Chapter One

CHARLENE HADN'T TOLD Rachel that she'd fixed her up with a cowboy, much less Lynx Maddox, the "Wild Cat" of the rodeo circuit. Rachel sighed. She should have known. After all, Charlene only dated men who wore boots and Stetsons.

Rachel cringed at the very thought, even as her gaze took in the breadth of Lynx Maddox's chest, his muscular shoulders, and dark green eyes that scanned her with masculine approval.

Despite her stern efforts to control it, her heart pounded against her rib cage. She'd seen him sitting at the table with Charlene and her date, Dan, before Lynx had spotted her. She'd looked when he'd walked her way—looking didn't hurt and it was okay to dream—a little fantasy never harmed a woman. But that was it; that was where it ended. She'd promised herself a long time ago she'd stay detached. After watching her father die in the arena, Rachel had sworn she'd never have anything to do with another rodeo cowboy.

She stopped the train of her thoughts and managed to give the cowboy a smile.

"Nice to meet you," she said, accepting his extended hand. She felt the strength in his warm, callused fingers. Rachel tried to ignore a fluttering sensation low in her stomach. There was one thing she was certain of as she looked up at his piercing eyes and uncompromising jaw—men like this one had trouble written all over them. And she doubted Lynx Maddox would prove to be an exception.

"Rachel, I'm glad you came tonight." His voice was soft as velvet and laced with a Texas drawl.

He smelled of woodsy, masculine cologne, and the sudden rise in her body temperature clued Rachel in to an unexpected twist to this encounter. She was much too aware of this sexy cowboy. So aware, in fact, she had difficulty remembering her own name!

She focused on the warmth of his palm against hers and knew that, although his grip was light, he was very strong. But his strength wasn't affecting her nearly as much as the power of his presence. It vibrated everywhere, even from the sawdust-covered floor beneath her feet. His slow, lingering smile seemed to unravel what remained of her composure. For several seconds she seemed incapable of speech or movement.

Good Lord, she was having heart palpitations!

Her reaction was so out of character Rachel was at a loss as to what to do.

"I hope you didn't mind meetin' us here," he said easily, oblivious to her inner turmoil.

The question seemed to release her tongue from its paralysis. "No. Not at all," she replied, feeling somewhat less nervous.

"I'll see you home, of course," Lynx said, ushering her farther into the room.

I don't think so, she thought, eyeing the tall stranger. Meeting Lynx here at the honky-tonk was one thing. Going home with him was entirely another. She didn't voice her decision, but she knew Charlene would be horrified if she dared to offend him. So, exercising her limited diplomatic skills, Rachel sidestepped the issue.

"Is it always this crowded in here? And so loud?" she asked, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. The drummer seemed to have placed himself inside her head, his sticks pounding against her skull, and the raucous noise of the patrons made it almost impossible to hear herself think. The packed crowd made it difficult to breath.

"Friday nights are always busy. Haven't you been here before?" he asked.

"No." She realized her comment was a bit sharp, but she couldn't help that. Honky-tonk bars were fine for other people, but not for her. If it hadn't been for her fast-talking best friend, Charlene Davis, she wouldn't be there—wouldn't be feeling so out of place and strangely vulnerable.

"What happened?" he asked, looking down at her. "Lose a bet?"

"Sort of," she mumbled so low he couldn't hear her. Forcing a smile, Rachel said, "I guess everyone should experience this once." More than her hearing was under assault. Somewhere low in her body, a riotous group of sensuous messages beat in rhythm to the band, the lyrics communicating thoughts about Lynx Maddox she shouldn't even be thinking.

Lynx arched one dark, sardonic eyebrow. "This place will grow on you. Trust me."

Rachel stopped and looked up at him warily. She knew better than to trust him, or anybody. At twenty-four, she'd been on her own for years. After a moment, she regained her composure. "Dan and Charlene have a table for us across the room, don't they?"

She peered through the smoke that diffused the colored lights revolving overhead, and swallowed as the bitter haze of cigarette smoke coated the back of her throat. A cloud hovered near the ceiling, giving the mirrored wall behind the bar a bluish look. The air was stale and smelled of barley malt, tobacco, and hay. Rachel blinked, her eyes burning.

Lynx grinned. "Well, they did. It's kinda difficult to tell right now, though."

Rachel couldn't help but agree. And it was even harder to check for Charlene with his impressive chest blocking her view. When he shifted, she couldn't tell how many people were standing beyond him. "How on earth are we going to get through that mob?" she asked.

"We don't have to," he said, easily.

"What do you mean" Rachel asked, puzzled.

"We have another choice. We can sneak out the back door to some quiet, secluded spot where we could, ah, get better acquainted."

A hot flush of denial raced to her cheeks, and Rachel knew she was about to tell a lie. "Thanks, but I think running the gauntlet is a better idea right now. I'm sure Charlene wants me to meet her date."

Not the least bit offended, Lynx winked at her.

"Okay, sweetheart. Stick with me, and I'll show you how a man makes a path."

Lynx placed his hand under her forearm to guide her toward the table. Rachel felt heat rise along the length of her spine, and a fine sweat formed at the small of her back.

Darn Charlene and her matchmaking.

Ever since Rachel's break-up with Steven two years ago, Charlene had hovered over her like a mother hen. Finally, after months of badgering, Rachel had given in and agreed to show up at the honky-tonk this night. Now, with Lynx so close she could almost feel him breathe, Rachel wondered about the wisdom of her actions.

No man was worth the risk of losing her peace of mind. In her life, what men had offered her had turned out to be mirages. Rachel knew all about mirages, and she made sure she steered clear of them.

As they made their way toward the center of the dance floor, someone bumped her from the side. The man was wearing high-heeled, western boots designed for something far less physical than evasive maneuvers. Rachel felt herself thrown off balance, and automatically reached for Lynx's arm.

Assessing the situation, Lynx held her hand. His brows drew together in displeasure as he shot a warning glance past her, toward the offender. "Justin," he growled. "Watch your step, cowboy."

Though unsteady on his feet, the man he'd called Justin still managed to back off in a hurry.

"Careful," he addressed her. His voice, though gruff, held a soothing tone.

Grateful for it, and for the fact he seemed willing to ignore her embarrassment, Rachel breathed a soft sigh of relief.

It was the next comment that had her emotions zinging.

"A woman can't be too careful in a place like this."

Rachel shook her head and chuckled to herself. Those were her thoughts exactly.

She tried to convince herself that the rush she felt on making eye contact with Lynx had to do with the close proximity, not the dark-haired man's expression.

A muscle in Lynx's lean cheek jumped in response to her appraisal, and exasperation lurked in the depths of his eyes, the greenest she'd ever seen. It was at that moment Rachel realized she was in trouble. A warning bell clamored in her brain like the eight-second buzzer in a calf-roping contest, but still Rachel chose to ignore it.

Lynx wrapped his arm around her shoulder, glancing at the crowd, "Don't worry, Rachel—you'll get the knack of it," he said, pulling her to his side. "Relax and let me do all the work."

Somehow, she managed to tear her gaze away from his, to put one wobbly foot in front of the other.

Forcing herself not to stiffen at his nearness, Rachel adjusted to the rock-hardness of his body. She knew that professional bull riders were strong—built heavy in the chest and shoulders—but Lynx was a mountain of a man, topping six feet by two or three inches.

"Come on," he said, swinging her into his arms. "Looks like there's only one way to get to the table."

Rachel gave a gasp of surprise at the sudden turn of events. Finding herself pulled against him, she refused to crane her neck to look up, so she stared at the middle of his chest. She swallowed. Maybe it was the shock of being held in his arms, or the topsy-turvy, surreal feel to the evening, but her insides wouldn't stop quaking, and the way his hand kept stroking her side didn't help.

To make matters worse, strands of her hair were tumbling loose from her French twist. With those loose wisps flowing down to her breasts, she knew she resembled a wide-eyed flower child far more than the capable, independent woman she was.

The way Lynx looked at her only confirmed her suspicions.

Copyright © 2004 Connie Vines