Kathie DeNosky - Did You Say Married?!

But Kristen standing in front of the mirror with the pillow stuffed under her shirt, the sight of her slender fingers splayed along the sides of her pretend belly, had excited the hell out of him. She’d looked so beautiful, so feminine, so…pregnant with his child.

How would Kristen look six months from now if she did have his baby nestled safely inside of her?

True, he hadn’t envisioned himself with a city gal like Kristen. However, suddenly the thought of staying married to Kristen wasn’t such an unpleasant idea. Unlike his own mother, he was determined to be a good parent and be there for his kids. And the way he saw it, he and Kristen would be married for nine more months if she was pregnant.

The least they could do would be to give the whole thing a damned good shot for the baby’s sake….

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To Charlie, Bryan, David and Angie, for always believing in me.

To Margie and Dorothy, for the encouragement.

And a special thanks to Ginny, Rox, Janet, Belinda, Wayne, Roxanne and Micqui.

I couldn’t have done it without you.

lives in deep Southern Illinois with her husband, Charlie, and their three children. She began reading romances as a teenager, but it wasn’t until her youngest child started school that she decided to seriously consider writing one. A former Folk Art and Decorative Painting instructor, she loves painting pictures with words now, instead of a paintbrush. You can write to Kathie at P.O. Box 2064, Herrin, Illinois 62948.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Eyes still closed to prolong the dream, Chance Warren fantasized about sliding his callused palm up the satiny, smooth skin of a woman’s flat stomach. His hand closed around the firm roundness of a small, perfect breast, and he smiled when the tip beaded in anticipation of his further attention.

He’d had realistic dreams before. What man hadn’t? But not even when he’d been a teenager, with more hormones than good sense, had he spent an entire night dreaming the same fantasy again and again. And about the most alluring woman imaginable.

His creative mind had even supplied his vision with a name. A sweet, sexy name he’d called over and over while they’d pleasured each other throughout the night.

Christie? Crystal?

Kristen.

His groin tightened and he pressed his lips to his dream woman’s bare shoulder.

Kristen. Soft, loving and capable of setting a man on fire with her hot passion.

A frown creased his forehead. He knew only one woman with that name. Kristen Lassiter. The auburn-haired ice maiden of the Dallas elite. A city gal he had about as much in common with as a politician had with the truth.

She traveled in an entirely different circle than he did. She spent her time attending charity functions and making the headlines of the society page, while he worked his butt off building his rodeo company into the best in the country. Banquets, like the one he’d attended last night, were the only occasions he ever saw her. In fact, Chance couldn’t remember them ever being formally introduced. Not that it mattered. He didn’t have time for a relationship with her or any other woman in his life. But it still seemed odd that he’d dream about making love to her all night.

He opened one eye to a shaft of sunlight streaming through a parting in the hotel room drapes. Pain shot through his head and he swallowed hard against the cotton coating his mouth and throat.

Why had he let his friends convince him that toasting his success with a beer just wasn’t the same as toasting with champagne? The damned stuff always gave him a god-awful headache. And it only took a couple of glasses to give him a blank spot as to how much fun he’d had the night before.

Something—no, someone stirred beside him, and Chance gingerly turned his head. When his gaze clashed with the greenest eyes he’d ever seen, his brows shot up and he sucked in a sharp breath. Despite the pain stabbing at his brain, his own eyes widened in disbelief and the breath lodged in his lungs.

The woman beside him—his dream woman—wasn’t a dream at all. The female he’d dreamed of loving throughout the night, the one whose breast he still held—he quickly snatched his hand away—was very real and none other than the ice maiden of high society, Kristen Lassiter.

They stared at each other for a long moment before Chance watched her open her mouth, scream at the top of her lungs and, taking the sheet with her, scramble from the bed.

Her shrill cry vibrated through his head. He felt his skull just might explode. “Lady, do that again and I won’t be responsible for my actions,” he warned, pressing his palms against his temples to hold his brains inside.

“What are you doing in my bed?” she demanded, wrapping herself in the sheet.

Chance glanced around. “I think you’d better take stock of where you are, Ms. Lassiter,” he whispered. Even that hurt his head. “This is my room.”

Her gaze swept the room. “But how—”

“Will you lower your voice?” He sat up and eased his legs over the side of the bed. Propping his elbows on his knees, he cradled his throbbing head in his hands. “Every time you open your mouth, it feels like there’s a jackhammer chipping away at my brain.”

“Well, excuse me, Mr. Warren,” she said sarcastically. “I happen to be upset.”

He slowly raised his head to meet her disturbed gaze. “Could you be a little quieter about it?”

“Only if you cover yourself.” Her cheeks reddened. “This is embarrassing enough as it is.”

He reached for the blanket, but the apologetic smile he intended to give her turned to a grimace. The facial movement made his hair follicles ache.

“I think we’ve gone way beyond—”

“Don’t say it,” she warned, sniffling.

When she glanced toward the door, Chance watched her close her eyes, then open them as if hoping the sight before her would disappear. A jumble of his and her garments trailed all the way across the room. A black sequined dress and silver pumps, along with his western-cut tuxedo jacket, shirt and boots, lay in a tangled heap just inside the door. A few feet away, a black satin slip peeked from beneath his tailored slacks. On the far side of the bed, and appearing to have been discarded in great haste, lacy black panties, garter belt and hose lay atop his white cotton briefs.

He watched her zero in on his new hat band, the sight stopping her cold. She gingerly picked up the Resistol to remove her wispy bra from the crown.

“Do you remember what happened last night?” he asked.

She dropped his hat as if she’d touched something repulsive. “Of course I do. I attended the Professional Bull Riders awards banquet and then…then…”