The Cowboy Who Broke the Mold by Cathleen Galitz Page B

boardwalk in the moonlight, she drank in every detail of the man beside her: the mingled scents of cologne, smoke, sweat and blood; the determined set of his jaw; the rawpower emanating from every pore in his body. And though Carrie was appalled by the fight she had just witnessed, in some dark cavern in her heart, she had secretly thrilled to it. She felt protected and cherished.
    The porch light back at the inn illuminated Judson’s bloodstained shirt as he opened the front door to let Carrie enter. It only took him a moment to discern that she was in no shape to navigate the way to her room by herself. Though the fresh air had helped to clear her head, Carrie was nevertheless unable to walk down the middle of the narrow hallway without bouncing off the walls.
    “I feel awful funny,” she admitted with a hiccup.
    “I imagine you’ll probably feel worse in the morning.”
    Suddenly Carrie felt herself being swept up into a pair of masculine arms. Wrapping her arms around the strong column of his neck, she nuzzled against him, shamelessly enjoying the sheer strength of this man who had so savagely defended her honor.
    “Judson?” Running her hands along the width of his shoulders, she looked him straight in the eye.
    “What?” The single word was but a rasping chord stuck in his throat.
    “Are you twitterpated?” The question sent Carrie into a fit of tinkling laughter.
    He wasn’t amused. “Which room is yours?” Judson asked from between clenched teeth.
    “Search me,” she giggled.
    As her laughter faded to a soft, enticing sigh, Judson felt the fire of desire licking in his loins. She certainly wasn’t making this easy for him. Such an adorable mor- sel would be easy pickin’s for any randy cowboy on the make. He thanked God that he had been able to gether away from the bar. He seriously doubted whether Cody Trent would have exercised the same restraint.
    “Where are your keys?” he demanded in an angry whisper.
    “I told you, search me,” she whispered seductively.
    Something akin to summer lightning flashed in Judson’s eyes. He set her down and pressed her back against the wall. Unbuttoning the pearl fastening of her blouse pocket, he slipped his hand inside. Beneath the cool, red silk, Judson felt how warm and very soft her breast was, and he stifled a groan as the nipple hardened under his caress. Sliding his hands down the length of her, he stopped momentarily to encircle the small cir- cumference of her waist before plunging his hands into both back pants’ pockets. He noted that Carrie’s shapely behind was as firm and rounded as he had imagined. He pulled her toward him, grinding his hips into her, making sure she felt how hard she made him. He was rewarded with a slight gasp. Continuing on, one front pocket at a time, Judson delved their depths stopping just short of the inviting warmth between her legs.
    “Damn,” he muttered out of frustration and need. “I still can’t find the key.”
    Carrie smiled coyly, her eyes heavily lidded. “That’s because I didn’t lock it. It’s room number seven.”
    Lucky number seven, Judson thought to himself. Lift- ing her cotton-candy lightness back into his arms, he carried her to her room. With one hand, he turned the knob and pushed the door open with a boot.
    “Will you tuck me in?” she asked, her eyes heavy- lidded.
    “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” Judson asked thickly.
    But it was too late.
    Carrie’s eyes were closed, and she was already breathing deeply.
    “Damn you,” Judson murmured, laying her as gently atop the bed as a bouquet of wildflowers. “Don’t you dare pass out on me!”
    There was no response from the still body sprawled invitingly upon the lacy patchwork quilt. Judson lin- gered over the sight of her light brown hair splayed across her pillow and fought the urge to explore every inch of those soft, womanly curves. But despite what Cheryl Sue’s brothers had wanted to believe, he was not the