What a disaster. Delilah glared at
her rental car in helpless frustration. She hated the feeling. She was hardly a
frail, fragile woman. She prided herself on the fact that she was self-sufficient
and didn’t need anyone. Counting on others was, after all, a recipe for
disappointment.
Hard, cold experience had taught
her that.
Yet here she was. In the boondocks.
In six-inch heels. With a flat tire.
Oh, she could change a fricking
tire. Hell, she could rip out and refurbish a transmission. But the idiots at
the wilderness rental car company hadn’t bothered to put a jack in the trunk.
She was resourceful…but not that resourceful.
Even if she could channel her MacGyveresque tendencies, there was
nothing out on this barren plain she could use to lever her car up high enough
to do the job.
So here she stood by the side of
the road in the middle of nowhere, in six-inch heels and without cell phone
service—the epitome of a helpless woman. All she needed was slasher music and
she could be the star of a horror flick.
A plume of dust blossomed on the
horizon and her mood lifted. Oh, thank god. Someone was coming. No one had
passed in the two hours since the blowout.
Hopefully, it wasn’t a slasher.
The plume grew. A beat-up pickup
topped one rise, and then the next. The truck rolled to a stop in front of her
crippled Honda.
Oh. Lovely. Her savior had a gun
rack.
Delilah covered her mouth and nose
as the cloud of dust caught up with the truck and engulfed her. Angie’s
birthday party had better be worth all this trouble.
She plastered a smile on her face
and turned to greet the Good Samaritan. At least, she hoped he was a Good
Samaritan. She was quite alone on this deserted stretch of road and—
Oh god.
He unfolded himself from the cab of
his truck, and her breath wedged in her throat. He was enormous. And, judging
from his ratty chambray shirt, shit-kicker boots and Stetson, he was a cowboy.
She hated cowboys. Selfish,
misogynistic sons of bitches. Her fake smile threatened to become a very real
grimace.
He stepped closer through the
lingering cloud of dust, and Delilah’s heart ker-chunked. He was gorgeous. Not
only was he tall—which she really liked in a man—he was big. Broad and brawny
and muscular. His face was a dream from his heavily lashed brown eyes to the
intriguing dent on his chin. She had to remind herself why cowboys and city
girls didn’t mix, but even that couldn’t keep her from ogling his forearms. His
sleeves were rolled up, just enough to give her a glimpse of defined veins and
a sprinkling of dark hair. She loved veiny forearms.
Damn. Why couldn’t he have been
something other than a cowboy? Or, if he had to be a cowboy, why couldn’t he
have been an old one…with Dunlap syndrome—where his belly done lapped over his
belt?
“Howdy.” His voice was deep and
smoky.
Delilah couldn’t appreciate the
sultry timbre. Of all greetings in the universe, Howdy was her least favorite.
“Having some trouble?” He whipped
off his Stetson to wipe his brow and thick black curls tumbled out.
Curls. Not fair. Why couldn’t he be
bald?
Delilah cleared her throat. “Flat
tire.”
He glanced at her car. A dimple
exploded on his cheek.
Fuck.
Dimples were her kryptonite.
“Would you like me to change it for
you? You do have a spare?”
Yeah. There it was. Sure he was
superhot, gorgeous and sexy as hell. But his patronizing tone squelched any
simmering temptation she might have been harboring.
That’s how it was with cowboys,
wasn’t it? They saw all women as helpless, idiot creatures stumbling around in
six-inch heels, batting their lashes and flashing their boobs and simpering.
Delilah was not a simperer. She was
a fuck-you, take-no-prisoners, hard-core lawyer, who could take care of herself
just fine.
But she did have a flat. And no jack.
She kinda needed his help.
So she batted her lashes. “Um. I
think there’s a tire thingy in the…what do you call it? Trunk?” She affected a
Southern drawl and thrust out her boobage, just for good measure.
It annoyed her that he bought her
act. And it kind of didn’t. The bedazzled look in his eyes was a salve to her
ego. After Trevor and all. It was nice to know she could still appeal to a man.
Even a redneck cowboy.
He loped over to her car—yes,
loped. She tried not to stare at his ass but his jeans were tight. It was a
challenge to look elsewhere. He bent to search the trunk—again, a mighty fine
ass—and stood, tipping back his Stetson. His profile, against the
bird’s-egg-blue backdrop of the sky, stole her breath.
“There’s no jack.”
“No what?”
He sighed and headed for his truck,
pulling out an impressively fancy jack. “This,” he said, “is a jack. You use it
to lift the carriage up high enough to change the tire.”
It was so sweet the way he made his
voice all slow and pedantic. You know, so she could understand. Idiot woman
that she was.
“Gosh. You’re smart.” She probably
didn’t need to gush quite that much, but hell, she hated condescending men.
Especially cowboys. But she might as well have fun with this.
He knelt and fitted the jack and
started cranking. His muscles bunched, forearms bulging with each pump.
Delilah sighed, and told herself it
was only a pretend sigh, but her gaze was riveted to the sight. “You are such a
big, strong man.”
He flashed a grin at her.
Yeah. Of course he did. Men loved
to be told how big and strong they were. She completely ignored the dimples
erupting all over his bristled cheek. Did he never shave? “How can I ever repay
you?”
He stilled. The glint in his eye
was horrifying. Crap. Had she gone too far with her helpless female shtick? She
was all alone. On a deserted highway. With an enormous Neanderthal cowboy.
When he tipped his head to the
side, her trepidation vanished. He looked more like a mischievous boy than a
mad rapist-slasher. “How about a kiss?”
Delilah blinked. “A…what?”
“A kiss. Just a little one.”
Her brain fogged over. And it
wasn’t horror at the prospect of a strange man demanding a kiss on the side of
a deserted road that muddied the waters. It was pure exhilaration at the
thought of his mouth devouring hers, those arms wrapping around her, that
massive chest, warm and hard as he yanked her close…
Aw hell.
Why was she always attracted to the
wrong guys? She wanted a man who liked opera and dreamed of traveling to Italy.
Not a guy who listened to Country and Western music, spat chew into a bean can,
and whose dream of an exciting evening was a night at the local bar playing
pool.
“What do you say, ma’am? One kiss,
in exchange for my…services?” When she hesitated, he repeated, “A little one.”
Why she nodded, she had no clue.
Well, she knew why she
nodded—because she was incapable of speech.
Why she agreed was the mystery.
Then again, he was superhot. She
ached to know how he tasted…and it wasn’t as though they would ever see each
other again. Besides, if things got out of hand, she had mace. And she knew how
to use it.
At her assent, he sprang into
action. It was astounding how quickly he changed that tire. He tossed the flat
into the trunk, returned his jack to his truck and wiped his hands.
“All done.”
Her heart skittered as he stepped
closer.
“Time for payment.”
WANT MORE COWBOYS?
About Sabrina York
Books by Sabrina York
Brigand (Erotic Regency, Ellora’s Cave) —Coming soon
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