Page 3 of Too Hot To Handle

„Payton Sundance, you charming, blue-eyed son of a bitch, if you ever send me another of your cast-off playmates, I’ll peel your soft city hide and nail it to the barn.“

The horse twitched a black-tipped ear at the harsh sound of Reever’s voice. Stamping uneasily, the animal registered its awareness of the sudden tension sweeping its rider.

„For God’s sake, she couldn’t have been more than sixteen,“ Reever continued in disgust. „City nymph with hungry green eyes and a body like a cat’s. Sleek. Graceful. Made my hands itch just to look at her. And when she looked back at me…“

Reever shifted in the saddle as his body responded to the memory of that delicate face tilted slightly to the side, eyes wide and luminous and as sensually curious as the lips that had parted with a tiny rush of sound. The temptation to go right over the desk and slide his tongue into that sweet mouth had been so strong that it had first surprised and then angered Reever. As he had told Tory, he didn’t need a pretty, useless female. He already had two of them, and he had been supporting them since he was sixteen. When he found a woman, she would be just that – a woman, not a girl. She would be quiet, enduring, and she would love the Sundance as much as he did.

He had been a long time looking for a woman like that.

With a snort and another stamp of its hoof, the buckskin settled into a lazy, three-legged stance. The horse was accustomed to its rider’s peculiarities. One of them was to sit and look over the ranch while the wind curled around him, bringing the rich scents of a fertile land uncluttered by man.

After a final curse Reever forced himself to look away from the Wolfs radiant green pools. He congratulated himself for throwing Tory out on her tempting little fanny. The last thing he needed was a paternity suit or an arrest for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Besides, once he had her, he would lose interest, she would pout and things around the ranch would go to hell in a hand basket.

No matter how mature they thought they were, girls that young always believed at some level that sex with a man meant love everlasting. Yes, he definitely was well rid of little Miss Victoria Wells. Payton could damn well find another home for his former toy.

But God in heaven, what a walk she had. Smooth. Feline. Hot.

A thrust of desire went through Reever like raw lightning, making every muscle in his body suddenly tighten. Before he knew it, he was full, aching, ready. The speed and the force of his arousal surprised him. At thirty-three he was too old to go off like a teenager. But there it was, hard against his jeans, silently demanding release.

With a sound of disgust at his own unruly sex, Reever lifted the reins and urged the buckskin down the faint trail. Cold water climbed almost up to the animal’s black hocks, and stones grumbled beneath steel-shod hooves as the horse plunged through the icy creek, sending up sheets of spray on either side. Drops of water more brilliant than diamonds flashed in the air, shattering sunlight into a thousand tiny rainbows. Reever laughed suddenly, a different laugh than he had used on Tory earlier. This laugh was vital, rich, alive, a sound of pure sensual pleasure.

„You do love crossing that creek, don’t you, Blackjack?“ asked Reever, giving the horse’s neck an affectionate slap. „Your mammy must have been part beaver.“

The horse snorted and pranced, tugging at the bit, plainly asking for the freedom to run.

„Sorry, boy,“ said Reever dryly. „At the moment I’m in no shape to oblige you.“

With a disgruntled swish of its black tail, the horse settled into a gliding, ground-eating single-foot that was part walk, part pace, as smooth as water, fast and much easier on its rider than a gallop. Before long Reever reached the top of a fold of land that overlooked the southeastern part of Sundance Ranch. Without waiting for a command, Blackjack slowed and then stopped, for this was one of Reever’s favorite places. The country stretched away before him to the far blue horizon, a land unencumbered by man but for the dark ribbon of the county road winding between green meadows.

A tiny movement at the corner of his vision caught Reever’s attention. The motion would have been overlooked by most people, but he was accustomed to the land. He knew the difference between the pale flash of a hawk stooping on its prey and the languid movement of a white-faced cow cropping lush grass. What had caught his attention was neither hawk nor cow nor startled rabbit. It was someone walking along the county road. The figure looked no bigger than Reever’s thumb at this distance, but he had no doubt that it was two-legged rather than four.

„Well, Blackjack, someone’s truck must have broken down. We’d better see if they need help.“

Even as Reever reined the horse in the new direction, he saw a bright red car slowing. He expected the car to stop, take on a passenger and pull out again. When the car stopped but no one got in or out, Reever was surprised. When the car raced off, made a U-turn, then raced past the pedestrian, made another U-turn and stopped suddenly again, Reever reached into his saddlebags for the binoculars he always carried.

„Looks like the Metlock car,“ he muttered, focusing the glasses. „Wonder who Billy’s hurrahing today. Damn that kid. Eighteen years old and more coyote than man. Somebody should have taught him manners by – “

Reever’s words broke off. With a single vicious curse he spurred Blackjack into a dead run.

Tory heard the car screech to a stop for the second time and tried to still the frantic beating of her heartThree of them are just kids,she told herself firmly.Not even old enough to drive.Then helplessly,God, but they grow them big out here!

„C’mon, baby,“ called the redhead, hanging out the window of the dusty Ford. „We don’t bite. Well, not where it shows anyways, if you get what I mean.“

That witticism brought a chorus of raucous cheers and whistles from the boys in the back seat.

Tory ignored them. She’d heard a lot worse the first time they went by. The driver in particular had yelled the kind of filth that she had rarely heard, even during the overnight shift at the restaurant when drunks had come in to drink coffee and grab at the waitresses. She had learned to ignore the obscenities; any other attitude only encouraged them.

Acting as though she were alone, Tory kept walking. She had already refused the driver’s leering offer of a ride with a cheerful „Thanks, but I like walking.“ There was nothing more she could do except look straight ahead and keep on walking. Or run. She wouldn’t do that yet, but she had decided that the instant a car door opened she was going to throw her luggage over the barbwire fence that ran alongside the road, and then go through the fence herself.

Tory hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. Except for the driver, the carload of boys was more obnoxious than really threatening. She hoped that they would be satisfied with baiting and insulting her and would tire of the sport quickly when she refused to answer. Above all she hoped that if she went through the fence they wouldn’t follow her. She had little doubt that she could outrun the rude, rawboned teenagers as long as her knee held out. That was what really worried her. Her knee. It was already tender from the long walk.

The bright red car stopped a few feet in front of Tory. The driver’s door popped open. Tory didn’t stop to argue or plead or find out how many boys were getting out. She threw her luggage over the fence and followed it, tearing her T-shirt and her skin on the wicked barbs. She didn’t even notice the pain. She began to run, sprinting for fifty yards before she risked a look over her shoulder. Only the driver was still following her. The rest of the boys were through the fence but were using their breath on catcalls and laughter rather than running.

After that single quick look, Tory ran on at a headlong pace, breathing harshly, tearingly, her heart beating so fast that it frightened her. Suddenly she heard the rolling thunder of a horse running flat out over the land. From the corner of her eye, she caught a blur of movement as Ethan Reever flashed past her, bent low over the neck of a huge, hard-running horse.

The driver saw Reever, too. The big teenager turned and raced back toward the fence with more speed than he had shown in chasing Tory. She sank to the ground and tried to catch her breath. All at once she began crying and shaking. She held on to herself and fought for control, trying to force herself to breathe deeply, evenly, until the adrenaline-induced hysteria had passed.

Reever shook out a loop of the long rope that he always carried strapped to his saddle. Billy was close now and getting closer with each one of Blackjack’s long-legged strides. Reever coolly waited until Billy was almost to the fence, almost free. Then Reever’s arm shot out and a loop of rope settled sweetly around the teenager’s broad shoulders. The instant the rope tightened, Blackjack stopped running and sat right down on his hocks, bracing himself as though Billy were a mean half-ton steer needing to be thrown.