Desert Angel (Family Justice Book 2) (49 page)

As they neared the barn, she waved her fingers again and sternly shushed him, “Shh! Gush is closing up,” she whispered-slurred. Pushing him down to the ground, they crouched beside a long water trough while old Gus switched off some lights and ambled slowly away to a nearby truck that he climbed into, started, and drove away.

“Good! He’s gone. Come on!” Angie commanded after springing to her feet like a cat and dashing for the side door to the old barn. “Hurry up.”

The renovated barn was huge and part of the original Villa. Though it was heavily in use for Justice purposes, it still housed a private section, maintained just for the family, of stables and tack rooms where the vaqueros traditionally gathered.

Switching on a row of lights that lit a long hallway, she quickly skirted into the room behind Parker, as he watched, bemused, wondering what was happening in her mind.

“Help me,” she called out so he followed her into a mess of a room littered with old leather sofas and heavy wood tables along with a kitchenette in one corner. She rummaged through a couple of cabinets, whipped open the refrigerator, pulled something out, then whispered conspiratorially, “Carry this and don’t drop!”

In short order, she pushed a bottle of Cuervo into his hands, shoved a plastic container of god knows what under his arm before taking two shot glasses and putting one in each of his back pockets, something she took her damn good time doing. He didn’t miss the sexy little sigh she made when she was finished—like she wanted to go on touching his ass and was disappointed that she couldn’t.

“Wait a minute,” Parker drawled. “What are you carrying if I’ve got all this?”

She held up a container of salt and a bag or pretzels, stuck her tongue out at him, said “Nyah, nyah,” laughed and scooted out the door.

Okay then.
Fun times ahead.

“T
HEY’RE BACK,” ALEX INFORMED
Meghan when she came from the bath.

He was sitting in an easy chair, the French doors leading to their small vine-covered balcony were open. The cool nighttime air spiced with mesquite and acacia filled him with peace. Knowing the love of this lifetime was within his grasp made a moment like this seem perfectly perfect.

She was wearing a short, white robe that was soft and silky—one of his favorites
because
it was simple and showcased everything he found alluring about his fiancée.

Meghan stopped for a moment at the open doors where he heard her take a deep breath, before turning around.

Sliding a rubber band from her hair, she pulled on it until her glorious auburn curls tumbled across her shoulders and down her back.

“How do you know?” she asked, eyeing his present state of undress with a raised brow. “And please tell me you weren’t prancing about in your skivvies where everyone could see.”

“First of all, woman . . .” He smirked as he reached out and grabbed hold of the tie on her robe and yanked her forward.

“I do not prance.”

Smiling, she chortled lightly. “Aw, it’s so cute that you think that!” she teased with a wicked leer.

When she was standing at his knees, he untied the robe and patted his thigh indicating exactly where he expected her to plant her bottom.

As she gingerly sat down, he continued talking at the same time that he pushed the robe fully open. When she was situated with her legs crossed and her hair a red halo about her naked shoulders he appreciated her abundant curves up close and personal—the way they were meant to be.

“And second,
skivvies?
Is that really a word?”

“It’s not?” she asked, instantly showing her puzzlement. “I thought it was military slang.”

“Let me guess,” he drawled teasingly as he casually ran his fingers around the dusty pink areola of a perfect, erect nipple. “You Googled it?”

He found the way her nose and cheeks pinked to be utterly charming.

“It’s a teacher thing,” she mumbled. “Now, tell me how you know Angie’s back.”

Alex laughed and flung his head back on the chair. “Oh, my god,” he groaned. “Is this how I’ll be with a daughter?”

Meghan leaned down and quickly but quite soundly kissed him with a satisfied-sounding smack, then sat back and grinned. “I’m counting on it, Major,” she smirked.

“Well, good to know because right now I feel a little bit like a fucking voyeur. I programmed the gate sensors to alert me by text when a vehicle entered. Not long after an arrival, Gus called to let me know he was finished in the barn and was on his way out. Said he saw Parker and my sister skulking about in the shadows.”

“If they can’t make it work . . . I think it’d be almost tragic,” he continued after a long pause. “And I don’t think either of ’em would be truly happy.” He shrugged—like an afterthought and breathed deeply. “I know this is hard for you, babe.”

Uncrossing her legs, she pulled in her knees and shimmied on his lap until she was curled against him, breasts pillowed on his chest, her face buried near his neck.

“It’s not hard, Alex,” she murmured. “Life doesn’t stop for us when we need it to. There are seven billion souls on this planet, and they all come with their own shit and stuff. Our wedding is important to us, but that doesn’t mean everyone else’s life takes a backseat.”

He ran a hand up and down the silky fabric on her back. “How did you get to be so understanding?
Hmmm?
”

She hooted sharply. “Understanding? Ha! Give it a week and then you’ll be shaking your head and wondering how to survive me being hormonal.”

“I think I’m fucked up in the head,” he murmured.

Her face popped up on his shoulder and she stared at him, wide-eyed. “Why would you say that?”

“Because, my wild Irish goddess, you’ve brought such happiness into my life that I just want to prance about tossing handfuls of fairy dust on everyone so they can be as happy was we are.”

“See!” she barked playfully with a sharp swat on his chest. “You just admitted that you DO prance!
Ahhahahahahaaaaa.
”

“In here!” Angie urged Parker, as she pushed open a heavy wood door. Instantly, sensory memories flooded her emotions.

The smell of leather, wood, earth, and straw assailed her senses sending fireflies dancing in her stomach. This was a magical place—old and filled with memories gathered over time. Angie treasured that her DNA was part of those memories.

Didn’t matter that she was an American girl-next-door—raised on ice cream and burgers on the grill. She was a Valleja-Marquez. Her people had lived on this land and been part of ten thousand sunsets and seasons. This very room had been used for well over a hundred years by vaqueros and patricians alike. Angie could feel the unique energy vibrating off the walls . . . like murmured passages of a story, her family’s history—whispered over time.

Excited by the blatant masculinity of the room, she ran her hand along a long leather daybed with tufted arms rolled at each end accented with nail head trim. Her imagination running wild, Angie nearly nibbled her lip off as a burst of triple X-rated images involving the distinctive furniture stole her breath.

“I love this place,” she told him softly. “Did you know I had my first job—right here? I was eleven that summer and had the time of my life.”

“I remember it well.” He chuckled, surprising her.

Turning quizzical eyes on him, she quipped, “Uh-huh. I’m sure you do.”

“Seriously!” he barked.

Dropping the salt container and pretzels onto a rustic wood slab large enough to have housed the Knights of the Round Table, she crossed her arms, made a doubting squint, and waited.

“I have an elephant’s memory,” he drawled with something barely this side of a leer. “Not only do I remember that summer, I also remember that you wore your hair in pigtails and had a pair of bright pink work gloves that your granddad gave you.”

She gasped. Her pink gloves! Oh! She remembered them. Her abuelo had presented them to her that first day when he introduced her formally to the other stable hands. How wonderful to think that Parker remembered something so meaningful that had in all honesty been lost in the shadows of her memory.

Hoisting her bottom onto the big wooden table, she gestured him over and motioned for him to turn around. Reaching into his back pockets, she slowly extracted the two shot glasses, making no effort whatsoever to hide her appreciation of his ass.

Lifting his elbow, the plastic container he carried dropped with a thud onto the table.

“What is that?” he asked.

Beaming, she wagged her eyebrows, declaring, “Limes!” as she peeled back the lid of the bowl. “Crack open that Cuervo and make a toast.”

While he started setting up their drinks, Angie looked around the room. Several antique saddles were displayed and all along an entire section of wall, tack hung. Everywhere she looked, there was gleaming silver, burnished brass, wood, and leather.

Leaning back on a hand, she crossed her legs and watched him pour the shots.
My goodness, this table is big,
she mused. Why, she could stretch out, her arms wide and still have plenty of room.

Suddenly, the table and just about every other object and piece of furniture in the room became part of some vividly erotic scenarios that had her clearing her throat and sitting up straight.
Oh, my.

That padded sawhorse looking apparatus over in the corner? She could think of several interesting ways to put that odd piece of equipment to very good use. So too the array of leather crops in a short barrel by the door.

“Okay, Angel,” he quipped. “One tequila shot as requested.”

Thinking she could drown out the lascivious thoughts crowding her mind with alcohol was downright stupid, but that was what she did.

“How’s this go?” she said aloud. “I don’t remember. Oh, wait. Yes, I do. It’s lick, salt, shot, and then lime. Right?”

She looked at Parker for reassurance and found him nodding as he licked a spot on the hand in which he held a lime wedge. Pouring a stream of salt onto the wet skin, he wagged his eyebrows at her, said, “Salud,” put his lips onto the pile of salt, then tossed back the shot and immediately stuck the lime his mouth.

Shaking his head with a deep growl, he slammed the empty shot glass down on the table.

“Okay, baby,” he taunted. “Show me how the big girls do it.”

Did he?
Oh, no he didn’t! Well, she’d show him. Grabbing her glass, she held it up in silent salute and challenged him with mocking eyes.

Mimicking his technique, she licked, making sure to do so slowly with a hushed moan as her tongue laved her skin before sprinkling the salt. Holding a slice of lime, she blew out her breath, licked the salt, downed the shot in one gulp, and then put the lime wedge into her mouth as she bit down to release the fragrant juices.

“M
mmmm,
” she moaned. And then the alcohol burn marked a trail from her lips, down her throat and into her belly where the heat spread. “Holy fuck!” she hollered, surprised that she wasn’t breathing actual fire.

Parker chuckled and smacked her on the back. “Not as smooth as Dad’s Don Julio but tasty nonetheless.”

Angie sputtered and laughed. “Oh, my god. I think my eyes are watering.”

“Tequila is good for the soul,” he joked. “Ready for another?” he asked. “It’s best to go balls out and knock ’em back pretty quickly,” he stated emphatically. “That way you can’t pussy out too early.”

“Did you just accuse me of being a pussy?” she choked out with mock outrage.

He looked at her. First, with laughter, and then, with something else. A challenge maybe.