A Match Made in Texas (36 page)

“… I’m not kiddin’, the man blew a hole the size of a six-year-old razorback hog in the side of Deeder’s doublewide, then took his time hoppin’ back in his truck as if he had all day to do—hey, Slate.”

Slate stopped just shy of those pointy-toed shoes and trim little ankles. Slowly, he let his gaze slide up the pressed pants, up the brown sweater that hugged the tiny waist and small breasts, over the stubborn chin and the full mouth that still held a tiny trace of pink glittery gloss, to those sky blue eyes that widened just enough to make him realize he hadn’t made a mistake.

The woman before him wasn’t Hope.

But he was willing to play along until he found out who she was.

“Kenny, what the heck are you doing letting Hope drink beer?” He pried the bottle from her death grip as he yelled at the bartender. “Manny, bring me a bottle of Hope’s favorite and a couple of glasses.” He smiled and winked at her. “If we’re going to celebrate your homecomin’, darlin’, then we need to do it right.”

“I wanted to order Cuervo, Slate,” Kenny defended himself. “But she didn’t want it.”

“Not want your favorite tequila, Hog?” He leaned closer. “Now why would that be, I wonder?”

Before she could do more than blink, Manny slapped down the bottle of Jose Cuervo and two shot glasses, followed quickly by a salt shaker and a plastic cup of lime wedges. He started to pour the tequila but Slate shook his head.

“Thanks, Manny, but I’ll get it.” Slate took off his hat and tossed it down. Stepping closer, he sandwiched those prim-and-proper crossed legs between his stomach and the bar as he picked up the bottle and splashed some tequila in each glass—a very little in his and much more in the impostor’s. He handed her the saltshaker. “Now you remember how this works, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“ ’Course she knows how it works, Slate,” Twyla piped in. “She’s been in Hollywood, not on the moon.”

Slate didn’t turn to acknowledge the statement. He remained pressed against her calf, the toe of her shoe teasing the inseam of his jeans and mere inches from his man jewels. His body acknowledged her close proximity, but he ignored the tightening in his crotch and continued to watch those fearful baby blues as they looked at the saltshaker, then back at him.

“Here.” He took the shaker from her. “Let me refresh your memory, Hog.”

Reaching out, he captured her hand. It was soft and fragile and trembled like a tiny white rabbit caught in a snare. He flipped it over and ran his thumb across the silky satin of her wrist, testing the strum of her pulse. As he bent his head, the scent of peaches wafted up from her skin, filling his lungs with light-headed sweetness and his mind with images of juicy ripe fruit waiting to be plucked.

Easy, boy. Keep your eye on the goal line.

With his gaze pinned to hers, he kissed her wrist, his tongue sweeping along the pulse point until her skin was wet and her pupils dilated. Then he pulled back and salted the damp spot he’d left.

“Now watch, darlin’.” He sipped the salt off, downed the shot, then grabbed a lime and sucked out the juice—all without releasing her hand. “Now you try. Lick, slam, suck. It’s easy.”

She just sat there, her eyes dazed and confused. He knew how she felt; he felt pretty confused himself. His lips still tingled from touching her skin, and his heart had picked up the erratic rhythm of hers.

“Go on, Hope,” Kenny prodded. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t tell me you forgot how to drink in Hollywood?”

That seemed to snap her out of it, and before Slate could blink, she licked off the salt, slammed the shot, and had the lime in her mouth.

A cheer rose up, but it was nothing to what rose up beneath Slate’s fly. The sight of those pink-glitter lips sucking the lime dry made his knees weak. And so did the triumphant smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes as she pulled the lime from her mouth. A mouth with full lips like Hope’s but with straight, even front teeth. Not a slightly crooked incisor in sight.

Relief surged through him. The hard evidence proved he wasn’t loco. It also proved his libido wasn’t on the fritz. He wasn’t hot after one of his closest friends; he was hot after this woman. This woman who was not Hope… unless she’d gotten some dental work done like they used to do on
Extreme Makeover
.

He mentally shook himself. No, she wasn’t Hope. And if it took the entire bottle of tequila to get her to ’fess up, so be it.

He poured her another shot and had her salted and ready to go before she could blink those innocent eyes. “Bottoms up.”

She complied, demonstrating the lick-slam-suck without a flaw. She grinned broadly when the crowd cheered, but she didn’t utter a peep. Not even after the next shot. Damn, maybe she was Hope; she was just as mule-headed. And could hold her liquor just as well—although she did seem a little happier.

“Do a Nasty Shot,” Sue Ellen hollered loud enough to rattle the glasses behind the bar.

Slate started to decline but then figured it might be just the thing to get to the truth. Besides, he’d always been a crowd-pleaser.

“You wanna do a Nasty Shot, Hog?” he asked.

She nodded, all sparkly-eyed.

For a second, he wondered if it was a good idea. She’d almost set him on fire the last time she kissed him. Of course, that was when he thought she was his close friend and her enthusiasm had taken him by surprise. Now he knew she was a fraud. A sexy fraud, but a fraud nonetheless. Knowing that, he wouldn’t let things get out of control. He would get just aggressive enough to scare her into speaking up.

“Okay.” Slate lifted her wrist and kissed it, this time sucking her skin into his mouth and giving it a gentle swirl with his tongue. Her eyes fluttered shut, and her breasts beneath the soft sweater rose and fell with quick little breaths.

The man muscle beneath the worn denim of his jeans flexed.

This was definitely a bad idea.

Unfortunately, with the entire town watching, he couldn’t back out.

Lifting his head, Slate cleared his throat. “Remember how this works?” He covered the wet spot with salt. “Same premise, but this time we lick and shoot at the same time. Just leave the sucking part to me. Here.” He uncrossed her legs and stepped between them, which prompted a few sly chuckles from the men. “For this, we need to get just a tad bit closer.”

Those long, dark lashes fluttered, and her thighs tightened around him. Slate’s breath lunged somewhere between heaven and hell, and his hand shook as he poured a full shot for her and a little for himself.

“Okay, darlin’.” Luckily, he sounded more in control than he felt. “You ready?” He dipped his head and pressed his mouth to her skin.

She hesitated for just a second before she followed. The silky strands of her hair brushed his cheek as her lips opened and her tongue slipped out to gather the salt, only millimeters from his. Even though they didn’t touch, an electric current of energy arced between them so powerfully that it caused them both to jerk back. Those big baby blues stared back at him, tiny granules of salt clinging to her bottom lip.

His mind went blank.

“Tequila, Coach,” Rossie Owens, who owned the bar, yelled.

Snapping out of it, he straightened and grabbed up the full shot, then downed it in an attempt to beat back the rearing head of his libido. She followed more slowly, her wide, confused eyes pinned on him.

“The lime, Slate,” Kenny laughed. “You forgot the lime.”

Hell. He jerked up the lime and sucked out the tart juice, not at all sure he was ready to go through with it. But then people started cheering him on, just like they had in high school when they wanted him to throw a touchdown pass. And, just like back then, he complied and reached up to hold her chin between his thumb and forefinger as he lowered his lips to hers.

It wasn’t a big deal. Slate had kissed a lot of girls in his life. Including one whose eyes were the deep blue of the ocean as it waits to wash up on a Mexican shore. Except he hadn’t noticed that about Hope. Hope’s eyes were always just blue. Yet this woman’s eyes caused a horde of descriptive images to parade through his mind. All of them vivid… and sappy as hell.

Luckily, when he placed his lips on hers all the images disappeared. Unluckily, now all he could do was feel. The startled intake of breath. The hesitant tremble. The sweet pillowy warmth.

“Suck!” someone yelled.

Her lips startled open, and moist heat surrounded him. Shit, he was in trouble. He parted his lips, hoping that once he did, she would pull back and start talking. But that’s not what happened. Instead, she angled her head and opened her mouth wider, then proceeded to kiss him deep enough to suck every last trace of lime from his mouth, along with every thought in his mind. Except for one: how to get inside her conservative beige pants.

Slate pulled his head back. Get in her pants? Get in
whose
pants? He didn’t know who the hell the woman was. And even if he did know, he sure wasn’t going to get in her pants in front of the entire town. He liked to please people, but not that much.

Ignoring the moist lips and desire-filled eyes, Slate dropped his hand from her chin and lifted her down from the bar. When he turned around, the room was filled with knowing grins. He thought about explaining things. But if he’d learned anything over the years he’d lived in Bramble, it was that when small-town folks got something in their heads, it was hard to shake it. Even if it was totally wrong. Which was why he didn’t even make the effort. He just grabbed his hat off the bar as he slipped a hand to the petite woman’s waist and herded her toward the door.

It wasn’t as difficult as he thought it would be. Which was just one more reason he knew the woman wasn’t Hope. Hope was too damned controlling to let anyone herd her anywhere. Just one of the things he didn’t particularly miss.

Once they were outside, Slate guided her a little ways from the door before he pulled her around to face him.

“Okay. Just who the hell are you?”

Her gaze flashed up to his just as Cindy Lynn came out the door.

“Hey, Hope. I was wonderin’ if you could come to the homecomin’ decoratin’ committee meetin’ on Monday afternoon. I know decorations aren’t your thing, but everybody would love to hear about Hollywood. Have you met Matthew McConaughey yet? One of my cousins on my father’s side went to college with him in Austin and—”

“Hey, Cindy.” Slate pushed the annoyance down and grinned at the woman who, on more than one occasion, had trouble remembering she was married. “I know you’re probably just busting at the seams to talk with Hope about all them movie stars, but I was wondering if you could do that later, seeing as how me and Hope have got some catching up to do.”

“I’m sure you do.” She smirked as she turned and wiggled back inside.

Realizing Cindy Lynn would be only one of many interruptions, Slate slapped his hat on his head and took the woman’s hand. “Come on. We’re taking a ride.”

She allowed him to pull her along until they reached the truck parked by the door. “This is your truck?”

Slate whirled around and stared at the woman who sounded exactly like Hope—except with a really weird accent. He watched as those blue eyes widened right before her hand flew up to cover her mouth.

The hard evidence of her betrayal caused his temper—that he worked so hard at controlling—to rear its ugly head, and he dropped her hand and jerked open the door of the truck. “Get in.”

She swallowed hard and shook her head. “I’d rather not.”

“So I guess you’d rather stay here and find out how upset these folks get when I inform them that you’ve been playing them for fools.”

She cast a fearful glance back over her shoulder. “I’m not playing anyone for a fool. I just wanted some answers.”

“Good. Because that’s exactly what I want.” Slate pointed to the long bench seat of the truck. “Get in.”

The sun had slipped close to the horizon, the last rays turning the sky—and the streaks in her hair—a deep red. She looked small standing so close to the large truck. Small and vulnerable. The image did what the Mexican daydreams couldn’t.

He released his breath. “Look, I’m not going to hurt you, but I’m not going to let you leave without finding out why you’re impersonating a close friend of mine. So you can either tell me or Sheriff Winslow.”

It was a lame threat. The only thing Sheriff Winslow was any good at was bringing his patrol car to the games and turning on his siren and flashing lights when the Bulldogs scored a touchdown. But this woman didn’t know that. Still, she didn’t seem to be in any hurry to follow his orders, either.

“My car is parked over there,” she said, pointing. “I’ll meet you somewhere.”

“Not a chance. I wouldn’t trust you as far as little Dusty Ray can spit.”

She crossed her arms. “Well, I’m not going anyplace with a complete stranger.”

“Funny, but that didn’t stop you from almost giving me a tonsillectomy,” he said. A blush darkened her pale skin. The shy behavior was so unlike Hope that he almost smiled. Almost. She still needed to do some explaining. “So since we’ve established that we’re well past the stranger stage, it shouldn’t be a problem for you to take a ride with me.”

“I’m sorry, but I really couldn’t go—”