Rough Rider (Hot Cowboy Nights, #2)(18)

He eyed the shirt skeptically. “No thanks.”

“What? You don’t like female musicians?”

“Don’t like their politics. Natalie should just shut up and sing.”

“Ah.” She nodded slowly. The shirt was from the tour that caused the “incident.” A lot of her friends had since thrown out their Dixie Chicks CDs, but Janice still loved their music. “I Can Love You Better” was her favorite. The lyrics—“she’s got you wrapped up in her satin and lace. Tied around her little finger…but I can love you better”—perfectly summed up all the heartbreak and frustrations of unrequited love; all her secret feelings for Dirk. She only wished she could show him now that he was here. In the flesh. A big, strong, blue-lipped, and teeth-chattering fantasy come true.

“You’re shivering,” she argued. “It’s a silly time for political statements.”

“Sorry,” he said. “But I never compromise my core principles. I support the war. Wholeheartedly. Somebody’s gotta make those sons of bitches pay for what they did. If we don’t defend our country, our freedom, who will?”

“There’s other ways than war,” she argued. “Like the UN—”

He made a choking sound. “Don’t get me started there, Red.”

“But—”

He raised a hand. “Look, it’s already clear we don’t see eye to eye, and nothing you say can change my views, so don’t you think the conversation is kinda pointless?”

“All right,” she conceded. “I suppose we can just agree to disagree.”

He gave her a curt nod. “I’d say that’s fair enough.”

Janice pulled out another shirt and offered it to him with a twinge of embarrassment. “How ’bout SpongeBob? Is he politically safe?”

“SpongeBob’s my man.” He chuckled and took the shirt. Their fingers brushed. Their eyes met. She shivered. His gaze drifted southward. “You cold too?” he asked.

She tracked the direction of his eyes and swiftly crossed her arms over her chest to hide her hardening nipples. “Yeah, I must be cold.” She turned away, briskly chafing her arms. “I don’t have any jeans that will fit you, but maybe some sweatpants?

“Would you be offended to see me in my boxers?” he asked.

Janice pursed her mouth and shook her head, unable to form a coherent response.

Hell no, her brain screamed. “Offended” was the very last word that came to mind.

*

“Damn!” Dirk toed off his boots with a mumbled curse. “Is there anything worse than trying to peel off wet jeans?” His clothes were stuck to him and his bum left hand and shoulder didn’t make it any easier.

“Here, let me help you.”

Before he could protest, Janice had squatted down in front of him. She went right to work tugging the bottom half of his pant legs—a position that put her face level with his crotch.

Instinctively, Dirk’s gaze drifted to her mouth. It was a pretty mouth, maybe not as full and overtly sensual as Rachel’s, but nicely shaped. It was also too damned close to his dick. Down boy! She glanced up at him wide-eyed, which only made matters worse.

Far worse.

He shut his eyes on a muffled groan trying to banish his lewd thoughts and will away the stirrings his imagination had invoked, but he was getting a hard-on, and there was not a damn thing he could do about it. Panic set in.

Fearing she’d notice, or worse yet, his dick would poke her in the eye, he tried to back away. With wet jeans tangled around his ankles, he lost his balance, and crashed backward, striking his head on the table before hitting the floor. “Goddamn sonofabitch!”

“Dirk!” Janice cried. “Are you OK?” She knelt beside him, pulling his head onto her lap to palpate his scalp. “There’s no blood. Thank God. Does it hurt?”

The pain in his head was blinding. “Hell yeah. It hurts!”

She bit her lip. “Is it worse on the inside or the outside?”

“Both,” he snapped. “It was mostly on the inside until this last dumb-ass maneuver. I’m wondering if I’ve developed some kind of subliminal death wish. Got a sledgehammer?”

“What for?” she asked.

“To finish the job and put me out of my misery.”

She shook her head with a sympathetic smile. “I don’t but maybe I can make it better?”

“You sure as hell can’t make it any worse,” he said.

“Hang on.” She softly lowered his head to the floor, then stood up to grab a pillow from the gooseneck. She then wet a dish towel at the sink and returned to sit cross-legged beside him with the pillow on her lap. “Head. Here.” She patted the pillow.

Dirk complied without protest, easing his head into the marshmallow softness. She folded the wet dish towel and placed it over his eyes. “Trust me and try to relax. I do this for Mama whenever she gets migraines,” she explained in a voice as soft and soothing as her touch.

She had magical fingers, he decided, after only a few seconds of her temple massage. She didn’t smell half bad either. His nose was badly swollen but he could still detect the subtle scent of vanilla. Vanilla was unfairly maligned in his estimation. He particularly liked vanilla. He breathed it in.