Just Let Go… (5 page)

As Gillian made her way toward the bar, she refused to look around. She wasn’t there to see anybody. She was there because it was hotter than Hades, it was Thursday night, and besides, Mindy would do the looking for her.

After Gillian was done not looking around, Landry approached, her gray-frizzled head reaching just above the wooden counter. “Tuesday night is ladies’ night—tonight is Thursday. If you want half-price pitchers, you’re out of luck.”

“Lite beer for me and a Shirley Temple for Mindy,” Gillian ordered, then she and Mindy seated themselves on two of the more stable stools.

Landry poked her head above the bar and stared pointedly at Mindy’s belly. “People don’t like pregnant women in bars. They come to a bar to practice sin without consequences. You are a walking consequence.”

Mindy smoothed out the pink-checked ruffles over the swell, beaming angelically, because she was devilish that way. “You got a packed house tonight, and check out that tip jar, already full. If you don’t want the pregnant lady, I will leave, but I’ll take the evening’s entertainment with me. You make the call.”

“I don’t like being referred to as the entertainment,” protested Gillian.

In answer, Landry popped the cap off the bottle, and slammed it on the counter. Foam bubbled up, spilling over the sides, making a mess and wasting good beer. It was a clever ploy designed to increase sales, and once Landry’s point was made, she stalked off to harass the next customer. Never one to waste good beer, Gillian drank while Mindy discreetly sipped at her drink, taking stock of familiar faces, the folks who had known her since birth. This was her home, and it had always hurt her that Austen had never been a part of it.

“He’s here, isn’t he?” Gillian asked. She could feel the eyes, and hear the whispers, but there was something more. A flutter of nerves and the pulse of a rabbit. Not a scared rabbit, but a frisky one.

“He’s here,” confirmed Mindy. “Eight o’clock, sitting alone, chair rocked back against the wall.” She laid a twenty on the counter. “That’s if you go talk to him.”

Shocked, Gillian turned. “You think you need to pay me?”

“No. Brad bet you wouldn’t have the guts. I knew better. If I win, I get to buy that new swirling footbath.”

Normally, Gillian could not be bribed, coerced or blackmailed into doing something that she knew in her heart was wrong. In fact, those very strong ethical foundations were what made her good at her job. However, there was a heat sink burning at her back, a line of uneasy sensations walking down her spine. Austen had no idea what he did to her sanity and it was the main reason she was dying to get up and sashay across the room. Oh, how she wanted to deliver a stunning cut-down to Mr. Hart, flash him her sexiest smile, then walk out, with every man eyeing the black spandex that hugged her butt in a strategic manner.

“I’ll talk to him,” Gillian announced, twisting in her seat to get a proper look and show the world she wasn’t…

Holy smokes.

The man looked her over, the devil’s own eyes lingering on her wardrobe choices and the curves underneath. Gillian squirmed, the barstool too small for a woman whose body was about to explode.

Maintaining a calm smile, she returned the look, and noticed the changes. His jeans no longer had holes in the knees. Unless she missed her fashion mark—which she never did—they were high-dollar ass-huggers, bleached just enough to look well-worn. The brown hair was still long, sexily tousled, the ends touched with a silvery gold, as if the angels had reached out and marked him as their own.

Sure, Austen Hart had returned in the standard class uniform of Tin Cup, Texas, but the trimmings were just a little off, a little telling. The button-downed shirt was more fitted, more “in.” The boots more polished. The buckle on his belt shone like gold. A more clueless man might have been unaware of the differences, but not Austen. No, Austen would have made his sartorial choices on purpose, to make a statement, to remind the people of Tin Cup that Frank Hart’s son did not exist anymore and this new and improved persona was there to dazzle and delight.

Sadly, Gillian thought she would be the only one to miss the old version.

Beer in hand, she walked toward him. Meeting his gaze, seeing that ready smile, she wondered if he knew how much she hated what he did to her. In her mind, she had rehearsed a thousand lines, but now, all she could think about was the sinful speculation in those unapologetic dark eyes. It used to be, she could almost catch his heart flashing in his eyes. Now they flashed with something else. Sex. Quickly, Gillian erased the naked Austen images from her brain.

Focus, girl.

As her feet carried her closer to the man, the bar lights rippled over him, spotlighting the comfortable set of his shoulders, the hard planes of his chest. It was a beautifully proportioned chest, more broad, more strong, more confident than she remembered. She kept moving, until she was so close that she could see the tiny lines of stubble on the jaw. Gillian stopped. Waited.

The silence in the bar grew ear-popping loud.

“Hey, Gillian,” he said, his voice caressing her name, just as silky, just as sexy, just the same way he’d enthralled her in the past. Gillian smiled, a thousand watts of sexual promise. She was no longer the innocent lamb. Now she could fight the devil on his own terms—and win.

The grin he fired at her was lazy and warm, spreading through her blood like whiskey, blocking out painful memories she needed to keep.
Remember the white silky gown in the back of your closet,
she told herself.
Remember the tears, remember the taunts.
Ten years ago she would have succumbed to the grin, destined to repeat her past mistakes, but not any more.

Gillian leaned one hip against his table, lifted the bottle to her lips, and then took a languorous sip. Her eyes never left his, her lashes fluttering bedroom-low. With a steady hand, she held out the bottle in invitation. “Want some?” Her voice was husky with nerves, but the sultry intent was pitch-perfect.

He nodded once. She raised the bottle higher, just out of his reach and her smile turned cold.

Slowly, deliberately, she poured Texas’s best beer on the head of the easy-leaving Austen Hart. It was ten years too late, but damned if she didn’t feel free.

Gillian lifted her head and sauntered out of the bar, the sound of his mocking laughter echoing behind her.

A
GREAT EXIT ENTAILED
finality. An actual leaving of the premises in order to seal the deal, but Gillian couldn’t quite pull it off. Instead, she found herself in the graveled parking lot of Smitty’s, digging through her purse in the meager light of the moon, “searching” for her keys, even though they were sitting right in plain sight. No, in truth, she was waiting for Austen
once again,
but at least this time he didn’t disappoint.

Her eyes traced over him, searching for some hint of the boy she knew, but this man was a tall, dark stranger. The beer-dumping had only highlighted his charms. The thin cotton shirt clung to a powerful chest, his hair darkened to a weathered bronze. His smile was full of all that confidence he’d never had. Liquid dark eyes met hers without remorse, as if she were nothing but a floozy in a bar. Gillian could feel her rage building again. Anger at her own mistakes as well as his.

“Why did you show up here tonight?” she railed, kicking up gravel as she paced. “What did you expect?”

“Not the beer. Nice exit, though.” He ran a hand through his hair and stared at her.
Ogled
would be the better word choice. The cherry-popping glance slid to the swell of her breasts, arrogantly resting there as if he knew what was underneath. He did.

That stopped her in her tracks. Gillian resisted the urge to cover herself, willing herself not to react. “I thought you had left,” he continued, finally moving his eyes back to her face.

“Not me. I’m not the leaver. I’m not the one who has to run scared.”

His brows rose. “Is that why you’re waiting out here? Because you couldn’t be the first one to leave? Stubborn, but unnecessary.” She didn’t like the taunt. That wasn’t something he would have done in the past. He’d been thoughtless, but never cruel.

“I wasn’t done yelling at you,” she explained, which was mostly the truth.

“I didn’t know you had started.” The shrewd gaze was studying her, curious and aroused.

“Don’t be cute,” she snapped, not liking the fevered tension in the air, the way her anger felt too out of control.

“It’s part of my charm.” He leaned against a parked pickup, his hands in his pockets, a flagrant display of masculine swagger. It was another new trait; one that unnerved her. Gillian glanced down, quickly shifted her gaze from exactly where he wanted it to be.

Bastard.

This time, Gillian did cross her arms across her chest. The air was too hot, he was too hot, and she could feel the flames licking at her face, her skin and the budded tips of her breasts. “This was a mistake. I don’t want to be here. I didn’t want to put on a show for the entire town.”

He shrugged easily, a smile playing around his mouth. “Could have fooled me.”

“That was pride,” she admitted, because pride was a better excuse than lust.

“If that was pride, then what is this?” he asked, seeming as if he knew the answer, seeming as if he expected her to fall in line, fall into his bed.

At that, Gillian told her body to get it together. She would not be played. Not by him. She released her arms from their candy-assed position, and rested against the judge’s Honda. Languidly she crossed one long leg over the other, cocked her hips just so, because this was pride. This was ego.

This was war.

“You don’t think I can resist you, do you?” she told him, her smile every bit as pulse-pounding as his. “You think I want to crack open your cookie jar? No, sir.”

She saw a flicker in his eyes. “You didn’t used to think that way.”

“I got smart.” Then she shrugged, a careless roll of one shoulder that brought his eyes back to her breasts, and brought the tingles back to her skin. “Did you leave because you were scared? Afraid you couldn’t measure up?”

His warm smile froze. “You didn’t used to be a bitch, Gillian.”

“Back in the day, I was always a bitch. Knew it, did it, I owned it. But I wasn’t mean to you. I was always good to you. Always careful, always kind. I wanted to make you a part of this town, and I didn’t deserve to be left high and dry on the most important day of my life.” She met his eyes squarely because this was more important than beer, more important than sex.

He flicked a hand impatiently. “It was a dance.”

Did he think so little of her?
There were others who might have, deservedly so. But not Austen. “I wasn’t talking about prom.” She didn’t like the vulnerability in her voice, but she wanted him to know how much she hurt. “I gave my virginity to Sonny Emerson.”

It should have been you.

For the first time, she saw a crack in the surface. The generous mouth twisted into one tight line. “Emerson’s a moron.”

“He was nice. He was handy. He was there.”

Why weren’t you?

This time, he was the one who looked away. “It wouldn’t have worked out. You knew I wasn’t in for the long haul. Hell, Gillian. It was only sex. It wasn’t that big of a deal.”

No big deal.
Out of everything he had done, that was the killing blow. She was proud of the way she stayed so calm. The Austen she knew before would have never said those words. No, the boy she had trusted was gone. In fact, it made it that much easier to finally be the one to walk away. She grabbed her keys and gave him a tight smile. “I expected an apology. An explanation. Something more than ‘not that big of a deal.’ See ya.”

She found her car, admittedly her heart a little more whole. The pride was wounded some, but a long ways from dead. Her fingers weren’t even shaking when she put the key in the lock.

He put his hand on the car door, stopping her.

“I’m sorry.”

Gillian told himself to get a grip, move on and drive away. The only problem with that was that she wasn’t the coward here, he was. For ten years she had waited for those words, and they were sweeter than she could have imagined.

Why couldn’t she stay away?

Her shoulders sagged in defeat, relief. Slowly she turned, searching his eyes, telling herself that if he was toying with her, then by God, shooting him in the balls wasn’t painful enough.

The arrogance had disappeared. In his face she could see the echoes of the past, a whisper of that aching need, unmasked for a second before he carefully hid it again. From inside the bar, music played, slow and sultry, people were laughing, having a good ol’ time. But not Austen. Once again, alone and apart, and once again, the walls were up, and he pretended not to care.

“Are you sorry? Are you really?”

He took one step away from her, a tiny movement, but she saw. “I’m gone in the morning. I’m not coming back. You’ve got your apology. What else do you want from me?”

He sounded so angry at her, angry for wanting him, for trusting him. Ten years ago, she was foolish enough to do just that. Was she still?

No.

“I don’t want anything from you. Not anymore. Tonight all I wanted was to embarrass you. Check. To make you hurt the way you hurt me, but that one is stupid, because I can’t do that, can I? Goodbye, Austen Hart. Have an awesome life. I think I’ll be the one to hit the road this time. It’s late, and I have better things to do with my time. We’re building a railroad through this town. Did you hear about that? Think on that one, Austen, because this town is moving on without you. We’re hitting the big time, and you know who’s going to lead that parade? Gillian Wanamaker. That’s me.”

She pushed his hand away.

“Gillian. Wait. Let’s go to Peterson’s Ride. Grab a six-pack. Watch the sky.”

Oh, he was the clever one, all right. Throwing the uncertainty in his voice, that same cautious trust that had always lured her in the past. But he wasn’t that boy. She wasn’t that girl.

The past was gone.

“Not the Ridge,” she told him. The Ridge was a place for innocent kisses and stolen dreams. Parson’s Green was much more basic. “Let’s go to the Green.”

Austen raised a brow. He no longer looked uncertain, and she caught a glimpse of sadness in his eyes. “You’re sure?”

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her purse, the condom tucked safely in its place.

This was an exorcism, a purging.

He’d been right earlier.

No big deal. This was only sex.

“Y
OU’VE CHANGED QUITE A BIT
,” Austen remarked, handing her a longneck, brushing his fingers against hers in what he hoped was a scalawag sort of way.

Gillian took the bottle of beer, leaned one elbow against the old wooden steps and took a long, mouth-watering drink. Her eyes were closed, no doubt appreciating the heady pleasure of icy beer on a steaming night. Soon he was caught up in staring. Dazzled, just like before, but when her eyes flickered open, his tough expression was right back in place.

Along with extra weight in his shorts.

Parson’s Green was to blame. The old ranch house had been a whorehouse at one time, but after Lucky Parson had died, it became the go-to spot for late-night drinking, and summertime sex. Austen had spent some nights here in his youth doing just that.

But never with Gillian Wanamaker.

“I’ve changed more than you know.” Apparently needing to prove this point, she flicked open two extra buttons on the black silk, treating him to a view that indicated that yes, her breasts had changed, too. Before, they’d been cute and perky. Now, they were round, full—man-sized. He tightened his man-sized fingers into a fist.

Gillian noticed.

“Are you trying to make me sweat on purpose?” It wasn’t completely a joke.

“Are you?” She arched a brow, met his eyes. “Sweating? Boy, is it hot.” She pressed the wet bottle against her throat, condensation glistening on her skin. Then she moved the bottle lower, and this time, condensation dampened her shirt. Twin peaks emerged and her smile was pure sin.

Holy hell, change was not good. Change was flat-out dangerous.

“I need to go.” Austen scrambled to his feet, but the view from above was worse. She was every boy’s dream. Her legs were golden in the moonlight, her lips juicy, her blue eyes knowing. She was every man’s fantasy. His cock bobbed, happy to play its part.

“Running again?” Coolly she sat there, sipping her beer, as if this really was no big deal.

“This isn’t you.”

She cocked her head, shifted, her hips arching comfortably, or seductively, depending on a man’s level of paranoia. “How do you know this isn’t me?” argued the woman who was probably still a virgin. She’d probably lied earlier, or even more likely, he’d probably imagined the whole conversation.

Which was why he knew it was all a big lie. This woman wasn’t real, only what he had always fantasized her to be. “Deep down the basic fundamentals stay true. Even yours.”
Especially yours.

Watching him with an impure eye, she flicked open another button, and he could see black lace, the devil’s lace. A drop of sweat trickled down his neck. Courageously he carried on. “Sure there are some who have exceptional skills at concealing the fundamentals, but you can’t turn yourself into something you’re not.”

Those knowing blue eyes studied him, admired him. “You’ve changed.”

Instantly he seized on her mistake, the glaring flaw in her logic and some of the sex blood began flowing upstream to his brain. “I haven’t changed a lick. I’m a little cleaner. I dress a little nicer, but no, I’m still the same.” Just to prove it to her, just to see her jump, he bent down, and stroked an insolent forefinger over the hard bud of her nipple.

Gillian stayed perfectly still.

Uh-oh.

Realizing he was being outfoxed, Austen moved safely out of touching distance. “This isn’t you,” he repeated, to remind himself that Gillian Wanamaker was a pure and innocent soul, who did not participate in tawdry bedroom games.

Like a lioness rising to stalk her prey, she got to her feet and moved close, too close. She stroked a soft finger over his mouth, wetting her pouty lips, and he could feel his cock pushing up through his shorts.

“Maybe deep down, I was always a little bad.”

Austen swallowed, not smart enough to step away. He could smell the faint bite of her perfume, the earthy aroma of beer, and the eau de female arousal. His cock throbbed even more. This wasn’t Gillian. It couldn’t be. All he had to do was to show her who he was, and she would disappear.

Her smile turned slow and sure, but women had always underestimated Austen’s ability to ruin a good thing. “Why are you doing this?” he drawled. “I didn’t expect you to be so hard up. A girl like you. A body like that.”

He saw her take the hit, saw the flinch on her face, and just like he wanted, the desire turned to fury. “Why? Why? Why did you leave that night? Why that one particular night? What was wrong with me?”

The plea in her voice was hard to resist, but he managed, flashing his cruel smile, the one he used when palms were waiting to be greased, the one he used when women started to look at him just slightly too starry-eyed. “You can’t figure that one out? I’m a jackass, sugar. A first-class, blackhearted son of a bitch. I hurt people. I use people. It’s what I do.”

A sucker for punishment, she met his eyes and he wished he didn’t see the conviction in hers. “I don’t believe it.”

He twisted a finger in her hair, brought their mouths inches apart. “Come closer and I can prove it. I’ll strip you down, ride you hard, then leave without a second thought.”

Still her stubborn gaze never strayed. “You think you can?”

“I know I can.” His basic fundamentals were true. He was Frank Hart’s son. The good part of him acknowledged that the good-for-nothing part was aching to taste her, to lock her beneath him, spread her legs and lose himself inside her.

Like a bad-girl wannabe, she pushed against his chest and then took a step back, her body swaying to a silent rhythm, slow and sultry.

Hypnotized he watched, watched as she slid wicked fingertips over her breasts, watched as she pushed her hands through the silken strands of her hair, turning what had been a cute and pretty hair-do into the very best sort of bed-head.