Hot Blooded. Delilah Devlin

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      LYRICAL PRESS

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

       www.kensingtonbooks.com

      To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

      LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      119 West 40th Street

      New York, NY 10018

      Copyright © 2018 by Delilah Devlin

      This title was originally published as part of the anthology TEMPTED BY A COWBOY, copyright 2009 Kensington Publishing Corp.

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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      Lyrical Press and Lyrical Press logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

      First Electronic Edition: January 2018

      eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0865-7

      eISBN-10: 1-5161-0865-5

      Printed in the United States of America

      Dedication

      This is for Kelly who deserves to have a hero there to catch her when she falls.

      Acknowledgements

      Special thanks to Blake Phillips for the expertise regarding rock climbing he so generously provided!

      Thanks to my critique partners and dear friends for polishing this apple until it shined: Cyndi D’Alba, Sasha White and Shada Royce.

      More thanks to “Team Delilah,” my friends and readers who root for me even when I’m stepping off the ledge.

      And hugs for the special inspirations in my life, my sister Elle James and my mom. I love you both!

      Chapter 1

      When the first small drops began to fall, Cass McIntyre welcomed the light shower the forecasters had predicted. Already halfway up the route she’d chosen, she’d worked up a nice sweat.

      The rain quickly cooled her skin, which was caked in a thick, itchy layer of canyon dirt and chalk. The lazy breeze accompanying the rain fanned the burning cuts on her bare legs and arms, giving her a mental boost of energy.

      After another fifteen feet into her ascent—chilled and achy now and getting a little impatient with the worsening conditions—she found a narrow ledge. She unhooked her caribiner clip from the rope, and decided to wait out the cloudburst, a rare occurrence in the Panhandle and extremely dangerous because the rock face she climbed had become as slippery as mud.

      She took small comfort in the phrase she’d heard over and over since she’d first moved to Canyon, Texas, that ran like a mantra through her head. “If you don’t like the weather in Texas, wait a minute.”

      Her mistake had been believing that piece of homespun advice.

      Not that she was anything more than mildly annoyed at this point. The awe-inspiring view from her perch above the canyon floor placated her restless nature and soothed the deep ache in her chest that had choked her at the start of the climb.

      Low-hanging clouds obscured the sunlight and provided an unexpected cooling to a hot spring day. Soft, gray mist filled the Palo Duro Canyon, softening the light and air, the moisture causing a burst of brilliant color to erupt from the fading wildflowers carpeting the rough terrain—bright orange from Mexican hat and Indian blanket, and a cheery yellow daisylike flower whose name escaped her at the moment.

      Determined to salvage some enjoyment from her adventure, she settled on the ledge, dangling her legs over the side, and ignored the water soaking through her thin T-shirt and shorts.

      Half an hour into the storm that had grown steadily more insistent, she kissed off making the summit and planned a quick rappel to the distant hollow below.

      However, as she unwound her long rope from the straps of her backpack for a hasty descent, her narrow perch disintegrated. Rock made fragile by the water splintered into rough shards and gravel that tumbled down the sheer precipice.

      Cass dropped the rope and jammed her hand into a crevice in the rock to anchor herself while she reached beside her for her pack. But she was too late.

      More of the ledge crumbled. The backpack slid away, leaving her stranded with only the shorter rope she’d used between cams—not nearly long enough to attempt a descent.

      “Jesus. I don’t fucking believe this,” she whispered furiously.

      Pissed off with her rookie mistake, she pulled the trigger on the cam she’d used to secure her rope above the ledge and wedged it deeper into the crevice. She attached one end of her short rope to the cam and tied the other to the belay. Then satisfied she’d done everything she could to remain safe, she settled again on the last little remnant of her eroding perch.

      She’d have to wait for rescue—something she’d never live down. A frequent climber who often provided advice to weekend enthusiasts, she could already hear the razzing she’d get from her fellow park rangers.

      She only hoped the СКАЧАТЬ