The Millionaires' Club: Ryan, Alex and Darin: Breathless for the Bachelor

Tomorrow he was going to have a talk with Travis. His friend could damn well find someone else to play watchdog to his sister. A eunuch maybe—which he definitely was not. And whoa…did she ever remind him of that fact. Carrie Whelan lit him up like a stick of dynamite sizzling along with a dangerously short fuse. She was a very hot, very spicy, very—did he mention hot?—female who he was supposed to regard as a little sister.

Damn.

He expelled a thick breath. She was not his sister, even though his mom and dad had taken her and Trav in when their parents had been killed in a car accident fourteen years ago. He still carried an image of sad, lost little ten-year-old Carrie crying in his arms. And it still broke his heart when he thought of what she’d suffered. But too often lately he was having a hard time dredging up the gumption to think of her as either that sweet, lost little kid or a surrogate sister.

It had been one thing when she’d been ten and he’d been eighteen. He’d even been on track when he’d reached his early twenties and she was a blossoming sixteen with a mad crush on him. He’d been sensitive to her infatuation and hadn’t minded keeping an eye out for her then—at least, he hadn’t when he was around Royal, which, given college and then his five-year stint on the PRCA rodeo circuit, wasn’t often.

But now…well, now it was a different story. The eye he kept on Carrie Whelan now was far from fraternal—no matter how hard he tried.

Mouth set in a hard line, he followed her onto State Street. Trav would kill him if he so much as suspected Ry was thinking of Carrie in conjunction with beds and scarves and black lace, which, he’d already decided, she would look damn fine in or out of.

He shook the too-vivid picture out of his head and pulled up behind her. When her angry eyes fastened on his in her rearview mirror, he gave her a little, “Hey, how ya doin”’ wave. With typical Carrie sass, she flipped him the friendly finger, ran a yellow light and left him sitting at the intersection waiting for the light to change.

“Damn woman,” he sputtered with a slow shake of his head, but he was grinning when her taillights disappeared in a glut of traffic. “Gonna be the death of me.”

Silky red hair. Lush plump lips. Full firm breasts. Long slim legs. He shifted position and adjusted the fly on his jeans with the heel of his hand—like he had to do damn near every time he saw her lately.

He caught up with her a few blocks later. Five minutes after that he sat at the curb, motor idling and watched her storm out of her car and let herself into her house. Even mad as a hornet, she was a joy to watch move—all swaying hips and swishing silk.

“Death of me,” he repeated under his breath as she slammed her front door behind her and a light flicked on inside. “But what a way to go.”

With a warning to himself to back off—way off—he shifted into gear and headed for the Cattleman’s Club. He needed a drink. A stiff one. And tomorrow he needed to see Trav. He needed to look him square in the eye and remember that the woman who was sparking his explicit sexual fantasies was his best friend’s little sister.

Little virgin sister.

Blood rushed to his face…and to another part of his body it had no place going where Carrie was concerned.

Virgin. He’d suspected, but until she’d made the announcement to the world at large back at the diner, he hadn’t wanted to know. He really hadn’t wanted to know.

His heartbeat hit about 6.9 on the Richter scale at the thought of her innocence and what it would be like to be the first man to make love to her.

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. Well, it wasn’t going to be him. It wasn’t going to be anybody if Trav, the quintessential overprotective nobody-touches-my-sister-and-lives-to-tell-about-it brother, had his way. Ry knew Trav’s reaction was left over from when their parents had died. Trav had taken on the responsibility for looking out for her with a vengeance. That had been many years ago, but he still hadn’t been able to let go. Carrie would die a spinster if it were within Trav’s power.

And what a waste that would be, Ry thought, picturing the fire in her eyes and the sweet curve of her hips as he drove through the night street.

Okay. He had to quit thinking about her that way. And tomorrow he would. Tonight, though, he planned to do the rest of his thinking with a drink in his hand and let the fantasy play out. And maybe, if he was lucky, he thought as he pulled into the Cattleman’s Club parking lot, he’d have the fantasy and her worked out of his system by morning. Maybe by morning, he’d also figure out an excuse to give Trav for why he couldn’t be the one to keep an eye on Carrie any longer.

Two

What are you going to do…take me home and tieme to my bed?

Good Lord, Carrie thought as she stepped out of the shower and snagged a fluffy jade-green towel from the linen closet. Had she really said that to him? To Ryan Evans, of all people?

She groaned and buried her face in the plush terry cloth. If only she’d had the good sense to stop with that. But, no. She’d had to add a really needy sounding, Which, by the way, has a fairly intriguing ringto it, and then hope she might actually see some spark of interest darken his eyes.

But not Ry. Oh, no. Not Carrie-bear-you’ve-gotyour-tail-in-a-twist Evans. Interested? In her? She snorted.

“If I was a horse, maybe.” Or one of those flashy four-wheel-drive vehicles—all gleaming chrome and high-gloss black enamel—he was so fond of driving.

No. Ryan Evans had never been interested in anything to do with her and a bed, unless it was trying to talk her into making his because he’d been too busy breaking broncs and chasing the town girls to make his bed himself.

She rubbed the towel through her hair and regarded her reflection in the mirror with disgust. “Some lessons are just harder than others to learn, huh, Carrie-bear?” she grumbled aloud and felt the anger drain as fatigue and melancholy took over.

Yeah. Some lessons were harder than others. Ry was one of the hardest.

With a sniff and a sigh, she finished drying herself off then slathered on some new lotion that smelled of sage and citrus and something softly sensual and essentially feminine. She’d actually bought it with him in mind. She snorted again. She was pathetic. What didn’t she do without Ry in mind?

She faced her sorry self in the mirror. “So, for once and for all, what are you going to do about him?”

She honestly didn’t know. She’d loved him forever. Idolized him, in fact, and he’d never seen her as anything but a kid sister. After tonight, though, since he hadn’t pounced, panted or even tiptoed around any of the not-so-subtle invitations she’d lobbed his way, it was pretty clear that he never would see her any other way.

She bit her lower lip thoughtfully and faced the unalterable truth. “Maybe it’s time to give it up.”

She drew in a deep breath, let it out as the thought settled like lead. Yeah. Maybe it was time.

Slipping into a clean, oversize nightshirt that still smelled fresh from the dryer, then tugging a pair of socks over her cold tootsies, she wandered into the living room working a brush through her wet hair as she went. Snagging the remote on the way by the end table, she punched it toward the TV then plunked down on the sofa. The soft navy-blue chenille throw felt snuggly and warm as she dragged it from the back of the sofa and settled it over her upraised knees. It would have felt infinitely better if she’d been snuggled up to Ry.

She caught herself. “You’re doing it again, Whelan. It’s not going to happen. Not with Ry, so just give it up.”

For the next five minutes she tried to get used to the idea that she did need to do just that. She needed to once and for all let go of the fantasy of him and her together.

So she thought about her volunteer work at the burn center, of the kids at day care. Anything to take her mind off him as she channel surfed, punching the remote with one hand and unconsciously fiddling with the hair on the left side of her forehead where the cowlick she always fought to tame remained as stubborn as ever.

“Nothing. You’d think you could find one thing among the dozens of cable channels that looks interesting,” she sputtered aloud. One thing to distract her or to snag her thoughts away from the lost cause that was Ry Evans.

Disgusted with herself, she flicked off the TV and tossed the remote on the coffee table. The photo album on the second shelf caught and held her attention. She stared at it for a long time before finally giving in to the temptation to take a little stroll down memory lane.

A picture of her mom and dad and her and Trav brought a bittersweet smile. She trailed her index finger across the smiling faces of her parents. She’d been nine; Trav was seventeen when the photo had been taken. They’d been in Fort Worth at the stock show. It was one of the last photos taken of them all together before the accident that had claimed Sue and Joe Whelan’s young lives.

She wished with everything in her that it wasn’t so difficult to attach animation to the still photos. She’d always wanted to remember them as three-dimensional and full of life…but after fourteen years, those vital connections had faded along with the picture’s color.

She’d gotten on with her life a long time ago. The pain had ebbed to something tolerable. A misty sort of longing had replaced the cruel, agonizing grief that had shattered the sanctity of her perfect little world. But all these years later, she still missed them.

With one last, lingering look, she turned the page…and there he was. Ryan. Lanky and lean, broad-shouldered and brown-eyed. He’d been eighteen to her ten, larger than life, grinning and strong. Her heart tripped, like it always did when she saw him, when she thought of him, when she let herself believe he could be more to her than a surrogate big brother after his parents had taken her in following the accident that had left her bewildered and withdrawn and confused.

To make matters worse, Travis had signed up for the U.S. Marines just before the accident and had had to leave shortly after. She’d never felt so alone. Even now her eyes stung as she remembered more than one lost, lonely night when Ry would find her in the room his mother had decorated with such special attention to please the sad little person she had been.

He’d stand broad-shouldered and thoughtful in her doorway, a pained, helpless expression momentarily crossing his handsome face. Then he’d smile and charge into her room like a big, noisy teddy bear and proceed to tease a grin out of her, coax her into a giggle and, ultimately and unintentionally, stir the woman budding inside her ten-year-old soul into loving him.

“We’re your family now,” Ry’s mom had told her more than once after that horrible day. “You and Travis belong to us. Your daddy was our foreman. I loved your mother like a sister and your father was like a brother to my John…just like Travis and Ryan are like brothers. Just like you are our daughter now.”

Very quietly Carrie closed the album and hugged it to her breast, as Sandy used to hug her to hers. This album represented her past. So did the lifelong fantasy of Ryan falling in love with her. Tonight had finally made her accept that it wasn’t meant to be.

Ryan Evans was not her Mr. Right.

“So…this is it, then, isn’t it?” she whispered aloud, and felt her heartbeat flutter with sadness.

“The infamous defining moment.”