McKettricks of Texas: Garrett (19 page)

Mischief widened her eyes and made her smile saucy. “You know,” she said, “I'm just not sure—I think I
might
actually need some convincing.”

He laughed and eased her backward onto the floor, then luxuriated in her breasts, kissing them, caressing them, weighing them in his hands. “Then maybe,” he said, after making a slow circle around each of her nipples with the tip of his tongue, “I'd better have you again, right here and right now, while I've got you on your back.”

“That was such a sexist thing to say,” she gasped.

He was kissing her belly, working the snap on her jeans, and then the zipper. “You're not on your back?” he teased, his voice sleepy and slow.

“You know what I mean,” Julie whimpered, as he slid down her jeans. She'd forgotten her panties, too, she realized, not just her bra.

“Ummmm,” he murmured.

And then he made Julie call out his name, not once, not twice, but half a dozen times before he finally took her.

J
ULIE LAY PERFECTLY STILL
,
her eyes closed, reorienting herself. It was a slow process, grasping at wispy fragments of consciousness, trying to fit them into some sensible pattern.

She wasn't in her usual bed—which wasn't her usual bed, either, to be perfectly accurate—the directions and the angles were all wrong.

And then it all fell into place, and Julie sucked in a sharp breath.

Oh, God. She'd had sex with Garrett McKettrick—crazy, sweaty, unbridled,
consequences?—what consequences?
—sex.

Now, the proverbial chickens had come home to roost. It was time to pay the piper, face the music.

Welcome to the dreaded Morning After.

The mattress shifted. “Open your eyes,” Garrett drawled. He smelled of soap and aftershave, and his breath was minty.

Julie was fairly certain hers wasn't.

He knew she was awake—there was no point in trying to fake it so he'd go away and leave her alone long enough to get her act together.

Not that she had any idea how to go about doing that, at the present moment, at least.

“Julie?”

She opened her eyes. Wide.

Garrett was so close that their noses were almost touching.

“Mornin',” he said, one corner of his mouth crooking upward in a teasing grin.

“Mmmm,” Julie said, with a nod, clasping one hand over her mouth. “Breath,” she explained, through her fingers.

Garrett chuckled, shook his head once, and placed a brief, smacking kiss on her forehead before rolling off the bed and landing on his feet with that grace peculiar to people who've spent a lot of time on horses, cowboys in particular.

He was wearing jeans and nothing else.

Tossing her a blue cotton bathrobe, heretofore draped over the back of a leather-upholstered wingback chair, he said, “Coffee's almost ready.”

The moment he left the room, Julie pulled the robe under the covers, wriggled herself into it, and even tied the belt before throwing back the blankets to rise.

Given that the horse was already out of the barn, she thought ruefully, it was a little late to be closing the barn door.

Garrett's bathroom was large, and there was travertine tile everywhere—on the walls and the floor and the long counter with two bronze sinks set into it. The matching faucets, beautifully cast, were shaped like horses' heads, and although Julie quickly found a new toothbrush and toothpaste in a drawer, it took her a while to figure out how to turn on the water.

Once she'd accomplished that, she scrubbed her teeth with a fury.

A sound startled her—a masculine rap of knuckles on wood.

Julie went to the door, opened it an inch and peeked out.

Garrett was standing there, holding a neat stack of
folded clothing. Jeans. A lightweight gray sweatshirt. Socks and even underwear.

Julie recognized the garments—vaguely—as her own things.

He chuckled, noting her reluctance to open up.

This was, after all,
his
bathroom. And it wasn't as if she had anything he hadn't already seen. She was behaving like an idiot, and she couldn't seem to help it.

“Don't you want to get dressed?” he asked.

Julie flushed, nodded, opened the door just far enough to reach out and grab her clothing. Where had he gotten these things?

Garrett must have seen the question in her face, because he answered it.

“I told Esperanza you needed something to wear,” he said, “and she fetched this stuff from the laundry room.”

Julie's eyes widened. “You
told
Esperanza…?”

“Oops?” Garrett inquired. There was a distinct twinkle in his eyes.

Julie made a growling sound of frustration, and he laughed, and she shut the door in his face and turned the lock for good measure.

“I was kidding,” Garrett called through the closed door. “I found your gear in a basket in the laundry room. Esperanza's not around—she always goes to church on Sundays.”

Julie rested her forehead against the panel, smiling a little. “Okay,” she replied, after letting out a long breath. “Thanks.”

But she didn't unlock the door.

She used Garrett's fancy shower—the one they'd shared the night before—between making love on the living room floor and making love
again
in bed.

Julie's knees weakened a little as she took off the
borrowed robe, stepped into the shower, adjusted the spigots. She tried not to think of the things she and Garrett had done in that steamy cubicle, but of course that would have been impossible.

She washed quickly, trying not to get her hair wet, used a monogrammed bath sheet to dry off, and hastily pulled on the clean clothes Garrett had rustled up for her.

She finger-combed her hair—fortunately, it hadn't frizzed overmuch—tidied up the bathroom and unlocked the door.

Julie found Garrett in the kitchen, scrambling eggs on the stovetop set into the island.

He was wearing a blue chambray shirt and boots now, along with the jeans.

“You look like a man about to swing up into the saddle and strike out for other parts,” Julie remarked, willing herself not to blush again.

And she didn't.

Two thick slabs of bread popped out of the toaster, and Garrett slid the skillet of eggs off the burner before deftly buttering the slices.

Harry, Julie noted, was eating kibble out of a bowl in a corner.

Fresh clothes for her, dog food for the beagle. Garrett, it seemed, had thought of everything.

“Tate called a little while ago,” he said, in belated answer, plopping the eggs and the toast onto two plates and carrying them to the breakfast bar. “We've been having some trouble with rustlers lately and he wants to make a few passes over some of the canyons in my plane—see if we can spot anything.”

A little niggle of dread curled in Julie's stomach, like smoke.

We've been having some trouble with rustlers lately…

Rustlers were criminals.

Criminals tended to be dangerous.

And although Tate and Garrett probably thought they were invincible, since they were rock-ribbed McKettricks, they could be hurt, like anyone else.

“Shouldn't the police handle things like this?” she asked, in a cracked-china voice.

Garrett, perched on the stool next to Julie's, sat with his fork suspended in one hand, watching her as though she represented a dozen delightful curiosities to be puzzled out, one by one. “Tate's been keeping Brent Brogan up to speed,” he said, his tone as thoughtful as his expression. “Brent's just one man, though, and the Silver Spur is our worry—Tate's and Austin's and mine—not his.”

Julie's jaw tightened. She relaxed her face by force of will. “This isn't the Old West, Garrett,” she reasoned. “You and your brothers don't have to stand against these—these cattle thieves, all by yourselves.”

There it was again, that registered-weapon of a grin. Garrett narrowed his true-blue eyes slightly as he studied her. “Why, ma'am,” he joked, heavy on the Texas twang and the schlock, “are you frettin' your pretty little head over a ring-tailed polecat like me?”

She laughed, though reluctantly, and moved one hand a little, as if to swat at him. “Stop it,” she said. “This is serious. What if someone gets hurt?”

Something tender moved in his eyes. “It happens,” he said quietly. Maybe, like Julie, he was thinking of Pablo Ruiz, the longtime ranch foreman and a close friend of the McKettricks. Pablo, a good man and a much beloved member of
the community, had been
killed
a few months before, trying to unload a half-wild stallion from a horse trailer.

“Yes,” Julie agreed, “it happens.”

I don't want it to
happen
to Libby's future bridegroom, the man she loves, body, mind and soul.

I don't want it to
happen
to you, Garrett McKettrick.

The silence stretched between them, drawn taut, about to spring back on itself.

“We'll be careful,” Garrett said.

Julie pushed her plate away—the eggs weren't bad, but she'd lost her appetite—and looked down at her hands, knotted together in her lap. Yes, she'd spent the night with Garrett, and to say they'd been intimate would have been the understatement of the century.

But the reality was, she had no claim on Garrett, no say in how he ran his life. If he wanted to put himself in danger, to play hero instead of calling in the authorities to deal with the rustlers, there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.

She didn't have to like it, though.

And she couldn't seem to shut up.

“Just remember,” she said, tearing up a little, “that Tate has children. Audrey and Ava need him. And my sister,
my sister,
loves that man with everything she has and everything she is. If anything happened to him—”

“I haven't forgotten the twins, Julie. They're my nieces and I love them.” Garrett's eyes were solemn, his hand strong when he laid it over Julie's. Only when his fingers squeezed hers did she realize she'd been shaking. “I know what Tate means to Libby,” he went on, his voice husky, “and what she means to him. Trust me when I tell you that I'll watch his back.”

And who will watch yours?
Julie wanted to ask, but she didn't, because she couldn't get the words out and, anyway, she already knew what his answer would be. Garrett and his brothers would watch out for
each other,
the way brothers—and sisters—did.

Suppose it wasn't enough?

Seeing that Julie was finished eating, Garrett collected their plates and silverware and carried them to the sink.

Harry, having scarfed up his morning kibble, nudged Julie's ankle with his muzzle and whimpered to let her know he needed to go outside.

Mundane as the task was, Julie was glad to have something to occupy her. She slid off the high barstool and sighed. “Come on, dog,” she said. “Let's go.”

“He might have some trouble with the stairs,” Garrett said, his voice unusually deep, as though he'd just had a testosterone rush. With that, he leaned down, whisked Harry up into his arms and headed for an outside door.

Before stepping through it, Garrett took an old jeans jacket from a peg on the wall and handed it to Julie.

“Put this on,” he said. “It's probably chilly out there.”

Julie shrugged into the coat, at once comforted and unsettled because Garrett's scent rose from the denim.

There was a small landing, then a set of stone steps leading down to a cozy, grassy yard, walled in with stucco. Julie followed Garrett down onto the private lawn, folded her arms against the cold while Harry sniffed around, looking for a place to do his business.

“I didn't know this was here,” Julie remarked, because the silence made her antsy. “It's almost like a secret garden.”

Garrett's side-tilted grin reappeared. “Yeah,” he agreed, “except for the—er—
garden.
”

Harry was taking his sweet time finding just the right place to lift his leg.

Smiling, Julie stood in the center of the yard and turned in a slow circle, closing her eyes to dream of roses and peonies and all manner of other colorful plants and bushes.

A white wrought-iron bench would be lovely, too, and perhaps a small fountain, and a birdfeeder or two.

Suddenly dizzy, Julie stopped turning and opened her eyes and was startled to find Garrett standing so close to her that she could feel the hard man-heat emanating from his flesh.

Her breath caught.

Garrett chuckled hoarsely and set his hands on her hips, holding her in a way that brought back a flood of steamy memories from the night before.

“I won't be gone long, Julie,” he said, his mouth very close to hers, his warm breath dancing on her skin, “just an hour or two.”

He kissed her then, so gently that some new and unnamed emotion surged up within her, rendering speech impossible.

“I have to make lesson plans,” she blurted out, the moment their mouths parted. “And call my landlady. Get Calvin ready for a new week—”

Garrett had not released his grasp on her. She could feel the press of his thumbs on her hipbones, the spread of his fingers over her buttocks, even through the relatively heavy fabric of her jeans. Her whole body remembered their lovemaking then, in a visceral rush of echoed sensation, and she gasped slightly and felt heat thrumming in her face again.

Garrett smiled, as though he'd read all of that and more in her expression, and maybe he had.

It was a disconcerting thought.

“Make your lesson plans and call your landlady while I'm gone,” he told her. “Because I've got a few plans of my own for when I get back.”

Garrett hadn't exactly issued a command, Julie reasoned, but he wasn't making a request, either.

“Like what?” she asked, because she couldn't just let him get away with a thing like that. Whatever that thing was.

If there even
was
a thing.

Again, that slow and patently lethal cowboy grin. “You really want me to tell you? Right here and now?”

“No,” she said quickly.

Yes,
protested everything besides her voice.

Just then, Harry made it known that his errand had been completed. He was ready to go back in the house and lose his dog-self in the depths of a nap, preferably near a warm, crackling fire.

All was well in Harryworld.

With a chuckle, Garrett bent to ruffle the dog's ears. “This way, buddy,” he said. But instead of heading back up the stairs, he led Julie and the dog out of the hidden yard by a side gate.

There was the barn, the concrete driveway leading to the multicar garage, the acres of grass.

Garrett walked up to the back door, turned the knob and opened it.

Harry rushed into the otherwise empty kitchen, found his water dish in its usual place and started lapping like crazy.