Текст книги "Best Worst Mistake"
Автор книги: Lia Riley
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
An Excerpt from
RIGHT WRONG GUY
ARCHER KANE PLUCKED a dangly gold nipple tassel off his cheek and sat up in the king-sized bed, scrubbing his face. Overturned furniture, empty shot glasses, and champagne flutes littered the hotel room while a red thong dangled from the flat screen. He inched his fingers to grab the Stetson resting atop the tangled comforter. The trick lay in not disturbing the two women snoring on either side of him. Vegas trips were about fillies and fun—mission accomplished.
Right?
“What the?” A dove dive-bombed him, swooped to his left, and perched on the room-service cart to peck at a peanut from what appeared to be the remnants of a large hot fudge sundae. Who knew how a bird got in here, but at least the ice cream explained why his chest hair was sticky and, farther below, chocolate-covered fingerprints framed his six-pack. Looked like he had one helluva night. Too bad he couldn’t remember a damn thing. He should be high-fiving himself, but instead, he just felt dog-tired.
He emerged from beneath the covers and crawled to the bottom of the bed, head pounding like a bass drum. As he stood, the prior evening returned in splintered fragments. Blondie, on the right cuddling his empty pillow, was Crystal Balls aka the Stripping Magician. The marquee from her show advertised, “She has nothing up her sleeve.” Dark-hair on the left had been the assistant . . . Destiny? Dallas? Daisy?
Something with a D.
How in Houdini they all ended up in bed together is where the facts got fuzzy.
A feather-trimmed sequined gown was crumpled by the mini bar and an old-man ventriloquist’s dummy appeared to track his furtive movements from the corner. Archer stepped over a Jim Beam bottle and crept toward the bathroom. Next mission? A thorough shower followed by the strongest coffee on the strip.
Coffee. Yes. Soon. Plus a short stack of buttermilk pancakes, a Denver omelet, and enough bacon to require the sacrifice of a dozen hogs. Starving didn’t come close to describing the hollow feeling in his gut, like he’d run a sub-four-hour marathon, scaled Everest, and then wrestled a two-ton longhorn. His reflection stared back from the bathroom mirror, circles under his green eyes and thick morning scruff. For the last year a discontented funk had risen within him. How many times had he insisted he was too young to be tied down to a serious committed relationship, job . . . or anything? Well, at twenty-seven he might not be geriatric, but he was getting too old for this bed-hopping shit.
“What the hell are you doing?” he muttered to himself.
The facts were Mr. Brightwater wasn’t looking his best. His second cousin, Kit, gave him that nickname after he graced the cover of a “Boys of Brightwater” town calendar last year to support the local Lions Club. He’d been February and posed holding a red cardboard heart over his johnson to avoid an X rating, although as his big brother Sawyer dryly noted, “Not like most women around here haven’t already seen it.”
In fairness, Brightwater, California, didn’t host a large population. For a healthy man who liked the ladies, it didn’t take long to make the rounds at The Dirty Shame, the local watering hole. Vegas getaways meant variety, a chance to spice things up, although a threesome with Crystal and Donna—Deborah? Deena? Dazzle?—was akin to swallowing a whole habanero.
He reached into the shower and flicked on the tap as a warm furry body hopped across his foot. “Shit!” He vaulted back, nearly going ass over teakettle, before bracing himself on the counter. A bewildered white rabbit peered up, nose twitching.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He squinted into the steam with increased suspicion. Hopefully, Crystal’s act didn’t also involve a baby crocodile or, worse, a boa constrictor. He hated snakes.
The coast was clear so he stepped inside, the hot water sending him halfway to human. There was a tiny bottle of hotel shampoo perched in the soap dish and he gave it a dubious sniff. It smelled like flowers but would do the job of rinsing away stale perfume and sex. He worked a dollop through his thick hair, shoulder muscles relaxing.
He’d always prided himself on being the kind of good-time guy who held no regrets, but lately it seemed like there was a difference between dwelling on past mistakes and reflecting in order to avoid future ones. Did he really want to live out these shallow morning-after scenarios forever like some warped version of Groundhog Day?
The hair on the back of his neck tingled with the unmistakable sensation of being watched. He swiped suds from his eyes and turned, nearly nose-to-nose with the blank stare of the old-man ventriloquist’s dummy.
“Fuck,” he barked, any better word lost in shock.
“Great Uncle Sam don’t like it when menfolk cuss,” the dummy responded in a deep, Southern drawl. Other than the puppet on her hand, Dixie-Dorothy-Darby wore nothing but a suggestive smile.
“Uh . . . morning, beautiful.” Thank God for matching dimples, they’d charmed him out of enough bad situations.
“No one’s ever made me come so hard.” The puppet’s mustache bobbed as he spoke and more of last night’s drunken jigsaw puzzle snapped into place. Desdemona-Diana-Doris had gone on (and on) about her dream of becoming a professional ventriloquist. She’d brought out the puppet and made Great Uncle Sam talk dirty, which had been hilarious after Tequila Slammers, Snake Bites, Buttery Nipples, and 5 Deadly Venoms, plus a few bottles of champagne.
It was a whole lot less funny now.
“Hey, D, would you mind giving me a sec here? I’m going to finish rinsing off.” When in doubt, he always referred to a woman by her first initial, it made him sound affectionate instead of like an asshole.
“D?” rumbled Great Uncle Sam.
Damn. Apparently an initial wasn’t going to cut it.
Okay think . . . Dinah? No. Two rocks glinted from her lobes—a possible namesake. “Diamond?”
Great Uncle Sam slowly shook his head. Maybe it was Archer’s imagination, but the painted eyes narrowed fractionally. “Stormy.”
And so was her expression.
Not even close.
“Stormy?” he repeated blankly. “Yeah, Stormy, of course. Gorgeous name. Makes me think of rain and . . . and . . . rainbows . . . and . . .”
“You called it out enough last night, the least you could do is be a gentleman and remember it the next morning!” Great Uncle Sam head-butted him.
Add splitting headache to his current list of troubles.
Archer scrambled from the shower before he got his bare ass taken down by a puppet. You don’t fight back against a woman, even if she is trying to bash your brain in with Pinocchio’s demented elderly uncle.
“Get the hell out.” Stormy’s real voice sounded a lot more Jersey Shore than genteel Georgian peach farmer. She wasn’t half bad at the whole ventriloquist gig, but now wasn’t the time to offer compliments.
He threw on his Levi’s commando-style while Stormy eyed his package as if prepping to go Category Five hurricane on his junk. Scooping his red Western shirt off the floor, he made a break for the bedroom. His boots were by the door but his hat was still on the bed, specifically on Crystal’s head. Her sleepy expression gave way to confusion as Stormy sprang from the bathroom, Great Uncle Sam leading the charge.
“What’s going on?” Crystal asked as Stormy bellowed, “Prepare to have your manwhore ass kicked back into whatever cowpoke hole you crawled from.”
Hat? Boots? Hat? Boots? Archer only had time to grab one. He slung his arms through the shirt, not bothering to snap the pearl clasps, and grabbed the hand-tooled boots while hurtling into the hall. Yeah, definitely getting too old for this shit.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he called over one shoulder as the dove swooped.
He bypassed the elevator bay in favor of the stairwell. Once he’d descended three floors, he paused to tug on his boots and his phone rang. Pulling it out from his back pocket, he groaned at the screen. Grandma Kane.
He could let it go to voice mail. In fact, he was tempted to do just that, but the thing about Grandma was she called back until you picked up.
With a heavy sigh, and a prayer for two Tylenol, he hit “answer.” “How’s the best grandma in the world?” he boomed, propping the phone between his ear and shoulder and snapping together his shirt.
“Quit with your smooth talk, boy,” Grandma barked. “Where are you?”
“Leaving church,” he fibbed quickly.
“Better not be the Little Chapel of Love.”
“What do you—”
“Don’t feed me bullhickey. You’re in Vegas again.”
Sawyer must have squeaked. As Brightwater sheriff, he was into upright citizenship and moral standing, nobler than George Washington and his fucking cherry tree.
“Did you forget about our plans for this weekend?”
“Plans?” He wracked his brain but thinking hurt. So did walking down these stairs. Come to think of it, so did breathing. He needed that upcoming coffee and bacon like a nose needed picking.
Grandma made a rude noise. “To go over the accounts for Hidden Rock. You promised to set up the new purchase-order software on the computer.”
Shit. His shoulders slumped. He had offered to help. Grandma ran a large, profitable cattle ranch, but the Hidden Rock’s inventory management was archaic, and the accounting practically done by abacus. In his hurry to see if an impromptu Vegas road trip could overcome his funk, the meeting had slipped his mind. “Let me make it up to you—”
“Your charm has no currency here, boy.” Grandpa Kane died before Archer was born and Grandma never remarried. Perhaps he should introduce her to Stormy’s Great Uncle Sam. Those two were a match made in heaven, could spend their spare time busting his balls.
He closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. “I’m sorry, I completely forgot, okay?” Not okay. Grandma counted on him and he let her down.
“Funny, guess you’re probably too busy using women like disposable silverware.” Her tone sounded anything but amused. “Even funnier will be when I forget to put you in my will.”
Grandma’s favorite threat was disinheriting him. Who cared? The guy voted Biggest Partier and Class Flirt his senior year at Brightwater High was also the least likely to run Hidden Rock Ranch.
The line went dead. At least she didn’t ask why he couldn’t be more like Sawyer anymore.
Whatever. Archer had it good, made great tips as a wrangler at a dude ranch. His middle brother took life seriously enough and he hadn’t seen his oldest one in years. Wilder worked as a smoke jumper in Montana. Sometimes Archer wondered what would happen if he cruised to Big Sky Country and paid him a surprise visit—maybe he had multiple sister wives or was a secret war lord.
Growing up after their parents died in a freak house fire, they all slipped into roles. Wilder withdrew, brooding and angry, Sawyer became Mr. Nice Guy, always the teacher’s pet or offering to do chores. Archer rounded things out by going for laughs and practical jokes and causing trouble because someone had to remind everyone else not to take life so seriously. None of them were getting out alive.
He kept marching down the flights of stairs, tucking in his shirt. Grandma’s words played on a loop in his mind. “Using women like disposable silverware.”
Lord knew—those women used him right back. It was fun, didn’t mean anything.
Meaningless.
He ground his jaw so tight his teeth hurt. Casual sex on pool tables, washing machines, countertops, and lawn chairs filled his physical needs, but these random hookups were starting to make him feel more and more alone.
On the ground floor, he slammed open the stairwell door. There were two corridors ahead. He turned left for no reason other than that’s the hand he favored. Seemed like he chose wisely because a side entrance gave him a quick exit. He walked out, wincing at the morning sun even as he gulped fresh air, fresh for the Vegas Strip, but a far cry from the Eastern Sierras’s clean mountain breeze. His heart stirred. He’d have some breakfast and hit the road. As much as he liked leaving Brightwater, he always missed home.
Archer reached to adjust his hat and grabbed a handful of wet hair instead. Twelve stories above, a stripping magician had found herself a mighty fine Stetson.
He stepped onto the street, jumping back on the curb when a city bus turned, the side plastered with a shoe ad sporting the slogan, “Can You Run Forever?”
Hell, he’d been running from accountability, stability, and boring routines his whole life.
Another thought crept in and sank its roots deep. Was he really running from those things, or was he letting his fears of commitment and responsibility run him instead?
See where it all started in the first wonderful installment in the Brightwater series,
LAST FIRST KISS
A kiss is just the beginning. . .
PINTEREST PERFECT. OR so Annie Carson’s life appears on her popular blog. Reality is . . . messier. Especially when it lands her back in one-cow town, Brightwater, California, and back in the path of the gorgeous six-foot-four reason she left. Sawyer Kane may fill out those Wranglers, but she won’t be distracted from her task. Annie just needs the summer to spruce up and sell her family’s farm so she and her young son can start a new life in the big city. Simple, easy, perfect.
Sawyer has always regretted letting the first girl he loved slip away. He won’t make the same mistake twice, but can he convince beautiful, wary Annie to trust her heart again when she’s been given every reason not to? And as a single kiss turns to so much more, can Annie give up her idea of perfect for a forever that’s blissfully real?
Available Now from Avon Impulse
About the Author
After studying at the University of Montana-Missoula, LIA RILEY scoured the world armed with only a backpack, overconfidence, and a terrible sense of direction. She counts shooting vodka with a Ukrainian mechanic in Antarctica, sipping yerba mate with gauchos in Chile, and swilling fourex with station hands in Outback Australia among her accomplishments.
A British literature fanatic at heart, Lia considers Mr. Darcy and Edward Rochester as her fictional boyfriends. Her very patient husband doesn’t mind. Much. When not torturing heroes (because c’mon, who doesn’t love a good tortured hero?), Lia herds unruly chickens, camps, beach combs, daydreams about as-of-yet unwritten books, wades through a mile-high TBR pile, and schemes yet another trip. Right now, Icelandic hot springs and Scottish castles sound mighty fine.
She and her family live mostly in Northern California.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Also by Lia Riley
Right Wrong Guy
Last First Kiss
Give in to your Impulses . . .
Continue reading for excerpts from
our newest Avon Impulse books.
Available now wherever e-books are sold.
THE BRIDE WORE RED BOOTS
A SEVEN BRIDES FOR SEVEN COWBOYS NOVEL
By Lizbeth Selvig
RESCUED BY THE RANGER
By Dixie Lee Brown
ONE SCANDALOUS KISS
AN ACCIDENTAL HEIRS NOVEL
By Christy Carlyle
DIRTY TALK
A MECHANICS OF LOVE NOVEL
By Megan Erickson
An Excerpt from
THE BRIDE WORE RED BOOTS
A Seven Brides for Seven Cowboys Novel
by Lizbeth Selvig
Amelia Crockett’s life was going exactly the way she had always planned—until one day, it wasn’t.
When Mia’s career plans are shattered, the always-in-control surgeon has no choice but to head home to Paradise Ranch and her five younger sisters, cowboy boots in tow, to figure out how to get her life back on track. The appearance of a frustrating, but oh-so-sexy, former soldier, however, turns into exactly the kind of distraction she can’t afford.
He studied her as if assessing how blunt he could be. With a wry little lift of his lip, he closed his eyes and lay all the way back onto the blanket, hands behind his head. “Honestly? You were just so much fun to get a rise out of. You’d turn all hot under the collar, like you couldn’t figure out how anyone could dare counter you—the big-city doc coming to Hicksville with the answers.”
The teasing tone of his voice was clear, but the words stung nonetheless. Funny. They wouldn’t have bothered her at all a week ago, she thought. Now it hurt that he would ever think of her that way. She hadn’t been that awful—she’d only wanted to put order to the chaos and bring a little rationality to the haywire emotions after her mother and sister’s awful accident.
“Hey.” She turned at the sound of his voice to find him sitting upright beside her again. “Amelia, I know better now. I know you. I’m not judging you—then or now.”
Pricks of miniscule teardrops stung her eyes, the result of extreme embarrassment—and profound relief. She had no idea what to make of the reaction. It was neither logical nor something she ever remembered experiencing.
“I know.”
To her horror, the roughness of her emotions shone through her voice, and Gabriel peered at her, his face a study in surprise. “Are you crying? Amelia, I’m sorry—I was just giving you grief, I wasn’t—”
“I’m not crying.” Her insistence held no power even though it wasn’t a lie. No water fell from her eyes; it just welled behind the lids. “I’m not upset. I’m . . . relieved. I . . . it was nice, what you . . . said.” She clamped her mouth closed before something truly stupid emerged and looked down at the blanket, picking at a pill in the wool’s plaid pile.
A touch beneath her chin drew her gaze back up. Gabriel’s eyes were mere inches from hers, shining with that beautiful caramel brown that suddenly looked like it could liquefy into pure sweetness and sex. Every masculine pore of his skin caught her attention and made her fingers itch to stroke the texture of his cheek. The scent of wind-blown skin and chocolate tantalized her.
“Don’t be anything but what and who you are, Amelia Crockett.”
His kiss brushed her mouth with the weightlessness of a Monarch on a flower petal. Soft, ethereal, tender, it promised nothing but a taste of pleasure and asked for nothing in return. Yet, as subtle as it was, it drove a punch of desire deep into Mia’s core and then set her stomach fluttering with anticipation.
He pulled back but his fingers remained on her chin. “I’m sorry. That was probably uncalled for.”
When his fingers, too, began to slide from her skin, she reacted without thinking and grabbed his hand. “No. It’s . . . It was . . . Gah—” Frustrated by her constant, unfamiliar loss for words, she leaned forward rather than let mortification set in and pressed a kiss against his lips this time, foregoing light and airy for the chance to taste him fully. Beneath the pressure, his lips curved into a smile. She couldn’t help it then, her mouth mimicked his and they clashed in a gentle tangle of lips, teeth, and soft, surprised chuckles.
“Crazy,” he said in a whisper, as he encircled her shoulders and pulled her closer.
“Yeah,” she agreed and opened her mouth to invite his tongue to meet hers.
First kisses in Mia’s experience were usually fraught with uncertainty and awkwardness about what should come next, but not this one. Kissing Gabriel seemed as natural and pleasurable as walking along a stunning stream full of rapids and eddies and satisfying things to explore. She explored them all and let him taste and enjoy right back. When at last they let each other go, her head continued to spin with surprise, and every nerve ending sparkled with desire.
An Excerpt from
RESCUED BY THE RANGER
by Dixie Lee Brown
Army Ranger Garrett Harding is new in town—but not necessarily welcome. The only thing Rachel Maguire wants is to send this muscled military man packing. But when the stalker who destroyed her life ten years ago reappears, Rachel hits the road hoping to lure danger away from those she loves. Garrett won’t let this sexy spitfire face trouble alone. He’ll do anything to protect her. Even if it means risking his life—and his heart.
Pressed tight to the wall, Garrett waited. As she burst from cover, looking over her right shoulder and away from him, he stepped toward her. Catching her around the middle, he swung her off her feet and up against his body, holding her tightly with both arms. “It’s me, Rach. Take it easy. I just want to talk.”
She stopped struggling, so he loosened his hold as he set her back on her feet. Mistake number one. She dug her fingernails into his forearm, scratching until she drew blood. As soon as he leaned over her shoulder to grab her hand, she whacked his jaw with the back of her head, hard enough to send him stumbling back a step. He shook his head to clear the stars in time to see her swing that black bag.
“Wait a minute, Rachel!” Garrett tried to duck, but her shorter height gave her the advantage. She caught him across the side of the head, and there was apparently something heavy and damn hard in her bag. He staggered, lost his balance, and went down.
She looked surprised for a second before determination steeled her expression. “I told you not to look for me. What didn’t you understand about that?” Shifting her bag onto her shoulder, she turned, and started running down the alley.
“Well, shit.” Garrett glanced at Cowboy and damned if it didn’t look like he was laughing. “Okay, already. You were right. Saddle up, Cowboy.”
The dog took off, his long strides closing the distance to Rachel’s retreating back easily. Garrett stood, brushing the dirt off and taking a moment to stretch the ache from the wound in his back. Then he jogged after the girl and the dog. He’d seriously underestimated Rachel today. Cowboy had his instructions to stop her, but keeping her there would require a whole different set of commands—ones that Garrett would never utter where Rachel was concerned.
Ahead of him, the dog ran circles around her, making the circle smaller each time. When she finally stopped, keeping a wary eye on the animal, Cowboy dropped to a walk, his tail wagging as he angled toward her. Though she didn’t move, her body, tense and ready, said she was on high alert. Garrett picked up his pace to reach them.
Rachel looked over her shoulder, obviously noted the diminishing distance between them, and grabbed for her satchel. The next thing he knew, the damn hard object she’d hit him with—a small revolver—was in her hand and she was pointing it at Cowboy.
“You need to stay where you are, Garrett, and call your dog or . . . I’ll shoot him.”
“Cowboy, chill.” The dog dropped to the ground, watching Garrett carefully. “This is what it’s come to then? You want to get away from me so bad you’re willing to shoot my dog?”
She shook her head dejectedly. “That’s not what I want, but I will if I have to.”
“I don’t believe you, Rach. That dog’s just following orders. My orders. Shoot me if you want to hurt somebody.” Garrett moved a few steps closer.
Rachel laughed scornfully. “Did you miss the part where I tried to leave without anybody getting hurt?”
“No. I get that you’re worried about Peg, Jonathan, and the rest of the people at the lodge, but damn it, Rachel, they love you. They want to understand. They want to help if they can, because that’s what people do when they love someone. They don’t sneak off in the night, leaving their family to wonder what happened.”
“I can’t—” She lowered the weapon until her hand hung at her side. Her eyes closed for a second, then she sat abruptly amidst the grass that bordered the alley.
Garrett walked up to her and knelt down. Prying the gun from her fingers, he placed it back in her bag and zipped it up. “Yes, you can. I’ll help you.” He tilted her chin up so he could see the sheen of her expressive green eyes. “Give me a chance, Rachel. What have you got to lose?”
