Robyn Carr - Temptation Ridge

He was trying to drive the thoughts of that sweet young thing from his mind; he’d like to stop the hot little darts from shooting through his body.

He had no trouble finding the local bar—a little hole in the wall that actually made him feel overdressed and totally military with his close-cropped hair and pressed shirt. There were a lot of men in plaid or chambray shirts, long hair, ponytails, mustaches and beards. It looked packed; plenty of cars and big trucks parked around outside.

The place was full at nine o’clock. He made his way inside, finding a stool at a very crowded bar in a noisy room. He ordered a shot of whiskey and a beer. Time to settle everything down and stop thinking about the girl. By the time he’d left Jack’s he had started having visions of putting his hands on her and being shot by her uncle.

He threw back the shot and nursed the beer. Good move, Riordan, he lectured himself. Move to a new little town where the same dozen or so people meet at the same little watering hole a couple of nights a week and within twenty-four hours get the instant hots for the one woman to be avoided at all costs. But lust was a beast in him and he was impossibly attracted to her.

He understood very well that touching her wasn’t the problem. They were all grown-ups, not teenagers. He could seduce Shelby, get her in his bed, enjoy her and be enjoyed by her, and there wouldn’t be too much trouble. He got the impression the general and Paul actually liked him. What would come after would create trouble—he would fail to get serious, move on, make her cry. He’d get into her without falling in love when she was a young woman clearly designed for true love, for permanence. And that would have a bad ending—with him it wasn’t just a premonition, it was destiny. He hadn’t been able to feel anything like what Walt Booth would want for his niece in over a dozen years.

After about twenty minutes passed, another beer was put in front of him and he looked up at the bartender. “The ladies across the bar,” he said.

Luke hadn’t even noticed anyone else. His mind had been on exactly one sweet thing. He glanced up and felt his lips lift in a slight smile. “Thank them,” he said.

“They’d like to know if you want to join them for a drink.”

“Ah, I’m going to have to leave pretty soon,” he said. But he was thinking, that’s more my speed. Some good old-fashioned, all-American, slutty girls, hanging out in the bar and buying drinks for strange men.

“I’d think that over,” the bartender said, lifting an eyebrow.

“Yeah?” He grinned. “Why not,” he said. He put some money on the bar to pay for his drinks and, lifting the beer, walked to the other side.

There were three of them. One in each flavor—a redhead, blonde and brunette. They seemed to be in their late twenties and headed for sloshed. “Ladies,” he said. “Thanks for the beer. Having girls’ night out?”

Giggles all around. “Well, not anymore,” one of them said. They parted seats so he could have the middle stool.

“You ladies from town?” he asked.

“Yeah, we’re from Garberville,” one of them said. “How about you?”

“I’m just passing through,” he lied. “I have some property on the river. I thought about some hunting. Fishing.”

They were named Luanne, Tiffany and Susie. They were secretaries and had been in the bar since happy hour, and there didn’t seem to be a designated driver among them. Two were divorced and one, Luanne, claimed to have never married. They were wearing their out-to-be-seen bar clothes: short denim skirts to show off their long legs, heels, fitted tops that accentuated cleavages. They had high, perky boobs and fluffy hair. In spite of himself, he briefly considered how much sexier Shelby was in her jeans and boots, her white shirts with rolled-up sleeves and fresh face, leaving everything to the imagination.

He learned they’d all grown up in the area, so he asked about their favorite nightspots. He admitted to being recently discharged from the army after flying helicopters for a long time, but avoided the topic of any kind of combat. These girls weren’t that interested in international events and after he said he’d been last stationed in Texas, they didn’t push him for details. They wanted to know more expedient things: Was he married? Would he be here long?

Within ten minutes Luanne had her hand on his knee under the bar. He almost jumped in surprise. Then she slid it along the inside of his thigh and he grabbed her wrist. “I’d like to be able to stand up from the bar, Luanne,” he said. And she thought that was very funny.

That’s when he knew—if he wanted to unload some tension, it wouldn’t be hard to negotiate. Embarrassingly, it wasn’t exactly a rare move for him. He briefly considered this alternative, but very briefly. He just couldn’t get into the idea.

As if a pact had been arranged, the girlfriends, Tiffany and Susie, wandered off, ostensibly headed for the ladies’ room, except Luke noticed they were sidetracked at other tables in the bar and didn’t return. They were leaving Luke and Luanne alone to proceed. He tried carrying on a conversation with Luanne, who seemed only able to talk about her secretarial job, clothes and girlfriends. She had a very annoying hair-tossing habit. Every few seconds she flapped that fluffy mane over her shoulder.

He had to remove her hand from his thigh another time. He leaned toward her and whispered, “Listen, you don’t want to get me stirred up. All right?”

And, leaning far too close and brushing her cheek against his, she said, “What if I do?”

“It would be a mistake. I’m not exactly available.” Then he wondered why the hell he said that. He was worse than available, he was verging on desperate.

“I don’t exactly care,” she whispered.

He was not in the best shape for this kind of horseplay. He excused himself and said he’d be right back, leaving her at the bar. Whew, he thought, headed for the men’s room. There was no safe place, he realized. He wasn’t safe with Shelby, wasn’t safe away from her. This Luanne was more his type—she looked like lots of mindless sex with no attachments. One small problem—she just didn’t do it for him. And the more she came on to him, the less she appealed to him. The guilelessness of the general’s niece had already spoiled him for a nice, uncomplicated one-night stand. He decided that rather than go back to the bar, he’d slip out the back way.

He came out of the bathroom and found himself in an instant body slam against the wall in the narrow, dim hallway. Luanne had him pinned. “Whoa,” he said, hands up as though he was being arrested to keep from touching her.

She lifted her sultry, half-drunk eyes up to his face, smiled a lopsided smile and cleverly tucked something into the front pocket of his jeans. From his vantage point he was looking down at an impressive cleavage and two very healthy breasts pressed against him. It distracted him for a minute—he loved breasts. He often thought that if God had given him breasts, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off himself. He’d be seen walking around town with his palms pressed over his own chest.

She had her arms around him in the dark hallway that led to the restrooms, pressing him against the wall. A man walked past them, glanced at them, smiled slightly and moved on. Luanne stood on her toes and pressed her lips against his. Holy shit, he thought, his groin beginning to tighten. With her arms around him, she pulled him around and into the ladies’ room. He found himself pushed up against the sink while she flipped the lock on the door. She accomplished this with such deft skill, it was clear she’d done it before.

Again, embarrassingly, it wasn’t his first time for this, either. He couldn’t remember ever being appalled, though. Last he could remember, this was about the time he’d pull a condom out of his pocket and just go for it. It had been quite a while since he’d been with a woman; it wouldn’t take long. She was willing. She was past willing—she was obnoxious. He slipped his hand down to his pocket to see what she’d put in there. He pulled out something soft and lacy. A very tiny pair of panties. Red and black. And off. “You’re fucking kidding me,” he muttered, stuffing it back in his pocket.