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  He quickly kicked off his city shoes—a Macklin term for men’s oxfords. Naked, reclining like some gorgeous playboy in a really high-end porno flick, Austen looked sexy as sin—and twice as inviting.

  She dropped to her knees beside the couch. “Did you start to say something about licking?”

  His answer turned to a garbled croak when she ran the tip of her tongue up the length of his penis. His left hand grabbed the back of the sofa, his right closed around her butt cheek. Instead of following through on that initial taste, she used her lips and tongue to explore his belly—with its perfect arrow pointing to heaven. Her hands played, too. Touching muscle… sinew… family jewels.

  “Oh, lordy, girl. What you do to me! My turn. My turn.”

  He sat up and patted his knees. “Right here, please.” Anchoring his hands on her hips, he guided her to the exact spot he wanted, straddling his lap. The position put his mouth in line with her breasts.

  “So beautiful,” he murmured, first, cupping them, and then tasting each. Slowly. Thoroughly.

  His clever tongue created some sort of nipple magic, sending a yearning message straight to the center of her being. Her knees trembled and she grabbed his shoulders for support.

  When he suckled, her hips rocked and ground against his knees with a need all their own.

  As if reading her mind, his hand moved between her legs. One finger testing, finding the wet, hot core welcoming. Two fingers circled, matching the pull of his lips on her nipple.

  “Stop. Quick. Condoms. Now. Oh, shit. Where are they?”

  He pulled her against his chest, laughing at her cry of distress.

  “My pants pocket. Just in case I got lucky.”

  “Smart man. Brilliant man. I love you.”

  The words slipped out unplanned. Her cheeks burned. “I love that you’re so smart. You know that’s what I meant, right?”

  He produced a square foil packet with a triumphant, “Ta…da.” Then he kissed her nose. “I love how smart you are, too.”

  She let out a quick sigh of relief then pushed the whole I-love-you idea far, far away into the deep dark recesses of her mind. She didn’t do love. Not well. Better she stick with I love that… I love this…

  His body filled hers. Oh, God, I do love how you do that.

  Perfection on fire.

  But not love.

  * * *

  Austen came prepared for action—just in case. But nothing prepared him for the intense connection between them. She seemed to anticipate his every move, although that wouldn’t be possible unless she was inside his head.

  “My hip is cramping a bit from this position. Could we try it another way?” she asked, kneeling on the cushion so he could take her from behind.

  “Of course. No problem.” His arousal level went through the roof when rubbed his hands over her gorgeous ass. His admiration for her climbed incrementally, too. How many women had he slept with who were this practical, honest, and nonchalant about asking for what they wanted and needed to be satisfied? Oh, there’d been the demanding types, but this was all about mutual satisfaction.

  He entered her slowly, watching his cock disappear incrementally.

  “Nice,” she murmured, her tone throaty and guttural.

  As he started to rock to her rhythm, he reached around to rub his finger across the engorged nubbin he knew would carry her over the top.

  Her passionate cry brought him right to the brink, but he steeled himself to make each second of pleasure last. Slow. Slowly. Now.

  “Now. Yes. Oh. Oh.”

  The last ‘oh’ did him in. He closed his eyes and slammed home, again and again, until every last glorious sensation of release drained out of him. Knees quivering, heart beating triple time, he wrapped his arms around her and rolled them—still intimately connected—so they were spooning on the couch.

  Their breathing matched, and gradually slowed.

  “Wow, Austen, you’re good. That was fabulous. Thanks.”

  He kissed the back of her ear and inhaled her scent, his arms tightening. Her tone held a certain “that was fun, now let’s move on” tone, but he didn’t want to move on. He hadn’t felt this complete, this okay in… forever?

  His eyes blinked open and he let his arms drop. What just happened?

  How could someone who had long-term written all over her be so damn good at a one-night-stand while Mr. Love’em and Leave’em wanted—needed—to cuddle? She slid away gracefully, dashed into the guest bath he’d used earlier that morning then returned with a hand towel and warm washcloth.

  She cleaned them both up, then grabbed a throw from the rocking chair and repositioned Austen so she could stretch out prone on top of him. “I hope you have time for a snuggle.”

  “Would all night work for you?”

  She looked him in the eye and grinned. “That sounds interesting. I’ll even fix you breakfast in the morning.” Then she lowered her head to his chest and let out a big sigh. “I’m so glad horses hate alpacas.”

  It took him a moment to figure out what she meant—the cause behind their fortuitous meeting that morning. Since he wasn’t a big believer in fate—“Luck is the result of good planning and hard work,” his father always said—Austen was glad she’d told him about the antipathy horses held for alpacas. The rationale helped explain how he arrived at her door, but it didn’t explain why he felt so at peace in her arms.

  Chapter Six

  A familiar chiming sound woke Austen out of the best sleep he’d had in months… maybe since all hell had broken loose. He didn’t know what that meant, but he knew the alarm on his phone meant this was Sunday morning and he’d agreed to meet his parents for church.

  “Damn,” he muttered, rolling over, his arm out-stretched to find Serena… gone.

  He bolted upright. “Serena?”

  “Downstairs,” a voice called. “Making coffee.”

  He grabbed his phone. Eight wasn’t late, but it probably equaled lazy bum status to a rancher. A real rancher. Not a make-believe cowboy like him.

  He got up, peed, brushed his teeth with the brand new toothbrush she’d left on the sink for him, and then dressed in record time. Apparently, she’d been up long enough to retrieve his clothes from the living room and leave them neatly folded on her dresser.

  His shoes made a staccato snap as he hurried down the stairs. His nose led him to the kitchen.

  “’Morning. Please don’t tell me you were up at the butt crack of dawn while I slept like the dead.”

  She stood with her back to him, dressed similar to what she’d worn the day before: well-broken-in jeans and a dull blue chambrays shirt with the tails hanging past her butt. Only today was she barefoot. When she turned—a colorful mug in hand, he spotted a hot pink T-shirt with some sort of blue and green logo on the chest.

  She handed him a cup of steaming black gold. “I’m an early riser. Like my dad. My mom doesn’t do morning, so we all learned to tiptoe until ten.”

  “Tiptoe until ten. I like that idea, but normally I’m in the office by eight.”

  She glanced at an electronic clock that also displayed the date, temperature, and rainfall. His dad had one just like it. “Old habits? Is that why you’re up? I was trying to be quiet.”

  He pulled his phone from his hip pocket. “My alarm went off. Mass is at nine-thirty. I promised my mother.”

  She smiled. “That’s so sweet. Do you go every Sunday?”

  He took a sip of coffee. Hot, strong, and as boldly flavored as her microbrews. He liked her taste. He liked a lot of other things about her, too. Including her carnal liberation and ability to celebrate the body human in so many creative ways.

  Ways he had to avoid thinking about or he’d want to take her on the kitchen table right this minute and to hell with church.

  He looked out the window, forcing his mind back on track.

  After swallowing a second gulp, he said, “Great coffee. Do you grind your own beans? I can tell.” Inane. Insipid chatter. Wh
at did she ask? Oh, yeah, about church. “Pretty much lapsed since college, but Mom thinks going to church is a good first step in rehabilitating my reputation.”

  Serena returned to the counter and dropped two English muffins into the toaster. Domestic goddess and sex fiend—was there ever a better combination?

  “Is she counting on a film crew being there or just word of mouth?”

  Witty, too. Dang. “Probably the latter, but she also thinks a few prayers wouldn’t hurt where my sister is concerned.”

  Serena turned and hopped adroitly to the counter, crossing her legs. She picked up a photo mug that displayed the faces of several alpacas. Was one of them Betty Lou? He took a step closer to check it out.

  “You mentioned at dinner that your sister was sick. Breast cancer, right? My mom is a ten-year survivor. I remember how hard it was on the family at the time of her treatments. We felt powerless.”

  “Mia’s a fighter. She’s handling the physical aspects pretty well because there’s an identifiable enemy and a clear course of action. It’s the emotional stuff that’s been hideous. First, she found out her husband was having an affair, and then his girlfriend announced she was pregnant. He left around the same time his wife of fourteen years was undergoing a radical mastectomy.”

  She made a face. “Talk about a one-two punch. That bites.”

  He’d never wanted to hurt anyone more than he’d wanted to punch the crap out of Mia’s ex-husband, Edward, who was also Austen’s former best friend. Ed’s betrayal, Mia’s diagnosis, and his own scandal had shaken Austen’s faith—not just in religion but in his worldview, in himself, and his family. The Big Sky Mavericks never failed. They went after their dreams and never gave up.

  Until we did. Give up. Wasn’t that what everyone said he was doing by staying at the ranch, playing cowboy? And Mia recently resigned from her job as a deputy district attorney in Cheyenne, and was in the process of moving home, too. She’d agreed her children needed a fresh start closer to family. They’d be staying in his parents’ house, temporarily, while Mia built a new home on the land she and Ed bought to retire on. She’d managed to hang onto the river lot during the property settlement phase of her divorce.

  Of the three Big Sky Mavericks, Meg seemed to be the only one still on track. How he and Mia managed to fuck themselves so badly still baffled him.

  The toaster popped. Serena hopped down and buttered the four halves. “I usually have a mid-morning snack. I could make eggs, if you’re hungry.”

  He felt awkwardness between them for the first time. They hadn’t talked about what came next for them… if anything. “Toast is great. My family does brunch after church at one of the local restaurants. Today we’ll be at…” He had to think a minute. “The Long River Cookhouse. You’d be more than wel—”

  She cut him off with a shake of her ponytail.

  “Too soon?”

  She nodded just as fervently.

  “Maybe next week.” He meant it. He wanted to see her again.

  She set the plate of toast on the table then walked to him and put her arms around him. “Probably not.” She hugged him tight… almost like it was for the last time.

  “Why?”

  She closed her eyes for a second then stepped back and walked to the table. “Let’s sit.” She waited for him to take the chair opposite her before joining him. “I don’t like talking about this subject, but I don’t see any way to avoid it. What we… um, shared last night was pretty great.”

  Understatement. He nodded.

  “And, under normal circumstances, who knows? It might lead to something fabulous. Long-term, even.”

  Long-term. A phrase he usually dodged like a bullet. This morning the concept didn’t sound so overwhelming.

  “What do you mean by normal circumstances?”

  She took a deep breath. “I have a stalker.”

  Six years of law school smacked him upside the head. His spine stiffened. “What kind? Cyber? Phone harassment? Workplace?”

  “All of the above. He’s the reason I quit my job and moved here. I gave up everything I knew and loved about my old life—except my alpacas. But I figured if I moved out of state and kept a low profile, he wouldn’t find me.”

  She waited for him to draw his own conclusion. The toast crumbs in his mouth turned to sand.

  “Oh, God. Last night. Will Paulson. You’re afraid your stalker will see your picture.”

  She made a wobbling gesture with her hand. “I doubt if he has facial-recognition software. I’m more worried about Mr. Paulson learning my name and using it in his blog. I thought about taking my mother’s maiden name when I moved, but the process of changing one’s identity is a little daunting and I didn’t really have time.”

  He’d heard horror stories of stalkers. Mia’s college roommate was raped by a guy who harassed her for a whole semester and the school authorities refused to do anything… until after the fact.

  “Is it sexual? Has he tried—?”

  “No. I call him a he, but I honestly don’t know this person’s gender. His or her online handle is: FairShareLove. We met in a chat room for adoptees.” She made a hand gesture. “I told you Peyton and I were both adopted, right?”

  He nodded.

  “I’d just started a blog called Not My (Birth) Mother’s Daughter. Like a lot of adoptees, I’d decided I didn’t want to reconnect with my birth parents. I have nothing against them. I simply feel our lives split into two separate paths when they put me up for adoption—for whatever reason. I’m okay with that.” She stressed each word. “But FairShareLove is convinced I’m in denial or I carry some horrible grudge or whatever. He or she is determined to make me reconnect with these strangers, if they’re alive.”

  “That’s bizarre. The police can’t find this person?”

  “The police don’t give a shit,” she snapped. “Sorry. Swearing on Sunday morning. Not good. But as far as the Shasta police were concerned, persistent emails, posting crazy crap on a blog, even going through my trash might fall under the harassment label but doesn’t constitute stalking. Since my folks wanted to downsize, I decided to move out of the area and hope he forgets about me.”

  “And then I came along… with a stalker of my own.”

  “With a blog.”

  His phone chimed again. Time to leave or he’d be late for church. He didn’t want to go. He wanted… what? To help her? How? The best thing he could do for Serena James would be to leave her the hell alone.

  “You’re not thinking about leaving Marietta, are you?”

  “I have fifty sweet souls under my care, not counting Gandhi and Dolly. Plus, Beau, and Brutus, my barn cat. My life is like a poorly financed circus—it doesn’t turn on a dime.”

  Her frustrated tone made his gut churn. Shit. Is there anything I can do right?

  She jumped to her feet. “You’d better go. My parents are devout agnostics, but I’m pretty sure it’s a sin to be late for mass.”

  He swallowed the dregs of his coffee. Cold and bitter. Exactly what he deserved. Without intending to, he’d just screwed up another woman’s life. Good thing he was on his way to church. Prayer might help. It sure as hell couldn’t hurt.

  He’d pray for the self-control to stay out of Serena James’s life—even if she was the most intriguing, most positive new development his life had seen in a long, long time.

  * * *

  Serena hopped on a hay bale to check her phone. Again. This new, ridiculous habit she’d developed over the four days since making love with Austen Zabrinski drove her mad. Today was Thursday. She’d gotten a dozen texts and two emails from Austen since Sunday. Pleasant. Polite. Neighborly, for God’s sake. And, despite a severe lecture every morning, she hadn’t broken herself of the stupid wish—the hope—things could be different where her handsome neighbor was concerned.

  He’d gone from the hottest one-night stand of her life to buddy. Pal. Friend. Exactly the sort of relationship a smart woman would be thankful for. Only she
wasn’t happy. Not a bit.

  Maybe the fact that despite scouring the Internet as tenaciously as a bloodhound she hadn’t found any new mention of her name anywhere made her second-guess her reason for distancing herself from Austen. But dodging one paparazzi’s scoop didn’t mean she’d be that lucky a second time, or a third. Unless she was prepared to date Austen on the sly, never leaving the ranch, she couldn’t see them as a couple.

  She scrolled through her emails. A few lame jokes from Macklin. A musical “Thinking of You” card from Mom. A terse “Don’t tell Dad about your new boyfriend” from her bother. As if she would. For one thing, Austen Zabrinski wasn’t her boyfriend. For another, Dad was just beginning to unwind and have fun. Mom told her he’d joined a men’s pinochle club that met every afternoon.

  Donald James was the sweetest, kindest man she’d ever met. Peyton called him an alpaca-in-men’s-clothing. Fear for his children’s safety and well-being seemed to trigger his first, very small stroke. Medical tests showed a blood issue, which doctors could control with medication, but, Dad, being an old hippie who had little to no faith in western medicine, had insisted on trying alternative therapies.

  A second stroke—around the time when Serena decided to sell everything and move to get away from her stalker—left behind a few scary reminders—a slight limp, a droopiness on the left side of his face, his beautiful musician’s fingers permanently curled.

  Dad’s health was the other reason her parents decided it was time to downsize. Serena had made sure they were settled in their new adult living complex before she left Redding.

  She got up and walked to the music player where she plugged in her phone so it would charge while she listened to music. She had another two hours, at least, before she could call it a day.

  Yesterday, she’d picked up a dozen chicks at the feed store. On impulse. Maybe partly as a way to flip off the Universe. After three days of struggling with the question of how, when, and where to move, she’d finally come to the conclusion she wasn’t going anywhere. Not this winter, and maybe not in the spring, either. In fact, she planned to meet with her landlord and ask if he’d be interested in selling the ranch to her. The place had everything she needed, and, dammit, she couldn’t run scared the rest of her life.