Loe raamatut: «Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume VIII: The Cowboy Who Never Grew Up»
Look what people are saying about these talented authors…
Of Kimberly Raye…
“Kimberly Raye’s A Body to Die For is fun and sexy, filled with sensual details, secrets and heartwarming characters—as well as humor in the most unexpected places.” —RT Book Reviews
“Dead Sexy by Kimberly Raye is funny and exciting—with great sex, characters and plot twists.” —RT Book Review
“Kimberly Raye has done a wonderful job of creating characters that are unique and imaginative!”
—Romance Reviews Today on Dead and Dateless
Of Julie Leto …
“Julie Leto certainly knows how to put the X in sex!
A great and exciting read!”
—Fresh Fiction on Too Hot to Touch
“Get a cold drink when you sit down to read this one; this is one hot book!”
—Fresh Fiction on Too Wild to Hold
“One-of-a-kind writing style … She has made me a reader for life!”
—Fresh Fiction on More Blazing Bedtime Stories
Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume VIII
The Cowboy Who
Never Grew Up
Kimberly Raye
Hooked
Julie Leto
The Cowboy Who
Never Grew Up
Kimberly Raye
About the Author
USA TODAY bestselling author KIMBERLY RAYE started her first novel in high school and has been writing ever since. To date, she’s published more than fifty-eight novels, two of them prestigious RITA® Award nominees. She’s also been nominated by RT Book Reviews for several Reviewer’s Choice awards, as well as a career achievement award. Kim lives deep in the heart of Texas Hill Country with her husband and their young children. She’s an avid reader who loves Diet Dr Pepper, Facebook, chocolate and alpha males. Kim also loves to hear from readers. You can visit her online at www.kimberlyraye.com or follow her on Twitter.
For my oldest son, Josh,
who is growing up way too fast!
I’m so proud of you.
And for the supertalented Julie Leto,
it was great working with you on this story.
I knew you had a little Texas in you!
1
HE WAS THE PERFECT COWBOY for the job.
Wendy Darlington stared at the man who slid off the angry bull in the middle of the massive rodeo arena in Fort Worth, Texas, and her breath caught. Dust exploded. The crowd roared. The animal twisted and turned as the wranglers tried to get him under control, but the rider wasn’t the least bit nervous. He sidestepped her and headed for the dusty Stetson he’d lost during the most amazing ride Wendy had ever seen. Eight seconds and then some. The buzzer had come and gone, but Pete Gunner had kept at it until he’d snagged bragging rights to breaking yet another world record.
He parked the cowboy hat back on his head and flashed a grin before heading toward the gate and the cluster of reporters waiting to swallow him up.
The scores went up and, sure enough, they were high enough to push Pete into first and solidify a place in the upcoming Professional Bull Riders finals.
Not that she’d had any doubt.
Pete Gunner was the best of the best. An eight-time PBR champion and record holder on the fast track to win number nine.
Unfortunately he had a weakness for loud parties and lots of women, and so he was even more notorious for his behavior outside of the arena. He was a wild child. Unpredictable. Uncensored. Unmanageable.
Trouble. Big, big trouble.
That’s what Wendy had told her boss when he’d come up with the crazy idea of making Pete Gunner the newest spokesperson for Western America, the biggest leatherworks company in the Southwest. They made everything from custom cowboy boots and specialty chaps to one-of-a-kind hand-tooled saddles. The company was launched during the late seventies at the height of the Urban Cowboy craze, with their products targeted toward the sophisticated, professional types eager to jump on the chuck wagon and play weekend cowboy.
They’d managed to maintain a decent profit share over the years, too, although their early heyday had long since faded with so many competitors flooding the marketplace.
Wendy had come to Western straight out of college as an intern and had slowly worked her way up from administrative aide to senior marketing representative. She’d put in nine years at the company and managed to keep up sales in an economic downturn. She’d fought tooth and nail to make a name for herself within the company, and she deserved to be moved up for it. She’d even told her boss, Fred, as much when she’d asked for a promotion last year.
But the man didn’t want to maintain his company’s position. He wanted to sell the company for a hefty profit and buy his own private island in the Bahamas. Something that wasn’t going to happen, at least for the kind of money he wanted, if he didn’t get his market share up by twenty percent.
At least that’s what a private-business consultant had told him six months ago. Hence the creation of Outlaw Outfitters, a line of modestly priced products geared toward the younger segment, and the brainstorm to have Pete Gunner as the front man.
A real cowboy backing the new line would up its credibility and get the attention of the multitude of younger rodeo fans. As the senior marketing rep, it was Wendy’s job to make it happen. Or else.
Those had been Fred’s exact words.
Make this happen and I’ll make sure you stay on with the company after I sell. Or else you can find a new job.
Which meant moving on, starting over.
The story of Wendy’s life.
Growing up the only child of single parent and baseball legend Mitch Darlington, Wendy had become an expert in new. During her childhood, she’d spent the season headed to a new city every week and the off-season living in a condo near the training camp for whatever team her dad had been signed with at the time. Thanks to a huge ego and a know-it-all attitude, he’d been traded eleven times over a fifteen-year period, during which Wendy had zigzagged across the country with him. She’d even lived in Toronto for six months while he’d played with the Toronto Blue Jays.
No more.
The moment she’d graduated college, she’d promised herself that her days of moving from place to place were officially over. She’d accepted the job at Western America, bought a house in Houston, and she’d been settled ever since. She’d made friends and built a life for herself. And while the actual day-to-day could be boring at times, she still preferred it hands down to the nomadic lifestyle she’d grown up with.
She wasn’t losing her job.
Fred wanted Pete’s signature on the multimillion-dollar endorsement package her company had offered, and Wendy was going to make it happen. Mr. Wild and Reckless had already given them a verbal agreement months ago, but it had been one mishap after the other when it came to getting him to actually sign. They’d overnighted the initial documents as was policy, but then he’d claimed his dog had chewed them up. He’d left set number two in a hotel room in Vegas. Number three had ended up at the bottom of a bull pen. Number four had disappeared in a truck stop somewhere between Nashville and New Mexico.
While Wendy had freaked over each “accident,” Pete had laughed them off as just another day in the life of PBR’s most notorious cowboy.
Don’t get your panties in a wad, darlin’. That’s what he’d told her on the phone in the deepest, sexiest drawl she’d ever heard. Just send out another set.
Not this time.
Numbers five and six—she’d brought an extra—were safe and sound in her briefcase and she wasn’t leaving until everything was signed.
Or else …
She fought down a wave of anxiety, popped an antacid from the roll in her pocket and steeled herself. Briefcase in hand, she made her way around the arena wall until she reached the cluster of bull pens. A security guard stopped her in her tracks, but she flashed a VIP pass at him and he waved her forward. She was just about to turn a corner and head for the excitement when she barreled into the hard wall of a very muscular chest.
Her head snapped up and she found herself staring at her worst marketing nightmare.
She’d seen plenty of pictures of Pete Gunner over the past few months: everything from professional publicity shots of him climbing into a saddle or dusting himself off after a grueling ride, to a papparazzi’s wet dream where he’d been table-dancing at Billy Bob’s honky-tonk or lapping at a watering trough after the PBR finals in Vegas.
But nothing in print could begin to compare with the man himself.
Several day’s growth of stubble shadowed his jaw and circled his sensuous mouth. Whiskey-colored hair framed his rugged face and brushed the collar of his white button-down shirt. Vivid blue eyes peered at her from beneath the brim of a beat-up Stetson.
“Don’t be in such a hurry, sugar.” He gave her his infamous grin, his lips crooked just a hint at the corner, and her heart did a double thump. “It’s always better if you take your time.”
Not that Wendy was the least bit attracted. She knew his type all too well. She’d grown up with such a man, and while she loved her dad, she wasn’t falling for a man just like him. She liked her men stable. Controlled. Reliable.
She drew a deep breath and ignored the fluttering in her chest.
“I—” The rest of her words stalled in a choked cough as the antacid took a nosedive down the wrong pipe.
His eyebrows drew together. “You okay, sugar?”
“I—” She swallowed. “I—I’m fine,” she finally managed to say.
He grinned and her heart started again. Her hands trembled and her tummy tingled.
Seriously?
He was just a man. Sure, he was sexier than most with his bad-boy drawl and seductive smile, but still … She wasn’t going to let that turn her to a pile of quivering Jell-O, even if she had been so busy with the new Outlaw line that she’d had zero time for a social life over the past six months. Her self-imposed celibacy was not going to jump up and bite her during the most important ten seconds of her career.
She stiffened and gathered her control. “You’re just the person I wanted to see. I need you to sign—”
“There’s plenty of signed photos at the press table,” he cut in. “You can take your pick.”
“No, no.” She shook her head. “I don’t want a signed picture.”
“A body signature?” His eyes darkened with a look of pure, raw passion and her mouth went dry again. “Above the waist or below?”
She licked her lips and tried to ignore the way his eyes followed the movement. “No, of course not. I’ve got these papers for you—”
“Pete!” The shout came from her right and she turned to find a burly cowboy motioning him forward. “Gid-dyup, dude. We’ve got to get the hell out of here!”
“I hate to cut this short, but I’ve got someplace I really need to be.” And just like that, he turned and walked away.
Wendy watched the push and pull of his Wranglers as he disappeared into the crowd. He really did have a great butt. She could totally see why every woman in the eighteen-to-forty-eight-year-old demographic was head over heels for him. The front view had been good, but the back was about the best she’d ever seen—
Hello?
He’s walking away, remember? Which is what you’ll be doing when Fred finds out that you let him slip through your fingers.
She bolted forward and raced after him as if her life depended on it.
It did.
Her job, her home, her stability meant everything to her and she wasn’t going to let some party-hearty cowboy screw it all up.
She was getting that signature, no matter what she had to do.
2
THERE WAS A NAKED WOMAN in his bed.
Pete Gunner came to that conclusion the moment he yanked aside the curtains leading to the rear of the sleek black tour bus.
The woman sat up. Dark brown hair spilled down around her shoulders. Excitement fired her gaze. The sheet fell to her waist. Yep, she was naked, all right.
As an eight-time PBR champion and the circuit’s reigning wild child, it was a scene he was all too familiar with. Buckle bunnies were par for the course. And bare-assed buckle bunnies? An added bonus.
If it had been any other night.
“It’s really you, isn’t it?” she murmured. “The Pete Gunner.”
“So they say.”
Her gaze narrowed for a split second. “You look different than you do in your poster.” She licked her full lips. “Better. Much better.”
He tipped his hat and gave her the famous Gunner Grin. “You’re not so bad yourself.” And then he did the one thing he would never have done if it had been any other night. He took a step forward and retrieved her tank top and jeans that were draped across a nearby chair. “As much as I’d like to take you up on the offer, I’m afraid now isn’t a good time.” He set her clothes on the edge of the bed. “Why don’t you get dressed and I’ll get my bus driver to fetch an autographed picture and a few rodeo passes for you?”
A pout tugged at her lush bottom lip. “But I’ve been waiting all this time for you.” She pushed up on her knees and the sheet fell to the bed. “I thought we could have a little fun. You do like to have fun, don’t you?”
Hell, yeah. Fun was his motto. He’d been wild and reckless from the get-go, hitting the rodeo circuit hard at the age of seventeen, and the local bars even harder after that. He lived to cut loose and live it up. Damn straight, he did.
At the same time, it was already this close to midnight and he was more than six hours away from home. That meant he would be on the road all night if he intended to reach Lost Gun by sunup.
He’d figured on leaving right after he’d run into that pretty little blonde wanting his autograph on a certain body part. Hell, he hadn’t even had the chance to imagine which part—her luscious breast or maybe one rounded hip or a tight ass cheek—before he’d been side-swiped by several Wrangler reps wanting to talk to him about yet another endorsement. They’d wasted over an hour and so now he was really pressed. That, and his back was aching something fierce. Jasper, one of the meanest bulls this side of the Rio Grande, had thrown him pretty hard after that last buzzer.
Not that a few aches and pains would have held him back from having some fun with his new bed partner. Hell, no. He would have ripped his clothes off in a heartbeat if tonight had been like any other.
But it wasn’t. His kid brother was counting on him to make it back to West Texas for his eighteenth birthday, and so time was of the essence.
“Thanks for the offer, sugar, but I’ll have to take a rain check.”
“What about that autograph?” Her voice followed him as he turned.
“Get dressed,” he called over his shoulder. “And it’ll be my pleasure.”
He started toward the front of the bus. He was halfway there when a different woman stepped out of the bathroom, a redhead with brown eyes and an interested smile. She wore a leather halter top, a miniskirt and a come-and-get-me-cowboy expression. She blocked his path and waved a Sharpie at him.
“I’ve been waiting for you—” She started the same spiel he’d heard after every rodeo since he’d won his first bull riding championship twelve years ago. She was ready and willing and able to do whatever he wanted, for as long as he wanted. In return for bragging rights and the ever-popular autograph, that is. He’d scribbled his signature on too many places to count—a hand, a thigh, a breast, a butt cheek. He’d even done matching autographs for the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders last year—left shoulder blade. Except for that one cheerleader. They’d needed someplace a lot more private than Cowboys Stadium for what she’d had in mind. And, being the ever-obliging cowboy, he’d gone out of his way to make her happy.
Then and now, he reminded himself. Even if the only thing he wanted to do at the moment was ice down his shoulder and pop a few Tylenols.
“—thought maybe you and I could get acquainted,” she went on. “I’ve been a fan for years and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do—”
“That’s great, sugar,” he cut in, giving her his infamous smile, “but I’ll have to take a rain check.” He sidestepped her and left her staring after him.
He wasn’t trying to be rude. Hell, he loved women. All women. Brunettes. Redheads. Blondes.
Especially blondes with green eyes.
His thoughts torpedoed back to the arena and the woman he’d stumbled into earlier. She’d been all stuffed up with her button-up blouse and stiff black skirt, her hair pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail. Nothing like most of the buckle bunnies who hung out near the chutes. Then again, he’d learned never to judge a long time ago and so he knew the hands-off vibe he’d gotten off her had been just an act. Obviously a damned good one since he was still thinking about her. And her luscious body. And her eyes. She’d had the prettiest he’d ever seen. Rich. Potent. Mesmerizing. Like ripe pastureland after a month of April showers.
Her image haunted him for a few more heartbeats before he managed to tuck it away and focus on the situation at hand.
Women.
Yep, he loved ‘em and he never failed to make time. And he sure as hell didn’t mind signing autographs for each and every one. He loved his fans.
But this was different. It was crunch time. His younger brother’s birthday was tomorrow and Pete intended to be there when Wade rolled out of bed. He’d never let the kid down before and he sure as shootin’ wasn’t going to start now. Wade had seen enough disappointment in his young life. They both had.
“Don’t tell me,” Eli McGinnis said when Pete stepped off the bus and found him standing nearby. “One got past me.” Eli had a head full of steel-gray hair and a mustache to match. He wore a straw cowboy hat, a pearl-snap shirt and a pair of starched Wranglers. Word on the circuit had it that he was seventy-five if he was a day, but to hear Eli tell it he was barely legal. “Dammit to hell, I hate a crafty gal.”
“It was two gals,” Pete told his driver. “Aren’t you supposed to be standing guard until we’re ready to pull out?”
“I cain’t be standing around all day babysitting this big old bus like I ain’t got nothin’ better to do.”
“That’s what I pay you for.” Eli had been working for Pete ever since the man had retired from the rodeo circuit himself. Pete had learned the ropes from Eli, so he owed him. He’d given him a job and a place to live after he’d retired. Eli had been a permanent fixture in his life ever since.
“You pay me to drive,” Eli reminded him. “Besides, you ain’t the only rooster in the bunch, you know.” He tugged at his pants and straightened his belt buckle. “Maybe I had a little female company that I just couldn’t turn down. A man like me’s got needs, ya know.”
Pete eyed him. “Bathroom break?” he finally asked.
“Funnel cake.” Eli swiped at the powdered sugar that clung to the corner of his mustache. “But just so’s you know, I surely ain’t lost my touch. That there cake was served up by a mighty nice-looking female named Justine.” He grinned. “Why, she gave me a few extra shakes of sugar and didn’t even charge me for ‘em.”
Before Pete could point out that Justine gave everybody extra shakes because she had a nervous condition that made her hands tremble, his two stowaways came sashaying off the bus. Pete spent the next few minutes signing two autographs—left shoulder blade and right bikini line—and posing for some quick pictures before managing to excuse himself and disappear back inside.
“Are they gone?” he asked when Eli finally climbed back inside the bus and powered the door shut behind him.
“For now, but I wouldn’t go counting my chickens just yet. One of them twittered or tweedled or some such nonsense and I saw a whole mess of females coming around the semi parked just behind us.” He shook his head. “Which means we’d better get the hell out of here ‘afore somebody else crawls up in here. It’s a helluva long way home.” Eli climbed behind the wheel and radioed security to clear a path.
A few seconds later, the bus rumbled forward and Pete breathed a sigh of relief.
Followed by a growl of aggravation when he walked into the bathroom a few minutes later and pulled back the shower curtain. And found yet another woman waiting for him.
The woman.
The stiff, conservative blonde with the pretty green eyes.
As irritated as he was, there was just something about the way she stared up at him that made him smile. Oddly enough, the fatigue slipped away and excitement rippled up his spine. “Determined to get that autograph, are you?”
She was the one to smile this time. A light sparked in her incredible green eyes and his heart skipped a beat. “You have no idea.”
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