Tori Carrington - Branded

Which meant he needed to try another tactic to battle the attraction. It wouldn’t stand for him to demonstrate anything but professional courtesy to their only female ranch hand. Forget sexual harassment; it just plain wasn’t smart.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

She’d given him a small smile, her full lips turning up at the corners. “No, I didn’t, did I?”

They’d ridden in silence for a couple of minutes, Jo darting out to force a couple of wayward steers back into the herd, then returning to his side.

“My brother, Eric, is in Iraq now,” he said. “A member of your family as much as mine.”

She’d looked at him from under the rim of her hat. “I met him briefly when I hired on here six months ago. He was home on leave.”

Trace had figured she might have. “He’s being honorably discharged this week.”

She’d nodded. “I heard that.”

He hadn’t been surprised. There wasn’t much else to do on these long drives except gossip and wait for the sun to set. Besides, there was a big welcome-home barbecue planned for Eric. Most of the hands were looking forward to it.

Trace had squinted at Jo, thinking that she wouldn’t be one of them. She didn’t strike him as a party girl.

“What made you sign up for the military?” he found himself asking.

She didn’t say anything for a long moment, then asked quietly, “What made you not?”

He’d shifted his weight in the saddle. Then shifted again as she took off her shirt and tied it around her waist, revealing the snug white cotton tank she wore underneath. It scooped low on her tanned skin and clung to her breasts and narrow waist. Trace leisurely drank his fill of her fine form, then looked up to meet her gaze, finding a knowing look in her eyes even as she pulled her nicely toned shoulders back and readjusted her gloved hands on the reins.

“Look,” she said, “I appreciate your effort to be cordial, but if you think you understand anything about me because I was a marine, you’re driving your truck down the wrong road.”

“I didn’t realize I was driving down any road.”

She gave him a long look, her eyes raking down his torso and then back up again. She seemed to know exactly where he wanted to put his truck. And for a moment he got the feeling she might open the gate for him to pass.

Instead, she dug her spurs into her horse’s sides and galloped ahead.

He hadn’t had another opportunity to speak to her since.

Oh, yes. Miss JoEllen Sue Atchison presented what his father might have called a quandary. She had to rate among the most beautiful, sexiest women Trace had ever come across. And was stubbornly determined to prove herself more than the sum of her comely parts.

He focused on her again now, watching as her boyfriend rocked his Harley up onto the stand and climbed off, following her into the stables.

“There she goes again,” a ranch hand said.

Trace frowned, took off his hat and then dragged his bandanna out of a back pocket and across his forehead. There she goes again, indeed.

He had the feeling this was going to be another long, sweaty night imagining what exactly she did in that stable whenever her guy visited.

Trace idly wondered if he should trade in his truck for a bike…

“COME ON, COME ON,” Jo said breathlessly, fumbling to unbutton Carter Southard’s jeans, only to be blocked by his belt buckle.

She shifted from where she leaned against a stall door and pushed him against it instead, pulling and tugging, kissing and hissing, desperate to fill the emptiness that gaped within her.

“Whoa, hold on there, Marine,” Carter managed to mumble between assaults on his mouth. “Where’s the fire?”

Jo looked into his ruggedly handsome face, taking in his five o’clock shadow, the slight crow’s-feet that fanned out from his gray eyes, his dark hair, tousled from the motorcycle ride to Wildewood from Dallas.

She wanted to tell him that the fire was everywhere. It roared through her veins, under and over her skin, threatening to consume her if she didn’t find a way to douse it. Now.

“I’ve been on the road for three hours in the summer heat,” Carter grumbled. “I could use a shower and a cold beer.”

Jo closed her eyes to shut out him and his words. If she was also trying to banish the image of one very striking ranch owner by the name of Trace Armstrong, she wasn’t copping to it. She saw his suggestive grin every time she blinked, as if the image had been branded on the back of her eyelids.

Her mother’s soft voice filled her head. If you’re ever to be a proper Texas lady, JoEllen Sue, you’re going to have to master patience.

Jo had heard the words when she was three and was stuffing the pink tutu her mother had bought her into the garbage disposal after a disastrous ballet lesson.

“Screw patience,” she whispered now, pushing Carter against the stable wall.

Her muscles were tight, and her entire body seemed to vibrate with an energy she needed to release.

Truth was, she’d been hot in a way that had nothing to do with the summer heat ever since Trace Armstrong had sidled up beside her earlier in the day, resting his brown eyes on her and making no secret of the fact that he found her physically attractive.

Truth be told, she’d known that fact since the moment she’d signed on for the temporary, seasonal stint at the ranch. Spotted it the instant her gaze met his, and that undeniable crackle of electricity traveled between them. She’d been fresh out of the service, traveling around South Texas taking odd ranch jobs, when she’d heard that Wildewood was hiring.

She’d had no idea of the fringe benefits that would go along with the position, and now she seemed more drawn to Trace than was safe. Attraction to the boss might have compelled her to leave other places she’d worked. Especially considering she’d spent so much of her life yearning to be judged by her actions and the job she did rather than on her appearance.

Now Carter said, “God, I wish I’d have known you in the sandbox.”

She bit his bottom lip and then kissed him restlessly. “If you’d known me in Iraq, you would never have gotten next to me.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

“Oh, I’m positive,” she said. “The last thing you want to do with someone who’s supposed to be protecting your six is give them a reason to be preoccupied with it.”

“Six” was military speak for “ass.”

Carter chuckled and then groaned when she ground her hips against his.

The two of them had met two years ago on a transport back from the Middle East. They’d both been on leave, and Jo had ended up staying with him for a couple of days of intense R & R in Dallas before heading down to see her parents in Beaumont…late. The welcome-home cake had been stale. The punch gone. And her mother so inconsolable she’d taken to bed with one of her “spells”, as her father called her bouts of depression.

It had ended up being one of the best leaves Jo had ever had. Partly because she’d met Carter. Mostly because she’d gotten to spend uninterrupted stretches of time with her father.

Which made her feel guilty just thinking about it. Another emotion she wanted to squash with physical activity.

She shrugged out of her denim shirt, revealing the tank she wore underneath. Carter immediately palmed her right breast, squeezing through the cotton and her bra. She batted his hand away and gave his belt buckle another go.

“Jesus, Carter, what is this? The male equivalent to a chastity belt?”

His chuckle tickled her ear, along with his tongue.

Her exasperation boiled over.

“Oh, just forget it,” she said, starting to put her shirt back on.