and gourmet cheeses. There wasn’t a hot wing or a fried pickle in sight—none of the usual fare that her mother offered up at the honky-tonk. Even more proof that Raylene was, at this moment, going into shock from the one-eighty her world had taken.
Her mother wasn’t much for gourmet cuisine, which was why Nikki had been lying about taking a pole-dancing class in Austin three times a week. In reality, she made the hour-long drive to attend an advanced gourmet-entrée class to work on her very own twist to the traditional beef Wellington that was sure to win its way onto the menu in one of Houston’s finest.
Fat chance now.
Her life was ruined. Her dream over. Her future tanked.
She fought down a wave of tears and bypassed a woman in a white chef’s hat who fed slices of cake onto individual crystal plates. The sweet, sugary aroma teased her nostrils, promising a temporary distraction.
Forget that. She needed alcohol.
She snagged an open bottle of wine from a nearby tray and took a long swig. Her sisters had gone all out. Forget a box of Pinot Grigio from the local Piggly Wiggly. She was drinking an aged White Zinfandel that slid down her throat with a smooth sweetness that eased the panic for a few seconds and slowed her pounding heart.
Another long drink and she left the service tent behind and headed for the barn that sat several yards away.
A little distance and a lot of wine and maybe, just maybe, she could figure out some way to deal with the disaster that was fast becoming her life.
She could spike her mother’s favorite moonshine three times a week with a couple of Ambien. That, along with the one-hundred-and-eighty proof, would surely be enough to knock her mother out so she could finish the class, ace the exam and get her degree.
And, more than likely, cause some serious brain damage to the one woman who’d endured twenty hours and thirty-three minutes of labor on her behalf.
Of course, the moonshine wasn’t any more an option than the Ambien. She didn’t have a prescription, nor did she have any of Big Earl Jessup’s famous White Lightning. The old man could barely remember his name, much less his prized recipe.
Another all-important fact which had Raylene acting even more desperate. She had over twenty different drinks on her bar menu that featured Big Earl’s classic moonshine. A secret weapon that upped her take at least twenty percent on any given Saturday night and gave her an edge over the bigger, flashier bars popping up along the main interstate. Raylene’s place had long since been a draw not only to the locals, but to the endless string of tourists that passed through Lost Gun. And all because of her Texas Lightning Margarita.
Sure, she told everyone, particularly Sheriff Hooker, that she used an aged tequila, but the folks in Lost Gun knew the taste of old Earl’s premium-grade liquor well enough to know better. And they talked. And that talk lured the tourists. And the tourists kept Raylene in black leather bustiers and salted peanuts. And Raylene’s business was the only thing that kept her too busy to focus on Nikki’s personal life.
Was being the key word.
The smell of hay and leather surrounded her as she fled deep into the massive barn that sat at the far edge of the property, bottle in hand, panic fluttering in her chest.
She took another long, much-needed drink and tried to think of something good. Something calm. Something monotonous. Like chopping Vidalia onions or whipping fresh, scented cream or kneading a blue-cheese brioche—
The thought stalled as she heard the clink of silverware against a plate.
Her gaze went to the ladder that led to the overhead rafters. Another clink and she knew she wasn’t alone in her misery.
Somebody was up there.
Kicking off the hated satin shoes, she mounted the ladder and made her way up to the second floor. Wood groaned as she reached the last step and topped the landing. Her gaze went to the far end where the monstrous shutters had been pushed open and moonlight spilled through the large square. Framed in the opening was a man perched atop a hay bale.
The man.
The object of way too many fantasies over the years.
But then she was only human, and Cole Chisholm was a one-hundred-percent, certified beefcake.
A small lantern hung nearby, casting a pale yellow glow that fell across his face as she neared where he sat.
He held a plate of half-eaten white cake in one hand and fork in the other. A black tuxedo jacket accented his broad shoulders. His crisp white shirt hugged the strong column of his throat and provided a stark contrast against his deeply tanned skin. Light brown hair streaked with gold hung past his collar and framed his strong face.
Hay crunched beneath her feet. He lifted his head and swiveled toward her.
Familiar violet eyes collided with hers and his expression went from irritation to pure delight in one fast, furious heartbeat, as if he were covering up his initial dismay. His full lips curved into a grin. A dimple cut into his shadowed cheek. His gaze glittered in the dim barn light.
A wave of heat went through her. Her breath caught and her tummy hollowed out, and for a split second, she forgot that Cole Chisholm wasn’t her type.
With the wine numbing her senses and her mother a safe distance away, the only thing she could think was that he was the most scrumptious thing she’d seen all day.
And boy, oh, boy, would she like to take a bite.
But then he opened his mouth, his deep Southern drawl sweet and dripping with charm, and the moment faded as she remembered why she’d opted for culinary school in lieu of burning the midnight oil at the honky-tonk.
Because it kept her far, far away from men like Cole Chisholm. The sexy, charming, let’s-get-naked-in-the-backseat types that oozed sex appeal and sweet compliments. The ones who were here today, gone tomorrow. The exact type her mother specialized in.
His sensual lips hinted at the most heart-stopping grin. “I knew it was just a matter of time before some pretty young thing followed me up here.” He patted the seat next to him. “Plant one right here, sugar. I’m all yours.”
2
COLE UNGER CHISHOLM wasn’t the kind of man to let a little misfortune ruin his entire day.
Hell, no. He was an optimist. A the-beer-bottle-is-half-full kind of guy. He just dodged the bullets of bad luck that fate aimed at him and kept moving.
The ordinary .22 kind. One shot. One hit.
But damned if it didn’t seem as if he was dodging a spray of buckshot tonight.
Sure, they’d found the last of the money out at Big Earl’s, but it would be another week and a half before they could actually turn it over to the sheriff. It seemed the man had been called out of town on a statewide manhunt that had started in Beaumont and was currently making its way toward Brownsville. All available law enforcement within a hundred-mile radius had been summoned to the scene. Since the most action Sheriff Hooker usually saw was the occasional Friday night drunk, he’d been more than ready to pack up his car and head for the real action, leaving his deputies in
