Nik’s fingers worked to unwrap another Fireball. The kissing bandit would turn his way soon. Not to be cocky, but it was surprising she wasn’t already showing interest.
Years of working Special Ops made observing people second nature, and he paid extra attention to the ones who didn’t fit perfectly in their boxes. Tigger had definitely bounced out of her box. She was attractive, but didn’t call attention to it with makeup or clothing. Small-framed, but her posture carried her taller. Imitation gold aviators hid her eyes despite night coming on. And she wore that awful baggy hoodie and jeans even though the heat along the dry line crept up to the mid-nineties.
More annoying than the sweatshirt, the hot-blooded Kansas farm girl was more interested in kissing the lips of horses than the cold-blooded American soldier trying to catch her eye.
He wasn’t the only one frustrated. Tigger repeatedly clasped the fuel nozzle, trying to get it to pump faster. Damn, if those delicate pink-tipped fingers were closing around him, neither one of them would be frustrated for long.
Or if she’d only turn his way, he could take care of them both.
Gather some quick intel, disarm her with a grin and maybe a subtle shot of his abs, divert her to one of the dive bars farther off the highway and buy her a round before finding a hotel and going a different kind of round…or two…or four. Simple.
The mission fresh in his mind, and tired of waiting for her to initiate contact, he rocked his body off the Jeep. Discreetly he shifted his concealed carry holster from appendix to hip, because flashing the six-pack with a semiauto sticking out of your waistband tended to send the wrong message. Run, so I can use you for moving target practice wasn’t the look he was going for in this particular application. You live. You learn.
His Sig P365 safely out of sight, Nik strode forward with a good ol’ boy swagger the Lucchese boots lent him. At the first scuff of his leather soles, her mirrored-sunglass gaze snapped his way. One side of his mouth cocked up. Tigger was paying attention after all.
God, having her full focus turned Nik’s blood a little wild, his breathing just south of controlled. His gut flickered with vulnerability. Feelings he was accustomed to having while palming sketchy explosives, but never from a woman.
Damn if he didn’t love things that go boom.
With calculated casualness he stroked his palm up his stomach, bringing the hem of his black T-shirt with it… Just a peek. Okay. It was a cheesy move. Maybe not as blatantly so as the ol’ yawn and stretch, but he’d fully admit it was the male equivalent to pushing one’s boobs together. Like the boob-squeeze, the ab-flash was a seasoned hook when time was limited. Know a good place to get a drink around here? hovered over his tongue, but she held up her hand, ensuring the words never made it past his teeth.
“Save it, cowboy.”
Cowboy? Coop would get a kick out of that.
The sexy curve to her bare, pink lips teased him closer as her patronizing tone backed him off. All he could do was hold position on the oil-splattered pavement. Before he could even ask her if she wanted to save a horse and ride him instead, she cut him off. “From the way you’ve been staring at my ass, you’d only last two minutes, and I don’t even have time for one.”
His bouncy little Tigger was a tiger after all. Even better. “In that case, darlin’, which would you prefer—I wreck your plans for the next several hours defending my stamina or accept the challenge of getting you done in one?”
Her plush lower lip plumped between her teeth, a clear indication she was considering picking the former. But as easily as she threw the nozzle at the pump, she tossed back at him, “Get yourself done in one.”
Nik blinked.
His speechlessness was rewarded with a devilish smirk as she swung her hot tail into the truck and peeled away. In true Tigger fashion, she bounded over the curb to avoid oncoming traffic. A protest of honking followed in her wake.
Nik chuckled. Sweet and spicy. Yep, she’d be one hell of a tiger to have by the tail. With any luck he’d have another shot at a piece of it farther down the road.
Chapter Two
“Idiot,” the elderly lady with the horse trailer who’d returned to fill her truck with diesel grumbled at Nik. Was she referring to Tigger’s driving skills? Or his failed first attempt? Because the whole ‘Get yourself done in one’ business followed by a come-and-get-me grin was foreplay if he’d ever seen it.
“Damn storm chasers!” the lady bellowed. “They get younger and dumber every year.”
“Storm what?”
She flagged her weathered hand at a black SUV racing through the traffic, causing another chorus of irate honks. “Bunch o’ psychopaths who get their jollies chasing after tornadoes. Heck, they even have tours…like for tourists. Can you believe that horseshit?”
“Really?” Tornado tours? Huh. “How does one schedule a tornado?”
The woman shook her sun-leathered face in disgust, her ashen ponytail swaying with the motion. “They’ve been hangin’ round town all day. Must’ve gotten word another un was formin’ close by. Can’t imagine what they think they’re gonna see. Gettin’ damn near darker than the inside of a cow out. I’d stay off the roads if I were you. If’n a tornado doesn’t kill you, those idiot chasers will.”
Sure enough, not two seconds after Nik was back heading eastbound on I-70 with Pink Floyd’s Breathe turned up in an attempt to chill him out, five or six heavyweight trucks barreled past him. Skinned with flashy weather graphics and sporting long antennas bowing back from the speed, they played the part of storm chaser better than Tigger’s beat-up, white pickup. A few of them were armored like the Humvees he was used to—all that was missing was the bad-ass artillery.
Within a half-hour the sky
