Downhome Darlin' & The Best Man Switch Page 2

  And as for her makeup, she had applied a whole lot more than the everyday light mascara and blush. Tonight she had on eye shadow that deepened the already dark brown—almost black—color of her eyes, and even eyeliner to outline them. And lipstick—not her regular bare hint of tint in what was mostly gloss. Tonight she had on something called raisin.

  Plus her hair was bigger than she normally ever let it get. As a rule the middle-of-her-baek length of dark, dark coffee-bean brown, naturally curly hair was brushed into a tight plait or held in a ponytail or at least kept under control by barrettes. But in anticipation of this evening she’d scrunched and sprayed it to within an inch of its life—all while bending upside down to get the most volume she possibly could. It left her with an untamed riot of curls all around her face and shoulders.

  She actually liked the hair, she decided as she assessed the whole picture in the mirror. But the heavier makeup was something else again. It was on the harsh side and very extreme by her normal standards.

  But then wild women went to extremes, didn’t they? Nope, nothing conservative for her. Not tonight, anyway.

  One of the women in the bathroom asked another for the time as Abby dried her hands.

  “Eleven thirty-seven,” came the answer, and it seemed to echo in Abby’s mind.

  Eleven thirty-seven...

  Where would she have been at eleven thirty-seven if today had gone as planned?

  She’d been fighting thoughts like that since waking up this morning, but now she couldn’t seem to avoid it.

  She had not planned to be in a saloon bathroom—that’s for sure.

  She and Bill were to have been in downtown Denver by now.

  At the Fairmont Hotel.

  In the bridal suite.

  In the bed in the bridal suite...

  Except when that image flooded her mind, the man with her wasn’t her former fiancé. It was the man whose buns she’d just patted. Shedding his shirt. Stripping off his tight jeans and exposing a body to die for. Long and hard all over. Wanting her. Taking her into his arms—forcefully, but not too forcefully. Kissing her. Touching her. Making mindless, passionate love to her...

  It suddenly seemed about thirty degrees too warm in that bathroom.

  I really must be drunk, Abby thought, not altogether sure because she’d never been more than tipsy from a glass of wine or a little beer before. Yet what else could account for a fantasy that vivid as she stood at the sink in a public rest room?

  But so what if she was drunk? This was the night for new things. Maybe she couldn’t be in the bridal-suite bed of the Fairmont Hotel, but she could at least be out pretending it didn’t matter that she wasn’t. If that made any sense at all. Which it probably didn’t because the longer she was on her feet the more muzzy her head felt, letting her know that the drinks she’d been chugging one right after another were kicking in with the force of a mule.

  “Better get back to the table while the gettin’s good,” she advised her reflection as she dried her hands.

  She turned away from the sink and needed to steady herself until her spinning senses caught up with her. Then she took a deep breath, drew herself up as tall as her five-foot-four-inch height would allow and concentrated on walking without weaving so she could leave the rest room.

  But she didn’t get beyond the other side of the door before freezing in her tracks. Standing at the open end of the hallway was the rear-end cowboy, his shoulder braced against the wall, facing her dead on as if he’d been waiting for her.

  Abby’s mouth went suddenly dry, and her courage lagged something fierce. She stared at him as if he were a hallucination she could will away.

  But he didn’t go away. He just went on standing there in all his glory.

  And he was glorious. In fact he was probably the sexiest sight she’d ever laid eyes on with that heart-stoppingly handsome face and that body made for sin. He really was tall—he hadn’t just seemed that way because she’d been sitting before. He was probably an inch or two over six feet, depending on the height of the heels of the snakeskin cowboy boots he wore.

  His waist was narrow where a crisp white Western shirt with pearl snaps up the front was tucked into his tight jeans. The sleeves were rolled to midbicep—midmuscular -bicep—also exposing thick forearms that were crossed over a powerful-looking chest, each hand buried under the opposite armpit with only his thumbs insolently poking out. And his shoulders were so broad that Abby had a fleeting image of a mainsail flung wide by the wind.

  He had great hair, too, she couldn’t help noticing. Wavy hair the rich shade of bittersweet chocolate, just slightly lighter than the color of her own. He wore it a tad too long to be conventional, and it looked as if it got finger combed out of his way when it bothered him, but it didn’t seem messy at all. Instead it fell into place and gave him a rakish look that only enhanced his handsome features without any sign that he paid too much attention to his appearance.

  Did he even know how great he looked? she wondered. He must. Didn’t all gorgeous men know it?

  There wasn’t any sign of it, though. No arrogance. No indication that he was even aware of the impact he was having on her. But he did keep staring at her as if he was taking stock of her the way she was taking stock of him. Or maybe he was waiting for her to make a move.

  But the only move she could think to make was to drop her gaze, wanting to break the connection that seemed to wrap around them and tune out everything else.

  The trouble was, her gaze landed on his hips where one of them angled out to brace his weight, and where a big silver belt buckle rested atop the well-endowed zipper of his jeans.

  She yanked her eyes upward in a hurry when she realized what she was looking at, poked a nervous thumb over her shoulder and said “Bathroom” as if that explained something.

  His oh-so-sensuous lips stretched into a half grin that deepened the crease on that side of his mouth. “I know. How was it?”

  He was teasing her. She could tell by the sparkle that lit his eyes even in the dimness of the hallway. And she wished she’d been able to buy some aplomb along with her wild-woman clothes and makeup so she might have a little on hand right at that moment.

  As it was, she just felt herself blushing again. “Clean,” was all she could think to answer. “They keep a clean rest room here. Most of the establishments in Clangton do. If there’s one thing you can say about Clangton, it’s that we have clean bathrooms....” Babbling. She was babbling again.

  He raised his chin in a little nod. “You got me over to your table for my name...and to brush a bug off my backside,” he said wryly, as if he’d realized their game, “but you didn’t introduce yourself.”

  “Oh. Um...Abby. Abby Stanton.”

  “Hello, Abby Abby Stanton.”

  “Hi,” she said, feeling like an idiot. Then she made it even worse by adding, “And bye,” as she forced herself to move away from the bathroom door, intending to slip past him and return to her sisters.

  This time she made it all the way to his end of the hallway before stalling again. There wasn’t space enough for her to get by with him standing the way he was, blocking more than half the entrance back into the barroom. And he didn’t seem inclined to move.

  Instead he went on staring at her, studying her, this time from the high perch of his height, down his perfectly sculpted nose.

  “Excuse me,” Abby said, trying not to look straight at him, trying to pretend there wasn’t anything sizzling in the air between them. After all, it might just be her imagination.

  Still he stayed put for a little while longer before pivoting with his spine against the corner of the wall like a hinge. His eyes never left her as he tossed a nod out toward the table she’d left moments before.

  “Looks like your friends have hooked up with more friends.”

  She couldn’t for the life of her have explained why she actually felt heat emanating from his gaze but decided it had to be an alcohol-induced illusion.

&
nbsp; Fighting to ignore it, she scanned the barroom until she found her table and discovered what he was talking about. Five other people had joined Bree and Emily.

  “Those aren’t my friends. Well, the extra five are. And so are the first two, but they’re also my sisters,” she muttered, referring to his comment about her friends having hooked up with more friends.

  “Seems like they’re gettin’ a pretty good party goin’. ”

  True enough. Everyone at the table was laughing uproariously at something Bernie McGuire, the local dry cleaner, had said.

  “Aren’t you itchin’ to get out there?”

  Not really, she thought. In fact not at all. Emily and Bree had been playing along with the put-the-past-behind-her tone for tonight. But Abby knew what would happen when she joined the rest of them. They’d pour on the sympathy, and this would turn into a pity party.

  She hadn’t realized she hadn’t answered Cal Ketchum until his deep, smooth masculine voice came again.

  “Why do I have the feelin’ you’re a fish out of water here?”

  “Who, me? No way. I’m a wild woman through and through,” she lied.

  “Is that so?” He pushed away from the wall and inclined his head in the direction of the bar. “Then how about I buy you a drink, Wild Woman?”

  It sounded like a challenge to prove her claim about herself. And this was not the night Abby was going to turn down any challenge.

  “Sure. Why not.”

  “What are you drinkin’?”

  “Beats me,” she said as he turned to the spot he’d been occupying most of the evening and she stepped up to the bar beside him.

  He questioned the bartender, who checked with the waiter who’d been looking after Abby’s table, and another drink appeared just like some of those she’d already guzzled tonight.

  “What does that mean exactly—wild woman?” Cal Ketchum asked then with that half grin in place again.

  “Oh, you know. Devil-may-care. Free spirited. Fly by the seat of my pants. Do just about anything—”

  “Really...” he said, drawing the word out as if she’d just given him very intriguing information. Or was that doubt in his tone?

  Just in case it might be, Abby lifted the glass and didn’t put it down until she’d drained it.

  When she looked over at him afterward, she found his expression amused.

  “So tell me about yourself, Abby Abby Stanton. Freedom from what?”

  “Freedom?”

  “You said you were celebratin’ your freedom.”

  “Oh, right. Just freedom. In general.”

  He nodded but he didn’t believe her. She saw it in his eyes. Great eyes. She could get lost in those eyes....

  “Freedom to do anything,” he said suggestively.

  She shrugged elaborately.

  “Like comin’ out tonight, drinkin’ and havin’ a high old time,” he filled in for her.

  “Right.”

  “Are you havin’ a high old time?”

  “The highest,” she said too cheerfully.

  He reached over and brushed her hair away from the side of her face. The backs of his fingers barely touched her cheek, but it was enough to start a titillating tidal wave inside her.

  “You know what I think?” he said in a soft, conspiratorial whisper that brought his mouth close to her ear.

  “What do you think?”

  “That you’re tryin’ too hard and need to relax a little to pull this off believably.”

  “You’re wrong. I’m loose as a goose.” But that last word reminded her of the pat on the rear end, and she could feel her face turning red again. To camouflage it, she drained yet another drink that the bartender had replaced the first one with.

  Cal laughed—whether at what she’d said or her blush or her drinking display, she wasn’t sure. But as rich as his voice was, his laugh was even richer and it sluiced in through her pores and rained glitter all through her veins.

  “You’re somethin’, Abby Abby Stanton,” he said appreciatively.

  “Why, yes, I am. Thank you very much for noticing,” she said, letting the liquor speak for her with a gutsiness she wouldn’t have had otherwise.

  “I noticed, all right. Been noticin’ all night long. Somewhere underneath all that war paint I think you just might be a breath of fresh air.”

  Take that, Snodgrass!

  “I don’t know whether or not I am a breath of fresh air, but I think I could use one,” she said because her head was suddenly spinning drastically more than before and her tongue was starting to feel thick.

  “Come on,” he said with a nod over his shoulder. “I’ll take you outside.”

  But if all she did was go outside she’d eventually have to come back in and rejoin Bree and Emily and everyone else at the table. And she didn’t want to.

  “I think I’ll walk home instead,” she said out of the blue—the same way she’d made the decision.

  This time his chuckle was wry. “Honey, I don’t think you’d make it.”

  “Sure, I would. I know the way.”

  The chuckle came again. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we let your sisters know you’re goin’, and I’ll drive you home?”

  “I don’t take rides from strangers,” she heard herself say as if she were a little kid.

  “I’m not a stranger. Well, not completely. In case you didn’t already know—and I’m bettin’ you did— I’m Clangton’s newest citizen and I’ve dug roots here buyin’ some property outside of town that’s gonna keep me here till I’m old and gray.” He leaned close again, whispering in her ear and letting the warmth of his breath wash over her. “So if I misbehave with one of this town’s sweethearts, I’d have hell to pay, wouldn’t I?”

  “Yes, you would. Although I don’t know who said I was one of the town’s sweethearts.”

  He just smiled. “So let me take you home.”

  She thought about it.

  Actually she thought about a lot of things. Some of them were things she shouldn’t have thought about. Like doing more than being driven home by this man.

  Like how it might be to have him bending in close to kiss her instead of whisper in her ear.

  Like how it might feel to have his big, rawboned hands cupping the sides of her face. Her shoulders. Her slippery nipples...

  “You aren’t a maniac, are you?” she asked, not intending for it to sound hopeful.

  “I s’pose I could be if you wanted me to,” he said, laughing once more.

  “No, that’s okay. Just a ride home’ll do.” And why had that come out with an edge of disappointment? She really was drunk.

  “Better let your sisters know you’re goin’,” he reminded.

  “As in, go over to the table and tell them?” she said, the full flush of her reluctance echoing in her voice.

  “You can send them a note if you’d rather.”

  “Good idea.”

  He reached over the bar for a dry napkin and a pen, handing them to her. Then he kept an eye on her the whole time she struggled for the coordination to write legibly.

  Once she’d accomplished it, he gave the napkin to the bartender with instructions for its delivery and turned his aquamarine eyes on her again.

  “Let’s go.” He held out his arm for her to precede him through the crowd to the door.

  This time even concentration couldn’t keep Abby from weaving, but she held her head up and hoped everyone in the place saw that she was leaving with the best-looking guy there. Maybe tomorrow they’d all be talking about that instead of her nixed wedding.

  Unfortunately she was so busy holding her head up, she didn’t see a chair leg that stuck out into the aisle. Her foot caught on it and her tenuous balance disappeared in an ungraceful tumble that threw her back against Cal’s hard chest.

  And it was hard. Hard as a rock.

  Long, strong arms came around her to catch her, and she couldn’t be sure, but in the process she thought one of his hands might have a
ccidentally brushed her breast.

  “Whoa, there,” he said into her hair just before he scooped her up into those arms.

  Not a soul in the place missed it, and Abby didn’t know whether to be glad or embarrassed when he carried her the rest of the way out as if she weighed nothing at all. But even once they were bathed in the clear summer-evening air he didn’t set her down.

  “I can walk now,” she said feebly, even as she clasped him around the neck and let her head fall to his broad shoulder because it was reeling too badly to keep upright.

  “Are you always such a pistol, Abby Stanton?”

  “No. But could you spread the word around town that I was tonight?”

  “Now, that’s a request I can’t say I’ve ever had before,” he said, chuckling again as if she delighted him. Then he crossed the parking lot to the last space under a beaming streetlight where a black convertible Corvette waited like a sleek panther at rest.

  “This yours?” she asked as he gently deposited her in the passenger’s seat.

  “She’s mine.”

  “Nice wheels,” she said, mimicking something she’d heard on television.

  He laughed yet again, as if he knew that wasn’t the way she usually talked, and she wondered how it was that this man could see right through her.

  But all he said was, “Thanks.” Then he added, “Buckle up.”

  But she was already doing that by force of habit Drunk or not.

  By the time he’d rounded the car and climbed into the driver’s seat to start the engine, she had to rest her head against the back of the seat and give in to the leaden weight that seemed to have descended on her eyelids.

  “So, Abby Stanton,” he said as he pulled out of the parking lot. “Now, the question is, do I take you home to your place? Or to mine?”

  He was teasing again. At least she thought he was, although it was a little hard to hear him over the buzz that had started in her head. “Mine,” she mumbled.

  “Okay. Where do you live?”

  “Home.”

  “Okay...” he said, drawing out the word. “But if you don’t tell me where home is, I’ll have to take you to my place.”