Tall, Tanned & Texan. Kimberly Raye

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      Wanted, as in past tense. She’d given up her infatuation with him a long time ago.

      Sixteen years was a long time, however, and the boy had turned into a hotter, hunkier man.

      The man now sitting two rows behind her.

      She swallowed and tried for a deep breath. But while her brain issued the command, her lungs wouldn’t cooperate. Neither would her eyes. She willed them to look away, but they kept staring, drinking in the picture he made, his tall, muscular form barely contained in the narrow seat.

      With his dark hair and good ole boy smile, Rance was the spitting image of his two handsome brothers. He had the same strong jaw, sensuous lips and sculpted nose. At the same time, there would be no mistaking him for the other two. Being a fraternal triplet, he didn’t have blue eyes like Mason or green ones like Josh. Rather, his gaze gleamed as bright, as bold, as intoxicating as a shot of Jack Daniels whiskey.

      Even more, Rance had his own style that set him apart. He wasn’t the classic clean-cut cowboy type like the other McGraw men. Rather, his dark hair hung down to his shoulders. He wore a bright Hawaiian print shirt unbuttoned, a white NASCAR T-shirt beneath. She couldn’t see without giving herself whiplash, but she’d be willing to bet that he wore his signature board shorts, long and frayed around the edges, and a pair of flip-flops.

      The only indication of his cowboy roots was the beat-up straw Resistol that he’d been wearing since the age of sixteen. It had belonged to his father who’d died that year. The hat looked worn and faded now, a Coors Lite patch stitched to the brim in between a patch for last year’s ESPN Extreme Sports Games in Colorado and another advertising the bungee jumping finals in South America.

      The media still referred to him as a cowboy, however, because of his do-anything attitude and I-don’t-give-a-damn appearance. Rance was an ex-pro football player who now owned a chain of extreme sporting good stores and still made the news with his passion for the outrageous. Just last year she’d seen him on TV hang gliding over a sea of hungry sharks.

      Crazy.

      Not Rance, mind you. She understood his competitive drive better than anyone because she knew the circumstance behind it. His parents had died when he’d been sixteen, and a little of his heart had died with them. He’d been trying to revive it ever since with a constant supply of adrenaline rush.

      No, Deanie was the crazy one.

       Her heart pounded. Her vision blurred. Her hands even trembled.

      And all because of the fact that Rance McGraw was this close and, despite every argument to the contrary, Deanie still wanted him more than her next breath.

      She didn’t know whether to crawl across the seat and kiss him for all she was worth, or kick his ass sixty ways to Sunday.

      On the one hand, she’d vowed to abandon her hellion ways and conduct herself in a more ladylike fashion from here on out.

      On the other hand, she’d offered herself to Rance once before and it had gotten her the ultimate rejection.

      She weighed the two options for several frantic heartbeats.

      Better to go with plan B.

      Deanie unfastened her seat belt and pushed to her feet.