The Billionaire of Bluebonnet (12 page)

Guess he should have told her that the camp was evacuated. Nah. Let her stew in her own juices for a bit. Teach her a lesson.

He rubbed the front of his wet trousers, willing his damn dick to stop standing at attention. She might have had a mighty fine pair of breasts—slick, heaving breasts with tight, hard nipples—but unless he had a piece of masking tape for her mouth, the reality of Beth Ann was going to ruin the fantasy every time.

He crouched on his haunches and clicked his flashlight off, enjoying the sound of her stumbling through the woods. She'd call Lucy's name, and then every so often, she'd break off and he'd hear her swear. Not “fuck” or “shit” or “damn,” but expressions like “fudge” or “fiddlesticks” or “drat.” It was ridiculous.

It was also ridiculous that every muttered “fiddlesticks” made his cock stir again. Such a clean, pretty mouth. He wondered if she ever let herself go, even in bed. And then he imagined her clean, pretty mouth saying dirty things to him.

Damn. He needed to get laid if he was having sexual fantasies about Beth Ann. She'd probably frown with genteel distaste if he even touched her. He rubbed his hand along the front of his jeans again, and then pulled out his sat phone, and dialed Rob.

“Glad to hear from ya, Colt. Find anyone else?”

He thought for a moment, and heard another polite utterance in the distance. “Nah,” he lied. “Nobody. I'm heading out myself.”

“Good on ya,” Rob said. “See you round. Thanks again for volunteering, man.”

“Anytime,” Colt said, and terminated the call.

He wasn't leaving. He was going to teach Miss Beth Ann Williamson some manners, though, and it'd start with a nice weekend out in the wild. Maybe she'd learn to be a lot nicer that way. Maybe she'd learn that being unpleasant to a Waggoner wasn't the smartest idea. And maybe she'd learn that the next time he showed up to rescue her, she could be civil, at least.

She could sure use a lesson in humility, and he had the time to do it. Even more than that, it'd give him an intense amount of pleasure to see her spend the weekend muddy and struggling.

Dane would tell him he needed a hobby. But Dane was a good guy; everyone in town liked him. And Colt was a Waggoner. The family in town that was most reviled. Beth Ann was the daughter of the mayor, and had grown up pampered and privileged.

The way he saw it, this was like a gift, and there was nothing he'd like more than to watch Beth Ann Williamson get a little dirty.

* * *

After listening to her thrash her way through the bushes and the thick, clinging mud for another hour or so, Colt decided to take pity on her. Beth Ann was determined, he'd give her that.

She was also going in the wrong direction. If she were looking for a specific camp, she was heading away from them and actually toward the parking lot. Of course, judging by her stumbling and continued calling, she didn't know that.

So he stepped out of the woods and clicked the flashlight back on. “Miss Beth Ann,” he drawled in way of greeting.

She looked exhausted, a new swipe of mud over her cheek. She'd pulled that stupid blanket thing tight around her body and her blue lips trembled from cold. The night had gotten cool and crisp, and though the rain had let up for now, it hadn't made it any warmer. Judging from the thick cloud cover overhead, he suspected there would be more rain.

She gave him a weary look when he reappeared. “Not you again.”

“Me again,” he drawled.

“Look,” she said in a tight voice, “this has been a night from hell and I really don't need you stalking me.”

Stalking her? What the hell.

“Now, unless you want to tell me where the Trojan camp is—”

“Templar,” he corrected.

Her head tilted and she cut off midstream. “Templar. That's right. You know where it is?”

He gave her a brief nod, enjoying the way she bared her teeth in frustration at his affirmation.

“Why didn't you say something?”

“I tried.”

“No, you came here and told me I looked like a hideous beast and then said you were here to rescue me—”

“That's not what I said—”

“So you'll forgive me if I don't take too kindly to being told I'm not only ugly, but I'm helpless and stupid because I'm female,” she bit out. “Now are you going to help me or not?”

Not
, he wanted to say, but he noticed her full lower lip was trembling with cold.

“You want the Templar camp?” he asked, voice short.

“Yes, I do.”

“Follow me,” he said, and turned around, walking past her back to the direction of the camp. He'd actually found it a half hour ago—she'd more or less wandered right past it—but he hadn't felt the need to point it out to her. If she'd have looked up, she'd probably have seen the crude tree houses that made up the camp.

But she hadn't looked up. And she hadn't had a flashlight, either. She'd been wandering the woods, cold and alone and not terrified in the slightest. Instead, she was determined to find her sister.

He had to admire that, even if he didn't like her much.

Colt led the way through the brush. He hadn't heard one complaint out of her mouth just yet, something he had respect for. People that got out in the wild and complained that it was wet and muddy were idiots in his book.

After about ten minutes of pushing through the trees and mud, Colt spotted one of the shacklike tree houses above. He turned back to Beth Ann, who was close on his heels. “We're here.”

“Here?” She frowned and pushed past him, staring up at the trees and the tree houses, and then the scatter of discarded camping equipment at the base of the trunks. Folding camping chairs circled around the long-dead firepit, which was now nothing more than a dirty puddle on the ground. “It's deserted.”

“Yeah.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Evacuated.”

Her confused expression focused back on him. “Evacuated? From the camp? By who?”

“Volunteer Emergency Services.” He pointed at the patch on his sleeve. “Like me.”

She stared at him, astonished. Her mascara-rimmed eyes were wide. “They're not here,” she repeated. “Is anyone here?”

He pointed at her, then pointed at himself, enjoying her astonished expression a little too much, though he kept his poker face on.

She thought for a minute, then stared back at the deserted, washed-out campsite. “And Lucy went with them? Where'd they go?”

“Nearby motel,” Colt said. “It's under construction but the owner's letting them all stay the night until the cars can be towed.”

One delicately arched eyebrow went up. “How long have you known that they're gone?”

He kept his face smooth. “'Bout two hours.”

* * *

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The Billionaire of Bluebonnet