West

WEST

Turned out, Rory Sullivan, the New York lawyer who’d been waiting at the airport, was not a guy. And she had the prettiest nipples I’d ever seen. How the hell did I know that? Because I was eyeing them, watching as they hardened in the cool air of her hotel room.

“You going to look or are you going to touch?” she asked, reaching up and taking off my Stetson. She tossed it somewhere behind me as I continued to take in those hard tips.

Fuck if that ballsy question didn’t make my dick hard. Harder.

I had one hand braced on the door above her head. I was close, but not touching. We hadn’t made it any further into the room before I spun her to face the door, slid the zipper down the back of her high-powered dress and pushed it down to her hips. Next went the catch on her bra and when I turned her back around, it fell right off.

She was a tiny thing and my head was tilted down to take her all in, but I lifted my gaze from her spectacular rack to her green eyes.

“You going to stop with the sass or am I going to have to make you?” I asked.

Her eyes flared with a mixture of determination, fury and need at my question.

This hate/fuck banter had been going on since baggage claim. She’d come to Montana a day early for a meeting at Wainright Holdings but had decided a ride on a cowboy’s dick was a way to kick the trip off.

I was more than happy to oblige, as long as it was mine she was climbing on.

I’d figured her out pretty quickly. Walking into the baggage area I’d found the New Yorker my sister, North, asked me to collect and entertain. Except she hadn’t been a guy. She’d been in a slim cut dress that screamed big city. It had a conservative cut meant for a Connecticut country club filled with stodgy rich folk, except it showed off every curve of her pint-sized body. If that wasn’t enough, she wore a pair of ruthless heels that did plenty for her legs. It had been the phone connected to her head like a teenager and the way her toe tapped on the industrial carpet that clinched my thoughts about her.

Rory Sullivan, the sexy as fuck power broker, was a wound tight, sexy siren who’d made my dick hard from across the luggage conveyor belt. I’d instantly wanted to fuck the high-maintenance, East coast workaholic, who, by the half of the conversation I’d been able to overhear, probably wore a string of weak men’s balls as a necklace.

Maybe that had been it, her I’m in fucking charge attitude that was so out of place here in Big Sky country. I wanted to bend her to my will. Get her on her knees. Fuck that priss right out of her. Make her forget the names of her clients as well as her own.

To rule her world.

I’d gone to the airport in the first place because my sister had discovered I was in town to do my monthly big-box store shopping and had asked. I spent my days in the saddle and no doubt she wanted me to have a conversation with a real person instead of a horse. She was worried about me now that she—a ball buster herself—had found Jed Barnett.

North didn’t have to worry. Fuck, no. I could deal with people when I wanted. One sexy one in particular, especially naked.

I doubted North envisioned this kind of Welcome to Montana from me, but she sure as shit couldn’t complain I wasn’t being attentive. I’d headed us toward my favorite burger restaurant, intending to feed Rory dinner and drop her off at her hotel. Instead, she’d said she wanted a different kind of meat… no, she hadn’t said that exactly. But something else just as bold that’d had me turning my truck toward her hotel and instead of leaving her at the entrance, escorted her to her room.

And out of her bra.

JED

I didn’t fuck on command.

I hated being told what to do, even by my boss at the FBI. Go undercover, she’d ordered, in the small corner of Montana where you grew up because no one else could blend in as a cowboy. I sure as hell didn’t blend in as a suit and tie G-Man. But that meant I had to settle into my old community not as the star football quarterback they all remembered but in the false persona of a disgraced FBI agent returning to the homestead.

If that wasn’t enough, being ordered around by the men I was trying to bring down was a pain in my fucking ass. I gritted my teeth and did what they wanted although quitting and being a real disgraced FBI agent was looking better and better.

Because I’d never expected to be told what to do with my dick.

If I was twenty again, I’d have been thrilled with the assignment. Easy pussy.

Now? I was questioning my entire career because it led me to this.

To a wake at Billionaire Ranch. No one around here called it anything but that because the nickname explained it all.

I parked in the field along with everyone else who’d come during calling hours, then hoofed it to the big house. House? Nah. It was a fucking mansion. Log walls and huge windows. River rock and slate roof. No doubt the driveway I walked up was heated to keep off the heavy snow.

The massive front doors were open with people spilling out onto the wide porch and front lawn. They were either dressed in black or in crisp jeans and shirts, the closest thing to mourning-wear for Montanans.

I tipped my hat to a woman who offered me a small smile, as if she was offering me comfort at this difficult time.

She didn’t know I wasn’t here to offer my condolences, but to fuck some answers out of the newly crowned queen of the Wainright family.

North. Fucking. Wainright.

It’d been over ten years since I’d laid eyes on her. At seventeen, she’d been my baby brother’s girlfriend. And jailbait. I’d been the twenty-seven-year-old who’d come home to visit for the Fourth of July weekend and saw her at a family picnic.

I’d kept the fact that I’d thought her gorgeous to myself. Hell, every man who’d ever laid eyes on her would agree with me. She’d been so fucking pretty in a white sundress, her blonde hair long down her back. I hadn’t talked to her. Not once, staying as far away from someone who was too tempting and too illegal. I’d had no intention of poaching my brother’s girl or robbing the cradle for a date. But she’d been… memorable and that made her dangerous.

I’d headed back to DC and she’d dumped Jock a few weeks later. She hadn’t crossed my mind since. Until now. My job was to connect Macon Wainright to corruption, which meant me being a lackey for John Marshall, because Marshall had been his lackey.

To everyone around here, I was now only a bored cowboy with dangerous tendencies.

Marshall had been more than eager to hire me. I wasn’t sure if his middle name was Corrupt or Unethical.

When Wainright died three days ago, he and Marshall had been in the middle of a deal. Marshall had millions to lose so now he had a hard-on to get North Wainright. To ensure the deal would go through. He figured the best way for an ice princess like her to talk was to thaw her out with a big dick and bigger orgasms.

My cell vibrated and I pulled it from my pocket as I stepped into the foyer. “Barnett,” I murmured.

People looked my way, but didn’t pay me any mind, returning to their muted conversations. One woman blotted her eyes with a tissue, the only obvious mourner I could see.

“Well?”

I knew the voice. Marshall was a persistent fuck.

“Macon Wainright’s definitely dead.” That was the only thing I knew for certain. He was lying in a casket ten feet away in a snap shirt and bolo tie, hands folded across his chest. His usually tan complexion was waxy. It seemed the only time I wouldn’t see a sneer on his face was when he’d been pumped full of embalming fluid.

I was sure I wasn’t the only one thinking that.

“That’s all you’ve got for me?”

I was too old to kowtow to the asshole. I wasn’t a yes man. Never had been. I might be doing his bidding. I might be doing it so I could see his ass in prison, but I wasn’t going to make his life easier beforehand.

My attention was snagged on a woman coming down the stairs, a yellow lab following right behind. The place was so fucking fancy it had two stairwells, left and right, that turned and met in the middle. In this case, Macon Wainright in all his dead glory was what was centered instead of perhaps a table with a vase of fresh flowers.

North Wainright. She sure as shit wasn’t seventeen any longer. I remembered the long, blonde hair. The high cheekbones. Full lips. Blue eyes.

But the grown version of North Wainright in the flesh and a black dress that hugged her lush womanly curves… not to mention fuck me stilettos that did exceptional things for her legs—

Fuck me.

Right. I was supposed to do just that. Get her to fuck me.