Unbreakable (16 page)

She took her time thinking while he swatted at moths and mosquitoes, finally stepping out of the doorway and nodding him inside. He brushed by her, taking off his hat and scrubbing a hand over his buzzed hair. God
damn
, he needed a beer.

He was insane. That’s all there was to it. He should’ve turned and walked off the minute she’d demanded a say in more than how they fucked, but here he was and here she was and all he could say was, “Nice place.”

“It’s comfortable. I’ve got plenty of room. Very nice neighbors.”

He lifted his nose. “Smells like you’ve also got Arwen Poole’s ribs.”

“I do. Would you like some?”

“I’m fine.”

“Casper, it’s a half-rack with a loaded baked potato, a side of green beans, and a big square of chocolate cake for dessert. There’s more than enough for two.”

He’d seen her eat. He wouldn’t take that bet. “Okay then. Thanks.”

The look she gave him wasn’t quite a smile, but it was close enough that when she motioned him forward, he went with her to the kitchen instead of retreating out the front door. He stopped at the end of the table where her food was laid out next to a hardcover book.

“What’re you reading?” he asked as she gathered the foam takeout containers, carried them to the microwave, and popped them in while she pulled down dishes for him.

“Something I bought at Kendall’s the other day,” she said moments later, dividing the now warm food between them, then adding a bit more to the plate she’d got out for him.

He tossed his hat to the seat of an empty chair, settled his hands at his waist. “About earlier.”

“I’d rather not talk about earlier.”

“I was only going to say—”

“Don’t say anything—”

“—I’m sorry.”

Her hands stilled, then she picked up the plates and returned to the table where he waited. “What are you sorry for?”

“For forcing you—”

“You didn’t force me.” She held up a finger, as if making sure that was clear. “You would’ve left the saloon in handcuffs if that had happened.”

And he’d have deserved nothing less. “You told me to leave you alone. I didn’t leave you alone.”

“That’s not the part I want you to be sorry for,” she said as she sat, closing the book and pushing it aside.

He took the chair across from hers. “I’m going to need some help here then.”

“Fine,” she said, scooting closer. “I want you to be sorry for not listening to me the first night we were together. When I told you I wasn’t going to do anything to risk Boone finding out about us.”

Ah. That. “No one saw us.”

“Someone saw me coming out of the ladies’ room and you following.”

“So I went into the ladies’ room by mistake. Shit happens,” he said, tearing a bone from the rack.

Before he could get it to his mouth, she reached for his wrist, holding it as well as his attention. “What if the woman worked at the high school? What if she mentioned to one of my parents that she saw me and you come out of the restroom together? What if one of my parents then asked Boone what he knew? See what I’m saying?” she asked, letting him go. “We’re not being careful. We have to be careful.”

“Fair enough,” he said, sinking his teeth into the meat and wondering if she’d meant to use the future tense. “Now tell me about the money.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” she said, her gaze falling to her plate, to her fork and green beans. “It’s my money. That’s all you need to know.”

Hmm. He was pretty sure there was something here she was holding back. “Doesn’t seem right for partners to keep secrets.”

“And yet, it happens,” she said, blowing him off. “I’m sure you’ve kept a few from Dax and Boone.”

He had. He was keeping one now. Keeping one from Faith,
too. A secret named Clay. But he wasn’t letting up about the money. If she had it and Boone didn’t…“You a closet gambler or something?”

“Good lord, no,” she said, frowning. “I’m not a gambler. The money’s free and clear. No bookie’s going to come demanding a cut.”

“And you didn’t embezzle from the bank.”

She hesitated for an extra long moment, then reached for his plate and took it away. “You need me to show you the way out?”

“I’m not done,” he said, grabbing for his ribs.

She held them out of reach and said, “You are done.”

He shook his head, making a
gimme
motion. “Not with the food.”

“Then no more questions about the money,” she said, letting him have the plate but only after he grunted his agreement, earning himself a roll of her eyes.

“There’s just one more thing,” she said, wiping her hands on a paper towel. “I need to ask you what you know about the house.”

He thought back to their sharing chicken fried steak at the Rainsong Cafe. “Didn’t we already have this conversation?”

But she ignored his question to ask one of her own. “You don’t have any idea how your father came to own it?”

“Not a clue.” He licked barbecue sauce from the fingers of his right hand, looked up to catch her watching the motions of his mouth. A fire lit in his gut, and he let it grow, the flames flicking their way lower. Then he realized something was going on here, something she’d been obsessed with now for days. “What do you know that I don’t?”

“The day you came to the bank? I started thinking about the house. What you might get for it if you sold it. If it would be worth fixing up first. That sort of thing.” She gathered up her
hair, held it to her head, cocked back in her chair. “So I looked at the tax and property records.”

He stared at the strands that fell from her fingers, wanting to bury his nose beneath her ear, against her neck, at her throat. “That’s one thing I do know,” he finally said. “Suzanne kept the taxes current.”

“Yeah, you’re good there. You’re also the owner of a piece of Texas history.”

“What?” he asked, still caught up in breathing her in and not sure what she’d said.

“That house was built by Zebulon Crow.”

“What?” he asked again, but this time he’d heard her.

She let her hair fall, leaned toward him. “Any idea how your father ended up owning a house that belonged to the founding family of Crow Hill?”

“No fucking clue.”

“Do you have a number for your mother?”

Yeah. Like he’d have Suzanne on speed dial. “Why? You think I’m going to call her and ask?”

“Aren’t you curious?”

He was, but…“Not that curious.”

“C’mon, Casper. This is a huge deal. It could make all the difference in the world to how we tackle the renovations.”

Uh-uh. He wasn’t getting tied up in returning the house to its roots. He wanted it done. “Faith. All I want is for the house not to fall to the ground from rot, or catch on fire from bad wiring before I decide what to do with it. After that, I really do not care.”

She reached for his plate, which was empty this time, then scraped his rib bones into hers and stacked them. “If we can find a number, do you mind if I call her?”

Pit bull. Steak bone. The woman was a force. “Could be something on the papers she sent.”

“Can I look at them? Since obviously you can’t be bothered. And since we’re partners,” she added before he had a chance to bring up how nosy she was.

“We’re not partners yet. Not without a signed agreement.” He offered his hand across the table. “Or at least a handshake.”

“This better get me your mother’s phone number,” she said, determination firm in her expression as she placed her palm against his.

They shook, but she didn’t pull away, and he made no move to let her go. She had a tiny speck of ground pepper from the ribs just to the right of her mouth, and it hit him that she’d hate it if she knew. She wanted everything to be just so.

So what was she doing with him?

He let her go, brushed his finger to his face, saying, “You’ve got—”

She jerked her hand from his, wiped at both sides of her face. “You could’ve said something earlier.”

“That would’ve been out of character.”

“Being nice is out of character?” she asked as she got to her feet.

Getting to his, he shrugged. “So I’ve been told.”

“Then you’re listening to the wrong people.”

“Who should I be listening to?”

“Me, for one.”

“What would you tell me?”

“That you’ve got more nice in you than you think,” she said, but that was all before she took him by the hand and pulled him to the front door, stopping first by the sofa for his hat. “It’s late.”

“It’s not that late,” he said, though he did reach for the knob.

“It’s late enough that I need to start getting ready for tomorrow.” When he made no move to turn it, she added, “And go to bed.”

“I can stay,” he heard himself saying. Heard himself sounding too much like a man begging for pussy. He hated hearing men beg for pussy. “But I can go.”

He still didn’t open the door. Still didn’t turn the knob. He looked down at her from beneath the brim of his hat, not sure what he was doing. She stood with her arms crossed over her sleeveless white blouse that was properly buttoned and didn’t give him a single hint about her bra. Her black skirt was slim, hitting her knees, and her legs and feet beneath were bare.

Nothing about her screamed sexy, and yet all he could think about was sex. His mouth on her tits. Her mouth on his cock. His cock sliding into her from behind. For years he’d made himself think of her only as Boone Mitchell’s sister, off-limits and the source of half the grief he’d given the other man. But since having her, he hadn’t once razzed her brother about the Dalton Gang’s no-sisters rule.

He couldn’t make her the butt of his jokes anymore, even if Boone was his real target. And when she reached up to tuck back a lock of hair that had fallen forward, he let go of the door and reached for her instead, hooking an arm around her neck and pulling her close.

Her hands came up between them, settling on his chest, ready to push him away, and yet she didn’t. She stared at her fingers, flexed them against him, flexed them a second time before gathering the fabric of his T-shirt into her fists, and shaking her head as she dropped her forehead to her hands.

“Why didn’t you just open the door and go?”

His heart kicked hard in his chest. “Because I wanted to stay.”

“For the sex? Or for me?”

This was going to be a tough one to answer. “Faith—”

“Never mind. I know what you’re going to say.”

“No. You don’t. Because I don’t know what I’m going to say.”

“You’re going to say for the sex.”

“If I did, it would be true.” He could smell her hair, the cinnamon and sugar scent of it. “But it wouldn’t be everything.”

“Now you’re just trying to butter me up.”

“Goddamn right.”

She swallowed then, lifted her gaze. “I told myself after the restaurant I was done being stupid with you.”

He lowered his head, brushed his lips against the corner of hers. “I thought we did stupid pretty well together.”

Shivering, she kissed him back, then said, “I can’t be stupid. I don’t care how good you are.”

His cock jumped at that. “Am I good?”

“As good as the hundreds of women you’ve had before me have told you, no doubt.”

“I hope you’re asking how many there’ve been and not how you compare.”

“I wasn’t asking either one, but now I’m asking both.”

“And you’ll be waiting till kingdom come for an answer.”

She groaned. “Why do you do this to me?”

“I’m not doing much of anything yet.”

“But I’m going to let you.”

Hallelujah. “That’s good to hear.”

“For you maybe.”

Or not. “If you don’t want me here—”

“I do want you here. I just…”

That sounded like an invitation to him. He moved his arm from her neck to her waist and scooped her close, bringing her body to his, her breasts to his chest, her hips to his fly, her cheek to his when he lowered his head and inhaled. She smelled like barbecue and beer. She smelled like Faith and good sex, and his cock went tire-iron hard, but he didn’t press.

He’d do that soon, press and urge and let her know exactly
all the ways he wanted her. But after his not being nice in the saloon’s restroom, and being too caught up in lust in the ranch house kitchen, and being too aware of all the noises they’d made in his bed, he owed her another side of himself. And he owed himself a long,
long
night.

She parted her lips, and he slid his tongue between to find hers, toying with her softly, and swallowing a groan when she drew her thumbs to his nipples, circling them, squeezing them, digging into the flesh around them the way she’d learned quickly he liked.

He wanted to touch her, to unbutton her blouse and heft her tits in his hands, to lean down and suck the pebbled centers, to hold them with his teeth, and tongue the tips. He wanted to bruise the soft skin over her collarbone, scrape her with the stubble of his now two-day beard. He wanted to treat her in the ways that made him most happy and do things to her that got him off.

But this was about her, and she had doubts; hell,
he
had doubts. Scaring her off wouldn’t do either of them any good, and he wasn’t ready to put an end to whatever this was that had sprung up between them when he’d only been looking to get laid. Except that wasn’t true. He’d been looking at her since she was fourteen years old and he was a randy sixteen with no concept of boundaries.

But he hadn’t been looking
for
her. For anyone, really, but he would’ve never looked for Faith to come to his bed. To give herself to him. To want him.

Who the hell had ever wanted him?

And so he let her set the pace, let her take control. It really wasn’t that hard. Especially when she reached behind him to lock the door, flicked off the lights in the living room, and laced their fingers together to lead him to bed.

H
ER BEDROOM MADE
him think of a southern plantation, her bed a queen-sized four-poster of draped and gauzy whites. A ceiling fan whirred overhead, stirring waves in the fabric wrapped loosely around the frame’s corners. The floor was hardwood and glossy, the braided rag rugs tossed around the room the only bits of color.