Free Night Thunder by Jill Gregory Page B

sure.”
    “Oh, I’m sure. I’m positive.”
    That penetrating blue gaze fixed itself on her face for a full ten seconds. His eyes were as dark and unfathomable as tinted glass but she sensed anger coming off him in waves.
    “Great,” he said again. “Thanks for the reprieve.”
    He strode toward the bar without giving her a second glance and Josy found herself tightly gripping the stem of her wineglass, her face and fingers frozen.
    Asshole,
Josy thought, and took a deep breath. She forced her fingers to relax and to ease their grip on the glass before she cracked it. After having lived in New York for the past ten years she considered herself sophisticated and fairly worldly, but she was still stunned by Ty Barclay’s rudeness—and yes, by his instant and complete rejection.
    Damn it. She might not be movie star material, but she wasn’t exactly a dog. She hadn’t been turned down for a dance or a drink or a date or anything else by a man since she was fourteen and sprouted boobs. What the hell was the matter with him?
    Congenital rudeness,
she thought, and took a gulp of her wine. He might be drop-dead gorgeous but he had the manners of an iguana. The charm of a mackerel. The arrogance of a . . .
    Uh-oh. He had stopped just short of the bar and turned around. He was looking at her, she realized, her heartbeat quickening. And now, he was . . . coming back.
    She set the wineglass down carefully, trying to control the anger surging through her.
    “Look, that was rude—even for me.” He stopped beside her chair and his mouth twisted ruefully. “You’re not the one I’m mad at. Roy keeps trying to—oh, hell, never mind. It has nothing to do with you.” He cleared his throat and started again.
    “I don’t suppose one dance will kill us—either one of us. What do you say?”
    “I say maybe we’re better off not finding out.”
    A hint of a grin touched the corners of his lips. “I had that coming. But you know, sometimes it’s good to live dangerously.”
    As her eyebrows shot up, he said in a reasonable tone, “Besides, if Roy finds out I gave you the brush-off he’ll be on my case for a week. He’ll probably even call my mother and tell her she raised a rude son-of-a-bitch and then she’s likely to cry. So what do you say?”
    He held out a hand and she stared at it. His hand was big and it looked strong, capable. Like him. But he didn’t strike her as a man who’d have a mother who would cry over his being rude. Or like a man who’d care what anyone else thought of him. He looked tough and selfsufficient, like a man whose emotions were always under control, who did what he pleased and didn’t much care who didn’t like it.
    But the funny thing was, he did sound sorry. And he was standing there with his hand out, patiently waiting for her answer. The languid thrum of the music caressed her senses. Everyone in the place was dancing. “What do you say?” Ty Barclay asked again.
    “I wouldn’t want to upset anybody’s mother,” she muttered. She rose to her feet but ignored his outstretched hand, hurrying ahead of him toward the dance floor, wondering why she was even bothering to go through with this.
    A slow country song flowed from the jukebox and the floor was packed with couples dancing closely together. As his arms went around her waist, drawing her to him, Josy couldn’t help but be aware of the rock-hard strength packed into his six-foot-two-inch frame, and of the whip-cord tension she felt in those broad, sloping shoulders. Maybe it was her imagination, but a hot jolt of fire seemed to quiver through her when the fingers of his right hand closed around hers.
    It means nothing,
she told herself as they began to sway to the music.
Except that I haven’t gotten out much
lately.
    She’d danced with men she didn’t know in Manhattan clubs a hundred times or more, but here in the Tumbleweed Bar and Grill in the middle of Wyoming, it felt different. Maybe it was the country song playing