locking me out.”

“He didn't spray you?” Nick said with a trace of laughter in his voice.

“I was standing behind the door, so I could close it when he got out. I think he missed me, but I wasn't staying around to find out. That's why I needed a shower so fast. Thanks for the use of your shirt.”

“No problem, but I think I'd better put on a shirt of some sort. There's a hair dryer if you want to use it. I'll go down to the desk and see if we can get another room.” He quirked an eyebrow, as if hoping she'd suggest that she stay with him.

“Thanks.”

He pulled a T-shirt from his suitcase, pulled it on, and headed toward the door. Over his shoulder he said, “I'll see if they have a room closer, so I can keep you out of trouble.”

McCall attempted to dry her hair, but as luck would have it, within thirty seconds the thing overheated and kicked off.

She heard Nick open the door and stepped around the corner.

“I'm back.” He dropped the key on the table, along with a bag of Hershey's Kisses. “They'll fumigate the room and take your things to the office. The night attendant didn't seem too concerned, acted like it was an everyday occurrence.”

“But you did get me another room?”

“No room at the inn.” Nick pulled a coin from his pocket. “Want to call it?”

“What for? Who gets the bathtub and who gets the bed?”

“Or I could sleep in the car?” He winked at her.

She looked at the clock. Only out of desperation had they taken this motel room, so what made her think there would be another one in town? Plus two more motel rooms would be a waste of good money. But, she couldn't let it go without making a point. “Surely, there's a room somewhere in town.”

Nick tossed his extra set of car keys on the table. “If you want to go look for one, go ahead, but I'd suggest you find a store that's open first and get you some drawers to wear under my shirt.”

She exhaled in exasperation at the big man, but he was right. She cut her eyes to the bed.

It was inviting.

She was tired.

He was smug.

“Take the bed. I'll sleep in the chair.” Nick pulled the bedspread across the floor.

“No, Nick. We're mature responsible adults. There is no reason we can't share. I promise I won't invade your space.”

He glanced from the undersized bed back to her. “I'm not sure that'll be possible.”

“It'll only be for a few hours.” She tugged the musky moth-ridden spread out of his arms and unfurled it over the bed. “Just pretend you're sleeping with your sister.” She flounced between the sheets, fluffed her pillow, rolled to her side, and closed her eyes.

Nick didn't have a sister, but if he did, he certainly wouldn't have thoughts about her like he was having about the woman burrowed in his bed.

Turning off the light, he slipped in next to her. Only two feet of darkness separated their pounding hearts.

He stared at the back of her slender neck, the soft curves of her shoulders, down her back to shapely hips covered with a sheet. He wanted to touch her. Feel her. Make love to her.

Lying next to the half-naked seductress was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

Before long, he found himself nuzzled against her back, his hand draped over her hips. He kissed her lightly on the delicate slope of her neck, pulled her snugly against him, and shut his eyes.

Nick wanted her to feel secure and safe in his arms, where nothing could harm her.

“Sleep tight, Angel Eyes,” he whispered.

 

McCall eased awake and didn't have to see the clock to know it was still hours until sunrise. She rolled over and watched Nick sleep.

Blinking neon light peeped through a slit in the curtains and cast a band of soft illumination across his face.

What a totally handsome specimen of manhood. She felt secure and protected in his bed, the familiarity of his nearness. All of her life, she had made decisions based on the needs of others. She now knew how it felt to be protected. To have a man look out for her welfare. She liked the feeling, if only for one night.

Tomorrow she would come clean with him. Tell him the truth.

The truth about her deception.

The truth that there would be no more tonights.

She stared at his well-defined features. Bold, chiseled, aristocratic chin with the tiny cleft that formed when he smiled. Chocolate eyes beneath closed lids, inviting a woman into his raw masculinity . . . and him into her dreams.

Curling next to him, McCall rested her hand on his chest. His large calloused fingers covered hers, while his breath settled unruffled in his chest.

She slipped back off to sleep.

White doves veiled in satin led a cascade of orange blossoms through her dreams. The warm, sensual scent of a man wafted the air.

Awakened by her heart hammering against her chest, shivers of delight thundered through her body as she realized she had a magnificent man in her arms. Her eyes blared open, and she held her breath afraid any movement would spoil the moment.

Her and Nick's bodies were entangled like a skein of yarn.

Tangled up beneath her pillow, McCall could not move her arm. Her other was caught between his hand and chest, while he trapped her thigh between his legs, nestled against his . . . and she'd thought
his chest
was the hardest part of his body.

She swallowed and tugged at her leg, but found herself unable to dislodge it. She bit at her lip, fighting an urge to enjoy his nearness. It seemed the most active part of his body was becoming more active with each breath, and bothered her in ways she thought impossible.

Watching his sleeping face, she racked her brain to figure out how to get untangled without disturbing him.

She gingerly twisted her hand. Receiving no resistance, she eased it out of his grasp. Her fingertips halted a breath away from his lips. She wanted to touch them, feel their softness, experience their insatiable hunger, and bask in his nearness.

As much as she wanted him, a fling in a shady motel room not even fit for a hooker wasn't how she pictured their first time together.

She eased away, only to have his hand spring to life and grasp hers. “It's okay to touch me. I want you to.” Nick never opened his eyes as he directed her hands to his nipples. Pressing her palms against them, hard peaks formed. His breathing turned ragged, quickened.

Slowly, he guided her downward and clamped his hand over hers, begging her to explore.

A throaty moan came deep from his chest.

McCall quickly moved her hand away. Using his chest for leverage, she dislodged herself and, with one mighty shove, scampered to the edge of her side of the bed.

She hit the floor.

Nick managed a triumphant laugh.

“Nicodemus Dartmouth, I can't believe you did that.”