Instant Gratification (Wilder #2)(22)

“What do you mean, you’re here? Here here?” Emma sat up and pushed her hair out of her face as she looked around her childhood bedroom, still so yellow and cheery and full of sweetness that she felt like she got a new cavity every night she slept here. God, she needed coffee. “I don’t see you.”

“I’m at a place called Wilder Adventures. You know it?”

She’d in fact been dreaming about Wilder Adventures for nearly two weeks now, or more correctly, of the men who ran it. One in particular.

Stone.

Naked.

Not muddy. Not bleeding. Not teasing her about her battery purchases. “Yes,” she said weakly. “I know it. How do you know it?”

“My assistant looked up things to do in Wishful and found it. I’m only about four or five miles from you, and it’s sweet. Did you know you can guide out any kind of trip you can imagine? It’s amazing, and—”

“I know. I’m familiar with it,” she said, closing her eyes tight. Her best friend and sometime casual lover had just slept at the place owned by the man she’d been fantasizing about. She didn’t need a cup of caffeine, she needed an entire pot.

And possibly a shrink.

“Anyway, it’s dumping rain, like buckets of rain, and supposedly the road out of here gets tricky without four wheel drive. Did your father leave you a vehicle that you can use to come get me?”

She got out of bed and padded to the window to open the shades.

Indeed, it was pouring rain, big fat drops that hit the ground and bounced back up like super balls. She eyed her father’s ancient, massive Ford truck that he’d indeed left for her, and braced herself.

But just like anything else, she could handle it. “Yes, I have a truck. I’ll be right there.”





Chapter 7




The rain had let up as Stone came into the home stretch of a mountain bike race with Nick. He was winning too, when out of the corner of his eyes he saw Doc Sinclair’s truck ambling up their driveway.

Only it wasn’t Doc Sinclair behind the wheel, but his daughter, the one with the snooty ’tude and cool, steady hands, with the voice like sweet honey, and the bod to match. Surprised to see her, he pulled back, and Nick zipped right past him and over the finish line.

Emma parked the truck and hopped out, and pretty much leveled him with one flash of those baby blues.

Over the past few days he’d assured himself she wasn’t as hot as he remembered.

But she was as hot as he remembered.

Maybe even more so as she made her way directly toward him, irritation blazing out of her pretty ears.

She wore another fancy pair of trousers, gray today, and a white top. No doctor’s coat, which allowed him to see all those extremely pleasant curves she carried on her strong, lithe frame. She had real breasts and hips, the ones so often missing from the extreme athletes in his world. The last woman he’d dated had been so toned, she hadn’t had an ounce of softness to her.

Dr. Emma Sinclair was soft.

At least on the outside.

Her fiery auburn hair was loose today, and it flew around her face in the light wind as she strode toward him with purpose, her face tense and not exactly friendly.

Which was a damn shame, as he was feeling quite friendly. “Hey, Doc,” he said, getting off his bike, barely managing to control his wince from the pain his ribs gave him at the quick movement.

“What are you doing?”

He leaned his bike up against a tree. “Just enjoying the day.” And the view. “How about you? What brings you out this way?”

She came toe to toe with Stone, in her very classy and expensive black heels which now had some mud on them, pressing up to his Nikes. Her eyes were stern and serious, conflicting with the scent of some exotic shampoo, and his brain got mixed signals. Sexy woman. Pissed woman.

“Are you stupid?” she asked. “Or just stubborn?”

“Uh, is there a third option?”

“You’re still recovering. You have no business riding like that, getting air, risking crashing—” She went up on her tiptoes and ran a finger over his forehead.

Yeah, mixed signals, he thought dazedly as her voice brought to mind a teacher-to-errant-pupil sexual fantasy. His gaze ate her up as her fingers ran along his forehead. He couldn’t help it, she was within the perfect eating up distance of about two inches. Hell, if he leaned in even a little bit, they’d be kissing.

Which would be nice. Really nice.

“It’s okay,” she said in relief. “You haven’t ripped any stitches. You having pain?”

Yeah, in his ribs, but he was afraid of the black bag she had slung over her shoulder, so he smiled. “Aw, look at you. Caring about me.”

Her eyes locked on his. “I care about all my patients.”

“You make house calls for all of them?”

She narrowed her eyes and pursed those lips that were a little bit distracting for their fullness. “Delusional,” she decided. “We should have that checked, too.”

He grinned. “See? Falling for me.”

“That would be a mistake. I don’t make mistakes. You shouldn’t be mountain biking, Stone.” Without asking, she put her hand on his side, probing at his ribs. She was watching him carefully so he didn’t dare grimace, but she shook her head, reading right through him. “You shouldn’t be doing anything strenuous.”