High-Stakes Passion (3 page)

“Are you sure?” She moved closer, and the aroma of honey and garlic drifted to him. “John said you love pork chops.”

Anger flared. Of course—John had put her up to this! “No, thanks.” He spied a half-full beer bottle on the nightstand and reached for it.

“You don't really need that, do you? You know, drinking won't solve your problems.”

“Look, lady,” he sighed, his hand halted halfway to the table. “You don't know anything about my problems.”

The bed dipped as she set the tray on the mattress. “My name is Audrey.” She strode over to the table and grabbed up an empty beer bottle. “I'll just clear this off while I'm here.” The glass bottles clanked as she filled her arms.

Mark winced. His stomach churned. His head pounded as if a bronc had kicked it. He just needed a sip to take the edge off. Before she could take it away, he leaned forward and grabbed the half-full bottle from her hand.

Damn. She had that hurt look again. Her green eyes reproached him. His gaze dropped to her full lips. She licked them and he envied her tongue. He looked back up to her eyes and leaned forward, reaching out a hand to touch her smooth cheek.

For a moment, he thought she felt the same pull he did. Her eyes closed and her mouth opened. But she jerked back and made a little sputtering sound.

Damn it! What the hell was he thinking? He looked away and started to drink.

The beer was almost to his mouth when she latched on to the bottle. “Stop! You have this beautiful ranch, and good friends, yet all you do is sit in here and drown your sorrows. There's so much more to life!”

He glared at her. “Lady, if I want a sermon, I'll go to church.” He tugged on the bottle.

She didn't take the hint. “Please. This isn't the man I've admired all these years.”

Who the hell does she think she is?
“I'm not the
Lone Cowboy
anymore!” As if to prove his words true, his muscle cramped and pain streaked down his leg. “I can barely walk.”

“Oh, please!” She let go of the beer and stalked around the room. “The point is you
can
walk. And you've got two strong arms.” She grabbed clothes and bottles as she ranted. “You can do whatever you set your mind to.”

“Are you through yelling?” he said, grinding out the words. He might take this from John, but he didn't have to listen to some carping housecleaner, even if she did have a cute, round behind.

She turned back to him, one hand on her hip. “No.” The woman was relentless. “My brother-in-law has ALS. Lou Gehrig's disease. It attacks his muscles, and every day he loses more ability to move his arms and legs. He's in a wheelchair. He can't talk or move his hands or even swallow. He won't live to see his son grow up!” She stopped in front of him and shook her fistful of clothes at him. “Yet he gets up every morning and thanks God for one more day!”

She glanced at the empty beer bottles and dirty clothes in her arms with a look of disbelief. Her brows drew together and her eyes darted about the room as if she were amazed to find it straightened.

Mark stared at her. Her brother-in-law was dying? What
had she called it? ALS? And the poor guy had a son? What a screwed-up world. His own father had never bothered to be a part of his or Keith's lives.

He realized he still held the beer.
Ah, finally a nice, long swallow.

She snatched his liquid relief just as he raised the bottle to his mouth again.

“What the hell?”

The interfering little tyrant stalked to the bathroom, and a second later he heard the sound of the precious fluid splashing in the sink, his hopes for a cure flowing down the drain. For a moment he sat frozen by fury until, like a volcano, he erupted, spewing every curse word he knew.

She stomped back out of the bathroom and dumped the clothes and bottles in a heap at his feet. “What a waste of a life!” A smug look of triumph illuminated her face as she sailed out of the room.

A
hoarse shout penetrated her sleep. Audrey rolled out of bed, grabbed her robe and scrambled down the stairs, heading toward the origin of the cry. Did her mother need another pain shot?

Audrey stopped and rubbed her eyes as she became more alert. Her mother had died eleven years ago, and she was at the Double M.

Had she dreamed the sound of someone yelling out in pain? She crept to Mark's door and listened. When she heard nothing but silence, she turned to leave.

“No!” a strangled voice called out.

She pushed open the door and raced to his side. With the light from the connecting bathroom, she could see his shadowy figure lying on the bed. He appeared to be asleep. The sheets were tangled around the lower half of his long torso, and his face and chest glistened with sweat. His hair
was mussed and he twisted away with a low moan. His expression looked so tortured, he seemed a different man from the belligerent drunk of last night.

Was he reliving that night the bull crushed his leg? Or was there something else in this man's life that prompted this horrible dream?

She reached out a tentative hand to brush a strand of hair off his cheek, but checked her dangerous impulse. Her palm hovered over him for what seemed like minutes.

 

His arm flashed up and knocked her hand away with a coarse swearword.

Mark bolted up in a cold sweat, shaking uncontrollably. His leg throbbed. Relentless images flashed through his mind.

His mom was screaming. Mark dragged Keith to the safety of the back bedroom. His brother was only three, and didn't understand what was happening. Through the bedroom window he saw the flashing light of the police car. The medic yelled, “She's still alive,” while the cops took his father away in handcuffs. Dad would never come back.

And Mark knew it was all his fault.

“Are you okay?” a soft voice asked.

Mark blinked and focused on a blurry figure a few feet away. Audrey. What was
she
doing here? Oh, God. Had he yelled in his sleep?

“Just dandy.”

“Anything I can do?”

Great. Florence Nightingale to the rescue.

“No, I'm fine.” He closed his eyes and winced, wishing he hadn't thrown out those pain pills the doctor had prescribed. They'd kept him blessedly numb in the hospital.

Beer. He needed a beer and an aspirin.

He threw back the sheet and started to swing his leg to the floor, but she was still there, hovering.

Why didn't she just leave? He couldn't see much, but what he saw had his blood heating up. The lush curves teased him from beneath her robe. His body hardened. At least he wasn't thinking about the nightmare anymore.

“I heard you cry out. It might help to talk about it.”

Her melodic voice aroused him more. “You want to help?” He stood and put his hands on his hips, displaying his need. “Come here and kiss my troubles away.”

Her gaze darted down, and the whites of her eyes got bigger like a scared filly, before her shadowy silhouette swished out of his room.

He called after her. “What'd ya expect, a hero?”

Ignoring the pain, he stood and carefully slipped on his jeans. He caught a whiff of her lingering, sultry citrus scent as he headed for the stable.

 

Mark flipped on the light and made his way to his stallion's stall, grabbing a brush and a bucket of oats along the way. It had been a few days since he'd checked on his horse. Lone Star nickered and tossed his head.

“Whoa, there, boy. How ya been?” He ran his hand down the stallion's flank and poured the oats into his trough. Lone Star didn't seem to mind it was three in the morning.

It might help to talk about it.
What the hell did she know? Talking wouldn't help. He'd had that nightmare ever since he'd ratted on his mother. And deserting his brother had only made it worse.

Mark ran the brush across Star's back. “We had us some great times, didn't we, Star? For a while there, I could pretend I was somebody else.”

He scratched the giant stallion behind the ear. “They been treating you good, boy? You lonely?” Lone Star whinnied and nudged Mark with his nose. “Yeah, me neither.” Out of habit, Mark stooped to check Star's hooves. Searing pain shot through his leg. He stumbled forward, catching the horse around its neck for support. “Damn it to hell!”

Lone Star trembled, but remained steady as Mark pulled himself up and rested his forehead against the horse's neck. “I oughta sell you, boy,” he whispered. “You're wasted on me.”

Mark rubbed his throbbing leg as he headed for the house. Just past the barn doors he caught a whiff of…lemon. Damn it! He turned, and there she was, flattened against the barn wall like a prison escapee.

“What the hell are you doing?”

She stepped forward, clutching the front of her robe together with both hands. “I was worried about you.”

“About me?” Women didn't worry about Mark Malone. They either wanted money or their fifteen minutes of fame.

“You find that so hard to believe?”

He crossed his arms. “Yeah, I do. Were you in there?” He nodded toward the barn doors.

She nodded. “I guess we both like to visit Lone Star when we need to sort things out.”

“What? Lady, you've been watching too many TV talk shows!” He spun around and walked back to the dark house, putting equal weight on his throbbing leg. He'd be damned if she'd see him limp.

He slammed through the back door and headed straight for the bar. Grabbing a bottle of whiskey, he didn't even bother with a glass. He stopped in midstride, staring at his gold championship buckles on display. Bile rose in his
throat, and the rage seething in his veins erupted. He raked his hand across the shelf, sending the belt buckles crashing to the floor.

 

Audrey awoke with a vague sense of hopelessness. Last night's incident with Mark weighed on her mind. She'd never forget the heart-wrenching pain in Mark's hoarse shout.

It was still pitch-dark when she stumbled to the kitchen to cook breakfast for what seemed like the entire U.S. Army. If she never saw a slice of raw bacon again, she'd be a happy woman. Writing the “Dear Audrey” column was beginning to seem like a dream job. It didn't look as if she'd ever get a story here, anyway. Only propositions from drunks and unsavory ranch hands.

Grumbling to herself, she set the table. Nine years ago, she'd dreamed of Mark whisking her off on his horse and living happily ever after.

How pathetic.

Over the years, the few men who had looked past her plain features and plumpness to ask her out had only wanted one thing. Even if she'd been willing to do
that
on a first date—or even a second—she would've been too embarrassed to get undressed.

She'd been fourteen when her mom died, and until recently, she'd put all her energy into taking care of her dad and two younger sisters. But Miranda had her degree now, and a hunky boyfriend, and Claire had her husband and three-year-old son.

And all Audrey had was a dead-end job.

As the sun rose in a brilliant palette of pinks and lavenders, so did Audrey's spirits. Was she going to give up now? Just because things were a little more difficult than
she'd imagined? Slink back to the magazine and be taken for granted the rest of her boring life?

No way.

After breakfast Audrey dragged the vacuum cleaner to the den, intent on conquering the dust and dirt there.

Mark shuffled in with a six-pack and settled into his recliner.

She pursed her lips at the thought of him spending another day lounging in the recliner watching sports news. She glared at him and fired up the vacuum.

Snarling, he grabbed the remote and turned the volume up full blast.

She repressed the urge to seize the remote and chuck it into the pool. Or toss the vacuum at the TV screen.

Mark Malone wasn't the only one who'd had hardships in life. Surviving the loss of her mother hadn't been easy. But she certainly hadn't thrown herself a big pity party.

But she wouldn't lose her temper again. Come to think of it, now would be the perfect time to actually clean his room. She certainly wasn't going to ask him about his past this morning! She left the vacuuming unfinished, gathered her cleaning supplies and headed down the hall.

First, she raised the heavy shades that blocked out the bright morning sun from both windows. What a shame to see such a beautiful pine bed so dry and dusty. A good polish with orange oil brought the wood to a glossy shine. She remade the bed and then began dusting the armoire. On top sat a Matchbox car and an old, tattered, wallet-size picture of a little boy, about eight years old. The boy didn't look like Mark. A brother? A childhood friend? She didn't know anything about his family. And John had acted extremely suspicious when she'd asked.

She caught a movement from the corner of her eye. Jump
ing back, her heart banged against her chest when she glanced up and found Mark standing in the doorway, glaring.

“What the hell are you doing with that?”

With a shaky breath, she dropped the picture back on the armoire and casually moved past him to the bed, smoothing the comforter over the clean sheets.

Flexing chest muscles and a flat stomach revealed by low-riding jeans distracted Audrey from his question. Hadn't his shirt been buttoned before? It was hard to concentrate with his brown chest hair arrowing down to well-defined abs.

“Just dusting.”

He raised one brow in disbelief as he lifted a bottle of beer to his lips. His Adam's apple bobbed as he took a long swallow. From her hands smoothing the comforter, his piercing gaze journeyed slowly to her chest, lingered a moment and continued to scorch over her hips and thighs.

Her facade of poise withered under his scrutiny. There was that look she thought she'd imagined last time. The flare of desire in his eyes made her feel like someone else, someone alluring and sexy.

It was awfully hot in here. Maybe she should have turned down the air conditioner. Changing sheets was hard work.

But that didn't explain the sharp ache between her thighs.

Mark's gaze shifted to the bed, then back to her. “Gonna help me get it all rumpled again?”

Audrey blinked. The romantic haze cleared from her eyes. She crossed her arms and looked pointedly out the bedroom door. “I thought you wanted to watch TV.”

He smacked his lips together and wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve. “Changed my mind.”

She rolled her eyes and grimaced, biting her tongue to keep her criticism to herself.

“What? Go ahead and say it, Miss High-and-Mighty. I can see you're dying to give another lecture. You're on your own personal crippled-cowboy crusade? I suppose
you
never drink?”

“Not at ten o'clock in the morning!”

His brows drew together and his scowl blackened. He advanced on her, taking another swig from his bottle, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve again. He closed in until she was nose to chest with him, caught between him and the bed. He was so close she could smell the beer on his breath.

Refusing to be chased away, she stood her ground.

He towered over her with a narrow-eyed glare. “You know, you should've been a missionary or something. I can see you now. Marching for prohibition with all the other Miss Priss, goody-two-shoes, dried-up, old
spinsters!
”

Audrey's stomach heaved, as if someone had socked her. His words echoed in her mind—
dried-up, old spinster.
It was true. That's exactly what she was. Refusing to cry, she forgot about holding her temper. “Well, at least I don't sit around wallowing in self-pity all day!”

He leaned into her and nuzzled her neck. “You know, I kind of like you all riled up. Your eyes spit fire and your….” He stared blatantly at her chest. “I want you, darlin'.”

Oh, God. Her nipples peaked of their own accord, as if straining to rub against his chest. Tiny goose bumps rose as his lips nibbled the sensitive skin of her neck. Even with the smell of beer on his breath, she wanted his arms around her and his lips on hers.

No. This drunk was not the man she'd once thought he was. She pushed against his chest. “Move, and I'll leave so you can drink yourself into a stupor in peace.”

He set the bottle on the bedside table and abruptly fell forward, pushing her down with him. Arms straight, he held himself above her, his hands spread flat on the bed. Audrey lay perfectly still, trapped between his strong, flannel-clad arms. His lips parted and hovered just above hers.

“Peace is a pipe dream, baby. I'll take passion any day.”

Eyes wide, she reined in the urge to grab a hunk of his hair and pull his mouth down to hers. Despite the long hair and heavy stubble, she kept seeing the handsome, smiling hero from that long-ago night at the rodeo.

“Beautiful green eyes,” he mumbled. “Give me a kiss, baby.” Feverishly, his lips covered hers, moving over her mouth, begging for a response.

No need to beg. Audrey ran her fingers through his hair and kissed him back with all that was in her.

He slowly lowered his body, settling onto her chest with a low groan. His tongue slid in, stroking her lips and tongue.

She shivered and couldn't hide a little moan of pleasure as his lips traveled down her cheek to nuzzle her neck. The evidence of his desire pushed against her thigh, long and hard. He pushed it against her again, and she realized his hand was sliding under her shirt.

She must be insane! A minute ago, he'd called her an old spinster. He only wanted her because he was drunk. She recovered her wits and pushed on his shoulders. “No!”

He rolled away and sat up. “What's the matter?”

Audrey bolted off the bed and flew to the other side of the room, breathing hard. She didn't know which feeling was stronger—humiliation or regret. “You don't even know me.”