The unexpected comment made him laugh. No, he wasn’t a serial killer rapist. But the way she bit her lip after making that comment had his less-than-pure thoughts driving up to an NC-17 rating.
“Nope. Just a rancher and winemaker.” And owner of the most elite BDSM resort this side of the Mason-Dixon. But that wasn’t something she needed to know about him.
At least not while she was concussed.
But later…well, later was ripe with possibilities.
He’d always had a thing for freckles.
TWO
In the depths of Charli’s sleep she felt warmth against her skin, a gentle caress, but it took her a few minutes to clear the cotton in her brain and fully awaken. When she finally opened her eyes, she was graced with the true reason Wranglers were invented bending over the small dresser on the far side of the bedroom. The soft, well-worn denim molded over Grant’s backside as if the material was simply another layer of his skin.
Knowing he hadn’t noticed she was awake yet, she took the moment to drink him in. And, my, what a big gulp he was. Six-six at least, maybe six-seven. Basketball height with a baseball player’s body and the corded forearm muscles of someone who came by their strength the old-fashioned way. She felt the urge to have his hand against hers again—that big paw closing over her smaller one. His handshake had made her feel…dainty and delicate—something she damn sure never felt around most anyone.
He set down a plate of sandwiches and peeked over his shoulder, those killer blue eyes crinkling a bit at the corners when he noticed her looking back at him. “Well, look who’s awake. I wasn’t sure if you were going to crack an eye open before the sun went down.”
She pushed up on her elbows, fighting past the slight wave of nausea the movement caused. “Have I been sleeping long?”
“It’s almost six,” he said, pushing an escaped lock of his wavy dark hair off his forehead. “I didn’t want to wake you, but Doc said to check you every few hours by touching your arm to see if you moved. Plus, I thought you might be hungry.”
So he had touched her. Even knowing that sent rosy warmth coursing through her veins, a warmth that seemed to be zeroing in on the juncture between her thighs. She shifted her weight in the bed, suddenly all too aware that she was only wearing panties and her T-shirt beneath the blanket. She tried, unsuccessfully, to fight off the blush that rose in her cheeks.
God, what was wrong with her? She’d just been in an accident and all she could focus on was the way this man got her hormones hopping. Maybe she’d done damage to her brain with the accident and had reverted to crushing on someone like a damn teenager. She should take his picture and hang it on her wall so she could draw hearts on it.
“I’m not sure I should eat. I still feel kind of queasy.”
“Yeah, you’re pale.” He grabbed a few saltines off the plate and handed them to her. “Maybe try some crackers first. Might help to put something dry in your belly.”
“Thanks.” She didn’t bother telling him she always looked pale—compliments of her mother’s Irish genes, the only thing her mother had bothered to give her. She bit into one of the crackers and it crumbled, covering her and the bedcovers with crumbs. “Oops, sorry. Guess that’s why crackers in bed are a bad idea.”
He laughed, a deep tenor of a chuckle. “I promise I won’t kick you out of my bed for that.”
Her chewing paused, and a hot shiver went through her, drawing her nipples tight against her T-shirt. She couldn’t tell if Mr. Handsome Cowboy had intended that to come across as flirty as it sounded; his expression gave no indication either way. But her body sure wanted to take the comment down a certain path.
She almost laughed at the thought. Who was she kidding? Guys who looked like him didn’t flirt with girls like her—especially considering she probably looked like a midnight mug shot with a lump on her head, her hair in a tangle, and no makeup—not that she ever bothered to wear makeup on a normal day anyway.
She needed to get her concussed head out of lusty la-la land and focus on getting back home. She had work to do. “What time do you plan to head to Dallas tomorrow?”
He leaned back against the dresser, crossing his ankles, and creating a nice frame for the healthy bulge in his jeans. His gaze flicked down briefly, no doubt noticing the now-hard points beneath her shirt. He wet his lips. “My appointment isn’t until two, but I reckon we can head out a bit earlier so we can get you home.”
She swallowed past the dryness in her throat, not sure if it was the saltines or the view making her mouth so arid. “Sounds good. I really appreciate this. I’ll pay you whatever the fee for the cabin would’ve been for the night.”
“You won’t,” he said with the simple authority of someone used to getting no argument. “You’re my guest. Your money’s no good here.”
She sat up straighter, his tone pushing her least favorite button. “Then I’ll pay for the gas to get back to Dallas.”
He shoved off the dresser, rising to his full height, a smirk hiding beneath his five o’clock shadow. “And my grandmother would flip in her grave. Women in my world don’t pay for anything.”
Her hackles rose. “Well, now wa—”
He took her hand and rubbed a thumb across the top of it, his touch incinerating the thoughts in her brain. “You’ve had a rough twenty-four hours. I don’t need your money. And you don’t owe me anything. Though I do have one small request, Ms….”
“Beaumonde.”
“Beau— Wait a second,” he said, cutting off whatever he’d been planning to ask her and dropping her hand like she’d become contagious. “Do you know Max Beaumonde?”
She frowned, trying to pull herself from the hypnotic state his touch had induced. “Yes. He’s my older brother.”