Blurb
Shana
Carpenter ruined rodeo champion Chet Stapleton years ago with hastily
written words. Now a PR pro, she's engineered a plan to make amends.
She'll successfully promote his rodeo, soothe her conscience and
leave. Trouble is, she can't keep her hands off the smooth talker or
call a halt to their smokin'-hot sex.
Chet
takes one glance at Shana and develops an itch to put his boots under
her bed...permanently. He's won awards for taming willful fillies so
he can't understand why he can't break Shana's stubborn refusal to
open up to him.
The
closer Shana gets to Chet, the more she wants to stay in his life and
his bed. But to do that, she'll have to tell him everything—and
risk his rejection. One thing is certain, if Shana doesn't put the
past to rest, she'll never be able to grab the future—or the cowboy
she wants most.
Excerpt
Scene
takes place in Chet’s rodeo office in southwest Texas on a
sweltering August morning.
“Miz
Carpenter? Ma’am?” Chet Stapleton raised his voice, but he
definitely sounded strained, as if he were strangling.
“Hmm?”
She lifted her chin and shook back her shoulder-length, platinum
curls.
He
swallowed, loudly. “What’ll it be? Water? Soda?” He raised a
hand to buzz his assistant on the intercom. “We have coffee too, if
that’s your poison.”
“No.”
You are. My fixation. Ever since, I wrote that article about you
in the sports section of the Dallas paper four years ago. Ever since
I printed a retraction, resigned for my foolishness and began to plan
how I’d make more amends. Now I’m going even nuttier,
contemplating how I can take you into my bed and kiss the hurt away.
She
squeezed her labia together and felt a trickle of perspiration wend
its way between her breasts.
“Water.
Cool water. Please.”
“Two
waters, Reata,” he told his assistant as he squinted at Shana and
looked for all the world like a guy who was trying to concentrate.
Shana
would have laughed, but the lure of him had her wiggling forward in
her chair to try to massage her pulsing cunt. Four years ago she had
been frightened by her response to his languid cowboy sexuality.
She’d been young, twenty-two, in her first job at a newspaper and
so naïve, both professionally and sexually. Since she’d ruined
Chet, she’d corrected both lacks. Now she thoroughly examined
whatever she did before she opened her mouth or typed one word. To
complement that, she also knew what she liked in men. Honest,
forthright, funny. Still no man yet had rung her bells more than a
few times. Hunky, jovial Chet Stapleton could definitely compete.
The
man was drool worthy. With his bronzed skin, that sun-kissed shock of
yellow-gold hair hanging over his forehead, he was the epitome of
testosterone. His rock-hewn features with generous lips and a mellow
bass voice melted her into a puddle of foolish desire. No past lover
could compare . Sometimes when she felt really low and foolish, she
put down this lack in her life to a penance for doing him wrong and
declaring he was a hothead with the judges.
Once
more, regret flooded her, and she reprimanded herself. She was here
to use her brains to heal the wounds she’d made. She had not come
here to use her body to confuse the issue. She had to stop thinking
like a horny lunatic.
Stifling
a moan, she bent and dug through her briefcase for her copy of the PR
proposal. All thumbs, she couldn’t find the thing.
“Problems?”
His
tone was husky. Dark and suggestive. She looked up to see Chet
devouring her with those wide green eyes, his look hypnotic, his
mouth parting. A vision of him using that mouth to tantalize her
sensitive nipples made her groan.
“Chair
not comfortable?” he asked, suddenly solicitous.
“Oh.
No. No, no. I’m fine. Chair’s fine.” Brain’s dead, but my
pussy’s on fire.
“Here’s
your water,” he said, sounding relieved when his assistant walked
in, handed both to him then shut the door behind her.
He
sprang up to give Shana one of the bottles. “Would you like a
glass? Ice?”
“No.
Thanks.” Shana stuck out her hand. “Water’s good. No glass.”
But
when he reached out to give it to her, her fingers touched his, and
this time, the shock was electric. Riveting.
She
yelped.
He
clamped her hand to his rock-hard chest and rubbed her fingers.
“Christ, sorry. You okay?”
“Sure.”
She stared up at him, automatically reaching out to caress her own
burning hand and, in the process, his ribs too. “Are you hurt?”
“Feels
like nothing I’ve ever known before.” He put his other hand on
top of hers and stroked her from fingertips to forearm as if she were
a cat in heat.
“This
has never happened to me before either.” I’ve never met a man
I wanted within minutes of meeting him. I’m too cerebral, my friend
Liz says. Too careful. But you I want soon.
His
voice was a rasp when he drew her up. “Let me make it up to you.”
Also
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