Last of the Red-Hot Riders (12 page)

“Look.” She reluctantly gave up the saddle as he took it from her and followed her to Charlie's stall. “I'm sorry as hell. I shouldn't have said anything the other night. It just startled me, is all.”

“It startled you that I'd be excited about taking a real job? When the team has kind of fallen apart and I have no hope of other employment around here?” She watched as he carefully placed the saddle on Charlie. “Maybe women are china dolls in your life, but not in mine. We look out for ourselves in my family.”

“No, no, I know. In mine, too.” Frankly, his sisters would roast him alive if he'd tried some of the stuff on them he reluctantly admitted he had on Cameron. She just kept him so off-balance. And to be fair, she was even more of a fearless soul than Judy; everybody in Hell recognized that. Which was why Judy had been counting on Cameron to be her big breakthrough on the rodeo circuit as a bullfighter. “My brain disconnected from my mouth. Can we leave it at that?”

“We can, but I'm not looking for any more of what almost happened last night.”

He winced. That wasn't exactly a ringing endorsement of his skills. In fact, it wasn't good at all. He couldn't stop thinking about kissing her, and she didn't ever want to kiss him again. Saint rubbed Charlie's nose pensively. “I never said I wasn't an asshole.”

“No, you didn't.”

“But I've got a few good points.”

She cinched the saddle, glanced at him. “I know that. Just not the kind of points that work for me.”

He cursed whoever had stolen her tires—they'd stolen more than rubber, damn it. Five more seconds, and he would have been lost in her, convincing her with his body of his feelings for her.

No, that wasn't right. You couldn't love-make away all the problems that were inherent in a relationship. Cameron was right: He was stubborn, and he was bossy. She was independent, like Harper. They were both making new decisions with Judy being gone—they had to.

Their only other choice was probably to leave Hell, go back to their homes and their families. His stomach tightened at the thought.

He definitely didn't want that.

And he definitely wanted to kiss her again.

Saint pulled in a deep breath. “The Horsemen claim the tires were stolen off Ivy's truck, too.”

Cameron shook her head. “I don't believe them. They're just saying that to deflect suspicion.”

He blinked. She made a valid point, at least one to consider. And it hit him that this was what Steel saw in Cameron: a quick mind, and smarts. He himself only saw her sweet, sexy side, but Steel had looked deeper.

Which was the part of herself Cameron wanted to be known for.

I really am an ass.

He pulled in another deep breath. This was going to hurt like the devil; it was going to burn his pride and that hallowed male chauvinism of his that he hadn't quite realized he possessed until he met Cameron. But it was the right thing to do. “Cameron.”

She glanced at him. “What?”

“I'll train you to bullfight out at Rory's, just like I did Ava. It'll probably kill me, but I'll do it.” There. That hadn't been so bad. His courage was strangling his throat, and his stomach was somewhere around his boots, but by God, he'd done the right thing.

Finally.

It might not win him a kiss, but Cameron deserved a shot at her dream—just like anybody else. Without him standing in the way.

To his shock, she took three steps away from Charlie and moved right in front of him. “Thank you,” she said, and then she kissed him so sweetly Saint nearly blacked out from the sudden erection that hit him like a thunderbolt.

But it was the good kind of pain, and Saint dove right in for all the pain he could get while Cameron had the sign out on her kissing booth.

He pulled her to him, inhaling her, wishing they were anyplace but this stall where anyone could walk in on them at any second. Cameron didn't seem worried. She wrapped a leg around his, forcing herself tight to his groin, trying to get closer to him, and Saint thought he was going to explode on the spot. Her mouth was all over his, and he felt her heat spinning all over him, driving him mad, drawing him in.

He felt her slide a hand inside his jeans, just at the waistband, but it was enough to nearly make him faint. He gently bit her lower lip, then traced her mouth with his, dove in again to get all of her that he could. My God, she was sweet, and somehow innocent in her kisses. Saint didn't want to let her go, but he couldn't ravish her in public, not any more than he already was doing—this was a horse stall, for crying out loud. Fans moved hot air around in the rafters and horses whinnied. Charlie stood totally still, too bored and well-trained to be worried about the humans taking up his space.

“Cameron,” Saint said, gasping for air as he pulled back, “I can't kiss you in public.”

“You are.”

“I know. I mean I shouldn't.” He tried to catch his breath, wishing like hell he could teleport them magically to someplace, anyplace, with privacy. “I respect the hell out of you. I don't want to do anything to upset you.”

“I'm not upset. That was a little thank-you.”

She turned back to Charlie. Saint's ears were ringing as his body tried to right itself from all the sexual desire flooding it. “ ‘A little thank-you'?”

She nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

Jesus. If that was a
little
thank-you, he could hardly imagine what a
big
thank-you would be like. “So, I'm going to go now,” he said, not sure what else to do with himself while he was a wall of raging lust. “And thank you for that.”

She giggled. “You're welcome.”

Should he ask her for a date? Ask if he could call her?

She smiled at him, and Saint backed up a step. He was onto something here. He didn't know exactly what it was that he was onto, but he'd finally done something right. He decided he'd better get the hell out while he was ahead. “See you.”

“Bye.”

So that was that. He walked out with his pride and a helluva stiff one, but that was more than he'd had coming in.

He'd take it.

Saint cussed himself out the next day, and the permanent hard-on that clearly ruled his rational side, as he found himself at Judge Rory Nunez's place, the site of the only mechanical bull in Hell. The judge was a fine breeder of bulls, some of them registered as bounty, no easy feat.

He really didn't want to train Cameron.

Yet he had no choice. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place, as had been pointed out to him on several occasions.

“Every man has his own way of doing things. I'm not going to tell you that I learned what I know in any kind of school other than the School of Hard Knocks. If you went up and trained with Shorty in Colorado, he'd teach you a whole different way. But you're not ready for Shorty yet, so this is the Saint School of Hard Knocks,” Saint told Cameron.

She stood looking at him patiently, with confidence and trust in her huge eyes. He felt himself sliding, heading toward loving this woman the way he'd never loved any woman, and wished she needed anything from him other than this. She was dressed for the occasion, in worn jeans, boots, her hair pulled back tight so a helmet would fit over the bouncy curls. Everything about her spoke of her serious intent. The last time he'd been this worried—okay, scared—was overseas in the midst of war.

“I'm ready,” Cameron said.

He knew that. She'd been ready to learn far longer than he'd been ready to instruct her.

“The first thing we're going to do is put you on this mechanical bull.” He tried not to stare at her mouth, forcing his mind to stay on the task at hand, which was putting the woman he had a serious case of lust for in harm's way.

That's what he was doing by training her to bullfight.

What a man wouldn't do for a kiss.

Which made him think about the kissing booth and the line of men who were going to be eager to kiss his girl. Cameron, on the other hand, seemed unfazed by women locking lips with him.

One thing at a time.

“Once you've done this a few times, we're going to get you in shape.”

“I'm in shape.”

She had a damn fine shape. “This is a different kind of shape. You're going to need to develop more quickness and speed to get out of the way of bulls while you're getting a cowboy free. His life and limbs depend on your reflexes and speed.”

She nodded, got on the mechanical bull. Looked down at him. “I know this isn't easy for you, Saint. Thank you.”

He shrugged. “I'm going to turn this on slow, and you're going to begin to get some very small idea of what a bull feels like under a cowboy. This is like a simulator, if you used one of those when you were learning to drive. Simulator was nothing like driving a car, and this isn't like being on the back of a bull, but it's where we start.”

“Okay.”

He went to turn the bull on. Judge Rory Nunez watched from near the controls, his face impassive as always. Saint liked Rory, considered him an old friend. He was evenhanded as a judge, generous with the community, and no one ever talked bad about him, because he was fair-minded. He could always be counted on to see both sides of a situation.

“Never trust a redhead,” the judge said, winking.

“Trust her? I'm trying to survive her.” He switched the bull on, his gaze going to Cameron. “The worst part is, I don't think it would matter what color her hair is.”

Rory laughed. “I hear she's pretty much cut from Judy's cloth.”

“Not at all. Judy gets what she wants because she's so darn nice no one wants to be the one who lets her down. Cameron's just plain brave. Independent.” He considered that for a moment. “From Cameron, I've learned the difference between a woman who plans and a woman who plots.”

Rory laughed. “Judy's always been a plotter.”

“Tell me about it.” But Cameron had plans. She made lists, drew up charts. Tried to keep everything organized. Knew where she was going and had a good idea of how to get there. When she hit a roadblock—like her tires being stolen—she found a way to get back to her plans with a minimum of fuss.

Like taking Steel up on his offer to train in law enforcement. His stomach clenched. His gut told him he could never be serious about a woman who was an officer of the law.

“Doesn't this thing go any faster?” Cameron called, and Rory laughed.

“You know what your trouble is? She's fast and you're slow.”

“I'm methodical.” He inched the speed up a notch on the bull.

“No, son, you're slow. That woman's going places, and you're trying to stand in her way. You're not going to romance her by being a roadblock to what she wants.”

Saint hesitated. His mouth dried out. Holy shit, he
was
a roadblock. “There may be something to what you say.”

“Well, you've never liked change, Saint. You had all those sisters that kept things lively out at your place.”

Saint knew exactly what the judge was talking about. His four sisters kept a fun shitstorm stirred up at their house, a veritable dramafest of boyfriends who called and romances that died, pranks on neighbors and fellow classmates, even once sneaking onto the county school bus. They'd had a slumber party on the bus, inviting all their friends to join them, spending all night rigging the bus up with traps for poor old Mr. Thomas, the deaf bus driver who hadn't heard the whoopee cushion fart under him, and couldn't understand why the bus erupted in laughter. He'd just smiled and waved at the kids in the mirror.

They'd been very young when they'd pulled that stunt, and Mom had been frantic. Ten years old was awfully young to slip out for an all-night-sleepover. Of course, Mom had come to him to rat them out, and he'd manfully sucked it up and not squealed.

His sisters had gotten off with a sigh from Mom and a laugh from Dad.

But he'd ended up having to clean out all the stalls, a ten-hour job, because his sisters “might have been in danger” and he hadn't told anyone.

Yes, it had been a shitstorm, but it had been a lively and exciting one.

“The thing is,” Rory said, disturbing his reminiscences, “you're not going to get more peace in your life by trying to control this one. Thinking you can control Cameron is like the only boy in a houseful of lively sisters thinking he can control them. It's a recipe for
disappointment.”

He made a wry face. “I would swear up and down I'm not trying to control Cameron. Why is it wrong to believe that a woman shouldn't be a bullfighter? It's dangerous for men with muscles and bigger bodies. And how is it controlling to not want her riding around on patrol, especially when she's already had her tires stolen?”

“So has Ivy, but you don't see anyone trying to take the Honky-tonk away from her.”

Saint sighed. Turned the bull up another notch, because Cameron was frantically waving at him to give her more juice.

“What I'm saying is, you're going to drive Cameron away if you try to drain her spirit.”

“I'm here, aren't I? Training her?”

“But you have to believe in her,” Rory said. “And that's all the discussion you're going to have to listen to from me on this subject. It's just a little expertise from many years of watching human nature from the bench.”

“Thanks, Judge.”

He meant it, too.

“Let me help you just a little. I'm going to make you a hero,” the judge said, reaching over him to goose the speed up real good on the bull. Cameron let out a yell, completely delighted to be rotating like a whirling dervish. There were men who didn't like to be on that thing at that speed, said it gave them spinning sickness. They were also the ones who claimed the whirling teacups at the state fair gave them vertigo, but Cameron apparently didn't suffer from that, either.

She was having the time of her life.

“You're going to have to trust that she knows what she wants in her life,” Rory said, and went off whistling.

Great.
He slowed the bull down, then stopped it so she could slide off.

Rory seemed to think she was ready for more than he was giving her, so Saint made a solemn vow to quit being a roadblock.

“That was awesome!” Cameron came over, glowing with happiness.

“You did fine,” he said gruffly. “At least one of us is happy.”

She smiled. “It's going to be all right. You'll see.”

He wasn't so sure. “I
enthusiastically
support you in your efforts.”

“You do?” She looked at him, surprised.

“You'll be awesome, just like Judy said.” He sighed. “She's right more times than not, as much as I hate to admit it.”

“Oh, Judy's crazy,” Cameron said, laughing. “Everyone in Hell knows that. I'll be awesome because you're training me.”

His jaw loosened at this vote of confidence. “I'll do my best.”

Cameron's springy hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which was bouncy and sexy as hell and set off her big blue eyes. The exertion had lit up her freckles, and Saint wished like hell he could kiss her.

But he couldn't, because their relationship was totally professional now. He had to focus.

He couldn't focus if he was thinking about her sexy ass, her great legs, how his blood went hot when he stroked her lips with his mouth, his tongue.

No, he couldn't think about that.

“We may drive to Mesquite and watch a rodeo one day. Give you a chance to take notes about the cowboys and the bullfighters. I'll introduce you to some, let them give you some tips.” He took a deep breath, because it was going to kill him. It really was.

“Thanks, Saint,” she said softly. “This means more to me than you'll ever know.”

He nodded, waved goodbye. Retreated to his truck as she went to a truck Steel had lent her, one that they kept around the jail in case they needed to haul stuff. Saint drove off, heading home to let Lucky out, because even though the puppy seemed to like his crate, Saint felt guilty keeping him caged up more than four hours.

The crating bothered him more than it bothered Lucky.

Training Cameron bothered him more than it bothered anyone else. No one could understand that she had him in a constant twist. He worried about her; he wanted the best for her.

He wanted
her
. To be brutally honest, he wanted her so much he was throwing himself on a pyre of emotional hell.

But he couldn't train her, not to the ability he knew she had, and seduce her, too. It would be
unprofessional,
and he'd die a little every time she went into the arena. Now he fully understood why Trace had so steadfastly refused to train Ava; Trace's heart just couldn't take the strain.

Neither can mine.

Around midnight, Saint heard a knock at his door. He raised a brow, putting down a schematic he was drawing up for Cameron's training. As he was with any kind of training, he was very deliberate—but this required even more thought than usual. It was going to take several months to get her to a point that cowboys would want her protecting them. Ava had gone up to train with a specialist in Colorado, but Cameron didn't seem inclined to do that, or she would have asked. Now that she was starting ride-alongs with Steel this week, Cameron's schedule was stretched pretty thin.

He went to the door, hoping whoever was on the other side didn't mind rumpled jeans, bare feet, and a worn-out T-shirt, never mind the uncombed hair and day-old stubble. Actually, Judy was probably the only person who would remark on his casual style, but what the hell. Whoever it was should have called first.

He opened the door. “Cameron.” He glanced around her, saw the borrowed truck. “Is everything all right? Is Steel with you?”

“I'm by myself. Can I come in?”

“Sure.” Gladly. He backed up, watched her sashay past him as he closed the door.

“I saw your lights on. Thought I'd see if you had a couple of minutes to chat.”

“I can squeeze a couple of minutes free for you.” He watched her go over and pick up his schematic and lists for her training.

“You're really working hard on this.”

“Anybody I train gets a file, a full plan for their progress.”

She turned to look at him. “I thought maybe you were just trying to appease me.”

He shook his head. “No, ma'am. I have a reputation to uphold. When I get done with you, you'll be able to kick bull-ass.” He went to retrieve his whiskey. “Can I offer you a drink?”

She smiled, put the paperwork down. “No thank you. I want you to make love to me.”

He coughed and sputtered on the whiskey. It burned fire down his throat, but not as hot as her words suddenly had him feeling.

“Can't do that,” he said when he'd caught his breath. “Can't mess with the student.”

She studied him. “Has it ever occurred to you that you can think up just about any excuse not to make love to me? Not to let yourself get close to me?”

He narrowed his gaze, thinking. “It has occurred to me. It's a defense mechanism.”

“Maybe you don't need a defense mechanism.”

“Oh, probably I do.” He sank into the leather sofa. “I can't have you in my head twenty-four hours a day.”

“How many hours a day am I in there now?”

Well, hell, pretty much all the hours in a day. “I guess I think about you a couple times a day.”

“Okay.” She didn't look like she quite believed him. “I'm going into your room. I'm going to take off my clothes. And then I want you to finish what we started the other night.”

His throat locked up. He couldn't say a word. All he could do was helplessly watch her walk toward his room as she looked back at him, a sweet smile on her face. Teasing him, inviting him.

Oh, shit.

She wanted him.

This wasn't good. He could hear his pulse thundering in his throat, heard her close his door with a snick. He shut his eyes, gulped down the rest of his whiskey.