so she’d had temporary brain malfunction. No big deal. She would simply reboot.
Pulling out a pen, she set everything out and flipped the page to the first spot he needed to initial. There. The moment Pete Gunner finished his precious shower, he would sign and she would head back to Houston.
Her job would be secure. Her life would be back on track. And she could finally breathe again.
Shifting her attention from the anxiety rippling in her stomach, she took a good long look at her surroundings. The motor coach was top-of-the-line with a rear bedroom, a full-size bathroom and a kitchen. A media center sat just to her left complete with a plasma TV, Blu-ray player and several other pieces of equipment that she couldn’t identify. And then there was her chair.
The softest, most supple leather she’d ever felt. It tugged at her backside, cushioning her tired muscles, lulling her to sink back. Relax.
Not.
She perched on the edge, fully alert, ready for the handsome cowboy to waltz out of the bathroom so she could save her ass.
At least that was the plan for the first five minutes. But then five turned to ten and ten to twenty, and her back started to ache. She braced herself, but it only made her more uncomfortable. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to scoot back just a little. There. That was better.
It’s not like she needed to be ready for a foot chase. She had him cornered. If he wanted to stall, fine. She would kick back and wait him out.
The bus rolled along and the hum of the shower echoed in her ears. Before she knew what was happening, her head started to feel heavy. She slumped forward once, twice. She jerked upright and glanced at her watch. Ugh. It was half-past midnight and she’d been up since six in the morning. To make matters worse, she’d been tossing and turning every night for the past six months thanks to a certain unreliable cowboy. With her job hanging in the balance, sleep hadn’t been a luxury she could afford. Not then and certainly not now.
She had to do this.
She yawned and fought to keep her eyes open. A battle she was destined to lose. The chair was too comfortable and the cowboy too damned slow, and suddenly there seemed nothing wrong with closing her eyes for just one teeny, tiny minute. Just to pass the time.
WHAT THE HELL was she doing here?
The thought echoed in Pete’s head as he stood under the shower and let the hot water beat down on his sore muscles.
Okay, so he knew what she was doing here. Western had been dogging him with those contracts for months now and they’d obviously gotten tired of waiting. He couldn’t blame them. They’d offered him one hell of a deal. One he’d be crazy to turn down. He would make more in one year as the Outlaw Outfitters spokesman than he’d made in the past three seasons on the circuit. Sure, it wasn’t nearly as much fun. But at least it didn’t hurt like hell.
He flexed his throbbing shoulder and tried to ignore the stab of pain that shot through him.
Signing was the best thing for him. He knew that.
Then stop fooling around and sign already.
He would.
He would haul his ass out there, read through everything, sign on the dotted line for the sexy little marketing exec who’d cornered him on his own bus, and be done with it.
With her.
At least that’s what he told himself when he finally climbed out of the shower, dried off and put on a pair of clean jeans.
He found her slumped in a chair, her eyes closed, her lips parted. A steady snore filtered through the air and a smile touched his lips. She was a little thing, but she sure could belt one out.
He didn’t blame her. He’d paid an arm and a leg for those chairs and he’d dozed off in them too many times to count. Particularly after a night like tonight.
He sank down in the chair nearest her and shifted his attention to the papers spread out on the table. Snatching up the copy, he kicked back and turned to the first page.
He meant to read the entire thing.
He really did.
But his shoulder nagged at him and he couldn’t seem to concentrate. After two pages, he tossed the stack onto the table and reached for the remote control. A click of a button and a rerun of the latest NASCAR race blazed across the massive screen. The sound roared through the bus and she stirred.
With the fast reflexes of an eight-time PBR champion, Pete hit the mute button. The sound faded into the steady hum of the engine.
Wendy shifted, but she didn’t open her eyes. Instead, she half turned, snuggling deeper into the chair.
He fixed his gaze on the TV and tried to ignore his throbbing muscles keeping tempo with his heartbeat. He could kiss a good night’s sleep goodbye. Times like this, it was all he could do not to grind his teeth. Which was why he’d turned down the woman tucked into his bed. And the one stowed away in his bathroom. Even a warm, willing body wasn’t enough to distract him from the pain wrenching through him after a particularly grueling ride.
But damned if the steady, hypnotic sound of Wendy Darlington’s snoring didn’t do just that as he sat there and the minutes ticked by. That, and she smelled really good. Like homemade peach ice cream. And heaven knew he’d always had a hankerin’ for peaches.
He closed his eyes and focused on the soft zzzzzzz echoing in his ears. Her scent filled his head and oddly enough, his shoulder started to settle down. Not that the pain went away completely. There wasn’t a woman alive who could distract him that much.
But at least he managed a few hours of peace. No crying shoulder. No bulls to ride. No contracts to sign. And most of all, no truth nagging at him, because, as determined as Pete was to sign the damned contracts, he didn’t really want to. He’d gone from being a nobody to a somebody by being wild and free and reckless. The leader of the notorious Lost Boys—the most talented group of riders on the circuit so-called because they hailed from the same small town of Lost Gun, Texas. Pete was their poster child. He lived for the thrill of the moment, and Western America was all about the future. About supplementing his income when the fun ended and he was no longer raking in the cash. While the contract wouldn’t actually keep him from climbing onto a bull, it would still send a powerful message that Pete Gunner was getting older, wiser and it would certainly end his career as PBR’s favorite badass.
But none of that mattered as he sat there, listening to Wendy Darlington snore softly just a few feet away. Instead, he fixated on the sound and let his troubles slip away along with the pain. And then for the first time in a long time, he actually fell into a deep sleep.
4
SHE HAD THE WORST CRICK in her neck.
The pain edged its way past sleep until Wendy finally opened her eyes. She blinked once, twice and reality quickly crashed down around her.
Pete Gunner sat on the opposite side of the table, a pile of pancakes drizzled with sweet-smelling syrup in front of him. He wore nothing but a pair of jeans and a smile. His shoulders were broad, his
