Distinguished Service & Every Move You Make (Uniformly Hot!) Page 25

  “Okay then.” She slid her gun out of the back of her jeans then swiveled him to face an old wood slat fence some twenty feet away. Cans lined the top. Empty, he hoped. “You’ll want to hold the gun in your right hand, then use your left to help balance the weight and steady it.”

  He held the gun out in his right and closed one eye to aim. “I can handle it pretty well with one hand.”

  “You say that now.” She stepped behind him and pushed up his other hand, forcing him to hold the gun with both. “Why don’t you get used to the kick before you go around one-handed, okay?”

  Kick. Now that was a word. Because, right now, feeling her soft front pressed against his back made a lot of things kick into gear. His pulse, for one, and his arousal, for two.

  “Feet shoulder-width apart,” she said, positioning her booted foot between his legs and nudging his feet to the side.

  Damn. He supposed he wasn’t the first guy to get turned on by a woman teaching him how to shoot a gun, but he was pretty sure he should be focusing on what she was telling him rather than how he wished the hand that rested on his hip would move a little to the right and south.

  He hadn’t known what he’d expected when Mariah had brought him out to the ranch she shared her with her father. Probably that his high state of awareness would lessen a bit. But when they’d pulled up in front of the long, one-story ranch house, there hadn’t been a soul in sight. Mariah had said they’d all probably be back by five or so, but that they usually took their meals out at the ranch house where Red, a retired cowboy who now looked after the others, would have fixed dinner. When he’d asked if that’s where she ate, she’d avoided his gaze. Judging by the number of fast-food wrappers littering the inside of her truck, he’d chance a no.

  The house was simple but clean, the furniture old but not ratty. There wasn’t a single plant in sight, though, and there was a silence about the place that made him want to lower his voice when he spoke. Pictures of a woman, Mariah’s mother, he guessed, were hung and set all over the house, a ghost of sorts whose eyes followed you wherever you went. He had tried to imagine a young girl in this environment and couldn’t quite capture it. While newspapers and magazines were stacked on the coffee table, they had looked out-of-date. And the only dish in the dish rack was a coffee cup. Sure, Mariah had been out of town that morning, but he’d guessed that the only addition with her presence would be another coffee cup.

  “You’re not paying attention,” Mariah accused, looking over his shoulder.

  “You’re right, I’m not.” He repositioned his feet the way she had suggested. “It’s a bit hard to concentrate when you’re up against me like that.”

  He’d half expected her to move away from him. But for a long, lingering moment she stayed put. Even pressed more suggestively against him.

  “Mariah, it’s a good thing the gun’s pointing the other way or we’d both be in trouble.”

  Her husky laugh teased his ear. “Don’t worry, cowboy. I won’t let anything happen to you.” Her hand seemed to brand his hip where she’d splayed her fingers flat and lightly stroked him. “Not anything bad anyway.”

  Then her heat was gone, leaving him standing with the warm Texas wind whipping around him.

  “See if you can hit the can on the far left,” she said.

  “I’ll be lucky to hit a can at all,” he murmured.

  Judging by her quiet laugh, she must have heard him.

  He squeezed off a round, unprepared for the kick that she’d mentioned earlier. His hands jerked up and the bullet went some twenty feet above the target.

  “Whoa,” he said, breathing in the sharp scent of gunpowder. “This baby packs a punch.”

  “Yeah, and it’ll put a hole in you the size of a pizza. Extra large.” She came to stand behind him again. “Aim lower this time, allowing for the kick.” She skimmed her hands over his outer arms then steadied his hands. Zach could swear he could feel her nipples spear him from under her T-shirt and through his shirt. He heard her lick her lips as she removed her hands. “Try again.”

  He did, with only moderately better results.

  “At this rate I’ll be lucky to hit the fence.” He dropped the gun to his side and looked at her. “Dare I ask how long it took you to hit the cans?”

  “Second try. I was seven and my father gave me a .22.”

  “Seven, huh?” he asked, raising his brows.

  She smiled. “Things are different down here in Texas.”

  “I’ll say. Have many drive-bys?”

  “Drive-bys?”

  “Never mind.”

  With everyone and their brother armed in Texas, he figured a drive-by shooting would be akin to launching World War III.

  “Oh, damn.” She looked at her watch. “It’s my night to cook dinner.”

  “For the ranch hands?”

  She shook her head as she looked out on the plains. “No. For my father.” She’d pulled her hair into a ponytail before they’d come out, but the wind had torn a good deal of it out, leaving wisps blowing across her pretty face.

  He checked the gun, making sure to slip the safety into place.

  “That’s okay. You go on ahead and practice. I’ll just be inside in the kitchen.” She gestured toward the large window overlooking the back.

  “I’d much rather watch you cook dinner.”

  She grimaced. “Trust me, it’s an experience you’ll enjoy missing.” She squinted her eyes. “Besides, the next time we run into trouble, I want to be reasonably sure you’re capable of protecting me.”

  Why all of the sudden did Zach feel his chest puff out and his shoulders widen? “Oh, yeah?”

  Her teasing smile lit her whole face. “Yeah.”

  * * *

  MARIAH WASN’T SURE why she’d said that, about Zach’s protecting her, considering that she wouldn’t allow a ranch hand to help her up if she were drowning in quicksand, but somehow it had seemed the right thing to say at the time. And it had felt right.

  She peeled a couple of Spanish onions in the sink and watched him squeeze off another round, his shots getting closer and closer to the targets. If there was any irony in the fact that she’d picked the one man probably the most incapable of protecting her to say the words to, well, that wasn’t lost on her. Her father had always told her she had to do things the hard way or no way at all.

  She brushed a few stray strands of hair with the back of her hand and sighed. Of course, since she was talking about Zach, she had to admit that he soon wouldn’t be around to protect anyone, much less her.

  On the drive out they’d stopped by Miss Winona’s cute little clapboard house about five miles east of the ranch. Yes, she’d told them, she could fix the dress. But it would probably take her a day or two to find the right texture and color of thread to do the job. She was going to call them later tonight at the ranch to report on her progress. Zach had been generous in paying her in advance, but it hadn’t made a difference in Miss Winona’s time estimate.

  One more day, maybe two days tops, and Zach would be on a plane for Midland. Mariah turned from the sink and cut the onion, wiping her eyes as she did so. God, she hated cutting onions.

  “Those aren’t for me, are they?”

  Mariah blinked to find Zach standing in the kitchen doorway, taking a close inventory of her.

  “What, the tears? Ha. I never cry. Ask anybody.”

  He washed his hands then came to stand next to her. She swore she could feel his heat penetrate her jeans and T-shirt, despite the few inches that separated them. “I’m not asking anybody. I’m asking you,” he said quietly.

  She glanced at him. “I never cry,” she answered.

  His gaze flicked over her face as she finished cutting the onions then wiped her eyes on the sleeves of her shirt. “Well, except when I’m cu
tting onions. Useless act, crying. It never solves anything.”

  “It doesn’t bring anyone back either,” he said quietly.

  “No,” she said after a long moment. “No, it doesn’t.”

  They didn’t have to clarify that they were talking about death. They’d both lost their mothers at a young age, so she knew what he was referring to. And, yes, she had cried after her mother had died. For days. But rather than helping to fill the hole that gaped inside her, it instead seemed to widen it. Everything she did, everything she said, seemed to emphasis the loss of her mother. It even got to the point where she and her father barely spoke at dinner for months because she was afraid she’d say something that would remind them both of Nadine Clayborn.

  “What are you making?” he asked, taking the other onion, then picking up another knife that lay nearby.

  “Meat loaf.” She frowned and looked inside the large metal bowl where she’d put ground beef and the onion.

  He adjusted his motions so that he cut smaller pieces. “You’ll want to cut them like this. You want to taste the onions, but not see them.”

  She lifted her gaze to his face. “You cook?”

  “You didn’t live with my grandmother without learning how to cook.” He smiled. “She used to test me.”

  “She didn’t!”

  “Oh, yeah. Every Saturday I would be in charge of dinner, from the grocery shopping to the temperature of the oven. She wouldn’t be in the kitchen while I cooked, but I’ll be damned if she didn’t know I had the burner on high instead of simmer.”

  “I never knew any of my grandparents,” Mariah said. “How old is she, your grandmother?”

  His hands slowed. “She died last year.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. She was ninety-two. And probably damn happy to be over with it.” He cleared his throat. “She was pretty sick there near the end.”

  Mariah opened her mouth to say she was sorry again, then snapped it shut and nodded her understanding instead.

  “Do you have any breadcrumbs?” he asked.

  Mariah blinked at him. “Oh. The meat loaf. I, um, just usually crumble whatever bread we have lying around.” She grabbed a loaf and took out a couple of pieces.

  He eyed them. “Next time try leaving a couple of pieces out in the morning and let them get stale. It affects the consistency.”

  Mariah couldn’t help laughing. “Okay. Thanks.”

  Silence reigned as the two of them put their heads together to fix the meal. Finally Zach put the loaf into the oven, had some sort of sweet tomato mustard sauce ready to pour over the top later in the cooking time, and washed his hands. Mariah was cleaning up the mess they’d made, but somewhere between washing the metal bowl and running the trash disposal, she became acutely aware of Zach’s gaze on her. Her skin grew hot as she moved around the kitchen. If she presented him with her front, her nipples grew hard under his visual perusal. If she turned her back, shivers ran up and down her spine, making her very aware of her bottom and the way she moved it.

  “You know,” he said quietly, his voice stroking her like a caress. “We could always push forward with the other part of our deal.”

  Mariah anxiously licked her lips, the words “push forward” making her damp. “You have some advice you’d like to give on my appearance?”

  His eyes twinkled seductively. “Uh-huh. I’d like to have you out of those clothes. Now.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “And what would you like me to put on instead?”

  “Me.”

  She laughed, but the sound wasn’t in the least bit funny. The truth was, she wanted to put him on that instant. Yearned to stretch out on top of the butcher-block island and have him continue where they’d left off early that morning. Fit his arousal against her slick heat then enter her to the hilt. Feel his hands on her bottom, squeezing possessively as he madly thrust into her. Feel the sensation of his tongue lapping her breasts, his thumb rubbing her ultra-sensitive bud.

  She gasped, realizing she’d come awfully near to climaxing just thinking about what they could be doing right then. She, who could count the number of climaxes she’d had prior to meeting Zach with one hand.

  Mariah took in his heated gaze then tugged the hem of her T-shirt out of jeans. “Just remember later that you asked for this.”

  8

  ZACH DIDN’T THINK he’d ever seen anything more beautiful than Mariah stripping in the middle of the kitchen with the late-afternoon sunlight slanting through the window. Despite the time she must spend outside, her skin was like fine white chocolate and his mouth watered with the desire to taste each inch of glorious skin she bared. Her

  T-shirt came off. Next her boots and jeans, until she stood clad only in a plain bra that had anything but a plain effect, and white cotton panties.

  Damn. He’d never seen anything sexier in his life. She touched him in a powerful way without even laying a finger on him. His gaze drifted to where she’d hooked her thumbs in the waist of her panties. She drew the material down, then slowly back up again. He looked into her face to find her wearing a teasing closemouthed smile.

  Oh, she didn’t need any cues on how to become sexier. The woman was already more than any two men could handle.

  “Zach?” she said softly. “I’m getting cold.” She skimmed one hand up to her mouth, moistened the tip, then dipped it inside the front of her left cup. He could see her nipple harden further through the material. “See,” she whispered.

  Oh, yeah. He saw a lot.

  “Come here,” he said, crooking his finger at her.

  She slowly shook her head, causing her dark hair to sway in front of her face then back again, a strand catching on her bottom lip. He nearly groaned.

  “No. You come here.”

  He did. Faster than she apparently expected, because she gasped when he hauled her into his arms, his hands diving for her lush bottom, his right leg parting hers so that his thigh rubbed enticingly against her heated core.

  “Mmm,” she moaned, grasping his shoulders as if for balance. “That’s nice.”

  Nice wasn’t exactly what he was going for. He wanted wild. Out of control. White-light insanity. He ran his fingers along her bottom then slid them under the elastic of one leg, not stopping until the tips found the shallow crevice he sought. With infinite care, he parted her. She gasped and he kissed her, then slid his index finger inside.

  Her low moan was nearly his undoing. Damn, but the woman seemed to control him as easily as a light switch. He hitched her leg up over his hip then pressed himself against her softness, continuing his intimate stroking. She began rocking her hips in time with his thrusts, shifting her head this way and that as the tempo of their kiss increased. She tasted of mint toothpaste and Texas summer and he wanted to devour her whole.

  “Mar, you back yet?”

  Zach froze, hearing the words before he’d registered that the back door behind him had opened.

  Mariah gasped again, but this time for an altogether different reason. She tugged her leg free and stared into Zach’s face, desperation written all over her flushed features.

  Zach quickly turned, hiding the unclothed Mariah behind him. Just inside the door stood a hulking chunk of a man as tall as Zach but twice as wide, his face a map of how many years he’d spent out on the range. Stubble dotted his dark skin and his blue eyes were piercing where they’d caught and held on the couple in the middle of his kitchen.

  “Daddy!” Mariah said softly. “You’re…early.”

  The older man cocked a salt-and-pepper brow. “And you, my dear girl, are naked.”

  “I’m not…naked.”

  Zach fought a grin. Not yet, she wasn’t. But if they’d had a couple of moments more she would have been. So would he have been, for that matter.
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br />   He spotted Mariah’s jeans in front of him. He stretched out his foot and scooted them to her.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Having somewhat recovered from his shock, the elder Clayborn took off his weathered cowboy hat and hung it near the door, then faced Zach again.

  “Do I know you, boy?”

  “No, sir, you don’t.” Zach started to move to offer to shake his hand, but stopped when Mariah made a small, strangled sound in her throat. “I’m Zach Letterman. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  If Zach wasn’t mistaken, that was amusement lighting the older man’s eyes. “More like it’s a pleasure to meet my daughter.” He stepped to the sink and started to wash up. “You ain’t from around these parts, are you, son?”

  “No, I’m not.” Mariah finally finished putting herself together, all but for her boots, and stepped up to Zach’s side. “I’m from Indiana.”

  “Yes, well, if you know what’s good for you, that’s exactly where you’d be heading before I turn back around.”

  “Daddy!” Mariah said, clearly astounded. “That’s no way to talk to our guest.”

  “Guest?” Hughie turned around.

  “Yes, guest.” Mariah bent to pick up her boots. “Zach and I are working on a case together and he didn’t have anywhere to stay so I invited him to bunk with us for a day or two.”

  “No place to stay? What? Is the man homeless?”

  Zach chuckled. “In a manner of speaking, sir.”

  Mariah leaned closer and whispered, “Don’t call him sir. It’ll go to his head.”

  “So explain yourself, then.”

  “I’m resettling in Midland, but am following up on a case here in Houston. That’s how Mariah and I met.”

  “And that’s how you came to be caught going at it like rabbits in my kitchen, then?”

  Mariah rolled her eyes. “We were not going at it like rabbits.”

  “That’s the way it looked to me.” Hughie narrowed his eyes on his daughter. “This the guy you stayed with in Alabama?”