She groaned and forced herself to focus on her computer. But instead of looking up Marco and working on the interview that needed to be perfect to stake her claim on a new writing genre, she searched the press-conference topic—the soldier turned-bank-robber-and-drug-dealer. She opened her email and found the name of the contact in the mayor’s office that Frank had given her, and made the call.
Thirty minutes later, she hung up, with not much more info than what she already had. A secretary in the Mayor’s office had been working late, and swore she saw the wife of the dead soldier there. Nothing more than what Frank had told her, and not enough to say the meeting took place. The secretary could be mistaken, or looking for her fifteen minutes of fame. Sabrina knew the wife was MIA, number disconnected, house vacant, no forwarding address, since she’d suggested Frank send a reporter to her house. She emailed Frank to see if he’d had any luck locating the wife. She was sure she’d regret it because he would see this as her admission that she wanted this story. And she didn’t, not really. Maybe, but someone else could take the credit, then, at least, she’d know the story that needed to be told was told. If even there was a story, she reminded herself.
With a grimace, Sabrina pushed to her feet and headed toward the kitchen, carrying the Texas Longhorn mug she’d bought the same day she’d bought her T-shirt.
A knock sounded on the door. Her heart fluttered hopefully, and she immediately shook her head in disgust. “You are out of control in so many ways,” she muttered and set her coffee cup down. This time it really was going to be the kid next door, and she was actually hoping it was Ryan.
She didn’t even allow herself a pause at the door. She yanked it open and then about swallowed her tongue. “Ryan,” she choked out. All six foot and more of pure hot cowboy, minus the hat, his light-brown hair framing features as hard and strong as his body. And though his faded jeans, dusty boots and navy T-shirt might be simple, there was nothing simple about this man. Or about the way she reacted to him. He was everything she told herself she didn’t need in a man, and everything the woman in her wanted.
“I brought breakfast,” he said, sniffing the air. “Good. You’ve got the coffee.” And just like that, he was inside, walking right past her and heading to the left, toward the kitchen.
“Ryan!” she challenged in disbelief. Good gosh, this man knew how to steal her equilibrium. She stepped into pursuit. “You can’t just saunter in here uninvited. And do you realize it’s seven in the morning?”
“Almost eight,” he tossed over his shoulder. He paused briefly in the living room, eyed her window and whistled. “Nice view. I might have to get me one of those.”
She caught up with him as he headed to the kitchen, forcing her to once again pursue. He set the bag of tasty treats on the wide, green-and-black granite counter that divided the kitchen from the rest of the open room. He grabbed a cup from a cabinet as if he knew exactly where to look and made the offhand remark, “Never knew I sauntered.”
She pursed her lips and crossed her arms, trying not to notice the way his shirt tugged across hard muscle. “Like you own the place,” she confirmed. “What if I’d been sleeping?”
He filled his cup—or her cup, that he’d now made his own, like her house. And her body. He seemed to take what he wanted, and it should irritate her.
“I figured you reporter types to be early risers,” he commented matter-of-factly. “Us military types are the same way.” He added several spoonfuls of sugar to his mug. Her gaze brushed the light-brown stubble on his jaw, now thicker, rougher. Very un-Army-like. Very… Harley rough—and tough. Dangerous and sexy. An image of him wearing a leather jacket and sitting on a Harley flashed in her mind.
“You a fan?”
Sabrina blinked at the question. Fan? What had she said and didn’t remember saying? Or what was he saying? He seemed to read her blank stare and lifted his mug, mock-salute style. “Of the Longhorns,” he offered.
“Ohhh,” she said with relief—she had not spoken some part of her fantasy out loud, thankfully. “No. I mean, I figure I’m supposed to love the Longhorns to live here. The entire population wears orange like it’s a second skin. You?”
“I’m from Houston,” he said casually. “We aren’t ravished by the UT football fever down there. Bobby has season passes, though. He assures me he’ll make a follower out of me.” His eyes twinkled, voice lowered slightly. “I’m finding Austin has plenty of appeal outside its college football.”
Sabrina felt the heat in her cheeks, and was flustered by how easily Ryan drew a reaction. “You’re an incorrigible flirt.” She snatched the bag sitting on the counter. “And I deserve whatever is in this bag for putting up with it.” She whirled on her heels with her best ice-princess persona—well practiced over the years as she mingled with newbie politicians who had tried to become her father, through her father. And through her.
A low, masculine rumble of laughter followed her, the sound dancing along her nerve endings and setting off a tingling along her spine. Sabrina sat down on the edge of the sofa cushion, spine stiff. It was Ryan’s turn to pursue, and pursue he did, coffee mug in hand, carrying an air of ownership of everything around him.
She grimaced. “There you go again,” she accused, because going on the attack was easier than melting like that pushover she feared he already thought her. “Sauntering over here like you own the place. You don’t, you know.”
“Man, woman,” Ryan said, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch, leaving one cushion separating them. “I brought food. Be nice to me.”
She tipped her chin up and opened the bag. “No.”
“No?” he asked.
“You heard me,” she said. “No.”
Mischief gleamed in his eyes. “Why no?”
“Because you put me on the spot with Marco’s sister,” she said quickly. She couldn’t shake how much it bothered her that Ryan had become entwined with politics. “And don’t tell me Marco is giving me the interview no matter what. The pressure is there for me to say yes. You have no idea how tired I am of that kind of pressure, Ryan. You could at least have warned me in advance.”
He gave her a thoughtful look. “You’re right,” he said, surprising her. “In all fairness, though, you distracted me by opening the door in that sexy-as-hell green muck of yours. I had to kiss you.” She opened her mouth to object, and he quickly added, “I’m teasing. You’re right. I should have warned you. I had no idea it would be as big a deal to you as it obviously is.” He softened his tone, casting her a puppy-dog brown stare. “I’m sorry.”
Oh, man, those eyes. He was good. Too good. “I’m not letting you off that easily.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he said, his eyes alight with amusement. “What do I have to do to make that up to you?”
Give me another orgasm, came her instant silent response, which was so out of character, it shook her into seeking a distraction. “I’ll think about it while I eat,” she replied. And curling her bare feet into the couch cushions, she took a bite of a yummy chocolate muffin. Deliciousness exploded in her mouth. “Oh, wow. This is so good.”