The Fantasy Factor (8 page)

“But not everybody smells like they just did a slow waltz with Toro.”

He grinned. “I didn’t have time to shower. I didn’t want to hold you up.”

“It’s okay. I’ve been sweating all day. I’m sure I’m no spring bouquet, either.”

“Actually—” he came up behind her, his lips close to her ear “—I like you all sweaty.”

She knew he meant it sexually, but there was just something about the way he said the word
like
that conjured all sorts of crazy thoughts. Like the two of them sitting side by side on a porch swing, or sharing a stack of French toast over at Pancake World, or walking through Cadillac Park on a Saturday afternoon.

Crazy, all right.

First off, she didn’t want any of those things. Second, even if she did, she didn’t want them with Houston Jericho. Why, her grandmother would have a coronary for sure if her granddaughter was to keep company with one of the notorious Jericho brothers. Their relationship was strictly sex, and it was strictly temporary.

As for
like…
She lusted after him. She craved him. She hungered for him. But
like
didn’t figure in.

Not now. Not ever.

With that thought in mind, she climbed into the passenger seat and settled in for an afternoon of deliveries and self-control.

That was the key. She had to stay in control, keep her guard up and remember every reason why she shouldn’t slide across the seat toward him. Making out in the front seat of a Chevy pickup was not on the list, and Sarah was as determined as ever to keep things in perspective.

Even when he stared at her as if he wanted to swallow her whole. Or worse, take a nice, leisurely bite and savor her slowly, thoroughly.

“Are we on for tonight?” he asked her after they’d made the final delivery.

“What do you mean?”

“Number five.”

“I have dinner plans with Grandma Willie.”

“After dinner?”

“I have TV plans with Grandma Willie. I can’t stand her up.” Even if she wanted to.

She ignored the last thought. She was keeping things in perspective and that meant keeping her priorities. She’d promised to make up for being late the other night, and she intended to do just that.

“We’ll have to do it another time,” she told him as she climbed from the truck and left him staring after her. “I’ll call you and we’ll set something up.”

She climbed into her car and tried to ignore that he was watching her. And that she liked it. And that she wanted, more than anything, to make plans with him right here and now for number five.

But her response to him in the shower had scared her a little and she needed time to regroup. They would get together again, but she would make sure that it was on her terms—her time and place.

He’d caught her off guard in the shower. That explained why she’d shied away from him and panicked when he’d looked at her. Sarah Buchanan didn’t shy away from anyone, or panic. Not the real Sarah.

The good-girl Sarah was a different story altogether. She would have done just that.

But Sarah didn’t have to pretend with Houston.

She wouldn’t pretend and she wouldn’t freak out again, because she would be the one calling the shots. In the meantime, she had responsibilities.

“I’
M MAKING MY FAMOUS
mashed potatoes tonight,” she told Grandma Willie when she arrived at her grandmother’s house a few minutes after leaving the nursery.

“You don’t have to, dear. I’m not all that hungry. I had a late lunch with a few of the seniors from the ladies’ auxiliary.”

Sarah pinned her with a stare. “You’re feeling all right, aren’t you?”

“Of course, dear. Actually, I was wondering if you were feeling all right. You haven’t been yourself.”

“Of course I’ve been myself.” Sarah laughed and prayed that it didn’t sound as forced as it felt. “You don’t need to worry. You just need to sit back and let me whip up a nice dinner. Then we’ll watch television.”

“I’m really not in the mood. I mean, I am—I don’t have anything better to do—but surely you’ve got something else you would rather be doing.”

“Actually, there is something.” Sarah smiled. “I could give you a manicure.”

“That’s thoughtful of you, dear, but I really hate to impose—”

“We’ll use the paraffin wax kit that I bought for your birthday last year.”

The woman’s eyes lit with excitement. “And you’ll do the hand massage?”

“Of course.”

Grandma Willie smiled. “I really haven’t had a good hand massage in a while. And I do love the wax.”

“It’s relaxing and that’s just what you need—something to relax you.”

“Your mother used to give me hand massages after I’d put in a long day at the nursery. She always did this thing with her thumb right on the inside of my wrist.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, dear.”

But Sarah didn’t want her grandmother’s thanks. She wanted peace of mind. And she found it that evening as she focused on her grandmother and forgot all about Houston and the wild woman lurking inside of her.

Until she walked into her dark, empty house later that night and found herself standing in the bathroom.

She remembered the previous night then. She relived it, touching herself the way he’d touched her, working herself into a frenzy just as he’d done the night before.

But the orgasm that followed was nothing compared to what she’d experienced the night before. It left her wanting more with a fierceness that both shocked and scared her, and made her all the more determined to keep her perspective and her precious control when they moved on to number five.

H
E WAS THIS CLOSE
to going up in flames. That, or dropping from exhaustion, thanks to the past sleepless night. Either way, he was hot and hard up and he needed Sarah and number five in the worst way.

She didn’t seem half as anxious. She looked as calm, as relaxed, as well rested as ever when he stopped by the nursery the next morning.

He didn’t get a chance to talk to her. The shop was full of people and she’d been busy trying to explain to Miss Esther all the reasons why she should stop planting her azaleas in full sunlight.

“Try planting them in a semishaded area.”

“But I only have one flower bed and it’s right in front of my house. I don’t know where else to put them.”

“Maybe I could stop by and take a look and make a few suggestions.”

“That would be wonderful, dear. I do so love azaleas.”

He’d caught her eye then as Esther had moved away, but she hadn’t done more than give him a serene nod.

As if she didn’t feel even half as hot, as frustrated as he did.

The notion bothered him as he left the nursery and headed out to Hank Brister’s. He was halfway there when he realized that the same blue Pinto had been following him for the past ten minutes. He just caught a glimpse of a female driver.

Suspicion hit him as he remembered the wedding reception and Miss Marshalyn’s efforts to point him out to any and every woman in the place. He sped up and hauled his truck around and did his damnedest to shake the persistent female, and then he headed toward the house where he’d spent most of his childhood afternoons.

“It’s not going to work,” Houston told Miss Marshalyn when she hauled open her door after several knocks. She wore the faded red apron he remembered so well. The smell of bacon and eggs drifted out from the kitchen just inside, along with a certain something that didn’t quite fit. Something…funny.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said as she stepped back and he walked into the kitchen.

He shut the door and barely resisted the urge to throw the lock and pull the curtains, even though he felt fairly certain he’d lost the blue Pinto and its persistent driver. “The Heavenly Hook-Up Service that you and the other seniors have going down at the church.” He shook his head, surprised at his own boldness where the old woman was concerned. But it didn’t feel right being with Sarah and having other women chasing after him. He wasn’t sure why, considering that their relationship
was
strictly sex, but it didn’t, and so he was here to put a stop to the old woman’s matchmaking once and for all. “It’s not going to work.”

“First off, it’s called Creative Connections, and it has nothing to do with the seniors group down at the church. Why, that’s the Lord’s time. We only talk about it at the hairdresser.” At his pointed look, she rearranged the platter of eggs and bacon she’d just placed on the table. “And sometimes at choir practice, but that’s only when it’s an extreme case and we have to help some poor soul in desperate need of a quick connection.”

“Were there perms sizzling in the background when you were talking about me?”

She rearranged the bacon. “Actually it was a very passionate version of ‘Amazing Grace.’”

“I knew it.” He paced back to the door and peered past the curtains. The vegetable garden sat to one side. A huge flower garden glittered in the early morning sunlight. White sheets were draped over a clothesline, partially blocking his view. A perfect hiding place for someone if someone was, indeed, following him.

“Sit down, sweetie.” She said the words she’d said to him every day when he’d brought her newspaper.

What he’d always hoped she would say, because she made the best eggs in town. Even better, she had the warmest and the best-smelling kitchen in town, and he’d liked just sitting there with her every morning. Not talking, just sitting and smelling and feeling the comfort of the gingham curtains and the rows of jellied preserves and her. He would eat and she would read, but every so often, she smiled at him over the
Daily Gazette
and made him feel as if he belonged.

This kitchen had been the one and only place that he’d ever felt such a feeling. He had the sudden image of some stranger sitting in this very kitchen once she sold out and moved to Florida. The thought bothered him a lot more than he wanted to admit. Not because of the land, but because of the house. This house. His house. At least that’s what he’d pretended time and time again as a child when he’d longed for a home of his own.

“You look hungry,” she said.

He tamped down the strange possessiveness bubbling inside him and focused on the old woman. He summoned his best frown—not easy considering he rarely frowned at Miss Marshalyn. Her constant interruptions and her headstrong ways left him feeling more dazed and confused than angry.

Not this time. He was fed up with her meddling and he intended to put a stop to it. “Don’t try to change the subject. We were talking about your butting into my business.”

“I thought we were talking about my eggs.”

“Before the eggs. You put out the word and now I’ve got women following me around everywhere.”

“Actually, it’s just one woman. Imogene Asbury. You remember her, don’t you? She’s the same age as you. Light brown hair. Black eyes. Pleasantly plump. Her nose twitches when she smiles.”

“You just described a hamster.”

“Come to think of it, she sort of looks like one of those little fellas over at Pam’s Pet Emporium. Sure, she’s not your first choice, not with a pretty Persian sitting right next to her, but she sort of grows on you. She’s so friendly and cute.”

“And persistent,” he said as he peered out the window for the familiar blue Pinto. “She would have followed me all the way here if I hadn’t lost her by making a fast U-turn on Main Street.”

“I thought you liked aggressive women.”

“Aggressive as in straightforward. The type of woman to ask a man out to dinner. This woman’s definitely got
stalker
written all over her.”

“She’s just lonely. Why, Myrtle told me that she hasn’t been out with a decent man in ages. Just that pesky old Norman Ritter, but he’s hardly a decent catch. He’s got big ears.”

“What do ears have to do with being a decent catch?”

“‘Decent’ implies good manners and good looks and a good work ethic. Norman’s got good manners and a good work ethic, but he’s only two out of three. You’re three out of three.”

He peered out the window again and looked for movement before passing a hand over his face. “I can’t believe this.”

“Dear, you look stressed. Sit down. Please.”

He sank down into the chair, but he didn’t relax. He couldn’t because he had to tell the only maternal figure he’d had in his life to butt out. Even more important, he had to tell the most stubborn woman in his life to butt out, and he knew she wasn’t going to take it very well. “Miss Marshalyn, I know you want me to stick around.”

“Of course, dear.” She patted his hand. “You belong here.”

“That’s the thing. I don’t. I have an entire life away from here. I have to be in Vegas in two weeks for the PBR finals.”

“You’ve already won that.”

“You don’t just do it once. You have to go back every year to do it again. To prove you’re still the best.”

“You already know that. What do you really need to go back for?”

“Because this will be my tenth win if my rides go well.” If? He forced the question aside. “
When
my rides go well. That’s a record. That’s a big deal. Don’t you see? I can’t stay here.” Can’t? “I don’t want to stay here.”

“Not on an empty stomach.” She pushed a plate at him. “Have some breakfast and then go take a nap on the sofa. Afterward, you can have some sweet rolls.” She beamed and wiggled her eyebrows, obviously through talking about anything beyond her kitchen. “Homemade.”

“You’re not listening….” His words faded off as her words struck. Sweet rolls? He sniffed and the funny aroma made his nose wrinkle. “You made
sweet rolls?
”

“I’m making them right now.” She walked to the stove and pulled open the oven door and the pungent aroma filled the kitchen, chasing away the appetizing aroma of eggs and bacon. “Mixed ’em up myself just a few minutes ago.”

“Really?” He eyed the multicolored canisters sitting on the counter next to measuring spoons and a measuring cup. One held cinnamon and another flour and another salt.

A notion struck and he lifted the measuring cup and eyed the white granules. His nose wrinkled and he ran a finger around the rim. Bitterness exploded on his tongue when he lifted his fingertip to his mouth. “Um, Miss Marshalyn?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Exactly how many cups of salt go into a batch of sweet rolls?”

She laughed and closed the oven. “Why, you don’t put cups of salt in sweet rolls. Only a teaspoon. You put three cups of sugar.” She came up beside him. “Whoever heard of putting even a cup of salt in a batch of…” Her words faded as he handed her the measuring cup and she tasted what was left on the rim. “That’s salt.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“But it’s supposed to be sugar. I always keep the sugar in my navy canister.”

“I hate to tell you, but this canister’s green.”

“Green?” She squinted and held up the canister. “This is navy if I ever saw it.” She opened the lid and dipped her fingers into the contents. Her lips puckered. “This is salt.”

“I know.”

“There’s salt in my navy canister.”

He started to tell her it was green, but then he saw the flash of fear in her gaze and he caught the words before they passed his lips.

She shook her head and her lips thinned. “Why, I bet it was that Constance Sinclair. She’s always trying to prove to any and everyone that her pie is better than mine, and she knows I’m taking a pie to choir practice tomorrow night. Why, I bet she’s even trying to impress Spur.”

“Spur? Spur Tucker?” He remembered the wiry old man from the wedding reception. “Cheryl Louise’s great uncle? The old guy who told anybody and everybody that he was here to find himself a filly to take back to his ranch?”

“That’s him. Why, she knows I like Spur and she wants to show me up. She’s always been competitive with me.”

“You
like
Spur Tucker?”

“But she just thinks she’s going to show me up.” She went on as if he’d never said a word. “I’ll teach her. I’m on to her. Why, I bet she switched my sugar and salt last week when I had the sewing group over here—we were finishing up the wedding quilt for Cheryl Louise.” She shook her head. “She’s good. Why, I was gone only five minutes when I stabbed my finger.”

“You stabbed your finger?”

“A fluke accident. That needle looked so small and my finger was a good few inches shy. Anyhow, I was in the bathroom. That lying, cheating, sugar-switching—”

“You never used to stab yourself when you quilted.”

“Accidents happen.”

“Maybe you ought to talk to the doc about getting a stronger eyeglasses prescription.”

Though none of his questions had gotten her attention, that one suggestion drew her full gaze.

“Why, I don’t need a stronger prescription. I’ve worn the same one for years and it suits me just fine. My eyes are the same as they’ve always been and the last thing I’m doing is letting some doctor cut on them just because I’ve been making a few mistakes here lately.”

“The doctor wants to do surgery?”

“They all want to do surgery. It’s a scheme to milk my insurance.”

“Doc McCoy doesn’t strike me as the insurance-milking type. Maybe you should listen to him.”

“And maybe you should have some eggs.” She walked back to the table. “I bet Imogene can cook a mean egg. Not as good as mine, but close.”

“Speaking of Imogene,” he interrupted. “I want you to call her off.”

“Nonsense. She’s got her hopes up. She’s so nice. And sweet. And she really can cook. Why, Myrtle told me she pickles her very own cucumbers with a teaspoon of honey, which makes them so divine. I’ve pickled my entire life, and not once have I ever even thought about using honey with my cucumbers. But they’re wonderful. I tried them myself.”

“I don’t like cucumbers.”

“Sure you do.”

“I don’t like Imogene.”

“Sure you do. Everybody likes Imogene. She may be young like you, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders. And she’s as sweet as a plate of flapjacks and syrup. She’ll make a perfect wife, and she can plow. She used to plow over at her grandpa’s place. So if you and she decided to forgo the cattle and plant crops, you’re all set.”

“I don’t want your land.” There. He’d said it.

She simply smiled and told him, “Not yet, but you will. This is your home. This is where you grew up.”

Yes, he’d spent the best moments of his life here. But
inside,
not outside. He hadn’t spent his time here running crazy on her land, or cutting the grass or rounding up stray steers. He’d left those chores to his older brother, who’d taken to the land like a stud to a mare.

Houston had been different. He hadn’t looked at the animals as a practical way of making a living. He’d looked at them as a challenge. As a means to escape a dead-end town and his going-nowhere life. He’d looked at them as his chance to be different. Special. A winner.

And so he’d spent much of his time over at Hank’s spread, watching real cowboys—rodeo men who spent their time on the road and on the back of a bull or a bronc hell-bent on tossing them in the dust. Hank had not only ridden himself, but he’d trained the best, using the only mechanical bull in the state of Texas crafted specifically for rodeo training.

Houston’s dad had trained on Hank’s bull, and he’d been good. But not good enough. Not strong enough. Not determined enough.

He hadn’t made it out of Cadillac the way he’d always wanted to, and he’d certainly never come close to winning even one PBR championship, much less breaking the standing record set way back when.

But his son was good enough, and he wasn’t coming back to Cadillac. Not for good.
Never
for good.