The six-foot-high, bachelor party cake was wheeled
out of the backroom of the Laramie, Texas, saloon to the raucous accompaniment
of "The Stripper."
Baum, baum, baum the brass blared with rowdy familiarity as the blood
pressure of every man in the room-including Jackson McCabe's-rose in anticipation.
Bah-bah-bah-baum…
"Oh, Lord, you boys have done it now,"
sixty-three-year-old Doc McCabe said, rolling his eyes as perspiration broke
out on his neck.
"When your mother finds out about this she's
gonna tan your hides."
"Not to worry, Dad," Shane-the wildest
of the four McCabe boys-drawled. "We didn't hire the stripper. Isabel,
over at the bakery, did."
"Even worse!" Doc scowled at his four
strapping sons. "Isabel and her daughter are friends of ours, you know."
Jackson had heard about Isabel Buchanon's daughter,
even though they'd never met. Isabel might be the nicest newcomer to grace Laramie
in years but Lacey was as pushy as could be. He wanted no part of her. Jackson
leaned back against the bar and grinned at his dad over the rim of his beer
mug. "Relax and enjoy yourself, Dad. We certainly plan to." He and
his three brothers guffawed and elbowed each other as another drum roll sounded,
sexy as all get-out.
Doc shook his head in silent remonstration and
did his best to quash an amused smile as he kept his eyes on the cake. Slowly
the lid opened. Bah-bah-bah. Dah-dah-dah-dah. A snazzy white Stetson
emerged, followed by the face of an angel framed by a wealth of glossy honey-blond
hair.
Jackson took another sip of beer to soothe the
sudden dryness of his throat as he cataloged the features of the evening's highly
paid entertainment: slender shoulders encased in a fringed cowgirl dress that
in no way detracted from her high round breasts and slender waist; curvaceous
hips that shimmed in time to the music; and legs... Man alive. Jackson sighed
wistfully and shook his head. Heaven's above. Legs that would put a Dallas Cowboys
cheerleader's to shame.
Dah-bump! Dah-bump! While his pulse raced,
and lower still, heat pooled with erotic accuracy, the stripper lifted one leg
out of the cake and stepped over onto the bar. Dancing across the top, she stopped
at the center, as "The Stripper" music cranked up for another chorus.
Tossing her head, she pranced back and forth, doing the meanest bump-and-grind
Jackson had ever seen. But instead of stopping in front of Jackson's dad, removing
his Stetson and exchanging it for hers, as had been requested by Jackson and
his brothers, she leaned down, took off Jackson's Stetson, tossed it into the
crowd and put her hat on Jackson's head.
Aw, heck, Jackson swore silently to himself, frustrated
not to be able to respond the way he'd like to. "You've got the wrong guy,"
Jackson mouthed to the gyrating stripper over the raucous pounding of the bawdy
music.
Not missing a single beat, and looking all the
more pleased with herself-and him-she mouthed right back, "I don't think
so."
Jackson grasped her shoulders, doing his level
best to ignore the delicious, womanly scent of her, and brought her close enough
to shout in her ear, "The party's for my dad."
Smiling mysteriously, she drew back and announced
loudly enough for everyone to hear. "But this, cowboy, is for you."
Then, with excruciating slowness, she unbuttoned
the front of her dress, still gyrating to the sexy music all the while. Jackson's
mouth went even dryer. Before he could stop her, she popped it open. To hoots
and whistles she let the fringed leather dress fall to her feet. Her curves
spilling over the top of a gold lame bikini, she put her hands on his shoulders
and her mouth next to his ear. "Help me down, cowboy," she said.
Figuring, What the hell, it was too late to stop
her now, Jackson slid his hands around her waist, and did as she had asked.
As soon as her boots touched the floor, he let her go.
She grabbed her dress in one hand and headed for
his dad.
"Congratulations on your retirement."
She spoke in John McCabe's ear and stood on tiptoe to kiss his creased, suntanned
cheek. "And good luck on the renewal of your wedding vows with Lilah, coming
up next month."
"Thanks, honey." To Jackson's amazement,
his dad hugged the stripper and returned her kiss, just as affectionately, on
the cheek.
Did the two of them know each other? Jackson wondered
as he set his empty beer mug on the bar. Or was this just good-ol' Texas hospitality
at work?
With the music still rolling, the stripper swiveled back to Jackson and turned
the full impact of her long-lashed green eyes on him. She clamped a silky hand
around his wrist and said in a deep sultry voice that had his engine revving
even more, "Now it's your turn, cowboy."
Jackson grinned at the promise in her low, sexy
voice, beginning to see that the good-natured prank was on him after all. "For
what?" he drawled, both intrigued and amused.
"You'll see." With a broad wink,
she headed for the backroom, Jackson in tow. "See you later, fellas,"
she called flirtatiously over her shoulder.
Hoots and catcalls abounded as Jackson let himself be
led into the saloon's backroom. The door shut behind him. The music on the intercom
went from
"The Stripper" to Garth Brooks's "Friends In Low Places."
An apt selection, Jackson thought as he regarded the beautiful stripper whose
soft, feminine hand was still manacled silkily about his wrist.
"Now what?" he asked, wondering where
all this was going.
Reluctantly she let go of him, then gestured gracefully
toward the old-fashioned, wooden swivel chair behind the desk. "Why don't
you sit down and we'll see."
Jackson appreciated a pretty woman as much as the next guy, but when it came
to the women he got involved with, physically or otherwise, he had standards.
Impossibly high ones, as his friends, family and colleagues were quick to tease.
Jackson tore his eyes from her luscious body and did his best to let her down
gently.
"The joke's over." He gauged her
expression. "Or is it?" he asked carefully, noting she didn't seem
about to give up despite his dismissal.
She batted her eyes at him flirtatiously and smoothed
a hand provocatively down the front of his shirt causing his heart to pound
all the more.
"You aren't afraid of me, are you?"
Jackson felt himself tense even as he disabused
her of that notion promptly. "Course not." He regarded her gruffly,
doing his best to ignore the provocative floral notes of her perfume. It wasn't
likely his father, one of the most respected doctors in central Texas, would
hire an actual hooker--even at a stag party. Would he? No, Jackson told himself
firmly, this had to be someone from the singing telegram agency they'd asked
Isabel to contact, who had merely been paid again by someone else to turn the
tables on him. From the looks of things, Jackson noted with mounting frustration,
she wasn't about to leave until she had carried out the joke to the end. And
they were probably about there already, he thought.
She curved her bow-shaped lips into a sultry smile.
"Then sit."
Figuring the sooner he cooperated, the sooner
the joke would be over-at least his part in it-Jackson dropped lazily into the
chair.
"Ever play cowboys and cowgirls as a kid?"
she asked, still batting her long lashes at him.
Jackson eyed the coiled length of rope she picked
up from the credenza behind the desk. "Not like this," he replied.
But he supposed he could play along, at least
for a few more minutes. He didn't want to hurt her feelings. And it was clear
she was trying awfully hard to entice him.
"Then you're in for a treat."
That was debatable, Jackson thought, his patience
for all the tomfoolery beginning to wear thin as she playfully took his wrists
and forced them behind the chair. As swiftly as a cowpuncher readying a calf
for branding, she'd looped them together, wrapped the rope around his midsection
and secured the rest of him to the chair. "You know, if you're planning
to rob the place-or me," he drawled, stretching his long legs out in front
of him lazily, "I think I should warn you, the sheriff is right out there."
"I don't want to steal anything from you,
Jackson." She slipped on her dress and quickly buttoned up the front.
Jackson lamented the change in scenery. She'd
looked damn good just wearing a bikini and boots. He flexed his broad shoulders
restlessly against the hard, wooden back of the chair. "Then what do you
want?"
Suddenly, her manner became a lot more direct.
Disturbingly so. "Your cooperation."
"Cooperation." Jackson repeated her
words warily, sensing some kind of scam coming on. "In what?" he demanded
roughly.
Lacey plucked her hat off his head and put it back on her head. She hoisted
herself up on the edge of the desk and smiled at him bluntly. "The proposal
I have to make."
He narrowed his eyes. Now he knew he'd been had.
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded hotly.
With the tip of an index finger, she tipped her
hat farther back on her head. "Lacey Buchanon, cowboy. Dr. Lacey Buchanon
to you."
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From the book: Dr. Cowboy By: Cathy Gillen Thacker Imprint and Series: Harlequin American Romance Publication Date: September 1999 ISBN: 037316789X Copyright© 1999 By: Cathy Gillen Thacker ® and ™ are trademarks of the
publisher
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