Rio: Man of Destiny Page 2

  “I got your letters and don’t have time for this.”

  “It’s a historic landmark. I’d like to see it preserved—”

  “Sure, buddy. You’re all heart and I’m certain there’s a dollar in there somewhere for you. Now step out of the way.” Delight and warmth curled around Paloma’s tone as she grinned at a matron with a blond Dolly Parton wig. “Hi, Vandora. T’m so glad you could come this year.”

  Vandora’s bright brown eyes peered at Rio. “Is this gorgeous hunk yours, Paloma?”

  “He’s not my type.” Paloma’s flat denying snort didn’t soothe Rio’s taut senses. Not that he wanted to appeal to the rangy six-foot woman who had just nudged his chest with her shoulder again.

  This time, Rio stood still and simply looked down at her. When she glanced at him, he smiled again, slowly, and Paloma’s blue eyes narrowed dangerously. “I won’t be pushed into anything sudden,” she said “And I’m immune to ladykilters.”

  Rio dismissed the taunt, he had business to do. “You inherited Boone’s half of the feed store over a year and a half ago. I started trying to make contact with you then.”

  “I’ll get back with you at a later date. Meanwhile, get out of my way.”

  “When I’m ready.” Rio spaced his words firmly. He didn’t like orders. He’d had enough of them in the military. “It makes sense to sell. You don’t know the business.”

  Paloma’s blue gaze lasered at him and locked, darkening into a deep, rich blue like the evening sky before it filled with thunderstorms. Good, he thought. Payback time. I’m getting to her—at least I have her attention.

  Hurrying by him, another kindly matron plucked the pink satin pillow from beneath his arm. She reached to pat the stubble on his set, angular jaw. “Thanks, sonny. You’re gorgeous. Hope you’re coming with us to play bingo for two days. You could be my good luck charm. I just adore big, dark and dangerous cowboys—that shaggy-and-stubbled look really makes my motors purr.”

  With the ease of a woman who took care of herself, Paloma hefted an overstuffed tote bag into the side bay of the tour bus. Her constant movements said she wasn’t waiting for him...or anyone.

  Rio studied the woman who had inherited Boone Llewlyn’s half of Jasmine’s historic feed store; she hadn’t even bothered checking on the landmark property since she’d inherited Boone’s partnership.

  In an efficient movement, she tipped her face upward, her mirrored sunglasses sliding to shield her piercing blue eyes. She tilted her face up the four inches to his as if she was considering how to handle a man of his size—should she have to remove him from the area. Dawn softened her strong, slant ing cheekbones, and a silky strand of black hair swept across her pale, angular jaw. She swept it away impatiently. Her generous mouth pressed into a firm line, and, in contraist, a shy dimple appeared on her left cheek. If Rio had been looking at her as an interesting woman, instead of as an obstacle, he might have appreciated the odd mix of angles and softness in her face—the slight slant to her eyes, the gleaming sweep of high cheekbones.

  Paloma jammed her worn truckers’ boot on the first step into the bus, which was filled with elderly ladies, all excited about a two-day bingo trip to another state. Their driver wasn’t wasting time talking to Rio. “This is a nonstop trip—down, then back. No hotel or sleeping arrangements, If you want to talk with me, you’ll have to get on the bus, Blaylock. Otherwise, step back”

  Rio wasn’t stepping back. He’d just dug two spoiled teenagers riding on snowmobiles from a Wyoming snow avalanche, saving their lives. Once he’d decided to take a course, little stopped him. His brother Roman, executor of Boone’s estate, had pinpointed Paloma’s whereabouts. Lou, her booking agent, had said she was performing at a senior citizens’ get-together the night before driving the bingo bus. Without sleep, Rio had driven his pickup tuck for eighteen hours through snow to catch her. He hadn’t wanted to risk coming by plane—with bad weather possibly grounding his flight, she could easily get away. Paloma wasn’t an easy woman to catch, always on the move. He had her now—not a mailbox or a message machine, but the woman, up-front and personal, and he wanted the full title to the feed store. He locked his boots to the pavement, legs braced, and pasted his best slow smile on his face. “We need to talk.”

  Paloma Forbes’s cool sky-blue eyes ripped down Rio’s body with an “I know exactly what you are clear through, mister, and I don’t like you a bit” look. The impact sent an unexpected jolt down his body. There was just that 8ick of contempt that said she thought his tired look was from too many women and too many bars.

  Rio inhaled in an effort to keep his smooth smile despite her unspoken taunt. He rolled his left shoulder, his taut body regretting the eighteen-hour drive from Jasmine, Wyoming, to the small town in Missouri. On the other hand, his nerves resented the woman who had not answered his letters, his calls.

  Her impatient, darkening blue glance whipped at him again. “All aboard?”

  With an expert athletic move, Paloma leaped onto the first step of the bus and slid into the driver’s seat. Her leather gloved hand rested on the door handle, ready to swing it shut. Her cool look said she’d rather he took his day-old beard and hiked back to Wyoming. The curve of her lips wasn’t sweet, rather suggesting a woman who knew when she had the upper hand. “Look. Make it easy on yourself and go home, okay? When I get time, I’ll review those letters. Wherever they are.”

  Excitement from the elderly ladies filling the bus almost concealed the too-sweet “I’ve got you now, babe” tone of her_ voice. That purr rasped up the back of Rio’s neck and he swung up onto the bus’s steps.

  “All I’d like to know is if you want to sell your half of the feed store. You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” he asked, resenting her smirk. She was enjoying his discomfort, forcing him to either ride the bus or let her escape; Rio didn’t like being pushed, or challenged, by a woman who obviously disliked him.

  “You got it. Pm keeping my share. Get used to it. Take your seat.” With her waist-length hair in a single thick braid, her willowy body sheathed in a black sweater, long, tight jeans and truckers’ boots, Paloma Forbes did not in the least resemble a concert pianist.

  “Fine.” Rio stepped up into the bus, ripped off his leather jacket and stuffed it in the overhead compartment He sprawled into the seat behind the driver.

  In the bus’s rearview mirror, her glasses glinted at him. She looked down at the legs and boots he had just crossed on the floor beside her seat. Her mouth tightened as she sent out a boot to push his away. “Comfy?”

  Rio really enjoyed that little edge to her voice that proved he’d gotten to her. The lady liked her space, and he wasn’t giving her peace until he got what he’d come for. He placed his hands behind his head, leaned back and smiled slowly into her mirror. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  The lady could drive. Paloma expertly wheeled the tour bus over the winding, hilly road and onto the interstate as morning slid through the tinted windows. The excited passengers chattered and sang and debated their favorite bingo games—Dot’s winning streak was unequaled and the last bingo caller, a youth of seventy-five, had a thing for Bev. Mavis needed to remember to turn up her hearing aid and Martha wasn’t happy about anything. Linda forgot her good luck set of dentures with the gold tooth, and Totie brought snore-quelling nose patches for everyone because she hated bus snorers.

  Madeline had to promise that she’d wash off her latest perfume of the month at the first rest stop. The big debate was the color of lucky felt tip markers...or the “daubers” that the bingo palace supplied.

  Rio settled back onto the seat, badly needing sleep. When someone lifted his head and tucked a satin pillow beneath it, and the weight of a crocheted afghan covered his chest, Rio glanced at Paloma in her rearview mirror. He’d been dozing comfortably—he looked down at the elderly woman who with her back turned to him, her ample behind jiggling, had just stuck his left leg between her thighs. While she was busily tugging off his b
oot, another woman brushed a kiss across his forehead. “Sleep tight, our prince. You’re big enough to be good luck for everyone,” she whispered, patting his chest.

  When Rio attempted to sit up, she pushed him down. “Just let Emily take off your boots, sonny. She has seven boys. I see you didn’t bring an overnight bag. We’ll have to stop and get you some clean underwear. You never know when an accident will happen—oh, not with Paloma driving, but you never know about crossing streets nowadays. You wouldn’t want to have to go to the hospital in unsightly underwear. Do you wear those little tight things, boxer shorts or just regular briefs—is that white or black?”

  “I’ll pick up new underwear while you’re playing bingo,” Rio muttered and wondered if all women had formed a sisterhood devoted to seeing if his underwear was in good shape. His sister, Else, seemed to have X-ray vision.

  In the mirror, Paloma’s silver sunglasses revealed nothing, until Rio spotted the humorous turn to her mouth, softening it “You think this is funny?” he demanded.

  She didn’t answer, but held out her cup, which a woman sitting near hurried to fill from a thermos. “Thanks,” Paloma murmured, and focused on the drive.

  “I’ve forgotten what kissing a man without dentures feels like,” hinted Posey Malone, eyeing Rio. He blinked as Susie asked him to hold her cane while she took a snapshot of his “sexy cowboy look.”

  Rio hurried to remove his right boot before Emily could clamp her thighs around his leg; he handed Susie’s cane back to her. “I think I’ll take a nap now,” he announced loudly and shot a meaningful glance at the ladies behind him. A chorus of the ladies began to sing “Lullaby and Goodnight.”

  Sarah, in the seat directly behind him, reached to smooth his hair. “That’s right. You rest. We need our good luck charm fresh and bright-eyed.” Paloma continued to drive, her expression impassive.

  At the breakfast stop, Rio swung outside to help the ladies down and they hurried inside the café. After the first pat to his rear, he flattened his back to the open bus door. Mrs. Malone withdrew her comb and reached up to fix his hair. “Better,” she said, satisfied.

  The last one to leave, Paloma ignored his outstretched hand and stepped down, eyeing him through her sunglasses. “Having fun?” she asked, stripping away her gloves and tucking them into her back pocket.

  “It’s an experience. Are we talking now?” As she smoothed her hair quickly and checked her watch, her fingers tapping on the practical design, Rio watched closely. The hunter in him measured and watched. Her hands were feminine, graceful and lovely-tapered pale fingers with neat short nails and covered with silky soft skin. Rio’s body tensed at the absolute beauty of movement and shape. He wanted to slide his fingers between hers, testing the fit and the feel but jerked himself from the fascinating, restless movement as she stretched, rotating her shoulders. Just then, in the morning light, Paloma’s lean body was delicate, womanly, as though she needed to be held close and protected by a lover. He caught the slightest fragrance—an exotic tropical scent, previously overshadowed by diesel fumes and the other women’s perfumes.

  She flicked an impatient glance at him, her slender, agile fingers smoothing the wisps of silky hair back from her face. “You die hard, buddy.”

  “The name is Blaylock. Remember it.”

  She leaned back against the bus, her glasses glinting up at him. “I know about the Blaylocks. I lived with Boone Llewlyn for a while and Jasmine is stuffed with Blaylocks. I can outlast you. Why don’t you make it easy on yourself and go home now?”

  The unnerving impulse to wrap her braid around his fist and draw her head up for his kiss startled Rio. He inhaled sharply, dismissing the impulse. He was too tired and his body was protesting the long drive followed by the bus trip. Paloma. He couldn’t be attracted to Paloma, the woman. He reached over to push her glasses up, to rest upon her head. He wanted to see her eyes, that bright, cutting glare, locking with his gaze. On base level she didn’t like him, she didn’t trust him, and her expression was wary. “Why don’t we talk over breakfast?”

  “I’ll bet you’ve said that line a few times in your life,” she purred and walked from him into the café. Her odd stride did not distract from the sensuous sway of her long braid above her slender hips and endless tight jeans.

  Rio leaned back against the bus, studying her. Paloma wasn’t feminine or sweet; yet for an instant, her fragrance had caught him. The beauty of her hands had startled him, fascinated him; the sleek sway of her braid had hitched up his sensual interest, surprising him.

  Nettled, tired and uncomfortable with that brief attraction, he shoved away from the bus. He preferred soft, easygoing women with curves.... Rio grimaced—not at the ladies waiting to surround him in the café, but at himself. He had to get out more often. His brother, Roman’s, recent marriage had stirred Rio’s own mating instincts. Admittedly a romantic, Rio had prowled through potential mates, dating frequently. He hadn’t found a woman who excited his nesting urges, who could take his breath away. An adult Blaylock male, he knew the difference between lust and caring, and he needed to cherish and be cherished. He couldn’t settle for less.

  He glanced warily at Mrs. Reeves, who was waving to him from the café, and settled into his thoughts: he wasn’t feeling delicate and alone. Oh, hell, maybe he was. He wanted a woman to hold, to wear his ring, to continue what Blaylocks were bred to do—make families and lives and love one woman for eternity. Just looking at Roman and Kallista, now expecting their first child, caused Rio to want his own child...with the right woman. He admitted reluctantly to the nesting urge, a biological need to create a home and a family, to protect them. Else, his sister, had stopped pushing unmarried women at him and Rio understood—Else had spotted that nesting urge in him and had decided to let nature take its course, just as it had with Roman, Dan, Logan and James. The youngest Blaylock, Tyrell, was too busy in New York as a top corporate financial officer to think about a long-term nest; Tyrell liked corporate games, fed upon them.

  Rio lifted his face to the cold wind, aching for Wyoming, and hurting for the little boy who plagued his nightmares... he’d been too late to save little Trey Whiteman. He had to find peace—and Paloma Forbes wasn’t it.

  Later at the bingo hall, the ladies played, concentrating with deadly intent upon the caller’s numbers and then yelling when they won—or didn’t. Rio settled back to watch Paloma. Obviously enjoying herself, she moved between the players, sometimes sitting to chat and help, but never played herself. A restless woman, Paloma had ignored him. Now, her sleek blue-black hair loose and swaying around her shoulders and back as she moved, she looked relaxed, her laughter almost melodic and gone too quickly as if it had escaped her locked keeping. That odd dimple in her left cheek appeared and deepened as she grinned. She touched the women as if cherishing each one, amusement softening her face. She’d given them a gift—driving the bus and caring for them—and she enjoyed their delight.

  Rio frowned slightly. That silky hair was too sensuous, shifting around her body as if needing to be tamed, and treasured by a man’s soothing hand. He pushed the thought away. He wasn’t interested in Paloma as an intriguing woman—a candidate for marriage—but something about her unshielded, gentle expression snared his heart.

  “Did you get those new shorts, sonny?” Mrs. Dipper asked as she passed him, her arms filled with a stuffed teddy bear, her bingo prize. When he nodded curtly, she backed up close to him and called, “Mable? Do you have your camera? I want a shot of Sonny and me canoodling. He got those new shorts,” she called loudly to the other women, who nodded in approval.

  Rio inhaled slowly. He always kept his word and now he was paying for it. The Blaylock males were trained to be courteous to females by their mother, who used her wooden spoon with unerring precision. Or there was that painful ear-twist thing. He reluctantly placed his arm around Mrs. Dipper as she had directed. She cuddled up to him, her hand looping around his waist as Mable shot the picture. Rio bent to collect the colore
d markers that Elizabeth had just spilled to the floor. “Did you get our errands done, sonny?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  Rio nodded. “I got everything on the lists and put the sacks in the bus. Your change is in the sacks.”

  “You’re such a good boy,” she whispered before she cupped his face and kissed him full on the lips. When he managed to pry himself away, he met Paloma’s gaze—and found there undisguised contempt.

  Rio stepped up into the darkened, cold bus and quietly closed the door behind him. After an entire day of trying to talk with Paloma and being dismissed, or else distracted by the ladies who really appreciated their “good luck cowboy,” he’d finally cornered his elusive business partner.

  He placed the insulated hot food container on a seat and studied her in the shadows. She lay curled on the back seat that stretched across the bus, amid a clutter of tiny floral and silk pillows. Sleeping on her side, snuggled deep in a down camping bag, Paloma had lost her defensive, hard look. Her lashes curled in dark fringes across her pale skin, while those elegant yet strong fingers, now at rest, lay upward, exposing the soft center of her palms. Without her elastic supports, her wrists looked fragile, the inner skin gleaming palely in the shadows. Her hair draped and fell around her like a shimmering black waterfall.

  She sighed in her sleep, turning to her back, her hands lying at her side, and the soft line of her breasts flowed beneath the sleeping bag. That exotic scent curled to him and he fought the impulse to draw it into him, to appreciate the womanly fragrance as he might if he wanted to know the woman more intimately. Detennined to wait until she awoke, he settled into the seat in front of her. He drew up his coat, then tucked a floral satin pillow behind his head and a pink afghan over his legs to keep warm. He rested his legs on the seat opposite his, preventing Paloma’s escape, and waited. It was peaceful in the cold bus, with only the slight sound of the woman’s slow, deep breathing.