I curse aloud as the bull begins to charge, waiting for the bullfighters to get between Beau and the beast. They do, and just in time … at least, it feels that way to me. The second the bull is wrangled, Beau is Beau again—the Beau everyone knows and expects anyway. He raises his hands in the air, and grins that trademark grin, all the way around the stadium, his eyes slowly roving the crowd. Almost like he’s looking for something, or someone. His eyes land on me and my heart thuds against my ribs.
He is the picture of masculine control, of strength and power. He is my wildest fantasies, my every sensual dream come true, and I no longer want to fight what that means.
I hold his eyes and smile back, a smile that maybe even tells him that he was right last night. What happens behind closed doors stays behind closed doors.
Chapter Nine
Bailey
Beau didn’t win the final round, he came second, and my personal view is that he was robbed. There were three points in it, but he didn’t seem to mind. He congratulated the winner as though he was genuinely pleased for him, took his cheque, then strode out of the arena toward the changing rooms, leaving me watching his tight ass like some kind of desperate groupie.
And maybe I am?
Maybe that’s just the way it’s going to be with us. I don’t know. But for the next two-and-a-half weeks I’m covering this guy, and I’m not going to spend the whole time fighting my instincts.
My breath is rushed as I pack my things into my bag, grab my empty cup and take it to a nearby trash can, then move in the direction of the corridor. As one of the top scorers, Beau’s got media to handle. I slip into the back of the room straight up, so see him take his seat on the stage. He’s talking and laughing withthe other two riders, his legs spread wide beneath the table, his dusty boots somehow incredibly hot. His shirt is the same one he wore out there, a red and black plaid that shows the depth of his tan. My fingers tingle with a yearning to push it off him, to feel his warm skin for myself.
My mouth is all dry, my tongue unnaturally thick. An official PR person from the tour calls for the attention of the media, introduces the three men, and then the questions begin. This time, they’re peppered across the three. They take turns good-naturedly, sometimes jumping in on each other’s answers, but with a sense of camaraderie that I make a note of. It’s rare to see competitive athletes behave more like teammates. After all, every rider out there wants the same thing: to win the big prize at the end of the season. Every rider wants the success, the accomplishment, the fame and superiority of being the best. But they don’t act like it in here.
A smile shifts one side of my mouth as Beau cracks a joke and the room laughs. Pride and heat are at war within me. I know this doesn’t mean anything—just like I said last night—but for right now, he wants me, and I want him, and to hell with letting that opportunity go.
The press event wraps up after almost thirty minutes. Beau’s eyes briefly skid to mine before shifting to the other riders. They stand up and start talking. I can’t catch what they’re saying—the microphones have been turned off—but they walk toward a side door. When they reach it, Beau pats one of them on the back, shakes the other’s hand, then stops walking, letting them go ahead of him. And turns to me again. So our eyes lock, and the rest of the room fades into nothing, just like the other night in the packed corridor. The mouth that was already too dry and fullof my own tongue now aches with the force of feelings I’m trying to control.
He starts to stride toward me. No. Not stride. Swagger. What else do you call a cowboy in low-slung jeans, a thick leather belt and a shiny old buckle, who seems to move to the beat of a classic country song only he can hear?
He stops just short of me.
‘Howdy, ma’am,’ he says with an exaggerated accent and grin.
My heart turns over in my chest. ‘Congratulations.’
He dips his head, and if he’d been wearing his hat he would have tipped it, I’m sure.
‘The other fellas are headin’ downtown again.’ Disappointment shifts through me. I remember Katie and the dozens of women just like her who’d no doubt be there in droves, looking to get a part of Beau Donovan. ‘Any interest?’
‘In going downtown?’ I ask carefully.
His eyes narrow slightly but his expression doesn’t otherwise shift. ‘Or anything.’
My heart thuds hard. This is it. The moment of reckoning. I could keep running from this, pretend I don’t want what I want and hope I get over it. Or I can show my hand and see what he does …
‘Anything,’ I say, nodding slowly. ‘What exactly is anything?’
He moves. Barely, but enough. Enough for his much larger body to show me how easily he could engulf me, how much his frame offers some kind of protection and reassurance. Enough to make my pulse go completely haywire.
‘You tell me, Bailey James.’
I swallow, trying to bring a feeling of normality back to my parched mouth. ‘I mean, you should celebrate your ride.’
He makes a guttural noise of agreement. ‘Any suggestions?’
‘We could—’ I clear my throat, totally aware that I’m chickening out now that I’m here. Not because I’ve changed what I want, but because I’m way out of my comfort zone. I don’t go around propositioning guys. Even before Kirk, that wasn’t my style.
‘Celebrate privately?’ he suggests, saving me from having to make the cringe suggestion myself. As he says it, he moves one leg slightly, quickly, so our knees brush and I close my eyes against a sudden inescapable wave of heat.
‘Yeah.’ My voice is hoarse. ‘Behind closed doors,’ I clarify, in case he’s missing what I’m putting out there.
His smile spreads, slow and sensual, the heat building between us in a way that’s making my whole body reach melting point.
