That Night In Texas. Joss Wood

clear that she’d made a mistake by walking out on him, her little speech was imprinted on his brain, possibly because it closely resembled his father’s words of non-encouragement. “You’re a McNeal, you’ll never amount to much. None of us ever have and you won’t be the first.”

      His bank statement and long lists of assets refuted that statement. But Cam was a realist: he might be good at business, but he’d make a lousy father and husband. Hell, judging by how fast that nameless girl in Tarrin left his bed three years ago, he wasn’t even that great at one-night stands. Sex, he was good at that, but not so much at the touchy feely stuff woman liked.

      Cam slapped his hands on the counter and met the weary eyes of the nurse behind it. “I got a call about a woman who put my name down as an emergency contact. I’m Camden McNeal.”

      “Patient name?”

      Cam tried to recall his earlier conversation. “Dunbar? Dun...something?”

      “Donner? Vivianne Donner?”

      Cam shrugged. The name didn’t mean any more to him now than it had earlier. The nurse tapped her keyboard and nodded. “Room 302. She has severe concussion and she needs a ride home, and someone to take care of her when she gets there. Down the hall, turn right and she’ll be on your left.”

      Cam looked at the long hallway and sighed. Well, it looked like he was about to meet Ms. Donner and maybe he’d find out why he was listed as her emergency contact. Come to think of it, who was listed as his emergency contact? Had he ever listed anyone? Not that he could recall.

      Reaching the closed door to room 302, Cam knocked gently. And when he received no reply, he eased open the door. He glanced toward the bed and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light.

      His first impressions were of a long, slim body topped by a cloud of curls the color of lightly toasted caramel. His stomach rumbled at the thought of food. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten, as it had been a busy, physically draining twenty-four hours. He needed to talk to the woman, get her to take his name off her papers and get some food. Maybe then his headache would finally start to dissipate.

      Cam flipped on the overhead light and it took a minute, maybe more, to realize that his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, that his imagination wasn’t running riot. He rested his hands on the bed next to her thigh and ordered his racing heart to slow down, his lungs to pull in air. He closed his eyes, re-centered himself and then forced them open again.

      Yep, she was still there.

      Cam stared down at that stunning face, his heart pounding against his chest in a fight-or-flight reaction. It had been three years, give or take, since he’d seen her last, and damn, she looked, well, amazing. Sure, she had three stitches holding a cut together on a finely arched eyebrow, a bruise on her cheek and a scrape across her jaw, and a deep cut on her bottom lip, but her injuries didn’t take away from her drop-him-to-his-knees beauty. She’d lost weight and looked like a puff of wind would blow her away.

      Turning, Cam saw the chair next to the bed. He hooked his foot around its legs and dragged it toward him. He dropped down into it and placed his forearms on his thighs, resisting the urge to shake her awake. What the hell game was she playing? She had to be playing one, because, let’s be honest, everyone did.

      He wasn’t sure if she’d played him then, but he was certain she was playing him now. Cam stared at her as memories of that dive bar rolled over him. It had been a crap hole, little more than a shack serving watered-down drinks to the ranch hands and the refinery crews working in the area.

      He’d been aware of her—Vivianne, he now had a name to go with the stunning face—the moment she stepped into the dive bar, as had every other man in the place. She’d looked so damn young and so very vulnerable with the shot glass in her hand, her eyes on the fiery liquid. He expected her to push it away, to turn tail and run, but she’d squared her shoulders and tossed the liquor back, blinking furiously as she swallowed. She’d banged her glass down, ordered another and slowly, oh so slowly, turned those brown-black eyes in his direction.

      “One down, two more experiments to go.”

      He’d lifted his beer bottle in her direction, noting her long legs in tight, faded denim and the way her white T-shirt hugged the curves of her breasts and skimmed a board-flat stomach.

      She was older than he initially thought, somewhere in her midtwenties, yet while they might be close in age, he’d figured he’d lived a thousand more lifetimes—all of them harder and rougher than hers.

      He should’ve ignored her, finished his beer and left, but he’d turned to face her and cocked his head. “You a scientist, sweetheart?”

      She’d ignored him at first, taken the second shot and tossed it down her throat. He’d never managed to forget her answer. She’d wrinkled her nose as she decided how to answer. “Nope. Tonight I’m going to see what being normal feels like.”

      “There are better bars in better places,” Cam had told her, hoping that she’d walk out and leave him to his beer and his loneliness. He knew how to handle his liquor and his solitude, but she had him wanting to drink less and talk more.

      She’d plopped that spectacular butt down on the seat next to him, her knee brushing against the outside of his thigh. He’d felt a bolt of desire skitter up his thigh and lodge in his balls. He’d swelled and groaned. He wasn’t a kid, so why was he getting turned on by a light touch and a woman who looked like the girl next door and smelled like wildflowers?

      “But I can’t get to those places and you look like fun.”

      Cam had almost smiled at that. Him fun? She couldn’t be more wrong. He’d thought about leaving her there in the bar, about going back to his motel room with a six-pack, but he couldn’t leave her there alone. So he’d bought her a beer and then they’d moved on to a diner for burgers and ended the evening with fantastic sex in a motel room. No names, no expectations and, yeah, he’d had fun.

      He’d liked her.

      And now, after three years, she was back in his life, lying in a hospital room, dressed in a hospital gown, banged up and bruised. With his name as her emergency contact number. And like back then, his mouth was dry, his heart was thumping and his pants were tight against his crotch. Peachy.

      What the hell was going on here?

      Cam felt her leg jerk and his eyes shot to her face. Her eyelids flickered, and he waited for that burst of brown, braced himself for the sexual punch that was sure to follow. She groaned, half lifted her hand and then dropped it to the bed, as if the action required more energy than she was capable of. Those long eyelashes lifted and he watched as she took a moment to focus. Her mouth tilted at the corners and her expression softened.

      “Camden?”

      So she knew him, recognized him. Cam frowned when her eyes drifted closed again. Oh, no, he wasn’t going to sit next to her bed like a lovelorn admirer waiting for her to wake up. He was exhausted and hungry, dammit. Cam tapped her hand with his finger and slowly her eyelids lifted.

      The tip of a pink tongue darted across her top lip and Cam ignored the bolt of lust as he remembered that tongue on his abs, going lower. She’d been inexperienced in that department but very enthusiastic...

       Down, boy.

      He rubbed his hand over his face, and when he dropped his hand again, the confusion in her eyes was replaced by panic. “Where am I? Where’s Clem? Is she okay?”

      She started to push herself up, groaning as she sat up. She pushed the covers away and swung those sexy, bare legs to the side. Cam immediately realized that she was trying to climb out of bed. He shot up and placed a hand on her shoulder, pinning her to the pillow. She slapped his hand away and went for the IV, trying to pull the needle from her arm.

      “I’ve got to get to Clem. Let me go, dammit!” Her breath hitched and panic made her words run together. “What’s the time? How late is it? Where’s my