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  When he came, she felt a personal sense of victory. Until now he’d been the one in charge of orgasms. Maybe he’d been following some Code of the West in that regard, but this kitchen event had restored some balance to their interaction. Meg thought that was a good thing considering how off-balance she’d felt since the moment they’d met.

  CLINT DAMNED NEAR burned the enchiladas, but it was worth it. How he’d explain the condition of the kitchen to José was something he’d have to work out later. He and Meg washed the floor with damp paper towels, but he was so fascinated by the way her breasts jiggled while she scrubbed that he doubted he’d got all the beer off the tiles.

  And the enchilada pan would require a heavy soaking because he’d left it in the oven too long. Other things going on. Oh, yeah. Incredible things.

  Once they were back in the living room, Clint moved the cushions over behind the table again. This time he made sure they were as close together as possible. When they sat down cross-legged, she parked her knee on top of his, which was exactly the way he liked it.

  The fire had burned down to a bed of glowing embers, and he decided not to build it up. After they ate he planned to suggest they try out the comforts of an actual bed. The thought of Meg stretched out on his mattress took away all interest in food, but he didn’t want to deprive her of José’s cooking when she obviously didn’t allow herself to eat like this very often.

  She dished the enchiladas and salad while he opened two more bottles of beer. “I’ve never eaten dinner naked,” she said.

  “That makes two of us.” But he could get used to it. Without clothes, they were just two people enjoying each other’s company, each other’s bodies. He could forget, sort of, that she was famous and he was…not.

  She ate with gusto, obviously loving every bite. Then she paused, her fork in the air. “This is so good. Do you have meals like this all the time?”

  “We have a lot of good chow, if that’s what you mean. Not always Mexican, either.” He was having too much fun looking at her to concentrate on his food. “José makes all sorts of stuff. One Christmas he cooked Beef Wellington. He whips up a mean spaghetti sauce, too.”

  She moaned. “Spaghetti. I can only dream about spaghetti.”

  “I don’t get it.” He surveyed her incredible body. “You look like you could eat anything you wanted.”

  “That’s what people always say to me, but inside this skinny body is a fat person waiting to get out, hoping I’ll gobble up the package of Chips Ahoy sitting in my freezer and top that off with a gallon of Sticky Chewy Chocolate ice cream.”

  Clint took a swallow of his beer. “It’s none of my business, but are you sure this job is worth starving yourself and going without sex?”

  “It’s what I’ve wanted my whole life—to be in front of the camera—and now I’m finally there.” She glanced at him. “There’s no such thing as a free lunch, you know. Or a nonfattening one.”

  “I know, but are you sure you’re having a good time, considering all you’re sacrificing?”

  She paused, as if giving the question serious thought. “I have a good time when I’m on the air. I really do love being on camera, joking around with Mel and interviewing guests. So yes, it’s worth it. There’s nothing quite like the moment when we go live.”

  “Then I guess you’re in the right place.” While talking about her work, she seemed to take on the charisma of a celebrity, even though she was sitting here buck-naked in his living room.

  “I think I am, too,” she said. “But I hardly ever spend time wondering about it. I’m too busy doing it. If I’m not on the show, I’m making appearances or I’m at the gym or the salon.” She combed her fingers through her hair. “I’ll bet at this moment I don’t look like a woman who spends hours at a beauty salon.”

  “Yes, you do.” He loved the tousled look of her, the kissed and thoroughly loved look of her. He reached over and wrapped a lock of her silky hair around his finger. “You muss up real good.”

  She grinned at him. “Sweet of you to say that. And it’s fun to forget being polished, even for one night. Sometimes the maintenance angle gets to me. I’ve fantasized going off to a desert island for a week so I could have seven days of not caring about hair, nails and makeup.”

  “You might not like it. I mean, aren’t you used to having everything perfect?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I need to have everything perfect.”

  He was inclined to believe her. From the moment she’d walked into the living room tonight, she’d shown no interest in finding a mirror so she could primp. That impressed him.

  “I love performing,” she said, “but I could do without the constant work to keep moderately presentable.”

  “I’d say you hit a higher standard than moderately presentable.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled. “I try.”

  “You succeed.” But listening to her, he couldn’t figure out her reasons for staying in this career. Near as he could tell, she had five hours of fun per week, tops.

  She picked up her glass of beer and took a sip. “How about you? I’ll bet there are disadvantages to your job, too. Don’t you have to shovel smelly horse poop?”

  He laughed. “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

  “You sounded exactly like a cowboy when you said that.” Her eyes twinkled. “Tomorrow will you put on your cowboy duds for me?”

  “I don’t know.” He grew wary. “Depends on where Jamie is pointing that camera.”

  She put down her beer and reached over to stroke his cheek. “I can’t believe it would be that horrible for you. Most people think it’s fun.”

  “Not me. If there’s the slightest chance you’ll try to rope me into this production of yours, then you’ll never see me in jeans and boots.”

  She cupped his face in both hands. “I’d love to see you in jeans and boots. I wasn’t kidding about my cowboy fantasy.”

  He brought her hands to his mouth and placed a string of kisses there. “But you said you wouldn’t know what to do with a real cowboy.”

  “I didn’t think I did.” Her voice grew husky. “But you’ve changed my mind.”

  He looked into her eyes and desire hit him hard, heating his skin, his blood, his brain. “I didn’t think I’d know what to do with a TV star, either.”

  “But you do.”

  “So far, so good.” And he’d be fine as long as he didn’t let himself get lassoed and hog-tied by Meg’s charm.

  “So far, very good,” she murmured.

  He wanted her so much he had to fight not to grab her. “Had enough of José’s cooking for a while?”

  “If that’s an invitation to visit your bedroom, I accept.”

  His heart beat loud and fast. “It was a solid-gold, engraved invitation.”

  She stood and held out her hand. “Then let’s go get it on, cowboy.”

  8

  “SO I END up in your bedroom, after all.” She let go of his hand and surveyed the space, admiring the sturdy four-poster and matching mahogany dresser. If she’d been given this room to start with, she would have known instantly that a cowboy lived here.

  There were framed pen-and-ink drawings of cowboys on the walls, for one thing, and a brown felt cowboy hat lay brim-side-up on top of the dresser. But the dead giveaway was a pair of worn boots sitting next to a ladder-back chair in the corner.

  Crossing to the chair, she picked up the boots. “Yours, I presume?”

  “Mine.” He watched her from the doorway of the bedroom. “That’s sort of kinky, seeing a naked lady holding my boots.”

  “Want me to put them on?”

  “I don’t want you to put anything on. I like you exactly the way you are.”

  “That’s nice to hear.” She studied the scuffed boots and inhaled the scent of leather, dust and horse sweat. Funny what a thrill she got from knowing that Clint wore these boots while doing his cowboy thing. Mel had scoffed at the idea that there were any real cowboys left, but she believed she
’d stumbled upon one.

  “I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t wear them to bed.”

  She set down the boots and smiled at him. “Aw, shucks. How’s a girl supposed to fulfill her fantasies?” She glanced across the room toward the hat lying on the dresser and lifted her eyebrows.

  He laughed. “No, I’m not wearing my hat to bed, either.”

  “You’re no fun.” But she was only teasing him. She didn’t need props to fire her imagination. Gazing at him standing there in all his lean-hipped glory was fantasy enough for her.

  “If a cowboy experience is what you crave, maybe instead of the bedroom we should head on down to the barn and do it on a hay bale, with the horses looking on.”

  The idea kicked up her pulse a notch. “Are you serious?”

  “Not really. The barn’s close to the bunkhouse, and neither one of us can take that kind of risk. But I like the way your eyes lit up when I suggested it.”

  “Because it sounded pretty darned exciting! But you’re right. We can’t take the chance that someone would be out wandering around.” But now that he’d mentioned it, the image of having sex in the barn had a permanent spot in her mind.

  Horses on the loose scared her. Her mom had taken her as a rambunctious four year old to a parade in New York City, and she’d accidentally darted in front of a giant police horse. Although she’d only been knocked to the ground, the image of that horse looming over her still gave her nightmares. But these horses would all be safely put away in stalls.

  “Have you ever had sex in the barn before?” she asked.

  “Not for a long time.”

  “But you have done it?” She was fascinated by the concept.

  “Sure. When you grow up out in the country, it’s a fairly safe place to go make out with a girl, and the horses won’t tell on you. I used to keep a condom stuck in a little space between two boards.”

  “Ingenious.”

  “I thought so until one night when I reached for it, it was gone. What a nightmare.”

  For his girlfriend, too, she thought. “I can imagine. All worked up and no place to go.”

  “That wasn’t a problem—we just switched to plan B. The real nightmare was that I was afraid it had fallen on the floor and a horse had swallowed it, and I didn’t know what that might do to its digestive system. Horses have delicate stomachs.”

  “So what happened?”

  “My dad let me sweat for days until finally he told me he’d found it, and that I was damned lucky a horse hadn’t found it first. After that I carried them in my wallet, like everybody else.”

  “And what was plan B?”

  His smile grew lazy and sensuous. “Oh, I’ll bet you can guess.”

  “I suppose so.” To think that as a teenager, he’d known all about oral sex. Meg envied every country girl who had been privy to a literal roll in the hay with Clint. The idea seemed so much more exotic than fondling each other in the back row of a movie theater. Her dates hadn’t been very adept at plan B.

  “Meg, stop looking like that. I can’t take you out to the barn, and you know it.”

  “You’re right. But now I’ll always want to.”

  “Yeah, well…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  He didn’t have to finish it. She knew what he hadn’t said, that she’d chosen a life that didn’t leave room for sexual adventures in barns.

  As if to change the subject, he walked over to an archway, reached inside the darkened space and flipped on a light. “Bathroom’s in here, by the way.”

  She looked through the archway and glimpsed a large shower stall that ran across the entire back wall. It was covered in the same bright flower pattern as the rest of the tiled surfaces in the house. Instead of being blocked by a shower curtain, the space was partially enclosed by a tiled wall about five feet high.

  “Great shower.” She walked toward the arched doorway for a closer look.

  “Thanks. I put it in last year. Got sick of squashing myself into the tiny one that used to be there, so I made it bigger.”

  “You did this yourself?” She stepped into the bathroom so she could inspect the tiling job.

  “Yeah.” He followed her in. “I work cheaper than anyone I know.”

  “I’m impressed with how professional it looks.” She ran her hand down the smooth tile. “I can barely change a lightbulb.”

  “I like working with my hands.” His voice was husky.

  “I know.” She met his gaze and smiled. “You have real talent in that area.”

  His blue eyes grew hot. “Glad you think so, because I have the urge to do some work with my hands right now.”

  “Hold that thought.” Slowly she turned back to the shower, her imagination set on high. She might not be able to have sex in the barn with Clint, but she could have sex in the shower that he’d created. That was almost as good.

  “Come on in and bring a condom.” She stepped over the tiled edge of the shower and reached for a chrome handle marked with an H. “We’re going to make a memory.”

  EVEN THOUGH Clint joined Meg in the shower, even though he was eager to get his hands on her again, he knew he’d live to regret it. No one had used this shower except him, and once he’d had sex with her in it, he’d never be able to wash up here without thinking about her body, her kiss, her scent.

  Nevertheless, he wasn’t going to give up the chance, just as he hadn’t been willing to give up anything she’d offered from the moment she’d arrived. But when she left the ranch, her vibrant memory would be everywhere, haunting him for as long as he stayed in this house.

  He wouldn’t think about that now.

  Instead he laid the condom packet in the soap dish, adjusted the water temperature and stepped under the warm spray. She wrapped her arms around him and wiggled in close, allowing the water to cascade over her head and soak her hair. With him, she seemed to have no concern about her looks.

  As he gathered her in and dipped his head to kiss her wet mouth, he wondered if her unconcern was a compliment because she felt at ease with him. Or maybe she didn’t care enough to be worried about her appearance.

  It didn’t matter. He’d always dreamed of a woman who would leap into experiences without first spending a half hour in front of a mirror. Meg obviously had enough self-confidence to do that.

  He’d never kissed a woman while standing smack-dab in the middle of the shower, and he liked it. The warm water tapped on his skin with a gentle massage, and the kiss was wet and warm.

  The water skimmed over and between their bodies, lubricating the tiny spaces between them so they could slide against each other like oiled machinery. He rubbed every inch of her he could reach, loving the way his hand slipped over her skin without resistance, but with enough friction to make her moan against his mouth.

  Then her touch joined the dance of water over his skin. Her liquid caress moved over his shoulders, down his back, following the curve of his spine. When she cupped his butt and squeezed gently, his penis twitched and his balls tightened. She seemed to know exactly what he needed next, bringing both hands around, grasping gently, stroking and fondling as the water sluiced over his belly and between his legs.

  He could come like this in no time at all, but he wanted to hold off. He knew something about this shower that she might not have noticed. Easing away from her kiss, he backed out of reach.

  “More.” Dark lashes spiked with water framed her smoldering gaze. Her hair was plastered to her head and her makeup was completely gone. She looked fantastic. “Come back here,” she murmured.

  “Not yet.” He reached up and detached the shower head from its holder.

  She glanced at it. “Massage?”

  “Uh-huh.” He played the fine spray over her aroused nipples. “Want to play?”

  “Sure.” She licked her lips, and her breath came faster.

  “Ever used one?”

  “Mmm.”

  He should have guessed she had, in her sex-deprived state. “Ever
had someone else do it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good. New experience. Maybe you’d better lean against the wall.”

  She nodded and backed up to the tile.

  As if he were spray-painting a statue, he swept the shower head slowly back and forth. He covered her breasts, fascinated by the pattern of the water pouring over that beautiful landscape. “Turn the dial,” he murmured. “Find out what feels the best.”

  She grasped the outer rim of the shower head and twisted. The fine spray became a pulsing beat of water against her rosy skin. Closing her eyes, she moaned softly. “That’s good.”

  “Then here we go.” He moved the spray down, anticipation making him hard and ready. He wondered if he could come simply because he knew she was about to.

  At first he waved the spray across the tops of her thighs, teasing her. “Talk to me. Tell me what to do.”

  Her eyes fluttered open and she drew in a ragged breath. “Are you a good shot?”

  “Some say I am.”

  “Then aim that thing, pardner. Hit the target.”

  He grinned. “Done.” He pointed the shower head and watched her gasp and arch into the pulsing jets.

  “Harder,” she whispered.

  He turned up the pressure and felt as if he’d twisted some internal dial on his own lust. The faster the water beat against her, the more he wanted to replace that pulsing spray with his aching penis. But he knew better than to interrupt at a moment like this. A wise man finished what he’d started.

  He nudged the spray closer, and she began to quiver. Then, with a deep groan, she grasped the shower head in both hands and took exactly what she needed. That moment of complete abandon would be seared into his brain forever, along with her cries and the staccato beat of the water caressing her to climax.

  She was the woman he’d waited a lifetime to find—open about her needs, unself-consciously sexual, eager for adventure. The combination made her wildly attractive, inspiring a lust he could barely control.