A Stranger's Touch. Tori Carrington

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      “Oh.” He paid the man, including a generous tip. “Thanks.”

      Gripping his beer, Quinn made his way toward the only empty table in the place, a small one near the dance floor. He hooked his foot around a chair leg, pulled it out and sat. Okay, so the joint wasn’t a gay bar. But considering the low percentage of female clientele, he might soon wish he were anywhere but here. His odds of snagging a prime, long-legged woman interested in spending an hour between the sheets with him were looking slim, with all these jocks roaming the place. He glanced to where a waitress was taking a swat to the bottom from the guys at the neighboring table. Her grimace made him grin. Then again, maybe his chances weren’t that bad, after all.

      Good. After three months on the range, with nothing but fellow weathered ranch hands as company, he needed to get laid. As soon as humanly possible. Tonight. It was the reason he’d stopped at the hotel for the night rather than heading straight for his best friend Brad Wheeler’s family estate. He needed the release before he could even think of facing his friend and hearing all the details about his upcoming nuptials. Besides, merely thinking of Brad’s mother Beatrix Wheeler made him roll his eyes. Would the self-proclaimed Queen of Albuquerque appreciate his having trimmed his hair for the occasion, rather than relying on a simple leather cord to hold it back? He doubted it. To her, he’d always been that offensive boy Brad had dragged home when they were kids, no matter the style of his hair.

      Married.

      Quinn settled back more comfortably into the chair. He couldn’t believe Brad was getting married. Of the two of them, he’d figured he’d be the one to settle down long before his restless friend. Well, he supposed he had settled before Brad, at least in an important way. Only, his lifestyle didn’t include a woman. Not many females were interested in life on an isolated ranch where you had to drive over an hour just to go to the market. He’d thought he’d roped one, once. He wasn’t about to make that mistake again. But Brad…

      He shook his head and took a hefty swallow of beer. Since he was a kid, Brad’s mother had tried to force him into a mold that spoke of wealth, power and kowtowing…mostly to her. But while Brad could wear a tuxedo like he was born in one, he’d also thought nothing of hanging out with wrong-side-of-the-tracks Quinn. And while Brad had the latest model Jaguar, the fifth one he’d gone through since coming of age, Quinn still had the old Chevy in need of some TLC that he’d bought when he was sixteen with money he’d made breaking his back on his uncle’s ranch.

      And while Brad had embraced the idea of running his family business, Wheeler Industries, Quinn was satisfied with the spread he’d bought from his uncle three years ago. He enjoyed getting his hands dirty—literally—and working a muscle other than his brain.

      He peered through the scant couples on the dance floor toward the band. The sax player wasn’t bad. Hmm…neither was the female backup singer. He had just shifted to get a better look, when three women passed in front of him, blocking his view—correction—improving the view. Taking a long, slow pull from his beer bottle, Quinn considered the threesome, who were obviously minus three guys.

      The black-haired one definitely had possibilities. She moved that slender body of hers in a way that virtually guaranteed she’d be killer in bed. His gaze slid to the redhead. She wasn’t bad. Obviously shy but with the pink tinge to her cheeks and a fire in her eyes that revealed she could be coaxed to take risks.

      He put his bottle down on the table and sat up, trying to see around to the blonde’s face. She put her hands up in the air, attempting to emulate the brunette’s steps…then fell smack-dab in the middle of his lap.

      He grinned.

      Bingo.

      2

      ONE MINUTE Dulcy was dancing—at least she preferred to call it dancing while Jena called it clucking—and the next minute she was sprawled across the very warm, very hard lap of a guy sitting next to the dance floor.

      Okay, no more tequila for her.

      She laughed at her silent quip, then tried to gain a foothold. “I’m sorry. I…must have tripped.”

      She twisted to get up, her bottom rubbing against the man’s…strategic area.

      His groan caught her off guard and she blinked up into his face. Then blinked again. Not because she was having difficulty seeing. But because if she wasn’t mistaken, she had just landed on top of the star of her most recent fantasy—the guy from the door. And, oh boy, he was even better this close up. Not since she was a teen and had plastered pictures of Sting all over her room—posters her mother had immediately taken down—had she reacted so strongly to the mere sight of someone.

      Either that, or she was completely smashed.

      “No hurry,” her fantasy lover said in a deep baritone, drawing the words out, sounding better than even her imagination could have supplied.

      A delicious shiver ran the length of Dulcy’s spine, then inched back up again, leaving her stomach quivery and her breasts achy. She brazenly allowed her gaze to flick over the guy’s features. Over his broad forehead and thick shoulder-length jet-black hair, the type of hair a girl could lose her hands in. She took in his strong, tanned silk-covered jawline and criminally generous mouth, the kind a woman might be tempted to run the tip of her tongue along the rim of. Then she skimmed her gaze up along the length of his nose to lash-rimmed eyes the color of the amber tequila she had just gulped down with her friends, the sort of eyes that should bear a warning Dangerous Waters Ahead.

      She blinked, just then realizing he was returning her gaze with equal intensity, his strangely penetrating, predatory…hungry.

      But it was his grin that made her stomach yo-yo to the floor right next to her high-heeled shoes, then bounce back up again.

      He cleared his throat, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple mesmerizing. “I was just sitting here, trying to come up with a good come-on line to use on you and, bam, you fall straight into my lap.” He straightened her when she would have slid to the floor. “If that isn’t a sign, I don’t know what is.”

      Dulcy clutched his shoulder to straighten herself, intrigued by the rock-hard muscles she felt bunched beneath the soft, beige chambray of his shirt. Brad wasn’t exactly soft, but he wasn’t this hard, either.

      She noticed she had a good portion of the shirt clutched in her fist. She set about smoothing out the wrinkles, her huge diamond engagement ring flashing in the lights from the dance floor.

      She snatched her hand back as if scorched. “I’ll say it’s a sign. It’s a sign that me and tequila don’t mix.”

      She finally struggled to a standing position, finding the strange thunk-thunk of her heart disconcerting, and the burning in her lower abdomen completely foreign and as intoxicating as the tequila. She felt as if she’d barely escaped being hit by a charging horse.

      “You can dress her up…” Jena’s voice edged its way through the silken cobweb crowding Dulcy’s mind. “Well, since you’ve already been personal with the man, don’t you think you should properly introduce yourself?”

      Introduce herself? What was Jena talking about?

      The man stood. And it seemed her gaze had to travel up and up, and up again before she could see his grin.

      “I’m Quinn.”

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