Safe in His Arms (10 page)

Keep reading for a preview of the second installment in Vicki Lewis Thompson’s Perfect Man trilogy

TEMPTED BY A COWBOY

Available now from InterMix

“I can’t lose her.” Fletcher Grayson crouched beside the bay mare and stroked her sweat-dampened neck as she lay on her side in the foaling stall, her breath labored.

“We’re not going to lose her.” Astrid Lindberg was determined that both mare and foal would survive this night. Fletch had called her emergency line at ten pm. It was a testimony to her lack of a social life that she’d been home on a Saturday night.

She’d rushed out to the Rocking G, driving through a summer downpour. It was what locals called a trash mover of a rain, falling in endless sheets of water. Four hours later, the rain continued to pound the roof of the barn, and Janis still hadn’t foaled.

Astrid had monitored the pregnant mare for weeks, ever since the first signs of edema. Because of the swelling, Janis’s abdomen was far more distended than it would be in a normal pregnancy. The condition was worrisome, and recently Fletch had kept her confined to the barn and a small paddock to restrict her movements.

Some vets might have performed a C-section by now. Astrid preferred to see if Janis could deliver naturally, which would mean a better start for both mother and baby. Luckily Fletch agreed with her.

Fletch tended to agree with her on most things, which made her job as his vet much easier. It also made her life as a woman frustrating as hell. From her first glimpse of the broad-shouldered rancher, she’d been in trouble. Fletch Grayson was hot. And single. And a client. He was definitely off-limits.

“I think she wants to get up.” Fletch stood and backed away. Concern shone in his brown eyes. “I wish she’d just have that foal and be done with it.”

“Me, too.” Astrid rose and edged back as Janis lumbered to her feet. “Let’s move out of the stall and give her room to pace if she needs to.”

“Sure.” He followed her out and they leaned side-by-side against the front of the stall so they could observe the mare as she walked the perimeter of her enclosure.

Standing close together in this cozy barn watching Janis as the rain came down outside was the most natural thing in the world for them to be doing. Yet stormy nights always made Astrid long to be held, and it drove her crazy to be within touching distance of the yummy Mr. Grayson. She imagined the feel of all those muscles under his blue denim shirt and barely controlled a shiver.

He’d named his ranch the Rocking G because he had a fondness for classic rock and roll. This horse honored Janis Joplin, and the stable was filled with namesakes of other famous rockers. In Astrid’s opinion, Fletch was the one who rocked.

He’d hung his Stetson on a peg outside the stall. When he was nervous, he had a habit of running his fingers through his chocolate brown hair, which only made that wavy hair sexier. No one should look this good at two in the morning. Or smell this good. Fletch’s woodsy aftershave was one of the many things about him that made her pulse race.

He possessed a killer combo of square-jawed masculinity and a heart of gold. The same passionate love of animals that had propelled her into the field of veterinary medicine had caused him to sink all his savings into a horse-breeding operation. Although he was finally turning a profit, he did so only by carefully managing his budget.

They’d become so comfortable with each other during the six months she’d tended his horses that he’d shared major decisions, such as when he’d postponed the purchase of a new truck so he could install more efficient heating in the horse barn. She treasured those long conversations, even though they stirred up inappropriate thoughts. Would he be even better at pillow talk?

But she also treasured her professional standing in the Dallas area, so she wouldn’t be sharing a pillow with gorgeous Fletch Grayson. It was hard enough for a girl to be taken seriously as a vet in Texas, even harder for someone like Astrid, the daughter of a rich family. Besides, she didn’t know if he would welcome that idea. Sometimes she imagined him looking at her with interest, but that might be wishful thinking on her part.

“One thing’s for sure,” he said. “I won’t breed her again. She deserves a rest.”

“Yes, she does.” Although he didn’t know it, Astrid could offer to invest in his ranch and eliminate most of his money problems. She constantly battled the urge to do exactly that. But giving him money would change their relationship forever, and she selfishly wanted to keep that relationship as it was, even if friendship was all she’d ever have.

None of her clients realized she came from a wealthy family, and she preferred it that way. She’d learned from sad experience that being worth millions usually affected how people viewed her. She wanted to be seen as a competent professional who took her vocation seriously.

She might not need the money she earned, but she considered it validation that she was good at her job. Her parents wished she’d spend less time at work and more time at social events looking for eligible billionaires to marry. She didn’t care to take the time right now. Eventually she’d want a home and kids, and she’d probably end up with a wealthy man. Her mother thought that was the only way to avoid hooking up with a fortune hunter, and there was some truth in that.

“Good, she’s lying down again.” Fletch went back into the stall. “Maybe this is it.”

“Fingers crossed.” Astrid picked up her bag and followed him.

He walked around behind the horse and glanced over at Astrid. “I hate that you have to be up so late, but I really need—”

“Don’t give it another thought. I want to be here.” Janis, and Fletch’s concern for his favorite brood mare, had been her priority for some time. She’d reluctantly cancelled a trip to Paris with her girlfriends because Janis’s condition had been unstable. Now they were down to the wire, and she couldn’t imagine being anywhere but here in this stall with the mare . . . and Fletch.

He hadn’t owned the ranch long, only about three years, but he’d been a cowhand all his adult life, and the Rocking G was evidence of his ability to work hard toward a goal. She admired his grit more than she could say. Compared to him, she’d encountered no real obstacles in her quest to become a vet, unless she counted the expectations of her parents. They weren’t pleased that she’d chosen a profession that included getting covered in blood and occasionally horse manure.

Although their snooty attitude bothered her, she loved them deeply and couldn’t deny how much they’d done for her, in spite of their disapproval of her choices. They’d paid for her extensive schooling, and her trust fund had financed her clinic. To completely ignore their wishes and advice on marriage would be ungrateful.

But sometimes she wished that she could be what Fletch assumed her to be—a self-made woman in the same way he was a self-made man. She wondered if he’d respect her as much if he knew her career had been handed to her on a silver platter. Maybe he wouldn’t care. He seemed open-minded about most things. Still, she wasn’t ready to test it.

For now, they had a birth to attend. And finally, Janis appeared ready to get the job done. Astrid knelt behind her and said a little prayer. This was the moment of truth. If the mare couldn’t manage this on her own, Astrid was prepared to intervene, but that would require methods that would stress both mother and baby.

Fletch stroked Janis’s neck as he’d done before and crooned encouraging words.

“That’s good,” Astrid said. “Keep talking to her.” She had a sudden flash of what he’d be like in the delivery room waiting for his own child. He’d be solid as a rock, but empathetic, too.

“I’d sing her
The Rose
, except my singing has been known to stampede cattle.”

Astrid smiled. “I love that song.” She wasn’t surprised that he did, too. They connected on so many levels.

“You wouldn’t after I finished singing it. You’d beg for mercy.”

“Talking works just fine. I’m sure she senses your confidence in her.” So did Astrid. Knowing he trusted her with an animal he loved did wonders for her self-esteem.

“I hope so. But I have to tell you, I’m sweating bullets.”

“Join the club.”

And then Janis groaned, heaved, and just like that, the process started. No matter how many times Astrid witnessed the birth of a foal, she was awed by the first thrust of tiny forelegs, followed by a nose, a neck, and finally, the entire baby horse, all wrapped in a glistening, semi-transparent membrane.

Eleven months of effort culminated in one glorious miracle. She and Fletch had worried about this event for weeks, but the foaling, as with most equine births, took less than twenty minutes.

“Beautiful,” Astrid murmured.

“Are we good down there?”

“We’re good. We’re so good.” Astrid’s chest tightened with gratitude. “Janis has a beautiful baby.”

“Thank God.” Fletch’s voice was thick with emotion.

Astrid glanced up and caught a moment he might not have meant her to see. He buried his face against the mare’s neck and murmured something she couldn’t hear. Not wanting to embarrass him, she returned her focus to the foal, which seemed perfectly formed and healthy.

Janis had been Fletch’s first brood mare, and the horse had obviously won his heart with her gentle disposition. He cared about the foal, too, but his biggest concern had been for Janis. Convinced that neither mare nor foal were in distress, Astrid scooted away to let Janis attend to her baby.

Fletch also sat back on his heels as the horse maneuvered so that she could lick her newborn clean. He gazed at the foal. “It’s a colt.”

“Yep. The ultrasound was right. You never can know for sure with those.”

A grin lit his face. “And four white socks, like his mother’s.”

“He’ll look a lot like her.”

“I’d hoped for that. And now it’s official. Buddy Holly is in residence at the Rocking G.”

Astrid laughed. “Yes, he certainly is. They both seem to be doing great.”

“I can order the nameplate for his stall, now. I was too superstitious to do it before.” Fletch’s glance sought hers. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. But after all, it’s my job.”

“I know, but you don’t treat it like a job. My previous vet did, which was why I stopped using him. I’ve watched you work with these animals. You put your heart and soul into it.”

She couldn’t imagine higher praise than that. “I love my work. That makes me a lucky lady.”

“And I’m lucky to have found you.”

Dear God, there
was
something more than friendship in those warm brown eyes. She swallowed. “Fletch . . .”

“I know.” His jaw firmed. “You’re my vet. I’m a client. I understand the parameters, but damn it, Astrid, does that mean we can’t . . .”

Her heart beat as if she were a wild creature suddenly trapped in a net. “I think it does mean that.”

“I could fire you.”

“You could.” That wouldn’t remove all the barriers. She’d still be a very rich woman and he would be a financially strapped rancher. But he didn’t know about that issue.

“I don’t want to fire you.” He got to his feet. “You’re a fantastic vet, a thousand times better than the guy I had before. I can’t imagine having anyone else now that I’ve seen how you work.”

She took a deep breath and stood, too. “I don’t want you to fire me, either.” She looked into his eyes, which mirrored the frustration she felt. “I love having you as a client.”

“Can’t I be a client and something more, too? Who has to know? I’m certainly not going to make a big deal about it.”

“Okay, let’s say we’re discreet.” She picked up her bag and walked out of the stall. “What if we discover somewhere down the line that we’re not right for each other? What happens to our client-vet relationship then?” She put down the bag and turned to face him as he stepped into the aisle.

His stance was wide, his expression calm, the epitome of confident male. “We wouldn’t discover that. You and I get along great.”

“In this setting, we do, but . . .”

“But what?”

She pictured dragging him to some charity ball hosted by her wealthy friends, or coaxing him to attend the opening of a show by some new darling of the Dallas art community. She’d been inside Fletch’s home. He liked western artists like Remington and Shoofly. He also didn’t seem like the tux-wearing type, but now wasn’t the time to reveal the difference in their lifestyles.

“Are you worried that we might not get along in bed?”

Oh, boy. Her hesitation had led him to the wrong conclusion. She wasn’t worried about that at
all.
“I—”

“Lady, we would burn up the sheets.” He smiled as he took a step closer. “And you damned well know we would.”

“Maybe.” The nearer he came, the faster her heart beat. It seemed to keep time with the rapid tattoo of the rain on the roof.

He chuckled. “I guarantee you do. I can see it in those baby blues. I wasn’t sure until this minute, when I finally got the courage to broach the subject, but we’re on the same page, you and I.”

“Okay, so I’m attracted to you, but acting on that attraction would be a really bad idea.”

He nodded. “You could be right. But that doesn’t keep me from wanting to kiss you.”

Oh.
She should protest, should move back, out of the magic circle he’d created with his considerable charm. But she couldn’t seem to do that.

“I know you have reservations about getting involved with me.” He reached for her and cupped her face in his big hands.

She closed her eyes. That touch . . . so gentle, yet sure. She’d imagined his touch for so long, and now she allowed herself to savor it.

Keep reading for a preview of the next novel in Vicki Lewis Thompson’s Wild About You series

WEREWOLF IN ALASKA

Available now from Signet Eclipse

July 14, 2010

Polecat, Alaska

Lurking in the grocery aisle of the Polecat General Store, Rachel Miller pretended to shop while she eavesdropped on the conversation between the store’s owner, Ted Haggerty, and the broad-shouldered customer he’d called Jake. She’d recognized the guy the minute he’d walked in, despite the fact that he was fully clothed.

Although they’d never met, she knew three things about Jake. He lived across the lake from her grandfather’s cabin, he liked to skinny-dip, and he was built for pleasure. Among other items, Grandpa Ike had left her his high-powered binoculars.

She’d accidentally caught her hot neighbor’s skinny-dipping routine one warm summer night while watching an eagle dive for a fish. After that, she’d planned her evenings around it.

After opening the screen door of the general store, Jake had glanced in her direction but hadn’t seemed to recognize her. Apparently he hadn’t been keeping tabs on her the way she had on him. That was disappointing.

Then again, she spent only a couple of weeks in Polecat every summer, and she wasn’t the type to plunge naked into an alpine lake. Still, she would have taken this opportunity to introduce herself if he hadn’t paused in front of the small display of her wood carvings.

She’d immediately turned away, grabbed a can of salmon, and studied the label with fierce intensity. If she ever intended to move from hobbyist to professional, she’d have to get over being self-conscious about displaying her work for sale, but she was brand-new at it. Asking Ted last week if he’d like to carry her art in his store had required tremendous courage.

Today when she’d come in and noticed that nothing had sold, she’d been tempted to cart it all back to the cabin. Ted had talked her out of giving up, and now her gorgeous neighbor was discussing the carvings with Ted. She hoped to hell Ted wouldn’t mention that the artist was right here in the grocery aisle. Then the guy might feel obligated to buy something, and how embarrassing would that be?

“So who’s this Rachel Miller?” Jake had a deep voice that matched his lumberjack physique. His name fit him, too.

Rachel held her breath. Now would be the logical time for Ted to call her over and introduce her. She prayed that he wouldn’t.

Ted hesitated, as if debating whether to reveal her presence. “She’s local.”

Rachel exhaled slowly. She might not be a skinny-dipper, but there were many ways to be naked, and this, she discovered, was one of them. She could leave and spare herself the agony of listening to whatever Jake might say about her work, but then she’d be tormented with curiosity for days.

Besides, she’d already put several food items in the basket she carried over one arm. Leaving the basket and bolting from the store would make her more conspicuous, not less.

“I like her stuff.”

Clapping a hand to her mouth, Rachel closed her eyes and savored the words. He liked it!

“Especially the wolf.”

“That’s my personal favorite,” Ted said.

Validation sent a rush of adrenaline through her system. It was her favorite, too. The other carvings were forest animal figurines, none any bigger than eight inches tall. Her friends back in Fairbanks raved about them, but friends were biased. She cherished their praise but didn’t always believe it.

She’d broken new ground with the wolf, though. After finding a ragged chunk of driftwood about two feet long, she’d left the basic shape intact while carving the wolf in bas-relief on the smoothest side. Powerful and majestic, the wolf appeared to be emerging from the piece of wood.

Ted had praised the carving, but Ted had a natural tendency to encourage people. His comments didn’t pack the same punch as those from someone who didn’t know her and had no reason to protect her feelings. Excitement made her giddy.

A moment of silence followed. She wondered if Jake had wandered away from the display to begin his grocery shopping, but she didn’t dare look to make sure. If he’d finished admiring her work, that was fine. He’d given her a gift simply by commenting favorably.

“I want to buy it.”

Her chest tightened. A sale.

“All righty, then!” Ted sounded pleased.

Rachel was in shock. A complete stranger was willing to pay money for something she’d created! She stifled the urge to rush over and shower him with thanks. On the heels of that urge came another—to snatch the piece and announce it wasn’t for sale after all.

Once Jake bought that carving, she’d never see it again. She hadn’t expected to be upset by that. Apparently the wolf meant far more to her than she’d realized.

Jake might like what she’d done, but he couldn’t fully appreciate it unless he’d also caught a glimpse of the magnificent black wolf that had inspired her. She’d seen it only once, poised in a clearing. Grandpa Ike had taught her how to get good pictures of wild creatures—stay downwind and seek cover. She’d been in luck that day, perfectly positioned for an awesome shot.

The photo was still tacked to a bulletin board in the cabin, so she could use it to carve another likeness. Yet she couldn’t guarantee the next attempt would capture the wolf’s essence in quite the same way. She’d known this piece was special the moment it was completed.

Finishing it had given her the confidence to approach Ted in the first place. She shouldn’t be surprised it was about to become her first sale. If people bought her work, maybe she could give up her veterinarian internship and carve full-time.

She’d thought she’d love being a vet, but the surgery and death that were an inevitable part of the job drained her. Wood carving gave her nothing but joy. Still, it might not bring in enough to support her. One sale was hardly a guarantee that she could make a living as an artist.

It was a positive sign, though, and thanks to what she’d inherited from Grandpa Ike, she had a place to live and a little money to tide her over if she decided to switch gears. The prospect was scary but exciting, too. She had Jake the skinny-dipper to thank for jump-starting her dreams.

From the corner of her eye she could see him rounding the aisle where she stood, a basket over his arm. Walking in the opposite direction, she ducked down a parallel aisle and carried her basket to the counter, where Ted was wrapping her carving.

He glanced up and smiled. “Do you want to tell—”

“No.” She kept her voice down. “Thanks for not saying anything.”

Ted spoke softly, obviously sensing her nervousness. “Decided that was up to you.” He finished taping the end of the parcel and set it aside. “Congratulations, though. He lives across the lake from you.”

“Thought I recognized him. What’s his name, again?”

“Jake Hunter. He’s a wilderness guide. Earns good money doing it. Quite well-off.”

“I see.” Judging people’s financial status was tough in a place like Polecat, where everyone kept a low profile, dressed casually, and drove dusty trucks and SUVs. She was flattered that a successful wilderness guide found value in her work.

Ted rang up her groceries and bagged them in the canvas tote she’d given him. She hadn’t bought much because she’d been so distracted, so Ted finished quickly. Fine with her. She’d prefer to be out the door before Jake returned to the counter.

She almost made it. She was tucking her change back into her purse when he walked up, his basket stuffed with everything from canned goods to paper products. He must be a fast shopper.

Not wanting to appear antisocial, she met his gaze while keeping her expression friendly but neutral. “Hi.”

“Hello.” He glanced at her with the same carefully neutral expression. But then a spark of interest lit his green eyes.

Her breath caught. She’d never looked into those eyes before. Grandpa Ike’s binoculars were good, but not that good. Yet she felt as if she’d met his gaze before, and seeing it—again?—brought back a half-remembered thrill. Crazy.

Even crazier, she flashed on the image of the black wolf in the clearing—a green-eyed wolf with dark, luxurious fur the same color as Jake’s collar-length hair. Clearly his purchase of the carving was messing with her mind.

The interest reflected in Jake’s eyes slowly changed to speculation. Maybe something in her expression had given her away, or maybe he’d picked up enough of her quiet conversation with Ted to figure out who she was. In any case, she needed to vamoose before he started asking questions.

Quickly breaking eye contact, she grabbed her canvas bag from the counter. Her smile probably looked more like a grimace, but it was the best she could do. “You two have a nice day!” She headed for the screen door.

As exits go, it wasn’t her best. Heart pounding, she climbed into the old truck Grandpa Ike had willed to her, started the ancient engine, and pulled out onto the two-lane road that skirted the lake. She’d escaped, but the adrenaline rush of making her first sale stayed with her.

Logic, the tool that her lawyer father embraced, told her that Jake buying the wolf carving wasn’t reason enough to change her life. Intuition, the tool that her photographer mother preferred, whispered that she’d reached a major turning point and shouldn’t ignore it. Grandpa Ike, who had been more intuitive than anyone else on her mother’s side of the family, would have told her to listen to her instincts.

Rachel wondered what Jake Hunter would have said if she’d had the courage to admit she’d carved that wolf. Or maybe, judging from the quiet assessment in those green eyes, he already knew.

***

Present day

Jake finished answering e-mail from members of the group he’d founded the previous year, Werewolves Against Random Mating (WARM). Shutting down the laptop, he headed for the kitchen and snagged a cold bottle of Spruce Tip ale from the refrigerator. Then he twisted off the cap and walked into the living room. As usual, his gaze drifted to the Rachel Miller carving displayed on his mantel.

The soot from the hearth fires of three consecutive winters had darkened the wood. Maybe he should clean and oil it, now that summer had arrived once again. Or not. The soot that had settled into the grooves added character, in his estimation. Reaching out, he traced the distinctive and familiar slant of the wolf’s wide-set eyes.

When he’d bought the piece, he’d had no clue that Rachel would become internationally famous. But he’d suspected that his impulse buy might come back to haunt him, especially after he’d walked up to the counter and she’d turned to look into his eyes.

Leaning against the mantel, he gazed across Polecat Lake toward her property. It was nearly nine in the evening, but it might as well have been midday. Sunlight continued to play on the water, and the metallic whine of her power saw drifted in through his open window. She must be starting another large project, one that required the saw and the extra space provided by the workshop she’d had built about ten yards from her cabin.

Now that she was bringing in the big bucks, he kept expecting her to tear down that cabin and build a McMansion in its place. So far she hadn’t, and he respected her for keeping her operation low-key. Understatement was a Polecat tradition, one of the reasons he loved it here.

She’d bought a new truck, but he couldn’t blame her for replacing the unreliable bucket of bolts she’d inherited from her grandfather. She’d also hired a local kid named Lionel, who was part Native American, to clean her workshop and wrestle the bigger pieces onto her truck. A new truck, a roomy workshop, and a part-time assistant seemed to be the only concessions she’d made to her success, and Ted Haggerty claimed that she was the same down-to-earth person she’d always been.

If so, then props to her, because she’d created quite a stir, the kind that could turn a person’s head. No telling what this hunk of driftwood was worth now that she had commissions coming in from wealthy collectors all over the world. He should probably have it insured and protected in a climate-controlled safe.

Rachel Miller’s first wolf carving, if it surfaced, would bring a pretty penny on the auction block. To her credit, she’d never identified him as the buyer of her initial effort, and neither had Ted. Apparently no one except the three of them knew this work existed.

She’d sent him a note a couple months after he’d made his purchase, though. He knew that note by heart.

Dear Mr. Hunter,

You bought my wolf carving from the Polecat General Store
on July 14. You were my first sale. There have been others since then, but yours was the most significant. It inspired me to leave my veterinarian internship and try my luck as a full-time carver. I was in the store that day and we met, but I didn’t have the nerve to identify myself and thank you for making the purchase. I want to thank you now. You literally changed my life.

With gratitude,

Rachel Miller

He hadn’t needed the note to tell him that he’d met her that day. His acute hearing had picked up snatches of her conversation with Ted, and he’d pegged her as the granddaughter who’d inherited Ike’s cabin. Ike had been a carver, although not nearly as talented as Rachel.

Then Jake had met her gaze, and her nervous excitement had given her away. Although he wasn’t an artist, he could imagine that putting your stuff in front of the public would be scary, and having someone buy it might take some getting used to.

He’d debated for days whether to respond to that note, which was still tucked under the carving on his mantel. In the end he’d decided not to. If he’d replied, she might have thought they could be friends. But he’d known from the moment they’d met that friendship wasn’t going to cut it. He wanted her, and he couldn’t have her.

That made living across the lake from her cabin a difficult proposition. Closing his eyes, he pictured how she’d looked three years ago, her hair falling to her shoulders in shades ranging from dark walnut to warm cherry. Her gaze had locked with his for one electric moment, making him think of summer storms and silvery rain.

She’d worn jeans and a faded T-shirt, an unremarkable outfit intended simply to cover her tall, lithe body. She hadn’t tried to entice anyone with those clothes. Yet she’d enticed him without trying. He couldn’t explain why that was, except that it was somehow linked to the carving on his mantel.