Silver James - The Cowboy's Christmas Proposition

Quin’s voice interrupted his reverie. “I don’t believe for a minute you are naive enough to believe that baby is yours.”

With one hand, he grabbed the basket and moved it closer. With profound gentleness, he transferred the little girl into it. She stayed asleep. After tucking a crocheted blanket around her, he brushed the tip of his index finger through her wispy gold baby hair.

The sexy cop standing a few feet away kept pinging his radar. She’d been gruff and in-your-face about Noelle, and he wanted to know what made her tick. They had some time to kill. He’d watched out the window as his brothers and Cash Barron organized rides and shipped almost everyone off.

Deke wanted to satisfy his curiosity about Trooper Kincaid and whether she was as aloof—and as immune to him—as she pretended to be. He watched her from under half-lidded eyes, not missing a detail. Shoulders back, feet apart, knees slightly bent, hand on the butt of her pistol. She looked like she was getting ready for a fight.

“Do I make you nervous?” he drawled.

* * *

Quin refused to retreat a step, though her common sense insisted it was the smart thing to do. Instead, she stood her ground. She was the trained law-enforcement officer here. She was in charge. Keeping her stance aggressive but controlled, she jutted her chin toward him and leaned ever so slightly in his direction.

“Absolutely not.” Then she realized her hand was on the butt of her sidearm. Oops. With conscious effort, she loosened her grip and hooked her thumb in her belt. She’d be cool, calm, efficient, with a detached sense of control. She could send out those vibes. Absolutely. Because this man did not make her think of kissing those full lips of his even if she was wondering whether they were soft or firm. No. She would not go there.

She was a professional. On duty. She didn’t have time to picture running her fingers through that messy hair of his. Or—or... Her gaze rose from his mouth, quirking up at the corners as it was, to meet his eyes. They really were the soft blue of a star sapphire. She curled her fingers against her belt. Would the stubble on his face be rough, or as soft as his hair looked?

“Darlin’, you really shouldn’t look at a man that way.” His gruff voice was both a caress and a wake-up call.

Quin barely controlled a full-body shudder. She needed to think of ice baths and blizzards. Snow and ski slopes. Invigorating high mountain air. Not warm. Not sexy. She took that step back, both physically and mentally. He laughed, and the sound was dark and warm like fudge brownies just out of the oven. Her mouth watered.

Coffee. She needed coffee. And fresh air. Like right this minute. She squared her shoulders and glanced at her watch: 4:18 a.m. Despite Quin’s hoping otherwise, the DHS worker likely wouldn’t arrive until after sunup.

“It appears we will be here a while, Mr.—”

“Deke.”

“Tate. Is there any chance you have coffee hiding somewhere in this place?”

He chuckled, and she didn’t like the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. No. She didn’t like that at all.

“I’ll see what I can scare up.” He turned away from her and she realized she needed what cops laughingly called a 10-100.

“I also...” She did not want to ask, especially when he turned around, leaned up against the counter by bracing his hips against it and looked at her.

“You also...?” He did that smile-and-dimple thing again.

“May I use your facilities?”

“My...” His eyes twinkled and she could tell he was fighting laughter. The big jerk. “Bathroom is that way.”

“Thank you,” she acknowledged stiffly. Marching past him, she made note of the six curtained bunks lining the hall between the living space and the bedroom she could see at the rear.

Just past the bunk area, through a wooden door, she walked into a bathroom that made the one in her condo look like it belonged in a cheap motel. There was a huge glassed-in shower, a marble countertop with sink and full-sized commode. It was luxurious. She closed the door for privacy.

When she was done, she washed her hands and let her curiosity get the best of her. She poked her head into the bedroom. The queen-size bed appeared to be on a platform. It was higher off the floor than she’d first thought. A pewter-colored comforter looked warm and inviting. Then she stopped to wonder how many women had been in that bed. Time to make a right turn into the sanity lane.

A chair sat in one corner. A guitar occupied a metal stand and there was a microphone in its own stand on the opposite side of the chair. Did he record back here? There was a computer setup on the nearby desk.

Quin heard a throat clearing behind her and she whirled. Her face flaming, she met Deacon’s amused gaze without blinking.

“See anything you like, darlin’?”

“Uh...no. Not at all. I was curious to see how the other half lives. That’s all.”

“Sure.” That twinkle in Deacon’s eyes had turned to a hard glitter. He stalked toward her.

Self-preservation made her back up, taking one step for each of his. The backs of her legs smacked into the bed and she almost went down—would have hit the mattress if Deacon hadn’t reached out and grabbed her arm.

All but panting, Quin forced herself to calm down. She was embarrassed at being caught. She truly hadn’t meant to snoop. Much. And then there was the proximity of Deacon—with his dark good looks, the smoldering gleam in his eyes and that mouth. She couldn’t help staring at it.

“You’re starin’ again.”

She gulped. Jerking her eyes upward, she attempted to inhale around the catch in her chest. It just wasn’t fair to women that one man could be this...everything a man was supposed to be. “Oh. Uh...the coffee?”

“It’s ready.”

“Oh, good. Great. Yes, thanks. Thank you. Very much.” She eased past him and fled toward the living area. She almost stumbled when Deacon called after her, his voice gruff, which invited all sorts of sexy thoughts.

“We’re not done, Trooper Kincaid. Not by a long shot.”

Four

Deacon fell into bed just before 7:00 a.m. While he appreciated all the help from the Barron wives—or the Bee Dubyas as his brothers called them—they’d exhausted him and Noelle. The baby had been passed around so much she was wailing before he could convince them to go home. It helped that he’d sent out a group text to their husbands to come get them.

But they’d worked some serious magic on short notice. He’d come home to a functional nursery, courtesy of the chain store that was open 24/7. His home was now filled with bottles, diapers, formulas and more clothes than a kid needed in the short term. The crib and playpen thingy were up and ready—not that any of the women put Noelle down long enough for the baby to use them. They’d also set up a baby monitor. As tired as he was, that was a good thing.

Noelle took thirty minutes to calm down. He’d put her in the crib then sat next to it, stroking her gently and singing to her until she fell asleep. Deke had fond memories of singing Dillon to sleep and he sometimes wondered if that was why they both ended up in the music business. In the end, Noelle had been clutching his finger as her eyes drifted shut and her breathing turned into little puffs. He was in desperate need of at least a couple of hours of sleep. Then he’d deal with the curveball life had thrown him—and the intriguing Highway Patrol trooper he’d left in the Thunder River Casino parking lot as she attempted to placate the DHS caseworker.

* * *

Bacon. Deacon inhaled deeply. That was bacon he was smelling. And biscuits. What the...? He jumped out of bed and stumbled toward the kitchen. He was halfway down the hallway when his brain caught up with his body. The baby-monitor receiver on his bedside table had been turned off. He backtracked to the baby’s room and looked in. Noelle was sleeping soundly.