A Cowboy in Manhattan(10)
“In my gym,” she admitted. “A stationary bike.”
He wanted to tease her about that. But the truth was, he was glad to hear it. Better to be inside a building than fighting for road space with delivery vans, buses and taxis.
“I can set this one up as a stationary for you,” he found himself offering. “In the barn. On a stand. It wouldn’t be high-tech, but I can add a little resistance, and you’ll stay safe and sound.” Even as the words poured out of this mouth, he asked himself what the hell he thought he was doing? He had a million more pressing jobs that needed his attention.
She moved toward the ATV. “Wouldn’t my brothers have a laugh at that.”
He watched her grow close, transfixed by her beautiful face, the depths of her eyes, the motion of her deep pink mouth.
“We can keep it our secret,” he offered.
She hesitated, watching him closely. “I’d jog, but I can’t because of my ankle. And I have to do something.” She drew a deep sigh. “I spent all day yesterday sitting on airplanes. I was going to warm up on this ride, and then get in some stretching. But now, my muscles are cold.”
“You’re cold?”
“Too cold to stretch.”
He quickly unbuttoned his shirt.
“What are you—”
He stepped in and draped it over her shoulders. “Put it on,” he said gruffly. It was going to get even colder once they got up to speed on the trail and the wind hit them.
“I don’t need—” Her gaze caught and held on his bare chest. She blinked twice, then looked away, wordlessly slipping her arms into the sleeves. They hung about six inches past her fingertips, so she rolled them up to a thick band around her forearms.
She fastened the shirt buttons, and her cute black tights and pink T-shirt disappeared beneath the voluminous cotton.
She glanced down at herself. “Lovely.”
He cocked his head to one side. “I think it’s the spring tent collection from Dior.”
“You know Dior?”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s a fashion-design house.”
“No kidding,” he drawled.
“It’s just—”
“We do have satellite television out here.”
“And you use it to watch fashion shows?”
“Hardly,” he scoffed. “But they make the occasional pop-culture reference during professional bull-riding.”
“Did I insult you?” she asked, looking genuinely regretful.
“I’m not living under a rock, Katrina.”
“I never thought you were.”
He swung his leg over the wide seat of the ATV. He wasn’t insulted. He couldn’t care less what she thought of his television-watching habits.
Truth was, he didn’t know why she’d struck a nerve. Maybe it was because she pointed out the vast differences between them, and how far she was out of his league. Not that it mattered, he ruthlessly reminded himself. No matter how sexy Miss Katrina Jacobs might appear, he was keeping his hands and his thoughts to himself. His life was complicated enough.
“Hop on,” he told her gruffly, sliding forward to give her room on the seat behind.
She approached the ATV with caution, obviously sizing it up.
“You need some help?”
“No,” she flashed.
“Hand on my shoulder,” he instructed.
After a long hesitation, she touched him tentatively.
“Other hand.”
“Sorry.”
“Left foot on that peg.”
“Okay.”
He captured her forearm to steady her. “Step up and swing your leg over the seat. Grab my other shoulder if you need to.”
She did. Her slight weight rocked the ATV, and her butt came down on the seat, her breasts brushing his back and her thighs coming up against his.
She sucked in a breath.
“You’re going to have to hang on to me,” he warned.
“I know.”
He turned the key, and the ATV rumbled to life.
“Katrina?” he intoned, waiting for her to follow his instructions.
“My hands are filthy.”
“I can take it.” He reached back and grasped each of her wrists, wrapping her slim arms around his waist and anchoring her hands to his bare stomach.
Her breasts pressed tighter against his back, her cheek rested between his shoulder blades, while her inner thighs cradled his hips. Raw, painful desire rocketed through him, and he wondered how long he could reasonably take to drive back to the house. He wanted her to stay wrapped around his body for hours and hours.