Love With a Perfect Cowboy Read online

  THE MINUTE HER lips touched his, Luke knew the truth of it. He’d lost control. Every fantasy he’d been having about Melody since he’d made the decision to come to Manhattan grew and bloomed.

  She sank against his chest, her lips soft as sweet cream butter. “Mmm.”

  Chocolate.

  She tasted of chocolate, delicious and decadent. Everything about her was exciting and different. Her hair smelled of something mysterious, a scent almost electric with possibility and promise, and Luke could have stayed like this until the end of time, his mouth fused with hers, his palm against the small of her back, their bodies pressed together.

  A seductive purr hummed over her lips, and a heavy breath drove her exquisite tits straight up into his chest. Through flaring nostrils he inhaled her feminine aroma, the flirty flavor of spice, licorice, and kiwi perfume permeating his olfactory receptors, sailing into his brain, flitting between neurons and skimming over synapses, firing off a timeless male response.

  Exotic.

  Of course she would smell exotic.

  Holy shit! He wasn’t prepared for this. Instinctively, Luke tightened his arms around Melody’s waist and pulled her closer.

  Flaming heat rampaged through his body. It was all he could do not to open his mouth and deepen the kiss. Alarmed, he abruptly grabbed her shoulders and put her away from him.

  Her eyes widened. “What’s wrong? Didn’t you like kissing me?”

  “On the contrary,” he croaked. “I liked it far too much.”

  “So what’s the problem?” she asked breathlessly.

  “You’re hurting emotionally and you’re tipsy. You’re not in your right mind.”

  “So what? I’ve spent my entire life trying to do what everyone expects me to do. I’m ready to be spontaneous and impulsive and out of my mind.” She puckered her lips and made a move like she was going to kiss him again.

  Luke glanced around. Half the restaurant was staring at them. He manacled her wrists to keep her from twining her arms around his neck again. “Wrong place for this conversation, darlin’.”

  “Where’s the right place?”

  He steered her toward the door and they stepped out in the flow of heavy foot traffic. It surprised him to see it was dark outside, the lights of the city glowing brightly. They’d been in the restaurant for hours.

  Where could he take her? He had no idea. He didn’t know New York. Everywhere he’d been was crowded and intrusive. They needed somewhere quiet to talk. He glanced up and down the street and there, like a sign from God, stood the Hilton where he was registered.

  “My hotel,” he said, pulling her along behind him.

  “Ooh. I like the sound of that.”

  “We’re just going to talk,” he growled, unable to believe he was actually saying it. “Nothing else.”

  “Buzz kill.”

  “Believe me, it’s not by choice.”

  “So why make that choice? Take me, Luke, baby. I’m yours.”

  He was in over his head. Big-­time.

  It was dumb, way dumb, to take her to his hotel room, but honestly, he didn’t know what else to do with her. It wasn’t like he could stick her in a cab and send her home. She had no place to go.

  Normally, he was not so impulsive. Normally, he took a long time to make decisions, weighed opinions, and made well-­thought-­out choices. Normally … well … when it came to Melody Spencer, nothing was normal.

  She was tall and leggy with a figure that wouldn’t quit, with long blond hair, a ­couple of shades lighter than his own, that floated silkily down her shoulders in wide, lush waves. Her eyes were steamy brown, and a guy could tell just by looking that there was something enigmatically intelligent that went on in the brain behind them. It was in the way she delivered her suggestive smile, a quirky tilt of the mouth at the same time she slightly lowered her lashes, canted her head, and leveled him a knowing glance.

  Of course, Luke already knew all that from firsthand experience. How was it that he had ever let her get away? Oh yeah, blind ambition had jettisoned her out of Cupid long before he could gather the courage to tell his relatives to go butt a stump and claim her for his own.

  He had to think of somewhere else to take her.

  Quick.

  But a cowboy couldn’t think straight amid an assault of honking taxis and screaming police sirens and a mass of human bodies jostling him.

  One minute she was mincing along beside him in those ridiculously high heels that made her almost as tall as his six-­foot-­two height, and the next minute, she let out a little squeal and took a tumble.

  He glanced down to see her on her hands and knees over a storm grate; the heel of her right shoe had broken off and was sticking from the grate.

  Without thinking twice, he bent and scooped her into his arms, even as ­people flowed around them.

  She let out a soft sigh as her arms went around his neck. Her legs dangled over his arm, the hem of her skirt riding up to mid-­thigh, and he saw that her knees were skinned.

  “You’re bleeding,” he said.

  “Oh.” She blinked, looked down at her leg. “So I am.”

  He tightened his grip around her. She was even lighter than he expected. He stalked toward the Hilton, a man on a mission. Get her inside. Tend to her wounds.

  Then what?

  She rested her head against his shoulder, hiccupped again. She was so vulnerable. He’d never really seen this side of her and it tugged at his heartstrings.

  Aw, hell. He had not bargained for any of this. Yes, he’d had the hots for her fifteen years ago, but to realize those feelings had not only not gone away, but had morphed into something much hotter and bigger blew him away.

  Through the revolving door he carried her into the lobby of the Hilton.

  “I can walk now,” she said.

  “I’ve gotcha.” Truthfully, he was enjoying this. Granted, probably more than he should, but damn, she felt good in his arms.

  Other lodgers stared at them. An elderly lady smiled and nudged her male companion in the ribs. “I remember when you swept me off my feet like that,” she murmured.

  “It’s just a broken heel,” Melody explained, and kicked out her foot, waving her damaged shoe in the air.

  “Milk it while you can.” The woman winked.

  The elevator door opened and to make room for others, Luke stalked to the back, his muscles bunched. Someone had already punched the floor where they needed to get off. The smell of her hair, floral and fresh, tangled up in his nose. And he wanted nothing more in the world than to lay her down on a bed and make love to her. The only thing stopping him was that her eyes were bright from too much alcohol.

  Who was he kidding? He was none too sober himself. He’d drunk much more than he normally would have because he’d gotten caught up in the excitement of having dinner with her.

  Dangerous.

  This whole situation was beyond dangerous.

  Outside the door to his room, he finally set her down so he could fish his key card from his pocket. In order to level herself upright on the broken heel, she leaned one shoulder against the wall while she waited.

  He got the door open and stood aside so she could enter, his pulse thudding hard in his throat. She hop-­stepped inside and he followed, the door closing behind them with a resounding snap. If his family could see him now, they’d have a conniption.

  She stopped, kicked off her shoes, and turned to face him. “Well,” she said. “Well, well, well.”

  “Profound,” he quipped.

  “Can you tell I’m a professional wordsmith?” She grinned, fluffed her hair with a palm.

  “It’s the fourth ‘well’ that convinced me. You’re brilliant and your boss at Tribalgate is an idiot.”

  Her cheeks pinked. “You don’t have to charm me. I’m already aching to sleep with you.”

  Her words sent blood shooting straight to his dick. It would be so damn easy to unbutton her blouse, strip that pretty blue skirt off her bo
dy, waltz her to the bed, and do all kinds of sweet and wicked things to her, but that would cause more problems than it would solve.

  “Darlin’,” he drawled. “I’m not into pity sex. When we make love it’s going to be when we’re both stone-­cold sober, have our heads screwed on straight, and know exactly what we’re doing.”

  “Aw,” she protested, dropping down on the end of the bed, Texas creeping back into her voice. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  Chapter 5

  WHEN we make love.

  Like it was a foregone conclusion.

  Melody gulped, and put a hand to her throat. Her skin burned as hot as a freshly spent firecracker. A smart woman would have turned and gotten the hell out of there, broken heel or not, a place to stay or not, and most of the time, she was a smart woman.

  But her head was spinning and her heart was pounding and her entire past was standing there looking at her like he could eat her up with a long-­handled spoon and lick his lips when he was done.

  She had no one to blame but herself. She started this when she kissed him in the restaurant. What had she been thinking?

  Clearly, she had not been thinking. She sat on the edge of the mattress, suddenly realizing what a precarious situation she’d placed herself in.

  “Let’s take a look.” Luke knelt on the floor in front of her.

  It took a second for her to snap to what he was talking about. Her skinned knees, oh yeah.

  He laid his hands on her kneecaps just above the abrasions. He was so warm, vital, virile. All male.

  Her breath slipped over her parted teeth, hot and fast.

  “Just needs a little cleaning.” He reached for a suitcase lying on the floor beside the bed. He unzipped the side compartment and took out a first aid kit.

  “You travel with a first aid kit?”

  “Never go anywhere without it.”

  “What a Boy Scout,” she mumbled, but she wasn’t feeling as snarky as she sounded.

  “I believe in being prepared.” He opened up the kit. “You’ll never know what you might need when you’re on the road.”

  She spied a roll of condoms nestled beside the antiseptic and bandages. Quickly, she glanced away, but not before their eyes met. Yes indeedy. From the look of things the man was prepared for any eventuality.

  She heard the tear of paper packaging, felt the cool sting of the alcohol swab against her skin, and she couldn’t help peeking over at him again.

  Luke was studiously cleaning her knee. His sleeves were rolled up, the crisp cotton bunched at the elbows. He’d deposited his jacket across the seat of the desk chair, his Stetson lying atop it. His hair was mussed, several sandy strands stuck straight up, and his eyes, heavy lids drooping, were indolent. He looked devastatingly handsome.

  The room grew uncomfortably warm. Her skin was moist, her blouse plastered to her bosom. Was it the room? Or her?

  The champagne. It had to be the champagne making her feel this way.

  Her nerves were wiredrawn, taut and sensitive. She was alone with Luke Nielson in a hotel room. If her family knew, they would blow a major gasket.

  But she was a grown woman and thousands of miles away from the pull of her kin. If she made love to Luke no one would ever have to know. It would be their little secret.

  A buzzing sensation hummed through her and her pulse fluttered.

  His warm, agile fingers quickly cleaned the wound and applied Band-­Aids to her knees, leaving them tingling and leaving her feeling weak, disturbed.

  He rocked back on his heels and looked up at her. “You do know that you’re incredibly beautiful.”

  Her cheeks flushed and she raised a palm to shield her face from his view. It was all packaging. If he only knew how much time and money it took to maintain the image. Keratin treatments and flat-­ironing to control her unruly waves, ninety minutes a day at the gym, weekly manis and pedis and eyebrow threading, once-­a-­month microdermabrasion and body waxing. Not to mention she dropped a small fortune on her go-­getter wardrobe.

  Honestly, it was exhausting.

  “Quaker,” she blurted as an idea popped full-­blown into her head.

  His hazel eyes widened. “What?”

  “Quaker is the answer,” she said, her thoughts skipping like a schoolyard jump rope.

  His brow furrowed. “What was the question?”

  “How to bring tourists back to Cupid.”

  “And Quaker is the answer?”

  She nodded. “Quaker.”

  “As in the peace-­loving Society of Friends?”

  “As in Quaker Oats.”

  “Hang on, let me process this. Oatmeal is the answer?”

  “More specifically, Quaker cornmeal.”

  “Um. Okay.”

  Clearly, he was not accustomed to the quick-­witted brainstorming of Madison Avenue, but then again, how many ­people were?

  Luke got to his feet, but wavered a little.

  From too much alcohol consumption? Or was he simply righting his balance after crouching for so long? Or was he bowled over by what was going on between them? She couldn’t say which, maybe all three, but when he put out an arm to brace himself against the bed, his hand brushed lightly against her thigh.

  Liquid heat scalded through her bloodstream, dove like a missile straight into her core, and the sultry expression in his eyes set her stomach quivering.

  This was far too intimate. Goose bumps dotted her skin and his eyes darkened dangerously. He’d noticed her body’s reaction to his nearness.

  “Where is my purse?” she gasped, more to distract herself from this blistering hot man than anything else.

  “There it is.” He rushed away from her, an expression of disquiet on his face, bent, and scooped up her purse from by the door, where she didn’t even remember dropping it.

  She accepted the purse, but took extra care to ensure she did not touch him in the handoff. If he touched her again, she could not be held accountable for her actions.

  Avoiding his gaze, she fished her cell phone from her purse and turned it on.

  “Who are you calling?” he asked.

  “Quaker.”

  “It’s nine o’clock at night.”

  She waved a hand. “Perfect time for ad types.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “I know,” she said, feeling a bit sad for some strange reason. She rolled through her phone contacts, found what she was looking for, and punched in a number.

  “Who are you calling at Quaker?”

  “Someone who owes me a favor.” She put a finger to her lips. “Shh.”

  He eased down on the bed beside her, the mattress sinking beneath his weight.

  She immediately hopped up, turned her back to him, and concentrated on the ringing phone, but she couldn’t resist glancing over her shoulder. Only to catch him staring at her ass, a big old cowboy smile spread across his face.

  Her cheeks burned and she snapped her gaze toward the window that looked out over the city. New York, New York. If you could make it here, you could make it anywhere. Or so the song said. Except that she hadn’t made it here, after all. Had she?

  “Spencer,” hollered a cheery male voice over the hum of ­people and piano music in the background. “You’ve been scarce lately.”

  She’d met Theodore Mercer when she first arrived in Manhattan. He was from Oklahoma and just as green and starry-­eyed as she. They’d platonically shared an apartment for a year, then they’d awkwardly hooked up, but quickly decided it was a big mistake. He moved out, yet they stayed friends. The friendship had served them well as they’d both climbed the advertising corporate ladder, her in creative, him in accounts.

  It struck her then that calling when she was on the wrong side of tipsy wasn’t the brightest idea she’d ever had, but it wasn’t as if she could hang up on him now, so she plunged ahead. “Teddy,” she said, concentrating on not slurring her words. “Have I got the perfect account for you.”

  “Hustling bus
iness at this time of the night, Spencer? Don’t you ever sleep or have a social life?”

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  “I wouldn’t have answered the phone if you had.”

  “So where are you?”

  “I’m out on the town with clients.”

  “And you accuse me of working too hard.”

  “Okay, so I’m a hypocrite.”

  “Do you need me to let you go?”

  “No worries, they’re busy slaughtering ‘She Drives Me Crazy’ at the piano.”

  “Sounds like you deserve hazard pay. Eardrum damage and all that. You sure you can talk?”

  He heaved a good-­natured sigh. “Pitch me. Who’s the client?”

  She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and turned to pace. Luke was still sitting on the bed, still studying her with that hungry look in his eyes.

  “You,” she told Teddy, but her gaze was full of nothing but Luke.

  He stretched out on his back, propping himself up on his elbows. The top button to his shirt had come unbuttoned, revealing a tuft of soft brown chest hair. Simply irresistible.

  She gulped. Shook her head. Focus.

  “Me?” Teddy asked.

  “Well, Quaker.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Leaving out the part about the drought, she told her friend about Cupid, spinning the best pitch she could conjure under the current circumstances. That is, half-­drunk and full-­on horny for the cowboy on the bed.

  “Cupid is quirky, one of a kind, and snuggled in the heart of the Davis Mountains. Off the beaten path, but definitely a tourist destination. They have caverns featuring a stalagmite in the shape of Cupid and there’s a local legend that says if you write a letter to Cupid, he’ll grant your love wishes. Volunteers gather to answer the letters. I’ve been on the committee in the past and it’s a lot of fun.”

  “Sort of like Letters to Juliet concept, huh?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Answering letters to the lovelorn even when you’ve never been in love yourself. That’s ironic,” Teddy observed.

  Well, she wouldn’t say never.

  Luke got up off the bed and came toward her. The shirt shifted and stretched over his chest as he moved.