Untamed: (Heath & Violet) (Beg For It) Read Free Page A

think
I’d need it.”
    “You need it.”
    “Well, I didn’t
know that before!”
    “Cell phone service
isn’t reliable here. You could get lost.”
    “Thanks. A little
late for that advice.” My feathers ruffled, I sipped my cider. Part
of me felt all tingly, the other part bristled right up. The tingle
came from the way this big, handsome man seemed so protective and
demanding about my safety. The other half shouted, “I can do this
myself!” I wasn’t a little kid. He shouldn’t treat me like one.
    But I was lost and had
barely made it to the bar. He had a point. I just didn’t like
admitting it.
    He looked at me,
seeming reluctant to say what he was about to next. Resigned, shaking
his head as if he overcame his better instincts to do it, he said,
“I’ll get you where you need to go.”
    I swear, he didn’t
say it like a sleazy come-on, but that’s exactly how my body wanted
to interpret it. All sorts of flirty, outrageous replies popped to
mind. I came dangerously close to batting my eyelashes and bantering
back, “Oh, I bet you could get me right where I need it.”
    But I didn’t. When
had I ever batted my eyelashes? I took lunch meetings. I sealed
deals. He might make me feel like a Highland lass in need of a
rescue, but I wasn’t that, not by a long shot.
    I looked down at the
bar, at my cider, my nails. Anywhere but at him. I breathed, in and
out, and forced myself to not say any of the crazy thoughts racing
through my head. Because just then, where I felt like I needed to go
was nowhere near a rented condo all by myself. My pulse pounded with
need to go anywhere he was going so long as it was just him and me
alone.
    “You’ll be safe
with me,” he added, deep and husky.
    I bit my lip, knowing I
was anything but.

CHAPTER 2
    Heath
    An appletini. She
walked into the bar, sashaying along on 4-inch heels, her hair like a
golden splash of sunlight. And she ordered an appletini plus some
tuna tartare.
    Man, it had been a
while since I’d seen a girl like her. It had to have been the last
time I was in New York. That’s where her type ruled the roost,
partying and clubbing all night long. We got tourists up here, sure,
leaf peepers and skiers, folks making their way up from Boston or New
York with money to burn. But they didn’t look like her. They
usually came to Vermont head-to-toe in Patagonia, North Face and LL
Bean, sporting brand new gear they’d been dying to try out with big
shiny new boots and Gore-Tex gloves good in 60-degree-below weather.
    This woman had no gear.
She wore heels, for God’s sake, stacked ones, and a parka so big it
looked like a parody of a parka. If a casting agent didn’t know
shit about Vermont but tried to dress someone for Vermont, he’d put
them in that. It was a parka for the Iditarod in Alaska, sledding
across the frozen tundra for days on end. She’d looked like a giant
Oompa Loompa.
    Until she took it off.
She’d sat down on a stool and unzipped and damn if it didn’t make
me take a deep swallow of my beer. She looked good. Really good.
Slender and curvy and soft and she sat just close enough where I
could catch a light waft of her scent, tantalizing and sweet like
summer honey.
    Damn. She hit me hard.
It must have been all the time I’d been spending alone. I led a
solitary life. I had a cabin and a workshop out on a few acres of
land. Quiet, remote, just wilderness, time and freedom. I spent my
days the way I wanted, far away from prying eyes or pressure. The
handful of locals I now counted as my friends were straight-shooting
and plain spoken. They helped you when you needed it, stayed out of
your way when you didn’t. To me, Watson, Vermont was paradise.
    But even a loner like
me sometimes emerged from isolation. Tonight I’d come down to shoot
the shit with Dave. He was a good guy. We’d gotten to know each
other over at the locally-owned ski slope, Mad Mountain. It didn’t
make artificial snow, didn’t allow snowboarders, and kept