Lead Me On

She hadn’t meant to say that much, but it’d come out, anyway.

His voice was low and, again, seemingly genuine. “I’m truly sorry about that, Margot.”

She didn’t like the way he said her name. Or, more to the point, she did like it. Way too much.

She turned to him, chin a notch higher than usual. “So what do you want to tell me? That Jay Halverson was behind all the camera stuff back in college? Because I’ve heard it all from Riley over the years.”

“And you didn’t believe him.”

She only shrugged. She didn’t owe him the truth.

Had she started to enjoy thinking he was the bad guy? Did it give her some kind of excuse to stay away?

His peace-offering grin stroked over her, and her heart lost a beat.

She girded herself. “Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me that Jay posted that video last night.”

“He did.”

Okay, then. Mystery solved. “I guess that settles the score.”

She started to leave.

“Not so fast.” He’d lowered his voice to a sexy timbre, making her wonder why the hell she had her sights set on Brad, who was already in his room.

But she knew the answer. Brad was a known quantity, and maybe she needed someone safe this weekend, even as she imagined him part of some big adventure with her basket. Mild-mannered Brad had never broken her trust or given grist to the gossip mill with a video.

It’d bothered her more that her privacy had been violated, and especially that she’d been filmed with the playboy who’d had every other girl except her, it seemed.

Before she knew it, Clint had reached out, gently taking hold of her sweater, near the bottom. It gaped away from her body, the air like a caress, tickling her belly.

No, make that tickling her everywhere, especially in the last place she wanted Clint Barrows to be.

But she ached there, too, between her legs. Ached so badly.

He must’ve sensed that, because he tugged her closer. As the night breathed under the cashmere, she let go of her suitcase and stumbled toward him, close enough to smell the hay and clover on his clothing and skin.

The pure masculinity of him—the clean scent, the knowledge that there was muscle under his own shirt, so close, just a touch away—spiked desire through her.

“I’m going to make it all up to you,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”

She swallowed at his bold comment. A melting, lazy pull of sensation stretched in her, creating friction until there were sparks flaring in her stomach.

“You can’t make up for what’s been done,” she said breathlessly.

He laughed, soft and low. “Sure I can. And in eighty ways, too.”

Great—he must’ve overheard what the tag would be on her auction offering.

She grabbed his hand and tried to pull it away from her sweater. “That basket’s not for you.”

She realized her mistake right away, because beneath her palm and fingers, his skin was well worked, manly, strong. The feel of it fired a need through her that she hadn’t realized was there, and it made her go even wetter for him.

“So you’re saving yourself for another man,” he said, twining his fingers through hers.

Oh, God, even such a simple connection sent the adrenaline racing through her, awakening her completely.

“Margot,” he said softly. “You’re being real difficult about this when it should be so easy.”

But it wasn’t. Not even close. Giving in to Clint Barrows was unthinkable at a reunion where everyone was just waiting for him to finally nail the one girl who’d slipped through his fingers.

Still, when he slid his other hand to her hip, massaging it with his thumb, she almost gave in.

She’d had too much to drink, she told herself. And she’d been lonely for the first time in her life because she was facing things she’d never faced before. All of that added up to a vulnerable Margot, and when he moved his hand to her backside, cupping her derriere, she sucked in a harsh breath.

“Just hear me out,” he said.

Yes. It was on the tip of her tongue. It was screaming in her head, pulling her toward him even as she tried to stay away.

But it wasn’t going to happen, because she still had a little something called pride.

“I’ve listened enough,” she said.

She stepped away and grabbed her suitcase handle again, the wheels reverberating over the blacktop just as loudly as an unexpected, almost overwhelming hunger rumbled through her.

* * *

BY THE NEXT morning, Margot hadn’t heard from Brad, and she told herself that it was still early—they had plenty of time before the auction.

And it wasn’t as if she was depending on him for the best good time ever, anyway. She’d had pretty decent fun last night after she’d unpacked her suitcase, then met Leigh and Dani again in the café, where they’d caught up with other sisters who had offered solace about the video. That hadn’t surprised Margot, because everyone but the biggest prudes had backed her up years ago when the first one had gone public.

Naturally, Margot had done her best to avoid the questions about future books and how well her sales were doing, all the while wondering if the concierge had gotten ahold of Brad yet with the “this is what my basket looks like” note and its less-than-subtle invitation to bid on it.

But there’d been some moments last night—a lot of them, actually—when she’d found her mind on someone else.

The cowboy with the cocky grin.

The man who’d used his sexy voice in the parking lot as if he were fully confident she was going to succumb to his supposedly irresistible charm.

Right.

She rolled out of bed, the digital clock on the nightstand blazing 9:00 a.m. in the dim room, darkened by the pulled heavy curtains. And when she glanced at the phone, the message light was dark, too, staring back at her blankly.

No calls.

But dammit all if she was going to bug the concierge by asking him if he’d even delivered the note to Brad.

Jeez, now she was wondering if it’d been such a good idea in the first place....