Shut Up and Kiss Me (2 page)

Shala turned back to the teenage boy who’d called down all four of the elders to talk to her. He leaned against the counter, his mouth agape, his eyes on her boobs. His attention shot up, but her effect on him didn’t go unnoticed. She sent him a smile, not above flirting to get
what she needed. “Can you please call…Sky? I want to talk to him.”

The boy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Mr. Gomez has left. Come back next week. Like Redfoot said, Sky’s a fair man.”

Okay, the boy was probably in obstinacy training. That, or she’d forgotten how to flirt. Considering she hadn’t flirted in years, the latter could be the case. Then she realized: “Sky
Gomez?
That’s his name?”

The boy took on the pinched expression of a fish out of water. He started to say something, but Shala didn’t stick around to hear.

“Sky Gomez,” she repeated as she hurried to her car. Precious, Texas, wasn’t as big as a freckle. Somehow, some way, she was going to find this man and get her camera back. That, or she’d bury him in the nearest compost heap.

The kids at the fast-food joint pretended they didn’t know a Sky Gomez. The guy at the convenience store downright refused to talk to Shala. The telephone operator said his number and address were unlisted, and when she asked the woman at the drugstore directions to his residence, the clerk patted her on the shoulder and told her she’d best kiss the camera good-bye for at least a week. Was the entire town in cahoots?

At almost ten, after failing miserably to get someone—anyone—in this godforsaken freckle to tell her where she could find the man, she turned to desperate measures. She drove her Honda Accord down Highway 301 to the last place she wanted to go: the town’s only bar.

And what a fine establishment it appeared to be. The watering hole looked like a cross between a biker bar and a dilapidated barn. Of course, the huge demented chicken painted on the metal roof, beer in claw, gave it that real touch of class. But then, the drunken, crazy-eyed fowl did reflect the establishment’s name: the Funky Chicken. Of course, someone had painted over the
N
with a
C
. Shala was about to walk into the Fucky Chicken.

She’d passed the establishment several times during the day and put it first on her gotta-do-something-about-it list for the mayor. Hey, she appreciated unique hangouts. Tourists loved them, but this place’s appearance wasn’t “quirky.” Instead, it had that you-take-your-life-in-your-hands-when-entering air. And she was about to enter.

It was for a good cause, she reminded herself: her Nikon. She’d used her inheritance from Nana to buy that camera, and Shala wanted it back. It might sound stupid, but she viewed the Nikon as her grandmother’s way of still looking out for her. Yeah, it was sad for a twenty-eight-year-old to still want to be looked after, but everyone had a few flaws, right?

As she pulled into the parking lot, a pair of headlights appeared in her rearview mirror. She turned to see a dark-colored sedan that she’d seen earlier. The car pulled to the side of the lot and stopped. Could it be Sky Gomez? Now, wouldn’t that be funny. Not.

Getting out of her car, she approached her stalker. Two steps closer, the car sped off. But as it passed under the streetlight, Shala got a glimpse of the driver—a big guy with short light-colored hair. Not her camera thief.

So who was it? The mayor’s warning rang in her ears:
Some people in town, especially the Natives, don’t want us turning to tourism. Don’t be surprised if you run into some unfriendly folks.
But just how unfriendly could they get?

“Unfriendly enough to steal my camera,” she muttered. Then, armed with fake courage and determined
to get back her Nikon, she hotfooted it into the Fucky Chicken.

Shala pulled up in front of Sky Gomez’s log cabin a short while later. The moon hung eerily low. If she hadn’t been so downright pissed, she’d have found the place quaint. Instead, the cabin, nestled between live-oak trees, had creepy music playing in her head.

Leaning against her steering wheel, Shala noticed golden light leaking from the window on the left side of the porch. A truck was parked beside the cabin. Someone was home.
He
was home. An image of the scowling, loincloth-wearing man flashed through her mind. A shiver climbed her spine.

She glanced up and down the dirt road, seeking another light from a nearby home. Nope. Sheer darkness. It was just her and her camera thief, her gorgeous camera thief whom she knew nothing about. He could be a serial killer. He didn’t look like a serial killer, but it had been a while since she’d run across one—a while, as in never—so she might have missed the resemblance. She checked her rearview mirror. At least the sedan hadn’t shown back up.

She could leave, she told herself, but she hadn’t endured that visit to the Funky Chicken to back out now. The bartender had laughed at her twenty-dollar bribe.
Honey, it would take about fifty of those to warrant pissing off Sky.
And if she’d known what she’d end up paying to Bo Eagle, the bar’s owner, she might have considered the bartender’s offer a better deal.

It had taken two beers before Bo even admitted knowing Sky. Another to sort of recall where Sky lived. But the ultimate price of the exact address had brought her down to a new level.
A little more sweet talk, and one dance, and then I’ll cough up Sky’s address.
Bo’s words bounced through her head like a Ping-Pong ball with spikes. Sort of like how the man danced. She’d have sweet-talked him
until the cows came home hungover, but that dance would haunt her. And not in a good way. Who knew disco wasn’t dead?

Shala stepped out of her car. The hot night clung to her skin. A hope of sweet-talking her camera from Sky Gomez flitted through her mind, but she quickly dismissed it. Something told her he didn’t like women. Or maybe it was just blonde, blue-eyed, all-American chicks ogling his loincloth. Fate wouldn’t create a man that drop-dead gorgeous and make him gay, would it? Oh, yes, fate would.

Not that she thought Sky Gomez was gay. Or cared. And him liking her or not liking her? That didn’t matter, either. She had one objective: getting her camera.

Stiffening her spine, prepared for this to get ugly, she hugged her bag. If she had to call in the cops, she would. She’d lost her patience back on the dance floor when Bo had flung her between his legs.

Taking a deep breath, checking her bag for her can of Mace, she walked up to the dark front porch. One deep breath later, she knocked. When no one answered, she knocked again. “Please be home,” she muttered, rapping her knuckles against the thick wooden door a third time. “Damn it, I had better not have discoed for nothing. Be home.”

“I’m home.”

Shala jumped and bumped her head against the doorframe. The voice had come from the right, the dark side of the porch, and she aimed her gaze that way.

“Bo must have given you terrible directions,” the voice continued. “It took you twice as long to get here as it should have.”

“Bo told you I was coming?” She squinted into the darkness, only to make out the shape of a man sitting on a porch swing. A very nice shape that she hoped wore more clothes than earlier.

“I’ve been answering calls about you all night. James
Stone’s son at the ticket gate. Moonshine, Cougar, Wolf, and finally Redfoot. Redfoot had nice things to say about you.”

She knew she’d liked Redfoot best. “Look, I want—”

“You managed to meet the entire tribal council tonight. Congratulations.”

“Look, I’m here—”

“Tommy Crow called while flipping burgers and said some hot chick was looking for me. Evie, at Walgreens, told me to be nice to you. Harvey at the Shop and Go said you sounded desperate—and you must have been, to actually walk into the Funky Chicken. Most weekenders stay clear of that place.”

“I wouldn’t know why,” she sassed. But she wasn’t here to discuss tourism. “I’m not here to—”

“Eduardo, the bartender, said he turned down your bribe. But you lucked out when you found Bo. There’s nothing Bo wouldn’t do for a beer and a dance. Bo said—”

“I’m not interested in what Bo said, Mr. Gomez. I get the point. Everyone in town is loyal to you.” Which meant they either liked him or feared him. She touched her purse and felt for her Mace.

A growl echoed from behind the swing. Shala saw two big dogs stretched out behind her camera thief. She stepped back, having reached her limit of humping for the day. Between the dog and then Bo—

“Don’t worry, you’re safe,” Sky said.

“From the dogs or you?”

“Both.” He patted the porch swing. “Have a seat.”

“I’d rather stand.” Silence rang out. She noticed he wore jeans and a button-down shirt. “You know, it would have been easier if you’d just agreed to talk to me.” A hell of a lot easier if he just hadn’t taken her camera in the first place.

“Easier for whom?” He shifted. The porch swing creaked, then was drowned out by the intimate silence.

“For both of us. I wouldn’t have had to run all over
town, trying to bribe people. And you wouldn’t have had to be disturbed with calls.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. The pose made him appear solid, strong. Unapproachable. “I wasn’t disturbed. They’re my friends. I enjoyed every conversation. And I think they enjoyed your attention. I know Bo did. You’re the first woman who’s danced with him in three years.” Shala cringed as she remembered a move that brought back memories of the humping dog. He chuckled. “I would have paid to see that.”

A sharp ringing pierced the night. Sky pulled a cell phone from his shirt pocket and answered. “Yeah?” Pause. “She’s here.”

His gaze moved over her, up and then slowly down, as if to intimidate her. It worked, but she’d be damned if she’d let him know.

“She is that.” He chuckled. The deep throaty sound somehow eased her fear but built her aggravation. He pulled the phone away and looked at her. “Bo says hi.” Then he refocused on the conversation. “Don’t worry, I can handle her.” He hung up, and his dark eyes settled on her again.

“I’m not easy to handle,” she seethed.

“I’m willing to give it a shot. But if you prefer Bo, I could call him back.” He smiled. Really smiled. That confident expression rubbed every bad nerve she had. And a few good ones she didn’t want rubbed.

She let go of a deep breath. “I’m here about my camera. If you don’t mind—”

“Is that all?”

“All what?”

“All you’re really here for? From the way you were looking at me at the powwow…”

She blushed. “That’s all I want.”

“Was it you that wanted to know if you could stuff dollar bills in my loincloth?”

Shala felt her face heat. “No! That wasn’t me. I need my camera,” she managed to say.

“If that’s all you came for, you discoed with Bo for nothing. I have nothing to say that hasn’t already been said. You were asked to read the rules before you bought the ticket. You broke the rules.”

“I didn’t take a picture!”

“The evidence says different.”

“What evidence?”

“Me. I saw you.”

“You saw a flash. It wasn’t mine.”

He stood up, and the porch swing creaked again. “Do you take me for a fool, Ms. Winters?”

So, he knew her name. He probably knew why she was here, too. Chances were, he was one of the men who didn’t want her here. Was that what this was really about?

He took a step forward.

Fighting the temptation to reach for her Mace, Shala put on a brave front. “Maybe not a fool, but you are jumping to foolish conclusions.”

“You think I didn’t hear you and your friends?”

“Friends?” She took a step forward, angrier than embarrassed, angrier than frightened. “First, I wasn’t with anyone tonight at the powwow. Those women beside me were crude and obnoxious, but I had no part in it.”

He actually appeared to be listening.

“Second, the flash you saw wasn’t from my camera. It was from theirs. Third—”

“But you had a camera, which is all the reason I need to take possession.”

She clenched her jaw. “Third, you know who I am, so you obviously know why I’m here. So hand over my camera so I can do my job.”

“Can’t do that.”

Standing this close, Shala realized something was
different about Sky Gomez. His hair, she realized. Either he’d cut it, or it had been a wig earlier.

“It’s an expensive piece of equipment.” She took another step, moved so close she could smell his skin. Freshly showered, he smelled of spicy men’s soap and something she couldn’t put her finger on. Whatever it was, it made her inhale deeply. It made her long for a shower herself.

“Come back in a week and ask nicely, and we’ll see if we can’t come to an agreement.”

“I don’t have a week! I’m leaving in two days, and I—”

“That’s a shame.” And just like that, he stepped to his front door and walked inside, shutting it and leaving her outside, alone in the dark. Alone and furious. Alone and—

A deep growl filled the dark silence.

Okay, not completely alone. “Good puppies,” she murmured. When the dogs didn’t attack or fall in love with her leg, she let go of her fear but not her anger. “Screw you!” she shouted.

She started for her car, got halfway there, then recalled dancing with Bo. She swung around, shot up the porch steps, got to the door, and almost knocked. Instead—what the hell—she reached for the doorknob, expecting to find it locked, but it turned easily in her hand.

She stepped inside and found Sky sitting on a tan leather sofa. A lamp perched on an end table cast an orb of golden light. Quickly, she allowed herself one look around his place. An open floor plan. The great room held the kitchen and living area. Wood. Lots of wood. Wood furniture, wood floors. A large rock fireplace, and a few colorful rugs. Quaint. Cozy but still masculine. Like him. With his dark hair and devilish dark eyes, he reminded her of one of the Ordóñez brothers, Spanish bullfighters. Only Sky Gomez looked even more daring.

His attention stayed fixed on her, seemingly unsurprised. Almost pleased. His dark gaze whispered down
her body the way a man’s did while he mentally stripped a woman naked, and she shivered.

He moistened his lips. “Are you sure the only reason you’re here is that camera?” His voice had acquired a husky quality that sent sensual shivers down her spine.

“I’m positive.” All the moisture evaporated from her mouth as she studied him. With jeans and a white button-down shirt, he looked like a clean-cut, self-confident kind of guy who women fantasized about. But, damn it, she didn’t care what he looked like, or that he oozed testosterone. Or that he had just mentally stripped her naked. Well, she cared, but she couldn’t control what he did in his mind.

“Look, I want my camera. I need my camera. I have dozens of shots in its memory that I have to have to complete a work assignment. If I can’t complete that assignment, I don’t get paid. If I don’t get paid, I can’t pay my rent. I’m trying to be reasonable about this, but I’m not leaving until I get it.” She reached into her canvas bag and pulled out her cell phone.

He held up his hands. “Wait.”

She wasn’t waiting. She opened her phone. “You either give me my camera or I’m calling the police. Right now. This is my last warning.”