Emily McKay: Affair with the Rebel Heiress / The Magnate's Pregnancy Proposal: Affair with the Rebel Heiress / The Magnate's Pregnancy Proposal

But the truth was, she was tired of planning every move she made. This stranger with whom she was dancing, this cowboy, this man she’d never see again after tonight, made her pulse quicken.

From the moment she’d seen him sauntering through the door to the instant he’d pulled her body against his, she’d felt more alive than she had in months. Years, maybe. Somehow the scent of him, masculine and spicy, rose up from his chest and cut through the stench of stale smoke and cheap beer. His shoulders and arms were firm and muscular without being bulky. He had the physique of a man who worked for a living. Who lifted heavy things and shouldered massive burdens. The hand that cradled hers was slightly rough. This was a man who’d never had a manicure, never taken a Pilates class and probably didn’t own a suit.

In short, he was a real man. Unlike the pampered men of her acquaintance. Most of whom, she was sorry to say, were likable, but were just a little bit … well, that is to say … well, they were sissies. And until this moment, she’d never realized that bothered her. She’d never known she wanted anything else.

Her face was only inches from his shirt and she had to fight against the sudden impulse to bury her nose in his chest. To rub her cheek against his sternum like a cat marking her territory.

It had been so long since she felt this kind of instant sexual attraction to someone. Geesh, had she ever felt this kind of attraction? She didn’t think so.

Not that she planned on acting on it. A one-night stand was so not part of her five-year plan.

“I don’t even know your name,” she muttered aloud. “Ford,” he murmured.

He’d ducked his head before speaking so the word came out as warmth brushing past her ear. She suppressed a shiver.

“Like the car?” she asked.

He chuckled. “Yep. Like the car.”

Geesh, indeed. Even his name was masculine. Why couldn’t he have had a name that was just a bit more androgynous? Like Gene or Pat. Or BMW.

She didn’t manage to stifle her chuckle.

“You’re imagining me named after other car brands, aren’t you?”

Her gaze shot to his. “How did you know?”

“It’s pretty common. People usually think one of two things and you just seemed the type to wonder, ‘What if he’d been named Chevy?’”

“Are you saying I’m predictable?” Even though the lighting was dim, she could see that his eyes were whiskey-brown. And just as intoxicating as the tequila in her drink.

“Not at all,” he reassured her. “You could have been thinking Dodge.”

“It was BMW, actually. I can’t see you as something as clunky as a Dodge.” Was she flirting with him? What was wrong with her?

“So you’re a woman who appreciates precision engineering.”

Actually, I’m a woman who enjoys precision in everything.

The words had been on the tip of her tongue. Thank God she swallowed them. Instead she asked, “What’s the second?”

“Second what?”

“You said people usually think one of two things. If the first is other car names, then what’s the second?”

His lips quirked in either amusement or chagrin. “They wonder if I was conceived in the back of a Ford.”

“Ah.” Perhaps that had been chagrin, then. And was that the faintest hint of pink creeping into his cheeks? As if he were just a tad embarrassed. “And were you?”

“That,” he said firmly, “is a question I was never brave enough to ask my parents.” They both chuckled then. A moment later he added, “But I have three sisters and their names are not Mattress, Kitchen Table and Sofa, so I think I’m safe.”

She nearly asked what the names of his three sisters were, but she stopped herself. Somehow that seemed inappropriate. More personal, even, than the discussion of his conception. She didn’t know Ford. Didn’t want to know him longer than the length of this song. Personal details like the names of his sisters didn’t matter. So instead, she gave in to her temptation to rest her cheek against the strong wall of his chest and to breathe in deeply.

After a moment he said, “I hope you don’t judge Dale too harshly.”

“Dale?”

“The guy hitting on you earlier.”

“Ah. Him.” She’d forgotten he even existed.

“He’s been going through a rough divorce. His wife left him for a guy who’s twenty-three years old.”

“Ouch. That’s got to be hard on the ego.”

“Exactly. Which is why he’s been a mite irritable lately. But what exactly did you say to him that made him so mad?”

She cringed, hesitating before answering him. “I said he looked like Elmer Fudd.”

Ford seemed to be suppressing laughter. “I can’t imagine why that offended him. Everybody loves Elmer Fudd.”

“That’s what I tried to tell him!”

They both chuckled. But then she looked up. For a moment, space seemed to telescope around them, blocking out everything else. The smoke, the crowd, even the blare of the music faded until all she could hear was the steady thump-thump of the bass echoing the thud of her heartbeat.

She felt her nerves prickle in anticipation. Desire, hot and heavy, unspooled through her body. Her very skin felt weighed down. Her thighs flushed with warmth.

Who knew that laughter could be such a turn-on?

Their feet stopped shuffling across the floor. That ridiculous grin seemed frozen on her face for an instant, but then it faded, melted away by the intensity of his gaze. There was a spot just over his ear where his otherwise straight hair curled. Before she could think, her fingers had moved to his temple to tease that wayward lock of hair.

He took her hand in his, stilling her fingers. He cleared his throat, and she expected him to say something, something funny maybe, something to lighten the tension between them, but he said nothing.

Who had ever imagined that she’d feel this needy lust for a stranger? Not just a stranger, but a cowboy. A Texan. When she’d sworn she’d never even set foot in this damn state again. She so hadn’t seen this coming.

That’s when it hit her. Here, tonight, was a night out of time. She would never be here again. She would never see him again.

In this strange place, with this man she didn’t know, she had complete immunity. Freedom from her well-planned life. From her routines and her expectations of herself.

Tonight she could do whatever she wanted with no consequences. She could allow herself to do what she would normally never do. She could be stupid and reckless.

Without giving herself the chance to harbor second thoughts, she rose up on her toes and pressed her lips to his. His mouth moved over hers with a heated intensity. The sensual promise in his kiss made her shiver. She arched against him, letting her body answer the call of his. She slipped her hand into his and walked off the dance floor, tugging him along behind her.

As she wove her way through the crowd, the tempo of her blood picked up. After a lifetime of carefully planning, of controlling her actions and emotions, he could be her one rebellion. Tonight could be a vacation from her life.

And even if this was a mistake, he’d make sure she didn’t regret it.

Two months later

“You’ve got to stop moping around,” Jonathon Bagdon said, then added, “And get your feet off my desk.”

Ford, who’d been sitting with his work boots propped up on the edge of Jonathon’s desk while he scraped the tip of his pocketknife under his nails, looked up for the first time since his business partner walked in the room. “What?”

Jonathon swatted at Ford’s boots with the leather-clad portfolio he’d been carrying. “Keep your feet off my desk. Christ, it’s like you’re ten.”