Texas Outlaws: Cole - Kimberly Raye Mills & Boon Blaze

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      The thought stalled as she heard the clink of silverware against a plate.

      Her gaze went to the ladder that led to the overhead rafters. Another clink and she knew she wasn’t alone in her misery.

      Somebody was up there.

      Kicking off the hated satin shoes, she mounted the ladder and made her way up to the second floor. Wood groaned as she reached the last step and topped the landing. Her gaze went to the far end where the monstrous shutters had been pushed open and moonlight spilled through the large square. Framed in the opening was a man perched atop a hay bale.

      The man.

      The object of way too many fantasies over the years.

      But then she was only human, and Cole Chisholm was a one-hundred-percent, certified beefcake.

      A small lantern hung nearby, casting a pale yellow glow that fell across his face as she neared where he sat.

      He held a plate of half-eaten white cake in one hand and fork in the other. A black tuxedo jacket accented his broad shoulders. His crisp white shirt hugged the strong column of his throat and provided a stark contrast against his deeply tanned skin. Light brown hair streaked with gold hung past his collar and framed his strong face.

      Hay crunched beneath her feet. He lifted his head and swiveled toward her.

      Familiar violet eyes collided with hers and his expression went from irritation to pure delight in one fast, furious heartbeat, as if he were covering up his initial dismay. His full lips curved into a grin. A dimple cut into his shadowed cheek. His gaze glittered in the dim barn light.

      A wave of heat went through her. Her breath caught and her tummy hollowed out, and for a split second, she forgot that Cole Chisholm wasn’t her type.

      With the wine numbing her senses and her mother a safe distance away, the only thing she could think was that he was the most scrumptious thing she’d seen all day.

      And boy, oh, boy, would she like to take a bite.

      But then he opened his mouth, his deep Southern drawl sweet and dripping with charm, and the moment faded as she remembered why she’d opted for culinary school in lieu of burning the midnight oil at the honky-tonk.

      Because it kept her far, far away from men like Cole Chisholm. The sexy, charming, let’s-get-naked-in-the-backseat types that oozed sex appeal and sweet compliments. The ones who were here today, gone tomorrow. The exact type her mother specialized in.

      His sensual lips hinted at the most heart-stopping grin. “I knew it was just a matter of time before some pretty young thing followed me up here.” He patted the seat next to him. “Plant one right here, sugar. I’m all yours.”

      2

      COLE UNGER CHISHOLM wasn’t the kind of man to let a little misfortune ruin his entire day.

      Hell, no. He was an optimist. A the-beer-bottle-is-half-full kind of guy. He just dodged the bullets of bad luck that fate aimed at him and kept moving.

      The ordinary .22 kind. One shot. One hit.

      But damned if it didn’t seem as if he was dodging a spray of buckshot tonight.

      Sure, they’d found the last of the money out at Big Earl’s, but it would be another week and a half before they could actually turn it over to the sheriff. It seemed the man had been called out of town on a statewide manhunt that had started in Beaumont and was currently making its way toward Brownsville. All available law enforcement within a hundred-mile radius had been summoned to the scene. Since the most action Sheriff Hooker usually saw was the occasional Friday night drunk, he’d been more than ready to pack up his car and head for the real action, leaving his deputies in charge. Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Needless to say, Jesse had decided to wait until the sheriff returned to hand over the bank-heist money. Which meant Cole would not be rolling out of town tonight.

      Even worse, he was stuck at the wedding for the next several hours until Jimmy and Jake tossed the garter and headed for the airport. Three more freakin’ hours. Why, Millie Van Horten had already cornered him twice to ask him to dance. Shae Rigby had brought him not one, but two slices of cake. And Jamie Lee Milburn had offered to give him a back rub.

      And the really bad part was that he’d been this close to taking her up on her offer. His shoulders hurt like a sonofabitch after all that digging and a few magic fingers might actually make things bearable.

      Thankfully, he’d come to his senses and told her he’d already promised his own back rub to Mary Lou Canter and Sharon Jenkins. And Christie Somerville. The idea? To show her what a disreputable guy he was and discourage her.

      Like hell.

      The more he played the wild and wicked player, the more determined each woman became to be the one to rope him in. It made sense. He was smack-dab in the middle of a wedding, for heaven’s sake. Every man in his right mind knew that women got a little crazy at weddings.

      They saw the cake and bam, they wanted to be right there, cutting into the decadent layers, feeding it to the man of their dreams—that is, the nearest available bachelor.

      Since his two brothers and every other member of the notorious Lost Boys were now officially spoken for, Cole was the only one still on the market.

      The biggest catch this side of the Rio Grande or so the local About Town reporter had just scribbled on her pad during an interview a few minutes ago. No doubt tomorrow’s headline in the local Sunday paper. As if things weren’t bad enough already. Once tomorrow hit, he would be even more sought after than a hot, fresh-from-the-oven biscuit at a no-carbs convention. Every woman in town would be trying to drag him to the weekly church picnic.

      While he liked a good barbecue as much as the next guy, he had no intention of showing up with any woman. That would be like hanging a sign on his back. Ready, willing and marriageable. He was none of the above, especially with less than four weeks until the national saddle-bronc championship. He was this close to winning another title—the title that would put him in the record books and solidify a spot in the saddle-bronc Hall of Fame—and he didn’t need any distractions. Even more, he wasn’t the marrying kind any more than his no-good, no-account father had been. The difference was, Cole had no problem admitting it.

      Not that anyone seemed to believe it.

      Despite the fact that he’d spent the past hour doing his damnedest to beef up his bad boy image and kiss goodbye his husband potential. He’d sucked down a few shots and danced it up with as many women as possible. But then his calves had started aching and his stomach had grumbled, and so he was here.

      And so was she.

      Nikki Barbie wasn’t wearing her usual black leather miniskirt or tight T-shirt, but she still looked every bit as sexy. She had long blond hair, bright blue eyes and a curvaceous body that did the Barbie name justice. Dark eye makeup emphasized her blue eyes and gave her that “come and do me” look. Pale pink lipstick plumped her already full lips. Everything about her screamed sex, which suited him to a T.

      When he had his game face on, that is.

      But he wasn’t beefing up his image at the moment. He was hiding from it.

      Cole pasted on his most charming grin and hid the cake plate behind his back.

      “Hey there, sugar.” He summoned his best panty-dropping drawl. “Nice dress.” He winked and went the extra mile to lay it on thick. “Or it would be if there was a lot less of it.”

      “In your dreams.”

      He grinned. “Every night.”

      * * *

      If only.

      The thought struck Nikki just as Cole smiled again, and heat spiraled through her.

      A crazy reaction considering Nikki was an ice queen when it came to men like Cole Chisholm. He dropped lines faster than a cow dropped

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