His Enemy's Daughter. Sarah M. Anderson

You’re... Look, just put on some clothes. Please.”

      Oh, she liked that note of desperation in his voice. Was it possible she’d misread the situation? For almost ten years now, she and Pete had been snarling at each other across arenas and in parking lots. She’d always thought her physical attributes had no impact on him because he’d never reacted to her before in that way.

      But he was reacting now. She could hear the strain in his voice when he added, “Are you decent yet, woman?”

      She stood, her reflection grinning back at her. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” she said, plucking the heavily sequined white shirt off the hanger and sliding her arms through the sleeves. “I’d be willing to bet large sums of money you’ve seen your sister in a sports bra and never thought twice about it. And yes, I’m decent.”

      “Let’s get one thing straight, Lawrence—you are not my...” Pete pushed his way into the dressing room, which was not designed to hold a man his size. The space between them—no more than a foot and half—sparked with heat as his gaze fell to her chest. “Sister,” he finished, his voice coming out almost strangled as he stared at the open front of her shirt.

      “Thank God for that,” Chloe said lightly as she brushed her hands over the sequins—which conveniently lay over the sides of her breasts. “I pity Marie for having to put up with you, I really do.”

      She’d never had a problem with Marie Wellington, who worked her wife’s ranch in western Texas. But then again, Marie had made it clear some years ago that she didn’t care if the Wellingtons got control of the All-Stars or not. “It’s just a rodeo,” Marie had confided over a beer with Chloe one night. “I don’t know why Pete can’t let it go.”

      In the years since then, Chloe hadn’t gotten any closer to finding out why, either. But if the man was going to torture her, she was going to return the favor—in spades.

      Her hands reached the bottom of the shirt and she took her time making sure the hem was lined up.

      Pete’s mouth flopped open as Chloe closed the shirt, one button at a time. She probably could’ve asked him for the keys to his truck and he would’ve handed them over without even blinking. She had him completely stunned and that made him...vulnerable.

      To her.

      She let her fingers linger over that button right between her breasts as Pete began breathing harder, his eyes darkening. The cords of his neck began to bulge out and she had the wildest urge to lick her way up and down them. The space between them seemed to shrink, even though neither of them moved. Her skin heated as he stared, tension coiling low in her belly.

      Crap, she’d miscalculated again. Did she have Pete Wellington at her mercy? Pretty much. But she hadn’t accounted for the fact that desire could be a two-way street. He’d always been an intensely handsome man. She wasn’t too proud to admit she’d had a crush on him for a couple years when she’d first started riding at the rodeos, until it became clear that he would never view her as anything more than an obstacle to regaining his rodeo.

      But the way he was looking at her right now, naked lust in his eyes instead of sneering contempt?

      He wanted her. And that?

      That took everything handsome about him and made him almost unbearably gorgeous. Her pulse began to pound and, as she skimmed her fingers up her chest to ostensibly reach for the next button, she had to fight back a moan.

      “There,” she said as she fastened the last button, and dammit, her voice came out breathy. “Is that decent enough for you?”

      Pete’s gaze lingered on her body for another two seconds before he wrenched his whole head up. His eyes were glazed. She probably couldn’t have stunned him any better than if she’d hit him on the head with a two-by-four. Chloe had to bite her lower lip to keep from saying something wildly inappropriate, like I’ll undo all of those buttons while you watch or maybe just a simple, effective your turn.

      Talk about wildly inappropriate. Instead, she said, “What do you want?” because that was the question she needed the answer to.

      His presence wasn’t an accident and he was plotting something. But her words didn’t come out as an accusation. At least, it didn’t sound like one to her. It almost sounded like...an invitation.

      He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. The look in his eyes said one word and one word only—you. “We, uh, have to talk. About the job.”

      Right, right. The job. The rodeo. The feud between their families, going back over thirteen years. The way she knew he was here to undermine her but she wasn’t sure how supporting her was going to help with that.

      None of that had a damned thing to do with the way his eyes devoured her.

      She turned and bent at the waist to check her makeup in the small travel mirror. Pete made a noise behind her that sounded suspiciously like a groan. She glanced back at him in the reflection and saw that he was, predictably, staring at her behind. “Yes, the job. The one you volunteered yourself for?”

      “Yeah.” He swallowed again. “That job.”

      She reached over and picked up her chaps. They were show chaps, bright white leather that had never seen a speck of dirt or a spot of cow manure. With supple fringe at the edges, the chaps had “All-Stars” worked in beads running vertically down each of her thighs and then, at the widest part of the chaps at the bottom, “Princess of the Rodeo” had been spelled out in eye-popping gems of pink and silver. Nothing about these chaps were subtle and everything was designed to catch the eye. She always wore the white outfit on the first night of the rodeo. The second night, she had another matching outfit in patriotic red, white and blue. Those chaps were so covered with rhinestones she needed help mounting up in the saddle.

      “What I’m trying to figure out,” she said, propping one leg up on the chair and strapping the chap around her upper thigh, “is why you want the job, Pete. By all accounts, you don’t need the money. I know Marie’s ranch does well, too.”

      Chloe had done her research—he was quite well off. He wasn’t at the same level the Lawrence family was, but his net worth meant he didn’t need this job. Gorgeous, wealthy, rugged—Pete Wellington was a hell of a catch no matter how she looked at him.

      And she was looking at him right now. He stared at her with naked desire and she could feel her traitorous body reacting. If it weren’t for his hell-bent vendetta, she’d be tempted.

      A shudder worked through her body as she went on, “And you haven’t exactly shown a willingness to work beneath a woman in general or me in specific.”

      He had his thumbs hooked into his belt, but he was gripping the leather so hard his knuckles were white. She’d put a lot of money on the fact that he wouldn’t be able to tell her what she’d just said.

      But this man was just full of surprises, wasn’t he? “I never said I have any problem working under you,” he said in a low voice that made that tight coil of desire in her stomach painfully tighter. “In fact, I’m beginning to think it’s a good idea to have you over me.”

      Her fingers fumbled with the strap and she had to stop before the heavy leather fell off her leg entirely. Her hands were shaking again, but this time it wasn’t with rage.

      Damn this man. Even when he pissed the hell out of her, he still had the capacity to make her want him. At least this time, she knew she’d made him want her, too.

      It wasn’t so much cold comfort as it was outright torture, however.

      She took a deep breath, hoping to clear her head—but it didn’t work because now his scent was filling this tiny space. Leather and dirt and musk. He smelled exactly like a cowboy should, rough and maybe a little dirty but so, so right.

      “Good,” she managed to get out, but she didn’t sound in charge by any stretch of the imagination.