Two could play the cheating game.
Except it wasn’t really cheating, because Beth Richards and her husband, Brad, were officially divorced. Earlier in the afternoon they’d met at the lawyer’s office to sign the papers. Afterward, Beth had gone on a shopping spree.
She adjusted her brand-new Victoria’s Secret push-up bra and fluffed the fake brown hair extensions that made her look twenty-one instead of thirty-one. She studied herself in the ladies’-room mirror and decided her lips could use a second coat of Ravish Me Red, then cursed her trembling fingers when she rummaged for the tube of gloss in the rhinestone-studded clutch.
You’ve come this far, don’t you dare chicken out.
She swiped fresh color across her lips and smoothed nonexistent wrinkles in her retro Western shirt. She looked nothing like a financial consultant for a top-rated investment firm and everything like the girls in the bar hoping to snag a cowboy.
Maybe if you’d dressed sexier for Brad, he wouldn’t have strayed.
And if Brad had remained faithful, he never would have gotten Beth’s boss pregnant and then decided that he did want to be a father after all.
Beth shushed the voice in her head and recalled her therapist’s words. Your husband’s infidelity is his problem. You didn’t cause it.
But her sterility was Beth’s problem and in the end, the reason her husband had filed for divorce. Sadly, had he not contacted a lawyer first, who knows how many months would have passed by before Beth discovered Brad was cheating on her? At least she understood the real reason behind the extra customer accounts she’d been asked to manage—Sara had hoped to keep Beth at the office on weekends while she snuck around with Brad.
Beth should have known something like this would happen after the way she’d caught Sara ogling Brad at the July Fourth company picnic nine months ago. Instead, she’d believed her sports-anchor husband’s claim that sexy women were a dime a dozen but when it came to marriage, he wanted a down-to-earth woman like her. When Brad had proposed to Beth, she’d told him that she couldn’t have children, and he swore he didn’t care.
The schmuck had done an admirable job hiding his true feelings the past five years, but the truth had come out during the divorce negotiations. Brad admitted he’d only married her to secure his job at the station when he’d heard rumors that the executives weren’t happy with his playboy image and might not renew his contract.
After Brad established himself as a settled man with his viewing audience, he’d decided having a family would move his career up the ladder. He was a user and she hated that she’d been taken in by his handsome face and playboy charm. Most of all, she despised him for doing a number on her self-confidence. But tonight she intended to recover it.
I can do this.
Never in her wildest dreams had she believed she was capable of walking into a bar and picking up a stranger. But after Brad’s betrayal, she desperately needed to prove to herself that she was still desirable.
The bathroom door opened and a pair of young women wearing stocking caps waltzed in. The chatty Cathies reminded Beth that Christmas was in twenty days, and this year she would not be attending Channel 3’s toy drive with Brad. The thought made her sad. Even though she wasn’t able to have children of her own, she’d looked forward to handing out gifts at the station. This year she’d sit home alone and watch reruns of A Christmas Story. She had considered spending the holiday with her parents in California, but she hadn’t gotten up the courage yet to tell them about the divorce.
“Nice belt,” the brunette said.
“Thank you.” Beth had paid almost four hundred dollars for her outfit—way-too-tight Cruel Girl jeans and a Roar shirt with enough sequins to light up Times Square. Add a rhinestone belt, purse and jewelry to her ensemble and she was pure sex in cowboy boots. Squaring her shoulders she left the ladies’ room, wincing when the wall of loud music hit her.
While getting her hair done at the beauty salon she’d overheard the stylists mention the Number 10 Saloon on the west end of Yuma. According to them, the Cowboy Rebels played on Saturday nights and their music was worth the ten-dollar cover charge. Beth had never heard of the band—she preferred classic rock. But what the heck, she’d already had a TV sportscaster in her bed—why not a swaggering cowboy?
She weaved through the tables and returned to her stool at the bar. “Thanks for saving my seat,” she shouted at the man next to her. He wasn’t much to look at. According to Brad, she wasn’t all that special in the looks department, either. She shoved her ex to the back of her mind and watched the patrons in the mirror mounted to the wall behind the bartender. This was her first foray into a country-and-western bar and she was pleasantly surprised by the decor. Used to eating in high-end dining establishments and frequenting upscale hotel lounges, she’d expected a dark, dingy saloon that smelled like spilled beer and men who needed a bath.
To her surprise the interior of the club could have been any frontier bar from the Old West, except that the furnishings were brand new and the place had been decorated for Christmas. A lighted tree stood next to the red-velvet curtains that framed the stage, and giant bows hung on the oil paintings of scantily clad women adorning the walls.
The food menu had been printed on the backs of Wanted posters, and battery-operated lanterns served as the centerpieces on the tables. Wide wooden planks covered the floor and wood beams crisscrossed the ceiling.
The band ended one song and began another. Beth listened to the lead singer belt out “Drink Up and Be Somebody,” which reminded her... She tapped an acrylic fingernail on the bar and a third glass of Bordeaux magically appeared. She sipped the wine and focused on the lead singer who’d introduced himself as Mack Cash. As he moved across the stage, his brown eyes and shaggy brown hair screamed T-R-O-U-B-L-E. The kind of trouble she was looking for tonight.
He wore a tight black T-shirt that showcased his muscular chest, and his jeans rode low on his hips, accentuating a trim waist and a flat belly. And the faded denim was torn, frayed and ripped in all the places that made a woman’s mouth water.
Oh, yeah, she’d found her man.
Before the night was through, she was leaving the bar with Mack.
A group of women moved closer to the stage, their big breasts bobbing and bouncing for the band’s viewing pleasure. Beth’s push-up bra helped her figure, but her girlfriends couldn’t compete with what was on display.
“Care to dance?”
The question came from behind Beth, and she spun on the stool. Average height, pleasant face, receding hairline, brand-new cowboy hat in hand, a bucking-horse belt buckle, freshly pressed jeans and a Western pearl-snap shirt. The weekend cowboy had tried hard to pull off the look, but he didn’t stand a chance in a bar full of real ones.
An invisible string tugged Beth’s head sideways, her gaze colliding with Mack’s. She stopped breathing when he smiled at her. “I’m sorry,” she told weekend cowboy. “I’m with him.” She nodded to the band. Now if only she knew how to execute her plan.
You need a clever pickup line.
How about... Hey, cowboy, wanna share my saddle?
Ugh.
I’ll be your Miss Kitty if you’ll be my Matt Dillon.
Cheesy.
The Cowboy Rebels ended their music set and Mack announced that the band was taking a break. He set aside his guitar, stepped off the stage and headed straight for Beth.
Her pulse sped up as she anticipated a night of revenge sex—even if it did come after her divorce.
Mack stopped next to her and she felt the warmth in his eyes clear down to her toes. The cowboy probably flirted with hundreds of women each weekend, yet he made her believe she had his