“No dice.” Kyle showed his teeth. “You had her to yourself most of the day yesterday and all night. I’d only get her from nine o’clock on after the rodeo ends. Plus, after me banging her earlier and then us double-teaming her just now, I want her to be fully alert and rested, not sore.”

Hank’s smile dried up. “You f**ked Lainie while I was at the sponsors’ meeting today?”

“Is that a problem?” Kyle asked evenly.

Fuck, yeah. But he’d be goddamned if he’d give Kyle the satisfaction of seeing his jealousy. His eyes flicked to the flowers and then back to his smarmy friend. “Did you gift her with posies before or after you f**ked her?”

“What do you think?”

Before.

Bastard had it all planned how he’d edge Hank out. Flowers, cozy domestic scenes, and the all-important time alone, where he’d probably do Kama Sutra-type sex shit to Lainie that Hank had never even heard of. Or some multiorgasmic tantric stuff.

Fuck that.

Kyle didn’t know how far Hank would go in this battle to win Lainie’s heart.

Hank smiled. “Sure. She’s yours tomorrow night. Fair’s fair, right?”

But the truth was, this was all-out war.

Chapter Thirteen

For Hank, the next day was a whirlwind of sponsor activity.

He barely had time to eat with Lainie, let alone f**k her. Which made him cranky, since tonight was Kyle’s one-on-one time with her.

But she wasn’t lounging in the camper wearing slinky lingerie, waiting for Kyle to take her to heights of sexual ecstasy. She was sitting in the stands watching the performance.

In the ready room, Hank began the ritual of dressing. He dressed the same way every time. First he slipped on the spandex-like athletic shorts, which were lightweight, yet contained panels that offered additional protection from hooves and horns. Next he donned the vest crafted out of the same material as the shorts. The piece wasn’t as bulky as the vests required for bull riders. The form-fitting, nonconfining vest allowed bullfighters to make the faster movements they needed.

He dropped to a crouch. Leaped into the air, drawing his knees tight to his chest on the jump. Then he landed back in a crouch. Swinging his arms, letting his elbows lead the way as he loosened up his midsection. Side stretches. Elbow-to-knee crunches. Shadow-boxing. Lifting his shoulders. Lowering his shoulders. Neck rolls.

Then he slipped on the long nylon basketball shorts emblazoned with the sponsor’s logo. At most rodeos Hank wore the Barclay uniform, although sometimes he wore the one from the Big J Rodeo Stock Company.

Depending on the situation and previous injuries, he’d wrap whatever body part needed it. But tonight he felt good. No additional wrapping was required—even though Lainie would disagree about his needing extra protection over the contusion on his quad. Hank tugged on long athletic socks that ended below his knees. Tied his shoes. Strapped on his knee pads. Once he wore all his equipment, he repeated the stretching exercises.

Some bullfighters smeared greasepaint on their faces, which was their choice. But Hank figured that, as most guys in his profession were still trying to change the public’s perception about the differences between rodeo clowns and bullfighters, donning greasepaint was a step backward.

Hank ambled out and noticed the other two bullfighters leaning against the concrete waiting for him. “Peck and Strand!”

Peck gave him a nod of acknowledgment.

“Hank Lawson, you look like dog shit,” Strand drawled in his thick Texas accent.

“Must’ve happened when I started hanging out in the Lone Star State.”

“Har, har. You see the docket tonight?”

“Didn’t have much of a chance to study it. What’ve we got?”

“They ain’t limiting the number of contestants. Thirty-seven entrants. Don’t recognize half their names. So I’m hoping like hell it ain’t a bunch of rookies.”

“Are there enough bulls?”

“Appear to be,” Peck said.

“Let’s head up to the corrals. I wanna take a peek so it looks like I did my homework.”

Chaos ruled behind the scenes. Usually the excitement behind the chutes was enough to make him grin, but tonight his enthusiasm was a bit lackluster.

“Only one thing puts a sour look like that on a man’s face.” Strand waggled his bushy black eyebrows. “Who is she?”

He muttered, “She’s everything.”

A tall, thin woman, decked out in a rhinestone shirt and skintight pants, brushed past them. She was surrounded by a group of cowboys, and every man hung on her every word. Hank stopped and stared after her. Something about her seemed familiar. Mighty familiar. But he couldn’t place it.

Then she was gone.

Huh.

Hank wandered through the bullpens. While he waited for the bull riding to start, Hank watched the bulldogging. Normally he concentrated on limbering up. But tonight, Hank wanted to see the rodeo through a spectator’s eyes.

Lainie’s eyes?

Yes. Dammit. He hated that she was sitting alone. She spent way too much time by herself.

Music blared as the official rodeo sponsor truck rolled into the arena. Men jumped out of the truck bed, positioning the Coors barrels for barrel racing at the designated intervals.

Sixteen competitors was a big showing for the field of barrel racing. Sometimes he wondered how Celia would’ve fared if he and Abe hadn’t insisted she quit after the disastrous fall that’d broken her leg and forced them to put her horse down. After losing their parents, he and Abe had gone ballistic; they couldn’t fathom losing Celia too. So they’d done the only thing to keep her safe—forbidden her to compete.