Vivian Arend - Rocky Mountain Angel

She was too surprised to move. Or at least that was the excuse she gave herself.

His lips were firm but gentle. No tongue, just a meeting of mouths. Kisses, one after another followed as he controlled her position, not allowing her to squirm away. And when she opened her mouth to complain he took total advantage, deepening the kiss until she was ready to pass out for the second time that day.

Pass out, or she was about to wrap her arms around him and grind their bodies together, she was so excited. From kissing. From the feel of his long, hard body pressed up tight against hers.

He let her go, leaning away. Cool air and regret he hadn’t done more than simply kiss her hit about the same time. Holy cow, what had she gotten herself into?

One corner of his mouth twitched before his wide smile reappeared. “Figured we’d better get used to each other a little—hate to have anyone call our bluff just because we ain’t good at kissing.”

The butterflies in her stomach didn’t quite know what to think of his comment. The tenderness in his touch had seemed far more real than she’d expected.

Allison pulled herself together. “You’re right. Totally right.” She nodded briskly and snatched up a bag in either hand, turning her back to hide her flaming-hot face. “Have a good night.”

She fled as unhurriedly as possible, but it was still an escape and he knew it. And she knew he knew because that wicked laugh of his followed her yellow-bellied retreat.

Allison stood on the porch in the dark and watched his taillights disappear down the long driveway leading to the main road.

Loud music blared through the made-over barn, but it had been used long enough for its new purpose there was no dust or straw bits left in the rafters to shake loose and fall on those gathered beneath the bright lights.

The scent remained—nothing could remove that slightly sweet aroma of animals and feed that had permeated the wood itself from years of use. Layered in were the new scents of alcohol and cigarettes. Perfume and sweat.

Gabe watched the men fighting in the ring before him with only half his attention, the rest focused on his cousin who stood nearly motionless at his side.

Bullshit . Most of his attention was still back on the woman he’d left in his house. Wondering what Allison was doing, and questions of how they were going to pull this deception off, threaded through his brain like a snake holding its tail. An endless loop of unanswerable chaos.

Her taste lingered on his lips, and he gave himself a mental slap and refocused on the here and now.

Travis stared intently across the wide space of the room, his eyes almost glazed. It was always like this—the calm before the storm. His breathing slow and even, relaxed as if he were ready to fall asleep.

Deceptively dangerous.

It was nearly a year since Gabe had discovered what Travis did in some of his spare time, and insisted he be brought along as an emergency backup. Some nights he wasn’t needed. Some nights, he was.

A roar of approval rose from the men gathered around the perimeter of the fighting area as one of the two in the ring landed a series of blows that dropped his opponent to his knees. Men with nothing more than wrapped fingers, stripped to the waist. Beating the hell out of each other because they wanted to. Because they could.

It wasn’t Gabe’s thing, but Travis sure the hell got something out of it, so who was he to judge? As long as his cousin got home in one piece, he figured the bruises and cuts would eventually heal.

The man teetering toward the floorboards was dragged to his feet by a couple of the watchers, raucous laughter and ribald comments flying through the air. Gabe ignored it all. He’d heard it before, seen it before. Shock value was gone.

Someone poked him in the arm and he jerked around.

Shit. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Tamara Coleman planted her fists on her hips and lowered her chin just enough to peer over the top of her glasses at him. “On-call medical. Don’t tell me you’re stupid enough to be participating in this free-for-all?”

Someone jostled her from behind, and Gabe automatically reached out to pull her closer to his side so he could protect her. “Not me.”

The suddenly fucked-up situation got more and more convoluted, even though he’d expected this to happen eventually. In an area as small as theirs, it was inevitable that somewhere along the line someone in the family would find out.

He didn’t expect it would be one of the Coleman cousins of the female variety.

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

Tamara leaned around him and swore lightly. “Travis Coleman, you’re a bigger fool than I’d ever imagined.”

Travis didn’t even move his head. “Tamara. You slumming it tonight?”

“You lost whatever you had of your minuscule brains?” Tamara wormed past Gabe and got directly in front of Travis until he had to look at her. “You’re an idiot, right? Your mama dropped you on your head when you were a baby.”

Travis smirked. “She did, and I liked it. So if you’ll excuse me…”

He was past them both and pushing through the bodies, climbing into the ring with the evil grin still on his face.

Tamara growled in frustration, arms folding in front of her across her flannel shirt. “When I volunteered to come stitch up the brainless twits who fight here, I didn’t think I’d be working on family.”

Gabe moved in closer, putting himself between her and the biggest of the men intently watching the ring. “Things can get a little iffy in the crowd too, so if you’ve got a safer place to watch from, let me take you there.”

“I’m fine.” She planted her feet wide, somehow echoing the stance Travis took as his fighting partner climbed through the ropes. “If I have to stitch him up? I’m not using any painkiller. Stupid ass.”

In the ring, Travis and the wiry blond who’d joined him were already tossing experimental blows. Or the blond was swinging. Travis moved smoothly side to side, dodging and otherwise staying just out of reach.

“It ain’t a dance party, Travis,” someone catcalled.

“Take off his pretty head, Stan,” another encouraged.

Stan lunged and shot out his fist, connecting with Travis’s torso, high and hard. He followed with his left fist to ribs, the slam of knuckles against flesh loud even as voices rose. Gabe shifted to the side to see around the man in front of him, and in that single moment he missed Travis’s first blow.

Stan was bent in two, his body doubled forward with Travis’s fist still buried in his gut. Travis dragged his hand free, pounding a blow to Stan’s face, then another. It was like watching an automaton, repetitious and consistent in motion. Travis had lost his smile, a concentrated glare replacing it. Drops of sweat beaded his brow, his muscles flexing as he worked around Stan. He backed up as if to allow the other man to straighten.

Stan drew in a deep breath, hands on his thighs to push himself vertical.

Travis stepped forward and swung, knuckles connecting with jaw. Stan’s head snapped back, his entire body flipping in a wavelike motion as he collapsed to the floor.

Travis waited, arms bent in a ready position, as if eager for the man to get up and continue fighting. Gabe sighed, recognizing the energy still blistering out from his cousin.

“At least that’s over,” Tamara muttered. “Because while I have no objection to staring at half-naked men all night, including my cousin in that number kind of makes the thrill fade.”

A snort escaped involuntarily. “Yeah, I can see how that could ruin the show. He’s going to fight again,” Gabe warned.