memory rolled through her as she turned left and headed for the bar. She angled herself between two big bruisers and ordered a house beer.
She’d been on her way into the desperately small Texas town when she’d seen the hunky guy parked outside the city limits on the side of the highway. Wishful thinking, or so she’d thought.
But Garret Sawyer had been more than a figment of her imagination.
He’d been flesh and blood and oh, so real.
As real as the day she’d first met him. Touched him. Kissed him. Loved him.
Talk about opportunity. Forget tracking him down and arranging a chance meeting. She could dispense with formality and cut right to the chase.
At least that’s what she’d told herself when she’d climbed out of her car and approached him.
But then she’d glimpsed the surprise in his gaze, the anger, the hurt and her resolve had crumbled. She’d barely managed a “Long time no see” before she’d hightailed it back to her car.
She hadn’t seen him since.
But she’d asked around.
With Skull Creek being the quintessential small town, she’d gotten an earful from everyone—from the clerk at the Piggly Wiggly, to the fry guy at the Dairy Freeze.
She’d learned that Garret was the skill and expertise behind Skull Creek Choppers, the town’s one and only custom motorcycle shop. He’d opened his doors a few months ago and bought a small ranch just outside the city limits. He had two business partners—Jake McCann handled the design and Dillon Cash monitored the software and computer system.
Garret bought coffee at the local diner every evening and subscribed to the Skull Creek Gazette. He also sponsored a local little league team, donated to the senior’s center and served on the board of the Skull Creek Chamber of Commerce.
Exactly what she would have expected from a thirtysomething businessman trying to establish himself in a new location.
Exactly what she wouldn’t have expected from a two hundred-year-old vampire who’d always avoided hanging around too long in any one place.
“It’s on me,” the bruiser to the right said when she slid a five across the bar to pay for her drink.
Her head snapped up, and she found herself staring into a pair of interested brown eyes.
The man had long, black, greasy hair and a thick beard. He reeked of beer and cigarettes and sexual frustration. He missed his wife. But not because she’d been a fine upstanding woman who’d taken her vows seriously. No, she’d been the opposite. A slut who’d slept around on him every time he’d pulled out of town.
What he missed was having a warm body to turn to in the dead of night. He’d never been much of a player, and so he hadn’t actually dated much before he’d met his missus. He wasn’t even the type of man who offered to buy a woman a drink.
Until tonight.
Viv read the truth in his eyes and felt his desperation. And suddenly it didn’t matter that he wasn’t the most attractive man she’d ever met. All that mattered was the sexual energy bubbling inside of him.
The desire.
The need.
Her own hunger stirred, reminding her just how long it had been since she’d fed. Her chest tightened, and her stomach hollowed out. Her hands trembled, and it took all of her strength not to reach out and take the man up on his blatant offer.
But this wasn’t about getting a quick fix and fulfilling some stranger’s fantasies.
This was about fulfilling her own.
“Thanks, but no thanks.” But you might try with the blonde over there in the corner, she added silently. I think she likes you.
He fixated on Viv for a few long moments before the message seemed to penetrate. Finally, his eyes sparked, and hope fired to life inside of him. He turned toward the woman who sat nearby, nursing a margarita and eyeballing him.
Viv took her beer and shifted her attention back to the real reason she’d come to the Iron Horseshoe in the first place.
He sat facing her, his back to the wall, his feet propped on the table in front of him. He wore faded jeans that outlined his trim waist and muscular thighs. A frayed black T-shirt, the words Easy Rider emblazoned in neon blue and silver script, hugged his broad chest and sinewy biceps. Black gloves, the fingers cut out, accented his large hands. A tiny silver skull dangled from one ear. The only thing about him that didn’t scream bad-ass biker was the black Stetson sitting on the table near his beer and the black cowboy boots that covered his feet.
She eyed the scuffed toes of the boots before dragging her gaze back up, over his long legs, the hard, lean lines of his torso, the tanned column of his throat.
Her attention stalled on the faint throb of his pulse, and her mouth went dry. Despite the crying guitar and pounding drums, she could hear the steady pump of his heart. The sound called to her, inviting her closer, while fear held her stiff.
Her fingers flexed on the ice-cold bottle of beer. Her gaze stalled on his face, and she licked her suddenly dry lips.
He had short, cropped brown hair and the rugged features of a man who’d spent more than one day in the saddle. A day’s growth of stubble darkened his jaw and outlined his sensuous lips. Pale blue eyes collided with hers.
There was no flicker of surprise, no glimmer of pain. Just pure, unadulterated lust.
As if he’d been waiting for her, wanting her, as much as she’d been wanting him.
A fierce longing knifed through her, and for the first time in a very long time—one hundred and eighty years to be exact—she felt her legs tremble.
The reaction fortified her courage. It also erased any lingering doubts about her decision to leave L.A. and her freelance career as a tabloid photographer, for a small Texas town and an assignment with a regional travel magazine.
She’d ditched it all for sex.
For him.
Because Garret Sawyer had been the first man to give her a mind-blowing orgasm.
The only man.
And Viviana Darland wanted one more before her past finally caught up with her, and she bit the dust for good.
HE HAD TO BE DREAMING.
Another full-blown, heart-stopping, aching hard-on fantasy.
Because no way—no friggin’ way—was she really here.
Right here.
Right now.
She eased off the bar stool and stepped toward him, and reality sank in.
Shit.
That’s what his head said. But his damned
