Fruitcakes and Other Leftovers & Christmas, Texas Style Read online

  “Look, honey—”

  His words stumbled into a growling, “Give me that.”

  “Jasper’s indisposed,” Ezra said. “That was a dirty trick you pulled, missy.”

  “I wanted to talk to him.”

  “You almost gave him a heart attack, and before he even gets a chance to see our, er, I mean his great-grandchildren.”

  “What are you and my grandpa up to?”

  “Packing. Trail ride leaves tomorrow.”

  “I’m talking about the matchmaking. That’s what you’re doing, right? Trying to fix me up with Trace? Geez, what am I even asking for? It’s so obvious.”

  “Look, the only thing we’re trying to fix is a broken wagon wheel, little lady. You take care, give my regards to Trace and we’ll talk to you after the ride.”

  “Wait—” The click of the phone cut her off.

  A matchmaking attempt. So obvious, and so typical of Ezra, according to Shermin and the recent stunts the old man had pulled to get Trace involved with someone.

  But it wasn’t typical of Grandpa Jasper. He’d always let her live her own life. Sure, he’d offered advice and he’d hated Arthur on sight, but he’d never been the type to manipulate anyone.

  Until now.

  Suddenly all the pieces fell into place. The way he’d encouraged her to forget Arthur and make a change. How he’d conveniently produced the deed to the house when she’d been trying to decide on a place to make a new start. Not to mention the way he’d been dodging her calls.

  Marriage, of all things. As if Winnie wanted to marry anyone, let alone a sneaking, lying, presumptuous, Santa-impersonating bull rider. Why, she wouldn’t marry him if he was the last wrangler on the range. In fact, he didn’t even make that great a cowboy as far as his picture went. His jeans had looked a little too worn, too clingy, his T-shirt barely covering the bulge of his biceps…

  Okay, so he made one heck of a Bonanza man, not that she was interested. She wasn’t settling down for a long time, if ever. And if she did, it wouldn’t be with Trace Honeycutt, even if he dropped down on both knees and begged her.

  Not that he would. Actions spoke louder than words and it was obvious Trace didn’t want to tie the knot with anyone.

  Or maybe he just didn’t want to tie the knot with her.

  Arthur’s words echoed in her ears. She’s just so vivacious, so fun, so…exciting.

  All of the things Winnie wasn’t. Her eyes blurred, but she blinked away the tears. No more crying.

  And no more boring.

  Trace Honeycutt wanted to turn her off by playing the boring geek, did he? Well, Winnie Becker, newly made vixen, was about to teach him a lesson.

  If he could douse her fire, she could certainly light his. She would start with a game of checkers, and turn his weakness, if checkers even were his weakness, into a lesson he would never forget She would flirt and toy and seduce him into kissing her. Just one kiss to prove he wanted her, to prove that he wasn’t immune to her charm, no matter how much he wanted to be.

  The thought sent a flash of heat through her, making her heart pound with excitement. Over the prospect of seducing Trace? Of feeling all those sculpted muscles up close and personal again? Feeling his lips against her own?

  The only thing she was excited about was the chance to get even. He’d started the charade with his lies, his assumptions, and Winnie intended to finish it.

  After all, she hadn’t invested in all five of those videos for nothing.

  7

  TRACE HAD JUST FASTENED the god-awful tie and shrugged on his jacket when he heard Winnie’s Civic pull up. Dammit, he’d meant to be gone by now. He wadded up his jeans and T-shirt, stuffed them into his briefcase, and walked out the front door just as Winnie climbed out of her car.

  He’d never seen a woman look so tired, or so damned good. She strode toward him, her heels stuffed into her purse, her shirttails hanging free and nearly reaching the bottom of her tiny pink miniskirt.

  She had legs that seemed to go on forever before narrowing to tiny ankles and bare feet tipped with nail polish.

  Surprisingly, it wasn’t the sight of all that tempting skin or those red-tipped toes that made his breath hitch, and Lord knew, Trace was a sucker for painted toenails. It was the way she looked at him, her gaze filled with pleasure as if, despite the suit and the hair and the ridiculous reading glasses he wore, he was still a welcome sight.

  She smiled and it was like a chute opening, sending him barreling into an arena to fight a raging, restless sex drive. And all because of a pair of expressive green eyes.

  “What are you still doing here?”

  He tried to slow his pounding heart. Easy, boy. Breathe. Concentrate. “Just, um, checking to make sure Hank’s crew finished the drywall. The bank’s not paying good money for those boys to sit around sucking up beers all day.” Actually, they’d had only one beer and Trace had joined them, but not until they’d finished the majority of work with Trace’s help.

  “I’ve never been in a place where people are so friendly. The most I ever got from any financial institution was a wallet-sized calendar at Christmas.”

  “We aim to please.” No aiming. No pleasing. No.

  “I don’t care how friendly the bank is, you’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty, Trace.”

  The way she said his name sent a spurt of warmth through him. Not a good thing since he was already warm, despite the cold turn in the weather that had every resident in Nostalgia bundling up and stockpiling firewood.

  “Which is why I want to do something in return.”

  “No need, darlin’.” Darlin’? What the hell was wrong with him? Mind you, he didn’t spend twenty-four hours, seven days a week with Shermin but he was pretty darned sure the word ‘darlin” had never passed his friend’s lips. ”I mean, uh, Miss Becker.”

  “Call me Winnie.”

  “I think Miss Becker’s more appropriate. Good day.” He walked past her, toward his truck.

  “If we’re friends, Winnie’s more appropriate.” She followed him. “And we are friends.” Slender fingers closed around his arm as he reached for the door handle, and drew him back around. “Aren’t we?”

  “Uh, sure we are, darlin’.” Stop it with the darlin’, would ya?

  She smiled again. “I’m glad, and I’m also very appreciative for all you’ve done, and I’d really like to show my thanks.”

  “That’s okay, honey. There’s no need for that.”

  “Of course there is. I’m grateful and the least I can do is play with you.”

  The words echoed through his head and paused his heart. Play with him? Wait a second…

  His first meeting with her when he’d shown up as geeky Trace replayed in his mind, her comment about playing the field and learning how to kiss and… “You want to play with me?”

  “You can cut the act, Trace. I know.”

  “Know what?”

  “About you and your playing.” Green eyes twinkled in the fading sunlight. “Word has it, you’re the slickest player in town.”

  He’d been laying low the past two years, dodging his granddad’s matchmaking attempts, but apparently, the town hadn’t forgotten he’d dated every cheerleader at Nostalgia High.

  “There’s no reason to be so secretive. You should be proud of yourself,” she went on. “You’re the best.”

  Good maybe. Okay, damn good. And there had been that showgirl in Vegas when he’d been riding in the national finals a few years back who’d sworn he was Valentino reincarnated. And then that runway model who’d traded her Calvins for a Western wear account so she could hook up with him at the major rodeos and ride the pony, or so she’d said.

  “I’m really anxious for us to get together,” Winnie went on.

  Get together. The words formed all kinds of images, including one of her barefoot and breathless and looking as sweet and soft as she did right now, only with less clothes.

  “So what do you say? I mean, I know I’m ask
ing a lot. You’ve played so many times before and I’m sure everybody in your past is much better than I could ever be.”

  That was probably true. Then again, no woman had ever gotten him so worked up just talking about it. He was damn near ready to bust his pants and he hadn’t so much as kissed her. Not a real kiss.

  Not yet.

  “Don’t shortchange yourself, sugar. Effort counts for everything.”

  “That’s what I’ve always thought, and I do plan to put my best foot forward.” Her eyes narrowed just enough to give him a nagging suspicion that she was hiding something. Then she smiled and the feeling faded into a wave of heat.

  “I wasn’t really excited about the prospect when we first met,” she went on, “but now that I know you, I think I might actually enjoy it.”

  Enjoy it? Was there ever a doubt? “‘Course you will, darlin’. That much I can promise.”

  “Then it’s a yes? You and me? Tomorrow night?”

  No. It was there on the tip of his tongue, but then she looked so eager, that he didn’t have the heart to refuse her.

  I want to learn from your experience.

  If Winnie wanted to play, he couldn’t very well say no and hurt her feelings. Besides, she’d more than proven how serious she was about turning herself into a vixen. If he didn’t show her the way around the barn, so to speak, she’d run off and lasso herself another man who would. Some rough and tough cowboy with a fourth of Trace’s experience and not nearly as gentle a hand.

  “Tomorrow night,” he agreed.

  COOKING WAS DEFINITELY not a vixen speciality, Winnie decided the next day as she shoved a damp tendril of hair behind her ear and pulled a pan of biscuits out of her newly renovated oven. Otherwise, the Five B’s series would have included a Biscuits video.

  “Miss Winnie, this looks delicious.” Big Jim rubbed his hands together as she added the pan to the already overflowing table.

  “Dig in, boys.”

  “Aren’t you having any?” Matt tucked a napkin beneath his chin and shoveled a heaping spoonful of what had started out as beer-battered fried chicken and ended as chicken delight casserole onto his plate.

  She allowed her nose a lingering scent before shaking her head. Deprivation was good for the soul, and the caboose. They didn’t call them Tiny Hineys for nothing.

  “I’ve got to hit the shower.” She’d already lost three precious hours in the kitchen, which left very little time to repair the damage resulting from a Saturday morning with the Busy Bees, followed by an afternoon in her sweltering kitchen. She had exactly a half hour to get back on the vixen track and put her plan into motion. She’d baited Trace on purpose with all her talk about playing, and while she’d felt a pang of guilt while doing so, the flash of fire in his eyes had been well worth it.

  Contrary to what he thought, they weren’t going to be getting up close and personal tonight. “B for Bedroom Know-how” suggested starting slow with some come-and-get-me smiles and serious eyelash batting.

  She sniffed and grimaced. Even so, she didn’t want to smell like a drunk chicken.

  “Uh, Miss Winnie.” Big Jim’s voice stopped her in the kitchen doorway and she turned to see him suck down a half glass of water. “What, um,” he spluttered, wiping his mouth with the napkin, “exactly is in this casserole?”

  “The usual. Chicken, cheese, olives, a six pack of beer, and I used a little creative substitution for the milk.”

  “How creative?”

  “A half cup of Coffee-mate.”

  “That explains a lot.”

  Namely, why her kitchen cleared out in two minutes flat and Winnie found herself surrounded by a mess of dishes and a mountain of leftover casserole.

  “Hey, it was dairy,” she called after Big Jim. “Sort of.”

  BY THE TIME Winnie finished cleaning up the mess in the kitchen—a little chore which was going to cost Big Jim ten percent off his bill since he’d reneged on their agreement—she had all of fifteen minutes before Trace was due.

  Fifteen minutes?

  She rushed to the bathroom, stared into the mirror and drank in the sight of smeared mascara, smudged eye shadow, the remains of lip liner, the lipstick itself long since nibbled away. And her hair. Here. There. Everywhere.

  Oh, no.

  After a few frantic sprays of Take Me perfume and several smears of Cherry Jubilee across her lips, she felt a little more put together. Now if she could just get the megasize piece of Rice Krispie bar out of her hair, she’d be m good shape—Ohmigod, there was a Rice Krispie bar in her hair!

  “Stay calm.” Tug and twist. “It’s not as if this is a real date.” Twist and tug. “It’s a mission…” Twist and tug and yank—ouch!

  Knock. Knock.

  Panic bolted through her. She gripped the sticky treat and tugged for all she was worth.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Pain splintered through her head, her eyes watered, but she kept tugging. Just…a…little…more…

  “Winnie? Are you okay?” Trace’s concerned voice followed the slow creak of her front door.

  “I’ll be right out,” she called, her voice breaking on the last word as pain needled her and she teared up.

  Then she did the only thing a woman—a desperate woman—could do with a lying, conniving, sneaky cowboy in dire need of a little seduction waiting in her living room.

  She grabbed a pair of scissors.

  TRACE STARED at the bowl of popcorn that sat on Winnie’s coffee table, along with a few cans of soda, a plate of Oreos and a bowl of M & M’s.

  Just as he’d suspected. Sugar and carbohydrates. Quick energy. She was taking this playing business very seriously, looking to him for guidance, trusting him, which meant he had to tell her the truth.

  “Sorry I took so long.” Winnie came up behind him.

  “No problem. Winnie, we really need to talk…” His voice faded as he turned and caught sight of her. “What happened to your hair?”

  “I cut it.”

  “Only in one spot?”

  “It’s only two inches and I was sort of hoping it would blend in with the rest” She tilted her head to the side. “Does it really look that bad?”

  Bad wasn’t the word. Odd. Offbeat. Sort of cute. “It looks great.”

  Relief swept her features and she smiled. The sight hit Trace way down low, stalled his heart for several long seconds and made him forget what he’d been about to say.

  “Thank God this job is only temporary.” She held up a hair-caked piece of Rice Krispie bar. “To think I wanted a half dozen of my own.”

  “You don’t want kids?”

  “Not me. I’m too young to tie myself down.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “So you don’t like kids either?”

  “Kids, I like. It’s the being tied down I’m not too crazy about. Once was more than enough.”

  “How long were you married for?”

  “Ten months, then I caught her cheating and that was that. How about you? Ever been married?”

  “I was more what you’d call seriously committed, more to the idea of being married than to my boyfriend. But I’m over that, and him. I’m living it up, having a good time, exploring all my options.” She brushed a wayward strand of hair from her face and licked her lips in a gesture that was both innocent and seductive at the same time.

  There was nothing innocent about the rest of her, however. A red tank top hugged her breasts to perfection and tucked into matching red shorts that revealed long, tanned legs. She wore strappy red sandals with just enough of a heel to make her stand taller, her shoulders back, her breasts high.

  He swallowed.

  “So which one do you want?”

  Actually, he wanted both, but not quite so fast. First he wanted to feel her lips beneath his own. Just for a few seconds, then he’d be happy to move down—

  “Which color?” she elaborated.

  Color? In the past they’d always been the same color. Creamy white or s
oft peach or an enticing shade of rose when he touched them just so—

  “You probably have a lucky color since you play so often.” She moved around to the opposite side of the coffee table, where she settled herself Indian style and motioned him onto the sofa.

  That was his first clue that something wasn’t quite right. The second came when she pulled out a cardboard box and started unpacking the contents.

  “I don’t really have a particular favorite,” she went on as she unfolded a game board crisscrossed with red-and-black squares. “But I’m sure a man like you does.”

  “A man like me?”

  “A world champion.”

  The truth echoed through his head and Trace realized that she not only knew about his reputation with women, but she also knew his identity. And she wasn’t mad. She was still smiling, and still talking to him.

  “A five-time world champion,” she went on. “That must be some kind of checker playing record.”

  Actually, five times as a bull-riding champion wasn’t a record, which was why he was heading back out the day after Christmas to the first big winter rodeo—“What did you say?”

  “My grandpa told me how much you liked the game, but he didn’t say anything about you being a professional. I thought it was just a hobby.”

  “A checker player,” he marveled. She really thought…

  “Then Little Jim told me about the world championships, though I didn’t get to ask him any specifics because he was busy helping some other customers.” Her voice softened and her eyelashes lowered to half mast. “I have to confess, I was very impressed.” She blushed an enticing shade of red that made him ache to see if the color had crept down to those pert little nipples making mouthwatering indentations against her tank top. “I mean, I know it’s not as grueling as football or baseball or even bowling, but it has to be every bit as challenging.”

  She stared at him, her smile so sweet, her gaze so sincere, that Trace found himself blurting, “It is pretty vigorous.”

  Heaven help him, but he liked the way Winnie Becker looked at him, almost as much as he liked the way those looks made him feel inside. Warm. Happy. Fulfilled.

  Which was the very reason he didn’t tell her the truth now. His geeky image was his one defense, obviously, since all she wanted to do with him was play checkers. And he aimed to keep it that way.