Texas Standoff. Ruth Smith Alana

reminded him in a teasing tone.

      “I think we’re well on our way to becoming better acquainted.” Unlike her, there was not a trace of levity in his face or voice.

      She met his gaze levelly as she brushed past him. “Well, then, since we’re warming up to each other, why don’t you call me by name, too? It’s not so hard to remember the initials E and Z, is it?” She spoke soft and slow, the same way her body worked beneath the robe as she led him through the house to the kitchen.

      He made the mental correction-sounds the same, only the lady was known as E.Z. not Easy. The phrase “nice and easy” came to mind as he followed her, only he substituted her initials. A devilish glimmer lit his brown eyes at contemplating the subtle implication. Was she? he wondered. Was she nice? Was she easy? Aware of the dangerous turn his thoughts had taken, he began to question if the brandy he’d already consumed had warped his senses. Are you an absolute jerk or just plain nuts? The offer was limited to sharing some Hot Schnapps; it did not extend to hot bodies thrashing around between the sheets. Her intent was to sedate him, not seduce him. So she’d gotten tagged with a pet name, like Miguel. So it was a bit suggestive. Don’t blow it out of proportion, and for heaven’s sake, don’t make any wisecracks, he coached himself. He wondered what the E stood for-Elizabeth, Erica, Elaine. Then again, what did it matter? His rational self knew there was no chance in hell of winding up in the sack with his hostess. It was preposterous. Instant chemistry and spontaneous sex happened in the movies or in his wildest dreams. It didn’t happen between real peopleand virtual strangers at that. Still, a secret and impulsive part of him wished it could happen. Tonight. with her. whatever her real name might be.

      He lingered in the kitchen doorway, his gaze following her every move. As she squatted down to retrieve a bottle of schnapps from the bottom shelf of the open hutch, the neckline of her robe separated, affording him a view of sun-bronzed breasts. He tried to resist, to remain unaffected, to curb his lust for a perfect stranger. Though he made a conscious effort, at some point between his brain and his groin area, the message got scrambled. His body could not deny a reaction his sensible self knew was absurd.

      E.Z. glanced up at him from her crouched position. When her gaze locked with his, the words she’d been about to utter melted away under the heat of his smoldering eyes. She knew she should ignore the raw wanting reflected in the dark pools confronting her, but a completely foreign and strangely primitive urge deep inside refused to turn away from the unspoken suggestion hovering in the safe space between them.

      She’d never been accused of being coy or, for that matter, especially diplomatic. The mistress of Cheyenne Moon was a very direct person. Sometimes it got her in trouble. Though she had a reputation for being a good-hearted and fair person, it was also a well-established fact that the Winston woman had a tendency to be plainspoken, at times hot-tempered, and tough as nails when need be. True to form, she knew no other way to approach the matter at hand except headon. Other than the barely perceptible lift of her chin, there was not the slightest indication that his obvious scrutiny of her partially bared breasts rattled her in the least.

      “I get the distinct feelin’ that you’re in the mood for something more stimulatin’ than what I’m offerin’,” she said flatly.

      He knew perfectly well she could read his mind. What’s more, he instantly realized it would be a mistake to try to gloss over what was already a sticky situation. Why not be as honest as she was. “You’re very instinctive,” was his cool reply.

      She straightened up but defiantly did not touch the neckline of her robe. Setting the bottle of schnapps on the dining table, she rested a hand on one of the ladderback chairs, the other on a hip, and assessed him. “I don’t mind a man lookin’ at me. A woman can’t be the shrinking-violet type and run roughshod over a bunch of cowboys,” she said matter-of-factly.

      “I suppose not,” he agreed. He had to respect her grit. Such candor in a woman was unusual.

      She turned away on the pretext of being completely absorbed with hunting through a kitchen cabinet for a pair of shot glasses. Colin hadn’t budged from his position at the doorway when she returned to the table. “Well, are you going to just stand there gawkin’ at me or take a chair?” she challenged.

      He followed her lead, settling opposite her at the table and pretending to be equally as absorbed in watching her fill the shot glasses to the brim with the cinnamon-flavored schnapps. He noted that she’d managed to discreetly adjust the lapels of her robe while her back had been to him, but decided not to comment.

      She shoved a shot glass in his direction, picked up her own and held it suspended above the center of the table with a gesture for him to do likewise.

      He clinked his glass against hers. “What are we drinking to?” he asked.

      “You name it,” she countered.

      He supposed “sudden encounters and great sex” might be pushing it a bit. Instead, he opted for something less obvious. “How about we drink to stormy starts and satisfying endings?” he proposed.

      She returned his sly grin. “Fine with me,” she said, tipping the glass to her lips and quaffing down the pungent, liquor in one giant gulp.

      Her nonchalance intrigued him. Not to be outdone by a woman, he drank down the nightcap in the same cavalier fashion.

      Her immediate impression of him might’ve been wrong. At the moment he didn’t seem nearly as stiff and contrary as she’d first thought. She surveyed him thoughtfully. “So, are ya married, Colin?” she heard herself asking, unable to believe what had just come out of her mouth. It went against all of her principles, everything she’d been taught since a child. It was an unwritten rule not to delve into another’s personal affairs. “Sorry. That’s none of my business. I had no right to pry.”

      He reached for the bottle and replenished their glasses. “I don’t mind the question,” he replied honestly. “I’m divorced.” He studied her, taking in every detail of her freshly scrubbed face. Not a trace of makeup and still she was breathtaking.

      She merely nodded and accepted the refill he pushed in her direction. That was that. No follow-up to the personal inquiry.

      They nursed their drinks in silence. The tick, tick, ticking of the old school clock on the kitchen wall grew more noticeable.

      Finally he spoke up. “I haven’t really thanked you properly for rescuing me today and putting me up for the night,” he said half-apologetically.

      “There’s no need to thank me. I woulda done as much for anybody caught out in that awful weather.”

      He could have done without the offhand shrug that followed. It didn’t exactly make him feel special.

      Nor did it exactly convey her true regard for him. Hardly. Colin Majors was definitely special. Oh, sure she would have helped out any poor soul stranded in that storm. But had she rescued a less appealing man, she sure as hell wouldn’t be missing any sleep in order to play hostess to him in the wee small hours of the morning. That was the real truth of it.

      He continued to carry the conversation, making small talk, wondering if he was, in some way, making a positive impression on her in the process. They discussed ranch life briefly. They talked about politics generally. The only common denominator they struck upon was a passion for the game of basketball, and even there they differed-she being a die-hard San Antonio Spurs fan and he believing that the Houston Rockets would sweep the playoffs this year.

      He sensed she was as attracted to him as he was to her. Insane as it seemed, he found himself wanting this woman like he’d wanted no other since his wife. Gwen was history. E.Z. was a current event. here and now…at this table.just an arm’s length away. What should he do? Continue to make small talk? Pretend that his heart wasn’t beating double-time or that this irresistible urge to make love to the flesh-and-blood woman so near to him didn’t exist? Only an iron man could let the moment go by. But what could he say? Please don’t take offense, but does your hospitality extend to allowing me the courtesy of making wild love to you? It was