Lip Service. Susan Mallery

was nothing but the perfection of being with him again.

      Beneath her, Mitch met each of her movements with a hard thrust that satisfied every part of her. He grabbed her and steadied her rhythm, then tensed and lost himself in her. When she was sure he was done, she slowed, then stopped. And then it was just their breath in the air, both of them recovering.

      Reality returned in the form of an ant climbing up her arm. Skye brushed it away, then stood, feeling exposed and awkward. She had one boot on, one off. Her pants and panties hung on one leg. Her bra was loose under her shirt. Mitch zipped up and was dressed in about five seconds. She was left with her ass hanging out for all the world to see.

      While she struggled to dress, he stood and leaned against the rock, watching her.

      His jeans hung empty on the left side, but she was the one who stumbled and couldn’t get herself together. Finally she was dressed and pulled on her boot. She straightened, not sure what to say.

      There were a thousand things she almost blurted out. Like, “that wasn’t supposed to happen.” Or, “I don’t have sex with strangers.” Except Mitch wasn’t a stranger. Not exactly.

      His dark eyes gave nothing away. She couldn’t read him at all. Finally, one corner of his mouth lifted.

      “Thanks, babe. I needed that. Next time you’re feeling like you want to get laid, give me a call and I’ll see if I can fit you in.”

      The verbal slap landed with perfect precision. She flushed, as shame filled her. She walked toward her horse, grabbed her hat, shoved it on her head, then swung up into the saddle and rode away.

      It was only when she was a mile or so from the rock outcropping that she allowed herself to give in to the tears burning in her eyes. She cried all the way to the barn—some for herself, some for Mitch, but mostly for how young and in love they’d once been and how much had been lost.

      CHAPTER TWO

      AFTER GETTING his prosthesis reattached, Mitch got into the truck and drove back toward the house. He stopped a half mile or so from the buildings that made up the heart of the ranch. He wasn’t ready to face Fidela again. Or anyone.

      When he’d awakened on the naval hospital ship and realized what had happened, all he could think was that it was time to go home. That after nearly nine years, he was ready to go back where he belonged. But now that he was here he realized it wasn’t home anymore. Everything had changed…including him.

      He turned off the engine and leaned back in the seat. He hurt all over, but the worst throbbing came from the part of his leg that didn’t exist anymore. He’d been told that would happen and given pages of instructions on how to deal with the pain. Everything from massaging his stump to some stupid-assed hand-rubbing energy woo-woo crap he hadn’t bothered reading. He was strong—he would will the pain away. Eventually. Until then he would deal.

      The sun had moved in the sky and long shadows crept along the land. Time was passing, although not fast enough to suit him. He wanted it to be a year from now, or five, so he wouldn’t have to be adjusting to everything. He wanted that behind him.

      Without him wanting it to, his body clenched as if remembering what it felt like to be inside Skye. She’d taken him with a passion he’d never been able to completely forget. She hadn’t cared about his missing leg or the years they’d been apart. She’d wanted what he had always been able to give her—what they’d given each other. Then he’d hurt her because she’d deserved it.

      Pain had flashed in her eyes and he didn’t regret causing it. He could only hope it kept her up nights, that she couldn’t breathe for feeling it. He wanted her to have nothing but regret. That might be the first step in evening out the score.

      But all the revenge in the world didn’t take away the wanting. Even now, not thirty minutes later, he ached for her. Ached to be inside of her, touching her, tasting her. The kissing had been good, but hadn’t lasted long enough. He wanted to savor all of her, to lick her between her legs until she screamed and he nearly lost control himself.

      He told himself it wouldn’t be like that anymore, but he knew he was lying. Whatever happened between them, the fire still burned. It was—

      Something moved in the shadows.

      He sat up and leaned forward, trying to figure out the shape and speed. A coyote, he thought, disgusted. Scavengers.

      Instinctively he reached behind the truck seat, but he hadn’t thought to bring a shotgun. Then he saw where the coyote was headed and realized it didn’t matter.

      The skinny predator moved with a confidence that spoke of experience or extreme hunger. It slipped through a break in the fencing. The hated chickens squawked and tried to get away, but they weren’t nearly as fast as the coyote and they were trapped by the fencing. The coyote used that to his advantage. He grabbed one, snapped its neck with a quick, violent shake and retreated, dinner hanging limply from his jaws.

      Mitch started the truck’s engine and headed back to the house. As he pulled up in front, he saw Arturo standing on the porch, shotgun in hand.

      “Did you see what he did?” the older man demanded. “I checked that fence line yesterday but it must have gotten damaged this morning. Damn coyotes are always prowling, always looking for a weak spot. I wish I’d gotten here sooner. I would have shot him.”

      Mitch hadn’t seen Arturo in nearly nine years but, except for a few gray hairs, his manager hadn’t changed much. He was still tall and barrel-chested, with a permanent squint as if the sun was always in his eyes. As a kid Mitch had loved watching old Westerns on TV. He’d thought Arturo was the Latin version of John Wayne—big, brave and able to beat the bad guys, despite any odds.

      “It’s good to see you, old man,” Mitch said.

      Arturo dropped the gun onto the bench by the front door and grabbed Mitch by the upper arms. “I’m glad you’re back. We missed you. Every night Fidela prayed for your safe return.”

      “She told me.”

      “She worried. We both worried.”

      There was love in the old man’s eyes. He had been there for Mitch far more than his own father had ever been. Arturo had taught him all he knew about life.

      Carefully, aware of his balance, he hugged the other man. Arturo squeezed him tightly, then slapped him on the back.

      “You look good. How do you feel?”

      “About what you’d expect.”

      “Fidela is going to fatten you up. Be prepared to eat. You know how she gets.”

      “Tell me we’re not having chicken,” Mitch grumbled, hating the birds.

      “We have plenty, even with the one that got away.”

      “The coyotes can take them all.”

      Arturo stepped back. “Why would you say that? They’re your chickens.”

      “I don’t want ’em. We run beef here. We always have. When did you sell out? Chickens? And organic beef? What’s next? Do we all go around saving the spotted owl and hugging trees?”

      Arturo frowned, then folded his arms across his big chest. “I told you what I wanted to do seven years ago. I explained everything and said to let me know if you didn’t want me to go ahead with the changes.”

      Which was probably true. “I didn’t read any of the reports,” Mitch admitted, wishing there was a casual way he could sit down and take the weight off his stump. It felt like it was on fire.

      “What about the bank statements?” Arturo asked, sounding more curious than pissed.

      “Once in a while.” He’d seen enough to know there was plenty of money. The ranch had grown even more profitable in the time he’d been away.

      “The cattle industry is changing,” Arturo said. “Consumers