Can't Buy Me Love Read online

  “Did you know my grandpa?” a small voice asked and she jumped, her heart a startled bird heading for the trees.

  “Christ, kid,” she muttered, turning to face Victoria’s little boy, Jacob. Who’d been sick.

  The boy clutched an inhaler in one hand, a giant robot in the other, and in this room, with its big furniture and the very adult nature of the equipment, he looked so terribly, terribly small.

  “You were going to marry him, right?” he asked, shaking a long dark curl out of his eyes. The kid had beautiful hair. Black and curly. Shiny, like the coat of Eli’s horse.

  “No,” she said honestly. “It was just pretend.”

  “My mom and uncle call you Bimbo Barbie.”

  She snorted before she could help it. “That’s … ah …”

  “It’s not nice.” The expression on his face, that tilt to his chin and the unflinching look in his eyes—it was a little pup version of one she saw on his grandfather.

  And his uncle.

  Something tight and hot clenched in her chest. Was this kid defending her? He didn’t even know her.

  “Yeah, well, it’s not the worst I’ve heard.” She looked around for Victoria. “Where’s your mom?”

  “She’s signing me up for dance classes.”

  “Dance classes?”

  “I don’t want to go. But she’s not listening to me.”

  He shrugged. And she knew that shrug, remembered the weight of it on her own shoulders—the tension, the way it hurt sometimes like her bones were breaking to pretend she didn’t care.

  And she wouldn’t care now. Not about his pain.

  She tapped the bills against the edge of the table and sighed. “Well, you should probably get out of here,” she said.

  For a second, the boy’s blue eyes searched hers and she could see in the kid’s face—plain as day—that he missed his mom. Could feel her absence even though she was close.

  That he was bored. And a little scared.

  “See you around,” she said, and walked away, forcing herself not to look at him any more than she had to.

  Tara called their account manager at the bank and tried to sweet-talk him into letting her have signing rights over those damn checks, but Matthew Pierce was impervious to sweet talk.

  “I need a letter from the power of attorney, signed by Luc Baker,” he said. “That’s it.”

  “You sure?” she asked, trying to project as much nudity into her voice as possible.

  “Absolutely.”

  She hung up before she started calling him names.

  Because she was weak, she checked the garbage can in the greenhouse, but Ruby had already taken out the trash, and her candy supply with it.

  The world ain’t fooled by all your airs, Tara Jean, the demon said. You and me, we never get nothing in this life without asking for it, usually on our knees.

  She was going to have to talk to Luc.

  Today. The second day of her new life.

  Being around him, it was as if she had fresh skin, raw and sensitive. Brand new.

  Which was ludicrous. There was nothing brand new about Tara Jean.

  She’d been putting this off for too long. She checked her look in the mirror behind her desk. A black leather vest with nothing under it revealed toned arms and shoulders that truly were a gift from God, because it wasn’t as if she lifted anything heavier than a Tootsie Pop. On the bottom she wore a pair of wide-legged, white linen pants and red shoes that did incredible things for her ass.

  A small silver chain with her mother’s delicate cross nestled between her breasts. An ironic statement, mostly.

  She imagined Luc’s eyes there, on her body, the pale soft skin of her chest, and her body flushed, hot and prickly.

  She rearranged the girls, fluffed her hair, put on some lipstick, and, praise Jesus, found a yellow Mike and Ike in the bottom of her purse.

  As Lyle would say, she was ready to bring down some big game.

  chapter

  11

  Luc pitied the next person who asked him for something.

  He really did.

  Vicks was in some kind of fit, signing Jacob up for lessons and clubs and classes that the poor kid had little to no interest in. And worse, she was trying to schedule Luc for chauffeur duty. Maman had already started talking about getting his team to the annual Sick Kids Children’s Hospital Christmas Gala. Eli was hanging out on the perimeters—sitting on the porch when Luc went for a run, lurking in the shadows when he got back.

  Please, Luc had thought more than once as he walked by the silent cowboy, ask me for something. Anything.

  Because then we’ll have some words.

  Which, in this case, was hockey player for I will take you out.

  But Eli was cagey and he kept his mouth shut.

  Luc tugged the gloves up higher over his wrists and wrapped his fingers around the twine of the next bale of hay. He lifted, walked thirty feet, and heaved the hay into the far corner of the horse arena.

  He should email Dominick, the Cavaliers’ trainer, and let him know about the hay bale workout. Because this shit was no joke. The muscles of his shoulders, back, and arms screamed with the effort.

  It reminded him he needed to call Gates and tell him to lay off the strippers. He was becoming ESPN’s favorite Athlete Behaving Badly.

  After he moved all of this hay, he’d call the guys and check in.

  His shirt stuck to his skin, cold and clammy, and he took it off, tucking it into the back waistband of his running shorts.

  Once the arena was cleared of the hay bales and the bags of feed that sat by the door leading out toward the paddock and the Angus fields beyond, he was going to bring in some workout equipment. Running wasn’t enough, and he was starting to lose weight. And the headaches were getting out of control. He woke up every morning feeling like there was an ice pick buried in the middle of his forehead.

  No wonder Matthews wanted him to rest.

  He would never admit this to anyone, but there were mornings when he wanted to stay in bed. Pretend, for a few hours, that he wasn’t Luc Baker and that one workout might really change things.

  But then he thought of his team and the Stanley Cup. He thought of having a drink out of the championship cup by his father’s graveside.

  That would be almost as good as the speech.

  And he thought of spending days locked inside this ranch with his memories and somehow, every morning, he’d find his way into his workout gear and out onto that road where the miles seemed longer than usual.

  A barn cat hissed and ran past him for the open doors leading to the short covered walkway that connected to the barn, a good fifty feet away on the other side of the building. Dust motes sparkled in the air between the dirt floor and the vaulted ceilings. Barn swallows darted down from their nests in the rafters, buzzing his head in warning. Try it, he thought to the birds, his mood so poisonous he was ready to take on wildlife.

  “Uh-oh,” said a smooth, sexy voice, and his pulse leapt with sudden dark excitement. He turned to see Tara, looking like a cross between a biker babe and a … well, porn star. Even in loose white pants, she looked like sex. “Eli’s not going to like you messing with his arena.”

  “Well,” Luc said, heaving another bale of hay onto the pile. “It’s not his arena anymore, now is it?”

  She pursed her shiny pink lips and his core temperature spiked. Lust and anger coiled through him, a dangerous and unpredictable mixture.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to make a gym in here,” he said. “Bring in some workout equipment.”

  “You’re supposed to be training, aren’t you? That’s what all the running is about?”

  “Why, Ms. Sweet, have you been watching me, too?”

  Her breasts pressed against her black leather vest, not straining the tiny black buttons, but giving them a good workout, and something about the barely harnessed nature of her outfit turned him on harder and faster than he’
d been turned on in a long time.

  All he wanted was to press on one of those tiny black buttons with his dirty, sweaty fingers, ease it from its hole, and give them all a little relief.

  “Not as much as Ruby,” she said, her perfect full lips kicking up into a naughty smile. “You’re her new hobby. She’s given up crocheting.”

  He wanted to lick her from the curve of that naughty smile to her toes. And back again.

  “You know, you were all over the radio this morning.” When she stepped farther into the arena, he could see the tips of her bright pink toenails in her shoes, another tease, another glimpse at the ordinary that on this woman seemed painfully, erotically extraordinary. “Melanie in the Morning has been following the trade rumors very diligently. She has quite a crush on you. I’d worry about a stalker if you do end up down here.”

  “I’m not playing down here.”

  “Melanie will be heartbroken.”

  “I’m so glad you find this funny.” The bale of hay he threw flew past the pile, exploding against the wall. “But this is my life. And the fact is, I need to be on some ice!” She blinked at him, all empty headlight eyes.

  “So go get on some ice. What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal?” There was a tide rising in him, lifting boats of anger and resentment, a whole fleet of frustration. “I’m a hockey player, one of the best, in case you’ve been living in a cave for the last ten years. And my doctor has told me to rest for the next few months, but right now there are thirty other men, fifteen years younger than me, all working their asses off to take my place. I’ve got one year left, and I am stuck—here!” He heaved the hay over his shoulder, feeling every muscle and sinew burn with the effort. “I can’t sneeze near an ice rink around here without every sports journalist in the world up my ass asking questions about a trade, or the Cup, or my goddamned head!”

  He’d said too much and he forced himself to breathe. To center himself in the cool confines of his control.

  He turned and found her leaning against a hay bale, wiping a smudge of dirt off her white pants.

  She glanced up, as if she was just now noticing his silence. Her eyes opened wide, playing dumb better than any blonde he’d ever seen. Or maybe she just was dumb. Yet conniving.

  All he really knew about her was that he wanted to get naked and sink as deep as he could into her.

  “That sucks,” she said.

  “Perfect assessment.” He marched another bale of hay across the arena. Sun flooded in the open doors, palpable heat stretching across the dirt floor.

  Sweat ran down his back, past the waistband of his shorts. And he could feel her eyes on him, moving across his shoulders and over his legs. His ass.

  His body was a product of his game, chiseled and honed by rivers of sweat and blood, and he fully appreciated that women liked how he looked. Wasn’t, at times, above using what his looks brought him. The women who fell into his bed like overripe fruit.

  But there was something in the way this woman looked at him. Surreptitiously. While his back was turned. As if she wasn’t just hiding her interest from him, but from herself as well. It was in direct contrast with her sex goddess looks, and the contradiction made him crazy.

  It made him want to flex his muscles, throw her over his shoulder, and show her what he could do with this body.

  There was not a single part of him that didn’t want to touch her. But some modicum of sense in him knew it wouldn’t be a good idea.

  He wanted to wipe the floor with his good sense.

  “How about you?” he asked. “Prostitutes R Us doing a booming business?”

  “I will have you know Baker Leather cleared 1.5 million last year. And the Texas First Lady is one of our most loyal customers.”

  “Five years ago Dad told me Baker Leather was going bankrupt,” he said. “That’s why he needed me to wear those boots. You’re telling me that’s changed in five years?”

  “Five years ago, your father didn’t have me.”

  “So, you’re responsible for turning it around?”

  “Li’l old me,” she said, somehow managing to be both sarcastic and proud.

  “Well, now, go figure.” His sarcasm was a slap shot right back at her righteous defense of herself.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t be an ass.”

  The fact that he was taking his evil mood out on her wasn’t missed by either of them. “Sorry.” But not very. “Did you have something to say, or did you just come in here to stare?”

  “I’m not staring.”

  “Don’t be a liar,” he said, mocking her.

  “Fine.” She stood in front of the bales of hay still to be moved, a delectable, five-foot-three roadblock. “I came in here to talk.”

  She crossed her arms, and her breasts crowded her chest as if searching for high ground. They were natural, those breasts. Perfect and round. They’d be soft to the touch, womanly and full. Her skin would give, her nipples would harden against his lips, firming in his mouth.

  His dick got harder. And he grit his teeth against the pleasure.

  “About what?” She was a magnet, and he stepped closer so that he could smell her—lip gloss and sugar.

  “I … ah …” She swallowed, and he grinned at her. But Tara only lifted her chin, not ready to stop pretending.

  Fine, he thought. But if she wanted to play like there wasn’t any heat between them, he didn’t have to play along.

  Somehow the idea of getting her to admit to her desire turned him on even more. It suddenly became a goal.

  And he liked goals. Part of his job description.

  She was silent, panting slightly when he didn’t move.

  Slowly, like a cowboy in every bad late-night skin flick he’d ever seen, he reached past her and picked up another bale of hay and walked through the sunlight to toss it onto the pile.

  She cleared her throat, and he smiled.

  “I need you to take a ride with me. To Dallas, to see Randy Jenkins.”

  Iron suffused his muscles and his anger. The smile turned into a smirk.

  “Really?” That it was her, asking him for something, gave him an evil delight. A sick glee.

  “You need to sign some papers so I can do my job.”

  “Well, as you can see, I’m busy.”

  “I understand moving hay is pressing business, but if you don’t sign those papers, my hands are tied. And so are Eli’s.”

  He stepped toward her like he was going to grab another bale of hay but stopped right in front of her instead. All those little black buttons on her vest screamed and begged to be released.

  Something wicked and hot brewed in the space between them, taking up oxygen, filling his head with treacherous ideas about running his hands over that tiny leather-restrained waist, palming the perfect round globes of her ass. She would feel so good in his hands, against his body; those curves were meant to be touched, palmed, and kissed.

  Bitten.

  Sucked.

  God, he wanted her.

  “Frankly, I’m pretty sick of everyone needing something from me.”

  Her blue eyes darkened and he knew it wasn’t sympathy, not from Tara Jean. So he braced himself for her anger. Looked forward to it, even.

  “Yeah, poor you,” she spat and his body sizzled, his fingers burned. “I didn’t write that will, Luc. None of us did, so stop punishing us for what your father did.”

  “You know, that would be a very noble thing to do.”

  “And you’re not noble.”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Okay, fine, what do you want?”

  Restlessness and anger cheered. Lust sharpened itself into a knife buried in his gut.

  “What do I want?” he murmured, his eyes on her shiny pink lips.

  Her skin broke out in goose bumps and her shoulders went back. Her nipples were hard points against the black leather. “I’m not for sale.” Her voice was a hot, hard whisper of anger. “Not anymore.”
/>   “We’re all for sale, Tara Jean Sweet.” His eyes traveled down her body, taking breaks at her hips, her breasts, the long length of her legs.

  Watching that naughty little tongue of hers, he realized what he wanted from her. More than he wanted to slip that vest off her beautiful skin. More than he wanted to fill his hands with her breasts.

  He wanted a kiss.

  Her lips, perfect and pouting against his. A little tongue. Perhaps a lot of tongue.

  And he wanted her to admit that she might not like him, but she wanted him.

  That would make him feel less like taking an axe to everything on the ranch.

  “And if you want me to sign those papers, I’m going to need a kiss.”

  He took off his gloves and tossed them on the ground, all the while watching her wrestle with her pride. The right thing to do, he was well aware, was to let this go. To tell her he’d go to Dallas and sign those papers and she didn’t have to do anything. But he was sick to death of doing the right thing. Choking on self-sacrifice.

  “Just a kiss. That’s it.” Her hands twitched into fists, and he wondered if she knew what she revealed in that unconscious gesture.

  Oh, Tara Jean, what have you had to sell to get here?

  He nodded, hating himself a little, but far too turned on and curious to stop.

  “Fine.” She tossed back her hair, her eyes hard and flat like blue mirrors, giving away nothing, and since he wasn’t totally fond of his reflection at this low moment, he looked away. “But I’m warning you, neither one of us is going to enjoy this.”

  “You gonna bite me?” He tried not to sound excited by the idea. “Because that would pretty much nullify the agreement.”

  “I’m not going to bite you. But I’m cold, sweetheart—frozen, all the way through. It’ll be like kissing an icicle.”

  “Is that supposed to dissuade me?”

  “Nope, just making it clear that enjoyment isn’t part of the deal.”

  He laughed; he couldn’t help it. “I don’t think enjoyment will be a problem.”

  A bead of sweat slid out from behind her thick blond curls and traveled across the smooth skin of her neck, over the ridge of her collarbone to the inward slope of her breast, where it gained speed and vanished beneath the black leather.