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Authors: Victoria Pade

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BOOK: Downhome Darlin' & The Best Man Switch
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“That I did,” he said with a slow devilry in his tone.
She couldn't help it. She had to lift the covers and look down at herself just to make sure her clothes really were basically intact.
“No, I didn't undress you,” he assured.
“Thank you. I think.”
“But you aren't sure.”
How could she be sure when she didn't have any idea what had gone on between them, clothes or no clothes?
“Did we...did I ruin your evening?” she ventnred.
“Ruin my evening?”
“I'm sure pouring a drunken woman into your bed was not the ending you had in mind I mean it couldn't have been much...fun...for you,” she said, fishing for answers.
“You might be surprised.”
His insinuation made her heartbeat speed up. “Did I do something...fun...before you had to put me to bed?”
“Let's just say I had a good time.”
Was he teasing her? She couldn't tell. And her fog-shrouded brain was not giving up any memories to help her out.
“I'm afraid I can't recall much about last night.”
“pity.”
It took courage to ask “Did I disgrace myself?”
“Disgrace yourself? I didn't think wild women cared about that kind of thing.”
Wild women.
Oh, dear.
“How do you know about...that wild-woman thing?”
“You told me that's what you are.”
“Ah.” She swallowed back her own worst fears and said, “But did I prove it?”
He grinned mischievously from the side of his mouth. “Wild women don't care what happened whether they can remember it or not. They just pick up and go on bein' wild,” he said as if he were anticipating the benefits of that.
“Uh...I think I should warn you that I'm not really such a wild woman. I mean, I'm...well...I'm a baker.”
“You have
my
ovens lit—that's for sure.”
“No, honestly. It's what I do for a living—bake. Cakes. Cookies. Pies. Brownies.”
He shrugged one of those broad shoulders she had a vague memory of laying her head against. “Even wild women have to have a day job. It's those off-hours that count,” he added with a lascivious arch to one eyebrow.
Without thinking about it, she held the covers in a tight-fisted grip as if it would protect her from what she'd gotten herself into here. This wasn't the kind of run-of-the-mill good ol' boy that Clangton was rife with. This was a man handsome enough to have women throwing themselves at him. Certainly this was a man accustomed to women making good on what they promised. And he didn't seem to be understanding that she hadn't been herself if and when she'd promised anything.
“What I'm trying to say is that I don't know what I might have led you to believe about me last night...or what I might have led you to believe would happen this morning...but...well—”
“You're just not that kind of girl,” he finished for her.
“Something like that,” she admitted reluctantly, feeling like a fool and thinking Bill Snodgrass must have been right about her after all.
“So if you're not that kind of girl, what were you doin' sayin' you were last night?”
She grimaced at the thought. “It's a long story. I guess you could say I was pretending. To prove a point.” The admission made her cheeks heat up.
Cal's handsome face erupted in a full-fledged grin. “So what you're tellin' me is that you aren't a dyed-in-the-wool wild woman? I never would have guessed,” he said facetiously.
Light finally dawned for her. “Oh, I get it—you're putting me on.”
“Don't tempt me, honey, I'm tryin' to keep off you.”
“I meant teasing. You were teasing me.”
“Still am,” he said with a laugh.
She was out of her league with this man in more ways than one and she knew it. But she was still worried about what had gone on the evening before. “So what really happened last night?”
“Really?”
The lascivious tone was back.
“Come on. Give me a break.”
“A break isn't all I'd like to give you.”
She rolled her eyes at him.
Rather than being chagrined, he only laughed at her. Then he said, “I was takin' you home, but you fell asleep in my car before tellin' me where home is. So I brought you here, carried you up to bed and tucked you in.”
Relief helped her headache. Partial relief, anyway.
“Where did you sleep?”
He arched an insinuative eyebrow at her again, but this time she didn't buy it.
“Not here,” she guessed.
“To my everlastin' regret.”
“You know what I think? I think you're just a sheep in wolf's clothing.”
“Or maybe not,” he said with enough of a sexy rumble to his voice to disabuse her of the notion.
“Okay. So you were a gentleman, but it goes against the grain. Thank you anyway.”
“You're welcome.”
“Now, where exactly am I?”
“In my bed. In my house. If you've lived around these parts for any time at all—”
“I was born and raised here.”
“Then you probably know this place better as the old Peterson spread—now in the city registry as the Lucky Seven ranch. I believe it started out as a workin' ranch, got sold off about seventeen years ago and turned into a dude ranch that didn't catch on, and has been left to rot for the past fifteen-plus years. Or have I been misinformed?”
“Ripped off maybe, but not misinformed. I hope you didn't pay too much or buy it blind.”
“Eyes wide-open.”
But those eyes didn't seem to be seeing anything but her at that moment. The intensity of his gaze reminded her that they were not having a plain conversation on a street corner. They were essentially in bed together.
“Did I hear you say it's nearly noon?” she asked.
“You did.”
“I'm surprised my sisters haven't sent the sheriff looking for me. I don't suppose I could impose on you to take me home?”
“Now? When we're just gettin' to know each other?”
The man was a terrible tease.
“Please.”
“Do I have another choice?”
“You could make me walk, but it's kind of far for that.”
“That wasn't the other option I had in mind.”
She didn't think she was up to knowing what he did have in mind.
“Please,” she repeated. “I could give you gas money if you wanted.”
“Gas money?” he parroted, laughing again, wryly this time. But he pushed himself to a sitting position and then got off the mattress. “I'm gonna want more than gas money.”
Abby wasn't up to asking what that “more” might be. She just wanted to get out of there and home to familiar territory.
Since she was dressed, she threw off the covers and got to her feet, too, although not without stabbing pains shooting through her head.
For a moment she had to close her eyes against it. When she opened them again, it was to find Cal Ketchum watching her once more. Standing there in all his glory with big bare feet spread apart, tight jeans zipped but not fastened at the waistband and the tails of that yellow shirt dangling around his hips, leaving a flat, rock-hard stomach and just enough chest showing for her to see the smattering of hair there.
No one should look that good first thing in the morning, barely dressed and clearly without having paid any attention to his appearance. There should be a law, she thought, wondering just how unsightly she was herself.
“How about some breakfast before I take you home? You can call your sisters and let 'em know where you ate.”
Just the mention of food raised her gorge. “I don't think so. Thanks anyway.”
“Coffee? Tea? A little hair of the dog?”
“I don't dare.” Eat, drink or stay any longer than necessary with this man whose appeal was so potent. “But I could use the bathroom.”
He pointed to a door beside a tall antique bureau. “Through there. Towels and washcloths are in the cupboard. Feel free to shower if you want. I'll even lend you some clothes—just say the word.”
No way was she taking off any clothes within ten miles of this man. It would be too tempting to leave them off.
“I might just wash my face.” Because it felt as if someone had slathered it with mud. “But then I'll need to go home. Right away.”
He made a slight
tsk
sound from the corner of his mouth. “Too bad.”
Abby didn't stick around to discuss it. She went into the bathroom, closed and locked the door.
But the lock clicked into place with an inordinately loud noise that seemed to admit that she didn't trust that he would respect her privacy.
“Don't worry, Abby Abby,” he reassured through the panel, reminding her of the teasing he'd done the night before, too. “I won't storm the door and ravage you. I like my wild women willing.”
Abby groaned to herself and dropped her face in both hands as if someone else could see her grimace at her own follies.
But then it occurred to her that wallowing in embarrassment was only prolonging things and the sooner she got down to business, the sooner she could get home.
She took a look at herself in the mirror, and almost wished she hadn't.
Her hair had been in such an unruly style that it hardly looked different than it had when she'd done it. But her face was something else entirely, and the thought that Cal Ketchum had seen her like this made her groan all over again.
Dark black smudges ringed her eyes in a raccoon effect. The blush she'd applied wasn't her usual pale shade, so it didn't enhance her natural color; it sat on top, adding an orangish tint that clashed. The raisin shade of lipstick was gone except to leave her lips looking bruised. And the foundation she'd applied had cracked and caked into the creases of her chin and nose.
She looked as if she'd barely survived a hard Halloween.
And as much of a hurry as she was in to get home, she couldn't make herself walk back out and face the rear-end cowboy knowing what he'd be seeing. Even if he had already seen it.
The bathroom was large, but showed the decay of the years in peeling paint, chipped and missing tiles and a tub and sink that had seen better days. There were cupboards underneath the sink and what seemed to be a floor-to-ceiling linen closet in one corner.
Since Cal had said towels and washcloths were in the cupboard, she tried under the sink first. But beyond a few cleaning supplies and some spare rolls of toilet paper, the cupboards were bare.
Turning to the linen closet, she finally found what she needed in the way of man-size washcloths. She took two because the only towels were bath sheets and she didn't want to dirty a whole bath sheet just to dry her face. She didn't really want to impose by using anything, but vanity prevailed over her reticence.
The countertop around the sink was clean but cluttered with a straight razor, a can of shaving foam, a bottle of aftershave, deodorant and shampoo. But there was no soap. For that she had to venture inside the black shower curtain that sealed off more than half the tub.
There was a bar resting in a dish on the tub's far edge, and she leaned in to get it. Residual steam from what could only have been Cal's shower wafted around her from inside, smelling the way he did—clean, fresh, masculine.
And although she told herself she'd lost her mind, she actually closed her eyes and breathed deeply, finding herself relishing the thought that not long ago he had been in there. Naked. Glistening wet. Scrubbing that big, hard body with that very soap...
“Findin' everything you need in there?” he asked from outside the door.
The sudden sound of his voice and her own guilty conscience startled Abby into straightening up fast. Without the soap. Which she dived back in for, snatching it like a child stealing candy.
“Fine. I'm fine,” she answered too loudly, the sound of her own raised voice erupting yet another memory of the previous evening and her lack of aplomb.
Feeling rotten, she spun around to the sink again and gave herself a fierce stare in the mirror.
“You're just a big, dumb idiot for acting like something you're not,” she whispered to herself harshly. “It serves you right to get stuck here now, like this, humilitating yourself all the more. If this doesn't teach you not to pretend to be something you aren't, nothing ever will.”
BOOK: Downhome Darlin' & The Best Man Switch
3.84Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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