The Baby Notion. Dixie Browning

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СКАЧАТЬ her the comfort of his arms, his lips, and any other body part she might possibly make use of. He was heartily ashamed of having listened in on a private conversation just so he could find a way to get into a woman’s jeans. That was a new low, even for him. But then, he’d never pretended to be a gentleman.

      In Jake’s haste to get out of the Baby Boutique without embarrassing either himself or the two women, one of his big, booted feet shot out in the aisle just as the haystack blonde rushed past, and she tripped over it.

      With a little deft footwork, he caught her before she could fall, but in the process, his hat was knocked to the back of his head, his knees bumped against hers, and he couldn’t help himself. Right there beside a herd of woolly white polar bears, Jake squashed her up against him, belt buckle to belt buckle, and looked smack-dab into the biggest, shimmeriest pair of whiskey-brown eyes he’d ever seen on any woman.

      “I do beg your pardon, ma’am…Miss Priss,” he said, feeling like he’d been caught peeping in a window. Inhaling a powdery scent that smelled like ripening corn only sweeter, he involuntarily tightened his arms, pressing every soft curve as close as he dared considering they were in a public place in broad daylight

      Faith came rushing up, all breathless and flustered. “Priss, are you all right?”

      “Hmm?”

      “This is—I mean, have you two met? Priss? Jake?”

      A slow grin kindled in Jake’s gray eyes. “I reck’n you might say we’ve run into each other a time or two.”

      Miss Pricilla Jones, who lived out on Willow Creek and was studying to be a landscaper, was blinking real hard when Jake turned his attention back to her. He promptly lost his train of thought, if he’d ever had one, as he watched her mascara melt and trickle down her velvety cheek.

      “I got mascara on your hat brim,” she said in a breathless little burst of apology. “I’m sorry. I hope it’s not an expensive one. I’ll buy you a new one if you’ll tell me what size you wear. Or maybe I could just give you the money?”

      It was Jake’s favorite hat. He’d bought it after his first big commission, paying a hundred and fifty bucks for it. It had taken him all these years to get it broken in. “What, this old wreck?” he heard himself scoffing. “Heck, I only wear it to muck out the stalls.”

      She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and Jake stepped back, reluctantly putting enough space between them so that she wouldn’t realize how she was affecting him. It was downright embarrassing for a man his age not to have any more control over his body.

      While her friend looked on, her expression one of concern mixed with just a tad of speculation, Priss blinked away the excess moisture. “Yes, well…if you’re sure.” She wiped a bangle-laden arm across her face, smearing her eye makeup even more, then she reached up with two frosted-pink-tipped fingers and rubbed the stain deeper into the beaver felt that he’d been so careful all these years not to bruise. “I heard somewhere that ginger ale was good foror maybe it was seltzer…”

       Ginger ale? Seltzer?

      The lady didn’t make a whole lot of sense to Jake, but who was keeping score? With her haystack hair tumbling down around her neck, a few strands tangling in her gaudy silver and turquoise earrings, she was sort of a mess, but she was just the kind of mess he liked. He’d have offered her five thousand bucks on the spot to go home with him and let him help her celebrate her birthday, only he didn’t know how to bring up the subject without letting on he’d been eavesdropping.

      Trying to think of something clever to say that would impress her with what an honorable, upstanding guy he was, he followed her outside to her peach-colored Caddy convertible, tipped his ruined hat and reluctantly opened her door.

      She smiled. She had the kind of smile that would derail a locomotive, even with the little smudge of frosty pink lipstick on her left incisor.

      A customer approached, and Faith, who’d been hovering in the doorway of the shop, turned, took one last worried look over her shoulder, and reluctantly went inside. Jake tried to think of some way to prolong the moment, and then decided maybe it was just as well he couldn’t. Priss was evidently into babies and stuff like that, whereas Jake was a man who valued his freedom more than just about anything else. And men who valued their freedom learned pretty fast to steer clear of broody women.

      Regretfully, he watched as she slid her shapely rear end across the sun-baked leather seat. Wincing, she gave him another trembly little smile and wiggled her fingers at him. He noticed that she wore three rings, but none on her third finger, left hand.

      And Eddie, whoever he was, had run off to marry another woman. Jake figured the jerk must’ve been neutered before puberty, else he’d never have let this one get away.

      He watched the Caddy roar off down Main Street and thought about what he’d learned. For all the good it was ever going to do him. Her name was Pricilla Jones. She had an expensive address. She was studying to be a landscaper. She liked stuffed animals, but she didn’t have kids.

      And she was thinking of going to a damned sperm bank!

      Leave her be, Jake told himself, knowing there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of that. The lady was just a mite weird, but it was a classy kind of weird. He had a feeling she might be one of those high-maintenance women. He’d had himself one of those once. It had taken him years to recover. Some lessons a man learned the hard way.

      And some he never learned at all.

      Feeling frustrated and slightly depressed, which was a lousy combination, he headed for the parking lot behind the hardware store where he’d left his truck. A few minutes later he was headed north, certain of only three things. Number one, that women were nuts—the haystack blonde a little more so than most.

      Number two, a man was plumb out of his natural element in any store that called itself a boutique.

      And number three—no matter how risky it was, sooner or later the lady in the tight jeans and the pink plastic sandals was going to wind up in his bed—bangles, mascara and all.

      At age thirty-five, Jake Spencer knew himself pretty well, both shortcomings and “longcomings.” He had no illusions left, and damned few ideals. What he did have was a good, solid reputation as an honest horse broker, a modest spread a few miles north of New Hope, and a powerful allergy to rich, society types.

      He had both a short-term goal and a long-term goal. His short-term goal concerned the haystack blonde, and he figured he’d made a pretty good beginning. They were now on speaking terms.

      As for his long-term goal, that was easy. By the time he reached forty, which was how old his old man had been when Jake was sired, he was going to be richer, meaner and one hell of a lot tougher than the old bastard had ever been.

      So far, he was right on schedule on all three counts.

      

      It was the same man. Priss had seen him around town several times, but never close enough to get a real good look. He was the kind of man a woman couldn’t help but notice. Lean, lanky, with shoulders wide enough to fill a door frame and a way of walking that set loose all kinds of wicked ideas. Before she’d even met him, she’d had this tingly, excited feeling whenever she happened to see him.

      Of course, he was only a wrangler. Her father would roll over in his grave if he СКАЧАТЬ