Then I’ll send her stubborn ass back to Chicago.
In the stable, I flick on the overhead lights and grab a bundle of rope from the wall. The blond hellcat in my arms gains a second wind, but her clawing and writhing only succeeds in exciting my heart rate.
“There’s only one motel in town, and you haven’t checked in there.” I know the owner, who confirmed this for me this morning. “Where are you staying?”
“Wherever I want.”
“Is this your idea of adult conversation?” I carry her to the support beam at the center of the building.
“There’s nothing adult about this situation.” She pushes and jerks against me. “What are you doing with the rope?”
“I don’t trust you.”
Her muscles tense. “I haven’t done anything to warrant—”
“You stalked me. Got your rocks off while watching me fuck—”
“I did not!”
“—another woman. You pulled a knife on me. Hit my face. Trespassed on my property. And that’s all in the last twenty-four hours.”
“Well, you… You spanked me!”
There will be a lot more of that. I run a hand along the vertical beam, searching for nails, splintered wood, or anything that might hurt her.
A soft whinny drifts from one of the stalls, followed by the stomp of hooves. The horses don’t like the commotion.
“I looked you up.” I knot the rope around her squirming waist. “There are no investigative journalists under the name Maybe Quinn.”
“I write under pen names.” She shoves at the braided restraint. “Get this thing off me.”
“Tell me the names you use.”
“I’m not telling you shit until you…” She twists in my arms. “Get this…” Her breathing labors, and her body contorts with the effort to free herself. “Off me!”
I lower her to the dirt floor and cinch the rope tight as she finds her footing. She yanks on the binding, and I yank harder, forcing the length of her body against the post.
“Don’t do this.” She seethes. “I told you I won’t run.”
“I told you I don’t trust you.” I quickly lash her to the wooden beam, fighting down her arms and tying them against the support with several wraps around her torso. “How do I know your name is really Maybe Quinn?”
“If I had a fake name, do you think I’d choose Maybe?”
“I like that name. Is it short for something?”
“Maybelline. My mom really loved her makeup.” A wince creases her makeup-free face.
Loved. She must’ve lost her mother.
“If you don’t believe me, check my ID.” Anger returns to her expression. “My purse is in the car.”
“What else will I find in your car? Cameras? Binoculars? Listening devices?”
Her molars smack together, and she looks away.
“I can’t have you roaming my stable, planting bugs, and invading my privacy.” I check the bindings, making sure her circulation isn’t impeded. “This allows me to focus on the conversation instead of where you’re slipping your hands.”
“I don’t have anything on me. I promise.”
“Your promise means nothing. If I release you, I’ll have to strip search you for contraband. Or you can remain where you are and save yourself the humiliation.”
During the tussle to secure her to the post, her dress caught in the rope. The lower half twists and bunches around her thighs, barely covering her panties.
A sheen of perspiration shines across her flushed cheeks. The dress straps hang off her shoulders, and her tits look amazing beneath the thin braless fabric.
Dirt smudges the white flower pattern from our tumble outside, and grass clippings stick out of her tangled hair. She’s a hot mess of untamed beauty.
“Fine,” she mutters under her breath. “I’ll take the rope over your wandering hands.”
By the end of this, she’ll beg for both.
She flares her nostrils, as if reading my mind. “Does this mean you accept my deal?”
“On my terms.” I hold up a finger. “No lies. I prefer silence over dishonesty.”
“Same goes for you.”
“Agreed.” I extend a second finger. “You’ll spend the evenings with me, doing whatever I say, when I say it.”
A gasp parts her lips. “You think I’d sleep with you to get a story?” She bucks against the restraints. “I’m not a whore!”
“No, darlin’.” I lean into her, so close I taste the possibilities on her breath. “You’ll sleep with me because you won’t be able to stop yourself.”
“It must be exhausting.”
“What’s that?”
“Fending off horny women all day and night. I bet you have to use that big stick of yours to beat them away.”
While my inner twelve-year-old appreciates the visual, the grown man in me won’t touch that snarky comment.
“As a show of good faith…” I straighten, giving her some breathing room. “I’ll allow you the first question.”
“Gee, thanks.” She scowls at the rope around her and directs that frown at me. “Why did your father leave the ranch?”
“Jake and I forced him out. He inherited the business from our mother and ran it into near-bankruptcy.” At the crinkle of her brow, I pause. “What?”