The Texan's Little Secret

And only days later, he had come to the Roughneck, as eager to apply for a job there as she’d been to sign up for a ride on this fake bull tonight.

Daddy’s little cowgirl, he’d called her that day.

The insult and his desire to work for Brock were the worst forms of betrayal.

Now, she turned and stared at him. He stared back, making her heart skip a beat. She cursed herself for not having better control of her reactions. This man had once done her wrong, no denying it, yet she couldn’t keep from responding to him, his nearness, his smile.

“I’ll show you a cowgirl, all right,” she promised.

I’ll show you exactly what Daddy’s little girl can do.

And she did.

But the fun she’d once gotten from it had gone.

The ride was rough. She was tilted and jerked around. She fought to go the distance in front of the crowd—because that’s what Carly Baron did.

Yet none of it mattered.

Just the way her passion for barrel racing had vanished, so had her interest in riding Luke’s “hunk of metal.” Was it his scorn over the mechanical substitute that had taken the pleasure from her ride? Would mounting a real bull give that feeling back to her?

Or was riding, like her relationship with Luke, just going to be a part of her past?

* * *

“SO? WHAT DO you think?”

Luke shrugged. How the hell had he gotten trapped into this situation?

That brush of Carly’s knees against his midsection earlier had just about brought him to his knees. This time, he’d stayed two feet away, not wanting to get caught in the crush against her again. The distance didn’t help. She had resettled herself on a stool and leaned back to prop her elbows on the bar. The position tugged at the shimmery fabric of her shirt, making it gape just enough to show off a hint of twin curves and the barest edge of lace. Sexy as hell.

Then again, when he looked up, he found her wide blue eyes and full lips just as much of a turn-on. The sight brought him right back to the day he’d met her and seen the shy, insecure girl hiding behind the wild child she’d pretended to be.

She stared at him, her brow crinkled, waiting for his answer, which he would happily provide...as soon as he could recall her question.

After a minute, his brain cells finally kicked in again. She wanted his opinion on her ride. “You cranked the machine up high enough,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll give you that.”

“What about form? I get points for that, too. And, not to mention, for staying in the saddle twice as long as anyone else.”

He shrugged. He hadn’t been impressed. At least, not by her ride on the bull. Had to admit, though, he’d liked the way her long blond hair tumbled around her shoulders—just the way it had the night they’d made love in the back of his truck.

“Well?” she demanded.

He cleared his throat. “You had some techniques down. I’ll throw in points for that, too. But you put about as much of yourself into the ride as Rosie needs to when I cart her around in her little red wagon. As in, none. Nada.”

She glared at him. “Who has time for self-expression when they’re in the saddle? Besides, bull riding’s not an art form.”

“Maybe not. But there’s a lot more to it than just putting your hands in the right places.”

The dim light from the bar couldn’t hide the flush that tinged her cheeks. She took a long swallow from the beer he’d bought her.

He wished he’d thought to get another for himself. It had gotten hot in here all of a sudden. With one finger, he loosened his shirt collar. He hadn’t intended a double meaning to his words, but man, had he ever hit the bull’s-eye with that statement.

Carly had all the right curves and, once upon a time, his hands had found all the right places.

The thought immediately registered on another of his body parts. As if she’d read his mind—or seen something he sure as hell didn’t want her noticing—she slammed her mug on the bar. “Thanks for the beer.”

Before he could blink, she slid from the stool.

Dang.

He dug into his jeans pocket for a few bucks to toss beside her empty mug. Damned near hobbling, he hurried across the room.

She’d already exited through the double doors. Outside, he found her standing at the corner of the building, glaring in the direction of the parking lot.

“Need a ride home?” he asked.

“Got that covered.” But she wouldn’t look his way.

A sudden suspicion hit him. “Where’s your ride?”

She glanced toward a vacant slot close to the edge of the parking area and quickly away again, but he’d already gotten his answer. “You didn’t drive, did you? Kim’s your ride. And she left a while ago.”

“Yeah,” she mumbled. “You can bet she’s not going to hear the end of that.”

“Then I’ll take you home. My truck’s right here.” He pointed a few spaces away from the vacant slot, to where he’d parked his silver pickup. The same pickup he’d owned since high school, which meant she more than likely recognized it.

“No, thanks. I’ll find another ride.”

“Why bother? It’s not like driving you home takes me out of my way.” He lived on the ranch in the manager’s quarters, within a stone’s throw of the main house. She didn’t respond, and he swallowed a curse. “Carly, for crying out loud. Whatever happened in the past shouldn’t keep us from spending a few minutes in the truck together.”

Yet, damn, even as she stood there glaring at him, he thought of the many times they had made out in the front seat of that very same truck. Again, he recalled what they’d done in the back of it. Exactly what he wanted to do now.

He ran his hand inside his shirt collar. Hell, it was hot out here, too.

Maybe she had the right idea. Maybe he should call a cab to come and get her.

She hiked the strap of her purse over her shoulder, then winced. Not in dislike or disgust but in pain.

“You okay?” Genuine concern made him ask. Still, he couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. This would be all he needed, to have Brock Baron’s little girl hurt the minute he was alone with her. Worse, to be the one to have gotten Brock Baron’s little girl hurt. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Dammit, Carly. I saw your face when you dismounted from that bull. Ever since, you’ve favored your right arm. Did you hurt yourself on the ride?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s nothing. Just an old racing injury. It flares up once in a while.”

He’d be willing to bet she hadn’t said a word to her family about the spill. If she had, he’d already have heard about it from one of the Baron men—if not from her brother, Jet, then from one of her stepbrothers. For sure, from Jacob, who lived and breathed rodeo the way he himself once had. “What’s the time frame on this ‘old’ injury?”