Branded as Trouble (Rough Riders 6)

“No. But I’ll admit you don’t seem like a one-night stand kind of guy.”

“Wrong. I totally am that guy, it’s just the ladies don’t give me a chance. I must look like a ‘relationship guy’ to women instead of a

‘one-night wild f**k’ kind of stud,” he grumbled.

“There are worse things.”

“Yeah? Name one.”

Shoot. Her brain wasn’t crafting reassurances very quickly.

“Women thinking you’re a player.”

“At my age, player behavior in a bar is considered a rite of passage.” He waggled his eyebrows.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-six. How old are you?” He shook his finger at her.

“And don’t pull that ‘never ask a woman her age’ crap.”

“I’m thirty…something.”

“And yet, you don’t look a day over twenty.”

“Did you attend the same cowboy charm school as your cousin Colt? Or is it inbred?”

“Cowboy charm is part of our DNA, darlin’. None of us can help it.” Blake’s smile faded. “Speaking of Colt…can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” she lied.

“Why haven’t you two dated? I mean, you are together all the time.”

All the time was stretching it…wasn’t it? “We’re just friends.”

“Might sound like I’m pandering to you, bein’s we’re on a date and all, but that’s probably a good thing you’re staying just friends.”

That got her back up. “Why?”

“Stubborn people like you two would kill each other.” He smiled. “Colt’s a good guy. He’s a great friend, actually, but I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.”

No, she already knew. India smiled and changed the subject.

“So how do you want to do this? I’ve got all the stuff in my bedroom.”

“Good, let’s get to it.”

Chapter Four

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Quiet.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Then, “Fuck!”

A feminine giggle.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Murmured voices.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Colt closed his eyes and tried to block out the images of India and Blake. Naked. On the other side of the wall. Naked. Right behind his head. Naked. Rolling around together on the bed. Naked.

India and Blake going at it like animals. Naked.

Fuck. Think of something else. Think of water rippling in your favorite fishing hole.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Thinking quiet, serene thoughts didn’t work. Maybe he should imagine chaos.

Think of bawling calves and the frantic momma cows answering moos during branding.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Nope. That didn’t do the trick either.

Think of how India’s sweat-slicked skin would feel sliding beneath yours, her heels digging into your ass as you ride her hard enough to break the damn headboard, not just rattle it.

Yeah. That was helping. Not.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. He should’ve left when he had the chance, now it was too late. It’d been too late when he’d heard the apartment door slam. When he’d heard the bass tones of Blake’s voice mixed with India’s laughter. When he’d heard the seductive notes from the CD player. When he’d caught a whiff of the candle burning in the living room. When he’d heard India’s bedroom door slam.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Jesus.

The headboard banging had gotten progressively louder for the last twenty minutes. Twenty very long, very loud minutes.

It appeared his little cousin was quite the stud.

Yeah? Then how come you don’t hear India shrieking with orgasmic pleasure? She would be if you were in her bed.

For Christsake. He’d gone from perverted to pathetic. And the sad thing was, he wasn’t only thinking about tonight. He was thinking about all the nights, over the last few years he’d been pining over a woman who’d never see him as anything but a drunk on the lifelong road to recovery. Or worse, her good friend.

Enough was enough.

Wincing, Colt rolled to his feet and snagged his iPod from the dresser. He cranked it to high and lowered onto the bed, placing his feet by the headboard. Nine Inch Nails drowned out everything and he was able to sleep.

Early the next morning, Colt stumbled out of his room. Despite his intent to crawl in his truck and head home, a shower was a necessity.

As he crossed the living area, he noticed India’s bedroom door was ajar. He peered through the crack and saw India sprawled in the middle of the bed. Alone. Alone and apparently buck-assed nekkid.

Red satin sheets were twisted around her long legs and long arms, covering her torso, but hinting at the curves beneath.

Colt didn’t gawk at her body to see if she was, in fact, pierced everywhere she’d hinted at being pierced. A man could only stand so much temptation. He backtracked to the bathroom.

The hot water lasted all of five minutes. And did the woman own every blasted lotion and potion known to mankind? He counted fourteen different health and beauty product bottles—after he’d knocked them all into the tub. Twice.

Still, he felt a million times better after an ice shower. His injury itched, so he took that as a sign of recovery.

He needed his caffeine fix and didn’t want to stop at the Conoco and chance running into a member of his family. He plugged in India’s fancy coffeemaker and dumped a capful of coffee beans into the grinder. While that machine whirred, he washed the glass coffee pot and the plastic filter basket. It took four cupboards before he found where India had moved the box of paper coffee filters. He filled the water reservoir, reassembled the various parts and hit start.

Colt picked up the trash in his prison room while he waited for the coffee to brew. When he returned to the kitchen, India stormed out of her bedroom.

Pity she’d put on a robe.

“The one day I get to sleep in and you’re up at the butt crack of dawn making enough noise to wake the dead?”

“Oh, I see. It’s different when you’re disturbed out of your beauty sleep. Sucks, huh?”

“Funny.”

“Besides, all I did was make coffee.”

“Then explain what you were doing in the shower? ’Cause it sure as hell sounded like you were throwing rocks.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think your poor head was hurtin’ and it was a hangover talkin’.” Colt clucked his tongue. “Maybe you oughta get to bed earlier if you’re so cranky in the mornin’.”