Cindy Kirk - Betting On The Maverick

“I most certainly do not,” Margot retorted before realizing she’d played right into his hands. “I don’t know you. I don’t particularly like you. That’s why I don’t want you touching me.”

His gaze met hers. “Liar.”

“What are you talking about?” Margot sputtered.

“You want me to touch you,” Brad said as if speaking the gospel from the pulpit. “But you’re scared of what might happen once I do.”

“Oh for the love of—” She reined in her emotions. “You are so incredibly arrogant. You think every woman is interested in that hot body of yours.”

A grin spread across his face, like a kid opening a present at Christmastime. “You think my body is hot?”

“Let’s get a few things straight. I’m not interested in touching you. I’m not interested in sleeping with you. I am interested in getting you out of my house.”

“ My house,” he corrected. “And you are interested in sleeping with me. You just won’t admit it.”

“Delude yourself all you want.” Margot kept her face expressionless. There was no way, no way, she was letting him know that she found him the teensiest bit attractive.

* * *

Montana Mavericks: What Happened at the Wedding?A weekend Rust Creek Falls will never forget!

Betting on the

Maverick

Cindy Kirk

www.millsandboon.co.uk

From the time she was a little girl, CINDY KIRKthought everyone made up different endings to books, movies and television shows. Instead of counting sheep at night, she made up stories. She’s now had over forty novels published. She enjoys writing emotionally satisfying stories with a little faith and humor tossed in. She encourages readers to connect with her on Facebook and Twitter, @cindykirkauthor, and via her website, www.cindykirk.com.

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To Renee Ryan and Nancy Robards Thompson, my writing buddies. I love you, guys!

Contents

Cover

Introduction “You got some hang-up about a man touching you?” “I most certainly do not,” Margot retorted before realizing she’d played right into his hands. “I don’t know you. I don’t particularly like you. That’s why I don’t want you touching me.” His gaze met hers. “Liar.” “What are you talking about?” Margot sputtered. “You want me to touch you,” Brad said as if speaking the gospel from the pulpit. “But you’re scared of what might happen once I do.” “Oh for the love of—” She reined in her emotions. “You are so incredibly arrogant. You think every woman is interested in that hot body of yours.” A grin spread across his face, like a kid opening a present at Christmastime. “You think my body is hot?” “Let’s get a few things straight. I’m not interested in touching you. I’m not interested in sleeping with you. I am interested in getting you out of my house.” “ My house,” he corrected. “And you are interested in sleeping with me. You just won’t admit it.” “Delude yourself all you want.” Margot kept her face expressionless. There was no way, no way, she was letting him know that she found him the teensiest bit attractive. * * * Montana Mavericks: What Happened at the Wedding? A weekend Rust Creek Falls will never forget!

Title Page Betting on the Maverick Cindy Kirk www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author From the time she was a little girl, CINDY KIRK thought everyone made up different endings to books, movies and television shows. Instead of counting sheep at night, she made up stories. She’s now had over forty novels published. She enjoys writing emotionally satisfying stories with a little faith and humor tossed in. She encourages readers to connect with her on Facebook and Twitter, @cindykirkauthor , and via her website, www.cindykirk.com .

Dedication To Renee Ryan and Nancy Robards Thompson, my writing buddies. I love you, guys!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

It was nearly 3:00 a.m. when Margot Sullivan stepped out of the brisk October wind and into the darkened foyer of her family home. She sniffed appreciatively. The ranch house where she’d grown up smelled different, cleaner than her last visit six months earlier. Though battling dust was a constant challenge in rural Montana, her mother had always worked hard to have a clean house. After her death, everything had been let go.

It appeared her father was once again taking pride in the home.

Pausing on the rug covering the weathered hardwood, Margot bent to take off her boots. She froze when Vivian, her blue heeler, snarled. The growl grew louder and Vivian crouched into a fighting stance, the fur on the back of her neck standing straight up.

Following the dog’s gaze to the stairway leading to the second floor, Margot gasped.

A bare-chested man wearing only jeans stood on the steps, a baseball bat in his hands. Tall with a thatch of brown hair and a dark stubble of beard on his cheeks, his hair was mussed as if he’d just run his hands through it. The eyes riveted on her were sharp and assessing.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, but his expression was more puzzled than menacing.

“I’ll ask the questions.” Margot rested a trembling hand on Vivian’s head. “Where’s my father?”

Without answering, the man lowered the bat and started down the stairs toward her.

“Not one more step,” she ordered. “Or I’ll give my dog the command to attack.”

He paused, cocked his head, grinned.

That’s when she recognized him. Brad Crawford, of the illustrious Crawford family. What the heck was a Crawford doing skulking around her father’s house half-dressed in the middle of the night?

“Little Margot Sullivan.” He shook his head and flashed a smile that had been winning him hearts since he’d been old enough to walk.

Despite herself, Margot relaxed slightly. Given the choice, she’d take Brad with a bat over a stranger in the same pose. Though she still had no clue what he was doing in her house.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he added.

“This is my house.”

“Well, now.” He rubbed his chin. “That’s debatable.”

“Where’s my father?” Margot’s heart froze as she imagined all the things that could have happened to a man pushing eighty. Without waiting for an answer, she called out. “Dad! It’s Margot. Where are you?”

“Save your breath.” Barely giving a second glance to Vivian who’d continued to growl low in her throat, Brad meandered into the living room and plopped down into an overstuffed chair. “Boyd isn’t here.”