Dylan (7 page)

“I do, but I sell the other items too.” She paused and said, “And it's not just underwear, I sell chemises, garter belts, peignoir sets—”

“Look, Ronnie. I'll be honest. I don't need this job bad enough to put up with you calling me names and then just plain laughing at me. I know a couple of guys who are looking for work and can give you a list of names and numbers.”

There was more here than she could put her finger on. Just what that was she didn't know, but she needed to fix this so he didn't leave when all of her emotions were tumbling in a mass of confusion like this. She sensed they had a future that needed to be explored—thoroughly. A flicker of warning about the DelVecchio Curse tried to make itself known, but she tamped it down and rasped, “I'm sorry, Dylan.”

His eyebrows shot up, and then he frowned.

“I promise I wasn't laughing at you.”

“I've got two brothers who've been taking care of that particular job for years. Family's allowed to; strangers aren't.”

She sensed there was something else that went much deeper, but knew enough not to ask right now. She needed Dylan Garahan's help and would use whatever she had in her arsenal to ensure she got that help. “Emily said that once a Garahan gave his word, he kept it.” He toed the pile of wood with the tip of his boot and brushed his hands on his thighs. A master of distracting her grandmother, Ronnie knew she'd scored a direct hit to his conscience.

He sighed. “If this is gonna work, no name calling and no making fun just because I ain't never been in a fancy underwear store before.”

“Dylan.” She reached for his arm and squeezed it quickly before letting go. “I really am sorry.” She wished she could make him believe it. “So then Emily was right about you keeping your word?”

He stopped in his tracks and turned to face her; letting his eyes met hers, he cleared his throat. “I give you my word.”

“You'll stick until my shop's been put back together?”

He removed the hat from his head and raked his hand through his hair before answering. “Yes, ma'am.”

“And I promise that I'll cook dinner for you and your brothers out at the Circle G and pay you for the materials to complete the job.” Pausing, she rubbed at the ache that moved down to the base of her neck. “I just hope the insurance check will cover the damage and help replace what I lost, especially the massage oil. It's a specific grade that I buy that mixes well with my signature fragrances, so the scent isn't overpowering.”

He stared at her long and hard. “You're not kidding?”

“About what: the insurance check covering the damage or the massage oil?”

He shut his eyes and groaned. “Darlin', my mind's working overtime wondering who'd have the time or energy to use that oil. Besides, why would someone with an angel's face need anything like that?”

“Because there are plenty of women out there who don't have a man in their life, or the time or energy to go out and find one, and the fragrant oil is simply for their pleasure.”

“Are you talking about Texas women or women from back East?”

“Women are the same everywhere.”

His laugh was bold and booming. “Oh, darlin', you haven't been in Texas long enough if you believe that.” He stared down at her finally asking, “So what… uh… do you use the oil for?”

She smiled but didn't turn around. “It feels wonderful when you stroke it from your shoulders to your fingertips for starters.” Ronnie thought she heard a groan coming from the big man following behind her, and no matter how badly she wanted to tease him, she remembered their agreement. “After a long day on your feet, nothing feels better than a long hot soak in the tub with a splash of my signature lavender and lemon balm massage oil mixed in.”

Poor man sounded like he was choking. “Are you all right, Dylan?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Are you still mad?”

He shook his head. “No. Why don't you tell me how the inside of your shop used to look. Then you can tell me about the sweet stuff you're gonna be baking for me and my brothers.”

Relief filled her. Ronnie blinked back tears of gratitude at being given this chance to rebuild. She grinned up at him. Aside from the bone-deep integrity, the man standing beside her was as volatile as dynamite. She knew in that moment looking up at him that she'd definitely be sticking around long enough to see if that powder keg building inside of him would be safe enough to set a match to. She had a feeling they'd either both spontaneously combust and burn each other alive with passion or kill each other.

Knowing the way to a hungry man's heart, she smiled and told him, “I've got this butter cake recipe that will just melt in your mouth.”

“Do tell, darlin'.” Dylan grinned. “Do tell.”

The memory of him tossing a rope around her and slowly reeling her in while she remained helplessly under his control chose that moment to pop into her thoughts, distracting her. Sensing that it might be at the root of her constant need to take verbal jabs at the man, she realized she would have to be vigilant in order to keep her promise to him too. But if she was truly honest with herself, she'd have to admit it wasn't just the way he'd lassoed her that had her entire body melting against his when the hunkalicious cowboy's lips claimed possession of her own. It was lust, pure and simple… wasn't it? “I wish I could forget that.”

“Forget what?”

Her head shot up, and her face burned with the heat of her embarrassment.
Damn, she must have said that out loud
. “Um, nothing. Why don't I just show you the basic layout of the store.”

Dylan stared down at her for the longest time, and Ronnie had to keep her hands clenched at her sides, or else she'd reach up and grab him by the collar and yank him down until his lips were a breath away from hers. Her body craved another taste, a long slow, deep tasting.

Would his lips be as lethal, or was it just a José-induced memory from the night before? Afraid he could read her mind, she buried the need deep, right alongside the memory of her failed first marriage. She shuddered. The two were on opposite ends of the spectrum as far as experiences go… maybe someday she'd find someone right in the middle who could balance out the scales. Someone quiet, calm, and boring as hell—but not Irish. She had no intention of fulfilling the curse, not matter how badly she wanted to spend time exploring the strength of the handsome cowboy's muscles, the breadth of his shoulders, or the taste of his lips.

Was she nuts? She'd never settle for boring again. Well, not as long as she could conjure up the delicious sensation of Dylan's firm, warm lips tentatively tasting her own. She shivered.

“You cold?”

The concern in his voice was genuine and went a long way toward easing the sharper edges of the unwanted memory of her first husband. They were both to blame. Her ex more than her, but he hadn't changed his colors; he'd been consistent—and unable to be faithful—she'd chosen to handle it until she began to suspect that he was having an affair with her best friend.

She sighed and shook her head and walked over toward the largest pile. “I wasn't sure what to do,” she explained, “so I started putting pieces of wood together—sort of by size.” Looking down, Ronnie wondered if she should have considered the thickness of the wood instead. “Maybe I made more work for you.”

Dylan gaze met hers before sliding away to focus on the waist-high pile of wood. He shook his head. “Damn, but that's a waste. You ever figure out why your shop was the target?”

She shrugged. “Not really, just that it was one of three… all owned by women.”

“Right,” he mumbled. “I remember Mrs. Beeton explaining that a few days ago—the day Widowmaker tried to make sausage out of my brother's guts.”

Ronnie watched as one emotion chased another across Dylan's handsome face. Anger, followed by pain, hot on the heels of resignation, until finally relief settled in and smoothed out the lines of frustration between his dark eyebrows. The man was a mystery she hadn't planned on wanting to solve. The last time she'd gotten in deep, she'd realized there wasn't anything beneath the surface calm of the man she'd married. He was all show on the surface, good-looking and smooth-talking, but she'd known him all her life and thought her ex was what she wanted. She'd been wrong.

He drew in a deep breath and slowly blew it out. She watched in helpless fascination as the fabric of his soft cotton shirt expanded, straining the seams to a fraction of an inch before they threatened to split wide open.

Darn.
The worn material must have been stitched with heavy-duty cotton threads; they held.

Get
your
mind
on
the
job
at
hand, dear.
“Yes, Nonni.”

“Who's Nonni?”

“Hmmm?” She didn't want to answer the question and have to go into a long explanation as to why she heard her grandmother in her head and answered her out loud, when all she had to do was pick up the phone and call her. It was a comforting connection to home back East.

When she kept silent, Dylan didn't prod her to answer. She appreciated that fact. The longer she was in his company, the more things she found that appealed to her. Add them to the fact that he had a mouth that had her thinking about sampling a deeper taste of him, and she was in trouble with a capital
T
!

“Look, if you're all right down here…” She hesitated and looked up at him for confirmation. When he nodded, she continued, “Then I've got some paperwork to finish upstairs.”

***

Dylan watched her run off and wondered what had made her so skittish. He hadn't done or said anything that he knew of, but women were difficult to understand at the best of times and impossible the rest of the time.

Shaking his head, he picked up the abbreviated length of shelving and turned it on its edge to see if it was still true. The wood still looked straight enough to reuse, even though it was shorter than it had originally been. He placed it on the floor, reached for the next piece, and stifled a chuckle. A glance at the stairs reassured him that she hadn't come back down. He didn't want her to think he was laughing at her; he wasn't, it was the idea that anyone would think to sort wood by length and not type or thickness.

Getting to work, he soon had a couple of stacks going, sorted to his satisfaction. What bothered him was the biggest stack… it wasn't fit to use for anything but a bonfire. At the current price per board foot, it would be a damn costly fire. He wasn't sure if Ronnie had any idea just how much material he'd need to reconstruct her shop. He'd have to work hard to keep his price within what he suspected was a very tight budget. But he had connections in town and could probably work something out to their mutual satisfaction, especially if he could convince her to purchase used lumber. Done right, it would add to the appeal of her shop, giving it a vintage look that might complement her collection of bottles and such.

Going back out to his truck, he grabbed his tape measure, carpenter's pencil, and pad of paper from the front seat. His skin had finally stopped tingling once Ronnie had gone upstairs. Her lovely green eyes had begged him to follow, though he doubted she'd really wanted him to consciously… and it had taken all of his control not to. It was going to take some time to come to terms with the way she got to him, by turns good and bad.

He would have to deal with the bad as long as he could get to the good. He salivated imagining trailing his tongue from beneath her left ear to the hollow of her throat, where he'd stop to inhale the distracting scent that was pure woman—

Get
your
mind
back
on
the
job.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled. “I heard you, Grandpa. Geez, a man can't even pause to savor the thought of sampling a pretty woman.” He slammed the door and walked back to the shop. Why he glanced up he couldn't exactly say, but the pretty face staring down at him had him wondering how long it would be before the woman put him out of his misery and let him taste the sweetness of her curves. He didn't want to rush her, but his newly awakened libido was like his horse Wildfire: champing at the bit, raring to go. He shook his head. He had more control than his horse—didn't he? Damn, but the woman messed with his mind.

Digging deep for control, he broke eye contact and reached for the door. He had a hell of a job ahead of him. It would take time, but he'd write up two estimates for her. One starting from scratch with new, scrapping what was left of her shop, and the other utilizing what could be salvaged and adding in used lumber when he could. It would take longer, but he had a feeling it was the option she'd want to go with. Not that it would help pay off the mortgage at the Circle G, but hell, they'd be guaranteed home-cooked meals. He savored the thought, grateful that the barter system was still alive and well in Pleasure, Texas.

Instead of the meals promised, Dylan envisioned another way the delectably disturbing brunette could pay him for the carpentry work.
Clothing
optional
…

But reality and an empty belly had him getting back to work, and for the next hour, he measured and drew out plans to reconstruct. He raked a hand through his hair and straightened; he needed a break. The sound of footsteps had him looking up. The smile came easily. The woman was real easy on the eyes.

“Hungry?”

He swallowed the bark of laughter that threatened to escape. Lord above, did she have any idea how hungry he was for a taste of her? She stared down at him and all he could think was where he'd start sampling. The T-shirt she had on slid off her shoulder, leaving the gleaming skin exposed. The bare skin begged to be caressed. He walked toward her like a man in a trance, unable to look away, focusing on the beauty before him.