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Excerpt...
"Lead me not
into temptation; I can find the way myself."
-- Rita Mae Brown
Mike Flynn's a no-nonsense kind of rancher/minister who's got a dang
good reason for staying away from women ... and sex. But temptation
personified walks into Mike's life in the guise of Las Vegas showgirl
Charity Wilde, and suddenly all hell breaks loose!
Mike and Charity's first meeting in Palm Beach, Florida, nearly a year
before didn't go all that well. Their second meeting in the wild Wyoming
outback hasn't gotten off to such a great start, either. Mike's just
chased Charity across the prairie, after she rode off on--and got bucked
off of--Satan, the wild stallion he's been after for years. Now they're
sharing a saddle, their bodies are dangerously close, and there's no
telling what's going to happen next...
Actually, it
wasn't ministers Charity didn't like, it was the preaching. The
moralizing. The lecturing. And most of all, the constraints. Her
father's hell-fire-and-brimstone sermons weren't just for show. He
didn't espouse one thing on Sunday and something else during the week.
Oh, no. Chaplain Mattingly ruled his household strictly. His word was
gospel and heaven forbid anyone disobey.
Pastor Flynn
seemed to see things in the same light. He felt that wild horses needed
to be constrained and controlled; so did wild women, which meant she and
the good pastor were doomed to butt heads. Too bad, because he was the
most devilishly handsome creature she'd ever encountered.
He didn't look
like a preacher, nor did he look like the kind of man who could stand at
a pulpit--or anywhere for that matter--and lecture about right and
wrong, about righteousness, morality, or the sins of the flesh. He
looked and acted like he could break every commandment except "Thou
shalt not kill," and there'd been a few moments tonight when she'd
thought he might be capable of doing just that.
He had an amazing
way of controlling his temper--there was that control factor again--but
she could see it seething beneath his surface. There had been no doubt
at all that he was hotter than hell when she stood between him and
Satan, ready to explode after Satan got away. She figured Mike could
easily strangle her for instigating that fiasco.
But here he was
taking care of her, in spite of her waywardness. She supposed that was
the ecclesiastical thing to do, but there was no telling what was going
through his mind. He probably assumed she was a trollop, a no-account
showgirl who'd go to hell for sure. Her father and mother thought that,
in spite of their love for her, so why shouldn't he?
She let go of her
frustration on a sigh, knowing full well that it didn't do any good to
brood over the disdain her parents felt for her profession, a career
that meant everything to her.
"Something
troubling you?"
For the past ten
or fifteen minutes she'd been staring at the moonlit prairie, but now
she twisted about and looked at the man whose legs she sat between.
Mike Flynn not
only controlled his temper, but he seemed to have extraordinary control
over his anatomy as well. She'd danced with men who had no interest in
her at all, but let her breast brush over them or her fingers
accidentally sweep between their thighs, and they'd pop to attention,
hard and ready. Most of the time the reaction didn't last--but it
happened.
Not to Mike, of
course. The good pastor was too self-restrained for that. Thank
goodness. She'd long ago tired of men who put the make on her, thinking
she was a tease, that she was easy, when she was anything but. Mike, of
course, was above all that, which pleased her to no end. She had enough
other sins to contend with without being indirectly responsible for a
minister's downfall.
"Are you going to
stare at me or answer my question?"
She frowned as
she struggled to remember what he'd asked, and slowly it came back to
her. "Of course I'm not troubled." It was only a small white lie. Her
thoughts about him troubled her, but she didn't think she'd get struck
by lightning for fibbing about that, not now, especially when she was
riding with a man of God. "I was just wondering how long it would be
before we get back to the ranch."
"It's less than a
mile from here. Shouldn't take long." He watched her for a moment, a
question still in his eyes as if he didn't believe her response, and
then his gaze went back to the snowy prairie, all show of concern gone
as quickly as it had come.
Somewhere in the
distance she could hear a coyote howl and not too far ahead of them she
saw a small herd of antelope racing across the prairie, the patches of
white on their bodies illuminated in the moonlight. It was peaceful out
here. Quiet. And far more comfortable than she ever would have imagined,
even though the saddle horn was rubbing her intimately and the icy cold
had made her fingers and toes begin to burn.
A brisk breeze
blew across them, carrying with it bits of sage, sand, and ice that
stung her face. She shivered, and Mike's arms tightened around her,
drawing her against the warmth of his chest, his hands and the reins
resting just under her breasts. Their bodies melded together and an
unfamiliar heat spread through her veins.
If this kept up,
it was quite possible the good pastor might contribute to her downfall.
"How's the
ankle?" he asked, his breath hot against the chilled skin of her ear.
Buck's gait had
been so smooth and easy and Mike's hold on her had been so gentle but
strong, that she'd forgotten the pain. It hadn't left her completely,
but Mike had made sure her feet--not his--were in the stirrups to
support her twisted ankle.
She tilted her
head to answer him--to thank him--and her lips brushed against his
bristled cheek. This time it wasn't warmth that spread through her but a
jolt so electrifying that her whole body tingled. "I think it's going to
be okay," she said, but she wasn't certain about the rest of her.
"I'll take a look
at it when we get back, just to make sure."
That's all she
needed. It was one thing for Mike to hold her when she was wearing layer
upon layer of clothing, but she had no idea how she could survive the
touch of his bare hands on her naked flesh. This man could, quite
possibly, batter down her resolve to remain a virgin.
Good heavens! She
shouldn't be having such thoughts about a minister, especially a
minister who was staring straight ahead at the prairie, who spoke with
little emotion, who couldn't possibly be feeling any of the things that
she was feeling.
Her entire body
was brimming with nervous energy. She'd been quiet too long. She'd sat
in his lap too long. Their conversation was too staid. She had to
lighten things up or she'd explode.
She took a deep
breath and blurted out the first thing to come to her. "So, you're a
cowboy, a minister, and now I find out that you're a healer of sore
ankles, too. Is there anything you can't do?"
"Can't sing.
Don't dance too well." He shrugged. "Other than that, I'm perfect."
Beneath his black
stubble she could see a dimple at the left of his mouth, a dimple made
even more pronounced by his off-kilter grin. His piercing green eyes
twinkled. Mike was right--he was close to perfect except, of course, for
his streak of bossiness.
"How much do you
really know about fixing twisted ankles?"
"I've delivered
foals and calves and patched up more wounded cows and horses that I care
to count. One ankle shouldn't be much of a problem."
"I'm not a horse
or a cow."
His grin widened
as he aimed his eyes toward her. "I've noticed."
Mike's broad
smile and his comment flickered quickly through her mind as the ranch
house came into view. He dug his heels into Buck's flanks and the horse
shot off as if he were more than anxious to find a pile of hay and to
get rid of the burdens on his back.
Charity was just
as anxious to get her bottom out from between Mike's legs. It was a
feeling she wasn't the least bit accustomed to.
It was a feeling
she liked too darn much.
The house was
dark except for the light at the back porch. She wished Max or Jack or
somebody were awake to help her up the stairs and into bed so she
wouldn't have to put any pressure on her ankle, but it had to be well
after midnight and she seriously doubted anyone would have climbed out
of the warm beds they'd retired to a few hours ago.
Somehow she'd get
to her bedroom on her own. Mike had done enough already, and considering
the odd--lustful--feelings she was having about the man, she figured
she'd be much better off going upstairs alone.
Apparently Mike
had a differing opinion on how she should get to bed. No sooner had he
brought Buck to a halt, but he swung down from the horse and pulled her
into his arms.
"I can walk now,"
she protested, but he didn't loosen his hold.
"I'll carry you."
"It's really not
necessary."
"I'll be the
judge of that."
"Look, Mike," she
said as he opened the squeaky screen door, "if you're doing this because
you want to show me how heroic you are . . . well, I've already seen the
moon glinting off your shining armor, and nothing could be brighter than
that halo you wear."
"I'm not a hero,
I don't have a halo, and the only reason I'm carrying you is so you
don't fall down the stairs and break your neck, just to prove that you
can walk all on your own."
"Are you always
so stubborn?" she asked, giving in to his protests far too easily and
wrapping her arms around his neck.
"Always."
He carried her
into the mud room, forgetting to catch the screen door before it slammed
with a repeated thump, thump, thump.
"Shhh." She put a
finger to her lips, and then whispered, "There's no need to wake
everyone up. Do you want the whole house--including the kids, to rush
into the hallway and see you carrying me to my bedroom?"
He stopped
halfway up the semidark stairwell. One black brow rose as he stared at
her. "All I plan to do is look at your ankle. Did you have something
else in mind, something you think we need to hide?"
"No, but people
have a tendency to jump to conclusions."
"Let them."
He continued his
climb and she would have struggled, but she didn't want to accidentally
kick the wall or make any unnecessary noise. She'd been branded a tramp
on more than one occasion. The accusations were false, completely and
utterly untrue, but she didn't want her family and newfound friends
thinking she was a harlot, to have them think she was leading their
preacher down the road to heathenism.
"Where's your
bedroom?" Mike asked when he reached the landing.
"Third one on the
right."
Her heart beat
far more rapidly than the light thud of his footsteps on the floor.
There was nothing immoral about what they were doing, but it looked far
from innocent. Deep inside she wondered if Mike had any lascivious
thoughts on his mind. He might be a minister, but he was also a man, and
she couldn't imagine any man carrying a woman to bed--and then leaving
without trying . . . something.
Much to her
dismay, he didn't leave her. He set her down gently in the middle of the
big soft mattress and fluffed some pillows behind her back. A fat dollop
of nervousness settled in her throat as he dropped his hat, gloves, and
coat on a chintz-upholstered wingback chair, sat on the edge of the bed,
and drew her booted foot into his lap.
Okay, so maybe he
was just going to look at her ankle, but his gentlemanly ways didn't
ease her nerves.
He put one hand
on the heel of her boot and the other just above her ankle. "This might
hurt."
"I'm pretty
tough."
His gaze settled
on hers for just a moment, and he smiled softly. "I've noticed."
She noticed him,
too, and she concentrated on him as he carefully worked at removing the
boot without jarring her ankle. His hair was as black as a starless
night, flattened at his temples from his hat, but she could easily see
that it was thick and neatly trimmed around the ears and the nape of his
neck. With her imagination running amuck, she envisioned a wavy lock
falling over his forehead. Wasn't that a prerequisite for all gorgeous
men?
And his body. She
couldn't see his muscles, but she knew they were hard and well defined,
after all, they'd been stuck in a saddle together, their bodies rubbing
against each other for the longest time, and she'd been able to feel his
power even through their heavy clothes. He stood a good six-foot-four if
not more, so tall that even she would have to stand on tip toes to kiss
him--if she wanted to kiss him, which she didn't, but the thought had
surprisingly crossed her mind.
She'd noticed all
those things and more about him when she'd seen him that first time at
Lauren and Max's wedding, but she'd forgotten the breadth of his
shoulders, the strength of his chest, and just how flat his stomach was.
She remembered now, and she doubted she'd ever forget.
Was it a sin to
admire a minister's body? she wondered.
A jolt of pain
ripped through her ankle and up her leg when he slid the boot from her
foot. Was that payback for thinking about Mike's physique?
His gaze shot
toward her. "You all right?"
She nodded, then
laughed inside at her ridiculous notions. The world would be in pretty
miserable shape if everyone who'd ever took delight in gazing at a
marvelous body was found guilty of committing a grievous sin.
She rested
against the pillows Mike had stacked between her and the headboard and
breathed slowly, easily, as she watched Mike pull off her heavy wool
sock. He cupped one hand around her heel and with the other gently
examined her ankle. "Does this hurt?" He moved her foot easily, checking
to see if it was swollen, to see if he heard any cracks or pops, but she
didn't feel anything more than the tenderness of his touch, the heat of
his fingers.
"I've sprained it
a few times. I know the difference between twisting it and doing real
damage."
He didn't turn
his head from what he was doing, but he looked up at her through thick
black lashes. "And you still dance?"
"Would you give
up being a minister if you had a sore throat?"
He shook his head
slowly.
"Dancers don't
give up because of sprained or tender ankles, either. Fortunately I'm
between jobs right now, so this little mishap won't be much of a
problem."
"I thought you
were in some big stage show."
She wondered if
he realized that he was rubbing the bottom of her foot, his callused
thumb making small circles on her skin. Slow circles. Sensual circles.
Her heart
fluttered. So did a million butterflies in her stomach. She took a
calming breath, trying to think about his question, trying to structure
an answer that didn't start with "Please don't stop what you're doing."
Finally, she
said, "I've been in three big shows this year."
"Dancers move
from show to show that often?"
"Only when
they're let go."
His fingers
inched their way up under her pant leg and he made those same slow, deep
massaging circles on her calf. She wasn't about to tell him that it was
her ankle that was hurt or that his hands were on the wrong part of her
anatomy. He'd have to work his way much, much higher up her leg before
she'd make him back off.
"Wanna tell me
why you were let go?"
She decided not
to wait for the pitter patter of her heart to slow before she answered,
since that could take forever.
"I got fired from
the last show because the choreographer's wife shot him." Three weeks
and too many days of unemployment later, she was still miffed. "I held
Josh's bloody head till the paramedics came. I took flowers to the
hospital and still he had the audacity to tell me I was trouble. The
jerk didn't press charges against his wife. Oh, no, they reconciled. But
he canned me."
Mike laughed at
the ridiculous incident. She couldn't blame him, when it seemed too
implausible for words.
"What about the
other two shows?" Mike grinned. "Did you get fired from those as well?"
"I lost the job
before that because I had a slight disagreement with the director over
my costume," she admitted far too freely, baring her soul while Mike
stroked the sensitive spot behind her knee.
His brow rose.
"What, you didn't like the color? The style?"
"I changed my
hair color to get that job and let me tell you" --she grabbed the end of
her ponytail and stared at it-- "going from nearly black locks to
sun-kissed brown because the director said he already had too many
raven-haired girls in the cast, was annoying as hell, but I'd do just
about anything for a good part."
"All that and you
still got fired?"
"All that. I made
one concession after another. I didn't even mind when the director
changed me from a watermelon to a strawberry, after all, the costume was
more compact and easier to dance in. But when he decided to make me a
half-peeled banana, well, that was just too much."
The good pastor's
fingers stilled. His brows pulled together as his eyes darted to her
breasts and lingered there for a second--a hot, hot, feverish hot
second--then drifted back to her eyes. "Half peeled?"
"Topless," she
confessed, even though she knew that Mike had understood completely. "He
felt my skin tone was perfect, just the right creamy color for a peeled
banana. I told him I hadn't seen any bananas with breasts and told him
I'd prefer continuing on as a strawberry. He said that was fine with
him, as long as I was a half-eaten strawberry because he firmly intended
to have me go on stage with my breasts exposed."
Heat crept into
her cheeks. Good heavens! What was she doing divulging all this
information to a holy man?
"I'm sorry. I
hope I didn't embarrass you. I mean, I'm sure the last thing ministers
think about are naked women."
A grin touched
his face. His dimple deepened. "I can't speak for all ministers, only
me, but I've been known to think about naked women a time or two."
To
read more, pick up a copy of
SOMETHING WILD
in bookstores now.
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