1
HAILEY
I didn’t usually go to a strange guy’s house for sex. Okay, never. Until now. From what I’d been told, Cy Seaborn was a rock star between the sheets, and well-hung. Skilled and well-endowed were important to me, like any woman, I assumed. And a cowboy? Holy hell, I was getting worked up just driving my old Land Cruiser along the rutted drive across his property.
It had taken twenty minutes from town to get to the Flying Z ranch, another five—so far—up the long driveway. The house finally came into view as I went over a rise. The setting was stunning. Prairie grasses were dry now, waving across the slight roll of the land before the mountains jutted straight upward to their snow-capped peaks. Cutthroat Mountain, the ski resort, was on the back side of one of them. The difference between east and west was remarkable. Here, it was quiet, not a soul around. There, once mud season was over, the slopes would open and people would return to their fancy vacation houses, over-the-top SUVs. Lots of rich vacationers.
My cell rang from the passenger seat. I knew the special ring tone, ignored it. Mark had been calling me non-stop, and I’d been avoiding him. My coach wanted me back into the gym to train, meeting with the sponsors, doing photo ops to prove I was one hundred percent after my wipe out.
My knee was better, but my mind wasn’t in the game. It hadn’t been since the accident, and I wasn’t sure if it ever would be again. I’d done a good job not thinking about that. Meeting Lucas, being with him, had certainly helped. A hot guy and lots of sex could do that to a girl. And now there was Cy. The cell went silent and all thoughts about my career did too.
I smiled. This was it.
I pulled up and parked, looked out the windshield at the place. Typical two-story farmhouse, its vintage I guessed to be in the thirties or forties. It had white clapboard siding, a sweeping front porch. In the distance, I could see some other buildings which I assumed were the stables and several bunkhouses and small cabins. I wasn’t here for the non-profit that was run from this place, but for the man who owned it.
Speaking of… a man came out onto the porch, no doubt hearing my arrival. I pegged him at six-two, two hundred pounds, not one ounce of it was flab. His plaid shirt and jeans didn’t hide the muscled physique beneath. If tossing hay bales made a guy look like him, there needed to be a new fitness trend. At least a T-shirt that said Cowboy Strong.
Overlong dark hair curled over the collar of his plaid shirt, and I itched to run my fingers through it, hopefully when his head was between my legs and he was busy eating me out. I squirmed in my seat, my panties already damp with anticipation. It was the beard though… fuck. Thick and full, trimmed on the sides and longer on the bottom. What would that feel like brushing against my thighs? With the SUV off, the interior was getting cold quickly, but I wasn’t. Far from it. I was burning up just eye fucking him from thirty feet away.
He didn’t approach, just leaned against a post. Waited, with a rifle in his right hand. Just great.
He had no idea who I was; Lucas had said he wasn’t going to tell Cy in advance about my arrival. Since Lucas wasn’t here yet—mine was the only vehicle around—I had to wonder if this was a good idea or not.
The plan was for a threesome… if the third—Lucas—would show the fuck up.
As for Cy, he didn’t look thrilled to have company. That would change; at least I hoped. He was going to get lucky, and hopefully fuck my brains out. He just didn’t know it yet.
Taking a deep breath, I climbed from my SUV, careful of my left knee, and slammed the door shut behind me.
“You can hop right on up in that car of yours and head out,” Cy called. His voice was deep, the timbre smooth like whiskey, and full of threat.
Stiffening my resolve, and my shoulders, I took a step toward him. Only one because I wasn’t completely stupid since he was armed and all. I didn’t think he’d shoot me…
“I’m here to—”
He held up his free hand to stop me. “I know why you’re here. Your kind have been kicking up dust on my drive the past week to get a story. They must be getting desperate if they send the hot chick.”
Oh. Shit. He thought I was a reporter trying to get a scoop on the whole Dennis Seaborn fiasco. I knew all about it. Who hadn’t, in Cutthroat? The guy had turned himself in for murdering Erin Mills, Lucas’s sister. He’d been questioned six ways to Sunday and his story had held. Until a time-stamped traffic camera photo of Erin alive after when he’d said he’d killed her blew it all to hell. Now, he was out of jail—they couldn’t keep him for a crime he didn’t commit—and everyone in western Montana wondered why he’d stepped forward if he hadn’t done it. Who would do something like that? Take the blame for a murder? A murder.
Dennis Seaborn was Cy’s father. Estranged, from what Lucas had told me. Lucas and I had met two weeks before his sister had been killed, and I was all too aware of how it affected him. I knew all about his friendship with Cy, their working relationship. Sure, Lucas hated Dennis Seaborn for impeding his sister’s case, but he didn’t blame Cy.
Perhaps he was the only one who felt that way based on the way he was acting.
I looked to Cy, his gaze filled with hatred and anger. Not what I wanted to see there. Lust, desire and need would have been better. From the pictures of Dennis, he and Cy looked a lot alike. They had the same dark hair—although Dennis’ was more gray than black now—and eyes. Blood was blood and with them, it showed. And reporters were always out for blood.
“There’s been some mistake,” I said, holding up my hands, walking closer. We all had problems, and I wanted to forget mine between two hard-bodied cowboys. But I froze when he lifted the gun a bit. “Whoa, you don’t need to shoot me.”
“Then do as I say.” The rifle wasn’t pointed at me, although I had no idea if the safety was on or how good a shot he was.
“I’m not a reporter.”
“Realtor?”