The Undercover Cowboy Page 3

  Yeah. That was too late. He was thinking maybe he could pick her brain about Thorn. Find out what she knew . . . or what she could find out for him.

  “Ah, well,” he said and tipped his Stetson to her. “Guess we’re just two ships passing in the night.”

  “Or two cattle drives passing on the trail.” She grinned, waved gaily, and pushed her way into the Visitors Center as if they hadn’t just had a cosmic encounter.

  Leaving Kade wishing like hell that Thorn hadn’t hired her.

  Chapter Four

  Allie spent the rest of the afternoon answering visitors’ questions in between calling and telling her mom about the job and texting Tasha about meeting up for drinks at the Horny Toad Tavern for happy hour.

  Her mind was a tumble of emotions—empathy for Tasha, joy over her new job, guilt for the whole Lila business, elation that Rick had asked her out, and disappointment that he hadn’t pushed harder for a date.

  By the time five o’clock rolled around, she was ready to celebrate her new job with a strawberry margarita and Horny Toad nachos. But tonight was all about Tasha. Allie had made up her mind to suppress her own good news. Plenty of time for that after she helped Tasha get over Tag.

  Allie slipped out of her stilettoes and into comfy walking shoes to hike the mile from the Visitors Center to the Horny Toad Tavern. The afternoon was a scorcher, and by the time she pushed through the swinging wooden doors of the establishment, she felt like a wilted petunia.

  Mopping sweat from her brow with the back of her head, she nodded to the regulars playing no-stakes poker at the front table and took the stairs to the newly added second-floor bar and grill.

  It was cooler up here and the vibe more millennial than the slower-paced downstairs where GenXers and Baby Boomers tended to congregate. The room was packed for happy hour, or what Tasha had now dubbed “sad hour.” On the stage, positioned against a wall with lots of windows, a guitarist was tuning up. The smell of cumin and chili powder set Allie’s mouth watering.

  Mmm, nachos. She’d skipped lunch because of the job interview and she was starving.

  Allie inched her way up to the bar, ordered a strawberry margarita and the nachos, put her credit card on the bar, and glanced around for Tasha. She pulled her phone from her purse and saw that Tasha had texted.

  Too blue, Skipping sad hour. 4give me.

  Allie texted back. Definitely not. U can’t let Tag win. Get your butt over here.

  Tasha texted a gif of Eeyore shaking his head.

  Rats. When Tasha got like this, dynamite couldn’t blast her out of her reclusive mood. Allie was about to text that she was on her way over when the bartender slid her margarita across the bar.

  “Run a tab?” he asked.

  Not now. She shook her head and he picked up her credit card to run it.

  She texted: Please come out.

  Tasha: I’m a mess. Crying all day.

  Allie: He’s not worth your tears.

  Tasha: He’s my soul mate.

  Allie: You can’t tell by the way he’s treating U.

  Tasha didn’t answer.

  Allie took a long sip of margarita. Oh, gosh, the perfect blend—sweet, tangy, and cold. She sucked down a big gulp. Got a brain freeze. Clutched her head. Ow. Ow. The brain freeze ebbed and when she focused again, she texted: Tash? U there?

  Tasha: Oh Allie, I just answered the door to a beautiful bouquet of flowers.

  Allie: From Tag?

  Tasha: He’s so sorry.

  Allie: Don’t fall for pretty flowers.

  Tasha: Gotta go. Tag is calling.

  Well, fiddlesticks and fried rice. She wanted her friend to be happy, but she doubted Tag’s sincerity. Should she leave and go over there? Or keep her nose out of Tasha’s business?

  The bartender returned her credit card and she tucked it into her pocket as she debated what to do about Tasha.

  “Could I get the nachos to go?” she asked the bartender.

  “Hey, ba-by,” slurred a drunken male voice. “Don’t rush off.”

  Allie rolled her eyes. She didn’t have to glance over to know it was Stanley Lipscomb, a Horny Toad regular who had hit on every female who came into his sphere of orbit. He was from a wealthy ranching family, a former SMU quarterback, and thought he was God’s gift to the universe.

  “You here all alone?” Stanley slung an arm over her shoulder and leaned in close, almost knocking her over with his whiskey breath.

  “Hands off, Frat Boy,” she growled, and tried to pull away.

  “Aw, c’mon, don’t be that way, Princess.” He tightened his grip on her shoulder.

  Allie’s pulse sped up. Stanley was a major jerk, but for the most part, she’d considered him a harmless drunk. “Listen, Stanley,” she said, trying a perkier track. “You know I’m not your type. You like ’em tall, dark, and stacked.”

  “True,” Stanley mused with a luminous leer. “But I’m thinking maybe I should give short, blonde, and cute a tumble.”

  “Nah, I’m not really feeling it.”

  “Oh?” Stanley chortled. “You wanna feel it?” He yanked her flush against his body, grinding his hips against her, making sure she felt his erection.

  “Please,” she said, her throat tightening, her voice coming out high and strangled. “Let go of me.”

  “Not until you give me a kiss.” He thrust out his tongue, waggled it.

  Allie froze. What now? Throw her drink in his face? Stomp on his foot? She couldn’t knee him in the ’nads like she wanted because he was holding her too tightly against him.

  Breathe. Trust.

  She closed her eyes, inhaled. Sent up a prayer. The bouncer had to be around here somewhere.

  “You heard the lady,” growled a flinty, masculine voice. “Let go of her.”

  Allie’s eyes popped open. There stood Rick Braedon, hands on his hips like he was a sheriff toeing off with Bad Bart. Or in this case, Bad Stanley. Her heart pivoted, leaped.

  “And if I don’t?” Stanley challenged, jutted out his chin.

  “Oh, you’re making this too easy.” Rick knotted up his fist, and with a quick, solid punch, smacked Stanley squarely on the nose.

  “Yowl!” Stanley howled. Blood spurted from his nose like a faucet, both hands leaving Allie’s waist as he raised them to staunch the flow. He swore a blue streak, using every curse word in the book. “You broke my nose!”

  Heads turned. Eyes stared. The room went silent.

  “Are you all right?” Rick turned to Allie.

  She nodded. From behind Rick, she saw Stanley fist his hands and snarl, blood streaming down his cheeks.

  Before she could cry out a warning, Rick sidestepped smoothly, just as Stanley lunged. The drunk landed face first onto the wooden floor.

  “Sumofabitch!” Stanley’s curse was muffled as he spat out a mouthful of blood.

  People were laughing and catcalling, amused to see Stanley get his comeuppance.

  “I’m suing,” Stanley blubbered. “You can count on that.”

  “You do,” said the bartender, “and we’ll all testify against you. It’s about time someone punched your ticket, fool.”

  The people circled around the bar nodded in unison.

  “Wanna get out of here?” Rick murmured, offering Allie his elbow.

  She nodded and stepped over Stanley’s prostrate body on their way to the door.

  “Mop!” the bartender hollered to one of the waitresses. To Stanley he said, “Stop bleeding on my floor, Lipscomb.”

  Stanley let loose with a fresh string of curses, but the sound was cut off by the door closing behind them. Rick escorted her from the Horny Toad, and out onto the street clogged with tourists.

  “Thank you.” Allie pulled from his grip. She stood there, the late-afternoon heat searing down on her head as hot as a flat iron.

  Rick tipped his Stetson. “You’re welcome.”

  “Do you make a habit of going around saving damsels in distress?” she asked. “It seems
to be your schtick.”

  “Nope,” he said. “You’re special.” His dark eyes looked deeply into hers. She felt the impact like a jackrabbit’s kick, unexpectedly hard and solid.

  Oh, hell, what was that?

  Something alarming occurred to her. “Did you follow me here?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not a stalker.”

  So he said. His magnetic eyes were unreadable. Her pulse sped up, ticking faster and faster, a mysterious train of excitement and danger rushing through her.

  “Thanks again,” she said and stepped away from him, holding out her hand a bit stiffly. Distance. She needed distance from this handsome man.

  An amused smile barely curled the corners of his angular mouth. “I’m walking you to your car.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “There’s a bleeding frat boy upstairs that says differently.” He slanted his head, studied her through half-lowered eyelids.

  He had a point. Stanley might hold a grudge and it would be easier for him to take it out on her without Rick beside her.

  “I didn’t drive. I live nearby.”

  “Then I’m walking you home,” he said in a gravelly, no-argument tone that sent her heart fluttering in a totally enjoyable way. “Let’s go.”

  He took her arm again and she melted at his touch. Partly, because the weather was so hot, and partly because he was being all take-charge and alpha male-y.

  “Where do you live?”

  Should she tell him? He was a stranger. But he had rescued her . . . twice . . . and he had a trustworthy face.

  “The Goodnight,” she said, referring to her apartment complex a few blocks away.

  He glanced over at her, head cocked at that appealing angle again. “No kidding? I just moved in.”

  What were the odds? Now, that was happy coincidence. She was a big believer in serendipity.

  “We’re neighbors?” she asked, startled by how gleeful she sounded. “I’m in the west wing.”

  “East for me.”

  “How long have you lived there?” she asked.

  “A week. You?”

  “Since I finished my master’s degree in May. It’s my first place.”

  “Graduate school, huh? How old are you? I thought you couldn’t be more than nineteen, but then I saw you in the Horny Toad ordering a margarita, so I figured you had to be at least twenty-one.”

  “I’ll be twenty-four on August 30.” She eyed him up and down. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “When’s your birthday?”

  “April 7.”

  Aries, the ram. A fire sign. She was Virgo, earth sign. Did they match? Not that she really believed in horoscopes or anything, but she was curious.

  “What did you get you master’s in?” he asked.

  “Don’t judge,” she said as a preemptive strike. She was tired of people making fun of her degree. “I have an MFA in visual arts and a BA in art history.”

  “Why would I judge you?” He seemed truly perplexed and that made her like him all the more.

  “Because it’s such a competitive field, and my chances of getting a job that pays a living wage are slim to none.”

  “But you love it?”

  Her skin warmed at the kind expression on his face. “More than anything!”

  “I’d say anyone who judges you is just jealous because you’re doing something you love.”

  “Um, not really.” She scratched her chin that was getting itchy from the sun exposure. She should have reapplied sunscreen before walking over from the Visitors Center. Or maybe the itchiness was from the intensity of his stare.

  “You just got a job at the popup art gallery. That’s a big deal.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s temporary.” She thought about the Lila thing, and winced. “And something of a fluke.”

  “A fluke? How’s that?”

  “Here we are,” she said, stopping on the sidewalk leading into the Goodnight. “You to the east and me to the west.”

  The building, like most everything in the Twilight town center, had been constructed in the late 1800s. The Goodnight was an old hotel recently converted into apartments; keeping the old-world charm of old-fashioned lift elevators and exposed brick walls and combining them with modern amenities for the hippest complex in Twilight.

  “I’ll walk you to your door,” Rick said in that same commanding tone.

  A fresh thrill skipped through her. Oh dear, she liked him too much.

  He opened the front door for her, and she was grateful for the cool blast of air that greeted them.

  They walked through the common area that had once been the lobby of the Goodnight Hotel. The furnishings were cowboy chic—wood and leather, hide and bronze, rustic wagon wheels and antler chandeliers.

  “Thank you again for defending my honor with Stanley,” Allie said when they reached the dual iron-cage elevators across from each other. One went to the west wing, the other to the east.

  “Door-to-door service,” he said, leaning around her to push the button for the elevator to take them to the west wing. Her wing. He smelled of sunshine and sandalwood and starch.

  She couldn’t stop herself from inhaling a deep whiff and savoring his scent.

  The elevator settled with a clang and he ushered her inside. It was small, and cramped, built for the meager demands of the nineteenth century. A bit claustrophobic to be honest. It could hold up to a maximum of eight people if the occupants crowded shoulder to shoulder.

  “Which floor?” he asked, his long index finger hovering at the panel.

  “Four. Top floor.”

  “I live on the fourth floor too. On the other side of the courtyard, of course.”

  “Small world.”

  Silence fell over them as the elevator groaned and jerked upward on the rising pulleys.

  Allie stared down at her shoes, feeling a bit self-conscious now that she was completely alone with the stranger who’d rescued her twice in one day. A handsome stranger. A good-smelling stranger. A stranger she wanted to know better.

  Maybe she should see if he wanted to try again for a date. She turned toward him. “Listen—”

  But she got no further. The elevator jerked, jolting so hard it slammed Allie’s teeth together.

  She lost her balance and stumbled forward just as the elevator shuddered to a stop and the lights went out.

  Rick’s arms slipped around her waist. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice a daring life preserver in the steamy darkness.

  Chapter Five

  The sexy filly was driving him crazy.

  Kade had caught Allie as she fell. Her sweet face landed in the crook of his elbow, her soft breasts smashing against him. His mouth went drier than the Sahara Desert as he tried not to notice.

  He was on assignment. He was getting close to her to find out more about Thorn, but here, in the heat and the dark of the closed space, work was the last thing on his mind.

  Right now, all he could think about was her short, flirty, do-me-big-boy skirt and those dynamite legs, and how explosive they would feel wrapped around his waist. If they were dating, he’d run his hand up the hem of that skirt, feel those creamy thighs and . . .

  Whoa! They were not dating. In fact, they barely knew each other. He would not be touching creamy thighs, but damn, she was killing him, smelling so nice and succulent. He wanted to—

  Don’t be a caveman.

  Yeah, easy to say. Much harder to do when a woman who revved his engines like a Ferrari was in his arms.

  Start with that. Get her out of your arms.

  Kade released her, slowly loosening his grip, not letting go all the way until he was sure she was steady on her feet.

  She let out a little sigh . . . of disappointment? Or was that his projection?

  The woman was a suspect. He could not forget that. He knew better than to get personally involved. He worked vice, for crying out loud. Women had offered him sexual favors to look t
he other way, but he’d never once been tempted to compromise his integrity.

  Until now.

  Until Allie.

  What was going on? Why, more than anything in the world, did he want to yank her back into his arms and kiss her until neither one of them could breathe?

  What was it about her that turned him on like no woman ever had?

  What indeed?

  There was a naivety about her, a wide-eyed, Bambi-on-a-ten-lane-freeway-in-rush-hour-traffic quality to her. Seriously, how could someone as warm and open and trusting as her be involved with an art-theft ring?

  Oh, shit. He’d lost his objectivity. Criminals came in all shapes and sizes and personality types. He’d arrested Sunday-school teachers dealing weed at potluck socials, and Girl Scouts shoplifting makeup from Walmart. Looks were deceiving, and when it came right down to it, no one could be trusted.

  “Rick,” Allie whispered, her voice lifting up at the edges, crisp as the whites of a fried egg.

  Huh? Rick? Who was that?

  Oh, yeah, his alias.

  “What is it?” Kade murmured, his head dazed, dreamy. He had to snap out of this or he was going to make a big mistake.

  “Why did the electricity go out?”

  “I’m guessing it’s another rolling blackout. With the heat wave we’ve been having—”

  “How long before the electricity comes back on?” Her voice stretched out, long and taut.

  He made a beats-me face before he remembered she couldn’t see him in the dark. “I’m sure it won’t be long.”

  “Shouldn’t the generator kick on soon?”

  “I don’t think there’s enough power in the generator to run the lifts.”

  “Oh.” Her breath bubbled out in a long swoosh.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “Um . . . I’m a tiny bit claustrophobic.”

  “How tiny?”

  “Not very. In fact, I’m a lot claustrophobic. I was just trying not to make things worse.”

  The last thing he needed was for her to have a full-blown panic attack. He shifted into law enforcement mode. Her safety was his first and only concern. “Are you under the care of a doctor for anxiety?”