hair was just a shade shorter than most of the guys. Maybe he was from Fort Hood. A soldier?
She wanted to know. She was wild to know more about him.
In the last sliver of light before the door shut, their eyes met. The man had honest-to-goodness green eyes, a warm green, like the grass in autumn when she went riding, happy in her world.
Emily stared at him, mute. Had Jane been struck speechless when she’d first laid eyes on her uncivilized man?
We don’t do helpless. Snap out of it.
Emily forced herself to move. She stuck out her hand to shake his, as if she were back at the James Hill Ranch, meeting a new cowboy whom the foreman had hired for the season. Not the most feminine move, but it was better than staring.
“Hi there. I’m Emily Davis.”
“Graham.” He took her hand in his without taking his gaze off her face. He looked so terribly serious about a handshake, as if they were closing a business deal.
It occurred to her that she was accosting someone in a bathroom hallway, just like her ex had done. Just ugh. She was classier than this. More mature than this. Really, she was. But that electricity she’d felt when she’d first brushed against Tarzan was all there, that thrill in the air as warm palm met warm palm. Every crude line her girlfriends used to describe a sexy man, every purr about a man who could make a woman want to drop her panties at one smoldering look, all of them suddenly made sense.
Even his hand feels sexy.
He let go, gave her the slightest of nods and the smallest attempt at a smile, and then he started to shoulder past her.
No! Don’t go. In sudden desperation, words popped out of her mouth, the oldest pick-up line in the world, the one dozens of men had used on her. With a jerk of her chin toward the bar, she raised her voice over the music and the crowd.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Ohmigosh, he said yes. I don’t know what to do.
Yes, you do. Get your act together.
She was going to buy a man a drink. She’d asked, he’d nodded and it was as simple as that. She was no helpless Jane. She was Emily Davis, future rancher—whether her family approved of that goal or not—and current purchaser of a beer for a man whom she wanted to... Well, never mind where her mind went at the sight of him. She just wanted to be around him. So she was going to buy him a drink.
He’d gestured out of the hallway with his nod, so she’d turned and started pushing her way back into the crowd. Guitars and drums obliterated all but the loudest shouts as Emily headed for the far side of the room, where the iron-trimmed wooden bar stretched the length of the wall. The hottest man in her world was currently half behind her, half beside her, matching her every move as she dodged left and right around people who were talking and drinking and standing in one place. The rush was as exciting as that first drop on a roller coaster.
Emily wedged herself in between two other people at the bar. Like all the other girls who wanted the bartender’s attention, Emily put her elbows on the iron-trimmed wood and started to lean forward, prepared to flirt her way into getting some service, but she felt Graham’s presence behind her, and she paused. He was in a different league than her college crowd—the college she was being forced to return to. She didn’t want to act like the other girls.
It wouldn’t work, anyway. Leaning over the bar generally gave the bartender a nice cleavage shot, which would hopefully get his attention, but Emily’s outfit was more subtle than that. Sure, her dress barely reached to mid-thigh and she was wearing her fancy cowboy boots, the ones that were only good for dancing, but her chest was covered with ruffles up to her neck, not exposed by a low neckline. Besides, the bartender tonight was Jason, helping out his family on his own winter break from college. She’d known Jason in high school, when her previous stepfather had lived far outside of Austin and the school bus ride had taken over an hour each way. If the sight of Emily’s cleavage was going to make Jason hustle over to her, it would have done so years ago.
“Yo, Jason!” But her shout had to compete with the band’s cover of a Merle Haggard outlaw country tune. She whistled instead, another masculine move, but the piercing sound worked. Jason pointed at her to let her know he was coming her way next. She turned to ask Tarzan—Graham—what he’d like, but he wasn’t paying attention to her. Instead, with his eyes narrowed and his jaw set, he was scanning the crowd.
Maybe he was looking for whichever friends he’d come in with. She hoped he wasn’t looking for a particular girl, but that was entirely possible. He was undeniably handsome, and the protective streak he seemed to have—and the buff body his shirt clung to—only made him more appealing. Women would fall all over him, as she had.
He was watching someone in particular now, no longer scanning. The thrill she’d felt from having his attention dropped a notch.
“Is beer okay?” she asked over the band.
He didn’t hear her.
She reached out to touch him, her fingertips sliding over his shirtsleeve, the curve of his bicep solid underneath that soft knit.
He looked at her.
“Light beer?” she asked, pointing at the handles of the beer taps in case he couldn’t hear her. “Dark beer?”
He shook his head and made a small gesture with his hand, almost like he was busy and she shouldn’t bother him. Nothing. Not right now.
Disappointment flooded through her, washing the thrill away. A little embarrassment heated her cheeks, because she’d misread him. That nod in the bathroom hallway hadn’t meant Yes, I’d like to spend more time with you, after all. He probably hadn’t even heard her question in the first place. He’d just been on his way to the bar himself. He was waiting for her to get her drink and go back to her friends, so he could order his and go back to whomever he was looking for.
There was nothing more Emily could do. Graham had turned half away from her again. Since he wasn’t even looking at her, she could hardly flirt with him now, even if she had the guts to risk a second rejection.
Emily caught Jason’s eye and held up one finger. One beer, darn it. One lonely beer.
From somewhere beyond the pool table, a male voice shouted in anger. Two voices. More. Suddenly, Graham’s hand was on her waist, his palm immediately warm through the thin blue material of her dress. Emily turned to him in surprise just as a flurry of violence erupted near the pool table.
The crowd lurched away as one, pushing everyone a foot closer to the bar, butting up against Graham. He was braced for it, though, and didn’t move. Emily wasn’t squashed at all, not with him standing like a wall, breaking the tide of people coming at her.
Emily stepped back as much as she could to give him room, but she could only back up a half step until the rounded iron edge of the bar touched her back. He stepped with her, keeping his hand on her waist, then placed his other hand on the bar beside her and braced his arm straight. There was more shouting, another surge as people tried to get out of the way of the fistfight. Emily was sheltered from the second wave, too, safe as she looked up into those green eyes, feeling Graham’s muscles flex as he kept his arm stiff and people collided with his back, and wow, this is much too sexy.
She could love being Jane. It would be too easy to get addicted to having this man protect her from the dangers of the jungle.
But he shouldn’t have to. The crowd pushed against him, and Emily grimaced apologetically. Fistfights around here were usually over as soon as they started, but the distinctive sound of a pool cue cracking cut through the air, as loud as a baseball bat splintering on a fast pitch. Women screamed.
“Let’s go,” Graham said.
He didn’t wait for her to answer. He let