The Third Kiss

But she didn’t want to win. She didn’t need anything. Not when so many others needed so much more. Faces of children she’d worked with through the years filed through her mind.

“Come on.” He allowed no other arguments. He faced the audience and kept his hand on her arm as if she might bolt at any second. And she might have. If he’d given her the chance.

Irritation nettled her. She decided in that instant that Matt Cutter might be handsome, even sexy, but he was arrogant, domineering and overbearing.

“Good afternoon!” He spoke into a microphone, his voice resounding through the store and reverberating through her entire body. “Cutter’s Western Wear is proud to announce we have now welcomed our one millionth customer.”

Another cheer went up, and more flashes went off in front of Brooke’s eyes, making her see spots.

“Tell us your name, Miss…” His focus, as well as the crowd’s, shifted toward her.

She considered giving another name. Maybe even Peggy’s. She couldn’t imagine how this would look to her clients. Their psychologist making the headlines. But if nothing else she was honest, and so she spoke into the microphone. “Brooke,” she said, “Brooke Watson.”

“Well, Brooke,” Matt Cutter said, slipping his arm around her waist, holding her close, making her skin tingle, “today is your lucky day.”

Brooke wondered then if maybe she did have a fairy godmother, who’d gone overboard with the magic.

Matt Cutter had never met a more exasperating woman!

He admitted Brooke Watson had warm-brown eyes and a body that could make any red-blooded American male break out in a hormone-overloaded sweat. But what kind of woman resisted all he had to offer…er, all his store had to offer? He’d expected the millionth customer to gush, blush, maybe even throw herself at him. But he hadn’t expected this woman’s chilly reluctance and stubborn resistance.

He sure hadn’t expected to be attracted to her, either.

“I really can’t accept this,” Brooke repeated, stepping back from the microphone and him.

He frowned. Maybe she hadn’t understood. “It’s a lifetime supply of jeans.”

“I don’t need any jeans. I like the ones I have.”

He admitted her jeans looked sexy, the way they hugged her like an intimate embrace, caressing every feminine curve she had. His appreciative gaze swept over the tall, willowy brunette. “Those won’t last forever.”

She shrugged. “They’ll last longer than some things.”

What the hell did she mean by that?

“Look,” she offered, “if you have to give away a lifetime supply of jeans, then I’ll choose who they go to.”

She scanned the crowd. Everyone went berserk, screaming and hollering, waving and jumping, trying to get Brooke’s attention. Then she smiled, really smiled, for the first time since he’d met her. And it gave his stomach a strange sensation.

“The lifetime supply of jeans goes to—” she grinned while he gritted his teeth “—this woman in front. Peggy Simmons.”

The redhead raised her arms like Rocky, after winning the championship fight, and turned in a tight circle.

Now what was he going to do? Brooke gave away prizes as if she was cleaning out her closet of the past year’s clothes. What was wrong with her? What woman didn’t want clothes? Maybe she simply didn’t wear jeans often enough to justify a lifetime supply. Fine. But she wouldn’t be able to resist the next prize.

“That was very generous of you,” he said into the mike, well aware of the cameras aimed at him and of the wall of reporters taping every word. Maybe the circus atmosphere Brooke had generated would create bigger headlines. Definitely a plus for Cutter’s. “Now, for this next gift you’ll have to sit here.”

“But I don’t—”

“Sit.” He barked the command as if to his black Lab, Dodger, and jerked the microphone behind his back.

Brooke snapped her mouth closed and glared at him.

Maybe that wasn’t the right approach for this woman. He touched her arm gently, even though he wanted to grab her. This woman brought out a Neanderthal side of him. “Look, it won’t take long. I won’t hurt you,” he said softly so only she could hear. “Promise.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

He ground his teeth and edged closer to her, challenging her, daring her not to step back toward the chair. In spite of her height, she still didn’t meet his chin and had to crane her neck to glower at him. “That’s right, Miss Watson. Right over there.”

“Doctor. It’s Dr. Watson,” she corrected him in a clipped tone that set his nerves on edge.

A doctor, eh? He could see that. He could see a lot of things in this woman, some of which he didn’t particularly like. But he saw many things he did appreciate, like the deep-rose of her lips, the way the tip of her nose tilted up, the challenge in her toffee-colored eyes. He especially liked the way she didn’t back down. She stood her ground, never retreating, like so many women he’d known who would have bent over backward to please him. Maybe that’s what attracted him. But that was absurd! Because this spitfire of a woman annoyed the hell out of him.

She stood toe-to-toe with him. Actually, her breasts brushed against his chest and tied his insides into knots. Trying to ignore the way she affected him, he pushed on. She gave an inch, then another. They inched their way across the platform until she backed into the chair and plopped into the seat with a thud.

“Perfect.” He took a deeper breath, now that he couldn’t feel her against him or imagine what she’d be like wrapped within his embrace. But he couldn’t let her escape. Not until he’d finished with her. Finished giving her all she deserved. All the presents for being the millionth customer, that is. Keeping his hand on her arm, he glanced over his shoulder for his assistant to bring the next gift.

“This is a coveted prize, Dr. Watson,” he said, giving her a subtle warning that he wouldn’t tolerate her giving this one away. Lifting the mike, he announced, “The next prize for our valued millionth customer is a pair of custom boots made exclusively here at Cutter’s!”

A satisfactory ah-h-h went through the crowd. Feeling confident, he knelt beside her chair, gave her a wink and pulled Brooke’s tennis shoe off. He tossed it over his shoulder, and it landed with a dull thud on the platform.

“Hey! Give me back my shoe.” She reached for it, and he grabbed her hand.

It was a battle of wills that he hadn’t played with a woman in a long time. If ever. And he was determined to win.

“I’m going to give you something better than that old tennis shoe.” He placed the mike on the floor behind him so their voices wouldn’t carry. Then he trapped her foot against his thigh.

Her eyes widened. His insides burned. A staggering heat seemed to fuse them together. Or maybe it was his imagination. Maybe it was the flashes from the cameras. Maybe the crowd was pressing too close.

Touching Brooke was definitely a mistake.

Her toes curled in protest and made his skin tighten with need. Blood pumped hot and fierce through him. What was she doing to him?

“I like my tennis shoe,” she said through gritted teeth. “Let go of my foot.”

“I’m only going to measure it.”

“Measure someone else’s. Let me choose another—”

“No.” His temper snapped.

Why couldn’t someone else have been the millionth customer? She tried to pull her foot away, but he held firm. Until she winced. Guilt shot through him. Quickly he closed both hands over her foot and soothed the place he’d injured. He kneaded her instep. Beneath the thick sports sock, he felt her fine bones, her warmth. Slowly she relaxed. The center of her eyes dilated with awareness. Keep your hands to yourself, Cutter!

“I’m sorry.” He forced himself to quit massaging her foot and get through with this procedure. “Now be still. This will only take a minute.”

Her shoulders stiffened at his instructions. He slid the foot-measuring plate between her foot and his thigh. The cold metal chilled his overactive libido.

“A perfect six,” he said, “but very narrow.” Then he measured the length from her ankle to her knee, sliding the measuring tape along the curve of her calf. He felt her tremble. She tried to pull away from him, but he held firm. “Your boots will be ready in six weeks, Miss…Doctor. What color would you like? White to go with your doctor coat?”