High-Stakes Passion (4 page)

Grabbing his beer, he took another swig and ran a hand through his hair. “Hell, what's knowin' someone got to do
with it? The women who wanted the
Lone Cowboy
didn't know me.” He thumped his chest and snarled his famous moniker as if he were speaking of someone else.

Crossing her arms, she dropped her jaw in disbelief. “That doesn't mean— Oh!” Did he think because she was a fat
spinster
, she wouldn't say no?

Mark frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. “I get it. The cripple ain't good enough.”

Is that what he thought? As if that would make a difference if she loved—
Don't go there, girl.
“Your injury has nothing to do with—”

“Save it, lady. I know how women are.”

Audrey fumed, wishing she could scream. Why bother arguing with him? “Think what you want.
Do
what you want. But leave me alone. And I'll leave you alone, okay?” She spun on her heel, snatched up her cleaning supplies and left the room.

Mark cursed, and pitched his empty bottle on the floor. Now his room was quiet. But he could hear the vacuum whirring out in the den.

Yeah. Alone. That's what he wanted. Wasn't it? No one judging him? Or expecting more? Then why did his chest ache when she left? Why had he wanted to reach out and apologize and promise her anything if she'd stay? What the hell was wrong with him?

He straightened his spine. Nothing another beer wouldn't cure.

 

Audrey spent the rest of the day grumbling under her breath as she cleaned. She couldn't stop thinking about how much Mark Malone had changed. Some hero. Maybe the Double M stood for “Mad Malone.” She pictured the headline, with her name underneath.

Madman Malone Massacres Meddling Magazine Journalist.
She giggled, delving deep for more alliterative headlines.

Lone Cowboy Loser at Life.

Or how about:
Callous Cowboy Casts Off Comfort—
Comfort? Since when did she want to comfort him?

Audrey sighed. Since she'd seen the pain in his eyes.

Ugh! There was a full spittoon under the card table. How disgusting. What the heck was she supposed to do with that? And the carpet? She didn't want to think about it. She made a mental note to rent a carpet cleaner in Quitman, the closest town to the Double M.

Cleaning this mess was her job, but did they have to spit and smoke and drink in here? Couldn't they go out to the bunkhouse? She was tempted to discuss it with John. They wanted to sell the place, didn't they?

But maybe she'd better let it go for now. In just three days, she'd kicked her employer in his bad leg, threatened him with a knife and lectured him about his drinking.

She heaved a frustrated sigh. Besides, she'd be gone in less than a couple of weeks. She could stand anything for that long. Even rude, ex-rodeo stars.

As she snatched empty beer bottles off the floor, she glanced across the foyer to the formal living room, bare except for a wet bar with a half-full wine rack and a pile of trophies and gold belt buckles scattered across the floor.
His
championship buckles.

Now that her temper was spent, the memory of Mark's kiss caused a pang of desire. He'd actually kissed her! And called her beautiful. The beer must have blurred his vision. There was no mistaking his aroused state though. He'd admitted that knowing someone had nothing to do with wanting someone. And it must not.

Because she'd wanted him, too.

He was her employer. But the thought of suing for sexual harassment never entered her head. Then again, he hadn't fired her for pouring his beer down the sink, either.

She cringed thinking about that. And how she'd talked to him. Maybe she'd taken her new “assertive” attitude too far. If he fired her now, she'd never know the whole story. But she just couldn't stay in this house and watch him drink himself to death.

He'd obviously let the injury ruin his life. She should have mentioned professional help. She knew it was none of her business, but someone had to care enough to—Care?

What are you doing, girl, planning his rehabilitation? Where's your precious objectivity? You're a journalist, not a social worker. Get over it!

Unfortunately, that was easier said than done, and hero or not, Mark Malone was more than just a story to her. He always had been and always would be. And this whole business had the potential to ruin her new career.

T
he next afternoon, as Audrey headed to the bunkhouse carrying neatly folded stacks of laundry, she heard hooting and laughter coming from the barn. Curley, usually at her heels, barked and rushed inside.

Audrey couldn't resist changing course to check out the commotion. Maybe in this more relaxed atmosphere they'd let something slip about Mark. She had to get to the bottom of this mystery. There must be more to this story than his injury. What could have made him change so much? Had all his endorsement opportunities dried up after the accident?

She followed the sounds back to the far corner of the barn. Dalt twisted and turned on the bucking mechanical bull, while Jim operated the lever.

After a couple of seconds, Dalt flew off and landed on his backside. When he saw Audrey watching, he jumped
up, gingerly rubbing his behind. He sauntered over to her with his most charming grin. “Hey, Audrey. You wanna give it a try? I'll make sure we take it real slow.” Dalt raised his brows, then actually winked—at her! Was he playing a cruel joke?

Someone taunted, “Come on, Pete, show your sack!” Pete leered at her, blew her a kiss and then climbed on the barrel.

“They were just tellin' him to, uh, to have some, uh, you know, courage,” Dalt explained.

“My dad's a rodeo man, Dalt. I'm familiar with the expression.”

“So, you gonna be next?” He slipped an arm around her waist, pulled her close and whispered in her ear, “I'll help you hold on, if you want.”

“Oh, no. I—” A small voice buzzed through her brain, tempting her.
Why not?
it whispered.
You wanted to experience more of life, didn't you?

“Okay.” She plunked the laundry into Dalt's unsuspecting arms. “I'll need a step stool, though.”

A huge grin spread over Dalt's face. “Sure, sweetheart. Whatever you want. Come on in here and we'll get you all fixed up.”

Pete jumped off, and before she had time to reconsider her foolishness, she climbed on, coaxed by Dalt in his soothing southern drawl. The barrel began to rock in gentle, rhythmic motions. Audrey clenched her fists tightly around the rope. Her legs hugged the barrel so hard she could feel her thigh muscles straining.

After a few seconds, with Dalt and the other guys cheering her on, the rocking motion sped up. She concentrated on not falling off, matching her body's wits against the “bull.” A powerful energy surged through her. Her heart
pumped faster. This must be what Mark felt when he rode. Excited. Challenged. Unconquerable. She stuck her right arm in the air and laughed.

“Don't you have dinner to cook?” a deep voice barked.

The shouting and hooting silenced. The barrel stilled. Audrey caught her breath and jerked around to find Mark scowling at her. Her face heated as blood pounded in her temples. She knew her thighs must look even fatter, spread around the barrel. Shame and embarrassment washed over her. Why did he affect her this way?

Dalt stepped over to Mark. “I was keeping her from getting back. It's my fault.”

Mark glared at her, ignoring Dalt. His breathing was ragged and his blue eyes flashed with heat.

Audrey wriggled off the barrel, conscious of his gaze following her every move. Her awkward dismount couldn't be helped, but she was determined not to be intimidated.

She strode up to him and smelled the beer on his breath. He had some nerve acting as if she was shirking her duties! “Dinner, Mr. Malone, is warming in the oven. I was just about to call everyone in to eat. But you smell like you already drank yours!” She picked up the laundry Dalt had deposited on a hay bale and stalked off toward the house.

All the men except Dalt hurried for the bunkhouse, leaving Mark to stare after her retreating figure.

And what a figure it was. He couldn't decide if he wanted to wring her neck or throw her on the ground, strip her naked and take her right there in the yard. She wouldn't give him the time of day, yet here she was, flirting with every cowhand in sight.

“You're making a big mistake, Malone.”

Mark glanced at Dalt. “What the hell do you know about it?”

Dalt put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “When you want a woman, you sweet-talk her, you don't growl at her.”

Mark narrowed his eyes, warning him with a look.

Dalt shrugged and walked away.

Was Audrey sleeping with Dalt? He'd only been here a few weeks, but according to the guys at the poker table, his exploits with women were legendary. Why would Audrey be immune?

Except, all week he'd watched her smile and hum while she cleaned. He'd seen her sneak leftovers to Curley, and even hug John. Stupid to feel a spark of envy toward John. She'd seemed so innocent. She'd transformed the house from a dark, gloomy wreck to a warm, glowing haven. As if all was right with the world.

He wanted that feeling. He wanted her to smile at him as she had that morning in the kitchen.

He wanted her.

 

“Are you sure you won't come with us?” Ruth asked Audrey one more time. It was Friday night, and all the hands were going into Quitman for dancing.

“I'm sure. I don't know how you do it. I'm exhausted. Besides, I've got a good book I want to finish.” Audrey loved to dance, but it'd been a long time since she'd been to a club. And in the past, she always ended up standing around watching everyone else dance.

Ruth hesitated, leaning against the door frame with her arms folded. “A bit of advice, girl to girl.” She turned and waved at Dalt to go on, then looked back at Audrey. “Stay away from—”

“You know, I was just kidding about saving myself for Mark,” Audrey cut her off.

A crease appeared between Ruth's brows.

Audrey cringed. She'd just made a monumental idiot of herself.

Pushing off the door frame, Ruth finger-combed her bangs back and put on her tan cowboy hat. “I was talking about Pete. He's slime. Don't let him get you alone.”

Audrey's skin chilled. “Why do you say that? Did he hurt you?”

“Hah!” Ruth laughed. “Don't worry about me. Pete won't bother me anymore. Just wanted to warn you while we had a minute alone. Be careful.”

With a sick stomach, Audrey nodded and waved her off. Was Pete really dangerous? She went to the kitchen and opened a window, breathing deeply to calm her shaken nerves. A cool breeze carried the sweet smell of grass, pine and wildflowers. The fresh air soothed her.

She turned on the radio while she washed the dinner dishes. As she dried the last pot, one of her favorite songs came on. The words always made her a little misty-eyed, but it had a perfect two-step beat. She cranked up the volume and danced around the kitchen.

How her heart ached to have a man who loved her so much he'd do anything just to see her smile. The way her sister, Claire, had with her husband, Danny. Someone to dance with and hold at night. They'd have a few babies and grow old together.

She remembered the beautiful smile Mark had flashed that long-ago night at Cowtown Coliseum. He never smiled now. It was as if that smile had vanished with his rodeo career. What would it take to make him smile again?

 

Mark heard the music and found himself drawn to the kitchen. He thought Audrey had gone dancing with everyone else. But here she was, dancing around the kitchen, adorable in her jeans and bare feet. Her blond ponytail swayed back and forth, and her arms were held out, embracing a phantom partner.

Damn his useless leg! He couldn't even take her in his arms and whirl her around the floor. Why hadn't she gone with everyone else tonight? Even as he thought the question, he stepped closer to her.

“Oomph!” He grimaced as she bumped into him. Her eyes were closed and she obviously hadn't seen him. What was his excuse?

She grabbed his arms and steadied herself. “Oh, I'm sorry! I wasn't watching where I—”

He suppressed a shiver as she ran her hands down his arms. His sleeveless sweatshirt offered no protection against the soft caress of her hands on his flesh.

She dragged in a ragged breath, bolted to the sink and stood gazing out the window.

Had he seen tears in her eyes? Without thinking, he followed her.
Wait a minute, Malone. She's already rejected you once.

Still, he was tired of her disdain and their angry truce.

He lowered his face to her hair and inhaled the scent of lemons. He longed to place his lips on the back of her neck. No. He fisted his hands. He wouldn't touch her. “What's wrong?” he whispered in her ear.

Now she'd say, “Nothing,” as all women did. Then she'd slyly mention what she really wanted. Probably money.

She turned around, eyes on the floor as she wiped at her cheeks. “It was just that song.” Her lips trembled as she
tried to smile. “It's stupid to cry over a song, isn't it?” With a choked laugh, she started sobbing.

No, don't…don't cry. Don't lean into me. Don't you know I can't help you?

With a frustrated growl, he wrapped his arms around her and let her weep into his shirt. Whispering soothing words, he brushed his hand down the crown of her head and across her shoulders. She was so soft and rounded. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and he wanted to feel them in his palms. But she needed comfort now, not lust. He concentrated on keeping his hands on her back and continued murmuring soothing noises.

This wasn't so bad. This was something he could do, even with a bum leg. She trusted him. Needed him.

When her sobs had run their course, she raised her head and stared at him, her lashes still wet with tears. The contempt usually sparking in her eyes was gone. Only pain and longing softened them now. He leaned down and gently kissed them dry. Hesitant, he pulled back to check her reaction.

Her eyes were wide and her lips were parted in a questioning look.

A fierce desire swept through him, stronger than the need for the fiery liquid he poured down his throat. He lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her with all the hunger he'd pent up since she'd first smiled at him. She tasted like strawberries and innocence, and he wanted more. With a low moan, he drew her lips even deeper into his mouth.

She shivered and opened her mouth, and he pushed his tongue in, swirling it around hers and across the inside of her lips. Her arms came around his neck, and she pressed her body close against him. Damn it all to hell! The feel of her soft curves against him was more than he could handle. He lost control.

He swung her around and pushed her against the island, squeezing her soft, generous bottom and grinding his hips against hers.

Oh God, he'd missed a woman's body! Every night this week, through a drunken haze, he'd dreamed of her in his arms like this. Still kissing her fiercely, he brought his hand up to one beautiful breast.

She jerked her lips from his, flattened her palms against his chest and shoved him away.

He lost his balance and had to take a step back with his good leg, throwing his arm behind him to grab the edge of the sink. Before he could reach for her, she raced from the kitchen and up the stairs.

What the hell had he been thinking?
Get it into your thick head, Malone. You're not the Lone Cowboy anymore.
All the
buckle bunnies
have moved on to the next big rodeo star. No woman was gonna be interested in plain old Mark Malone. A white-trash guy with a mutilated leg, a guy who had betrayed his own family.

 

Guilt had a way of sucking the passion right out of a person. Audrey paced in her room and berated herself. She was on the same evolutionary scale as pond scum for lying to Mark Malone.

But when Mark had kissed her, she'd responded with an intensity she'd never experienced before. His lips had sparked a trail of fire that had inflamed her entire body. His kisses had awakened her, as if she was finally alive instead of wandering numbly through a sham of a life. His strong arms surrounding her, he'd tenderly kissed her tears away. The concern in his eyes had made her knees weak.

Tonight she'd caught a glimpse of a different man. There had been passion, yes. But there'd also been compassion.
Here was the man who had braved five rowdy rednecks to rescue her. She'd not been wrong to hope he was still that man.

Audrey finally went through the motions of preparing for bed, squeezing toothpaste on her brush.
Let's get real here.
It was a pity kiss. Poor little fat girl staying at home because no one asks her to dance. Ooh, it hurt to be so honest. And she hated that he'd seen her so vulnerable.

But hadn't she seen him writhing in the throes of a nightmare, tormented and in deep pain? She'd suspected that underneath the drinking and belligerence, he hid a secret. Something besides the crushed leg had made him give up on life.

That
something
was what she needed to find out. And the only way she would was by getting him to talk. The hands probably didn't know, and though John and Helen might, they were too loyal to share Mark's private demons with her.

But could she betray him now?

She wanted this promotion to staff writer. She was determined to be more assertive, to go after her dreams. The emptiness, the loneliness, of the past few years loomed in her future.

She got into bed. Sleeping was impossible. She was restless. Edgy. Thoughts whirled through her mind. Her emotions were in turmoil. She'd been here almost a week. What was she going to do? Give up on her ambitions just because a handsome cowboy kissed her in a moment of sympathy?

She heard raucous laughter coming from downstairs. Guess the guys were back from town.

Men! It still infuriated her that they smoked and spit and threw their trash all over the place. If they had to play poker why couldn't they—

Poker!
Of course. This way, it would be less of a betrayal and more like a challenge. Mark would have a choice. A simple, winner-take-all game. All she had to do was wait for a winning hand and the right moment, and force him to bet an exclusive interview. It would be a relief to be honest about why she was really there.