Cowboy Country: The Creed Legacy / Blame It on the Cowboy. Delores Fossen

you lucky SOB, Brody thought, too distracted to catch the irony.

      Silently, Brody seethed, his body taut with the anticipation of something that wasn’t going to happen. Not that he couldn’t have had Carolyn—he knew he could. He’d sensed her vulnerability, and the biochemical signals had definitely been traveling both ways.

      The lovemaking wasn’t going to happen, though, because he wasn’t going to let it happen. Not yet. It was too soon, the situation was delicate, and while he hadn’t learned all his life lessons, or probably even a fraction of them, he had learned that one.

      Carolyn wanted him, but she wasn’t ready.

      Oh, she’d respond, all right—she was a responsive woman, as spirited as a wild mare—but when the effects wore off, when the afterglow went out like yesterday’s fire in the woodstove, she’d hate him.

      Worse, she’d hate herself, too.

      So Brody meant to wait—no matter what it cost him.

      He shoved a hand through his river-dampened hair—one dunk in the water hadn’t been enough to do him for a whole day. He’d had to get wet twice.

      Serve him right if he came down with pneumonia.

      While he was thinking all these thoughts, Conner and Tricia were still enjoying the hilarity of it all.

      At his expense. And here he was, being freaking noble, too.

      He deserved better.

      At last, Tricia took pity on him. “My skinny clothes are in boxes at the back of the walk-in closet in Conner’s and my room,” she said, very sweetly. “Feel free to plunder.”

      Brody had to smile then, even though he was still feeling pretty darned grumpy, all things considered. “Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate it.” He paused. In the distance, he could hear the water running in the downstairs bathroom. He pictured Carolyn naked, her trim body sluiced with soap suds and spray, and got so hard that the ache practically doubled him over. After a moment spent recovering, he cleared his throat. “You two will be coming home soon, right?” he asked.

      Say yes.

      Say no.

      “Wrong,” Tricia said happily. “Conner is taking me out for a very romantic dinner. Would you mind feeding Valentino for us? And the horses?”

      “Sure,” Brody said, thrown by what ought to have been a perfectly ordinary turn of events. “I mean, no, I wouldn’t mind feeding the critters for you. Have fun at dinner.”

      “We will,” Tricia said, and he didn’t need to see her smile, because he could feel it, hear it in her voice. This, he dimly recalled, was how a woman sounded, when she was in love. “We’ll see you hours—hours and hours—from now.”

      Brody chuckled, shook his head. If only. “Suit yourselves,” he said.

      Goodbyes were exchanged, and the call ended.

      Brody rubbed his stubbled chin, sighed as he set the cell phone aside on a counter. Obviously, Tricia thought he and Carolyn were going to spend those “hours and hours” making up for lost time, getting it on.

      He was going to have the name without the game, and so was Carolyn.

      It just plain sucked.

      * * *

      CAROLYN STEPPED OUT of the shower, dried off with a thirsty towel and appropriated one of the guest robes from the exquisitely carved antique wardrobe against the long wall. Fleece-lined, the garment brushed against her skin like a whole-body caress.

      Don’t go there, she admonished herself silently. Do not think about skin and caresses. You are in deep yogurt here, lady. Out of your depth.

      She padded over to one of the two sinks set into the counter, with its custom-painted ceramic sinks, and stared at her image in the mirror, combing her hair with splayed fingers and making eye contact with that other Carolyn.

      “Well,” she began in a whisper, though she didn’t really think Brody had his ear stuck to any of the bathroom doors, “you have done it this time. You are in a real fix, and it won’t be easy to get out of this one.”

      If you even want to get out of here without giving in to the overwhelming urge to have sex with Brody Creed.

      Carolyn flushed, indignant. “Of course I want to get out of here without having sex with Brody,” she muttered. She often had these kinds of conversations with herself—what the rest of the world didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

      Do you want to make love with him or not?

      “Well,” Carolyn admitted, deflating a little as she sighed, “yes. What healthy, red-blooded woman in her right mind wouldn’t want to have sex with Brody Creed?” She drew in a deep breath, raised her chin and squared her shoulders under the sensuous fabric of that ridiculously luxurious robe. “But,” she went on, “I’m not going to give in to temptation. Period. I’ve already been down this road once, remember, and once was more than enough.”

      She must have made her case because after that, the argumentative little voice in her head was silent.

      A rap sounded at the door leading into the hallway.

      “Yes?” Carolyn asked, with only the slightest tremor, finger-combing her hair again.

      Brody’s low-pitched chuckle penetrated the thick wood of the door. “I’ve got some of Tricia’s things here,” he said. “I’ll just set them down on the floor and back away real slow.”

      A smile crooked Carolyn’s mouth, but she quickly subdued it. This was a serious situation, she reminded herself, and if she wasn’t very, very careful, all her drummed-up resolution to take the high road would go right down the old drain.

      “Thank you,” she called back stiffly.

      She waited until she heard Brody walk away, then waited a few moments longer, for good measure. Once she was sure the proverbial coast was clear, she unlocked the door, bent to grab up the untidy stack of feminine garments from the floor and locked herself in again.

      Sitting down on the edge of the humungous bathtub because, all of a sudden, her knees had gone squishy, holding the borrowed blue jeans and white cotton shirt on her lap, she considered hiding out in that bathroom until Tricia and Conner got home.

      That would be silly, though.

      And boring. Who knew how long they’d be gone?

      So, with another sigh, Carolyn put on the jeans and the shirt, sans underwear because her own bra and panties were still wet and no self-respecting woman borrows or lends lingerie, fluffed out her hair with her fingers one more time and marched out into the corridor.

      She found Brody in the kitchen, fiddling with the coffee machine. He’d showered, too, and changed into jeans and a blue chambray shirt, Western-cut with snaps. His boots were old and scuffed, which completed the singularly appealing look.

      With a frown, he glanced in her direction. “Do you know how to work this thingamajig?” he asked. “I cannot for the life of me figure out why people can’t be satisfied with an ordinary coffeepot.”

      The question relaxed Carolyn slightly, neutralized some of the charge in the atmosphere. Tricia loved gadgets, and Carolyn had been with her when she bought the machine. They’d given it a trial run at the shop, studying the instruction book and finally mastering the thing.

      It was, in a world thick with enigmas, a problem she could solve.

      “Like this,” Carolyn said, popping a pod into the top, setting a clean cup under the spigot and pushing the buttons. It was only after the java began to brew that she realized closing the gap between herself and Brody might not have been the smartest thing she’d ever done.

      Brody didn’t move. Why should he? He’d been there first.

      Carolyn didn’t