herself before anyone could do it to her first.
She just sat there as he disappeared, wondering why Brad’s attitude didn’t hurt more.
She decided to go, too, and she thought she felt Clint’s gaze tracking her out the door. Then it occurred to her... Even though Brad hadn’t teased her about the video, had it made him look at her differently?
As used goods, viewed by hundreds of people sitting in front of a computer?
It didn’t matter anyway, because she’d blown her chance to tell Brad about her basket so he could bid on it.
On her way into the lobby, she came to a dead stop. What was with her? She’d always taken charge. It was what a single girl did.
At least, the type she used to be.
Full of determination, she went to the reception desk, asked for paper and an envelope, then scribbled a note, since the clerk wouldn’t release a room number that she could call.
Brad,
I didn’t get the chance to broach the subject, but I’d love to get together before the weekend’s over. If you’re interested, you could always bid on the basket with the silver and gold stars attached to the handle. It might bring back a few adventurous memories...or make a few new ones.
It wasn’t like her to hesitate, but she definitely did when she reread that last part.
Ah, screw it. Adventure!
She signed her name, stuffed the note into the hotel envelope, then generously tipped the concierge and asked him to deliver it to Brad. She liked this much more mysterious way to approach him rather than just calling him up. It was part of the basket’s seduction.
Feeling much better, she took a detour outside to the parking lot, to her Prius, where her bags were still in the trunk. She had arrived before her room was ready and met Leigh and Dani right after checking in.
The night was mid-October-crisp, with the scent of wood smoke in the air. Avila Grande, home of Cal-U, was near Route 99, and she could hear the faint swish of cars traveling along it. In high school, she’d loved John Steinbeck’s work—what could she say about the streak of Americana in her?—and when Cal-U had offered her a scholarship for their fledgling English program, she’d snapped it up.
But being here now felt a little lonely, and she tried not to sink into the mire of her thoughts again—the voice of her literary agent telling her that it didn’t look likely that she would be picked up by her publishing house anytime in the near future. She fought back the looming question of where her paychecks would be coming from after her royalties dried up and her savings had been gutted.
This weekend was supposed to be about Dani, but maybe also about thinking of a new direction for herself, right? So why wasn’t she feeling brave?
When she heard boot steps on the pavement, she slammed down her trunk and set her bags on the blacktop. She’d taken Krav Maga, and she was always ready to use it.
“Whoa,” said a familiar male voice that made shivers sweep up and down her skin.
She went tight all over again—in her belly, then lower, until she got a little wet at the sight of a lamp-lit Clint Barrows in that cowboy hat, snug T-shirt and jeans.
Wonderful, faded, leg-hugging jeans....
“I saw you go out of the hotel by yourself,” he said. “It’s not exactly a concrete jungle out here, but it’s dark.”
He’d taken off his hat, the illumination making his hair look golden and so thick that it conjured naughty thoughts about that night all those years ago. Hot, dizzy, breath-stealing thoughts. Her mind went even further, and she pictured him kissing his way down her neck, her chest...lower, until he made his way across her stomach and then...
Her pulse was thudding in all the places she’d just pictured, as if his mouth was actually on her, driving her wild.
“Why’re you really out here?” she asked, cooling herself off, making a show of corralling her luggage—which she did quite easily all on her own. A girl never traveled with more than she could handle.
As she headed back to the hotel, pulling her suitcase behind her, she walked closer to him. He was leaning back against what had to be his truck—a comfortable, beat-up blue Dodge—and he’d rested his hat on top of the cab, his thumbs hooked into his belt loops.
“I’m going to tell you my side of the story,” he said. “Maybe not out here, maybe not at the kegger tomorrow, but you’ll know it before the weekend comes to a close. And you’ll know how much I regret what happened.”
The soft rumble of her suitcase wheels went silent as she stopped just past him. “How could you regret it? You’re the one who came off looking like a stud. I came off looking like something...rented.”
She hadn’t meant to say that much, but it’d come out, anyway.
His voice was low and, again, seemingly genuine. “I’m truly sorry about that, Margot.”
She didn’t like the way he said her name. Or, more to the point, she did like it. Way too much.
She turned to him, chin a notch higher than usual. “So what do you want to tell me? That Jay Halverson was behind all the camera stuff back in college? Because I’ve heard it all from Riley over the years.”
“And you didn’t believe him.”
She only shrugged. She didn’t owe him the truth.
Had she started to enjoy thinking he was the bad guy? Did it give her some kind of excuse to stay away?
His peace-offering grin stroked over her, and her heart lost a beat.
She girded herself. “Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me that Jay posted that video last night.”
“He did.”
Okay, then. Mystery solved. “I guess that settles the score.”
She started to leave.
“Not so fast.” He’d lowered his voice to a sexy timbre, making her wonder why the hell she had her sights set on Brad, who was already in his room.
But she knew the answer. Brad was a known quantity, and maybe she needed someone safe this weekend, even as she imagined him part of some big adventure with her basket. Mild-mannered Brad had never broken her trust or given grist to the gossip mill with a video.
It’d bothered her more that her privacy had been violated, and especially that she’d been filmed with the playboy who’d had every other girl except her, it seemed.
Before she knew it, Clint had reached out, gently taking hold of her sweater, near the bottom. It gaped away from her body, the air like a caress, tickling her belly.
No, make that tickling her everywhere, especially in the last place she wanted Clint Barrows to be.
But she ached there, too, between her legs. Ached so badly.
He must’ve sensed that, because he tugged her closer. As the night breathed under the cashmere, she let go of her suitcase and stumbled toward him, close enough to smell the hay and clover on his clothing and skin.
The pure masculinity of him—the clean scent, the knowledge that there was muscle under his own shirt, so close, just a touch away—spiked desire through her.
“I’m going to make it all up to you,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”
She swallowed at his bold comment. A melting, lazy pull of sensation stretched in her, creating friction until there were sparks flaring in her stomach.
“You can’t make up for what’s been done,” she said breathlessly.